Valentine's Day Massacre

Author's Note: So, I had intended to post this for Valentine's Day but completely forgot about it. I was going to wait until next year to post it, but I figured it would be silly to wait (and I'd probably forget about it by then, too.). Special thanks to my awesome beta, wingedmercury, for taking a look at this steaming piece of shite! Please R&R!

Summary: CRACKFIC. AU, Oneshot. Set in the universe of my fic "The Scientist" but can stand (feebly) on its own. Hermione and Tom have only been together for less than two months when a mysterious package shows up at her flat. HG/TMR

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

It was sleeting outside — typical depressing February weather for Hogsmeade. However, Tom took no notice of said weather, as he was rather absorbed in thoroughly trashing a paper written by a student. He shook his green pen and slashed through a paragraph with unadulterated glee. Nothing was more fun than crushing the hopes and dreams of desperate law students. His mobile buzzed several times, but as he never answered his mobile, this did not concern him. His laptop was open to his email, and this pinged several times as well, but again, he never checked his email, and thus he was not bothered by it.

Little did he know that his new girlfriend, Hermione Granger, was throwing a fit on the other side of town.

Hermione couldn't believe it. No, really — this was incredible, in the most literal use of the word. She looked from the delivery man standing at her door to her watch, which also displayed the date — February fourteenth — and back again, several times.

"Will you be wantin' the flowers and chocolates, then?" the deliveryman tried again for a response, shifting his considerable weight. Sputtering and flustered, Hermione snatched the box of Honeydukes chocolates (the finest chocolates in the world) and the large bouquet of pink roses from the man.

"Yes, they're from my boyfriend," she couldn't resist informing him cheerily. She was so elated that it didn't even bother her much when the deliveryman rolled his eyes and lumbered back down the hall.

She shut the door, having set the flowers on her coffee table, and sank dreamily against the door to admire them from afar. She was not normally a fan of pink roses, because they were cliché in the worst sort of way. However, they were more original than the typical red roses with baby's breath, and furthermore, she remained stunned that Tom had remembered Valentine's Day at all, let alone done something about it. Beggars could not be choosers, and she would take any demonstration of Tom's affection, cliché or not.

(Apparently putting all those subtle reminders on his calender on PostIt notes had been worthwhile after all!)

Of course, they hadn't even been together a full two months — that would take another ten days, she reminded herself with glee — and so she had not been expecting something this grand. On Tom's birthday, which had fallen less than a week after they had gotten together, she had taken him out to dinner and gotten him a new tie (which he had promptly returned, spurning it and her for its ugliness and her terrible taste, quite vocally). It had been a (somewhat) relaxed affair, and so this came as a surprise.

Immediately her heart began to pound. What if he wanted to take her out to dinner? Tom had outrageously expensive taste, and she had absolutely nothing to wear that was appropriate for Florean Fortescue —

Getting ahead of yourself, she chided. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hair, forcing herself to calm down and determine some sort of plan of action. From the sofa, Crookshanks looked on in open disgust, but Hermione paid him no mind.

After all, this was the first time she was with someone on Valentine's Day whom she actually loved — and this was the first time she'd gotten anything on Valentine's Day.

She was just about to take a bite out of the chocolates when her mobile rang, and she leapt for it like a jaguar going for the kill, tossing the chocolates aside.

As it turned out, it was only Ginny. "Hello?" she snapped, before it occurred to her that she could use this as an opportunity to gloat. She perked up instantly.

"Everyone's going out tonight so the singletons don't feel alone — or are you too busy with your boyfriend?" Ginny's voice went from businesslike to teasing. "He seems like the type to forget it at all though," she added a bit skeptically. Hermione grinned. Had she a tail, it would have been swishing. She and Ginny could never resist this little bit of competition, and it was so rare for Hermione to take the lead, like she was about to.

"Seems like it, and yet..." she trailed off, practically doing pirouettes in her living room. Crookshanks remained disgusted. Ginny let out a shriek so loud that the cat gave a hiss of outrage before slinking off for some peace and quiet.

"He remembered?! Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Herm, he's in love with you," she said seriously. "No, I mean it. Men never remember Valentine's Day. It's like it's programmed into them to forget it, just to cause us misery. Oh my god. This is unbelievable. Well, if you end up not having plans — though from the sound of it, you will be having plans all night — then we'll all be at the Leaky."

Ginny hung up, then promptly called back to remind Hermione to shave 'down there' and purchase some suitable , and some conditioner would not be remiss, she had added.

Hermione forgot about the chocolates — Ginny was right. She had work to do.

Tom had lost track of time, and when he finally did check his wristwatch, he was not surprised but rather irritated. He had been planning on doing some work on his new case, but these idiotic student papers had taken much longer than usual. If only he could grade based on his first impression of the student! Actually, it probably would be a far less time-consuming means to the same end — most of the blithering morons failed, at any rate.

Something was niggling the back of his mind, but he paid it no attention. Whatever it was clearly was unimportant, otherwise he would have bothered to remember it properly. He snapped his file shut and stowed the ink-covered essays in their drawer before leaving and locking his office.

He felt compelled to check his mailbox at the entrance to the philosophy wing, and was disturbed by a note he found on the door, written in red glittering ink on a heart-shaped pink PostIt: Check with the secretary – another year of broken hearts, Mr. Riddle!

Tom frowned, snatched the PostIt note off the mailbox, and crumpled it in his fist before tossing it over his shoulder. How dare they make his mail more difficult to access — more importantly, how dare they forget his degree?! The secretary would probably be gone, and then he'd have to wait a whole extra day for his mail... Scowling and seething, he stormed over to the office, prepared to rip whoever's fault this was a new hole. Mr. Riddle, really. This was all such nonsense.

The door was open, and pink and red heart-shaped lanterns with twinkle lights set inside were strung over the door like a garland. Suspicions arisen, Tom warily crept inside, muscles tensed.

"Mr. Riddle!"

"Dr. Riddle," he tersely corrected the secretary, who was a cheerful-faced old woman with thighs the size of Russia. The tight pink Lycra dress she had donned wasn't doing her any favors, and Tom was considering doing her the 'favor' of alerting her to this fact, when she turned and retrieved a large cardboard box, overflowing with pink, red, and white scraps of paper, trailing glitter, lace, and perfume in its wake, effectively distracting him from her thighs. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"It's Valentine's Day, Mr. Riddle!" sang the secretary, continuing on loudly above his repeated correction of his title. "You received a few singing Valentine's, but we kindly diverted them for you as your office was locked." A pink balloon now floated out of the box. Taped to it was a poorly photoshopped picture of his head on some shirtless male model's body, inside of a sparkling heart. "They're waiting for you outside at the front." She shoved the box at him, nearly knocking him over. It was enormously heavy and reeked of cheap perfume.

Tom peered inside. Last year, he had fortunately been out of town doing work on a case during this horrible day, and the year before, he had been on sabbatical. It had been two years since his last Valeintine's Day at Hogwarts — how could he have possibly forgotten just how awful it was?

"...Could you not have diverted this as well?" he finally managed to strangle out amidst his rage. He fished through the valentines and produced a sparkly red thong with his name stitched into the crotch and decorated with rhinestones. The secretary giggled, blushed, and gave a cheeky wink.

"Oh, come now. You know you enjoy being such a heartthrob," she teased with a coy smile. Tom pictured strangling her, and it soothed him for a moment — that is, until a small pink mouse poked its little head out of the rubbish, a large red bow round its neck. Tom choked and the secretary screamed.

Evidently, someone had dyed the mouse pink. "Get that nasty thing out of here now!" shrieked the secretary as she panicked and attempted to leap on top of her chair, which let out a loud groan of protest at the impact. Tom smirked, thinking of an elephant quite terrified of a mouse, and picked the mouse out of the package by its bow. It let out a squeak and struggled and wriggled.

"I will, don't you worry — I've got big plans for this one," he murmured. He hurried out of the office, love notes flying out of the package in his haste.

He knew Dumbledore had left for the day, and that suited his plans perfectly. He crept up to Dumbledore's office door, and jiggled the knob. It was locked, but fortunately, the crack beneath the door was big enough that the mouse could fit through it.

Not that Tom intended on sticking the mouse in Dumbledore's office, or anything.

Having completed his 'redirection' for the mouse, he washed his hands in the loo, stuffed the box in the rubbish bin, and went to leave, whistling as he strolled along. There were few things that cheered him up more than thinking of Dumbledore suffering, after all. Happy Valentine's Day indeed.

However, when he pushed open the front door, a slight diversion was caused by a large, fat, balding man in nothing more than a lumpy white diaper and fluffy wings taped to his back, lunging for Tom and singing 'Cauldron Full of Love.'

Hermione stepped into the shower, her heart still pounding. Get a grip, she urged herself fiercely —

— before spotting the brand new shiny set of body gel that went with her favorite perfume, complete with lotion and body oil, sitting where her cheap chemist shop brand soap usually sat. Hermione promptly choked on her own spit. That had to cost half of her monthly rent at least!

She couldn't bear it. She sank down to the shower floor, the hot water beating down on her, as she gazed in shock at the body wash set. Not only had he noticed which perfume she always wore, he had gotten her all of the matching soaps and lotions, and then hidden them in her shower! When had he done that? It was so overwhelmingly romantic that it was almost creepy.

This is it. He's the one, she realized in awe. So this was how it felt to be completely and utterly swept off one's feet by a man.

She found she quite liked it, as things went.

She turned off the shower. She had to call Tom, at once. But when she went to dial, it went straight to voicemail. Hermione frowned, standing in a towel in her living room, dripping water all over the carpet. Why wasn't Tom answering his phone, especially after he had gone to all this trouble? She tried again a few more times, and found herself getting worried...and then, getting mad.

After fifteen minutes of this nonsense, Hermione pitched her mobile at the sofa. The hell with Tom, then. If he really thought she was just going to wait around, all dolled up for him...well, he had another think coming then. Holding her head high, she resumed her shower, but tossed the soaps in the rubbish bin and located an extra bottle hidden in the medicine cabinet. She wouldn't use his bloody soaps, because that would be buying in to his notion that he could just shower her with gifts and then ignore her.

Grumpy and self-righteous, and perhaps dying on the inside a bit, Hermione dressed in the least Valentine's Day appropriate outfit she owned, left her hair in its usual state of frizz — and no, she didn't bother shaving down there — and she even wore her most granny-like pair of knickers...yes, even after locating the hideously expensive frothy pink, terribly lovely bra and knickers matching set so lovingly placed in her lingerie drawer, amid a bed of rose petals and pink gems.

She stormed out of her flat, scowling, and hurried through the sleet and snow to the Leaky Cauldron.

When she entered, she spotted her friends in the back, overcrowding a large booth. She first spotted Fred, and the usual twinge of awkwardness came and went, and he waved and gave her a cheeky wink. Angelina, seated next to him and with his arm around her, nudged him playfully before gesturing for Hermione to join them.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" demanded Ginny in abject horror. "YOUR BOYFRIEND WANTS TO MAKE SWEET LOVE TO YOU ALL NIGHT LONG!"

"Ew," Ron loudly complained. Harry appeared to have melted into his seat next to Ginny in his utter horror and embarrassment, and Fred and George were sniggering hysterically.

"Granger? Make sweet love all night long?" jested George. He grinned at Fred. "Bet you would know a thing or two about—OOF!" the ensuing elbow to the ribs from Angelina, followed by a rather scary glare, cut him off quickly and efficiently. "Sorry Ange," he muttered.

Face aflame, Hermione took her seat next to Luna.

"Now that you all are done humiliating me," she sniffed, "I just came because he appears to be busy and I didn't feel like waiting around for him."

"After the chocolates? The flowers?" Ginny balked in disbelief. Hermione resisted the urge to divulge about the bath set and lingerie, and pressed her lips together. However, in spite of being a model, Ginny was in fact quite clever, and immediately her brown eyes narrowed into shrewd crescents eerily reminiscent of her mother. "...Don't tell me there was more?"

"Lingerie covered in rose petals, and a bath set," Hermione muttered sorrowfully. Ginny and Angelina let out wails while the boys looked on in confusion.

"Was it your size?" Angelina wanted to know. Hermione nodded mutely. In fact, it had been her size. Angelina sank into her seat and appeared to begin to drown her sorrows in her butterbeer.

"And what kind of bath set?" Ginny prompted hopefully. Hermione sighed in resignation, and named her favorite perfume. This seemed to do both Angelina and Ginny in as they let out more wails of despair.

"He was just held up at the office, I bet," consoled Angelina soothingly. Fred and George let out identical snorts. "What?" she snapped.

"Held up at the office?" began Fred.

"More like he sent those things to console you for something he's about to do wrong," finished George.

Luna, who had been under the table inspecting the chewing gum stuck to its underside, now popped up, wearing a rather disturbing lion hat.

"Or maybe he didn't send them at all, and someone else did," she said dreamily.

"Not possible — no one else has access to my flat. The lingerie was in my lingerie drawer, and the soaps were in my shower," Hermione replied confidently. Luna shrugged.

"Locks aren't hard to pick," she added, before disappearing underneath the table again.

Everyone else dismissed Luna's idea, but Hermione remained stuck on it throughout the evening. It was so unlike Tom to do any of this — even remembering the date would have shocked her enough, let alone all of the gifts. The lingerie was the least surprising, as Tom seemed to rather enjoy — well, her face was too bright pink now to finish that thought. She cleared her throat as she stared into her glass of butterbeer.

But, if he had bothered to get her lingerie, it would have never been that pink stuff, pretty as it was. Hermione found herself rolling her eyes now. No, it would have been something practically requiring an engineering degree to operate, and would have involved lots of leather and chains. And it probably would have been green, as it appeared that was his favorite color.

And he would never have simply left it in her drawer — especially not with rose petals. No, he would probably have called her into his office during school and demanded that she put it on there and then — okay, no need to finish that thought either, at least not in public.

"You look like you could fry an egg on your face right now," Ginny observed. Hermione coughed.

"It's nothing," she said fiercely.

Still, Hermione could not dismiss the fact that, oddly enough, Luna did have a point — none of this was in line with who Tom was, what he stood for, and the turned off mobile and complete lack of contact from him was further upsetting.

Oh god.

What if something had happened?

"I've got to go," she said suddenly, shooting up out of her seat and abandoning her butterbeer. She left some money on the table to pay for her drink, and sprinted (albeit rather slowly) out of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Get away from me," ordered Tom as he ducked to the side, barely dodging the surprisingly agile fat naked man dressed as Cupid.

"No," he rasped, "she — ordered — kiss — and — SONG!" he bellowed the last bit as he finally caught onto Tom's parka. Tom let out an oath before attempting to bat at the fat man with his briefcase. It was Italian leather and of a handsome evergreen so dark it appeared nearly black, and it was his very favorite, but his freedom was worth its sacrifice.

"Who is this she?"

"Your girlfriend, you idiot," he snapped, attempting to drag Tom back to the shelter of the building's overhang, but with a horrible rrriiipp Tom's expensive designer label parka was torn. Tom was so stunned by the Cupid's words that he stood stock-still, not even taking note of his ruined Mme. Malkin parka.

"Hermione sent me a singing Cupid?" he asked dumbly. The Cupid paused for a moment as well, the sleet pelting his fat man-breasts and rolls of lard about his middle and soaking his diaper.

"She dint look like a 'Ermione," he reasoned to himself, looking skyward. Tom chose this moment to bolt, and began sprinting along the crosswalk. "OI! GET BACK 'ERE!" screamed the Cupid.

Hermione did look like a Hermione, though, Tom thought to himself, as he dodged commuters and leapt over rubbish bins in his haste to escape the Cupid. And for another thing, she would never have ordered a singing Cupid for him... at least, he prayed she wouldn't. Then again, they had only been dating for less than two months...he technically didn't know her too well, even if he felt like he did. Hermione was so very predictable and set in her ways that probably most people felt they knew her within a day of meeting her... that was nothing to say, of course, for how obnoxiously vocal she was about every bloody thought that trotted into her mind.

And given her highly clever mind, that was quite a lot of thoughts...and consequently, quite a lot of talking.

That's it. Determined to outstrip the Cupid, Tom took a sharp left and diverted to Hermione's flat. When he reached her building, barely winded but sodden with sleet, he saw that the lights were off, and warning bells went off in his brain. Evidently it was Valentine's Day — was Hermione out? With another man?

Impossible. She was clearly besotted with him, and probably was just in her room, or something. He ran up the stairs and promptly began rapping relentlessly on her door...to no avail. He then proceeded to ping the doorbell repeatedly, first for long buzzes, then for shorter, hopefully more irritating ones.

"Hermione. Open the door," he ordered. Growing irate, he jiggled the knob —and the door clicked open.

The flat was dark, and as soon as Tom entered it, Crookshanks let out a snarl and jumped out of nowhere, landing on his face and digging his claws into his hair. "GAH! Get off me, you filthy animal-" He attempted to rip Crookshanks from his face, and in the process, tripped over something into the coffee table. Something toppled over and shattered, and when Crookshanks finally relented and let go, Tom nearly fell into the pile of shattered glass.

A vase of hideous, lurid pink roses lay now crushed upon the ground, the water soaking the cheap carpet. A purple box of Honeydukes chocolates was beside it, open and upended, and as a result, expensive chocolates were crushed under his feet and smeared into the carpet. Oh, fuck. This was not good. Tom lifted his shoe, however, when he noticed that steam was coming from it.

Where the chocolate had been smashed into the carpet, a hole was being burned, and foam and steam were rising from it due to the chemical reaction. Tom let out a yelp and considered wiping his shoe on the cat before recalling Hermione's odd and sometimes violent attachment to it, and instead stumbled to the kitchenette to wipe it off.

He didn't know what had been in the chocolates, but evidently, someone was trying to harm Hermione- oh god. His breathing halted abruptly as he saw red in his rage.

"HERMIONE!" He darted around the flat, his quick mind already coming up with methods of tracing her killer, and mercilessly ruining them forever. What if it were one of his enemies? He certainly had plenty of those to go around, thanks to his dealing in court as well as his perfectly wonderful personality that certain insolent idiots for some reason found objectionable...

But Hermione was not in her flat anywhere. In the rubbish bin in the bathroom, he noticed a brand new set of fancy body soap and lotions, still bearing their gold grosgrain ribbons, and in the bedroom, a matching bra and knicker set lay on the dresser; her knicker drawer was flung open and filled with more lurid pink rose petals.

Tom skidded to a halt in the hall and closed his eyes, breathing in and out, slowly. This was just a puzzle, and all he had to do was solve it — that was not so hard.

The biggest clue was that the door had been unlocked. Either Hermione had left without locking it, or someone had broken in and left these things here.

Tom fished for his mobile in his pocket, but it was missing. It must have fallen out when his parka had been ripped. Bloody hell.

Luckily, Hermione was annoyingly old-fashioned and practical, and still had a landline, as though frozen in nineteen eighty eight. He went to the phone and went to dial her mobile number...before realizing that he didn't know it by heart.

He dropped the phone back into its cradle, staring into the distance in horror. In the background, Crookshanks was noisily mewling about something. "Shut up, you stupid cat," he snarled, before pausing in thought. Crookshanks kept looking back at him impatiently, then going to claw at the linen closet.

He sniffed the air thoughtfully. Now that he thought on it, Hermione's flat didn't smell like its usual blend of her perfume, cleaning products, and coffee... There was a tang to the air, like expensive cologne. "Well well well," he said softly, his rage rising. "What do we have here?" He went to the linen closet, and Crookshanks gave a satisfied hiss before slinking off, swishing his tail triumphantly.

There was rapid breathing, barely audible. Tom slowly turned the knob, and opened the door...

Inside, Draco Malfoy was crouched beneath the shelves, shaking. Claw marks covered his pale face and his expensive grey pinstriped suit was shredded beyond repair. As Tom's shadow eclipsed him, a roll of toilet paper fell and hit Draco on the head before bouncing off and rolling out the door, giving Crookshanks something new with which to amuse himself.

"P-P-Please d-d-don't kill me," he shuddered, ducking his head. "I was ordered to do this."

Tom arched his brows. Was this Hermione's idea of an elaborate revenge for him forgetting Valentine's Day? It seemed unlikely that she'd rope Draco into this plan, and furthermore, this was far too clumsy and violent of an approach to be hers. No, Hermione would appreciate a finer-grained, more elegant approach... "Aunt B-Bellatrix did it," he added, and though his demeanor remained terrified, there was a sly look in his eyes that suggested he thought by providing this information, Tom might let him go free.

Unlikely, he thought with a smirk. But nice try, Draco.

Hermione ran through the rain and sleet, slipping quite often on the icy sidewalk, and by the time she reached Tom's flat, she was shaking from overexertion and stars were winking in her vision. Nevertheless, she pressed onward and up to his door, which she banged on frantically.

...To her complete shock, however, the door was unlocked.

Already her suspicions were aroused — it was so unlikely that Tom would leave his door unlocked. Had someone broken in? Was he harmed? ...And if so, how were the chocolates, lingerie, and soaps related? Fear and panic rising like bile in her esophagus, she pushed open the door, revealing what was once Tom's sterile flat.

The flat reeked of a heavy, clove-like perfume that was familiar, yet Hermione for the life of her could not place its source. Probably just a popular scent, she decided. Candles lined the floor, casting light upon blood-red rose petals.

This was getting just a little bit terrifying.

Instead of a sultry atmosphere, it was eerie, and reminiscent of Phantom of the Opera. Had Tom lost his mind? A new form of panic overtook her: it was one thing to lose one's boyfriend (and potentially the love of one's life) to a burglar or mugger; it was quite another to lose said boyfriend to a bout of insanity.

The worst part was, she was realizing, that insanity was so much more likely in the case of Tom.

"Tom," breathed a voice rapturously, and suddenly everything clicked into place, just as Hermione rounded the corner and entered the kitchenette and dining/living portion of the flat.

The door to the bedroom was open, and a trail of woman's clothing led to it, mixed in with more rose petals. Her terror froze and turned into frosty rage.

Tom was cheating on her — with Bellatrix.

Of all the people! She picked up a red lace bra and gripped it in her fist, seething. Of course, it all made sense now: he had put all of those lovely things in her flat, probably one of the nights he had slept over, and had expected it to distract her long enough for him to cavort with his lover. Maybe he was even thinking that after he was done with Bellatrix, he could simply mosey on over to her and warm her bed for the rest of the night.

Evidently he thought her a fool.

She couldn't bear it. The one person she had so truly believed appreciated her intellect had done this... Perhaps she was a fool after all. Tears of fury were streaming down her cheeks, and her hands were shaking. "...Tom?" The voice was less rapturous and more impatient now. "I'm in the bedroom," she added. Hermione rolled her eyes, and stalked over to the kitchenette.

A bottle of expensive champagne was chilling in the refrigerator, and Hermione took it out with still trembling hands, gasping through her teeth as she popped it open loudly. "Oh, yes, champagne — let's celebrate. ...I'm just in my stockings and heels, Tom... Isn't this better? You want a real woman, Tom — I know you do. Not that frizzy-haired bookworm dyke that you insist on pandering to. I knew it."

Hermione paused outside the door in thought. Bellatrix somehow sounded...unsure. As though attempting to convince Tom of something.

She cast the idea aside — too angry to think — and capped her hand over the bottle and shook it hard. She threw open the door, and just as Bellatrix realized it was not Tom, Hermione lifted her hand from the bottle, and champagne spurted out, soaking Bellatrix.

Bellatrix let out a horrible squawking noise and jumped backwards. In the process, she tripped on her high heels, and fell backwards — knocking over a large candelabra where it fell onto the bed.

The bed promptly burst into flame.

"My father will hear about this!" Draco's muffled cry resounded from the closet. The door jiggled — apparently Draco was beating it with his fists — but his struggle was to no avail. Tom shrugged on his torn parka. Bellatrix would be paying for a new one, as this was her fault. With a last smirk at the closet, where Draco was firmly trapped, Tom shared a wink with Crookshanks, who was looking highly satisfied.

Apparently, Draco had been ordered to come here and wait for Hermione and detain her, while Bellatrix waited for Tom at his flat, with roses, candles, champagne, and no clothing.

There was a high chance, knowing Hermione, that she had gone to his flat in search of him, he realized. And that meant there was to be a confrontation of some sort between Bellatrix and Hermione.

Tom's eyes widened and he picked up his pace.

...As entertaining as the notion of a catfight between the two women was, he was not actually sure Bellatrix would survive it, savage as she was.

"You stupid prat," Hermione cried as Bellatrix began screaming and batting at the fire with a pillow. Turning on her heel, she stormed over to the kitchenette, and was shocked to find that Tom did indeed have flour in his cupboard. It was probably at least eight years old, and as she seriously doubted it had been purchased for baking, she was a little concerned about its former use, but it would do for now.

Two minutes later, the fire was out, and Bellatrix was locked in the bathroom. A large black rubbish bag housed the still smoking remains of the ruined bedspread, as well as Bellatrix's clothing and the candles (extinguished, of course) and rose petals.

A high pitched shriek of rage came from the bathroom, but Hermione paid it no heed as she strolled into the kitchenette and began making omelets (as he had nothing in his refrigerator but eggs, expensive wine and champagne, cheese, and chocolate). She poured two glasses of wine from Tom's expensive collection, and picked through his stereo. His extensive Dementors collection never failed to depress her, but it was all he had. She turned up the music loud, and was just finishing the omelets as the door creaked open.

"Hermione?" Tom called. He came into the kitchen, sleet-soaked and disheveled. His glasses were askew, his lip was bleeding, his coat was shredded, but when he saw her cooking, he grinned. "Did Bellatrix stop by?" he asked conversationally, as he pulled his girlfriend away from the stove and kissed her heartily.

"Just for a hot minute," Hermione sniggered, before twining her arms round him and returning his kisses with ardor. They would trade stories of their day later — for now, there was business to attend to. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way," she said against his lips. Tom pulled back, arching his brows.

"Oh, that was today? I hadn't heard," he replied loftily. His sentence was punctured by another loud wail from the bathroom.

"Still here. Powdering her nose, I believe," Hermione explained. Tom slipped cheeky hands beneath the hem of her jumper.

"So glad to hear you two are bonding. What did you do together?"

"Oh, just set the flat on fire, got into a screaming catfight, and then wrestled until I could lock her in the bathroom," Hermione said loftily. "What kept you, by the way? You're late."

"Rabid Cupid, poisonous chocolates, Draco, your cat, and some rather provocative lingerie that was a bit too sweet for you, anyway."

"I knew you would have never gotten me pink lace," Hermione replied as their kissing deepened. Tom laughed against her lips.

"By the way, darling, I would recommend not using that body wash. Bellatrix was quite the talent in chemistry, back in the day..."

END