"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
And then, a whole other kind of terror is awoken in you. Terror on behalf of Tom. Because what if he doesn't know that Dolohov is free? What if you've put the name 'Tom Riddle' into Antonin's decaying mind and he's out to hurt him? It feels like the ground underneath you has simply opened up, giving way to a dark, dismal chasm, and you're simply falling into complete hopelessness and horror with no means of escape.
"Take me to him." Dolohov demands.
"Please – no," You try to beg, "He – what do you want with him?"
He scoffs. "As if that's something you deserve to know. You're going to take me to him, aren't you?" He twists further, and something in your arm cracks.
Crying out and begging tearfully for help doesn't evoke empathy in Dolohov. Only annoyance.
Where are the guards?
"Okay, okay," Conceding makes him loosen his grip slightly, and he peels you away from the wall, opting instead to drag you through your office and out into the corridor. It's empty. There's not a single guard in sight.
You yell out, as loudly as you can, screeching for help. The blaring alarm drowns you out. You look down at yourself, your form flashing red every few seconds with the light.
"Take me to him." Dolohov commands you.
"Okay." You whimper, "That way. Down the hall and to the left." You'd given vague instructions somewhat deliberately. They weren't inaccurate, per say, but he probably wouldn't be able to find Tom before the guards found him. You expect Dolohov to drop you and run. You're a liability to him. You'll slow him down.
He doesn't. He grasps you tighter and hauls you off, kicking and screaming, down the hall and to the left.
He pauses at the end of the long hallway. There should have been guards by now. There's a few cells down there. One of which is Tom's. The others you think are either empty, or inhabited by particularly quiet inmates.
"Which one?" He asks, shoving you roughly. "Which one?"
A decision has never weighed quite so heavily on you before. Lie, or tell the truth. Risk yourself, or risk Tom.
His other arm, the one not pinning your hand behind your back, snakes up and wraps itself around your neck. Dirty fingernails embed themselves into your skin. His hand is cold, frightfully so, and you try to flinch away from it. He presses down, hard, crushing in, towards the centre of your neck, against your carotid artery.
Black spots invade your vison, bubbling up in dark, ominous blotches that block sections of your sight, blurring together and obscuring anything in your peripheral line of sight. You let out a garbled, strangled plea that evaporates into whimpers and whispers. They're completely lost on him.
"Please," You manage to gasp out.
The world is moving – spinning into a flurried kaleidoscope of black and white. The colour is rapidly draining from your vision, and your head feels heavy.
"Which one?"
"Ninety one." You manage to squeak out. His grip on your neck loosens minimally, and it's enough for you to inhale again, though the flow of air is still being heavily constricted. He's moving you, you think, and your eyes flutter shut.
In an instant, there's a loud bang and your eyes are open again, wild and confused, darting around the corridor – the line of cells.
By Dolohov's feet, just behind you, the door's laying discarded, seemingly blown or ripped off its hinges, singed a deep rusty colour at its edges.
Vaguely, the notion that you should have lied strikes you. Why didn't you lie?
There's a flickering light invading your sight – it's pale glow is familiar, and belatedly you realise it's because the door on the floor was the one to Tom's cell.
And then, all struggling resumes. You kick out against him, snarling and biting – sinking your teeth into whatever flesh you could find like a rabid animal. He's pulling on your hair. Your hand has been dropped, it's free, and you utilise it to the best of your ability despite it's prevalent numbness. Your elbow hits some body part of Dolohov's. He growls back at you, barking something in Russian.
Your teeth latch on to his forearm as he tussles with you – you bite down hard. Skin tears beneath your teeth, flesh ripping from his body, entering your mouth in a bloody, coppery-tasting chunk. You gasp, spitting it out to the floor, hot, metallic blood splashing across your tongue and spilling from your mouth.
Dolohov stumbles backwards. He's far enough away from you for you to begin to assess what the hell was happening. Your head is still pounding, your neck is throbbing and your hands are slippery from crimson blood.
