Hierarchy of Need [t.r]

Chapter Twenty Four

And before Delilah knew it, she threw herself into a makeshift reality of isolation.

Four days had passed with not so much as three hours of rest, but she didn't mind and almost welcomed the light headedness crawling up the back of her skull.

It was better than the psychological pain she would've felt if she let her eyes close. If she let herself see the hours of torture she went through at the hand of his followers, and himself. Or the sight of him standing over her, a cruel and decrepit smile on his pale lips as he said the unforgivable so softly it might've been a caress.

No, she'd take the exhaustion over that any day.

But alas, on the fifth day when she had sought out asylum in the Room of Requirement, she noticed something was wrong.

Her eyes squinted at the pages of the book she was reading, a study of blood magic, but the words were morphing into a language she couldn't understand. Delilah's head felt fuzzy and she shook it irritably, but when she looked up she'd frozen.

The Room of Requirement had suddenly morphed into what looked like a more dim version of the atrium at the Ministry. Delilah stood up from her place on the couch and walked to the foot of the large marble statue, eyes trailing over the sight of muggles holding up a wizard. She then read the words at the base, 'Magic is Might'.

There was a crack of a missed spell that rebounded on a wall, making it ring all around her. Whirling around, Delilah's eyes widened at what she was seeing.

It was herself, in her nice dress robes, red converse pounding against the tile as she ran. Delilah watched as her own eyes lightened at the sight of the Floo Network, a blazing green inferno of promised death glimmering behind her. But then something stepped out of the shadows and she was thrown back with a startled scream.

Delilah watched as that god forsaken package flew from her grasp. Something glinted through the wrapping, momentarily blinding her, but before she could get a good look she heard a scream. Turning, Delilah saw Voldemort standing over her.

No. She didn't want to see this.

He twisted his wand, causing her to thrash and her spine bend at an odd angle, making the veins pop out in her throat as she let out a blood curdling scream.

But Delilah couldn't pull her eyes away from that, that thing. Was that really what Tom would become? Standing over her, his crimson eyes apathetic to her suffering.

He tilted the tip of his wand up, momentarily raising her head before slamming it down into the marble flooring. The sound of her skull cracking rebounded off the curved ceiling and Delilah watched herself lose consciousness for a moment. She felt sick, but there was nothing in her system to throw up, she hasn't eaten in two days.

"Oh my sincere apologies." He hissed, making Delilah's blood run cold at the sound of it. That wasn't Tom's voice. His was a low rasp that would carry over a room softly but resolutely, almost like an over roisend bow. "You loathe being considered pathetic, Miss Meddows. Don't you?"

She paled at the sight of recognition in his eyes as he looked down upon her. "How did you-" her past self spoke, only to be cut off by him hitting her with another wave of the cruciatus curse.

Delilah staggered back and hit the base of the fountain, staring at him as his anger seemed to take hold, giving her lash after lash of sheer agony. She could only faintly recall those moments, her nervous system had started to give out.

But that wasn't the reason she was staring at him, no, not at all.

"Please," she choked out, her body convulsing on the floor. Something odd happened then, he froze, his wand still raised, his chest heaving. But when he bit his cheek, Delilah saw that as a sign he was thinking. She knew that mannerism.