i am lord voldemort ? Tom Riddle

Alternative Timeline: XXXI

"Counteroffer," she inclined head sharply to the left-most corner of the room closest to them, "you get out of the doorway, or I give this one something a little stronger than a concussion and force my way past anyway."

The man who initially spoke opened his mouth, only for his words to completely drowned out by the spell of the person beside him. They swiped their wand in a high arc, releasing an explosive gust of wind that in one blow slammed Lae against the wall and tore her away from the interrogator on the floor. The impact knocked all air from her chest. She slid a foot down, until her toes touched the ground, then slumped to her knees.

Breathe, she instructed herself. Breathe, damn it!

"Bloody fool, I told you to stop her, not kill her!" one of them shouted angrily, and then arms were pulling at her shoulders. She fought back, at first, thoughtlessly abandoning her stolen wand in favor of pushing them away with her hands, but his next words gave her pause, the bubble of adrenaline she'd been riding bursting all at once. "Someone call a healer!"

The first sparks of pain tickled her senses, growing to an inferno. Her eyes drifted down to her middle, a point just above the boney area of her left hip, in time to watch two pairs of arms, not her own, grasp hold around each upper arm and wrap around her lower back. With an almighty jerk, they slid her off a dripping, red table leg.

Red, not white.

Lae seized up from the unexpected pain the burst of movement elicited, but the two wizards held fast until she came entirely free.

Dots connected slowly. The spell created an explosive burst of wind that shoved her against the wall, as well as the table behind her, forcing her to crash upon the perpendicular leg like meat on a skewer.

Lae knew she ought to reach out for the stolen wand again and fight her way to freedom, despite dismal odds. She didn't forget, not as they laid her flat atop the chill, crimsoning tile, and began applying frantic pressure to her wound in preparation for the healer being procured elsewhere.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on her slowing breathing. In. Out.

They could have this round, she decided, pretending she had any other choice. She wouldn't get very far in this state anyway, and at the very least she knew they wouldn't let their treasured hostage die before catching Grindelwald. After catching him? Maybe then they would allow her death, but they could never catch her uncle, not even on his worst day, and he never had one of those. He was unbeaten.

***

"What are you planning?" Rabastan asked in low tones, uncharacteristically serious.

Tom, indeed deep in thought surrounding his next move, didn't spare his fellow Slytherin a passing glance. "What makes you think I'm planning anything?"

Rabastan's incredulity, a physical creature rolling off him in exasperated waves, hit before his words got the chance. "What makes me think you're planning something? What makes me think that sky will be blue above all the clouds? What makes me think Fenella has nine ways to get away with my murder at any given time, just in case? You're always planning something. Always."

"It's cute that you think the number is so low," Fenella said, smiling sweetly. "But sure, a measly nine ways, let's go with that."

She sat cross legged at the far end of Tom's hospital bed, covertly watching the door to the nurse's office through a curtain of her hair. Rabastan had dragged a chair to the mattress' edge and positioned himself atop it backwards, with his arms crossed over the metal back, resting his cheek lazily on his knuckles. By all appearances, he remained as aloof as ever, were it not for the hard undercurrent brewing beneath his words and the sharp focus of his eyes. They same could be said for all of them.