Voldemort did not approach her or react, simply watched her with his eyes, his mouth in a thin line. Her tread was solid, but she looked like a little girl when she pulled back the hood of her cloak and avoided his gaze. The door shut behind her, presumably by one of the guards.
"I gave them my wand," she murmured.
Vulnerable. She was telling him that she was shut in the prison with him and completely at his mercy. He still did not move from his bed where he held a book in his hands.
"I know I've given you no reason to like me…"
Voldemort's legs slid over the sheets of the bed so that his feet were planted on the floor. The sudden movement made her wary, but it also seemed to steady her resolve, and her chin lifted so that she was looking at him. Voldemort stood, both of them aware of the fact that he was still taller than she was. And somehow, the loss of the serpentine side of him only increased the intensity of malice radiating from him.
"Some things are unforgivable," he said slowly, "even more than those curses. I hope no one else knows the method of the removal. Pray that they never do."
"They won't," Hermione said. "I don't remember it. Only Harry does, and he's… well, he's not going to tell. The rest of us have been hit with new, powerful memory spells. I don't remember how they work. I hate not knowing things I helped create, but I do know that not remembering is better. Even Dumbledore doesn't remember."
Voldemort set the book on the night table.
"I ought to strangle you for what you've done to me," he murmured.
"And you could," Hermione replied quietly. "I couldn't really stop you, not if you put your weight into it. You can keep me from screaming or from making any other sound. You could probably chop me up into little bits and no one would notice until the blood started dripping into the plaza. But that would mean Azkaban or a Dementor's Kiss. You'd get your wish. You wouldn't die. But you wouldn't be living."
"You call this living?" Voldemort snapped, taking a step toward her. He only knew that she flinched because her cloak waved as though in a draft. She covered her discomposure well. "I was born with more magic than any witch or wizard could dream of mastering. I was given a great gift, Hermione, a gift I think you understand, if I recall your dossier correctly."
He was coming closer. Her hands twitched, as though she wanted to reach for a wand or stop him, but she restrained herself.
"And somehow," he continued, "you believed you could take that gift away as though it was yours to take. This is not living, Hermione. This is waiting to grow old and die. Because I am dying. You cannot imagine what it was like for me when magic hummed in a focused flow, and then have it ripped from me. You cannot imagine what it was like to be immortal, if not invincible, and then feel your mortality. Even now my body decays. I may look young, but every second that passes causes me pain. And apparently, by your own admission, that is your fault."
"I know," Hermione said. "I may not understand, but I know. In my defense, you were trying to take over the world and kill and torture everyone I know… and me. I fought back the only way I could. You know how badly I feel, otherwise you wouldn't be pushing those buttons. Yes, I realize what you're doing.
"I didn't want you here," she continued. "None of us, at least most of us, in the Order wanted you in this prison… this animal cage. We knew the wizarding community would be out for blood, and there would be no way to deny them. What we didn't know was that they wanted to drain you dry. And…" she murmured, looking at the drawn purple curtain, "who can blame them?"
Voldemort turned away, impatient and bored with her predictable speech.
"Voldemort," she said, reaching out a hand to grasp his arm. She let go as soon as her hand closed around him as he whipped around in response. "This isn't why I came here. In fact, I would never have come near your prison at all if it hadn't been for that assignment. I thought that you would want to know about it. And in person."
Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself in an armchair, draping himself into its shape as though it was his throne. Voldemort noticed the way she looked at him, like he was his old self for that one moment. He felt the ghost of scales and robes and cold stone. Then all he felt was the awful, comfortable cushion of the armchair, the rough chafing of less fine material against his legs, the strange yet now familiar weight of his body.
"Well then, if you're finished staring at me like the people on the other side of the bars…"
Hermione blinked and nodded. "Sorry." Her hands swung behind her back, and she became the school girl again, the one chastised for something simple like daydreaming in class or the like. Voldemort found the submission posture oddly endearing despite his irritation and still simmering hatred.
Hermione remained standing, knowing better than to sit without the former Dark Lord's permission. She began, "All these people have been coming here and taking notes because, as can be expected, not only are they out for blood, but they are out for titillation, information, dirt, basic observation of some animal. They all want to know. So there was a general request to the wizarding community to write an article explaining the enigma that is you. Of course, they never bothered to seek out that problem when you were at your full power. You're just turning into a media sideshow, like Harry, and that's… well, I hate it and make it perfectly clear that I hate it.
"So I decided to give them the true Dark Lord… you, not some idea or suddenly acceptable name. Not the titillation but… well… everything."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "And pray tell, Hermione, how do you presume to know me?"
"I didn't," Hermione replied. "I asked. I didn't just read the newspapers and the books. I asked everyone. Anyone. I've been asking people about you since fifth year. I never told Harry. I knew it would bother him, especially since he was so intent on forgetting you when he could. But Professor Dumbledore encouraged me to interview as many people as I could. He really wanted someone to know you who could do so objectively."
"Objectively?" Voldemort said, sneering. "I'm trying to kill your best friend and people like you."
Hermione smiled. "And yet, here I am. You haven't killed Harry yet. And the final battle was the first time I ever saw your face, unless you count the old pictures of you in the paper and when you were Tom Riddle. But that's different. An entire wall of my flat is devoted to my notes. Severus made some snide remarks when I invited him to dinner and an interview."
"I would have loved to be there for that," Voldemort murmured, leaning back. "Severus was always… interesting to try and read. Did you get anything out of him?"
"No one else thought to ask him about you. I think he was flattered. And he was most helpful. For all that he disliked me, he had worked closely with me on the spell and preferred for me to know rather than any of those… those vultures." Hermione bowed her head. "It's almost sad and disillusioning that he gave the information to a Gryffindor albeit one that he had grown used to for the last year." She looked up at him. "May I sit down?"
Voldemort eyed her. "Not on a chair."
Hermione turned her gaze to the bed, but she decided not to stretch her luck. Gingerly, she crossed her legs and leaned on the wall rather than sit on the floor, then resumed her story.
"After an advertisement came out in the Prophet for tabloid trash disguised as a full academic article, Dumbledore came to me. He's one of the judges who will be selecting the accepted article, and he wanted to help solicit something that wasn't bent. I don't know if mine will be selected, but I know that even if it isn't, I have several publishing opportunities – it's a large enough article that it could be a book. After all, it begins before you were born."
"How could you acquire that sort of information?" Voldemort said, sneering.
"You'd be surprised how many Muggles are forthcoming about the Riddle brat. It wasn't too hard to track down your peers and superiors at the orphanage or talk to some of your teachers… even the portrait of Headmaster Dippet gave me some telling information. It'll be the definitive work on the Dark Lord, you'll see."
Voldemort hissed, standing and towering above her. "Little hypocrite. 'The Dark Lord'? I am a diversion to you; I'm still the animal in a cage." He advanced upon her. She tried to push herself upright, but he caught her against the wall. "I am the Dark Lord. Not the former Dark Lord. Not the Dark Lord of the past. Not a Muggle, never. Not as long as my memories remain intact."
He reached down, pressed his hands around her neck. "I ought to squeeze, Hermione, squeeze until you beg, until you remember the Dark Lord again. I'm not contained in some book, mere words, mere history. I'm here."
"I can help you," she gasped, clawing at his hands. "I can help you get out."
He released the pressure, but only enough to let her stop struggling. "Talk."
"It will have to start slow," she said between breaths. "You will have to be connected to me somehow… charmed binding or something. But I have a good rapport with the guards, and they trust me. They'd let me take you through Diagon Alley. You could do something besides pace. And if you could be trusted through Diagon Alley, maybe I could take you to Hogsmeade, Muggle London, Hogwarts, to my flat, or someone else's, as long as you're connected. Eventually, they'll forget about you, even if the media keeps a few tabs on your whereabouts for a while. You'll eventually not need the chain to walk freely. Then… I don't know. You may be a Dark Lord, but you'll never be a Dark Lord who people fear again. You could do something in Potions. You don't have to work for the Ministry like they ironically wanted you to do after your interim here, but you'll have to support yourself somehow."
Voldemort backed away. "If I did this… what is in the deal for you?"
"Nothing," Hermione said softly. "I just… I guess I want your company... I wouldn't mind knowing you as more than words on a page or as a name no one speaks."
"You'll get nothing from me, Hermione," Voldemort said, almost laughing. "You want to get to know the Dark Lord? How pathetically Gryffindor."
"Don't forget I'm freeing you. You owe me a little. Just an open mind and a few open words," Hermione said, starting toward the door.
"I'll not hesitate to curse your name, Hermione Granger."
Standing outside of the cage made more difference than he would have expected. The emptiness around him made him less aware of the emptiness within him. The chains were heavy around his wrists – the guards wanted to show the people of Diagon Alley that he was well subdued. The charm allowed Hermione's physical strength to exceed his as she pulled him along. Some wizards and witches skirted around him, and Hermione threatened to curse a group of reporters who had heard the Voldemort had been released. Voldemort could not have put it better, and he looked at Hermione in a wry sort of appreciation as she led him into Flourish and Blotts.
The clerk looked up and saw Voldemort walking in with chains binding his hands, and he immediately said, "We're not going to serve him here."
Voldemort knew to look at Hermione just to see her bristle. "You'll serve him as you have served him for the last few months with the books I've bought him through your Muggle branch. If you choose not to serve him, you'll lose me, and I'm as good a customer as fifteen of your regulars. Now, would you like to concede the point, or are you going to throw out a completely harmless man?"
Now Voldemort bristled. Although he knew it was necessary for her to point it out to every proprietor, manager, and clerk, it did not mean he had to feel and look contrite.
"Okay, miss," the clerk said. "But if he…"
"I'll take full responsibility. He is, after all, chained to me. Odds are I did it anyway," Hermione said briskly.
Hermione led him to one of the farther sections of the library and let him look as she browsed on the other side of the aisle. He closed his eyes, taking in the scent of leather bindings and parchment. Never had he thought he would miss it – it had surrounded him back at his fortress. There had been a touch of it in the scent of his robes. But his cage was so stark and new. This was history; this was power. The heady smell seemed to overwhelm him, but when he heard Hermione move to touch him, he shook himself from the quiet pleasure and hardened the planes of his face again.
She bought three books for himself and two for him before leading him to Fortescue's. His human face could not conceal a blush as his transfigured face had, and he had to endure several minutes of family patrons staring at him with their mouths slightly open as Hermione talked to Fortescue himself, who let them eat their ice cream in the back room where Voldemort did not have to be ogled at. Hermione had to feed him – his chains did not allow for a great deal of movement and freedom – but she managed to keep up a fairly light conversation about one of the books she had given him.
He did not want to admit him within the oppressive push of the cage as he lay on top of the covers that night, but the excursion had been… passable.
