-- Trent's Pajamas -- -- 8:15PM, during the dance -- -- Trent's "Party" Music --

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While everyone else was enjoying themselves at a stupid dance, Trent Travis had other plans. The Slytherin had always been secretive. He was amazing at photography, poetry, and writing, and he was a pretty nice snogger. Not to mention, he could climb trees and other objects and hide in them like a deranged, six-foot-four monkey. Trent was quite the character. However, there was one secret that Trent had been hiding so much that not even his best mates knew about it. Besides Georgie, but he didn't count. He was more of a lover than a "best mate".

Trent Travis was, secretly, a very talented cook. Even though he absolutely despised Herbology for many reasons (excluding the fact that he was related to Bombay... Shudder) he knew what he was doing with even the littlest spices and herbs. He had to know, after all. It wasn't like he was cared for at all. Trent was able to live off of junk food and the creations he made with it. However, he was living in a giant castle with a ridiculous amount of food that wasn't sixty-six cents, nor in a can.

The Slytherin had expected to go to the dance with Mystique, since he was, after all, her lapdog basically. But... Mystique was a little distant lately. And they never really spoke about it. As a result, Trent was lonely and miserable and alone. Just like the good ol' times. He decided to eat his troubles away and hang around the kitchens with the elves. They didn't really seem to mind... Then again, they were all sipping on butterbeer. At least they were helping Trent pour his delicate heart out into a few nice filet mignon steaks wrapped with bacon. Lots and lots of bacon. Bacon would solve all his problems.

While blasting his normal muggle music and dancing around the kitchen, Trent was starting to feel better about himself. He was getting back into the rhythm of being alone. It wasn't so bad... Once he got past that dark, empty abyss in his soul. He was nice and warm in his fuzzy pajamas, the hoodie up and the buttons buttoned all the way, his wool socks were sliding along the stone floor... Trent felt pretty damn good about himself. Even if it was a very embarrassing sight.

"Dear diary," Trent read out loud to himself as he scribbled down the words in his journal, leaning over the counter next to his sizzling steaks, "Today I realized that I am very unloved. And because I am unloved, I have every right to whine and moan and eat icecream. Even though I hate icecream. And I hate this music I am playing," he paused to flip one of the slabs of meat over, grease splattering onto his journal and blotching the word 'diary'. "But I've watched all of those dumb, girly movies my biological mother kept stuffed in our cupboards. This is how I deal with my relationship problems," he switched off the stove and continued, "Relationships are bullocks. Just like Neely Woolfolk's fake nose. Do wizards get plastic surgery? Or do they use potions? These are the many questions a muggleborn like me has to deal with..."

One of the house elves spilled a bit of butterbeer along the edge of his book. Trent's eyes glared down at the page while the drink soaked into it. He shrugged and signed it "Yours truly, Trent" and then pulled his skillet off the burner. Normally, he didn't speak out loud when he wrote. But who was there to listen to him? He paused before seasoning the steaks once more...

"Pee-Es. Georgie and Waker are in a fight right now or something. I didn't think it would last long anyway. She put out way too easily," and then he closed the book with a slam. There. Trent was pleased with himself. He turned his music up louder and continued to finish preparing his meal. His hips shook to the music in his attempt to dance. He didn't expect anyone to walk in... Which was why he didn't hear someone step through the entrance of the kitchens.

Outfit

Tea. It was about as wild as Waker was going to get this Valentine's. After three rounds in the common room, she'd felt decidedly guilty for bothering the elves, who had enough their plates without adding several orders of Earl Grey (a dash of chilled milk and one-and-a-half sugars) to their heart-shaped-biscuit and roasted-chicken-and-potatoes affair.

Carrying her empty china like a meek child reprimanded in church for being too loud, Waker stared down at her ballet flats as she shuffled through the dungeons. Dressed down, in a large jumper, favorite skirt, and flat hair, she was not even her usual Dress For Success self, let alone ready for February the 14th. It was a day she'd rather banish from her calendar, and had even wildly considered asking the librarian for permission to read up on Time Turners. How long would it take to re-invent the stock ruined by Harry Potter and Friends during their raid of the Department of Mysteries?

About as long as it would take to get Mr. Morgan to agree to a pass into the Restricted Section for such a frivolous hunt, she surmised.

With surprised brown eyes, the lanky Ravenclaw looked up to find herself loitering in front of the portrait of fruit which guarded the kitchen. Not a year ago, she had tip-toed here with Delilah, terrified for her life and Prefect status. Now tickling the pear seemed a sigh-worthy task, and its little laugh seemed spiteful. "Oh, shut up," she murmured to it, standing to the side as the painting swung open to let her through the porthole.

"... --orgie and Waker are in a fight right now or something. I didn't think it would last long anyway. She put out way too easily."

Waker froze. Her face drained of color, and her eyes, usually keen, went bleary as they found the fuzzy white devil surrounded by scents of herb and spice, and swirls of dying smoke. If Delilah had been around, the Nolan girl might have clung to her friend as steadfastly as she had during their last trip to the kitchens: a death grip to the wrist, and broad cheeks melting in comical dismay as they turned the color of starched sheets.

One needn't see Trent Travis' unruly hair (though there was a stray or two to confirm the pajama-ed giant's identity) to recognize his nauseating voice. He was speaking of her, and apparently he spared no amount of kindness (as he shouldn't, Waker realized, her stomach flipping)-- just as George had obviously not spared any number of details in recounting Waker's misdeeds to the Great Unwashed.

"Trent," she said, her own voice sounding foreign to her small, reddening ears. Her throat was scratchy, her intonation small. "Trent!" She said again, this time in a hiss, and somehow found the courage to scramble forward, rather than allowing herself to be sucked backward from the porthole, into the comforting dimness of the stone passageways that comprised the dungeons. She waved her wand and the door closed prematurely behind her.

"What are you doing! What are you--" Wearing. "Saying?!" The horror in her voice matched only her face, all perfectly-rounded o-shaped lips and bunched cheeks and crinkled, cocoa eyes. Her brows, light but severe, were bent down in fresh demand. The sheer roundness of her baby fat face contrasted most unfortunately with the sharpness of her jawline, and it was the inherited pumpkin shape of Waker Nolan that tried to demand answers from the Bombay-alike in sheep's clothing.