Hot Fudge

Hot Fudge

by Mephistedes


* * *


“So how’d it go with McGonagall, mate?” Ron asked as they entered the Great Hall for dinner. Ron had been bursting to ask him all morning, but Harry had not quite finished his moping. The idea of his sweets falling into the wrong hands left him restless and irritable, and McGonagall’s refusal to investigate only made it worse.

“Awful. Seems she rolled out of bed and hopped aboard the mood swing. She’s still riding it as we speak.” He nodded to the Headmistress scowling into her roasted potatoes at the head table.

They sat down in the normal fashion. Ron inhaled the food before it even landed on his plate, while Harry bit into a crunchy bar of chocolate he’d pulled from of his bag, waiting for dessert to crop up.

“Oi! Where did you get that?” asked Ron. He stared at his chocolate with such intensity Harry held it closer to his chest before eyeing the throng of students. One of these bastards was a thief, and they were not going to slink by; not with him on the case.

“Where else do I get all of my chocolate?”

Ron tilted his head to study it, even as he chewed on a roast beef sandwich. “Has it got—ohh, yeah, it does! Nuts! Can I have a nibble?” he begged.

Distracted, Harry said, “Mm, break a piece off the other end.”

“We—I just want a nibble,” the lanky redhead murmured. “‘n case I don’t like it.”

“Well I’m not giving you a nibble from my end. I get a bite, you get a bite, and then I bite it after you? My spit, your spit, both our spits? It’d be like we’re kissing, mate. And, heh, I like you and all, but not that much.”

Ron nodded, though it looked like the explanation went way over his head. “Oh. All right.” He broke off a piece and to Harry’s dismay, set it to one side of his plate.

“After all that, you’re not even going to eat it?”

Ron, mouth full of sandwich, replied, “I do’wunna ruin my dinner.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry bit off some of his chocolate, looking around the Great Hall. As McGonagall had said earlier, their number was quite smaller than usual. Some parents had hesitated sending their children back to Hogwarts this year, what with the war just over and Snape’s tyrannical rule as headmaster still fresh on their minds.

The Gryffindors had the strongest show of returns and the largest batch of first years of any other house. Mostly everyone he had known returned to repeat their second seventh year, fondly calling themselves the first ever Eighth Years of Hogwarts. Parvati and, of course, Hermione had decided not to join the illustrious group, the latter instead going on to pass all of her N.E.W.T.s and taking up the mantle of the youngest worker at the Ministry of Magic in history.

Crunching his bar, he looked behind him to the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, former shadows of what they used to be with less than half the student population that Gryffindor displayed. Slytherin was last, naturally, with only three Eighth Years and six other various years returning. Everyone else had either fled to Durmstrang or Azkaban or elsewhere. Some stayed locked up in their manors, hoping the Ministry disregarded their involvement with the Dark Lord. At any rate, Slytherin House seemed unlikely to ever return to their former glory, with heroes like double agent Severus Snape to boast.

Though McGonagall had stressed house unity at the opening feast, the Slytherins apparently decided being neutral was the best type of accord they could manage. Most of the year, he hadn’t heard a thing about Slytherin, save for the usual nasty rumors spread by all the other houses.

“Whatchu lookin’ for, Harry?”

“Someone in this very room has been sneaking my sweets into their greedy little mouths undetected until now,” he seethed, glaring around the room at large. “But it could be anyone.”

He flinched and turned to Ron as a loud clank! sounded. “S’not me,” he rushed to clarify, taking up his fork again. “You know I would never—”

“I know, Ron,” he hastily replied. “Whoever did this had a personal grudge against me, else why my Chocolate Frogs? Why my crystallized pineapple?”

Ron froze, leaving his slice of roast to slide off his fork and onto gravy with an unpleasant pllpt! “You’re kidding. The ones dipped in chocolate?”

He nodded morosely. “The very same.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so.”

He was touched his best friend would be that distraught on his behalf. Unlike McGonagall, he knew Ron’s rage was genuine. After pulling his hair in several directions, Ron paused, staring at him intently as he settled a pink hand on his. “Your bon-bons?” he whispered, hope tingeing his tone.

“Cleaned out.”

His expression hardened. “Someone needs to die.”

“Very slowly.” He scowled and reached for the sponge cake that appeared, pulling the plate over to him. After a thought, he pulled his cauldron from under the table and tipped it over the bland dessert. His mouth watered as he watched thick streams of melted chocolate smoothly blanket the flat plane like silk.

“Ah, God, that’s beautiful!” he moaned.

“Harry...”

“Ohh, it’s nice.”

“Mate...”

“Two seconds. I'm not gonna last. Oh, God, I'm not gonna last...!”

“Mate, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Banging one off without, er ... actually banging one off.”

He managed to pull his attention from drowning the cake to find his best friend carefully avoiding his gaze while eating his supper.

“Oh, c’mon!” he sniped as he tucked in with a golden spoon. “S’not like anyone was...”

He suddenly trailed off, noticing the numerous gawping stares from friends and schoolmates alike. He could do little else but swallow the semisweet mouthful with an audible gulp.

“Watching you?” finished Ron.

He stabbed his cake awkwardly while frowning. “It’s good, though. Want a bite?”

Ron’s eyes widened. “You’re offering me a piece?”

He shrugged. “Just one. One.”

“Well ... sure, thanks.”

“Grab a spoon,” he muttered, still scoring his side of the cake. “Better with a spoon; you can hold more, because forks ... yeah.”

“Can I have a bite?”

“Back off, Lucky Charms.”

“But you let Ron—”

“No.” His firm response left no room for argument. As Ron dug in, he could have sworn he saw steam issuing from Seamus’ nostrils. So long as his bogies didn't ricochet off the dinnerware and into his dessert, he didn't care for the Irishman's rage.

“So, um—this is good,” Ron praised with a crooked grin. “Any clue who it is?”

“I’m not too sure, but I’m thinking, oh, I dunno....” He stared pensively at the dark ceiling, twirling his spoon in the thick layer of chocolate. “A Hufflepuff? Or a fat person, like?”

Ron’s brow furrowed skeptically. “What d’you mean ‘fat?’ Fat-like-Hagrid fat?”

He shook his head. “Hagrid’s big-boned.”

His face twisting in disbelief, Ron dryly came back with, “The only thing with bigger bones than Hagrid is a dinosaur, but I don’t think they have the thumbs required to pull that off.”

“No. It’s got to be someone that has made it no secret they’ve got quite the sweet tooth; someone who maybe has shown off a large amount of sweets in the past. Someone who may or may not be a bit on the heavy side that seems deeply distressed of late, maybe moody: by the chocolate or some other influence. And maybe they’ve shown up late to meals just in time to get the dessert? You know, they could be filching my fudge trying to get over the devastation of the war,” he added thoughtfully. “It’s got to be a Hufflepuff. Who else would be miserable with their own life enough to suck down ninety pounds of sweets?”

“Oh.” Ron shrewdly replied, nodding toward the doorway. “I was thinking of someone else entirely.”

“Hm?” He pulled the spoon from his mouth and glanced over his shoulder at Ron’s insistence. Luckily he’d set his spoon down already, or he was sure he’d have swallowed it in shock.

The months following the war had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. His usually flawless blond hair was thinning, matted and flat and grey with negligence. Grey seemed to be his new signature color as it matched the tone of his skin and his usually bright eyes were dark and dull. His lips were cracked and dry, his shoes, unpolished, and his robes were shabby and ill-fitting. He was clad in a lumpy pullover, reminding Harry strongly of Hermione’s attempts at knitting with much worse results. Finally, the athletic build he’d maintained his first six years of Hogwarts seemed to have dissolved, leaving behind a slightly pudgier (fudgier) Malfoy.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry agreed, “You’re right. Malfoy has been painfully unremarkable lately.”

“And his mum used to send him all those baskets of sweets, d’you remember?”

“Mm-hm, and he’s always moody and miserable in class.”

Ron snorted. “He looks like utter shit.”

“More importantly, he’s just shown up to dinner,” he added in realization. “For afters only.”

“And, he looks like shit.” Ron repeated. Leaning forward with clear eagerness he pushed, “What you thinkin’?”

Harry stared hard at the glum Slytherin, watching as he piled his plate high with fruits, tarts, puddings and pies as his meager number of housemates looked on in disdain.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” He brightly summed, smacking Seamus’ wandering hand with his spoon. There was a loud yelp, followed by a steady stream of curses with Seamus boring holes in the side of his head. Sinking his spoon into another side, he finished, “Besides, it’s something else; Luna told me.”

“What, weebleflosser possession?”

Harry shook his head. “Thyroid problem.”

Ron grimaced. “Nasty, that.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, his gaze lingering on the gorging Slytherin for a few more seconds. It really was quite a sight to see Malfoy so unpolished. He hoped his thyroid wasn’t getting any ideas.

Ripping his eyes from the grotesque sight that was Malfoy the glut, he anxiously said, “Um ... yeah. Let’s look into those Hufflepuffs again....”

Dessert ended not a moment too soon. He wolfed the rest down quickly, though he couldn’t hold a candle to Malfoy in the speed-eating department. If it came down to a ravenous desert-dweller and Malfoy, the latter would have no problem eating the competition under the table. Or eating the table, were it made of some kind of sweet.

Whilst walking back to the common room sucking on the end of a Sugar Quill, he discussed possible suspects with Ron, from Hufflepuffs, to escaped trolls, to Grawp, and back to the Hufflepuffs. It wasn’t until he mentioned submitting an owl-order to Honeydukes for more Chocolate Frogs that Ron’s creased brow smoothed in insight.

“Flume would know, though.” He arched an eyebrow in response. “Flume, Ambrosius Flume, the man who runs Honeydukes’ Sweetshop?”

Harry narrowed his eyes askance. “How do you know these things?”

Ron dismissively waved. “Hermione says the weirdest things during sex.”

He pulled off from swigging the blueberry-ink center to jab the sweet in Ron’s direction. “That should disturb me more than I’m letting on.”

“Oh, it’s the sugar,” he proudly informed. Harry suspected that was another thing he’d learned from Hermione; he really hoped they hadn’t made a habit of discussing him while shagging. They couldn’t have been that bored with each other. “It’s wearing down your sensitivity and making you indifferent to the environment surrounding you.”

He smiled feebly. “You don’t say.”

However, he found Ron did have a point. Flume had a keen memory when it came down to a regular patron’s favorite sweet. Anyone who ordered as much sweets as he did was sure to garner a raised eyebrow. With grim finality, Harry decided on the first course of action to saving his confectionary cargo.

He needed to kidnap the owner of Honeydukes. Preferably some time before Voldemort started prancing around his dreams in a snakeskin loincloth.


* * *


The one-eyed witch passageway really was handy, he rediscovered. Though it wasn’t as handy when he was dragging an unconscious Ambrosius Flume back with him to the school.

The interrogation had taken all of nine minutes before Flume had given him a name.

Now, to drag him back to Hogsmeade.

A plan would’ve been handy, he realized. Damn it; why’d Hermione choose to campaign for house-elf rights now?


* * *

Towing Slughorn into the Room of Requirement took thrice as long as Flume’s interrogation. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d dropped him several times along the way.

He had no clue how the Canary Creams had mixed with his regular stash, but suspected Seamus might have. Or Ginny could’ve done. Leaving her on a sour note would do that, but honestly, was he supposed to tell her he was only using her for her mother’s fudge? (It was good fudge!)

Slughorn’s questioning ended rather abruptly with Harry Stunning the portly professor after two minutes. He’d gotten a gleam in his eye when he’d mentioned crystallized pineapple that was entirely too lecherous. He might as well have undressed him with his eyes, Harry felt so sullied.

Seemed he needed to pay Flume another visit.


* * *

Flume let out a screech so girlish, Malfoy would have been proud.

He’d barely pulled the sucker out of his mouth before the harried Honeydukes owner belched out the next name.

Good. Harry wasn’t looking forward to dragging him through the tunnel tonight. He had a plate full of treacle fudge waiting for him under his bed. Unless Seamus had sniffed it out again.

He’d flown through the tunnel at a record pace, mashing his pocketful of bon-bons in his mouth along the way. He really didn’t want to lock anyone in a closet tonight. Unless it was Seamus.


* * *

Eloise Midgen was much harder than people gave her credit for, even as she wore a neck brace. It seemed the rumors were true: the force of one of her volatile pimples had strained her neck too far.

He’d seethed, and she frowned.

He’d yelled, and she rolled her eyes. Catty little wench.

He’d threatened Malcolm, her well-manicured toad. She bawled, confessed to making up a secret admirer that sent Millicent Bulstrode boxes of bon-bons laced with laxatives, and begged him not to harm her beloved creature.

He was going to have Flume’s bon-bons for this. But first, he needed to burn his robes. There was no way he was hanging on to them with Midgen’s pimple-juice all over it.


* * *

Harry quickly discovered a smashed Flume was more agreeable to disclosing information.

As well, Flume had a lovely singing voice. A cross somewhere between Celestina Warbeck and Fang on a full moon’s night.

The cellar echoed with renditions of Warbeck’s holiday hits, or Fang on bath day, which ever sounded the closest. As the wine passed his lips, skeletons danced on his tongue, spilling secret ingredients, shady business deals, and an alpaca named El Diablo. He was quite sure he’d never view Chocoballs in the same light ever again.

Finally, he’d come to the next name. Well, well. Why wasn’t that a surprise?

Liquor was quicker indeed.


* * *

So there was some truth to the old adage: fat people were harder to kidnap. Actually, Malfoy wasn’t neck and neck (or paunch and paunch) with Slughorn, but he distinctly remembered fleeing from the Fiendfyre with a decidedly lighter Malfoy wrapped around him last year.

Well, not really wrapped around him. Just his arms. Not that he thought about those arms much. Honestly. God, now he was going to have nightmares about that on top of Voldemort and his faithfully kinky serpent.

Sickly Malfoy sneered, and defied, and insulted, and threatened. The words ‘my father’ came out in just about every sentence, followed by the usual menacing threats.

Business as usual, then.

His death glares would have been more potent had he not resembled a human raccoon, his eyes ringed in dark circles. Harry had winced; his thyroid problem must have been worse than expected. For once, he pitied Malfoy. Just this once. Once.

He’d offered his condolences on the thyroid trouble and offered a packet of Jelly Slugs in exchange for silence. Malfoy had jumped on the offer, eating everything but the cellophane packaging. Well, now he knew why Malfoy would be suspect.

He hoped he never got a thyroid problem. Seemed particularly trying.

But he was still nowhere near figuring it out. God damn it, Flume.


* * *

Paranoia didn’t befit Flume. He nearly punched a hole in the cellar ceiling he’d jumped so high after Harry had thrown off his Invisibility Cloak.

He begged and pleaded to be left alone, even offering him his choice of sweets with no charge. Harry then felt slightly guilty for putting the man through all of this, but he was only doing his job. If he’d let this continue, there was no telling what horribly sensual sex act Voldemort had in store for him and Nagini tonight, or the next night, or the next ten thousand nights. No way was he going to get spooned by Nagini—never again!

Last time, he’d said to Flume. He’d said more about Chocoballs and a Cutting Jinx, but he was so whacked out of his brain on Acid Pops he’d barely recalled the name of the person who’d purchased six pounds worth of Chocolate Frogs.

Oh, but he remembered the itching, burning feeling he’d felt coursing through him, searing his very blood like fire.

Or maybe it was just the Acid Pops.


* * *