You, a noble psychiatrist, walk through the corridors of Azkaban, clutching a file close to your chest. All the mad criminals scream at you, yet there is one sitting in complete silence.

You're led inside, the bars slamming shut behind you and you're left alone with Tom Riddle. He's sitting on the hard bed, his hands cuffed in his lap and he doesn't spare you a single glance, almost like he isn't mentally here.

Looking at his figure, you inhale a shaky breath and decide to speak up.