Hot Fudge

Hot Fudge

by Mephistedes


***


He pulled out a Liquorice Wand and nibbled mechanically on the end, staring intently at the stone.

“Catnip?”

The gargoyle didn’t budge. Harry frowned, taking another bite of liquorice. So he wanted to be difficult today?

“Kitty litter.”

Nothing.

“Catwoman? Catgirl? Cat and mouse? Kitty Hawk?”

Was that a twitch? That was definitely a twitch.

“Who’s a pretty kitty?”

Now he was sure it moved, having rolled its eyes. Harry beamed: he was getting close! He stuffed the rest of the liquorice in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, gently swinging his cauldron from side to side.

“Aha!” he burst, proud of himself for coming to a conclusion so quickly. “Cat flap, it has to be cat flap. It’s the only thing that combines cats and openings!”

Predictably, the stone gargoyle leapt out of the way to reveal the winding staircase slowly climbing upward. He grinned widely and dug in his bag, groping round till his fingers brushed something spongy wrapped in plastic. A quick tug brought out one of the miniature Cauldron Cakes he’d stuffed in there early this morning. Harry tore open the wrapping and took a healthy bite, thoroughly pleased with himself on both fronts.

As he waited for the first few steps to crawl by, he inquired of the grotesque statue, “What was the password?”

Stone eyes seemed to stare right through him as it flatly replied, “‘Open.’”

“Oh,” said Harry, frowning. “Not very imaginative, is it?”

“Get on!”

He hurriedly grabbed a step and rode all the way to the top, feeling a particularly worrisome chill as he was brought before the polished oak door. What if they never caught the perpetrator? Would he live to suffer his every dream invaded by Voldemort and his raging libido? An irrepressible shudder ran through him; they had to find this confectionary kidnapper, or he’d never have a good night’s sleep again!

With his free hand he tapped the brass griffin knocker on the door three times and impatiently waited for entry. Almost at once, the heavy door swung upon until ajar, giving a glimpse into a room bursting with sunlight and soft conversation, but no visible Headmistress. He crept forward cautiously, pausing with a hand on the door’s edge before deciding to wait for her inside. Besides, he’d recognize those voices anywhere.

“...I only dispute the argument that it was a simple misstep; I believe this was deliberately done with a spiteful hand, and therefore, incredibly unnecessary.”

“It was also incredibly unnecessary to kill me—”

“Oh, don’t—you were already dying!”

“—but you did that.”

“That was not wholly out of spite, and it was your suggestion. In any case, I thought we agreed never to bring up that unpleasantness in conversation again.”

“Ah, but that’s the joy of Everlasting Paint, Severus,” Albus Dumbledore smiled wryly, propping his chin on his palm. “I was likely to bring it up at least twice in an eternity.”

“You are fully aware that you agreed never to revisit the circumstances surrounding your death and those sordid dreams of Grindelwald for as long as we grace this office.”

“Then we are in for a deadly tedious eternity, my dear professor.”

Harry listened to their argument and snorted, shaking his head. Those two were something, all right. He didn’t think they’d be able to spend all eternity peacefully with their portraits hanging side by side behind the Head’s chair. This was especially given Dumbledore’s obvious advantage over the surly Potions Master.

While the person who had painted Dumbledore before his death bestowed him with the largest representation of all his predecessors, Snape’s likeness was decidedly small. Where Dumbledore’s portrait was as long as Ron was tall, Snape’s painting was no bigger than a desk picture, a dwarf to Dumbledore’s towering giant. He was lucky he didn’t have the squeaky voice to match, else he never would have heard the end of it from the others smirking at him from their own frames.

The Headmistress’ office, on the other hand, had changed very little. He spotted the Sorting Hat still propped on the top shelf along Snape and Dumbledore’s very wall, with the gleaming sword of Gryffindor beside it back in its case. It was the same office with a different feel. Where Dumbledore’s dreamlike manner manifested itself with decorations of spindly tables and silver instruments, McGonagall’s overall feeling was more formidable, businesslike, with sturdy tables of books and worn antiques. Though she had paid homage to Dumbledore; his delicate instruments gently whirred and puffed away on the shelves below the sword and Hat.

“Harry, dear boy! Good to see you!” Dumbledore greeted. This raised a fuss among the other portraits, who for once stopped their feigned slumber and pressed against their frames to ogle his scar.

“It’s Harry Potter!”

“The Harry Potter?”

“It’s him, all right.” A loud, familiarly snide voice confirmed. “Ungainly-looking, that horrid scar on his forehead....”

“Stop flattering the boy, Phineas, really. Bitterness is unbecoming of you.”

“You would be bitter, too, if he’d pilfered your portrait and Obscured it like some ruffian.”

“Excuse me, I did no such thing,” he protested. “Hermione picture-napped you for interrogative purposes; I just watched.”

“Potter.” He stopped chewing his Cauldron Cake and stilled at once. Snape always had that effect on him, even in death. Or still life. Oil life. Whatever he was now.

He continued in that cutting tone, “Classes have not yet begun for the day and you are already in trouble? How shocking.” The latter was said with dripping cynicism.

Harry sighed, poking in his bag for another treat. “Professor Snape,” he kept his tone light while setting down his cauldron. “Good to see you hanging about.”

Snape threw his chuckling cohort a sidelong glare that was directed halfway up Dumbledore’s shins. “Mister Potter, it is entirely too early for you to steep yourself into a semi-sweet state of unconsciousness.”

“There’s nothing semi-sweet about being unconscious,” he smartly replied. “Nothing wholly sweet about it, either.”

Snape’s tiny eyes glittered. “I’m surprised you haven’t desecrated that cauldron already by turning it into a fondue pot for chocolate dipping sauce.”

Harry blinked, before allowing a slow grin to settle across his face. “Actually....” He dunked the miniature Cake in the small basin and pulled it back out, now smeared and dripping melted fudge.

As Snape hid his face in his hands, he savored his confection with a mild groan. “You were saying?”

Snape parted the fingers over his eyes and glowered between them. Well, he thought he was glowering. It was hard to tell with a painting so tiny.

“While you’re wallowing, I thought I might see about getting you a larger portrait done, Professor,” he said, finishing his last bite. “S’not right what they’ve done, given all that you’ve done.”

“Quite right, Harry,” Dumbledore praised, rifling through his own painted-in tin of lemon drops. “I think our dear Potions Master has had his fair share of torment from our peers. In fact, he gets rather short about it, you would not believe—”

“Albus—”

“I am merely teasing you, my boy,” Dumbledore quickly amended, his eyes twinkling mischievously over his half-moon spectacles. “Harry’s a good lad.”

When Snape flatly scowled in his direction, Harry pointed to his chest, smugly mouthing, “That’s me.” The former Potions Master rolled his eyes. Harry smiled in thanks at Dumbledore, ignoring Phineas Nigellus’ disbelieving snort.

“It will not be an easy task,” the aged headmaster continued. “You will face quite an opposition from artists whose hearts and minds are weak to resist politics. Do not be surprised to find out none will supply dear Professor Snape with a portrait larger than my own.”

“Uncharacteristically kind of you, Potter, but I must gratefully decline,” Snape said with anything but gratitude. “No need to inflate your ego to a bigger size than it already is.”

“Oh, Severus,” an amused Dumbledore chuckled, cutting off Harry’s impending retort. “When are you going to learn? It’s not the size that counts: it’s how you use it.”

Harry didn’t think a portrait could ever look nauseous, but Snape pulled it off nicely.

The laughter escaped him, however. He’d felt around his bag and realized with some fearful disappointment that he’d depleted his stock of Cauldron Cakes. Dismayed, Harry slumped against the back of the visitor’s chair, both angry and defeated.

It was a harsh reminder of what he’d come here to do in the first place: joking aside, someone was stealing his sweets, and he was not going to stand for it until he caught them!

There was a rustle behind him, followed by a footfall, and by the time he spun around, McGonagall was already at her desk, dressed for the day. “Good morning, Mister Potter,” she greeted with a rare smile, motioning to her tartan tin of biscuits, but he declined. All he wanted were his sweets back, preferably before Voldemort got the chance to rub one off on him in his sleep.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” she began. “Shouldn’t you be in the Great Hall having breakfast before—” her beady eyes found his cauldron, “—Potions, is it?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but there’s a matter of urgency that needs to be dealt with as soon as possible. Lives are hanging in the balance.”

She took on a more serious demeanor and gestured for him to take a seat. She sat in her chair very stiffly and leaned forward, grim. “What is it, Potter? Have you been receiving more threats from Voldemort’s underground supporters?”

Harry shook his head. “No. It’s much worse than that, I’m afraid.” McGonagall resembled a marble statue, frozen and pale with suspense. Even Dumbledore looked grave, Snape, unreadable, and the rest of the headmasters and mistresses were leaning in closer to them.

“What is it?”

“The unthinkable has happened.” He noticed a slight quaking in his left hand as he whispered this. The sugar deprivation was starting; his body knew he hadn’t had the usual basket-load of sweets with a side of breakfast.

There were sharp intakes of breath from all around the room, McGonagall’s being the loudest. Harry eyed the other portraits, floored. They really must have liked sweets to be this devastated.

McGonagall’s composure hadn’t returned by the time he met her gaze again. Her trembling hand was still covering her mouth. “No ... no.... I saw his cremation,” she murmured hauntingly. “I saw them burn his ashes again. I was there when they cast that devil into the fiery dragon keep!” Harry furrowed his brow as he watched her fall to pieces. He was touched she was getting so worked up over his lost sweets, but really, it was unnecessary.

The sharp fall of her fist on her desk brought him to attention again. “How long must we suffer this?” said McGonagall, he voice thick with emotion. Moments later she swallowed her outburst and turned staid once more. It was wicked frightening how she did that so fast. “You’re certain Voldemort has returned?”

Harry’s eyes flew open in shock. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold the fellytone there! Voldemort—” Several paintings flinched at once. Wow. He really didn’t expect the dead to fear him as much. “—is still dead. This is much worse than him, a lot worse.”

McGonagall sighed, though she looked torn between relief and fear. Dumbledore eased as well, though Snape’s scowl seemed fiercer than his usual black looks.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, Mister Potter,” she reproved. Harry had the good shame to look contrite. There was a dash of pink across her cheeks, but otherwise, she was as strict as ever. “Now ... what could possibly be worse than the reemergence of confirmed dead Dark Lords, hmm?”

“Well...” he mildly began. After watching her nearly have kittens over his last words, Harry thought it best to ease her into the situation. “Have you ... noticed anything unusual happening in the kitchens of late?”

She looked slightly unsurprised by his query. “There was some concern over last term’s finances. They’d risen steadily since the start of September, which was peculiar.” She looked wryly at him through her square spectacles. “I am sure you have noticed the population at Hogwarts this year is not what it used to be.

“Towards the end of October, however, there was a strange flux in dues. This is not unexpected, given the cost of the annual feast, but it was higher than usual. It wasn’t until the house-elves informed me that the additional fees were due to their constant reorders of several sweets and the ingredients for afters that had gone missing.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, straightening in his seat. “Naturally, I launched a private investigation with the Board’s approval and found little in the way of locating a culprit.

“There was evidence of Confunding, but no wand to draw it to with the house-elves befuddled. I have told the elves to report to me posthaste should there be another assault on school supplies. Things have gone back to normal since then, but I can’t imagine what any of this would have to do with you, Harry.” McGonagall folded her hands in front of her then, studying him closely. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Because I think this sweet-toothed thief has struck again,” he said, breathing hard with fury. “Someone has been pinching my sweets.”

“Oh, is that what the youth are calling it nowadays?” Armando Dippet inquired with an eager grin. “In my day, we—”

“Yes, thank you, Armando,” McGonagall irritably butt in. She rounded on him with a cross expression. “Harry, do you mean to tell me someone has improperly seized some of your belongings from your dormitory that is to say, thieved them?”

Arching an eyebrow, Harry slowly replied, “No, the kitchens. I pay storage fees to accommodate my sweet tooth. Although several people have called it an addiction—chocoholism, is the term, but I can’t recall ever having chocohol, and the Honeydukes bloke has never heard of it, either. Erm ... where was I?”

McGonagall’s lips pursed. “You were talking about the kitchens, my boy.”

“Right, thanks,” he nodded to Dumbledore’s portrait. “I swear those elves are half-goblin with the rates they charge....”

“Let me get this straight,” Professor McGonagall somberly began, “am I to presume that you are confessing to me—”

“Oh, no, I’m not confessing anything,” he amended. “I’m saying someone’s been down in the kitchens stealing my sweets, and I won’t stand for it.”

He was divided between satisfaction and remorse when the headmistress was left speechless. All at once, she sagged into her chair pinching the bridge of her nose and mumbling something about; he caught the words ‘post-traumatic stupidity disorder’ but hadn’t a clue what they could possibly mean.

Her wrinkled hand came down from her face and landed sharply on her armrest. Harry swallowed, his satisfaction quickly dwindling faster than a grape in sunlight.

“And what, exactly, were your sweets doing in the school kitchens?” demanded Snape.

“The house-elves are keeping guard of them for me,” he said, digging a cellophane-wrapped toffee out of his bag. “I’d keep them in the dorms, but there’s no room, and Seamus might get his grubby hands—”

“Seamus?” asked another portrait, this time of a thickly-bearded man.

“Finnigan. Irish, blond, kind of puffy-looking—”

“All of you who are not deceased and confined to a painting on a wall for all eternity at this moment please raise your hands. Put your hand down, Potter!” McGonagall rebuked, glowering at the tight-lipped portraits in turn. Most appeared quite bitter to be reminded of their places, but none more morose than Snape. “Mr. Potter let me stress that the house-elves of Hogwarts School were not hired to be personal servants to the students.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I pay them.”

McGonagall closed her eyes and sighed. “Clearly, you are missing the point.”

“Fine; I’ll up their pay.” And he thought the house-elves were steep! “And I’ll need to ask permission to use the east wing of the kitchen to house my newest shipment of sweets.”

The Headmistress’ jaw was long, but not gaping. Oh, bless; she must’ve been shocked by his generosity.

“Mr. Potter,” she began measuredly, “you are to remove yourself from this office, go down to the kitchens, kindly purge them of your belongings, or I will confiscate them to the rubbish bin.”

Maybe not. Bollocks.

Harry rolled the toffee over his tongue. “So does that mean you’re not going to do anything about this?”

“No!”

“Well, why not?” he barked. “There’s a pasty purloiner running amok and we’ve got to do something before they strike again!” She couldn’t be serious!

McGonagall’s expression was stony. “That is not my problem. Perhaps if you had chosen to sort out with your emotional issues in a more rational, healthier method—”

“I do not have emotional issues,” he sniped. Snape’s snort of disbelief earned him a black look and a frown from Dumbledore. “I might eat a lot of sweets, but it’s not like I’m being disruptive in lessons or anything.”

McGonagall huffed in dissent. “You nearly tossed Professor Flitwick out of a window.”

“We were on the third floor,” Harry rationalized, shrugging. “Besides, he’s the Charms teacher: I’m sure he’d know plenty of Cushioning or Bouncing Charms to break his fall.”

Her face twisted even more. “That is hardly the point, Potter—”

“Look, someone is out there stealing my bon-bons,” he harshly pressed, leaning forward; her eyes narrowed into thin slits. “And you’re sitting here telling me you’re not going to do anything about that but you simply can’t refuse to investigate, so WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?!”

Her nostrils flared. “Harry Potter!”

“I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do: CALL THE AURORS!” he shouted over her admonishing tone. “GET THE MINISTER IN THE FIREPLACE RIGHT NOW!”

“MR. POTTER!”

“NO! I am NOT backing down!” he snarled. “Not when my sanity’s on the line!”

“Or what little else there is left of it,” Snape distastefully growled.

“Shut it, knee-high!”

He stood abruptly from his seat, slamming his fists on the desk and instantly regretted it. Not because he could see the ends of her nostril hairs singing; his satchel had caught the edge of the desk, tearing open and exploding all manner of sweets on the office floor. Bon-bons upon Jelly Slugs upon Chocolate Frogs upon crystallized pineapple coated in white chocolate madly teemed from the frayed slit, rolling in every single direction, with Harry hot on their tails.

“Ahh, five second rule!” With a strangled yelp he dove at the floor, hastily muttering a Reparo at his split satchel before lunging after the escapees, dusting them off, and shoving sweets by the handful into his bag. “They’re still good, right? They’ve got to be good! How often do you clean this floor?”

He carefully crept across the office on all fours, ducking his head under tables, the desk, chairs, and even the bookshelves to retrieve his sweets. Satisfied that he’d found as many as he could—he was sure there were a few beneath McGonagall’s robes, but he wasn’t about to test his luck—Harry emerged from behind a heap of stacked parchments. He was vaguely aware that he was the subject of many penetrating, aghast stares, especially from Professor McGonagall.

In the tense silence that followed, Harry sat back in his chair, setting his cauldron on his lap and waiting for McGonagall to compose herself. She looked quite like she’d just been forced to suck on a mouthful of lemon drops.

He shifted uncomfortably before broaching, “Now: what were we saying about finding my sweets?”

McGonagall blinked. Then she haltingly began, “Yes. While that is unfortunate, there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Wha—wha—what do you mean there’s nothing you can do about it?” he spluttered, sitting straighter in his chair. “Surely, there must be something—”

“And be accused of favoritism?”

“Well, if you don’t help me find my sweets, you certainly won’t be my favorite person.” He heard Snape sigh and mutter something about ‘post traumatic senseless dunderheadedness.’ Must have been in the same field as that stupidity disorder McGonagall was grumbling about earlier.

With a decisive air, she concluded, “I simply cannot allow it, Potter, and that is that.”

“No, no, no, no.” He desperately grasped the edge of her desk for stability. “I don’t think you understand, Professor: I need my bon-bons,” his voice shook somewhat as he pleaded. She simply had to see reason! “Otherwise, I’ll have more dreams of Voldemort cuddling me in that gigantic bubble and whispering naughty things about putting the Hor in my Crux—”

“They call it that, too?” Dippet breathlessly whispered to Phineas.

“That’s just nasty, Potter,” Snape sneered after the appalled silence.

Harry ignored him and studied McGonagall, with her unreadable features and pursed lips. She had to see reason; McGonagall had never let him down before. It just wasn’t like her to refuse her fellow Gryffindor, no matter the age.

But his world shattered into a thousand sugar crystals when she delivered the harsh words: “Get to class, Potter.”

Harry gaped. Perhaps he didn’t hear her correctly. “Is that a—”

“It’s a no.” She said crossly, glaring over her square lenses. “Lessons, Mr. Potter. You’ll not want to be late for Professor Slughorn.”

“B-b-b-but there’s chocolate in this cauldron.”

“Then I suggest you wash it out—” — she ignored his horrified gasp — “—and use that cauldron properly as intended. If you hurry now, you might still make breakfast. And I will give you until dinner this evening to clear your remaining sweets from the kitchens and I had better not hear about you ordering the house-elves about again—”

“But I pay them,” he weakly protested.

“—or else it’ll be a week’s suspension for you, Mr. Potter. Are we clear?”

Harry studied her face for any hint of a laughter line and her dark eyes for any twinkle of mischief. Instead, he was faced with the grim reality that for once, McGonagall was not going to rush to his aid. It seemed he was on his own for this. He sat back in his chair, speechless.

McGonagall’s resolute expression softened a fraction, her tightly knit brow unfold but slightly. She tipped forwards a bit, unlocking her fingers. “I’m sorry, Harry: rules are rules. I cannot—”

Without waiting to hear more empty apologies, Harry ripped himself away from the desk with a growl and went for the nearest fragile object he could. Unfortunately, all that was at hand was a book. That certainly wouldn’t do.

Angrily, he spun around and dropped the book, rage blinding him as he dove for the next item which was sure to create a neat splinter of glass but found ... another book. “What...?” He tossed that back to the table as well. “What’s the point of bookshelves if you don’t use them for....”

And then he suddenly recalled exactly what she’d used the bookshelves for. Beaming, he spun around and was met with the vision of McGonagall surrounded by a halo of sparkling silver, spindly, smoking instruments. She didn’t impede him as he dashed to the wall behind her bubbling with glee.

He gnashed his teeth and angrily grasped one of the delicate wiry orbs, viciously yanking it off the shelf. Only, it didn’t budge. Curious; he didn’t think such light metal could be so heavy. Unperturbed, he went for a tall, thin object that spat smoke in four directions and that had the words ‘BREAK ME’ written all over it. Oh, he’d break it, all right. Shatter it in a thousand pieces and shatter those pieces into ten-thousand pieces, and those p—

Well, wasn't this shit luck?

When he tried tugging it, it only came to the same conclusion. He tried again and again, grunting with effort and exertion until finally giving in. It wasn’t going to budge under his weight. But he still held out hope: maybe it was just those two objects that suddenly weighed twice as much as the moon?

Three, four, five-six-seven artifacts later found Harry leaning against the shelf for support, catching his breath. They hadn’t been so difficult in his fifth year. Dumbledore wasn’t the kind of person to Spell items of non-importance to bookshelves, especially since he hadn’t shown them any outward acknowledgment when smashed to pieces. In fact, it was as if something or someone had anticipated such damage.

Curiously, he turned to McGonagall who, strangely enough, didn’t seem surprised. His questioning look was rewarded with a deadpanned point over her shoulder. Harry followed her finger’s direction to Snape, whom he glared at with all his might. “So it was you!”

But Snape rolled his tiny eyes and jerked a thumb to his right. Harry nodded ruefully and redirected his glower at Dumbledore, who smiled and waved cheerfully. “So it was you!”

The white-haired wizard graced him with a knowing look down his crooked nose. Harry huffed in disbelief, clapping his hands together derisively. “Well! I didn’t come here to be offended or turned down with such scorn, so I think I’ll just leave while my dignity’s still intact.”

“Funny,” he heard Snape begin as he collected his things. “After today’s display, I doubt you have any left.”

“I may not have much,” Harry slyly replied, “but fortunately, I still have my height.”

He turned his back to Dumbledore’s light chuckles and headed for the door, imagining the whiter shades of pale Snape could be turning at the moment. Just as he’d grabbed the handle, McGonagall called out, “This evening, Potter, or everything will be discarded.”

Fuming, Harry spun around and marched back to her desk, bent on delivering his last words, but found himself coming up short. There was nothing he could say that hadn’t already been said, and he wasn’t one to resort to whining. So he did the first logical thing that came to mind: he grabbed her tartan tin of cookies and held it tauntingly, backing toward the exit.

“I’m taking this. Try and stop me.”

“I won’t.” McGonagall simply replied.

The ease with which she’d parted with her beloved tin gave him pause. “Why, after seeing how I handled Voldemort you fear what I could possibly do to you?”

“No.” answered Dumbledore. “It’s empty.”

Harry gawped in astonishment. “Why’d you offer me biscuits if you had none?” He fell suspicious when she failed to provide an answer. Almost smugly, he said, “You’re bluffing, aren’t you?”

With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Professor McGonagall barked, “Get out of here, Potter.”

“Fine.” He shrugged a shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “I’m taking it anyway.”

“Go.”

“Going.” He confirmed, edging backward toward the door. “Don’t think this is over, though. I won’t rest until I’ve caught this confectionary culprit—”

“OUT!”

He hastily stumbled out the office, just missing a broken nose by the door slamming in his face. That wasn’t his biggest concern, however. Despite the morning not going as he had planned, Harry was most relieved to find he hadn’t spilled a drop of chocolate from his cauldron. Things were definitely looking up.


* * *