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Death Row	By : SalazarRaphael Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 9042 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money from this fic.

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Death row. Lord Voldemort was sitting on death row. It had been four days since the final battle. And his imprisonment. He sat in his cell, staring at the wall. They had blocked his magic with a potion. They’d forced it down his throat. And now here he sat, in a special prison. There were no Dementors. And the guards were not permitted near him. Apparently his ability to manipulate was well known. He was as helpless as a squib. For the first time in his life, he was truly helpless. Even after Harry’s miraculous survival on that fateful night, he had still had power. Now…now he had nothing.

            The sound of someone walking down the hall had him raising his head. He turned his head as a young woman stood before his cell. “Voldemort,” she said, “my name is Hermione Granger. I want to talk to you.”

            “I have nothing to say.”

            “You haven’t talked to anyone since the final battle. Your death eaters are either dead, on trial, or imprisoned; and no one wants to talk to or see you. But I want to talk to you. Even if it is just at you, I have some things I want to tell you. If you’ll humor me, they’ve set up a room with a table and chairs. We could play chess, if you like.”

            He looked the girl over. She really was determined. “You are Potter’s Muggleborn friend. Granger…Snape told me about you. You’re supposed to be something of a genius.” She blushed at the compliment. That had him raising his eyebrow. Surely a beautiful and intelligent woman such as herself was aware of both things? He shook his head. That was most unfortunate. “If a mass murdering sociopath is the first person to comment on your intellect, or notice your beauty, there is something very wrong with the world.”

            She actually laughed at that. He looked her over. He couldn’t manipulate this young woman. She was too strong. Voldemort had always had a rule. You never picked on intellectual equals. That was why Dumbledore had been safe, even if eventually the old man had become addlebrained. “So will you speak with me?”

            He sighed, “I suppose so.”

            An Auror, Shacklebolt he thought his name was, led Voldemort down an empty hall to a single room, with one small window and a table with two chairs. A chess set sat on the table. Hermione sat down and waited for Voldemort to do the same before nodding at the Auror, who left the room. “Kingsley and the others think me quite mad for coming here. They say I have a soft heart, or don’t know what I’m doing.”

            “But they’d be wrong.”

            “Very wrong,” she nodded. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked you anything. I’m not trying to write a book or anything. I just…”

            “Want to understand me,” he finished for her. She nodded. “Fine, what do you want to know?”

            “Do you remember your mother at all?”

            He just stared at her. Finally he blinked and shook his head, “No I don’t. The only memories of her I found were from my dead father and my uncle. My father’s weren’t fond, except for when he was under the love potion, but my uncle’s were better. I didn’t like seeing how my grandfather treated her. He was pureblood trash.”

            Hermione nodded and he continued, “I didn’t kill my father. I visited my uncle, looked at his memories of my mother, and even kept a few, placing them in my own head; but it was my uncle that killed my father. I guess me probing at his brain reminded him of what my father had done; you know, pushing my mother to run away, making her lose the will to live…then turning me away when I arrived on his doorstep 16 years later. Morfin killed the entire household. Dumbledore always blamed me. But even if Tom Riddle was a disgusting piece of trash, he was still a part of me I wanted to learn more about.”

            “Did you learn more about him?”

            “My father was a womanizer. That’s why he was still single after all those years. I also learned from the women of the town that he was a rapist. Get a girl drunk and then go to town. Wealthiest family in town; no one would have ever done anything to stop it. Morfin deserved a medal, not a life sentence. It was then I learned that the wealthy are all bastards.”

            “You’re wealthy.”

            “And I’m a literal bastard,” he smirked, leaning back in his chair and looking at the chess board. It appeared to be a Muggle board. He moved a pawn forward.

            “What was it like at the orphanage?” She moved her knight out.

            “Hard. A priest tried to rape me, once. But I guess my magic protected me because next thing I know I’m up in the attic of orphanage. The old hag that ran the place was only better in that she never raped any of us. A nun used to come by every two weeks. She’d give us each some change. I would save mine up and buy Batman comics. I’d read them for hours. Until I memorized all of them, and even then I didn’t stop reading them. They were my escape.” He moved his bishop out, standing now in front of his queen.

            “Batman? That’s so…Muggle of you,” she said.

            “I was picked on. I was a rather small child and so I got bullied quite a bit. By larger, older boys. They’d beat me up, shove my head in the toilet, yank my pants down. The old hag told me to ‘suck it up’. Then I started picking on younger kids. It just…I don’t know, at the time it made sense. Only the weak got picked on. I had to prove I wasn’t weak.”

            “Did it work?”

            “I tried to take over the Wizarding World, what do you think?” His eyes were alight with teasing and Hermione smiled.

            “So Batman was your only refuge from an abusive childhood? Or were there others?”

            He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling in thought. “There was nothing else. Well, except for this old harmonica I bought. I learned to play a few different songs on it. I liked to build models but the others would always break them so I gave that up after a few tries. The harmonica was mine and durable, though.”

            “I said I had some things to tell you. I guess that I should now that you’ve talked to me; Your death eaters all plead for mercy. None of them admits to any wrongdoing, save the most evil and vicious ones. And for them, their guilt is actually well documented. Often by their own hands.”

            “Not surprising.”

            “I was responsible for the destruction of the first Horcrux. The diary Malfoy slipped into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron. I knew the serpent was a basilisk. Harry only killed it after I had scribbled down what and where it was.” Voldemort tensed, but was impressed with her so he stayed silent. What was her point? Why did he need to know this? “Ultimately, what it comes down to is this- I was never really afraid of you. Just your death eaters.” She could see him swallow uncomfortably. Hermione looked at the door. Kingsley was back. It looked like her time with him had come to an end. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We only get a limited amount of time for these talks.”

            “And I almost had you in check,” he muttered.

            “Really? Because from where I’m sitting you’re in check and about to be checkmate,” she stood, “thank you for speaking with me.”

            “How do you know I’m telling you the truth?”

            “I know people,’ she stated simply. Voldemort watched as she walked away. Obediently, he followed the Auror back to his cell; there he lay down. Hermione Granger…there was something about her…he found her fascinating.

Hermione went to dinner at the Weasleys. Everyone wanted to know about her visit with him, but she refused to answer. “Come on, Hermione. He’s evil. He’ll die and that’ll be it.”

            “Nothing is pure good or pure evil. Life is grey, Harry. Whether you want it to be or not, life is very grey. And so are people. That includes Voldemort. I learned more about him today than you did in your entire life.” Hermione got up from the table and walked toward the living room, “I want to understand him.”

            “He’s just going to die. Why can’t you just leave things as they are?!” Harry yelled at her and ran up the stairs.

            “Forgive Harry,” Molly said to Hermione, “he’s been very stressed lately. What did you learn about You-Know-Who?”

            “That he was abused as a child,” she said, “and that a priest who took care of the kids at the orphanage tried to molest him.”

            Molly made disapproving sounds with her tongue. “That is sad, but still no excuse.”

            “I’m not looking for an excuse. I want an explanation. And he’s very much aware of that. He’s not making excuses, just telling me how things are.”

            Voldemort accepted his food from the house elf, “Thank you,” he said.

            “You is welcome,” it squeaked. It disappeared and he sighed. He missed magic. But at least the house elves made good food. He ate slowly, savoring his meal. Hermione Granger kept entering his mind. She had made it clear she knew who he was, what things he had done. She was certainly beautiful. He’d never before been able to gaze at her as he had today.
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Death Row