"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.
He helps you to your feet. You're shaking head to toe – standing upright feels like you're walking for the first time, and your knees are ready to give in at any moment. Silently, he wraps an arm around your waist, and leads you back into cell ninety-one.
The flickering lights seem like such an insignificant problem now. You sit opposite each other, but the chairs are much closer, and you're grappling to keep your hands entwined with his.
"Tom?"
He shushes you, running a thumb over your knuckles. The blood is beginning to dry. "It's fine."
Your thoughts are an incoherent, complex mess. A tangle of reality and fiction that are incapable of true separation. It's only then that Dolohov enters your mind. "God, what... is he..?"
Tom grimaces, shaking his head. "I don't... I'm not sure. Are you hurt?"
You can't even bring yourself to be bothered by the implication that Tom may have just murdered someone and beat them to death. Not when he's sat here holding your hands. Because, on some level, he did it for you. One of his own men, for your life.
Worry does strike you then. Concern for Tom. You quickly look him over – he's covered in blood but there's no wounds on him. "No, no. God, are you?"
"No." He confirms quickly.
A pang of unbridled, intense guilt, stabs you in the stomach. It's more painful than your throat. He shouldn't be sat here covered in blood, and there shouldn't be a body outside. "Fuck, Tom, I'm sorry." You whisper dejectedly, tearing your gaze away from his.
"What for?" Tom asks.
"I shouldn't have... I was putting you in danger... God, I'm so sorry. I was meant to help you." You're hysterical, chest wracking with aborted sobs that never quite manage to produce tears that spill from your eyes.
He tugs you towards him, holding your hands more firmly until you look him in the eyes. "You are helping me. We're helping each other, see?"
It's the only thing that you have to latch onto. He's thrown you a lifeline there – a way of absolving yourself. You helped him, he helped you. It feels like there's been an equal exchange.
It occurs to you that he didn't have to. Tom easily could have let you die there and then. But he didn't. He opposed one of his own to save you. "I thought you were going to..." You trail off brokenly.
"I'm not going to let you die, Y/N." He sounds vaguely irritated, his jaw clenching. "You're valuable to me."
"Dolohov..." You begin.
"Is..." Tom makes an attempt to finish your sentence for you.
"No, no." You cut him off adamantly, scrambling for words. "He called you his master."
"He did."
"It's true?" The whisper is barely there, a thread of hope for sanity – for some kind of logical explanation to comfort you.
Tom doesn't deal in comfort. He cuts the thread. "All of it's true. I wouldn't lie to you."
He hasn't. He wouldn't. He doesn't lie to you. That's the problem. It's his truth – which can't be taken as fact. But no logical explanation is there to make itself apparent and save the day.
"I don't – I'm so confused."
"You can fall apart." Tom tells you.
"You shouldn't have to put me back together again." You find yourself insisting. There's a dull, heavy pounding in your head, and nothing makes sense. Because how did Dolohov know? Tom Riddle has always been your delusional patient with potential – a brilliant, tragic waste. And now, he may have been the only truly honest person. If he's not delusional, then there's nothing to salvage. And he's not a waste – he's not the tragedy here. You are.
He brushes his thumb over your knuckles comfortingly. There's blood on both of your hands, running together in red stripes, flecks of crimson gathering in the crevices in your skin, in every line or fold. The lines converge, dripping down from your joined hands to the floor in a bloody mess.
"I will. I always take care of my things." He says.
"Your things...?"
"I wouldn't have invested so much time in cultivating your potential if I didn't believe in your usefulness to me." He says as if that's meant to comfort you – it sends a bolt of nausea to your stomach. Because it's clinical. Cold. Impervious. You know he's always been all of those things and much worse. But seeing it like this is somehow different – when he's staring into your eyes.
"Tom..."
He grins at you. It's nothing like Dolohov's. There's always an underlying threat behind Tom's smile, but it doesn't speak of the mania that Dolohov's does. "You were glorious. Feral. Wild. I'm glad you let me see some of that lust for blood."
Tom looks almost overcome with the most emotion you've seen in him. He looks triumphant – victorious. Like he's at war and he's seen the white flag of his opponent waving in the distance. Though, somehow, you doubt that Tom would stop simply because of a surrender.
"I..." You can't even think of a way to defend yourself – to insist that you're wholly good. There's no way to refute Tom's claim. The memory of wrestling with Dolohov is blurry and impartial at best. But, the feeling attached to it is bold in its vibrancy.
It felt like glory.
"It's okay." Tom insists.
Believing him only makes you feel marginally better. It's easier to ignore the voice in your head insisting that he's insane when he's telling you what you want – what you need to hear.
