Beta: Dark Empress V hug

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Chapter 15: Hangover Feeling

No, Hermione definitely didn't expect Helen to take care of Voldemort, even for a short while. She shouldn't have to think about him one second longer than necessary. Perhaps one day she'd find another fool who would nurse Voldemort voluntarily, but this could take weeks or months. Until then, Helen would have to carry this burden too, because the rest of the personnel had declared that they'd rather resign than walk into Voldemort's sickroom. One more question… where would they find any other possible care-givers? Since the hospital was bound to secrecy, it was highly improbable that they would hire other nurses to look after him. So… if Hermione were to quit, it was most probable that Helen - his victim, would be the only one left to perform this repulsive task.

His attempt to take the wand from her had proved to be impossible. He couldn't lift the bans that had been put on the wand without other, powerful counter-curses, and for those he would need another wand. And since he wouldn't manage to get out of the room without Hermione's wand…

Sure, he'd proven beyond any doubt that he was physically superior to her. However, he was stillnot the man he used to be, and so he was in no way strong enough to defeat the four Aurors that waited behind the door of his prison. Forcing Hermione to open it would be useful only if he could fight his way through the Aurors waiting on the other side. That wasn't likely to happen. In short, his escape was virtually impossible.

Why hadn't she reported the incident? Wasn't this exactly what those reports were intended for? But then she would have also had to write why he was able to move at all. Therefore, she would have to admit that she'd lifted the bans, given him food, drink…. And not only once… often enough to make him almost healthy. And then…she would get sacked. That was certain. They would write her a miserable reference letter. Probably the ministry would put her name on a black list… Perhaps they would even send her to Azkaban.

Hermione suspected why Voldemort hadn't been brought to Azkaban. Other than the Dementors, there weren't many security measures there. They were cruel enough for normal people. But what could these soul-eaters do to someone who'd mutilated his soul to such an extent? Probably nothing… he had no soul that they could hurt or take away from him.

But her.. They could harm her.. No, she would only call for help if he ever attacked her again. But never without any direct danger. So she had to keep carrying out her unpleasant duty to protect the ones who wouldn't have been able to bear this. So, grit your teeth and get on with it! Right?

The incident had been harrowing, but in spite of that Hermione felt a certain relief. In the past weeks, the uncertainty whether he could use the wand and whether he would ever try to wrench it away from her stood between them like an unuttered thought. She had hoped, and he had doubted. But then they both received an answer to their question. For the moment it seemed that Hermione had won the battle.

However, she seemed to have lost the other fight. After his attack, Hermione had gone home utterly disappointed and humiliated. An animal would always be just an animal… What was she thinking, trying to find something human in him? No, there was nothing. No matter how hard she tried or how much time she wasted…he was and would always be something more despicable than even the vilest of animals, because animals were not sadistic.

So the young Gryffindor fulfilled her duty, and did nothing more. She went to him, brought him fresh bedclothes, food and drink. But that was it. Why try to do more? She didn't even put the bans on him anymore. He would have to take care of himself alone.

She always used to strike up conversations about books and school lessons, or come up with new activity ideas for him, but now she did nothing of the sort. She came in, placed the things she had brought for him on the chair next to his bed and then spent the next two hours sitting in the chair beside the bathtub on the opposite side of the room. There she read her school books or papers and ignored him. She laid the paper on his bedside locker before she went out. She had a subscription to the Daily Prophet anyway, so it made no difference if the paper ended up in the trash one day later after she was finished with it. She didn't care whether he read it or not.

Of course, he had tried to speak to her during the first days after the incident. Mostly commands, orders he wanted her to obey, but she ignored them all unwaveringly. His basic needs were satisfied, so there was no reason for him to seek contact with her. And the still-present threat that she would leave him in Helen's hands was enough to keep him from trying to use magic to force her to do more.

Since Hermione had told him about the secret content of the 'nutritious' liquid in the bottles she left him, she couldn´t sedate him secretly. Nevertheless, she still had to take the bottles away on the trolley, so the Aurors would not become suspicious. After all, that was the only food that he was officially allowed to receive.

However, she couldn't help but notice his glassy eyes and the slightly abstract expression in his face. As she counted the nutrition bottles on the trolley, she realised that one of them was missing. Later, she found it under his bed and realized that she'd probably accidentally left it in his room. The bottle was empty. Another bottle stood half-empty next to his bed. But why should she care about it? It didn't concern her. From time to time she peeked secretly under his bed when she came into the room, and there was less and less liquid in the bottle. For the whole week, whenever she was with him, Voldemort only stared impassively at the wall. Well, why should she care? But as he fell out of his bed on Friday and did not rise afterwards, but stayed right where he fell down, she decided that it was probably better to take the bottles away. From then on, she tipped the contents of the bottles out and filled them up with normal milk before she set any of them on the trolley. It was no use if he became addicted to morphia, because that could jeopardise his ability to stand the trial. Besides, she wasn't about to let him make himself numb to the thoughts and, perhaps even feelings (?) he might be experiencing.

In the following days he was very restless. He would pace the room all day, his hands trembling and sweating while he muttered something quietly. He vomited a few times. Whyshouldshecareabouthiswithdrawalsymptoms? No words were spoken between them.

It's been three weeks since his attack and she hadn't said a single word to him, or even looked at him. He might have been air. She came in, placed the things he needed on his bed and took the old or dirty things away as she walked out. She took care of the room rather than him.

The silence was far from easy. But as time goes by, one gets used to everything, Hermione said to herself. Even if it feels awful.

Today she couldn´t concentrate on her reading. The Standard Book of Spells. Grade 7.

She was almost done with it. A few weeks ago, they had gone through the book together. He had explained to her how she could improve her magical skills, showed her a few subtle tricks which would make her charms work better and translated some spells for her (oh yes, he knew his Latin) and gave her important background information.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and sighed. Her thoughts wandered off…

Yesterday she'd accompanied the Weasleys to a supportgroup for people who´d lost their family and friends during Voldemort's reign of terror. Helen had been with them too. It was awful. To Hermione's right sat a weeping Mrs. Weasley, and to her left a weeping Helen. The group listened to Andromeda Tonks, who told them about the loss of her family and then burst into tears as well.

Hermione would have loved nothing better than to run away screaming, but that would look heartless.

And she wasn't heartless.

It was just so terrible to listen to all these people telling their gruesome, tragic stories. They all wept, filled with despair, and there was nothing anyone could do to help them. But then she realised that what she did at St. Mungo's - punishing the overlord of evil with her silent treatment, did nothing to improve the situation.

Hesitantly, she had dared to pose a question to the assembled crowd. She took a deep breath and then asked if there was something that they would like to ask or to tell Voldemort.

At first, people were outraged at the idea, but soon there appeared numerous questions and statements which they at least wanted to discuss among themselves. Hermione wrote everything down, not even sure what use it could ever be. She slipped the piece of paper into her beaded bag, which yet again hung heavily on her shoulder.

For a moment, she looked away from the book which she was holding up to hide her face, and let her glance slide toward the other end of the room. Voldemort stood there, leaning against the wall, while his spidery fingers plucked on the lavender-scented petals in one of the aromatherapy bowls. He seemed to be watching something that was taking place on the street in front of his window.

What could it be? He shouldn't be able to see much. The cellar windows were rather small and level with the ground. Immediately outside was the street where St. Mungo´s Hospital stood hidden from the eyes of Muggles. There was nothing to see but a collage of passing feet, car tyres, animals and trash. Here, above his window, Muggles walked their dogs and pigeons landed to feed on breadcrumbs scattered on the ground.

As she came in earlier this afternoon, Voldemort was already standing by his window. Outside, there was a jet-black cat with shiny emerald-green eyes. It had squeezed its head through the bars and tried to get past the tilted window glass into the room. Even though the crack was much too tight, the cat didn't give up and, clawing with its little paw, tried to slip through the window into the room. It seemed to be intent on catching the fly which buzzed over the windowpane. Was he still watching the cat?

Her eyes flew back to the pages of the book, but again without success. Even though she could discern the words, when she got to the end of the page, she didn't remember anything she had read at the beginning. The spells floated past her like rushing water, without leaving any marks. She was unable to concentrate. Once more she thought about the events of yesterday´s evening.

Ron had been with them too. He´d stood totally mute in a corner of the room with crossed arms and watched his crying mother. Normally he was pretty talkative, but after the meeting he just wanted to be left alone. Of course, George came along as well, and sat next to Percy. Still she couldn't get accustomed to the sight of him without Fred. The picture was wrong, something was missing. As if George's arm or leg had been chopped off. Fred and George had always been so funny. But after the death of his twin brother, George had become serious and old. The laughter inside him had died along with his brother.

Helen had watched suspiciously as Hermione wrote the answers to her question down. Hermione whispered to her quietly that the slip of paper was only for herself. She wouldn't hold any conversations with her patient. After that Helen seemed to calm down a bit. The very thought that Hermione could talk to him as she did to Helen was probably inconceivable to her.

What must it have been like? Having to watch the death of one's own children and be unable to help them.. And what was the purpose of these murders? The fact that Voldemort had wanted to kill Dumbledore at least made sense in some twisted, cruel way. She could even understand his hatred of Harry. Harry was a threat to him. And so, killing the boy was the best solution someone like Voldemort was able to come up with. But what he'd done to Helen - what was the reason for that? She had once read a newspaper article about a little boy who killed his own grandparents under the imperius curse. WHY? What in the world was that for? These were exactly the things that made Voldemort into something less than an animal. Because when animals killed, they had a purpose. He didn´t.

An animal…not even that. Besides, he didn't look like a normal human being. Hermione tilted her head back slightly to flip to the next page, and glanced at him surreptitiously. While he was asleep - sometimes he was asleep when she came to him, especially during the time he had taken the morphia - she came closer to him to study his body in detail. Of course, Hermione could see her prisoner every day. But since the incident she didn't want to look too closely.

But now she was…because she was thinking about him. From time to time her gaze wandered over to the tall man standing in the opposite corner of the room, and every time it did, she noticed again how strange he looked. There had to be a visible proof that the thing that stood there was not a normal man. There had to be verifiable, clearly recognizable things about him, which identified him beyond any doubt as not-human. It would be unbearably painful it the thing that stood there was just as human as Dumbledore, Helen, or all his other victims… how could anyone in the world ever feel joyful or secure if there was even the slightest possibility that such an evil monster could appear again?

But as she now watched him from the corners of her eyes…yes, certainly…his appearance was undoubtedly unusual.

He was quite tall - 6,3 feet, maybe more. Even though he'd gained weight since she started taking care of him, he was still rather thin and looked like an oversized skeleton. And he was so terribly pale. Bone-white, from his feet up to his head. His feet were rather large, but because he was so thin, they appeared even more disproportional. His legs were accordingly long-all the trousers she'd bought for him were too short. One had to search for a pretty long time to find trousers which were so slim but also very long at the same time. His legs were hairless, as if he shaved them daily. His whole body was hairless, even at his genitalarea. The paleskinwasso flawless and smooth that it almost shimmered like silk. He didn't even have horny skin on his feet. But she could still see the bones sticking out at his hips, and when he stretched his arms, she could count every rib in his chest. Despite his age, the skin over his muscles was surprisingly firm. And of course…he was white as snow. Even his nipples were colourless and pale. He was a ghost…

His arms were rather long, and his fingers even more so. Since they were also very thin, his hands resembled white spiders. The neck was also rather long and the face… Yes, the face…actually he did not look like a man in his seventies. But wizards of his calibre undoubtedly had their own ways to stop aging. To her, he didn't look older than forty. Maybe the same age as her father. But her father's skin was coarser, hairier, more wrinkly…more human.

Voldemort's face, still a bit hollow-cheeked, only had some fine wrinkles, particularly around his eyes. Not a tiniest bit of hair on his face either. No eyebrows and no lashes - it made him look similar to a mannequin. His skin was smooth and soft. If one took a close look at him, his facial features were actually not even displeasing. Eerie of course, unnatural. But notnecessarily ugly. In his past, she knew, he must have been remarkably handsome…before the horcurxes changed his looks. But today the missing nose was really disturbing.

Actually, she'd really love to ask him what had happened to his nose. Had it just shrunk, or perhaps, like the nose of the Sphinx in Egypt, simply fallen off some day? One way or another, it was completely gone. Only two thin nostrils remained, which made his face appear unnaturally flat and snake-like. Hermione thought back to the time he had first heard about his execution. His sheer horror at the news gave him a stomach flu and because he vomited all the time, his nose was constantly stuffy. Had he considered that before his transformation - what he would do if he had a nasal congestion? After all, he was nearly unable to blow his nose… The every-day problems of a mass-murderer.

Since no hair grew on his head either, it resembled a skull, particularly in the dark. And his eyes…oh, these eyes… Their appearance was morbidly fascinating. If he'd been someone else, then she would have liked to get closer to these eyes to study and scrutinize them. However, he was only himself and so she must never forget that he turned everything that was interesting and fascinating into evil, spite and wickedness.

His eyes were intensely red, like living rubies, but the slit pupils were black. These eyes were the part of him which most distinctly marked himas non-human. Wasn't it said that eyes are mirrors of the soul? But nothing was reflected in Voldemort's eyes. Sometimes, when she couldn't avoid it and had to look into his eyes, she noticed it. They might be glassy or moist sometimes, but they never reflected anything. Wasn't it normal that one could see one's own mirror image in the eyes of the other person? But even his eyes didn't want to perceive anything but themselves. Was this what someone without a soul looked like? Were these unreflecting eyes the proof of his soullessness?

Well, he must be soulless. She thought of the things she had heard about him the previous evening. So much suffering collected in one place. Even Azkaban couldn't be worse. Yes, what did all these people want to ask Voldemort? Of course very often the same things.

‚WHY? What was the purpose? Are you sorry? Don't you have a conscience?' And Helen murmured to her: ‚Aren´t you ashamed of accepting OUR help?' Hermione had posed all these questions to him as well. And his answers had been explicit enough.

What would her friends say if they knew everything? If they knew what she was doing here? What would her parents say if they heard that she took care of the man who had plotted their death?

She knew Helen reproached her wordlessly for not having resigned yet. Of course she was also glad that Hermione took the problem off her shoulders and that she didn't have to think about it. But she also resented her for being able to stand his presence.

How would she react if she heard that Hermione lifted the bans off him, brought him food..that the clothes he wore weren't found in the trash but bought for her own money? That she´d talked to him, even took lessons from him, and that once, as he was drugged, she had caressed his cheek?

What would Mrs Weasley say? Nothing could be worse than losing one's child. And the fact that of all the people, Hermione, her daughter in law, was dealing with this monster, was a betrayal that outbalanced even Helen's probable disappointment. Mrs Weasley wept so often. And she always whished that the Dark Lord were still alive, so she could tear him apart limb by limb with her own hands. Nothing human should be left for him, only agonies. And Hermione had held this man's hand as they spoke about the limbo. Hermione's gaze slid down to her hands in disgust.

Mr Weasley seemed to know. Last night, she'd just sat with Ginny and Fleur in the kitchen of the Burrow, flipping through a catalogue of cute baby clothes, as Mr Weasley came home from the ministry. He hadn´t come with them to support group, because there was a special meeting at the ministry. And as he came home he'd been as mute as Ron. His features appeared as lifeless as if they'd belonged to a mannequin. And he looked ill…he stood in the door for quite a while and watched Hermione, who almost broke down under his gaze. Then, as Ginny and Flour went upstairs to the attic to search for something, he came over to her and looked at her with more sorrow than she'd ever seen in her life, and lay his hand on her shoulder. He didn't say anything, but she'd felt it. He knew, the ministry had probably informed some of the leading staff members about the situation. And Mr Weasley was intelligent enough to put two and two together…and he felt sorry for her. Felt sorry for her because she'd caressed a monster's cheek. Because he believed that Hermione suffered in her revolting, dangerous job. Suffered because she was taking care of him. And he did not know, and hopefully never would, that she'd sometimes really enjoyed being with him. In the past…not any longer. Once again, Hermione felt ashamed. The worst thing of all was that Mr Weasly felt sorry for HER!

Her eyes searched for him again. He'd walked away from the window for a short time, went over to his bedside locker and then came back to the window. He held one of the sandwiches in his hand and tore off tiny shreds from it. Lost in this game, he seemed almost peaceful. A breath of wind floated into room and moved the fabric of his large shirt. He tilted his head back slightly, closed his eyes and seemed to enjoy this short moment of warmth and movement across his body.

Much to her surprise, Hermione noticed that he didn't put the tiny pieces of the sandwich into his mouth. Instead, he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, stretched his thin arm over to the window, shifted himself slightly to his tiptoes and, if Hermione wasn't wrong, he threw the sandwich tidbits over the tilted window glass out into the open air.

This war really worrying. Since they stopped talking to each other, she brought him two sandwiches less. A subtle sign of her scorn. Why would he throw the few he had out of the window instead of eating them?

The book was snapped shut as quietly as possible and laid on the floor. She had to take a closer look at this. Hadn't she removed all the morphia bottles a few days ago? She had also made sure that he couldn't hide some of them secretly. Yet his behaviour was much too strange to arise from a sober brain. Hermione skidded from the slightly too high chair and, with head held high and without deigning to look at him, marched over to the trolley which stood next to the bed.

Then she paused for a moment and grabbed the mineral water bottle which was standing there. She was at least allowed to give him as much mineral water as she wanted.

Today it was quite warm. An unusually hot June day…there had to be about 86° F outside and even the temperature inside was high. The window could be only opened a fraction and if one wanted to savour the breeze which floated in from time to time, one had do stand really close to the window to catch a bit of fresh air. One had to stand where he stood. The warm weather and the stuffy air inside the cellar room had made her thirsty and she hadn't brought enough cool drinks along for herself, so she could only drink his mineral water. At least, it had to look as though she wanted to drink something, because her gaze flitted quickly over the contents of the trolley and searched for any purposefully hidden bottles of Helen's special mixture. But no, she identified the labelled bottles which stood there as the ones she'd filled with normal milk.

Hermione lifted a mineral water bottle and examined it suspiciously. Her eyes darted over to her prisoner for a second. Well, he really did look as if he were a little high. Still the same, odd activity.

From time to time he bit off a piece of his scanty meal, but he allowed himself only tiny crumbs.

Then, without glancing at his long fingers, he tore little shreds off, squeezed and pressed them together and threw them outside. It was almost eerie to watch, because every time he did it, a faint smile played upon his usually serious face. He didn't pay any attention to her, appeared to be totally captivated by his activity.

Had Helen drugged the mineral water bottles too? Hermione wouldn't put anything past Helen. She placed the bottle back on the trolley with a trace of uneasiness. She was definitely not that thirsty.

In order not to give the impression that she'd crossed the room pointlessly, she went over to the sink, turned the water tap on with a terrible squeak, let the cold water run and splashed some onto her face. She also washed her hands, cupped them to catch the fresh water and drank it. Tap water was at least, hopefully, harmless. Funnily enough, she now stood right beside him. Well, almost…the bed separated the sink from the window, which was about 10 feet away. Actually she'd planned to take a short peek at him on her way back, but now she saw something that stopped her in her tracks.

No, he didn't throw his sandwich out of the window because of a fit of madness or because he was high. Actually, the black cat was still sitting outside of the window. The animal had squeezed its small body through the bars right up to its middle and sniffed at the ground in front of the cellar window. Then it lifted it's little snout in the air and seemed to miaow. Hermione's prisoner rolled one more piece of his sandwich into a little ball and lifted it above the tilted window glass. The hungry cat stretched itself upward till it stood on its hind legs and clawed for the titbit. As soon as the little paw touched his fingers, Voldemort dropped the crumb and the cat caught its prey. The black animal hauled its reward to the floor and sank its teeth into the chicken sandwich. Hermione was so surprised at what she saw, that she didn't manage to hold back a tiny gasp "oh". Voldemort's head turned towards her and red eyes met brown ones for a short moment. But Hermione was still to proud to pay any obvious attention to him, and so she stormed past him and tried hard to feign lack of interest again. Hell-bent on not looking at him directly, she raised her book and hid her face behind the chapter about Vanishing Spells.

But he had already noticed her attention. She detected from the corner of her eye that he threw her a surreptitious glance. „This cat comes by every day." she heard Voldemort's voice, which had an unfamiliarly friendly tone. "He must be a stray, he's hungry. I feed him with your sandwiches. He likes the ones with tuna best. But he also seems to like the chicken ones you've brought today." It was so quiet in the room that Hermione could even hear the begging miaow of the cat, which sat outside the window and demanded attention again. A silent knocking sound told Hermione that her prisoner tapped with his long, thin finger against the window glass to calm his hungry, black friend. „I like animals. More than most people."

Hermione lifted the book a bit higher and even closer to her face. Actually, she was not really able to read it anymore because her nose nearly touched the paper. And also, she couldn´t flip the pages. Anyway, she didn't want to read, she wanted to hide. He should realise that she paid no attention to him.

Nevertheless, she could feel his gaze. Why feel? It was rather because of the fact that her own eyes also flickered over to him frequently. He didn't smile at the tomcat anymore and stopped feeding him. He took a few steps forward, leaned his arm against the wall and watched her attentively. Seemed to wait for a response to his words. Well…fine. He should wait on, she didn't feel like dealing with him.

„I didn't want to kill you. I didn't even want to injure you." He started to explain after a while. Now he didn't seem to smile any longer. His face, which looked almost friendly just moments ago, now assumed what looked to her as a saddened expression. His voice had also taken on a heavy, insistent tone which implied seriousness. The prisoner wanted to talk. "I would do everything to get out of here, you know that. I just had to try. I had to see if I could escape. I cannot stay imprisoned in this room for months and do nothing but wait for my own death."

Hermione's book sank a bit forward, enlarged the distance between her nose and the still blurred letters on the page. Should she listen to him? But he was an animal…wasn't he?

„And if you were wondering - yes, I would do it again if it gave me a chance to safe my life. I would do anything to survive. But I would be sorry to have to hurt you in the process. However, the security measures here seem to work quite well, so it will probably never happen again."

Hermione dropped her book with surprise. Sorry? "Don´t lie to me. You said you´re never sorry for anything." The accusation burst out of her. First words in weeks. It was stupid, but it confused her all too much that he really seemed to be earnest as he spoke. Now she couldn't help but look at him. Voldemort shrugged hopelessly, furrowed his brows and turned back to the cat to continue throwing him the little sandwich crumbs. "Yes. I said that. And yet…". He mumbled something to himself that sounded very much like „I'm not an animal" to Hermione.

Hermione sighed deeply and rolled her eyes, then she finally stowed the book in her beaded handbag. He didn't understand. He thought that she'd only stopped talking to him because of his attack. Strangely, it was not the attack that bothered Hermione the most. Much worse were his words as he admitted that he'd never felt remorseful, that he compared his victims to vermin and he couldn't even conceive of the idea that "vermin" should be treated with respect.

On the other hand, he shared his food with a stray cat and appeared to like its visits. This was much more than the limitless egoism he usually displayed. She would never have expected it from him.

Oh, the heck with it, Hermione thought to herself. Even more silence and scorn would never undo anything. What had she expected? That her sinister friend would suddenly lose his past for her sake? She had known it, she had always known what kind of a "man" he was.

Yes, Helen was right. Hermione must never forget it. It was dangerous to underestimate him.

But it was also impossible to change anything. If she really wanted to "work" with or on him, she had to concentrate on the here and now, not on his bloody past. It would only evoke bitterness and make her feel hopeless, because the past is eternally unchanging. And who would gain if there was any more hatred? Revenge might be satisfying, but in the end it was a destructive force that didn't create anything healthy or new.

Al least he was able to abstain from something he didn't have in abundance, for the sake of a hungry cat. It was a beginning. She shouldn´t expect miracles. He wouldn´t be „healed" overnight. But maybe not everything was lost.

Hermione rose from her chair and walked over to him, for the first time in nearly three weeks. She leaned casually on the wall on the opposite side of the window, directly across from him, and dared to look into his face.

Something like relief of joy flashed over his features for a short moment. Then he nodded to her, serious again and shoved the rest of the sandwich right under her nose. "Do you want to feed him too? He's still hungry."

Hermione lowered her gaze for a second to hide her smile, but she answered with an agreeing nod and walked away to bring the other chair. Otherwise she wouldn't be able to reach the window, it was too high. But as she climbed onto the chair, she wanted to clarify something and it was helpful to have a distraction so she wouldn't have to look at him while talking about this matter. "I'm very afraid you could really find a chance to get out of here, and I would again be the only one standing between you and your way out."

The dark-haired woman lifted her eyes and watched her companion. His back leaning against the wall, he watched the cat outside, shook his head faintly and his expression became, for the lack of a better word, sad.

It seemed that he had to gulp before he spoke, because his voice was weaker and his tone despondent as he answered her. "I understand you. But there is not going to be another way out for me. I'll stay here till I die."

Hermione, standing on the chair and turned towards the cat, sounded more motherly than she had for a long time as she tried to distract her child's mind from such thoughts. "You know what, Tom? Tomorrow I´ll bring some extra sandwiches. You don´t have many of them. Then we can feed the cat together."

That was the really bizarre thing about this job. There were men who looked like monsters. And there were monsters that sometimes behaved like men.

xXx

Comment 1: I've been asked why Voldemort took drugs voluntarily. Well, he's not very brave when it comes to the matter of his own death.

It's like this… Voldemort has absolutely nothing else to do than wait for his execution. And he is scared to death. The only way to bear this unbearable situation is… well, why not morphia.

He is in solitary confinement. He is not allowed to go outside. He is imprisoned in a small room, all alone the whole day… that would drive anyone crazy. It's not exclusively Hermione's achievement (even though it's a form of psychological torture to ignore him the way she did). Well, he wasn't glad that she called him an soulless animal. But the main point is… he's scared, desperate and has no way out.

Maybe his need for a person to distract him was greater than he had thought before…

But if you ask me… Voldemort should be back on his feet again, at least for now..

Comment 2: The German Title was "Kater-stimmung". Fits much better in some way, because "Kater" means

a) hangover

b) tomcat.