Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Two

  Delilah woke up twenty minutes later and her head felt heavier than lead. She groaned as her head rolled to the side, soft velvet was underneath her and she let her body weight fall into it, only for a moment, before she shot up again. Her wand was drawn and her eyes darted frantically around the room, they were on high alert, ready for any threat. Then her blue eyes landed on Dumbledore and her hand trembled.

  So it wasn't just some fucked up dream?

  The need, no the want to cry was so strong but nothing happened. Because deep in her subconscious she knew how much she despised crying. Most considered crying a friend, a way to vent, but she'd always felt gross and dull afterwards. She took a deep breath as he made his way over slowly. He held a cup that had steam billowing out from the rim and the smell of tea danced its way towards her.

  "Thank you." Her voice was quiet as she took the cup from him and he smiled in reassurance. After two sips, she settled into the couch he'd conjured and attempted to let her muscles relax. "When," she paused. "When am I?" He leaned back in his chair and observed her quietly. The silence was deafening and Delilah shifted in her seat, her eyes darting anywhere but his own. 

  Every time Dumbledore looked at someone, it felt as if he had peeled back every layer they've worked so hard to put up. He could see through anyone and it was disconcerting.

  Her eyes shifted to something in the back corner of his office and her breath hitched. Dumbledore followed her gaze and a warm smile breached his lips. "So I take it you know of Fawkes?" The Phoenix perked it's head up at the sound of his name and tilted his head as he observed Delilah. Her eyes felt heavy as she remembered Dumbledore's funeral, how the cry of the Phoenix rang like a melody from the heavens until it ceased to ever be heard again. A weight dropped in her heart as she looked at that beautiful bird. That bird who helped save Harry his second year from the basilisk, the bird who helped Dumbledore escape from the corrupted clutches of the Ministry. That bird was the symbol for the Order of the Phoenix.

  That bird was hope.

  "You could say that." Delilah said calmly, despite the raging surge of everything happening inside her. She took notice on how he hadn't answered her yet. Perhaps he was prolonging, in worry she'd lash out. "I won't faint on you again, I promise." Humor was her best defense and she hoped to god it was working. Lord knows it was the only thing to help her in this current predicament. "Today is the third of September, 1943." He said slowly, knowing she probably wouldn't believe what she was hearing.

  Her muscles tensed and her grip was so severe on the cup she thought it'd break in her hand. "1943?" Her voice was quiet and she blinked at Dumbledore, pure confusion etched itself onto her face. "How-" She began but Dumbledore shook his head. "I know nothing of how you got here, please enlighten me? Recall whatever you can." He leaned back in his chair and pulled lightly at the tufts of hair on his short beard.

  "Well I-" she set down the cup on the table next to her. Delilah's hands were trembling and she was in no mood to drop scolding tea on herself. "I was at the Ministry, and then- well I- I was-" she stopped and looked at Dumbledore. He mused silently to himself as he saw conflict raging behind her eyes.

  This was Dumbledore. The man who helped Harry through so much, no matter how complicated and infuriating that process was, he was still kind and generous. He was just about the only man Delilah knew who could help. She cleared her throat, "Well, I was killed. And then I woke up on the edge of the Great Lake, and now I'm here." Dumbledore felt his lips tug downwards slightly. She'd been killed?

  "What year was this?" He asked softly, not wanting to break what trust she seemed to already have deeply embedded to him. It appeared she already knew who he was. "1998, towards the end of it." Dumbledore tapped his chin and seemed to sink further into his chair. "So, you've somehow jumped back fifty five years..." he hummed to himself and Delilah felt the urge to yell at him, which she scolded herself mentally for. She wanted him to have the answers, he always seemed to have them, but that was unfair of her to expect. "How old are you?" Dumbledore wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer, she looked so young yet she'd suffered a terrible fate.