"What are you doing?" Tom asked. Hermione had a sheet of parchment out and multiple catalogs spread on the bed that she was consulting.

"I'm ordering graduation gifts for your minions," she said. "You have to observe workplace niceties, Tom, even in an evil empire." She took a bite out of her peach and wiped the juice from her chin as he leaned over her shoulder. A clown blow up doll for Mulciber. A rabbit farm for Thoros. A piano and collection of West End songbooks for Abraxas.

"I don't mean to be crass," Tom said, "but how can you afford all this? I mean, aren't you the little lost girl from the future?"

She shrugged. "I got tired of being poor so I imperiused Cygnus Black to sign over half his holdings." She regarded the peach in her hand. "Fruit like this doesn't grow on trees you know."

"Actually it does."

"It's just an expression, Tom," she said. "Try to stay focused on the important part. Now we're filthy rich."

"Isn't the Imperius Curse one of the unforgivables?" he asked, trying not to sound too smug.

"If you have a point I'd like you to get to it," Hermione said, signing her name to the order form with a flourish and folding the paper up.

"No point," Tom said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione pulled open the bottom drawer of Tom' desk looking for a spare quill and pulled out a stuffed pink unicorn with a sparkly silver horn and a tuft of purple something that was clearly supposed to be a mane. "Tom," she said, drawing the word out as she held the object in question up. "Why do you have a pink, fluffy unicorn toy?"

He snatched it from her. "Don't judge, Hermione." He cradled the toy in his arms. "It can be very stressful planning a course of world domination and after your constant barrage of fluffy animal and unicorn imagery I grew to like them and now, sometimes, I like to cuddle with a fluffy stuffed toy." He set it down with exaggerated care. "I don't get on you about your fruit thing though, frankly, it can be a bit much."

"Unicorns, Tom?" she asked.

"I feel like they give me life," he muttered. "Merlin, you're so judgmental all of the sudden. Sometimes I don't even know you anymore."

Hermione sniggered. "I'll be in the shower, unicorn boy. See if you can find me a fresh quill while I'm washing away the image of you snuggling a stuffed toy."

"I really hate you," he muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was running her hand along Tom's feathers while lay facedown on the bed, his wings draped out so they hung over the edges of the mattress and brushed against the floor. He made a near purring sound at her touch. "You know," she said, "I don't think birds purr."

He opened his eyes and gave her a disgruntled look. She smirked at him and he huffed out a growl of displeasure that she might have taken more seriously if he hadn't just closed his eyes again and rubbed his cheek against the pillow while she stroked him. Her feather stroking, a feeling that he still found agonizing, wonderfully erotic, was cut short, however, when she suddenly said, "What's this?" and leaned closer to him to stare at something. She cast a magnification spell and looked even more carefully then pulled back and summoned Our Veelas, Our Selves from the desk. Flipping through the index she ran her finger down the topics, then turned to page 394. "Ugh," she said.

"What?" Tom asked without moving.

"You have feather mites," she said in obvious disgust. "You have parasites."

Tom's wings shriveled back into him at the tone in her voice.

She pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing. "What are you doing?" he asked nervously.

"You can't just leave mites untreated," she said. "You'll get anemic. You could die."

"I can't die," he objected. "Horcruxes, remember?"

"Then you'll be weak, restless, and anemic," she said. "Forever. That sounds fun."

"And your response to this is to write a letter?" he asked in confusion. "Sometimes, Hermione, I don't understand you."

She snorted. "I'm ordering a potion people use for pet birds that get mites that your little Veela book recommends. We'll have to spray your feathers and get new linens and… this is really very disgusting, Tom. I mean, I'd become accustomed to the idea of being permanently, magically bonded to an evil bird man, especially now that you've agreed to make not turning into a noseless freak a priority, but parasites are beyond the pale." She began to scratch at her head. "Oh, Merlin, what if they're contagious?! Just the thought makes my head itch."

. . . . . . . . . .

"A present," Tom said, tossing a wand on the bed.

Hermione picked up the stick and rolled it between her hands. "You're giving me the Elder Wand?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Obviously not. I'm an evil Dark Lord, not Santa Claus, and I didn't just sneak into Grindelwald's very poorly decorated bedroom and murder him in his sleep so I could give the spoils of that dastardly deed to you. I just needed to set it down while I got this out." He pulled a corked flask out of a pocket and passed that over, snatching the wand back.

Hermione turned the flask back and forth as she searched for a label. Finally she just asked, "What the blazes is this, Tom?"

"Elixir of Life," he said with smug pride. "On the way to dispose of Grindelwald I stopped off at Flamel's." He tilted his head to the side like an inquisitive parrot as he added, "For a 600-year-old wizard he was still pretty spry."

"My," she said, "You have been a busy boy."

He preened.

She uncorked the potion and said, "I suppose I should drink up?"

Tom shrugged. "It seems to maintain you at the age you are when you start drinking it. Personally I'd prefer to keep you as the hot girl you are right now but if you'd rather wait until you're 35 and starting to get a few grey hairs and sag a bit – "

She drank the bottle and glared at him.

"I'm just saying," he said, "I'd adore you at any age, my dear."

"You're such an arsehole, Tom," she said.

"I know," he said, "but can we have sex now anyway?"

"Yes," she said.

It was, at last, incident free.

~ finis ~