She took him out of the prison almost every afternoon with few exceptions. He was met with apprehension as the regulars began to recognize him more fully outside of his usual environment and as they contemplated what Voldemort might do, even if they knew that he couldn't do anything.
Hermione was surprisingly protective of him. There was not a better person to sporadically liberate him. She knew the one whom she led around in chains – thinner, less ostentatious, more manageable than the set he had to wear the first few weeks – but there was a defensive streak in her. He felt like it would be more patronizing if she did not show time and again how much she still respected him. She never let him out of her sight, kept him judiciously from anything that he could use, and she felt he was not ready to leave Diagon Alley, even though it interfered with some of her errands. She never underestimated him – he was fading from the wizarding world's mind as neutered and something less than their usual petty worries. He was surprised how relieved he was.
Interest was piqued when the article in the Daily Prophet came out with "unrestrained," "uncensored" "full details" of the "notorious former Dark Lord." He could see from the sparkle in Hermione's eyes and the garish headlines that her thesis on him had not been chosen by the panel. He stayed in the prison for a full thirty minutes reading the article, laughing outright at some places if only for the benefit of the onlookers who wanted to see his reaction. Hermione seemed genuinely delighted that he had found amusement in something other than cruel derision, which had comprised a majority of his entertainment. Falls, wayward hexes, and capricious magical debris – that was his only pleasure, other than the times when Hermione took him to Flourish and Blotts for something new. He sometimes tried to take a magical book, but she caught him every time. The attempts quickly became half-hearted because he knew they would be confiscated. But at least he could feel it around him; at least he could pretend that he could breathe it into his blood.
That was where Severus found them, digging through leather-bound tomes and cheap Muggle hardbacks simultaneously where they were usually undisturbed. Voldemort looked at the sweeping form of his traitorous servant and sneered – Severus was taller than he was, more imposing. That was not how things used to be. Voldemort used to love the way that Severus's power seemed to crackle, both raw and restrained, but that was when his own felt its superiority. Severus merely spared him a glance as he addressed Hermione in her ear. Voldemort watched her face light up and felt an irrational stab of jealousy – not any sort that he would be ashamed of because he was just as jealous that Hermione was speaking to Severus. Severus was his, Hermione was his – they had their places. It stirred something odd to see them together. He remembered that they had developed the spell that Harry used, and he hated them as much as he could not keep his eyes from them.
There was a rustle; Hermione stood from where she had reclined against the shelves.
"Some place to go," she said excitedly. "You'll like this, I think. It was what I was hoping for."
"They're letting me go," Voldemort said. The words were hollow, and he bit his tongue against petulance.
"After two months? Unlikely," Hermione replied, holding his upper arm to help him up. "But this… this is good for you nonetheless. It's a step."
"Like the chains," Severus said, giving him a once-over and dwelling on the metal draping from Voldemort's wrists.
"It's better than nothing," Hermione said. "He can use his limbs to their fullest capacity, and they don't weigh his arms down. Eventually the Ministry will be content without physical chains – that's what I've been petitioning."
"Hello, Severus," Voldemort said. He stared steadily at the closed face of his servant. The Dark Mark should not have disappeared, for he had not died.
There was a moment, a moment of connection like Legilimency, but it could not be.
Severus nodded. "Lord Voldemort," he said before whirling around and exiting the shop.
Hermione looked from Severus's retreat to Voldemort watching where he had been with eyebrow raised, but she did not comment.
"Traitor," he muttered.
"He's everyone's traitor, I think. Even his own," Hermione said. "But he chose us in the end. I don't know why, but he did. He was difficult to work with. I guess you know that."
"You don't understand, Hermione. Don't try to." Voldemort's lips thinned as spells ribboned through his mind, charms and curses alike.
Hermione did not press the point, but she led him out of the shop. She did not keep such a tight hold on the chains anymore because the last time he broke free, she had chastised him like a child, slapped him like a Muggle, in front of the entire Alley. He had been shocked – when was the last time something like that, simple, directly, and embarrassing without being humiliating, ever happened to him? – and the people milling about the Alley applauded her. She took him back to the prison and left him there without completing the full five hours allotted to them. She did not like it when he did not appreciate her sacrifice, her own private humiliation, to challenge her in so puerile a manner, and he had learned to be mild. For a time. He had learned to be patient, and the tolerable times became enjoyable. The prospect of full freedom was his carrot, but aside from that one punishment, he never felt like an ass with her. Maybe because he knew that she was just as committed to his freedom – any freedom – as he was. Sometimes he would go to sleep with a sort of wonder. Was she so naïve or was she smarter than he gave her credit for? Either way, she was not forthcoming.
She showed her girlish side as she almost ran toward his prison. She was excited like she could be when she saw a member of the Order and began to talk to them, like Remus Lupin or Tonks or one of the older Weasleys. He never saw her with the one that was her age, like he never saw her with Harry, but he did not press the issue – it seemed to be where she was most sensitive, and he knew that she could leave him there and never come back if he pressed the emotional nerves he so desperately wanted to push.
Voldemort thought that she might show him whatever she was so eager about in his prison, as she had done before, but she led him past the door, past the guards, to a podium where a goblin looked down at them.
"Could I have Voldemort's key, please?" she asked breathlessly.
"Are you Hermione Granger?" the goblin asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I need to see your key for identification purposes."
"Of course." She dug into her bag and found the key on a ring of other keys. The goblin curled his lip at the sight of Muggle keys next to the wizarding ones, but he simply inspected the key that she indicated was from Gringotts.
"Very well," the goblin said grudgingly. He gestured to another goblin and muttered in Gobbledygook as though what he was saying was more important than telling the other to retrieve the key.
"Hermione, what is this?" Voldemort asked, annoyed.
"You have an account here, now," Hermione said. "I'll hold your key until you are released from the prison, but you have a small income from your percentage of the royalties – my study of you was purchased a week ago – right now, you've been given half of the advance, and you'll receive half of the royalties respectively. Dumbledore will endorse and publicize it – hopefully people will grab onto it in the wake of that ridiculous article."
"Hermione, I can't understand you when you talk so quickly, damn it," Voldemort said. "Calm down. What is this?"
Hermione blushed red, whether from embarrassment that he had caught her in what she called her "chipmunk" moments or whether she had become shy for her position. "Your biography," Hermione said. "The one you never gave me permission to write – I'd feel guilty if you didn't receive at least half of the gold, especially since you can't leech off of me forever. It was sold, even if the Daily Prophet rejected it."
Voldemort was quiet as he digested the information – it was neither startling nor expected, and, as usual, he was caught between feeling deprecated and feeling venerated. She tried. The girl tried. He lowered his head and gave her the smile she wanted. It was only half false.
The book received marvelous praise from academic journals and independent papers, but Rita Skeeter wrote both a scathing review – "Since when does that ferreting old cow know anything about books!" Hermione fumed – and a scathing article on Hermione's illicit liaisons with the Dark Lord for whom she had written such a "glowing" biography. Anyone who frequented the Alley at least once a week, or even a month, had seen Hermione with Voldemort, seen her hex anyone trying to pursue some vendetta – even if it was deserved. Some put their shallow observations and the vindictive article together as evidence of Hermione's treachery. There were enough witches and wizards in the Alley who knew Hermione's intentions and behavior better to keep the others from attacking her directly, but she received more attention than Voldemort did on their excursions now.
Things never changed. They attacked her blood, her family, her appearance, her sexual appetites. Voldemort saw that they affected her far more than Hermione would show him. Although Houses inevitably meant less after graduation, she was a Gryffindor through and through. She had a core of innocence and goodness that could be cloying if Voldemort was in a mood, and she could fight vitriol with vitriol, but she could only do so much to keep her tears from swimming in her eyes.
When she came to his prison with the side of her mouth swollen, Voldemort stared.
"There are spells to hide that," he said finally.
Her hand flew to the place where she had been hit. "I thought I had… I must have thought it was y-… it's nothing." She went to the lavatory to peer into the mirror and cast a glamour.
"How long has this been going on?" Voldemort asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the prison door. He wanted her to talk.
"Since that stupid article, of course," Hermione snapped. "I don't want to talk about it."
He was pushing those buttons, the ones that would keep him from the Alley, but the regularity of them made staying in the prison for a few nights a little easier.
"Who uses fists these days?"
"People who are too cowardly to use their wands and who don't want their magic traced."
"But you have your wand," Voldemort said.
"They do the Apparating trick – hide, Apparate right in front of me…" Hermione's lip still looked and sounded a little puffy, but Voldemort thought she might be too distraught at letting her secret known.
"And you don't have anyone looking out for…?"
"No!" Hermione said. "I can't prove anything, and I'm not going to tell Dumbledore about this. I signed on for you, and a few bruises aren't going to stop that."
"But this sort of abuse is intolerable," Voldemort said. When he talked to Hermione, when he tried to pry information from her she was reluctant to give, he could not quite discern whether he was being manipulative or whether he was being sincere. He did not explore the ambiguities borne of his new form – he did not dare go down a path that he feared. "Surely Ron or Harry could escort you here and back – stalwart friends and the sort that would risk their necks for you." Yes, he was going to be left in the prison.
"Ron doesn't talk with me anymore, not since I requested permission from Dumbledore to help you out of the prison," Hermione said, looking at her feet. "He doesn't say betrayal, but I know he means it. And Harry… well, I suppose you must know eventually. No one knows where Harry is – they can't find him. The last owl I received, he was in Iceland. He wants far away from England, from you, from people who know him. He writes, but he isn't Harry anymore. That prophecy…"
She closed her mouth, catching herself in her candor.
"The part of the prophecy I didn't hear," Voldemort finished for her.
Hermione looked up, her eyes wide and transparent. "I should leave."
"I have no way of fulfilling that prophecy, Hermione," Voldemort said. "You might as well tell me its contents at last."
Hermione took her wand from her robes. She was allowed to carry one in the prison now. It pressed against Voldemort's throat. Silently, he stepped aside, and she slammed the door behind her.
"He will have power the Dark Lord knows not and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives," Hermione said from behind him. She had been unusually quiet, and he turned from the wardrobe, finishing the fastenings of his robes.
"Excuse me?"
"That's the part of the prophecy you missed."
"You waited two weeks to tell me," Voldemort said. It was not a question.
"I received another letter from Harry – he heard about my decision to be with you, first from the article, then from Dumbledore. There are places where his handwriting is different. It's not yours, not even close, but it's still different. He…" Hermione bent down and handed Voldemort his boots. He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull them on. "He's on my side. He wishes he had never done that spell. But…" Hermione preempted his retort, "we all knew that we would regret it. Still, w-w-with a b-bit of y-you in him, he has a little more s-s-sympathy. He had to leave because he didn't want to become you and hurt us."
Voldemort paused.
"The spell – I don't need to know the arithmancy and incantations to tell that Harry took your magic, but it didn't just go anywhere. It's in him now. And it changed him. That's why he's gone. Because he chose not to live so that he would not have to die – so that both of you wouldn't have to die."
"So he is protected by my immortality spells now?" Voldemort asked. "A young man of his disposition cannot…"
"Dumbledore and Bill helped remove them – with your knowledge of their origin in Harry's head, they were able to create a counterspell."
"But I still remember the charms," Voldemort said.
"Look, I don't understand everything. It's not in here anymore," she snapped, tapping her head. "I can only infer."
She fidgeted under Voldemort's scrutiny.
"What made you change you mind about telling me?" Voldemort asked.
"It's still volatile information in your hands," Hermione said. "I don't doubt that… but I… I wanted to tell you."
"Why?"
She could not answer him.
Eight days after she told him the prophecy, she kissed him.
Ten days after she told him the prophecy, he kissed her back.
