Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Eighteen

Hatred of Dumbledore so deeply embedded in him struck like a chord, making his bones appear to vibrate. Of all people, she had to ask for Dumbledore. Tom supposed, though unwillingly, that the old man was their best opportunity to get sufficient care. Nonetheless, his teeth gritted at the thought of having that man in his presence.

Delilah started convulsing, her back arching before slamming into the table again. Quite effectively snapping Tom out of his brooding.

"You," his voice was severe and the elf he was pointing at, Gilroy, flinched. "Yes, sir Riddle?" The elf said, voice quivering and his eyes bulged at the sight of blood everywhere. "Send for Dumbledore immediately, and tell him to bring Madame Fontaine."

With a nod and a crack, Gilroy was gone.

Tom turned back to Delilah, who lay limp and pale on the copper table. There were crimson streaks of blood leaving red tears from her eyes. In some cynical way, Tom supposed this was the first time he saw her cry. And hopefully the last. The picture didn't sit right in his mind. Delilah wasn't one to succumb to such weakness, and a small part of himself thought that was quite admirable. Though he'd never tell her that, she'd be too smug for her own good.

The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, the small sound felt deafening however. Taunting him, making his nerves feel scrambled and his head feel heavy. The irrational part of his mind made Delilah appear to get worse with every tick, and finally his body acted on impulse. Tom whirled around and fired a reducto at the offending clock, elves screeching as wood splinters flew everywhere. "Where the bloody hell is he." Tom bit, glaring at the fireplace.

Her teeth chattered and were stained a deep red, she tried speaking, but found her vocal chords to be too weak. She kept trying and nearly started to cough again. There was a twitch to Tom's cheek as she had to roll over again to spit out blood. "Is he- Dumbl-" she stuttered, trying to sit up, but Tom gently pushed her down.

"Hush now, don't be an idiot." He muttered, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. Bringing out his wand, he wet it with cold water and took to wiping off the blood the best he could. The bleeding seemed to stop, and over all, she looked hauntingly debilitated. He left her eyes be, though he thought leaving the blood wasn't the best idea. He didn't know how to properly go about cleaning them.

Delilah was twitching every now and then, and felt like she was on fire yet cold all at once. She felt drained. Her senses started to leave her and she looked around with a new urgency, trying to recollect how she ended up in such a state. But her memory was slipping by the second.

"Hey, calm down." She started to hyperventilate, her breaths constricted by the tightness of her dress. Tom clenched his jaw, telling himself to just leave it, but lately he's found himself ignoring the more sound part of his mind. He took to the front laces which mended up her dress tightly and felt Delilah shiver as she felt the strings being tugged, but didn't protest.

Hooking his fingers on the last few ties, he loosened her outer dress. Really, why women wore such dreaded and constrictive clothing baffled him. How at all was this type of wear convenient? When it was finally undone, he grabbed her hands and pulled her up into a sitting position and took to standing between her legs. Her undergarments were on show but he ignored the sight, keeping his eyes trained on her face. "Open your mouth," he directed curtly. He wasn't sure she heard him, but a few seconds later she dropped her mouth ajar.

He poured some water in her mouth and told her to rinse and spit into a bowl he grabbed. Blood tinted water came from her mouth and she was still breathing shallowly. Her skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat and he was sure her carbon dioxide levels in her body were dangerously high, he needed to slow her breathing rate.