"I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care."

His voice is acid and the hobbled follower cowers, his singed hair peeking out between his oversized coat and his threadbare cap, his footing uneven and crooked, one leg longer than the other, one eye open and the other swelled shut, one ear listening and the other, unhearing, unable.

"I am s-sorry m-my Lord."

The follower's head remains bowed, not daring to look at his Lord in the eyes, the face he fears looking at, the face that becomes less and less human every day, less and less close to a person and more and more that of a monster. His outsides mirroring his insides, and when more than now?

His Lord does not respond for a while and his loyal follower continues changing bandages, performing cleansing spells, trying to heal all the scars and bruises and boils that refuse to leave his Lord's marred skin.

"Will Alphard be coming tonight?"

Though the words are no sharper than any others his Lord has spoken, and though not particularly loud, or threatening, the follower jumps at the sudden question all the same. The content of the inquiry frightening him more than anything else. He hesitates before answering, drawing his hands back to himself, and making himself as small as possible, lest his Lord decide to shoot the messenger. Alphard remains a sensitive topic, and one that makes his Lord all too ready to inflict all his pain onto another.

The follower shakes his head. His hands tremble too quickly and too violently to hold out, so he shoves them in his pockets, only leaving his lips shaking as he answers.

"N-no, my Lord. He is s-still taking time off to stay with his- his-"

But what to call her? Anyone that so much whispers her name is cursed into oblivion, but would calling her Alphard's wife not anger his Lord more? His girlfriend? The mother of his unborn child? His best friend? His love? His joy, his life? The reason he left you? The reason she did?

"His… wife is in the hospital."

He says it slowly, almost hoping to test each word as it comes out. This is the safe route, the easiest route, the one that hurts his head the least, but the follower holds his breath all the same, never sure what his lord will decide is too much, and what is not enough.

The follower chances a glance at him.

And his Lord's eyes are closed, his skin the palest he's ever seen it. His bandages still only half wrapped and revealing the thick red scars beneath, the scabs covering them still so new and ripped through so often, every time his Lord is angered and rises to curse one of his followers, every time he becomes desperate and tries to get up to research, apparate, lead, live; all the things he is too weak to do and cannot accept the fact of. The follower fears he will rise now, rise and lower him, rise and end him, without giving a thought to the consequences. He acts without reason whenever it comes to that woman.

Just as the follower feels he can hold his breath no longer, as soon as he's sure he'll pass out himself before his Lord makes a decision about his life, his Lord shifts, just an inch, and the follower knows his life is over. He can't decide if this is the end he would want, but the feels no remorse in having served such a noble cause. He scrunches his eyes closed and—

Nothing follows.

A soft sigh from his Lord, a muffled creak from the old bed, and nothing else.

The follower chances opening his eyes. His Lord has his eyes closed, an arm thrown over his face as if to block out the light in the pitch black room.

"Check on the wife."

"My Lord?"

And now, with much more severity, the magic in the room swirling, becoming dark and suffocating, each word punctuated with a scary sort of intentionality.

"Check on her."

"Y-yes, my Lord."

Tom stands at the front of the room, his shrouded followers with their heads bent, listening attentively, gleefully taking their orders, excitedly looking forward to their rightful place as rulers of the wizarding world.

The heavy, dark doors swing open and Tom is ready to curse whoever dares interrupt his meeting, but—

It's Alphard.

Alphard, who has missed four meetings in a row, been gone for an entire month. Alphard, to whom Tom granted this privilege without punishment. Alphard, who has come with pale skin and dark bags, with swollen eyes and a heavy soul.

"So nice of you to join us."

His breath stills and he pauses by the door, letting it shut itself heavily behind him. He bows deeply.

"Please, forgive me my Lord."

"There is but nothing to forgive. Please, join us."

Alphard moves are stuttered and robotic as he raises his head and moves to stand between two other followers.

"Alphard, please, take your place next to me."

And, again, he bows before moving, walking around the circle, the disgruntled huffs and annoyed looks of other followers following him. Been gone for a month and still chosen to stand by their master's side.

He swallows stiffly as he reaches Tom.

"I thank you for the continued honor, my Lord."

Tom can almost taste the hatred emanating from him and revels in it. He only nods in response, and the meeting continues, but Alphard's movements remain robotic, his eyes sorrowful, and his mind so loud.

Though Tom is still weak, still requires assistance climbing the stairs to his room after each meeting, still must rely on cowering followers for dozens of healing spells, though he still cannot control his emotions and fears he has lost the talent completely, and though he knows many of these men now question if he can lead them at all, he has stood for long enough to force Alphard to worship him. A simple peek into his mind and he knows that Hermione is no longer sullied with him, for she has lost the child, and that is enough to make it all worth it.

Another four meetings come and go without Alphard before he arrives at the fifth in much the same manner as before.

"My Lord, please forgive me."

"There is but nothing to forgive. Please," Tom gestures to the space beside him.

Alphard does not even try to quiet his mind this time, though he must know of Tom's abilities. It gets louder and louder the closer he gets and Tom can hardly handle the noise, so angry and screeching that it is. But the infernal sound only raises his spirits higher and higher.

Yes, the child is really, really gone. And Hermione can hardly get herself out of bed, and this is all straining their relationship, for as much as Alphard tries and tries to help her, she can only talk of him. Of what he has done to her, to her child, to her happiness, but she is talking of him, thinking of him, of nothing else but him.

It pains Alphard to see it, to hear it, and it makes Tom so, so happy. The injuries Hermione had inflicted him with when he attacked her are all but gone, and yet the results of his deeds are all still so alive (or dead), and well (or gone).

Tom returns from his thoughts to find Alphard's gaze on him, his dark eyes likes daggers, his mouth set in a grim line but the hatred in his eyes, the anger, the despair, the mourning, palpable. Alphard would kill him if Hermione let him, but she knows only Alphard would die in such a battle and so begs him to not even try.

Alphard knows, has always known, that it was no coincidence that his wife was attacked at the exact same time that Tom resulted hurt in a duel. Tom doesn't even bother coming up with a believable cover story, so little does it matter if Alphard knows the truth. Because Alphard cannot question him, cannot doubt him, cannot act on his anger, on his despair and misery. He can only glare at him, only wish that things were different, only go back to his wife at the end of the day and hold her as she stares numbly ahead, and wish that he could do more, that he could do anything at all, that he wasn't stuck playing a role whose only choices came from Tom's will.

But he cannot, and that fact brings Tom all the joy he could ever need.