First of all: a big kiss to the very kind, unnamed person who translated this chapter for me *snog*

kat: NOW :o) But the next chapter will take some time

Luth: I don´t want him to die either, but this is a real difficult situation and i don´t suppose that anyone would free him voluntary

Brezel: The Weasleys aren´t fair, maybe... but it´s hard for them, too. I think they need some time, they´ve heard it just a few hours ago. Don´t forget that... after all these years of fear, loss and hate. Maybe it would be more merciful to allow Voldemort to commit suzide, but this story is beyond mercy

Loopy: Wait... won´t tell you too much. You´ll know in chap23 if Voldemort will die or not

Lulu: Right...but it´s an inner and outer battle (does this phrase exist?). And Hermione has to fight it all alone, against everyone. It´s almost breaking her

Author's note:

Voldemort and his room are magically monitored. Imagine a map of the hospital, similar to the Marauder's Map. It wouldn't be useful to Voldemort to steal the invisibility cloak because he would still be identified on the hospital map. All doors are enchanted and an alarm-system monitors him all the day. So, if managed to get OUT of the room, the alarm would actuate immediately, an army of armed Aurors would set out to seize him. In addition, a ban over the doors would start to fire unforgivable curses at him if he would make it to the door that leads upstairs.


Chapter 22: In the lumber-room

The door opened and Hermione walked slowly into the room that was no more than dimly lit by the silvery moonlight drawing eerie shadows on the wall. She slowed down intentionally to prevent the Aurors notice that Harry, under his invisibility cloak, was sneaking past them into the room.

Already in the daylight the atmosphere of the room was unwelcoming but now, during the night, it resembled more than ever a dark lumber-room. It did not look like a dungeon either, no, the latter would still have offered a certain dignity or solemnity. This room here had the air of a vacant lumber-room where things were stowed away that were useless or meant to be handed over to oblivion.

Voldemort, still dressed in his black robes, stood in the room with his back turned towards her, his hands folded behind his back, staring out of the basement window. Hermione had to climb on a chair to be able to look outside but his head was level with the top edge of the window. The door slammed behind them with a crash. As if coming back from trance, Voldemort winced and turned around to face her.

"There you are. I have been waiting for you. I was already concerned …. but now you are here", said the tall man, whose sallow skin seemed to shine gloomily in the darkness, as did the moonlight that fell in. He was noticeably happy to see her.

Although Hermione could not make out his face distinctly, she still was sure that he smiled at her.

"I did tell you that I would come", she reassured immediately. He must have worried, indeed, that she might abandon him.

Somewhat perplexed, the prisoner noticed that Hermione was still standing next to the door, keeping aloof and making no attempt to draw nearer. So he drew up, stopped a few steps in front of the girl and, with both hands, reached out for her to draw closer.

Hermione felt strangely miniature and lost with his look lingering on her seeming to wait for her to say something comforting. With embarrassment she noticed that Harry was standing next to her watching this bizarre moment of intimacy between his nemesis and Hermione. She could not look into his eyes, looked away, down to her hands that she had folded in front of her on her lap.

From the corner of her eyes she watched as the invisibility cloak was pulled away with a jerk and, next to her, Harry seemed to appear out of the blue.

Voldemort's body stiffened immediately while he sucked in the air through his teeth with a hissing noise. His facial expression, having been relieved and nearly elated one second ago, froze in an instant. The softly gleaming eyes turned into glowing coals that seemed to pierce Harry full of suspicion and loathing. His hands that had been reaching out full of hope just a moment ago were now weakly dangling down on both sides again.

The entire room seemed to freeze within seconds and everything seemed to fade into a blur. The cold greyish moonlight, faintly illuminating the room, fell onto the two men who seemed to fill the entire large room with their slender bodies, their presence being so powerful that it seemed to force each and every perception of other things out of Hermione.

The mood-flowers' deep-blue glow added a frosty coldness to this scenario, a freezing chill that may well be sensed in an igloo, too.

With nerves all on edge, motionless but ready to jump at any moment, both men stood face to face and stared at each other. Even a dropping hair would have broken through the overwhelming, anticipating silence like rolling thunder.

"I want to talk to you", demanded Harry with a tinge that Hermione found perplexingly self-confident. She knew Voldemort, and he was bound to perceive Harry's presence as an incredible betrayal. During the precarious moment in which he had revealed emotions in Hermione's presence, he must have felt paraded, allowing the enemy to watch it in concealment.

She shook off her petrification and approached him with folded arms. With each step she took the heels of her shoes thundered on the stone floor like hammer blows in the suffocating silence filling the room.

Voldemort ignored her, his loathing gaze still lingered on the person whom he had desired to kill during all those years, but now would outlive him.

He is bound to believe that Harry wants to ridicule him, Hermione thought full of sorrow.

She felt rather queasy, for her "fosterling" was bound to believe that she had betrayed him, and also because her best friend now had to witness how close she had become with his nemesis.

Tenderly, her hand met his arm and soothingly ran over the smooth, black material of his robe. A bit nearer still, and she was so close to him that she nearly touched his robes when she put her second hand tenderly on the stomach while Voldemort still looked over her head, motionless like a marble statue.

"He wants to talk to you. It won't take long"; Hermione tried to explain.

"We", a worried gaze fell onto the alienated Harry, "we still have all night to talk.

Hermione rested her head against his chest and could feel his heartbeat through the satin while she clutched her arms around his waist. "He just wants to ask a few things about his parents and then he'll leave. I did promise you that I would stay with you. I won't leave together with him", the young woman whispered gently, almost tenderly into the man's ear. The beseeched man made no move, he stayed motionless as he was at their first encounter in the hospital. Nothing about him revealed that he did even notice the little body that hugged him tenderly.

Her gaze fell on Harry again who watched with sheer horror how his best friend hugged the man whom both of them had wanted to kill in a joint effort not long ago, and how she seemed to whisper tender words to him.

No matter what, Hermione would still have decades to clarify things. But the dying man she sensed to close to herself, the man she would not be able to sooth again tomorrow at the same time. This man had priority now.

Harry bit his lips, closed his eyes for a moment as if involved in an inner fight, he seemed to make an effort to ignore the picture that presented itself before his eyes, and to postpone all the questions that doubtlessly ran through his mind in this moment. He obviously had seen the point that time was running short and that it was crucial to find out a number of other things.

Again, he took a breath and started out: "I have come only because I need to ask you a few questions. You have controlled by whole life. You have knowledge of things about my past that no other person on this earth will be able to answer. He straightened while he added in a firm voice: "I think, you owe me that. I just want to get a few answers and then I'll leave. Today, under the given circumstances … nothing else should matter. Only answers", he added in an almost pleading tone.

The tall prisoner still looked daggers at the smaller, younger man who nonetheless stood upright and poised. Then life seemed to return into his body. He relaxed a bit and one of his slacked arms curled around Hermione, looking down on her for a short moment. His attention focused on Harry again, and to Hermione's immense relief, he nodded. "Very well, I agree. I will tell you all I know."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and detached from her­… well, what was he? A friend? Bashful and scarlet red in her face, blinking nervously, she positioned herself next to Harry and took his hand for a short moment to encourage him.

"I will be back in one hour. Then you will leave and I'll stay with Tom until ….". Harry withdrew his hand. He had winced as she had said "Tom". What was he bound to think of her now? If she only knew what to think of herself. But there was neither time nor place for such consideration, so she hurried to ask her friend for the unavoidable. "Will you please remember to pick me up in front of the hospital tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock." Harry nodded, still confused, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Slowly he took a step towards his arch-foe who had put up two hospital chairs facing each other. He had already positioned himself on one chair and invited Harry with a gesture to take his seat on the other chair. The younger one did as requested but, with distinct suspicion, moved some inches away from the older man. With apprehension both of them glanced at Hermione who, not even for the sake of her life, could not think of anything to ease the situation.

At least, the prisoner's eyes seemed to be clearer now. If he had been put on calmative potions again, they had at least been dispensed in reasonable doses.

But Harry was brilliant, brave but not unfriendly. He slid his hand into the pocket of his jacket and drew out two bottles of butter-beer that he had sneaked into the room. Was he trying to be considerate or cautious? He opened the bottles with a bottle opener instead with his wand, handed his arch-nemesis one of the two bottles and Hermione, with a faint smile on her face, noticed the slightly nauseated look in Voldemort's eyes but he obviously tried to control himself and daringly took a sip.

He hated butter-beer, she knew.

Back stayed solely the two men and one could only hope that Hermione's slowly emerging fear would be unsubstantiated and that no catastrophes would arise during her absence. A tap with the wand and the door opened. She informed the Aurors that the prisoner wanted to get a special "final meal". Therefore she had the assignment to fetch a meal from the nearest Chinese fast-food restaurant. She would probably just do that. She had to kill time, and maybe he would actually eat it when she came back with food.

When Hermione returned an hour later she was carrying a couple of deliciously smelling bags containing fried vegetable, meat, rice and a choice of dips. The guards offered to help her carry the bags but Hermione wanted to enter the room unobserved. Well, now these people knew that the prisoner was not at all lying debilitated on his bed, but what if they discovered Harry in there? Under no circumstances she could let this happen, she had to enter by herself. Exactly as she had in the beginning. Each step was tough and agonizing,

Voldemort was sitting in his chair, slumped down to the front, bent over his knees, holding a bottle of butter-beer in one and a cigarette in the other hand.

He completely ignored Harry when the boy went, neither did Harry turn back. He got up, put the invisibility cloak over his head and slid past Hermione, through the door without making a noise.

The door closed past Hermione and they were on their own again. Most likely for the last time.

Hermione smiled, she would have loved to ask him what he had discussed with Harry, but he would not answer. She noticed that and she did not want to force an answer out of him now. For a short while she stood next to Voldemort's chair while her little hand patted lovingly over his back.

"Since when you're are you smoking?" she asked as she sat herself down on the chair, where Harry had sat just a moment ago.

"Since now. One of the Aurors gave it to me at lunchtime. I wanted to try this, too." Voldemort rose his head, blew grey, curling clouds of smoke into the air and tapped some of the ashes onto the floor. I have never smoked before. I also could find no pleasure in alcohol. After all, if you are immortal, you should spend eternity as healthy as possible, right?" he asked with a troubled smile. "But I don't like it either", he added with a disappointed look onto the cigarette. Nevertheless, he continued smoking. Once he had set his mind to something, he would not abandon it fast. That was him, after all.

"But that Muggle food you brought along", he lifted his head and inhaled the smell of roast escaping from the bag that Hermione had put on the bed, "it is surprisingly delicious." I would not have expected this."

Broodingly, he took another drag from the cigarette, clouding both of them in smoke, despite his increasingly disgusted look and his urge to cough with each drag he took. It was not before he had stopped coughing that he was able to resume the conversation, but he sounded so bitter and grim and at the same time so reflective that it did not seem to be his own voice. "But I have been mistaken so many times before." He finally stubbed out his cigarette, placed the empty butter-beer bottle carelessly on the floor and slid slowly back into his chair.

He avoided Hermione's eyes, staring into the space, and seemed to talk more to himself that to her. "After the hearing I caught a short glimpse of the Malfoys when they left the court room", he cleared his throat and tried to give his voice an indifferent tone, but his taut body belied his words, "I think, it is a good thing that they were set free."

Hermione gasped in surprise but did not want to interrupt because, hearing Voldemort say things like these, seemed to be a dream from which she did not want to wake up before time. "I have put them under quite some pressure. It would not be right to convict them as convinced Death Eaters On their own free will, much of what they did would never have happened. To confirm his doubts he slowly shook his head, deeply in thoughts.

Then he turned to Hermione again, but his voice sounded stronger now, more certain, and while a mere second ago, he had been hesitant as to whether he could afford to voice thoughts so alien to him, he now seemed to be determined to make further confessions. "Since the commencement of the hearing–no actually since you have told me of the nurse, I have had time to think quite a bit. His long, bony forefinger touched his forehead and his voice died down to a whisper, as if he wanted to let Hermione in on a secret. I awakened to something, I am now able to see many things in a different way.

Hermione was at a complete loss for words–the Dark Lord admitted errors and doubts? "How has this happened? What have you been thinking about?"

"Well", Voldemort threw her a quick glance, then pushed himself up from the chair, with both hands pressed on the backrest, walked over to the barred window where the mood-flower emitted silvery pulsating light. "So many cases of my – well, let's say…victims – were specified. Persons and occurrences were listed, and the way I have killed them was discussed. Many people were mentioned whose deaths I had ordered by using others … they also brought up examples that I have made of Muggles. However, I must confess, I can hardly remember any of them. Some remained in my memory, such as the Potters–of course–but this was only because they gained post-mortem fame because Harry Potter survived. Had Harry Potter not been so famous, I most probably would also have forgotten his parents' death.

Wistfully, he let his fingers slide over the plant whose petals were glowing like stars, but then abruptly turned round, leaned his back against the wall, crossed his arms, as if it was for his own protection, and firmly looked into Hermione's eyes. "It isn't that I am forgetful. But they are simply too many to remember." Saying these words he swayed his head, then resumed talking, almost echo-like–to himself: "So many. And I do not know who they were, I also do not know if I knew them before, or if it was of any importance to kill them. I did it anyway."

The young Gryffindor felt uneasy, these thoughts were so novel for him–and now she was sitting here and it seemed almost offensive to hear these words from his mouth, since they had an absolutely intimate tune. His words were not cynical–no, they were honest–he revealed things to Hermione that he, himself, could hardly believe thinking.

With a faint push he pressed himself away from the cold, grey wall, went to the chair, scuffling rather than pacing, and let himself slide down.

Hermione watched it all while she tried to offer him a kind look– friendly and alert. He would tell more.

"Sometimes I am hearing voices and seeing faces, you know?" His voice sounded brittle, fragile and empty. Each sound escaping his mouth, left the impression that he was no longer part of this world. His voice had already gone. Maybe even other parts, too, and tomorrow the rest of him would go as well.

"Voices?"

"Yes, voices." No figments of imagination. I am trying to recall the dead, but I am not able to do so. I remember some voices and faces, but I can hardly make a connection to the incidents. But", in an almost conjuring manner he raised one hand towards Hermione, his voice pleading as if he hoped Hermione would be able to give him an answer to his life, "if I cannot remember them, though, how could it have been of importance to kill them? If I was able to forget these things so quickly, then it must have been insignificant or useless, wouldn't it. Don't you think so?"

"Can killing people be right at all? Is there one single significant reason to extinguish another's life?" Hermione was stunned at this conversation but it was a relief and it was good to see doubts catching him. As unpleasant circumstances were–it filled her with delight that he was able to think thoughts such as these.

Voldemort's skin had always been ashen, but now he looked almost transparent. Never, she had seen him so unsure of himself while he remembered his deeds; he seemed to become lesser and lesser. Maybe, Hermione thought, all the loathing and cruelty were the very thing that tied him to this world and now his doubts did loosen these ties. More and more he kept disappearing from his own life.

"Of course, I also remember quite a few who died by my own hands or orders. For instance Dumbledore or Snape. Their deaths were not decided at random but were deliberately planned. But, surely, there were many cases that other people at other times would have decided differently." Again, he was swaying his head in disbelief, as if he bewildered of himself, as if he could no longer understand his own motives. "But, again and again, I ended up with this solution as the only solution. I never came across a different answer. It all was so final, so simple… but maybe I just was so used to it that my mind was closed to other ways and solutions.

Voldemort sighed, he appeared to be so aggrieved–these words did not seem to match with him. He bent his head, looking down on his hands, pressing them so violently in his tension that every once and a while his wrist joints gave a snapping sound. "But of course, I had my reasons, I had my plans. It was all about power." For one short moment he looked at Hermione again with this agonized smile–he seemed to think of all his sermons on his philosophy of power, which he had not long ago and full of pride and fervour, defended against Hermione's arguments. "But power is a cunning thing, you always could have more of it", he explained in a low voice, while he thoughtfully lowered his glance again, "and since you always could have more of it, you never reach the goal. The same applies to the quest of immortality. Unreachable by its very nature. The only way you can be sure to have reached immortality is, when you live forever. During this eternal life, however, you are daily exposed to the fear to lose it. I haven't found any happiness; my life was controlled by unreachable aspirations. I could have done all these other things, those I never had time for. Now it is too late."

Hermione's chair made a screeching noise on the floor when she moved it closer to him. The slumped figure, however, did not notice the shrill, unpleasant screeching of the chair. Only when she had come so near that their knees touched and as she closed her hand around his, he looked up to her again. He had to gulp, and for one short moment he appeared to be not only unsure of himself but also even fearful. Apparently Hermione had interrupted his terrifying train of thoughts.

To her surprise his voice was impassive and clear. He seemed to have faced his worst-case scenario and acknowledged that there was no escape for him.

"I think the place where I will be tomorrow will have entire areas that were populated exclusively by myself. Countless … maybe entire countries that were populated as a result of my deeds. So many", again he shook his head in disbelief, "so incredibly many. I am unable count them, nobody would." He lowered his gaze onto his had, that was being held by Hermione, and smiled at this view. His thumb touched over Hermione's finger, tenderly, his thumb slid along her hand, back and forth, forth and back, until he forced himself to detach, to sink back into his chair, breathing heavily. His hands folded on the lap, he attentively eyed Hermione for some moments, and seemed to wait for a reaction. "What will it be like, when I will be among them tomorrow? They will hate me, won't they?"

Defiantly he held up his chin, his soliciting look met her brown eyes and he seemed to be eager to get a statement out of her.

Hermione pressed herself to a rather mismatched smile and shrugged, in this very moment she was simply lacking words, it was too unreal to hear this man verbalize thoughts like these. Instead, she bent down forward again to pat his folded hands.

He stared into the space again, seemed to gaze at a certain point beyond one of the windows. His hands had been so cold, he seemed to vanish ever more and his voice was unusually low, sorrowful and saddened.

"I would hate myself. I was not a good person, I think." His face twisted in agony at these thoughts, he bit his lower lip and allowed Hermione pat his knee that touched on her's.

"It this remorse?" Hermione asked vigilantly.

Voldemort shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe". These thoughts were obviously new to him, he could hardly understand them.

"I am glad that you are able to think this way." Hermione did not sound so miserable any longer, on the contrary, she sounded relieved, since she was truly happy that her vis-à-vis felt remorse. She would have been happy that her hopes had not been in vain during all this time, had the circumstances not have been excessively sad.

Her fosterling bent forwards to hide his face in his hands. Some tears were rolling down his cheeks and he did not want Hermione see it. "What shall I tell them?", his formerly icy voice whimpered, in a desperate effort to sound a bit more unruffled. "What shall I tell all those people when they ask me why I killed them? When I'll be among them tomorrow and they ask me, why." He had to pause, could not continue, because this would have allowed her to witness his sobbing. His face still hidden, he continued to push Hermione for answers "When Wormtail, Bellatrix, Severus, and all the other Death Eaters will ask why I did not simply leave them alone. Why they had to die for me, why I did not prevent it, after they had been serving me for so many years?"

The picture that presented itself to Hermione, made her eyes water. This creature in front of her was shaking, his hands clutching onto his own skull, sobbing so violently that Hermione's heart was bleeding. She sank to her knees in front of her friend, embraced his face with her hands and tenderly pushed him into a hug. But he still could not remove his hands from his eyes, did not want to reveal his sad face.

Hermione tenderly caressed her friend's back while he continued to whimper ever so miserably. "And all the other people? They will walk up to me tomorrow and ask what ever they had done to me? When they will ask, why I had loathed them so much." Yielded anew to despair and guilt, he had to stop. Through his hands he Hermione was able so catch a glimpse of his wrenched face that seemed to reflect thousands of years full of pain and sorrow. Her hands stroke over his head that now was resting against her shoulder. Then he finally dared to look at her. His hands, wet of tears, released his face and wandered to her cheeks. He lifted her face up close to his own, so that both their foreheads touched and he caressed her cheeks. Then pressed her some inches away from his body and emerged deep into her eyes while he continued – so desolate and disheartened as she had never heard a human being before. "I do not know. I, myself, do not know why I never cared and why I never felt the tiniest bit of sympathy for them. What shall I tell them, Hermione, what shall I tell?"

It was the young girl who now had to take a deep breath when she tried to sooth the crying man. "You could say that you are sorry", she suggested in a low voice while her little fingers wiped his eyes. The man was somewhat more composed now, though his face was red and blotted. His voice had stopped trembling but now was hushed and small like that of a child that is horrified in the dark. "Do you believe they will listen to me?"

The kneeling figure ran her hands over his cheeks again, tried a little smile and gave an encouraging nod. "If it comes from your heart, yes, I do believe so."

The unhappy man sitting on the chair concealed his face again in his large white hands, wanted to hide his face while he was saying what he was not even able to admit to himself, and what he had to prize out in of himself in an effort. "I am so ashamed. You know, I might actually meet my mother there. But she will probably reject me. I am so ashamed when I imagine myself standing in front of her, how she is looking at me knowing all the things that I have done.

With his eyes still down, he got up, wiped his eyes and went to the window at the wall where the aroma bowls were positioned that he loathed so much. On his way to the window he took something from his bed that looked like a handkerchief. In an extremely awkward manner, he tried to blow his nose. Still an effort that seemed nearly unmanageable due to the nose that he had mutilated himself. But perhaps it was helpful that simple things like these took him such a long time, since thereafter he was able to continue with more countenance. "People say that Dumbledore was the only person I ever feared", again he turned to her, looked into her eyes again, "but as a matter of fact, they are ignorant of the why. "It is not that I feared his skills. We are, I mean were, equals, I believe. But he knew me… he knew me when I was young and weak, and I never wanted to be this way. He symbolized everything that was weak and human in me, that is what I feared. And some day, I guess, I must have managed it – and I ceased to be a human being. And then – with an expression of sheer disgust in his eyes he pointed to his own chest, " I became THIS".

Affectionately Hermione looked at her desperate friend. "Do you know what I think?"

He raised his eyebrows, obviously deeply embarrassed by his own frankness and weakness. These were things he always had avoided. Openness and weakness. But although, in this very moment, he was but a mere mass of human misery, he still sought her eyes. Soothing it was, that she still stayed with him and had not abandoned him, no matter what. He would listen to her, it would help.

"I believe, Dumbledore told a load of rubbish about you. That you are completely unable to love and incapable of doing any good. And, besides", she now rose and walked up to him, as he should see her eyes clearly, should be able to read them, since she did not lie to him, "I believe, it will be a huge comfort for people to know that you are honestly remorseful. And your mother will surely still be glad to finally be able to see you. And not everybody hates you, I DO NOT hate you, and you know that."

Voldemort smiled about Hermione's soothing words. He was not sneering, as he often was, he was grateful. Slowly he ran the back of his hand over her forehead and kissed the spot where his hand had just touched her.

"You have always been very kind to me, Hermione. Much nicer than I have ever been to anyone. Thank you." With both arms he pulled her closer to his body and embraced her. Hermione gasped. Never before he had called her Hermione, he had always acted as if he had not even known her name.

But this intimacy still seemed to make him feel uneasy. He moved her a few inches from his body, turned his back to her in embarrassment and sat down on the hospital bed that had become so familiar to him and that he still hated so much. Hermione did not want to leave him sit by himself on this symbol of defeat; therefore, she followed and sat down next to him.

"Do you have a last wish?", she had to swallow hard. He bent his head to the side, in the manner of a child, his eyes half-closed, and he seemed to meditate intensely. He then nodded and turned around to Hermione. But you won't be able to fulfil it."

Hermione blushed. No matter what he was going to say, she would grant it. For one reason: she did not want to let him go so unhappily.

"I would do anything you wish. "ANYTHING!" To affirm this, she ran her fingers with slight pressure along his thighs.
Voldemort seemed to be bewildered in the first instant, he did not seem to get the point, but then his fingers shot ahead to pin Hermione's hand in the place where it was – not at its target yet, but close.

Hermione smiled, now he did understand. She would grant everything… but he did not let her hand go, did not let it wander further up, instead he looked firmly into her eyes and seemed to fight an inner battle. Of course, he wanted to, so many times he had made it clear that he was longing for the very thing she offered him now… but still….

After a seemingly endless time in this frozen pose, he bent slightly forward and slowly moved her hand away from his body. "No, don't", he spoke tenderly, as she had hardly ever heard him speak before, and still, he shook his head with determination, "you don't need to do this. You don't really want it. And, apart from that, I thought of something else".

With a slight sense of disappointment Hermione withdrew her hand. "What is it?"

Tom Riddle took a deep breath and smiled, seemingly to himself, in an unhappy and desperate way, "I have always been out in nature on my own. There, I was able to think about things… I would like to take a walk outside in the dark and reflect on things."

Hermione's mouth twitched unhappily. "No", she now shook her head equally unhappy, "I am afraid, this is not possible, you know that". He nodded, he had known it but nevertheless gave an unhappy impression. "It is obviously impossible. There is so much I will never be able to do again."

Hermione could not bear it any longer to see him so disconnected from her – on this last evening he was supposed to be here, together with her, and not some place else, together with his dark thoughts. Slowly, she put her arm around him, drew his face down to hers and they kissed.

Not only to give him nicer thoughts but also so obtain something from him, something that she could keep.

Hermione moved still closer, sank into two pallid arms and let them place her on the bed. In the dark of the night, in this murky room, only lit by the silvery moonlight that fell in from the side, drawing tiny lines and shadows on the wall, two people could be made out who were undressing each other and cuddled up together. The taller of the two figures lay on his back and ran his fingers tenderly over the smaller one who had huddled up close to him. They exchanged tender kisses and touches while words of comfort and love were exchanged in hushed voices, until the taller shape let his body glide over the smaller one and covered her.

Hermione and her child, prisoner, teacher…lover. Even though she would never confess to Ron what she had done with the Dark Lord during this night. The master of Legilimency had been wrong in this particular case, Hermione had wanted to do it.

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Next chapter could take some time. But then you´ll know if Voldemort will die and what about he´d been talking with Harry

*kissyouallandwipeyoudry*