Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Twelve

  "Pontmercy?"

  Delilah blinked. She couldn't keep up with him. One minute he was about to kill her, was threatening her, then passive, acting like she didn't exist, and now he was asking her to come with him for Christmas break.

  "No." 

  Tom had to incline his head forward to hear her, Delilah spoke in a hushed tone so soft he thought he almost imagined it.

   "You've already made plans for the holiday?" He asked. She nearly shook her head. Delilah felt melancholy grip at her, it was like a thorn in her side. She completely forgot about Christmas nearing.

  There was nowhere to go. No one to spend the holiday with. No one to laugh with. No special Weasley jumper. No stupid Christmas carols with Ginny. No baking cookies with Luna. No watching muggle Christmas films with Harrison. There was no home to return to. It wasn't unusual for students to stay at Hogwarts over break. But this was different. Those students had a choice.

  Delilah had nobody and nowhere to turn to. That impossible burn to cry grabbed hold of her again. Her throat felt tight and she looked away from Tom. Tears wouldn't come, she knew that, but a heavy weight was still felt behind her eyes. Dumbledore was nowhere nearer figuring out how to get her home, back to her own time.

  Then a terrible thing happened. An awful, terrible thing.

  Hopelessness.

  Not in all the days, the years, that her life has been threatened had such a drastic feeling occurred to her. There was always more to be done, more to achieve, there was always a light at the end. You just had to keep walking. But where was she to walk to? Delilah had been yanked back in time and placed in an environment completely foreign to her, she was vulnerable. 

  She should've felt strong, she knew of the future after all, She should be taking her circumstances in stride, yet she had never felt so clueless.

  Hopelessness is a terrible thing to feel. It weighed her down into the bed, Delilah was overwhelmed with the urge to just do nothing. Would it really be so bad if she just laid back, and let time take its course? She could live out the rest of her days in this time. Perhaps she could even live to the nineties? Delilah would be in her seventies by then. Would that really be so bad?

  It wasn't like she was helping anyone. Sure, she was fighting for the Order, but she was only one person. And an insignificant one at that. She wasn't Harry; the chosen one, the boy who lived. She wasn't Hermione, the brightest witch of her age. They probably thought she was dead now, anyway. They'd mourn, but they no doubt moved on. They'd have to. There were more pressing matters like the war to worry about, not some seventeen year old girl who met an unfortunate end.

  Tom stared at her. She had the face of young, perplexed pain. Her entire demeanor changed, it was as if he could physically feel her aura turn desolate. Royal blue eyes zoned out, focusing on a single fold in the sheets. Her knees pulled up to her chest, Delilah wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on top. Her shoulders shrunk inwards. She looked dejected, curled in on herself.

  He hated it.

  There was a clear picture of Delilah Pontmercy in his mind's eye. Back straight, brows set, tapping foot, always moving hands, conflicted blue eyes, gnawed lips, her pleased, all-knowing smile. The Delilah in his head was strong. She swore far too much, was comfortable in her own skin, beyond infuriating, and only ever questioned herself around him.

  But the girl in front of Tom simply looked lost.

  He knew something must've been genuinely troubling her, because when he made his way towards her bed, Delilah didn't even blink. She just sat, curled in on herself, staring. Tom stood a foot away from her bed for a moment, mentally debating with his better judgement before sitting on the edge.