Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Death Row	By : SalazarRaphael Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 9044 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money from this fic.

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The next day she walked down to the room they had occupied. Voldemort was brought in shortly. She smiled when she saw him. “I brought you something. A gift, for seeing me in the first place.” She handed him a brown paper bag. He opened it and pulled out a book. A collection of the first Batman comics ever released. The smile that appeared on his face made her grin, “I thought you’d like to have them again. The originals cost a pretty penny, but they’ve rereleased them in this form. I think you’ll enjoy them.”

            “Thank you,” he said. “What do you want to know about today?”

            “When did you lose your virginity?”

            “Well you just jump right into this,” he smirked. “If I answer that question, I expect you to as well.” When she blushed he leaned forward, “I was 15, she was 17. It was rather lackluster. It took me a long time to want to have sex again afterward. It was never with someone I really desired; I’ve never met someone that I wished for sexually.” He leaned back, “Now it’s your turn.”

            “I…I’m actually still a virgin.” His eyebrows raised and she blushed. “I’ve snogged a boy before, but that’s it, really.”

            “I really am the first person to tell you how beautiful you are, aren’t I?”

            “Yes,” she nodded. “And let’s focus again. What did you do when you got your Hogwarts letter?”

            “I was thrilled. I thought I had a future, finally. Walking into Diagon Alley the first time was such a fascinating and thrilling experience. But nothing compared to my first wand.” He looked so wishful at that moment. “My first class at Hogwarts was exciting as well. But being in Slytherin…”

            “With all the purebloods,” she whispered as she realized how it must have been hard for him. “They must have been cruel to you.”

            “They really were,” he nodded. “Until I learned I was Slytherin’s heir, they wouldn’t leave me alone. After I learned that everyone wanted to be my friend.”

            “And you started gathering supporters.”

            “I didn’t really adopt the name Voldemort until my seventh year. Once I graduated I worked at Borgin & Burke’s. I procured items from people, verified them…it was actually very interesting work.”

            “Really?”

            “Knowledge, legend and lore, and so much more…all fascinating,” he said. “I love learning. Unfortunately, I did have to move on.”

            “Where have you traveled?”

            “Everywhere,” he said. “The States, Canada, all of Latin America, South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia.”

            “How many languages do you know?”

            “I speak 14, but I can only read 8.”

            “Only 8? I can only speak and read 3.”

            “English, French, and…Latin?”

            “Yes. Quit trying to change the subject.”

            “Ask your next question then.”

            “How old were you when you first killed someone?”

            He squinted and tried to think back. “It was a long time ago, give me a moment.” Hermione waited patiently, watching him think. He was over 70 years old, after all. She didn’t expect him to answer right away. These questions were about her getting a feel for him. She knew he was telling the truth, but would he answer the questions that were particularly…disturbing? “I’ve killed much fewer than I’ve tortured,” he said, breaking the silence. Finally he seemed to have an answer, “I killed for the first time when I was 19,” he answered finally.

            “Who was it?”

            “The priest.” His answer was so matter-of-fact that Hermione almost didn’t believe him. “Other boys were not as lucky as I was,” he added, and then Hermione could see that he really was telling her the truth. “I have no regret over that death.”

            “Do you regret others?”

            “Sometimes,” he answered.

            For the next month it went like that. She visited every day, asking him questions about his past before Voldemort and then what happened after he became Voldemort. Hermione permitted him only certain facts about herself, knowing who he really was she was always on her guard. But she could see that with no magic he was not the man he had been. And she began to notice regret in his eyes when he would detail past crimes.

            He sighed, “I’m getting hungry.”

            She looked at her watch. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

            “Can you stay for dinner?” He looked at her, pleading.

            Hermione hesitated only briefly, “Sure.” The smile on his face surprised her. Maybe he considered her a friend? The house elves brought them dinner and they ate together, their conversation becoming much lighter.

            Their dinner was cut short. Kingsley locked him up and escorted Hermione out suddenly, “I’m sorry, Hermione, but Harry doesn’t want you here.”

            “If Harry chooses to live his life in fear, that is his decision. It is not mine. He does not own me. We’ve never been anything more than friends. I will come here every day until you let me see him again. Nothing will deter me, Kingsley. Nothing.” With her face set, she walked away; leaving Kingsley frowning. He didn’t like her coming here to talk to Voldemort. It wasn’t any good.



            Over the next week Hermione returned every day, waiting outside for Kingsley to let her in. He refused each time. Hermione returned the seventh day, and Kingsley refused her entry yet again. She stood in the rain, waiting. Finally he sighed and let her in, “I’m not letting the two of you in the same room.”

            “I’m not going away, Kingsley. I told you that. Why does Harry get to act as Minister of Magic?”

            “He’s not Minister of Magic,” Kingsley said.

            “You’re acting like he is,” she argued, “I am certainly more aware of who Voldemort is than anyone. I want to talk to him.” Hermione moved to the door of Voldemort’s cell.

            “You’re wet,” Voldemort said, looking up at she approached. “I thought you couldn’t come anymore.”

            “I’m very stubborn.”

            “I’m used to getting my way too,” he said, smirking. He grabbed his towel and passed it through the bars to her, “Here, dry off with this.”

            “Thank you,” she said, drying off her hair. She sighed, “I used to hope that when I matured my hair would stop being so frizzy. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.”

            “I know some spells to control your hair better; Lucius Malfoy was very picky about his…hair and he was so prideful about his appearance that he was always casting the spells, even when it wasn’t necessary. I can give them to you, if you want.”

            “Will it tame this?” She indicated her head and he nodded, “Could you write them down for me? I have paper and pens in my bag.”

            “Sure,” he wrote them down for her. Hermione laughed when she saw the latin, “He wasn’t very original,” he nodded, smiling. “But his vanity works well for you.”

            Hermione reached through his cell bars to take his hand, squeezing it, “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome. I like talking to you. I have some questions, though. Why are you here? I mean really. I don’t want you to give me some excuse or a pathetic reason.”

            “Very well,” she sighed, “I…I want to understand you. I’ve always believed that society gets the villains it creates.”

            “So you don’t think one is born evil?”

            “I think some are fated to be evil,” she moved closer to him, “I think you would fit that description.”

            “Really?”

            “Really,” she nodded. “Do you think, if your mother had lived or your father had taken you in, that you would have wound up sitting in a cell on death row? You’ve already admitted that your first crime was an act of vengeance against a man who had tried to rape you. Give me an honest answer, Voldemort.”

            He lowered his head, thinking. Hermione squeezed his hand, which she had yet to let go of. Finally he looked up at her. “I don’t think I would have,” he said. She nodded as a tear rolled down his cheek. She wiped it with her thumb. “I don’t like talking about this.”

            “I know you don’t. But….at some point, it has to be discussed. Just as why you like me.”

            “You come here to talk to me. You don’t seem to judge me. And of course you’re insanely beautiful and intelligent.” Hermione pulled back, stunned. He found her attractive? He seemed to realize what he’d said and immediately said, “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You asked a question and I thought you meant…well it doesn’t really matter,” he moved away from the bars and sat down on his bed. “I guess you’ll be going now.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’ve become very attracted to you and there’s no way you could be like that to me.”

            Hermione turned and yelled, “Kingsley! Open his cell door. I want to talk to him.” Begrudgingly, Kingsley opened the cell and let her enter, then locked it behind her. He stood there until she said, “I’ll call if he tries to murder me.” The large man frowned at her and walked away. She sat down on his bed next to him, “So why can’t I be attracted to you?”

            “I’m a murderer, I’m ugly, I’m old…I could go on.”

            “You’re intelligent, charming, and while you’re no Brad Pitt, you’re not ugly.”

            “Who’s Brad Pitt?”

            Hermione laughed, “A Muggle actor and sex symbol.” Voldemort just nodded, even if he didn’t understand. She squeezed his hand, “I think you give yourself far less credit than you deserve. The ability to see that you’ve done wrong, to feel remorse…you’re not a sociopath. You’re just a man who was never given a shot at being able to feel safe or secure in your identity.”

            If someone asked Voldemort why he did what he did next, for once he’d have no answer. But regardless and ignoring any consequences, he brushed her hair aside and kissed her. Her eyes closed automatically as his lips pressed against hers. When he pulled away she was flushed, and he knew that he probably appeared to be flush as well. “Sorry.”

            “No you’re not,” she whispered. “And I’m not either,” she caressed his cheek gently. “But…I can’t…not with you. Voldemort, you’re going to be killed. I can’t let my heart be broken watching you die.”

            “I understand,” he lowered his head. “But…if I were a free man…”

            “You never will be.”

            “But if I were, Hermione; if I were free, would you?”

            “Yes,” she nodded, looking rather mournful. “I would.”

            “Thank you for that, at least,” he said, squeezing her hand. “and for the comic books and everything else.”

            “Your trial begins tomorrow.”

            “Yes.”

            “What will you plead?”
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Death Row