Hot Fudge

Hot Fudge

by Mephistedes


Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy.
Rating: R
Summary: Hell hath no fury like Harry Potter without his bon-bons.
Warnings (if any): DH Spoilers, Post DH 8th Year, raging OOC, OHEs (original house-elves), minor squicks, pure crack!fic, language, adult situations, foodsmut, childish/inane behavior.
Originally written for the HD-Inspired Back to School Fest: Prompt No. 103

Author's Notes: I wrote this for the HDI Back to School fest but a series of unexpected and unfortunate events thwarted the e-mail delivery. Never trust the school email. Anyway, suspend your disbelief. This could get messy.

Beta(s): Many thanks to Christine and Jilliane!


* * *

He wasn’t alone.

For all the still, impenetrable blanket of darkness pressing thickly on him from all sides, he was no fool. Someone was there. Or something.

He was lying down, lying down in the darkness, flat on his back. The black thicket not only weighed on him like a low cloud, but it was inside of him, in his head, clothing the cracked plaster of his mind with a soothing caress of unintelligible words. Saying things, hissing things he couldn’t understand; whispers appeasing him in a callow language he didn’t know, tugging his mind toward warm thoughts of fulfillment, of happiness.

He had long since come to terms with his loneliness, but yet was still lonely. Still, the clouds tried to drag his mind to the warmth, the toasty contentment of acquaintance. Harry was no fool. Nothing could sugarcoat his apparent solitude. Not even the iron grip of the weaving gloom could change his mind.

He tried to speak, but the sibilant darkness thickened his tongue, stifling useless words in his chest. Instead they wove a peaceful tale of his seclusion, pacifying his panic and assuring him of his isolation.

But he wasn’t alone. There was something—something in the darkness, hiding. Waiting.

As if on cue, the swirling shadows thrummed with disturbance.

The rasps of his erratic breaths broke briefly at the sound of an embittered chuckle.

“Never underestimate the resilience of a broken mind.”

Suddenly, a form was lit in the distance, lit without light, but he could make it out from afar. A pale hand and forearm it was; beautifully wan and seemingly disembodied as it floated vividly against the blanketing darkness. It hovered toward him with disturbing speed, but Harry felt no flustered alarm, only mild suspicion.

He turned his head against the resistant blackness to watch the limb bobbing ever closer. Narrowed eyes drank in the glowing arm and his breaths grew shorter as he noted the skin was the hue of faint sugar.

A low moan rumbled through his chest at thoughts of biting into a finger, tasting the tart sweetness of the palm, or savoring the confection of the wrist. Would it bleed warm fudge; splutter clotted crème? Harry wet his lips in anticipation.

It glided swiftly through the air with flawless grace, bearing more resemblance to white stone than human flesh. As it neared, Harry spied the labyrinth of blueberry veins crisscrossing beneath a paper-thin layer of porcelain skin. He’d never seen such a shade of blue, both bright and dark all at once. Then, it stopped, wasting no time in gently descending to his own hand, invisible in the black, clouded room. Finally, in the measure of time it took to gasp, the ghostly limb touched him.

He felt nothing. It was neither hot, nor cold. Not coarse like sugar or smooth like marble; neither here, nor there.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Harry Potter.”

A shiver skated down his spine; that voice. There it was again, coasting around on an echo’s cloud, floating by him in the darkness. God, that voice; it was...silky, like a wet dream on a sticky summer’s night. It was masculine and harsh, demanding and seductive, rending his very soul in irremediable pieces. It was...it was...

...The stuff of nightmares. In one fell swoop, Harry’s anticipation bloomed into unadulterated dread.

“N-No...” he stammered, shuddering as the sound of a formless hiss settled around his ears. An icy chill had overtaken his nerves, locking him in place, immobile, vulnerable. He knew to whom that marvelously terrible his belonged. And that voice...that voice....

But if he’d heard it before, why couldn’t he remember a face?

“Show yourself. Show—now,” he demanded pathetically. He was mortified to hear the crack in his tone as he insisted, “I mean it. Now.”

Little else but the pale hand emerged from the shadows, obscuring even the hue of the robe worn by the amorphous voice. Harry sucked in a sharp breath when he spotted movement in the corner of his eye. A dry hand rose to slide fingers along his raw lips, as dry as the inside of his mouth; scaly. Without moisture, soft like cotton but drier.

On the outside, but he could tell there was moisture bursting beneath the scales. He could taste the barest hint of salt on those fingertips. It was bitter, he didn’t like bitter. Bitter was the enemy. He wanted sweet, something sweet and melting and warm, like chocolate.

Again, its tone haunted him, seething, “Hunting Horcruxes, breaking into sealed vaults; naughty Potter...”

Merlin, he was right there! His breathing was fast becoming uneven and shaky. He was afraid, but dare not move away.

He was positive the soft hairs either singed or melted as a searing whisper rumbled around his left ear. “...Conquering Dark Lords.”

Harry choked on his next breath. “I — I don’t — ”

“For that, you must be punished.”

Harry swallowed, moaned, still shaking. He knew that voice. He knew it. He knew it. But why—why couldn’t he see the face?

But deep down, he knew he didn’t need to see the face. He knew who it was before the face came into view, yet his eyeballs nearly burst from their sockets all the same. It wasn’t possible. After all this time, it couldn’t be.

But he’d defeated Voldemort. He was there when Aurors set fire to his corpse and burned the ashes, taking no chances. Among the few invited to watch, Harry saw them hurl the Dark Lord’s remains into a pit of dragon fire. Voldemort was dead. It couldn’t be him, was not him. No way was it Voldemort sneering down at him from the swirling darkness. And that couldn’t be Nagini’s jeweled eyes glowering at him over her master’s shoulder. No, no, no, no, no. Impossible. Impossible!

“We meet again, Harry, in our rightful positions: you, helpless at my mercy, mere steps from tasting the bitterness of defeat. Me, over you: victorious.” The Dark Lord’s lipless mouth curved into a spiteful smirk. His long fingers slid not unkindly on the sharp scales between Nagini’s eyes. “Yes, things are as they should be once more. No friends to save you, Potter. No Dumbledore to soar to your aid, flashing his Elder Wand and threatening me with Light.”

“N-No...” he choked out. Impossible, impossible, impossible.

“No escape this time, Harry. You ... will ... be ... punished.”

“Please, don’t!” he desperately whispered. “I’ll do anything!”

But a dark chuckle was his response. Harry’s eyes bulged as Voldemort raised his sugar-hued arm, wand in hand. He gasped as constricting tightness wound around his unseen body from his ankles and dangerously close to squashing his chest. The flick of Nagini’s forked tongue against his ear had him jerking against his fleshy rope, but her warning squeeze froze him in place.

He only had enough free movement to turn his head and gauge Voldemort’s triumphant expression. “I have wanted this for so long,” the Dark wizard had leaned forward to hiss conspiratorially. “I am going to enjoy this very much.”

Nagini’s crushing hold wrung the air right from his lungs. Oh God, no, no, no no no no—not this! Not again!

“I don’t—”

“Juggle my balls, Potter.”

A sob broke through Harry’s lips. “NO!” Oh, God, not again! Anything but that!

He yelped in alarm as Voldemort gathered a fistful of robes and wrenched it from his milk-white body in one fell swoop. Harry tried to roll himself away, but his serpentine captor tightened around him in a warning hiss. There was nowhere to go now, no escape. The only way he’d get out of this would be if he … but he wouldn’t. Never.

No way was he going to sink to that level ever again. Resolve momentarily strengthened, Harry swallowed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No. No.”

“I ... said ... JUGGLE THEM, HALF-BLOOD!”

“Nooo-ho-ho!”

“Juggle my balls, Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry thrashed against the constriction and the consuming darkness as Voldemort hopped angrily in place, radiant saccharin-tinted bollocks leaping grotesquely along with him as his demands became high-pitched and squeaky in his rage.

“Juggle them, Harry Potter, sir!” His pale cheeks were smattered with crimson, and his high, pointed nose ... when had he grown a nose?

Suddenly, he was loose, and Voldemort was pushing him, shaking him, waking him up. He was a lot smaller than he remembered—had he shrunken, too? And Nagini, he couldn’t feel the menacingly cool press of her scales against him; where had she slithered off?

But Harry had more pressing matters to attend to; Voldemort had somehow dwindled to an eighth of his height, still pale and scrawny but tall enough to have climbed on top of him to attack his chest. “Oh, my God.”

“Juggle them!” the miniature Dark Lord squealed. Harry laid, stunned at the ridiculously nightmarish picture the once powerful sorcerer presented before he felt small hands wrap around his neck. His will to fight renewed, he grappled with the pencil-thin fingers, wrestling to breathe as the frightful creature repeatedly slammed his head against a hard surface. “Juggle them or your friends die!”

“Ow! Oh, ouch! Why you—grrrah!”

“Harry Potter ... must ... juggle ... my ... balls!”

“Owowow—arrrgh! NO!”

“Juggle them, Harry Potter, sir!”

“Geroff, yeh demonic dwar—arrgh!”

“Mister Harry Potter, sir!”

“Bloody—!”

“Mister Harry Potter, sir!”

“Nuhwunnajuggledebalz!”

“Harry Potter must wake up!”

With alarming swiftness, the dark room brightened into the comforting glow of the Gryffindor common room. As well, the image of the murderous pint-sized Dark wizard blurred into nothingness, but he could still feel those tiny hands beating at his arms. He would have been content to ignore it, as feeble as their beating was, but at the sound of a light crinkling, Harry flew into action.

“Gah!” he grunted as he threw himself across the table, grabbing for a colorful object just at the edge of his vision. In his haste, he kicked up a flurry of parchment that filled the air with floating papers.

When he heard a faint crinkle and felt a gentle tug, he violently yanked in response, bearing down on his end of the table. One last desperate jerk was enough force to send him sliding back to his side of the table and into his chair with a muffled ‘oof!’ To his chest he fiercely slammed his crumpled prize: the multicolored paper sack with the Honeydukes emblem emblazoned on the front. It depressed easily under his death grip, empty. Harry blinked, puzzled.

Had he really eaten the entire lot? Before he could frown properly, he felt the familiar stiffness in his lower jaw usually coupled with the sticky—yep, there it was.

A tentative lick to the gummy corner of his mouth sweetly confirmed it. The welcome mix of raspberry rock candy and chocolate aftertaste burst on his tongue, surging through him like a shot of adrenalin. Sugar Quill and a fudge bar. Honeydukes’ best fudge, whipped till velvet-smooth and baked in a pan of excellence. Harry swiped the rest off his bottom lip and nodded. Right, parts of the evening were coming back to him right now.

He was penning his Charms essay and his quill snapped. When he’d gone to replace it, he realized his bag was packed full of Sugar Quills instead. If Hermione had been there, he was sure that never would have been possible.

On his way out of the dorm, he’d run into Seamus, who had unnecessarily started to explain his recent visit to hospital about influenza symptoms. But Harry’s attention had been elsewhere, namely the dark brown stains on Seamus’ fingers.

Chocolate. He hoped.

Seamus had thankfully stopped describing the monstrous briny bogey Coote goaded him into eating and nervously addressed, “Oh—ha! That—that’s not what it looks like, heh. It’s just a bitta Honeydukes. Matron gave me some—for me flu. I finished the one bar, an’ I’ve got two left in me tr—aaah! Bloody hell Harry, what’re you—”

The brash Irishman’s eyes had gone comically large as he’d balled the front of his robes in his fists and jerked him forward till they were nose to nose. “Take me there. Now.”

“Oi, Potter! Y’better watch yerself or—”

He curtly growled, “Listen up, Lucky Charms: bring me to your chocolate or I’ll hex you so badly your great-grandfather’ll somersault in his grave.”

Seamus had further protested to being roughhoused and fumed about his uncalled for tone demanding his property and threatened to inform their head of house.

He’d changed his tune three Galleons later. As he strode out of their rooms, Seamus indifferently divulged the sweets were hidden under two pairs of boxers and a dirty magazine disguised as a glossy-covered Hogwarts, A History. As he later munched on his melt-in-your-mouth plunder Harry idly realized it was the same glossy Hogwarts, A History Ron had reported missing two weeks ago.

Harry tongued the last fleck of rock sugar and fudge off the roof of his mouth. Sugar Quill and Honeydukes’ best: he could identify those flavors in his sleep. He’d have to melt a bar of chocolate down and drizzle it over a few dozen Sugar Quills one day. Tomorrow sounded nice. He hummed blissfully to himself and crushed the paper sack in his fists.

Although, he had to admit: he barely recalled when he’d fetched it tonight—this morning. Whatever time it was.

But for right now, under the moderately safe net of having some sugar left in his system, Harry was left peering through the last bits of falling parchment and wondering when Voldemort’s eye color had ever been yellow. Shiny, large, onion ball-sized eyes of yellow. Yellow...

Yellow, like the new production of Sun-Kissed Sherbet Lemon Cauldrons he’d been absolutely panting for since advertised in last week’s Evening Prophet. A longing moan left his throat before he could stop it. Ohhh, dear God he hoped the Honeydukes wizard received his preorder owl already, else there’d be Blood Pops to pay if his hamper wasn’t ready. Yellow, yellow, yell—yellow eyes still staring at him!

The Honeydukes sack made a loud scrunching noise as he hugged it tighter and raked his eyes over the empty common room. His abrupt rousing had produced quite a messy pile of papers strewn all over the furniture. He’d pick them up later. Right now, he wanted to know why there was a harried house-elf standing near eye level with the table, anxiously wringing its hands.

“You didn’t ... hear that, did you?” His fingers pressed deeper into the Honeydukes bag as he awaited an answer.

The elf’s floppy ears noisily slapped around as it shook its head. “Not if Harry Potter did not want Itzy to hear it, sir,” it wheezed in its high-pitched voice.

Harry sighed in relief. “Good, good. I wasn’t sleeping, you know. I wasn’t—I-I’m doing homework, see?” He freed a hand to grab the nearest quill—still broken, he noticed—and scribbled aimlessly on the only scrap of parchment that remained.

Cautiously, he peered over his glasses at the elf who moved to gather the scattered parchments. “The professors didn’t send you, did they?” After the start of classes, he’d had a bit of trouble focusing. Anyone would if they, like him, had sexually-charged overlords plaguing their sleep, jonesing for a shag.

At any rate, he’d noticed a bevy of house-elves peeking around corners for several days (including an inebriate who’d had no qualms about drinking on the job) and was finally made aware of the circumstances by Professor McGonagall. He had promised to find a way to get over his dreams and complete his studies if she pulled back the bumbling elf tails.

There hadn’t been any large round eyes peering around corners or from doorknockers for months—with the exception of Tipsy, the table-dancing sot—so he assumed she’d kept her end of the bargain. If that tartan tart had lied to him—

“No, sir, but—”

“Oh.” Right, then. Sorted. “All right, um ... sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

Fleshy lids sloped over the large, yellow eyes, apprehensive. Hermione’s tireless efforts must not have garnered much change; the poor elf looked shocked that he’d even asked. “Itzy, sir.” The house-elf dropped down on the other side of the sofa, hidden. The rustling of paper met Harry’s ears and he saw corners of sallow parchment sliding out of sight.

“Itzy, mate, here’s the thing...”

“Itzy is not male.”

“What?”

Itzy straightened back into view, a neat stack of parchment in hand. Her ears flapped as she padded back over to the table to slide them beside his books. “Harry Potter called Itzy ‘mate.’ Itzy is female.”

“Oh, fe...? Hm.” He nodded feebly. “That’s, um...useful information.”

“Itzy thought Harry Potter would like to know—”

“Yes, yes, right. Itzy, here’s the thing...” he paused, racking his brain to remember why he’d summoned her. “Actually, I don’t remember calling for you.”

She shook her head fervently and tugged at the string of her towel-like dress, wrapped several times around her middle. She breathlessly answered, “Harry Potter did not call Itzy, but—”

“Oh, good, because that’s the only thing I couldn’t remember.” Harry nodded with a sigh, sitting back in his chair. When the empty paper bag crunched beneath his palms he gave Itzy an embarrassed chuckle and quickly set it down. “Reflex. Someone tries to nick my bon-bons and I jinx their tongue to the roof of their mouth and blame it on a momentary blackout. Not proud of it, but at least it gets me out of detention.”

“Itzy—”

“Though I nearly sent Professor Flitwick out the window once,” he continued. “He didn’t like that very much.”

“Itzy must insist that Mister Harry—”

“Very graceful for a small man swept off his feet so suddenly. I led the standing ovation after Filch plucked him off the chandelier, I did.”

“Master Harry, please—”

“Two seconds.”

He held up a finger and she silenced immediately, moving her restless hands to squeeze her lips shut as she rocked back and forth. Meanwhile Harry glanced over his shoulder before removing his mokeskin pouch from its usual hiding place under his robes.

A quick grope told him all he needed to know before he tipped his head back, emptying the contents into his mouth. The muted flavor of coconut spread over his taste buds before he remembered he’d stashed coconut ice in his pouch last Thursday. Though there were still crumbs left over from the Pumpkin Pasties he’d stocked from the train ride four months ago.

He swallowed his last square and dropped another handful in his mouth before getting the distinct feeling he was being watched. Maybe Seamus wasn’t happy with his payout and wanted his chocolate back? In any event, there was nothing Harry could do short of inducing nausea to get them back, but Seamus couldn’t have been that desperate.

Glancing quickly down the end of the table, he was relieved to spot the blunt tips of Itzy’s ears, busily tending to the low fire. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” He leaned over his books and held out his hand with a crooked grin. “Want some?”

Instead, the bronze-skinned elf spun around with logs in hand and exploded with, “Itzy has something to tell Mister Harry Potter, sir!”

He faltered. “But you said the professors didn’t send you.”

“Headmistress McGonagall did not send Itzy, sir.”

Harry frowned, rolling a coconut square under his thumb. “Then why—?”

He froze, his jaw dropping as he straightened. “Oh, God. She’s found out, hasn’t she? She knows.”

Itzy sighed, grunting as she toddled closer to him with firewood still weighing heavily in her arms. “Headmistress McGonagall did not—”

“Then why are you here?” he demanded in a whisper, flattening the sweets in his hand. “The only reason you’d be here is if she found out about my little arrangement through Kreacher—”

“No.”

“—Or you’re holding out for more wages—”

There rose several dull ‘thuds’ as she dropped the kindling with an appalled squeak. “Itzy does not work for wages!” She harshly corrected, a scandalized look twisting her fire-lit features. So Hermione hadn’t made any progress on that front either, it seemed....

He quickly apologized and waited until she smoothed the creases her angry fists had made in her gritty clothing. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried with wide, frightful eyes. Running around frantically, she started to heap the fallen logs back in her arms while explaining, “Itzy does not want Mister Harry Potter to fret over wayward house-elves; Master Harry simply cannot!”

He protectively clamped his fist over the lip of his mokeskin pouch as Itzy’s head rolled from side to side as if viewing an intense tennis match. Finally, she seemed to have found what she’d been looking for and dashed over to a side table, swaying under the weight of the firewood.

“Itzy cannot allow this insolence.”

She carefully laid the logs to one side and leaned across the table, reaching for something. A very weighty-looking compendium on plants, Harry noted as he chewed his sweets. Neville’s, of course; no one in their right mind would care to buy a book on the 850 different species and subspecies of flowering shrubs. At this rate, the outlook for Neville losing his innocence in five years was rather bleak.

The house-elf winced as she tugged with all her might on the top cover, slowly slipping the foot-thick tome across the table. Popping the last two nougats in his mouth, Harry took a break from his fascinated gawking to ask, “Mmm...what are you doing?”

“Itzy means to...punish herself for...being disrespectful!” The book was close to teetering over the edge.

“Oh, ye—don’t. Please,” he said with a frown.

He furrowed his brow as she eyed him fearfully torn between obedience and duty. “Don’t,” he repeated, more sternly this time.

After a moment’s hesitation, she half-relieved, half-distraughtly trundled out from beneath the death trap and humbly approached him, sinking to her knobbly knees at his feet. Harry drew back in alarm, stunned to see the makings of tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Or perhaps the surfeit of sugar manifested itself in extremely potent hallucinations tonight. Or this morning.

“Itzy apologizes to Mister Harry Potter sir for the most atrocious behavior!” she wailed.

Darting his eyes apprehensively toward the staircases, Harry hissed, “Shush! You might wake up the entire dorm if you don’t belt up!”

“Harry Potter is being too good to Itzy and the other house-elves!”

“Itzy, please....”

“Harry Potter, sir: the victor of the Dark Lord, defender of Kreacher’s Regulus...!”

He pressed the heels of his palms to his pounding head, groaning. Maybe eating those nougats hadn’t been the best idea.... “Don’t ... not tonight, Itzy, mate, please.”

“...and kind to lowly house-elves even when Itzy did not deserve it!” She sniffled loudly, mopping her fat tears with the edge of her makeshift frock. “Itzy is not worthy, Harry Potter, sir!”

“Could you please go?” he whispered between his fingers. “You’re starting to creep me out, and I’m the one smashed on sweets.”

Her eyes bulged as she shook her head violently and she clambered to her feet and grabbed hold of his knees, squeezing them. Harry idly mused she had quite a bit of strength for one so frail-looking. “Itzy cannot leave until Harry Potter knows!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That’s what Itzy came to tell Harry Potter, sir.”

“Aaand that would be...?”

“Vexing things is happening in the kitchens, sir,” said Itzy, her fingers tightening just a fraction.

At this he frowned, narrowing his eyes. The house-elves had never come to him with problems before, especially given their new ... arrangement. Something smelled fishy, and he was entirely sure it wasn’t the pair of Romilda Vane’s edible knickers he’d tossed in the fireplace earlier.

“Desserts has gone missing,” she resumed. “Sometimes small, but large cakes and pies have been taken, Master Harry! Everything sweet is vanished into nonbeing, and Itzy has not worked at the bountiful new empire of Hogwarts for months and months,” Harry rolled his eyes upon hearing that title, “but Itzy knows the house-elves is bound by—”

“What aren’t you telling me, Itzy the female?” he asked with palpable impatience, peering closely at the terrified Itzy.

She dithered, balling tufts of his robe into her small fists to steel herself. Her eyes were wide and watery, and she spoke only after quickly dabbing away another tear.

“Itzy regrets to inform Master Harry Potter that his sweets has been eaten, sir.”

Harry blanched, shaking his head. “You lie!”

Itzy beat her tiny fists in defiance against his thigh. “Itzy speaks the truth, sir!”

“Oh yeah? Prove it,” he spat, petulantly crossing his arms. No one was going to get by him with such nonsense.

When Itzy eyed him with unease and swallowed thickly, he was suddenly worried. “Itzy swears on the sacred code of Dobby’s Sock.”

He sobered instantly, or as fast as the sugar in his system allowed. “You speak the truth,” he acknowledged hoarsely.

The story about Dobby’s bravery and sacrifice spread through the house-elf community with a rapidity unheard of. It was bittersweet, though; with Dobby’s name accompanied the respect and admiration he seldom got in his short life. There was no denying it now; the use of those words by a house-elf was never to be taken lightly. Harry knew she was telling the truth. The sad, festering, ridiculous truth.

Someone had deigned to steal his sweets. Someone was going to pay.

With gruff desperation, he prompted, “My Jelly Slugs?”

“Yes.” Part of him died a little.

“Bite-sized crystallized pineapple snacks with a white chocolate glaze?”

She nodded solemnly. Part of him died a lot.

Swallowing his emotions, he croaked, “My treacle fudge from Mrs. Weasley?”

“Itzy is afraid so, Harry Potter.”

“Oh, God; I’m having palpitations.” He gripped his chest with a frenzied whine and buried his head in his hands. “I had to fake getting over dragon pox to wheedle that out of her! Wait,” he started, optimism swelling in his chest. “What about my secret cache of Honeydukes’ finest stored behind expired jars of marmalade, old rags, and milked bezoars?” They couldn’t have found that, could they? He’d painstakingly sought out the one place in the kitchen the house-elves tended to avoid. So it was impossible that they’d find it, right?

Itzy gave him a pointed look.

If he hadn’t been sitting, he was sure his legs would have given out. Breathlessly, he tried one last time. “All of my Chocolate Frogs? My bon-bons?” he squeaked. God, those were among his favorites!

“Everything, Master Harry.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” he gravely decided. “Someone’s got to die.”

This was turning out to be one of the worst nightmares he’d ever had. It even topped the one where he was strapped to a wall by liquorice bindings and forced to watch Voldemort birth fat half-serpent babies with Nagini serving as midwife. He winced, banging his fist repetitively on the table. God, he needed something hot, sweet, and bleeding chocolate right about now.

But of course, some fudge-filching git with bad timing had to clean him out, didn’t they? Moaning in anguish, Harry ungracefully flopped on top of his unfinished homework. He should’ve Hexed the bags when he’d had the chance.

“Who let this happen? Who was on duty?”

When Itzy did not answer right away, he raised to his elbows, angrily slapping away a piece of parchment stuck to his brow. “Well?”

Itzy was fidgeting again, twisting the towel in her hands. “Tipsy, sir.”

He frowned. “But I thought he was in Butterbeer Abusers Anonymous?”

Itzy shook her head sadly. “Itzy tried to make Tipsy go to rehab, but Tipsy said ‘no, no, no.’”

Well. That explained a lot. A rush of anger suddenly grabbed him and he rounded on the flinching creature. “What am I paying you lot for if you put miscreants like Tipsy to guard my precious bon-bons?”

“Itzy DOES NOT accept wages!”

“All right, all right, don’t lose your shir—ah, towel.”

He propped his elbows on his knees and slumped forward, thinking. Tomorrow he’d have to order a new batch of sweets from Honeydukes; he wasn’t keen on being spooned by Voldemort or his sodding serpentine midwife. Luckily he still had an assortment of confections hidden in a pair of Dudley’s old jeans. Six bags, or more; he sighed, his frayed nerves eased just the slightest. That would tide him over for at least tonight.

Beckoning the edgy elf closer, Harry began, “Okay, here’s the plan: you and the others look out for anyone suspicious snooping around the kitchens, all right?”

Itzy’s forehead creased. “Itzy is knowing no suspicious ones, Master Harry, but Itzy has to—”

“Fine. I’ll double your wages.”

She stamped her foot and hopped angrily, fuming, “Itzy does not—”

“Cor, you drive a hard bargain,” he groused. “All right: triple.”

“Master Harry—”

“I’ll even throw in some frying pans for Kreacher’s sake. But first thing’s first, I’ll go to the headmistress tomorrow morning and see if she can’t sort it out. She’ll be spitting tacks, all right, but I can’t be fussed. I am getting my bon-bons back,” he darkly promised.

Oddly, the house-elf was still hopping in place, but not from anger. “Itzy needs Harry Potter to—”

“But I’ll look into things myself while that’s happening,” he said with a firm nod. Glancing down at the keyed up elf, he grinned crookedly and set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’re not going to take this sitting down, Itzy, my mate.”

“Itzy is female!”

He nodded curtly. “I know. Now that that’s sorted, you may go, Itzy.”

“B-But—”

“Thanks. I’d have never known if it wasn’t for you. Worse, if it had been Tipsy....” he snorted in contempt. Maybe he’d get McGonagall to knock some sense into him, or at least chuck him back on the wagon.

“Mister Harry Potter, please—”

“Well!” he exclaimed, standing to his feet so abruptly his bones cracked in disapproval. A sudden yawned rolled out of his mouth, interrupting his next words. “Oh, well, that seals it. Carry on, then. I won’t keep you from your duties. I need a bit of kip myself. G’night, Itzy. Thanks again—you’re wonderful, mate.”

He’d reached across the table to retrieve the stack of notes Itzy had kindly gathered up earlier when he felt an insistent tug on the bottom of his robes. Frowning, Harry lowered his gaze until he found Itzy, bunches of his robes in her small hands and shaking her head so hard her ears smacked her eyes. He inwardly groaned; how many more hints did she need?

“Itzy must insist that Master Harry Potter listens—”

“No, no: I’ll hear no more on the subject tonight, or ... this morning. Whatever. Ooh! Sugar Quill!” It was broken, but as long as it was sweet that didn’t matter. Harry chuckled triumphantly as he dusted bits of lint off the glimmering sweet. “Don’t need a crystal ball to tell you things are lookin’ up.”

A longing moan escaped him when he dipped the end in his mouth. “Ahh, tha’s beau’iful. So good.”

Of course, the moment had to be ruined by— “Harry Potter, sir! Itzy is telling sir—”

“To-mah-wo.” He persisted, slurping the barrel as he messily shoved his books and inkwells into his satchel.

“But—”

“Dith-mithed.”

“Itzy just—”

“Hup!”

He’d forgotten how amusing a house-elf in the throws of a tantrum was. When Kreacher did it, he’d been busy fearing for his life, but Itzy, on the other hand....

She slapped her forehead with an unintelligible, screeched complaint before violently tugging on her eyelids, babbling. The regrettably short-lived outburst ended seconds later when she Disapparated with a sharp crack!

With a pleased nod to the empty room, Harry bit off the end of his Quill and murmured, “Yep. Thorted.”


***