A/N: This is a belated entry for the April Fool's Day Trickster Challenge. I don't own anything. There are two parts, and Part Two should be up by tomorrow.

Enjoy!

Euphoria

It was lunchtime.

So far, Hermione's day-no, scratch that- her week had been an unmitigated disaster, the sort of cascading, dogpile of awfulness that frequently led people to erupt in a blaze of alcohol soaked, socially inappropriate behavior.

Not that she'd ever been that sort of person, but there was, as she was beginning to discover, a first time for everything.

Her engagement to Ron was off, she was on bloody probation at work, and her bloated tick of a landlady, with her eerily fixed, lipstick stained grin had cheerfully informed her that as of next month her lease would not be renewed.

So now, she was not only grouchy, hungry, and soon to be homeless, she was late--which was probably the worst of all. She literally stumbled into the crowded coffee shop.

And he...there he was, absolutely impossible to miss, already comfortably ensconced at one of the high round cafe tables. A thick, slightly tousled lock of dark, wavy hair hung over his brow.

Leaning forward on one elbow, long legs stretched out under the table, seemingly absorbed in his book, he was the epitome of casual ease.

It was an illusion, of course. He was far from oblivious to his surroundings.

He was also garnering more than a few appreciative glances from both the men and women patrons. Even Hermione had to acknowledge that he was...attractive, at least physically. In his current incarnation no one, well, apart from possibly Harry and Ginny, would even recognize him.

She wondered briefly if he would tell her how he'd managed it.

She'd hoped to slip in unnoticed, but at the sound of the door clicking shut behind her his dark eyes flicked up and locked on hers. So intense, so effortlessly intimidating was his gaze that for an instant she simply froze, involuntarily, like the rabbit before the wolf. A faint smile played across his lips; his gaze dropped back to his book as she shook off her inertia and maneuvered through the crowd.

Not even at the table yet and he'd won the first round.

Damnit.

She hated him.

"Granger."

"Riddle."

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show." He'd adopted a bored expression, yet there was a barely concealed undertone of anticipation in his voice, and Hermione repressed a shudder as she very briefly imagined the consequences for standing him up.

"Proved you wrong again then, didn't I?" she replied peevishly, hanging her coat and handbag over the adjacent chair.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you."

"I figured you would, you egotistical-"

He broke in sharply, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Manners, Granger. You forget, I could make this quite painful for you."

"If by painful you mean unwillingly subjected to your excessively unpleasant personality, then you've already accomplished that quite nicely, thank you."

It was incredibly risky, she knew, to speak to him so impertinently, still, after the unholy clusterfuck of a week she'd experienced so far, she could not suppress her agitation, not even for his Royal Lord of All Things Dark and Disagreeable.

"Yet here you are," he said slowly. He observed her now, appraisingly. "You seem rather perturbed. Tell me, is there trouble in paradise?"

What was she supposed to say? That yes, her engagement with Ron was now called off because he suspected her of having an affair? With, ironically, the coercive bastard in front of her.

He watched her, waiting for an answer; the thin veneer of bravado she'd so far sustained threatening to shatter like glass under the laser like force of his scrutiny.

As if she would voluntarily open herself to his mockery.

"Yes, here I am...Merlin, I must be some sort of bloody masochist."

"Perhaps we could find a way to put that particular quality to better use." His tone was unmistakably suggestive.

Oh no he didn't-

"You are completely socially stunted, aren't y-what's so funny?"

"Granger, You truly are delightful."

"Coming from you, that's hardly a compliment," she shot back, thoroughly discomfited. She glanced toward the counter, still mobbed with customers, the servers scurrying like ants to fill orders. "Shouldn't our drinks be here by now?"

"In a hurry?"

"Perhaps I simply don't want to prolong these encounters any more than absolutely necessary."

His eyes flashed, but after a beat he surprised her by simply shrugging. "Your loss."

"Oh, the heartbreak. Whatever shall I do?" She kept her tone light. She'd probably pushed her luck far enough for one day.

"I can think of a few things, you insolent chit."

There was that tone again.

It was a new, and rather disturbing development.

Their verbal sparring was momentarily halted with the arrival of the server with their coffees. He'd once again chosen a plain double espresso, and he'd ordered for her a cafe macchiato sprinkled with cinnamon. It made her slightly uncomfortable, yet oddly pleased that he was the only person to ever bother remembering precisely how she liked her coffee.

Cradling the cup in both hands, she inhaled deeply, savoring the warm, spicy scent. She took a small tentative sip so as not to burn her mouth, then nodded toward him. "What are you reading?"

Wordlessly he slid the book over to her, and she blinked a few times as she attempted to absorb the incongruity between his choice in reading material and what she thought she knew about him.

"How long have you been interested in String Theory?"

And with that, they launched into a rousing, at times heated discussion that encompassed dimensional intersections, Hawking, and then veered over to whether or not Rasputin may have actually been a wizard.

"Revenge is hardly a rational response," she stated, rolling her eyes.

He could be so bloody irksome.

"It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack, not rationality," he responded with a sly smirk.

A long beat passed before she blurted in disbelief, "Since when are you a Tarantino fan?"

His only response was a cagey grin.

They fell into a companionable quiet as they finished their coffees, and for the first time, Hermione actually considered ordering a second cup.

Well, this was certainly unprecedented.

Normally she had no hesitation about scarpering off as soon as she'd put in whatever requisite amount of time seemed to satisfy his demands. Today had been...different, though she couldn't identify the precise moment when their interaction had shifted. She was hesitant to define anything involving him as pleasant, but there it was.

Plus, there had been moments between them today that came perilously close to actual flirting. He would be terribly smug once he saw she was extending their encounter, wouldn't he?

And damn, If he kept raking her over with that intense, smoldering gaze of his, she would have no choice but to go home, take a cold shower, then write a four page essay on the banality of evil.

She craned her neck to signal the server and froze.

Behind the counter, a familiar lanky redhead was pulling off an apron.

It was George.

Oh, no. Oh bloody buggering hell.

He winked at her, then strolled toward the door marked 'Employees Only' at the rear of the cafe. Paralyzed, Hermione watched him as he exited, whistling. What the hell was he doing here?

Was he spying on her for Ron? Or worse, had they followed her and discovered her secret?

She was going to kill him. Correction: If she survived whatever came next, she would most definitely kill him, preferably with her bare hands.

Her gaze swiveled back to the table, only to meet Tom's icy, implacable glare.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

He practically radiated anger, all hard edges and barely contained violence and instantly her stomach plummeted like a rock. She prayed that whatever unknowing stupidity George had engaged in wouldn't result in an explosion of death and destruction.

"I saw him too, Granger," he whispered as he leaned in close. To the other patrons they would simply appear as if they were sharing an intimate moment. "I imagined your willingness to these meetings might lead to some clumsily executed attempt to bring me in, though I admit I never thought you'd do something so pathetically amateurish."

"It's not a trap."

"No? You have about ten seconds to explain, or I begin slaughtering everyone in here. Slowly. As you watch."

"I never told anyone who I was meeting." At his skeptical expression she quickly added, "you, of all people, would know if I was lying to you."

She'd made a point. He inclined his head marginally. The nearly suffocating tension abated by the tiniest faction.

"You still haven't come close to convincing me this was purely coincidental."

"I told you I would come alone and I have."

"Then you're terribly naive. I wouldn't have."

"I'm not you."

"Now that's the nicest thing you've said all day."

"I truly don't know why he was here. He would never recognize you, as far as he could tell I'm just meeting with a Muggle-" she cast about desperately, then trailed off as her eyes fell on the calendar that hung on the far wall. "Oh. Oh, shit. He didn't." Her eyes squeezed shut; she grimaced. "I can't believe I forgot..it explains so much."

"Explains what, precisely?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"Today is the first of April."

"Ah," he said, understanding. "An April Fool's Day prank, then." He rolled his eyes. "How utterly pedestrian."

"George has always been a jokester," she replied defensively.

"So I gather. Care to hazard a guess regarding the nature of the prank? Because, and I will allow you just this once to correct me if I am wrong, but once the prankster had made his presence known, then the joke must already be underway else it be a complete failure."

"I don't know...our drinks, perhaps? But I didn't taste anything out of the ordinary. No residual aftertaste, nothing."

His laugh was cold, devoid of humor. "With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

"What's that supposed to mean? He didn't mean any harm. It's all in good fun."

"Fun?" He whispered. He appeared genuinely surprised. It was confusing.

"Tell me, Hermione, is it fun that a friend would stoop to adulterating your beverage with an unknown substance, without your knowledge or consent as a bloody joke?"

She sat, stunned, but he continued viciously, "you poison your enemies, witch, and while I've never professed to have friends," he said, voice dripping with disdain, "I imagine that the concept involves a basic consideration for the other's welfare, as well as trust, something that your bloody prankster appears to completely discounted for the sake of cheap humor."

When he put it that way it was positively horrific. But he was right.

"Well, I daresay that I can predict one very specific outcome for your mischievous friend-" Abruptly the harsh angles of his features smoothed, gave way to a placid, slightly crooked smile.

A soft, effervescent warmth suffused her at that moment; she was overcome with a sense of buoyant, almost giddy delight. All around her, colors appeared brighter and even the loud, vaguely discordant chatter in the coffee shop seemed to carry a harmonic, musical quality.

Great.

She was tripping balls with the Dark Lord.

George was as good as dead.

A broad grin plastered on his face, Tom then literally jumped to his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "Come, Hermione," he said, extending a hand to her. He looked rather dashing, actually.

As Hermione stepped down from the high cafe chair she wobbled on her feet. The floor itself seemed to ripple, and the edges of, well, everything were beginning to blur and shimmer. Instantly he swooped in and grabbed her, holding her steady. "What are you doing?" she quavered as he unexpectedly slid the tips of his fingers across her cheek, leaving tingling trails of sensation that nearly made her eyes roll back in her head.

His dark eyes scanned her face. "You have such lovely skin," he murmured.

She felt her face flush; it grew increasingly difficult to concentrate, her thoughts spinning, glittering pinwheels. With the potent force of his attention focused entirely on her, it was all she could do to keep her feet. She managed to bite out, "we should go."

His response was a low hum that felt like it reverberated through her entire body. Clasping her hand, he led her purposefully out of the coffee shop, around the corner and into the shadow of the adjacent alleyway.

She should have been terrified.

He wrapped lean, strong arms around her, took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. As they disappeared soundlessly into apparition she clutched him tightly and buried her face in his sweater.

They arrived in a forest.

Apart from the occasional chirping, chittering birdsong it was quiet.

The profusion of greens and golds, the dark lines of the trees stretching upward like fingers reaching toward the heavens, the clear fresh aromas of air and earth, all of it was a feast for the senses such as Hermione had never experienced.

As she stood, arms outstretched in awe, giggling as the thought struck her that she could probably actually taste the rainbow, he took her coat, transfiguring it into a blanket onto which he drew her down. They laid next to each other, hands entwined, silently basking in the warm glow of the afternoon sun.

It was amazing.

Hermione felt supremely, utterly connected; to nature, to the universe, even to him-as if every atom of her being and his being and every molecule that existed from the tiniest nuclei to the farthest dwarf star pulsed in perfect harmony. Anything was possible. Or was it?

Turning her head, she gazed at the strong, clean line of his profile.

He was beautiful yet poisonous, like deadly nightshade, a singularity, dark and magnetic, drawing all light into his destructive, crushing embrace. But there was an inexplicable, tangible energy that sparked between them like lightning, far beyond the mundanely intellectual or even sexual.

With painful clarity she understood that the longer she danced around, pretending that as long as she kept up the fight, kept up the facade of disinterested banter she would remain safe, then the greater the possibility that she would lose herself.

Or more likely, he would eventually grow bored and destroy her simply because he had the power to do so.

And she wondered, with a sharp pang, if there had ever been a time when he was capable of truly experiencing pure emotions such as joy, or wonder, if ever he'd been held rapt by the simple, unsullied beauty of the dappled sunlight as it streamed through a grove of trees.

"Can you feel-" she began, breathlessly, before he cut her off.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, rolling onto his side to face her. Gone was the polished, distant, sneering tyrant. His eyes were wild, his expression open and shifting as some fierce inner battle played itself out across his features.

But she had no time to ponder it further as he crushed his lips to hers.

Later they landed in a quiet, tastefully decorated drawing room with hardwood floors. To her surprise he guided her gently down into a large, comfortably overstuffed wingback chair.

"Where are we?" She closed her eyes. It was getting progressively harder to form coherent sentences, and the kaleidoscope- like visual distortions were beginning to make her nauseous.

"Someplace safe."

She couldn't help but laugh aloud at the irony. Safe. With him.

She had officially entered the Twilight Zone.

Tom knelt in front of her, took her head in his hands and tilted it back, observing her eyes. Her pupils were almost totally dilated, her respiration increasingly shallow and erratic. "He may have thought he was playing a silly joke, Hermione, but whatever he has given you has dangerously overloaded your system."

"What's one less mudblood to you? I would think you'd be pleased." she croaked.

He ignored the jab, scooping her up. Her head lolled against his chest. Her muscles were now clenching, twitching involuntarily. "Please, make it stop."

"I'm taking you to hospital."

"Don't kill him."

"You would defend him? Even now?"

"Course...not…" she stuttered, her voice slurring, "do..it...myself."

She couldn't see the pleased smirk on his face, but she could feel the rumble of his chest as he chuckled. Her last fuzzy thought before she faded out completely was that she wouldn't mind feeling it again.

Back at the lab of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, there was chaos.

Workers were rifling through supply cabinets with clipboards. There was shouting.

George wandered through, observing the activity with growing uneasiness. "What's all the excitement?"

Ron looked wrecked, like he hadn't slept in days. "I think...I think we may have a security breach." There was a raw,desperate air to his brother that he'd never seen, even back during the war.

George's sense of contented accomplishment evaporated like smoke.

"What's happened?"

"One of the test vials of Euphoric Elixir is missing, which is...well, it's bloody fucking incomprehensible, with all the safety protocols we have."

Producing the vial from his pocket, he said, reassuringly, "It's right here, mate. It's fine."

Ron eyed him with a shocked disbelief that would have been comical in different circumstances. Angrily, he snatched it from George's hand, shocking him with his vehemence. "No, it's not fine! What were you-" Ron's eyes bulged as he examined the vial more closely, "Bloody fucking hell! Why is it nearly empty?"

"A little field testing there, bro."

"What...George, are you bloody mental? One of the ingredients was contaminated. That whole batch was marked to be destroyed."

"Destroyed?" His stomach clenched; fear washed over him like icy water.

"Yes! It kept breaking down into an unstable compound. Bears some resemblance to a certain Muggle drug, actually..but George."

His eyes widened; he seized George by the shoulders. "Merlin, you didn't use it, did you? We've got to get you to Mungo's, now!" He was all but babbling in his anxiety.

"No! I...I didn't take it myself."

The atmosphere in the room shifted with the sudden sharpness of a razor.

"George...what the fuck did you do?"

"I was just...I would never mean to hurt her. I swear, it was just supposed to be a prank. You know that, right?" he whispered brokenly. "Just a prank."