"To some, a monster, and to others, a leader. Either way, I became god."
"Did you really? Do you think God becomes trapped?"
Having just earned your doctorate, you decide to work in the Azkaban Secure Facility for the Criminally Insane. There, you...
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Over the next few days, you try to keep your appointments with Tom as soft, yet clinical, as possible. Maintaining that compassion is important, but you can't keep letting yourself be riled up by him, affected to the point that you're becoming combative, like you're swiping your paws at him.
It never really works, not with him. You clench your jaw and bite your tongue countless times. Once you come close to snapping your pen in half. Because he's just so interesting – he sparks this near-insanity in you, some kind of desperation to respond in the way that the deepest, darkest part of you wants to.
Because you're still grappling with the how.
Tom knows things about Dolohov that he has no way of knowing. According to their files, they've never met. They had no way of interacting with each other. Prisoners, or patients, depending on how you view them, never meet. The only human interaction either of them had was with the doctors or guards. They weren't even incarcerated on the same floor as each other. They were brought in at close times to each other – Tom first, then about a week later, Antonin was being kept in Azkaban.
The organisation of your office is descending into pandemonium. Papers from both of their files are pinned to the wall, random pieces of information highlighted. There was no connection. Tom shouldn't know. But his information was just so specific that there's no way they hadn't met. There's the possibility he overheard from the guards or doctors and incorporated that information into his delusion, but something about that strikes you as just unlikely.
There's only one way for you to confirm it. By going to see Dolohov yourself.
Your mind is made up in an instant. It's wrong, probably unethical, and definitely breaching your contract of employment. You can't quite bring yourself to care. The flames of curiosity have accumulated into a raging wildfire, blazing through any and all aspects of your life, leaving charred ashes in its wake.
It is shockingly easy to discover when Dolohov will be alone. Hermione visits him monthly, and there are other doctors that visit him between their sessions together. Fortunately, he will be alone today. It fills you with nerves just thinking about it – but it has to be done. You have to know what the hell was happening.
Your mind has seemingly memorised the route to Dolohov's cell. Luckily, you don't find yourself passing any staff who you may have to explain yourself to. The halls seem so much darker like this, when you're not meant to be there. The shadows are longer, and you swear you can feel the cold more, chilling you to the bone.
The guards don't even question you. They just let you in.
He's sat on his bed again, and his head snaps up fiercely when you enter the room.
"Mr. Dolohov," You say, gathering whatever confidence you can muster. "I have some questions for you?"
"I remember you." He sneers at you, baring his dark, rotting teeth. "The doctor."
Breathing suddenly becomes quite difficult, and the gravity of just how stupid this was hits you. "Yes, I'm Doctor L/N."
"And what is it that you want to ask me?" His eyes are wide, wild, and fixated solely on you.
"Have you ever heard the name 'Tom Riddle'?"
He laughs – harshly, coldly. There's no warmth or amusement to it. Antonin stands, staggering to draw himself up to his full height. Despite how emaciated he is, he still towers over you, skeletal but intimidating. "Only people with a death wish dare speak it."
Dear God, you can't believe what you're about to say next. It makes you feel nauseous. "What about... Voldemort?" The words leave your mouth as a strangled whimper.
Dolohov stalks towards you predatorily, and you stumble backwards, your back hitting the cold stone wall. He's too close – far too close, and he's reaching out to you. Paralysed, you just breath haggardly as he grasps you firmly by your jaw, jagged nails digging into your flesh, leaving scratches in their wake.
"Oh yes, I have." He breathes.
Terror fills you. Shaking, you shove him away from you, battling with his thin limbs and hurrying towards the door. You reach it quickly, hands hammering against it.
"Let me out," You plead, your voice verging on a sob.
The door swings open and you stumble out, tumbling to the floor. You continue to crawl away until you hear the door shut. The floor is dirty, leaving streaks of brown up your arms. Everything aches, and your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your stomach – a fast, frantic rhythm against your ribs. The world is blurry, your chest is heaving with the effort of even making it out, and your eyes are welling up with tears. You struggle to a stand, stumbling around and tripping over your own feet.
The whole time, the guards are standing still. They don't seem concerned in the slightest.
