Folie à deux | tom riddle

PART XII

The lights are bright. They're not flickering, for once.

The smell of hand sanitizer – alcoholic, sterile – fills your nose and you twitch involuntarily, letting out a small murmur of dissatisfaction. It's then that you manage to truly open your eyes beyond just a sliver.

There's a frequent beeping noise next to your head. You turn slightly – a monitor, green lines racing up and down in jolts.

It takes you a moment to notice you're not in your own bed. This one is far more rigid, and the sheets are scratchy.

It all slides into place. You're in a hospital.

There are curtains drawn surrounding your bed. You try to call out to someone, but your throat feels raw. You reach up and press a hand to it – hissing as pain blossoms under your finger tips.

Then, the curtain rustles, and two figures step up next to you. One of whom you don't recognise, wearing a stark white lab coat. And the other is familiar, a pretty girl with a heart-shaped face surrounded by a cloud of brown curls.

"Oh, Y/N." She says, sighing in relief. "I'm so glad you're awake."

"Doctor L/N." The man accompanying her says, trying to get your attention. "Your throat has sustained major bruising, but no permanent damage. We also suspect you have a concussion."

Your head lulls to the side, and you narrow your eyes at him. "Wh-" You try to speak, but your throat is so, so sore. It comes out as more of a croak. "Water." You plead.

"Oh, of course!" He says, drawing back the curtain and barking at somebody outside of it.

The doctor – at least that's who you assume he is, based on the lab coat, scrubs, clipboard and stethoscope – hastily passes you a glass of water, which you drink quickly.

"Ah, as I was saying." He sighs, "I'm Doctor Smith – did I introduce myself? I don't – anyway. I'm Doctor Smith, and you're in South Side Hospital. You've sustained major bruising to your throat, but there is no permanent damage. It's possible you also have a concussion, due to mild head trauma. Don't look so concerned! I'm confident there won't be any lasting effects of it."

"Right, right." You cough out, almost in a daze as he shoves prognosis after prognosis at you. You finally glance back to Hermione as Doctor Smith ends his rant. She's folded her arms over her chest, and is looking away from you, her countenance scrunched up in guilt.

"Y/N," Hermione finally looks up at you, biting her lip. "I'm so sorry. That was never meant to happen –"

"What did happen?" You ask incredulously.

Hermione looks equally confused. "Dolohov was murdered by Tom Riddle. He confessed. I knew that Minerva had made a mistake in assigning you to Riddle. When – when the guards found you, you were already unconscious. He'd choked you out, thinking he'd killed you, too."

And then, everything comes flooding back in a second. There had been so much blood, flesh between your teeth, gentle touches and then –

"Dolohov's dead?" You gasp, shuddering so intensely you drop the glass of water. It hits the ground and smashes into tiny shards of glass that scatter over the floor.

"He is." Hermione confirms.

Oh, dear God, what have you done? He's dead. You killed a man. You killed a man – and Tom confessed to it. You had killed him for Tom, to protect him, and he had protected you, too. He had taken the blame. You wouldn't be implicated in the death, and you would remain another one of Tom's potential victims.

You feel violently ill for just a moment – you are a murderer. You are no better, no better at all than anybody in Azkaban. At least they have insanity to blame.

And then it washes away rather suddenly. You had done it for Tom. You had done a good thing by ending the life of a dangerous man that was going to kill you and him. Guilt doesn't arise in you even once. Perhaps that's more sickening than the murder.