A/N: Written for the Fanfiction Tournament finals.
Gilderoy is wide awake at the first subtle flutter of wings. Few people would even notice the quiet, distant sound, but it is better than any alarm for him.
All smiles, he slides a plush velvet robe over his otherwise bare body and slips out of bed, ignoring the still sleeping figure that is curled beneath his sheets.
He hurries into the kitchen, feeling like a child on Christmas morning and grinning more broadly as he sees the overflowing stack of parcels and letters waiting on his kitchen table.
His fans are always quite plentiful, but Valentine's Day has always seemed to bring out the best in his admirers.
With a flick of his wand, Gilderoy begins brewing his coffee as he sits down at the table, fingers eagerly tracing the envelopes on top. He'll read the letters later, of course. He can't imagine going a day without hearing from his adoring fans. But, right now, the parcels catch his attention. Gifts, beautiful little tokens from the many women and men who love him.
Most are simple little things. Boxes of chocolates- he swears that he's going to watch his figure, but he can't resist opening them and popping the most irresistible pieces into his mouth. Single flowers with enchantments to keep them from wilting. Stuffed animals. Simple little trinkets, like the ones young and poor lovers give to their beloved.
Gilderoy knows that he deserves better. But he can hardly judge them. After all, he remembers the days of his youth when he would never be able to afford to shower his love with extravagant gifts. He sets the simple things aside, making a note to reply to these fans with extra care and attention.
He opens another parcel. A thick, yellow jumper from that dear Molly Weasley. He's grown quite fond of the woman. And while the jumpers are not stylish enough to wear in public, he does enjoy their warmth in the privacy of his own home. "Such a lovely woman," he muses, pressing the jumper against his chest to size it up. "Perhaps I'll send her an autographed copy of one of my books. That will make her day."
The smell of coffee grows stronger, and he waves his wand, summoning a cup. It goes quite well with the chocolates that he knows he should not be eating for breakfast.
Gilderoy leans back in his chair, eyes moving over the mountain of letters that remain. They love him. He can imagine them all, eagerly awaiting his responses, and it makes him warm inside.
He opens the first letter, smiling to himself. The letters so often read the same.
I am your number one fan.
You are such a brave, inspirational man.
I'm naming my son after you.
Marry me.
Such beautiful, kind words. Words that, deep down, he knows he doesn't deserve. But Gilderoy doesn't care. They adore him, and that is all that matters.
He's opened about a quarter of his mail when he hears the soft fall of footsteps behind him.
"You certainly are popular, Gilderoy," a voice murmurs.
There's a comfortable, familiar weight on his left shoulder, and he feels the gentle tickle of blonde curls against his neck. Gilderoy chuckles. "Popular," he echoes, setting aside a half-opened envelope. "I prefer the term well-loved."
Rita laughs, moving away from him and sitting in the chair beside him, her violet silk robe falling to expose her bare shoulder. "So many women in your life," she says, opening a box of chocolates and examining the contents. "Should I be jealous?"
"So many women in my life, yet only one ever makes it to my bed," he says simply. "What's there to be jealous of, my dear?"
"You've eaten all the caramels," Rita notes, settling for a dark chocolate square.
"Rita, are you jealous?" Gilderoy asks.
She scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous."
But he can see it in her eyes, that subtle darkness as she pushes aside a stack of letters. She would never admit it, of course. Rita Skeeter is by far one of the proudest, most stubborn women that Gilderoy has ever had the pleasure of meeting. She would never let anyone know that she is human enough to feel something as petty as jealousy.
Really, there is nothing to be jealous of. Gilderoy enjoys the attention, of course. He lives for the admiration and trinkets. He loves to be loved.
But, in the end, all these distant strangers, all their beautiful words and silly gifts could never compare to the company that Rita offers him. They are so far away, and they do not know anything about him that they haven't read.
But Rita is different. Rita has captured his attention. Rita has taken the time to really know him as only a journalist could.
Rita is special.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he says, reaching into his robe pocket and extracting a sleek new quill.
"I thought we agreed no presents," she says, accepting the quill. "I didn't get you anything, Gilderoy!"
He climbs to his feet, moving behind her. "My dear Rita," he says, leaning down and kissing her neck, his thumb brushing over her exposed collarbone. "You are my gift. And that is better than anything these silly women could ever send in the post."
