Two days after Delilah kissed Elio, he'd made a point to hold her hand whenever he could. He always fought down a shiver, her skin was cold to the touch. 

  Delilah wasn't sure how she felt, she wasn't even sure why she kissed him. It was a fleeting moment, Elio was saying sweet things and the autumn wind was ruffling his curls. She didn't even know if she liked him more than a friend. The kiss wasn't something you'd see in a romantic muggle film. There was no tension, no intense buzz in her ears, or ache in her chest. 

  There was a slight tug in her stomach, so she latched onto that feeling. Whether it be to spare Elio's feelings or hers, she didn't know.

  They kissed here and there, light pecks. Elio was fond of placing a kiss atop her head every morning. He didn't advance forward and take initiative. He'd never been in a relationship before, Elio didn't know if this was even a relationship. It didn't feel like it. They went on one date, which wasn't much. And she kissed him, and they held hands. 

  Delilah would kiss him on the cheek at night, an antithesis of his morning pecks.

  But it was nice. Things were going slow and he didn't mind, everything else in his life moved so quickly he felt he could never firmly grasp it. Images and people would blur, but Delilah was clear and visible. Annoyance was growing towards Tom. He kept pushing, no, it was more like an order. 

  Find more information about her, see if she's hiding anything. Elio wanted to go at his own pace but Tom wasn't letting him.

  He was studying Delilah instead of the board, not caring what Dumbledore was having to say at the moment. He didn't mind the man, though Tom despised him. Dumbledore wasn't thick headed like a majority of the professors, he didn't eat out of Tom's hand, he treated him like anyone else. And that alone was enough to piss Tom off. 

  Because he wasn't like anyone else.

  As Elio looked at her, he felt that breathless delight returning to him. The way the light made her golden hair have different hues. The way her nose would scrunch if she didn't understand something. And every few minutes she'd tug at the skin on her lips. Her hands always seemed to be moving, either messing with her quill, wand, robes, or anything else. Either that or she'd tap her foot in a quick rhythm. Elio noticed she tended to flinch a little. At a sudden sound or quick shadow, her hand would inch towards her wand, but then her shoulders would relax after a moment. Sensing she wasn't in danger.

  What could she be afraid of? Why was she so alert?

  Elio hated Tom for putting these questions in his head. But he was admittedly curious. Whether he liked it or not, Tom was right. Delilah was too guarded, always on edge, she reminded him of Tom. Though she wasn't as good at hiding it. Tom hid his suspicion through graceful steps and chin held high.

 It was off putting to have her birthday arrive all the sudden, it felt wrong and strange. Her birthday had already passed in her time, she'd been seventeen for ten months. But November seventh had arrived in 1943, So was she seventeen or eighteen? Technically, it didn't account for anything. 

  But Delilah felt like a stranger in her own body, trying not to acknowledge the current date. Note, she hadn't celebrated her birthday since she was fourteen. Life had been too hectic and cruel to allow such a break. So she kept her mouth quiet, a feat that was quite easy, but a strange dizziness filled her head.

  "What's on your mind?" Dumbledore asked, leaned back in his chair with his half moon spectacles perched. Delilah blinked, a flush creeping up her neck. She'd forgotten where she was for a moment.

  "It's my birthday today, technically. But I still have another two months to go on the natural clock." His eyes twinkled a bit brighter, his lips quirking into a smile. "Well, happy technical birthday Delilah." He conjured a bowl of lemon drops, offering her however many she liked. 

  "Sir," She began, two candies in her mouth.

  "Have you gotten any further with why I'm here? I've tried to read up as much as possible on different means of time travel. But it doesn't make sense. The spell that hit me was the killing curse, so that wouldn't cause anything. And the only object I had on my person was the package." 

  Dumbledore let out a slow, calm breath and hummed lightly. Delilah could see the gears turning in his head, bright blue eyes glinting.

  "Are you positive you've told me everything you know concerning the package?" He asked. She let out her own breath, though it wasn't calm. Annoyance ticked at her jaw, they've gone over this hundreds of times. "Yes, I wasn't allowed to know what it was."

  "How'd you know how to find it?" Dumbledore's tone became sharper and he leaned forward, maybe he latched onto something.

  "I-" Delilah's eyebrows furrowed. How did she know how to find it? The only thing The Order told her was that it was in the Department of Mysteries. But somehow, she just knew. How come she never acknowledged that? "I don't know. I just knew. I felt it, I guess. I was drawn to it, not like a voice or anything, and maybe not even like a magnet either. It felt familiar somehow. Now that I think about it, the package was rather warm."

  "Did you feel anything else? Emotionally, perhaps?" Delilah turned her gaze to Fawkes, the clever gaze in his eyes all too clever for a bird. His wings were a vibrant red, with gold and orange undertones shimmering. Like a calm fire waiting to erupt. She dug through her memory, trying to piece together all that happened the night of her death.

  She tried to remember the feel of the smooth, yet stiff parchment that was wrapped around the small box. Not light, nor heavy, it was weightless. The moment Delilah saw it, a yearning desire burned deep in her heart, an insatiable hunger, a flame she needed to control. But she didn't want to. It was as if a siren was calling out to her, "take the box! You'll die if you don't take the box!" But there was no voice, the air was silent besides the slight pant of her lungs. A painful ache was hollowing out her chest- but then she touched it. Delilah felt whole, like a piece of her soul was reunited. Like apart of her was astray, something she didn't even know she lost in the first place.

  "Longing." 

  Somehow that one word summed up how she felt that night. Voldemort should've frightened her more, but she had the package with her, and she'd felt strangely calm. The only reason she screamed was because he had cast the crutiacious curse on her. For how long, she didn't know. The pain seemed to stretch for an eternity, and then it stopped. Before she could even catch her breath, the sound of his voice hissed two words. Just two. Then there was a beautiful shimmer of green, and she was dead. 

  She nearly laughed at how simple it all sounded.

  With just two words and a simple movement, someone had the power to wipe another from existence.

  Delilah shuddered.

  After her meeting she walked down a random hall, the ceiling was lower and the floors significantly more dusty, indicating it wasn't well known. Delilah found her feet taking her to a window, the chill breeze barely getting through the cracks. Laughter was ringing down below, a brother and sister were rough housing and Delilah felt her stomach drop.

  What she would give to just look at Harrison. 

  A pang of guilt strung harshly in her chest. So much had been happening the last two months, Delilah barely thought about her parents. It wasn't the best family, albeit she wasn't even that close to her parents. They fought constantly, they didn't share similar views, and her mother was always finding a way to criticize her. Victoria, her mother, had sharp hazel eyes that sent a chill when she narrowed them. Delilah found more comfort in her father, Marcel, but his job at the Ministry set a distance between them.

  She felt strange all of the sudden, something felt wrong, like an arrow had struck her. But she didn't know what. Her body became cold and a shock wave of an ache shot through her nerves, dulling her senses and making Delilah feel dizzy. 

  "Pontmercy?" She spun at the sound, a mistake on her part. Her vision swam and Delilah did her best to focus, to not give away anything was wrong.

  A tall dark figure came into view, as well as dark eyes. "Afternoon, Riddle." Speaking shouldn't have been such an effort, her jaw and tongue grew tired with just two words. Her body tilted a bit too far on one side and she stumbled, quickly trying to right herself. But Tom wasn't an idiot, much to her annoyance.

  "Is anything the matter?" His Head was tilted to the side. The action was small, but her body was swaying in all directions. Her breathing was shallow, the tension shown in the tendons on her neck. Delilah's eyes were what mainly gave it away, her pupils were shrunken so small, the lighter center of her iris was revealed, it was rather unsettling. He was so used to the deep royal blue, now they shone clearly like crystalline water. Something was definitely wrong.

  "Are you alright?" He pressed again, stepping forward to closer examine her. She stepped backwards, the sudden shift in weight too much for her to handle. The realization she was falling barely registered in her mind before two arms were wrapped around her, keeping her up right. 

  "I'm fine." She croaked, her throat feeling tight, she couldn't breathe. The feeling of his arms around her waist was something opposite of abysmal. The sudden warmth and feeling of a security seemed to relax that dull buzzing in her head.

  Tom felt chills shoot straight through his shirt the moment he touched her, and he wasn't even feeling her skin. The bitter cold was sending waves through her clothing, which was alarming. 

  He'd never seen anything like this before, which peaked his curiosity. His eyes bored into hers, and Delilah felt trapped, her breathing becoming more of a challenge so close to him. So close.

  Parchment. Burnt wood. Cigarettes. It was hauntingly alluring.

 "You're freezing, Pontmercy." Her eyebrows furrowed and she lifted a heavy arm to touch her forehead, she felt sweat. "Really? Hot." She couldn't manage proper dialogue. Her mouth felt like it was moving faster than her brain. "Sleep. Just need sleep."

  What the hell was wrong with her? 

  He stared up and down the hall, hoping to Merlin someone would walk by and take this responsibility for themselves. He'd rather be anywhere else at the moment than having to handle a freezing, quite possibly dying, girl in his arms. 

  "I'm taking you to the infirmary." 

  She shook her head, but Tom watched as her eyes rolled and Delilah practically became dead weight to him. "I'm fine," she persisted and he felt the urge to scoff. "You never cease to be stubborn. You can barely walk, let alone stand. Your eyes cannot focus, and you're making my own skin prickle with a chill by just touching you."

  She opened her mouth to retort, but it was clear there was no argument. His lips tugged in a smirk. "Now then," he positioned one of her arms over his shoulder, but quickly realized she was too short. Damn. "Can you walk?" He asked. 

  Delilah blinked up at him, slowly, like she was catatonic. Tom came to realize he didn't approve of seeing her like this. Weak, unresponsive, not in her usual primal nerve. He'd unknowingly built an image of Delilah in his head, of being quick witted and having a sharp tongue. 

  "Maybe." Her voice sounded strange to her ears, like she was under water and hearing it from the surface.

  She took a step and fell, her face not meeting the floor because Tom held a strong grip on her arm. With a slight sigh of exasperation, the most she's ever seen him do, he turned her around and picked her up. 

  Tom Riddle was carrying a half unconscious girl close to his chest. Delilah tried to imagine what they looked like from an outsiders point of view, but the thought gave her a headache.

  He used one of the secret halls. With the thought, Tom wondered why Delilah was in that hall in the first place. 

  That was partially the reason why he had held a slight expression of surprise before he quickly covered it. As far as he knew, he was the only student aware of such passages. 

  It was odd, having her body pressed to his. He found himself shivering every few seconds, it felt as if he was holding a block of ice. Though instead of melting through his fingers, she just seemed to grow colder. Her head had given up trying to support itself, so it was rested into the crook of his shoulder, golden hair tickling his neck.

  When he reached the doors to the infirmary, he did a bit of wandless magic so they swung open. 

  Madam Fontaine looked annoyed until she caught sight of the pale girl in his arms. 

  "She is in need of instant care." He informed, his voice calm and smooth, but authoritative. "Stars! What happened?" The healer asked and led Tom to the nearest bed. "I don't know, I found her in this state." He set her down, and he was just about to pull away when Delilah gripped his arm with surprising force. 

  "Dumbledore." She croaked out, not missing the flicker of disgust in his eyes, but she set her jaw and looked at him pointedly, to the best of her ability. 

  "Get him, please."