The next time Lae woke up was to complete, utter darkness. Her fingers fumbled over her face, and pulled at the corse fabric obstructing her eyesight, without luck. It refused to budge, nor give an inch, held there by an unknown force, like trying to peel tape from paper after the adhesive already set, and Lae had no doubt if she continued her efforts she'd be ripping her skin from her bones before the fabric let loose. It snugly remained wrapped around her crown, despite her increasingly enthusiastic attempts to rip it free.
"Don't wast your effort. It won't come off until we say it does."
Lae blindly sought out the voice, zeroing in on the point she suspected it may have come from. How many others were in the room with them, she wondered?
"And when might that be?" Lae asked.
The other person, a woman, made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat, as though considering the question. "You gave us quite a surprise with your Legilimency. It was careless of us to assume you wouldn't be able to perform it without your wand, especially given your... heritage. So I really don't know." At least she was honest. "Obviously our own Legilimency is off the table, too, after that whole debacle."
"Ah." Lae didn't know how she ought to respond to that. "My condolences."
"No matter. Legilimency is dreadfully unreliable when getting information anyway, because as long as you aren't thinking about what we want to know, we won't be able to see it all that easily. Moving on," she clapped twice in quick succession, "you're all patched up. Wouldn't even know anything ever happened if I weren't informed. Are you hungry?"
The honest answer was yes. Lae hadn't eaten since the morning of her capture which was... how long had it been? It was hard to keep track of the passing days when she kept passing out.
But the ploy was so obvious, Lae had no other choice than to lie. "No."
"Really? Not even a bit of water?" the women pressed kindly. "Here, let me help you."
The sound of soft steps filled the room, and then, all of a sudden, cool, balmy glass was guided into Lae's hand.
"Are you comfortable drinking on your own? I can help, if you need it," the woman offered.
"I'm fine."
Lae trusted few things less than the kindness of strangers, least of all a stranger who clearly wanted information.
"Come on. You need to drink something. It's not healthy—"
"I'm not thirsty."
"Really—"
Without a care for where it landed, Ophelia tossed the cup across the room to an applause of shattering glass. "I said I'm fine." Her voice didn't once shift from bored monotone.
They couldn't get her to drink what wasn't there.
A sigh. "A bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. Reparo." Lae imagined the women aiming her wand at the shards and them reassembling atop a puddle of water. Another sigh. "Evanesco." The vanishing spell. "I'll be back tomorrow, if you ever want to eat, or to talk about your uncle. He is a vicious criminal. A murderer who leads murderers. You must know that?"
Lae remained silent. Of course she knew.
"Very well. Like I said, I'll see you tomorrow with some fresh water. Food, too. I'm sure you'll be hungry by then."
***
True to her word, the woman didn't come to bother Lae for another cycle of the sun through the sky, leaving Lae to the worst company imaginable: her own thoughts, for twenty-four dreadfully mundane hours. Granted, she couldn't know the time for certain. It felt like three times as long. The silence dug deep, more irksome than even her continued blindness, stuck in a dark void with only her own heartbeat for company.
She almost — almost — missed Julius's constant, disgruntled presence, imagined or not. She never did discover what manner of enchantment bewitched that ring — the resurrection stone. Unfortunately, even if she hadn't left the ring with Tom, its rightful owner, there was fat chance the Ministry would have let her keep it. They confiscated everything else she had on her, down to even her underclothes, lest they aid her in escape.
Lae genuinely wished she was as ingenious as they seemed to believe.
The woman — who cheerfully introduced herself as Cedrella — returned, as promised, with food and water, which Lae dutifully ignored, despite the rawness of her throat and clawing in her stomach. The risk of trickery was too great.
The next day, she could barely think straight, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She wordlessly tossed this glass, too, to rid herself of the temptation to banish the sandpaper desert building in the back of her throat, and curled back in on herself to slip back into uneasy sleep. There was little else to do.
Cedrella continued asking questions with each visit, doing her best to coerce Lae into taking the water, and although Lae knew the other woman could probably force down anything with little resistance, Cedrella never did. It made Lae wonder if interrogation really wasn't their end goal, but if not information, what could they possibly need her for?
When Cedrella departed once again, increasingly more frustrated than the day that came before, the click of the door locking shut heralded a new era of silence. Dark and quiet. A complete numbing of the senses.
She didn't much like quiet anymore, for it was in quiet she found the least peace.
*****
Tom made no sound upon entering Dumbledore's office, his steps deathly silent on the stone floor. Nonetheless, he knew Dumbledore sensed him immediately, even with his back turned, busy ruminating over some basin tucked against the wall. His hands clutched either side of the hollowed vessel, supporting his weight. Although unable to see much at his angle, Tom noticed how it cast an eerie blue glow over the professor's skin, only briefly, before Dumbledore turned to face him, carefully drawing closed the screen around the object as he did so.
"Evening, Tom. The Hospital Wing misses your company, I have no doubt," Dumbledore said mildly, as though it were any other Saturday.
As though he hadn't recently stood by and watched as Aurors dragged Lae off to an uncertain future without lifting a finger.
"I didn't come here for a lecture on obedience, Dumbledore," Tom grit out, Dumbledore's nonchalance grating at every last one of his nerves.
He wanted to force a genuine, raw expression onto the perpetually composed professor's face. He would make him hurt, crying out in agony, just to prove Dumbledore retained an ounce of humanity. No one was that placid, so infuriatingly unruffled. Tom hated it.
Tom hated him.
How could it be that he, Tom, felt things so keenly, despite discarding most of his soul, yet Dumbledore seemed the less human of the two?
"That's Professor Dumbledore, Tom," he corrected gently.
Tom's disdain swelled, an ugly, writhing thing in his chest that flashed scarlet across his vision. "I'm not here to discuss my manners, either. Tell me where they've taken her! Tell me everything you know or—"
"Would your friends lingering in the corridor care to join us?" Dumbledore swept a hand casually around the room, indicating three chairs located strategically on the other side of his desk.
One of them had not been there in the days prior, meaning one of two things: either there had been three among those sent to question the professor, or Dumbledore somehow anticipated Tom's arrival to the extent that he'd even prepared an additional chair to seat both Rabastan and Fenella as well. Tom hadn't even made the conscious decision to bring them, he merely shifted them about like an extension of his own arm, unthinking. The idea that Dumbledore could foretell so much without Tom ever giving his own actions a passing thought bothered him more than it should have. To be predictable was a fatal flaw, as far as Tom was concerned. A death sentence, for if adversaries anticipated his movements, they could use that to outmaneuver him.
If only to prove the extraneous chairs unnecessary, henceforth disproving Dumbledore's conjecture — supposing it wasn't a coincidence after all — Tom stated, "They'll only get in the way." Dumbledore's apparent good humour gave way to a frown. Tom pressed on. "What did you tell the Ministry? Where did they take her?"
"They asked a great many things," Dumbledore replied evasively, followed by a pause, as though debating whether to answer the second question. His eyes, a twinkling blue that saw far too much, roved intently over Tom's icy features. Try as Tom might to present a barren, desolate sort of coldness for the Professor to dissect, the chips of frost coursing through his veins was the kind that burned at the tips of fingers and toes, it bit at noses and stung cheeks until they, too, burned. In his ice laid fire. "And the Auror's are not foolish. It would be both dangerous and ill-advised of me to presume to know where they would take her. While it's certain they hope to bait Grindelwald into a trap of some sort, they won't take her to the traditional places they might otherwise take someone not yet formally convicted of a crime. It would be far too simple a task for him free her if he knew where she was."
Perhaps he had not noticed, but the note of admiration in the Deputy Headmaster's voice for his old friend hadn't slipped by Tom unchecked. Fine. Tom didn't need Dumbledore's aid, nor would he ever lower himself far enough to grovel for it. If the professor refused to answer his questions, there would be other ways around that problem, granted he couldn't think of any at that particular moment.
He turned to leave.
"Avoid doing anything reckless, Tom," Dumbledore warned knowingly to his retreating back, and again, Tom felt that same flash of irritation that one single meddling old man could presume to know so much, when he knew absolutely nothing! "It benefits no one for you to interfere. Most importantly, of course, Ophelia wouldn't wish for you to endanger yourself."
Dumbledore was correct, of course. While she wouldn't wish for him to risk unnecessary harm, however, she also would not be the least bit surprised. Ophelia would know he welcomed the challenge, a chance to prove the extent of his abilities. Given that she was also the last person to attack him, though, he found it incredibly easy to disregard her opinion on the matter of his well being.
Tom slid his cool gaze over the professor. It would be wiser to keep his mouth shut and let Dumbledore come to his own unfounded conclusion about Tom's next move, but something about the older man sparked a defiant streak in him, the need to have the last word. "Just because you can't bring yourself to take a stand doesn't mean I won't. I'm no coward. I do not fear the Ministry, I do not fear Grindelwald. I fear nothing."
Except failure. Except loss. Except death—
Understanding softened his features, but what could he possibly understand? "How it is to be young, to feel everything so deeply..." Dumbledore mused. "It's so easy to forget when you get to my age. Life passes so quickly, you forget to live it."
"You aren't old enough to be philosophizing, Professor."
Dumbledore proceeded as if Tom hadn't spoken. "But you misunderstand me, Tom. I never planned to abandon Ophelia, like you seem to believe. In fact, I've been putting my mind to this issue for quite some time, longer than you'd ever imagine, if I dare say so. Hogwarts was always only supposed to be a temporary solution — a brief reprieve — before finding her something more permanent. Upon her transition into adulthood, with her consent, of course, since it is still quite a gamble, I planned to call upon the Wizengmot to grant her clemency and asylum. I've been secretly gathering allies for a number of years, likeminded people who believe it is too harsh treatment for a child to suffer the crimes of a relative. Even now, it is her best option. Recent events have only served to push forward these plans. While you were resting in the Hospital Wing — as I'm certain you still ought to be, quite certain — I sent off my owls calling for a formal trial in a matter of days."
"It'll never work!"
"At risk of sounding vain, I carry quite a bit of influence within the wizarding court, Tom. We need only wait—"
"There's no time for waiting!" Tom snarled. "We've no idea what's being done to her in there, and you have no guarantee of winning the trial, not with the Minister himself on the opposing side!"
"Fortunately, the Minister is not well received at this time for his clumsy handling of the," Dumbledore paused over his name, only a fraction of a second, but not unnoticed by Tom, "the Grindelwald uprisings. Public sentiment favours him ill, which can only benefit us."
"Not when the other members of the ministry resent you just as much," Tom was quick to point out. "They're desperate from past failures, and the inability to convince you to step in, to do anything they believe will bring an end to Grindelwald's reign. They're pathetic. They need your power, and yet they don't trust you... They resent you, and yet they themselves are too weak to do anything. How does their gall not make you furious?"
Dumbledore's pointer finger, which had been tapping lightly atop the cluttered wood desk, went very still, and Tom knew then that he'd said exactly too much of his mind. Before Dumbledore could garner a response, Tom stormed away, his robes flaring out behind him. Fenella and Rabastan fell into step with him as he exited into the corridor. He half expected Dumbledore to summon him back, grateful when he didn't, because Tom wasn't sure that was a command he could bring himself to obey.
The trappings of a plan already threaded together in his mind, still vague and wispy, like a figure approaching through thick fog, but it existed, an improvement over his situation a mere hour prior. The visit hadn't been entirely fruitless after all. Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, shared far too much, and by the time he would realize his mistake, it would be too late.
Tom smiled, the feverish light in his eyes a dark promise.
"You know..." he turned his low-lidded attention onto the two beside him, glancing at them sidelong. "It was quite rude of us, not speaking to Ministry earlier. They were only doing their jobs, after all."
Not quite grasping the purpose of Tom's changed demeanor, yet still savvy enough to identify a scheme when he heard one, Rabastan agreed wickedly, "How inconsiderate of us. Allow me to get quickly prepare an apology for them... Something extravagant, like a present box that bites off your fingers when you touch the ribbon. Hold on," He raised a halting hand, shaking his head, "I know what you're thinking. Not large enough in scale, right? In that case, I'm sure old Slughorn has a recipe for a Combustion Concoction hidden somewhere — and paired with the right spell, that little gift," he winked, "could light up an entire floor of the Ministry. Two, if we're lucky."
Surely a joke, though not altogether unenticing.
"What do you have in mind, Tom?" Fenella asked.
"I think we ought to send our own owl — to your father. I think we're exactly what the Ministry is about to be looking for." The corners of his lips turned up into a cold approximation of a smile. "After all, we have something they need, and we share a common enemy."
A/N
I'mma come clean here.... I desperately want to dislike dumbledore... however.... Jude law is just too FINE 😭. I take no criticism. I'll see myself out.