Delilah slowly woke up, her mind still treading the thin line between dreams and reality. The only thing she could get a sense of was the rolling sense of nausea that rocked her body.

It was a burrowing, burning sensation that was searing through her chest right down into her stomach. She blinked a few times, a wail of pain nearly ripping through her mouth before it suddenly ceased. Sitting up, she felt dizzy and her vision speckled black before everything went back to normal.

Something rustled beside her and she flinched before realizing it was Tom shifting in his sleep. It was still early morning, the sun not even kissing the sky yet. She knew she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep so she carefully got out of bed before heading down to the kitchen.

After making a cup of tea, she slumped into one of the chairs at the table and stared at the silver cigarette box. The sounds of the ocean greeting her ears through the cracked windows and she nearly let herself dream about just staying there forever.

Her and Tom moving to the beach, spending their days soaked in the sun and lounging by the water. The domesticity of it was nearly enough to get her drunk but she shook her head. He'd never agree to a future like that.

Delilah's gaze turned back to the box and she gnawed at her lips. Why this box? She hadn't even gotten it till after she arrived in the forties. It was just sitting in a little shop in Hogsmeade, not even in an obvious place. The sun had just glinted off it at the right time so it caught her eye.

She needed to talk to Dumbledore. He was the only one with answers but she knew Tom would rather swallow shards of glass than go to him for help. But just sitting there, the uncertainty of what was going to happen next sent a ravishing fire of anxiety ripping up her spine.

Sneaking back up to their room, she quietly changed into different clothes and grabbed the letter she had gotten out of Dumbledore's desk when they went back to the nineties. Just as she was leaving the room her eyes caught onto Tom. He was laying on his stomach, his body sprawled out and his brown hair fell over his closed eyes as he breathed slowly and deeply.

She needed answers, and she left out the door.

In the living room, she grabbed a handful of floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.

"Dumbledore's office," though she spoke it clearly, her voice barely rose above a whisper. Nonetheless, green flames engulfed her and her vision blurred as she was transported.

She stumbled forward, Dumbledore's office coming into view.

Despite it being early morning, there the professor sat. A cup of tea steamed at his desk as he flicked through a book. Though now he was looking up at her through his glasses, looking a bit surprised but pleased to see her.

"Good Morning," he greeted her, taking a sip of his drink and gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Her smile was tight lipped, the letter in her coat pocket burning a hole into her side.

"Morning," she forced out.

Clearly not missing her tone, Dumbledore snapped his book shut and placed it on his desk. Settling into his chair, he laced his fingers together and rested them against his stomach. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Delilah?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking back to what he told her. About how she would know when to open the letter. Part of her wasn't sure she could handle whatever was written in it, so why not give it to the author himself?

"I have something for you," she dug into her pocket and raised the letter for him to see.

His brow raised, noticing his handwriting. "Curious."

"I want you to read it," her shaking hand dropped the letter on the table. She was staring at it so intensely she thought it might catch on fire.

"Are you sure? Have you read it?"

She shook her head.

"I'm not sure-"

"Please."

Dumbledore sighed through his nose, looking at her a moment longer before reaching forward and picking up the letter. He picked up a letter opener and cut through the sealed wax as if he was slicing through butter.

His eyes flitted over whatever was written and his brows furrowed, one hand rubbing against his mouth.

"I sometimes fear I'm too ambitious."

Delilah frowned, "meaning?"

He set the letter down, appearing worn at the edges which made trepidation start to claw at her insides.

"Now, what I will tell you next, I need you to understand that I by no means meant any harm. At least I can only hope that is what my future self had intended. I pray he meant the best-"

Her voice came out sharp despite it feeling like the floor was trembling beneath her feet, "what did you do?"

Dumbledore let out a breath, "it seems that, in the future, the reason why you ended up here in the first place had to do with a plot to fix everything. As outlandish as that sounds, how impossible it sounds but... I went through with it, so it seems.

"Your body clock, that was my doing. When you went to the Ministry and you grabbed that package. It was charmed and the clock was placed onto you the minute you touched it. It was a guarantee you'd be okay for your– for your journey ahead. You were to intercept Mister Riddle. The clock now no longer necessary, I knew it wouldn't once... once Mister Rosier sacrificed himself for you. That's enough to keep you protected now. The body clock isn't needed," he slid the letter towards her. "This tells you how to undo it."

Rage.

Her vision was white and she could feel the Earth's rotation beneath her feet, spinning a thousand miles an hour.

She felt outside of her body as she shot up, her chair knocking over behind her.

Everything she had gone through was because of him. She was just a ploy for a bigger plan. Elio.

Without saying a word, ignoring whatever plea he was trying to make, she ripped the note from the desk and apparated.

She landed on shaking legs in the tall grass, feeling like daggers in her skin. Dried blood coated the corners of her mouth and was caked in her nose, making it hard to breathe.

Taking a step, her muscles trembled and her lungs screamed out and agony. Why must she keep fighting? What was the point? Her body was begging her to give up. Just sleep. Just rest. Rest and it will all be over.

Looking at the house, light from candles gleamed in the panes, making it look alive and she felt like crying. It was only a few yards away yet felt like miles and miles and miles.

Delilah didn't know where Tom was, and she couldn't trust anyone. A wail left her lips, making her sound like a wounded animal as she crumbled to the ground, her fingers clutching at the Earth as she convulsed and threw up.

She was sweating, her hair sticking to her neck and cheeks and she scratched it away, aggravated and her mind was a mess, not taking note how her nails tore through her skin.

Her chest was heaving, as if all the oxygen had been yanked away from the atmosphere, leaving her suffocating and alone and scared. She didn't know what to do.

Everything had changed.

Delilah knew the truth and she felt like screaming until she vomited her lungs and then her heart. She wanted to stomp on it, stab it, crush it within her fingers for making her feel so terrible and desperate and lonely.

It was overwhelming, all her trust had been upended, mocked as if her feeling of betrayal was childish.

How could he?

Her mind chanted incessantly, making her ears ring and she pushed her forehead into the ground, gripping and yanking on her hair until her scalp burned, begging for her mind to stop talking.

He was lying all along.

Stop talking.

He played you.

Stop talking.

He used you.

Please stop talking.

He never cared.

Delilah blacked out, alone in a field, broken.