Hot Fudge

Hot Fudge

by Mephistedes


* * *


Sixteen minutes, two floors, a Locomotor Incantation and one Invisibility Cloak later, Neville finally came to in the shadily-lit Room of Requirement.

“Well, it’s about time, Snakemeat.”

“Pfft! Snakemeat! Uhh-heh-heh huh.”

He drew mild pleasure from the way Neville flinched in his hard chair, only to realize he was tied up as well. Confusion was chiseled in the shadows of his round face as he shifted against his bonds.

“Harry?” he croaked, squinting in the darkness. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

“I’m not Harry, and I think you know what’s going on,” he blackly whispered.

“No,” Neville’s tone reflected bewilderment. “Sorry—why is it so dark in here?”

“Never mind that.”

“But I can’t see.”

There was a bang from his left, followed by a sharp grunt. “He’s got a point; it’s quite gloomy in here. I dunno how you can work like this.”

“Ron?” called Neville. “Is that you?”

“Um ... nooo!” Harry squeaked in a shrill voice. “All this time and you can’t place old Peevsie? Oh, Longbotty-wotty, for shame! Shame!”

“Uh-heh-huh huh-heh ... good one.”

Neville’s face showed apology and he made a thoughtful noise. “Sorry. You sounded a lot like Ron, though. Have you got a cold? Your voice is awful girlish.”

“What?” he barked, failing to disguise his voice. “Excuse me: I do not sound like a girl!”

“Ah! Bloody table!”

Neville swung toward the sound. “Ron?”

“Peeves!”

“Hang on.”

“Ron, what—?”

“So it is you,” murmured Neville.

“Can it, snake slayer!”

“Then that’ll be you, Harry.”

“No, it’s—”

His screechy attempt at tonal deception never made it past his throat. Light chose then to illuminate the room, a streak of flames jetting around the circular wall to ignite candles and finally, the fireplace. The stone room glowed orange-yellow, highlighting the unfurnished room, save for Neville’s wooden chair and an unsteady-looking table.

“...not.” he finished pathetically. Scowling, he turned to Ron, who clapped his hands together, accomplished.

“There!” he said, a wide smile on his face. “Now we can do this without me running into things. Isn’t that better?”

“Just magical.”

As his eyes adjusted to the new brightness, he caught Neville staring, bemused, between him and Ron. “Why am I tied to a chair? And did you hit me over the head with a cauldron?”

“Hey, I ask the questions here, mate.” Harry hissed, rounding the table to stand in front of him. “The better question is, what have you done to get yourself strapped in that chair?”

Neville’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember. That’s why I’m asking you.”

He frowned, his jaw crooked in annoyance. “Oh, I think you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Longbottom,” he hedged, taking a seat on the edge of the table. He folded his arms. “I know that you know, and you know I know what you know you’ve done, so there’s no reason to hide anymore.”

Ron’s eyes were round. Neville’s mouth hung open. “...what?”

“Oh, for—” Harry grunted, pushing off of the table and dove for the culprit’s robes. Neville recoiled, his entire body rigid, but relaxed by the time he pulled back, holding up a recognizable blue box. “Ha—evidence!” he rejoiced, dancing the empty pentagonal container before Neville’s wide eyes. “Do you know what this is?”

Neville carefully looked at him, the box, and back again. “Do you know what it is?”

“Don’t question me.”

“Don’t question me.”

“Stop that!”

“No, you stop it!” shouted Ron. Piqued, Harry rounded on him with a scowl. “What? Couldn’t let you two have all the fun, could I?”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Neville started, his words deceivingly calm and measured. “You hit me ... in the head ... with a cauldron ... for an empty Chocolate Frog Box?”

He tossed the box at Neville’s lap and sniped, “Don’t be stupid, Longbottom.”

“Oh, are we using surnames now?” Ron asked eagerly.

“A confession’s in your best interests.”

“A confession of what?”

“Of your confectionary kidnapping capers, of course!”

Neville’s face remained a mask of confusion. “Again: what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, you bon-bon burglar,” he growled, balking at how condescending Neville’s character really was. Did he really believe he was that stupid? Deluded, at times, unreasonable to the point of insanity maybe, but never, ever stupid.

However, Neville still shook his head, disputing, his expression twisted in bemusement. With a black glare, Harry crossed his arms.

Snakemeat held his ground.

Oh, he had one of those, eh? Another Eloise—I’m-tougher-than-I-look-bitch—Midgen? Well, he knew just what to do this time.

“Ron?” he menacingly beckoned. Neville’s left eye twitched the slightest bit. “It would seem that Neville the great snake-slayer does not want to cooperate. That’s too bad. I really hoped to avoid this. My cauldron, please.”

“Uh-heh huh-huh heh huh....”

He allowed himself a tiny grin as Neville’s nostrils flared just a bit upon hearing Ron’s ominous chuckle. But Ron suddenly stopped laughing and asked, “Which one? The one with the chocolate or the one with the—”

“The other one, thanks,” he hissed through ground teeth, jerking his head in one direction of the room. Ron started his disturbing laugh as he passed Neville and loped behind him, out of sight. He returned a short time later, with a small, blistered cauldron that had seen many fires and caustic solutions, handing it to him with blue eyes dancing.

“Uh-heh huh-huh-huh....”

“You can stop that now. It’s starting to creep me out.”

“Sorry.”

His gaze lingered on Ron in warning before he faced their perplexed prisoner. “Like I said, you’ll want to confess now if you know what’s good for you. Last chance.”

Neville’s gaze shifted between both of their stony expressions with anxious befuddlement, but he said nothing.

Harry narrowed his eyes, tsking quietly to himself as he raised his cauldron. Neville stiffened as if readying for another strike, but watched with a hooded gaze as he slid his hand into the dark mouth of the crucible.

“I’m sorry to have to do this Nev,” he began, his tone far from rueful, “but if you don’t admit what you’ve done ... there’ll be frog legs on tomorrow night’s menu!”

“Aha!” Ron proudly shouted as he whipped out his secret weapon.

Neville stared at the shiny toad in his grasp for all of two seconds before relief unhardened his features.

Utterly confused by his reaction, Harry held the slick amphibian higher and jabbed it closer at Neville’s nose. The warty creature squirmed. “What? You’re so intent to save your own skin you’d sacrifice your own toad?” He frowned, shaking his head. “Augusta would be ashamed of you.”

“That’s, uh ... not Trevor,” replied Neville. “And since when did you start calling my Gran by her first name?”

“Wait a minute, what d’you mean it’s not Trevor? Are you bluffing?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

“Is that a bluff as well?”

“No.”

Exchanging a quick glance with Ron, Harry drew the struggling toad away from him slowly. Quietly, he said, “Excuse me.”

Neville’s eyebrows slanted downward as he grabbed Ron’s shoulder and spun him around, dragging him to the other side of the table. Once out of ear shot, he rounded on him. “You didn’t get the frog?”

“Actually, it’s a toad.”

“I don’t bloody care what it is!” he hissed. “Where’s Trevor?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably and wrung then his hands around the cauldron handle. “Oh, you know how he is: hopping around somewhere I’ll bet,” he weakly explained. “And you know Neville: he’s always losing him, so, uh ... I’d lost him.”

With a frustrated sigh, Harry slumped against the table, cursing under his breath. The toad croaked in protest wiggling in his hands. “How are we going to do this without the toad?” he whispered conspiratorially, spearing his best mate with a glare. “You were supposed—to get—Trevor!”

“I thought I did.”

“This is not Trevor! When have you ever seen him with his claws painted pink?”

With a pensive look, Ron cupped one finger under the toad’s paw and made a noise of interest. “Nice shade, though. What is that, magenta?”

“Can you focus?!”

“Sorry.”

Taking a moment to collect himself and restructure his approach, Harry sucked in a deep breath and twisted around to face their captive, who by now was visibly peeved. Grimacing, he set the testy toad back in the cauldron and leaned before Neville on the table. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Right. So, slight ... misunderstanding. Forget the frog.”

“Toad.”

“Whatever. Now Neville, we’re going to try this again, and I want you to listen carefully this time. I want to know what you’ve done with my sweets and I want to know now. No more games.”

Neville’s brow creased in confusion. God, was he really that thick? Sighing sharply, Harry crossed his arms tightly, curbing the urge to go for his wand. He could really do with something sweet about now, something loaded with so much sugar he’d probably pass out comatose halfway into snacking.

“Why the pounds of Frogs? Why the secrecy? And more importantly, where are my bon-bons?”

“All right, I’ve played along enough Harry, but now this is starting to get annoying,” growled Neville. Harry was taken aback; he’d never heard such a sound come from the usually good-humored Gryffindor. “What are you talking about? I’m so far off right now I don’t even think we’re on the same continent, let alone the same planet!”

“I claim Uranus!”

“No, no one will be claiming anyone’s anus, Ron! You’ve done enough!” he cried, scowling until Ron obediently fell quiet. “Now Snakemeat, you know I respect you for all you’ve done—”

At this, Neville glanced down at his bindings and back with a flat expression. “Shocker.”

“—but enough’s enough. You will tell me what you’ve done with my sweets or else—”

“Or else what?” Neville bravely challenged. “You’ll threaten me with a frog that’s not even mine?”

“Toad!” he fiercely corrected, leaping up from the table. He brandished a finger in Neville’s face. “And you pinched my sweets you serpent-slaying sweet stealer!”

His round face showed that maddening vacancy again. “Pinched your sweets? I haven’t stolen anything.”

Harry scoffed. “Oh, so you’re gonna tell me you haven’t been down in the kitchens replacing my Chocolate Frogs with the six pounds you bought? That Flume’s been lying to me all along?”

Neville studied him with a puzzled look before plainly responding with, “Yeah.”

“Uh-huh, right,” he scorned, his hands balling into fists under his arms. “So if you aren’t filching my fudge, who is?”

He never expected Neville to answer. In fact, he was hoping he’d break down and confess his transgressions before dessert was served. He had a date with an elderberry cobbler (or two or ten) topped with clotted crème tonight. If he missed it and didn’t get a chance in the kitchens tonight, someone was going to be breathing from their arse and eating through their ears by night’s end.

Instead, Neville shocked him by calmly, unwaveringly answering his rhetorical question. Straight-faced, he might add. “What about Malfoy?”

“Eh?”

“Malfoy.”

Harry frowned, exasperated. “Does Malfoy look like the type of person who’d go around burgling bon-bons?”

“Honestly?” At his pointed look, Neville continued, “Well ... I’ve seen him around.”

“‘Seen him around,’” he repeated, the skepticism in his tone just shy of tangible. That’s your excuse? Neville, everyone’s seen Malfoy skulking around. It’s not that hard when he’s as wide as he is tall.”

“He’s not that big,” he heard from behind him. Ron’s face was hard and thoughtful as he set the cauldron down. “You can hardly see the paunch bursting out of his robes now.”

“He’s been skulking around the last few nights,” Neville hastened to explain, pausing to concentrate on something. “Around the kitchens, actually.”

Harry pursed his lips. “That’s highly convenient.”

“Very,” Ron chimed.

“And there’s his thyroid problem to consider.”

“Right.”

“So he really ca—hey, hey, hang on! What were you doing near the kitchens?”

“Yeah!” Ron added, rounding the table to mimic his stance.

Neville swallowed, biting his lip. “The Hufflepuff common room’s near there.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Yeah, what does—”

“Ron?”

“Sorry.”

He could tell Neville was skirting around the real answer. A light sheen of sweat polished his forehead despite their substantial distance from the fireplace, and Neville’s even breathing had become a light rale. Narrowing his eyes, Harry eased forward until he was a fingernail’s width from Neville’s nose. He menacingly braced his arms on either side of him, leaning on the chair’s arms.

When Neville’s shifty eyes finally settled on his unmoving gaze, he huskily began, “Neville, don’t lie to me. What were you doing near the kitchens?”

He pursed his lips as Neville hotly exhaled against his mouth in sharp pants. Surely, he was about to crack. Victory was so close, he could taste it. (And it seriously needed a breath mint.)

“All right!” Neville cried, closing his eyes in defeat. Grinning successfully, Harry rose from his hunch and crossed his arms expectantly.

“Tick-tock, Snakemeat. We don’t have all day.”

Neville scowled. “Fine. I was...” he hesitated, slouching further in his chair. “I was on my way back from leaving an unripe Puffapod for Hannah—Hannah Abbott—by the common room entrance and a Chocolate Frog, they’re her favorite sweet—”

“Uh-heh, huh, huh.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You fancy her?” Neville’s cheeks glowed bright pink in response.

Ron chuckled again and moved to stand beside him. “Neville, Neville, Nevile. Mate, you didn’t have to do all that. Puffapods and Frogs—a thing of the past. You want to know how to entice her without bending backwards?” Neville eagerly leaned forward as much as his ropes would allow. “I got seven words for you, mate: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. There, I said it.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose as Neville’s face brightened in wonder. “Does it work?”

Ron snorted. “Does it? Pure gold, man. I’ve got a girlfriend,” he gestured to himself, then to Harry. “Harry had a girlfriend, till he traded her for sweets—yes, I know about it, and I’m still peeved, but we’ll discuss it at a more appropriate time. This book tells you absolutely everything you need to know about witches, even things they don’t know about themselves.”

Neville’s head cocked to the side, clearly intrigued. “Whoa! Like what?”

“‘Like what’ he says! Like ... like girls don’t want us blokes giving them all sorts of gifts,” said Ron. “It makes them feel as if they have to repay us with something of equal value or a practical substitute.

“Like, say, for instance, if I get Hermione a—a bracelet. Reasonably expensive, costs about the same as a Shooting Star, maybe? Now, being of the complex female mentality—”

“Or just being Hermione,” supplied Harry dully.

“Yep, that too, she’ll rationalize that she’ll either have to pay back my generosity with something of equal pricing—like another bracelet—or if she doesn’t want to break the bank—” Ron suddenly smacked the back of his hand into his palm, “—Bam! She’ll hit me with sex.”

Neville’s eyes were dangerously close to popping out of his head. Harry covered his face and groaned into his hands.

“See?” Ron proudly concluded. “Now, I get Hermione a gift every week. Every week. Something small, ‘cos I’m on a budget: a couple of new quills. Scented parchment. New S.P.E.W. buttons for her ten supporters. And sometimes she’ll give me N.E.W.T. study guides or help me with an essay. But other times....” He trailed off with a spicy grin. Neville gaped.

“Fail-safe, mate. Palm of my hand. Palm of my—I’m telling you, Nev, you’ve got to get this book.”

“I thought the Prophet cited it in over three-quarters of the new marriages that are failing?” Harry briskly said.

“It’s a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, it is. Like putting the Elder Wand in the hands of a monkey. The secrets are too much for ordinary men.”

“The ... secrets?” Neville breathlessly said.

Ron nodded. “Aye, to how a woman’s mind works. They don’t want you to know this stuff—our knowledge is their weakness, like ... decency to a Slytherin,” he offered, then motioned to Harry. “Or a vegetable to Harry,” he fearfully explained. “Shampoo to Snape.”

“All right, enough! Can we please get back to the matter at hand?” Harry groused, cowing Ron with a look and turning it on Neville. “Yours is a likely tale, Longbottom—”

“It’s true!”

“—but unless I see some proof—”

“My pocket!” he suddenly burst out. “Check the pocket of my robes. There’s another Chocolate Frog in there with a note attached to it: a note to Hannah.”

Harry stared at him. “Go on. Left pocket. Check it and you’ll see.”

He exchanged a quick glance with Ron before moving cautiously forward. He paused to gauge Neville for any anxious behavior before stooping at his knees. Carefully reaching out, he was inches from diving in before he stopped to glower at Neville once more. “Devil’s Snare’s not going to leap out and drag me down, is it?”

“No, just look.”

Peering at him closely, Harry nodded. Before he continued, he looked back at Ron, who he was pleased to note had his wand out and ready. Hesitating for a moment, Harry slid his hand into Neville’s warm pocket and felt around, pursing his lips when he grazed the flat edge of something in return.

He sat back with a frown holding the usual Chocolate Frog box, only there was something different about it. It seemed someone had replaced the frog insignia with Hannah’s photograph. He noticed it was the same one shown in the Daily Prophet at the end of the battle listing the recovering injured.

When he flipped the carton over, a tiny pink square was Spellotaped on the back. Before he could admit his defeat, he felt his shoulders sag. Damn it. Oh-for-four. Unless Neville was toying with him...?

“See? I had them specially made, and ordered six pounds from Honeydukes,” Neville rushed. “You have to go all the way to person that makes the boxes. Go on, you can read the note.”

Harry tore his eyes from the box to arch an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure?”

Neville nodded in excitement. Obviously he was proud of having brought himself this far. “What good will that do me?”

“You never know,” said Ron, sidling up to read over his shoulder. Shaking his head idly Harry unstuck the square of parchment from the bottom of the box and carefully unfolded it. It took two unfurls before the paper was full-size, no bigger than a playing card. Meeting Neville and Ron’s expectant gazes respectfully Harry held the parchment between his fingers and read the scratchy words crammed from edge to edge in red ink.

With each passing sentence, his eyes grew. His stomach churned. His indifferent frown pulled lower and lower into a horrified gawp. He could feel Ron’s chin lounging on his shoulder on its bid to reach the floor.

His eyes flicked to Neville—the crazy bastard was smiling!—and back to the tiny note that seemed so innocuous ten seconds ago. “‘I want to put the Snarg in your Snargaluff—’”

“‘—And tend your garden ‘til you huff ‘n puff?’ Neville!” Ron exclaimed in awe.

“That is nasty, mate.”

“There was certainly nothing in the book about this.”

Neville’s cheeks glowed like two bright apples and he shyly eyed his lap. “Hannah seems to like it,” he softly confessed. “A lot of Hufflepuffs do, really.”

Harry made an appalled face as he stuck the note back on the carton and tucked it back where he found it. Ron rapped his wand on his chin, humming in agreement. “I have heard that.”

Throwing his best friend a dark look, Harry yanked the wand from his hand and aimed it at the red-faced lecher. “Stupefy!” When Neville drooped against his bonds he slapped the wand in Ron’s chest and turned his back to them, propping on the table, hissing oaths. This was his pattern for the next few moments before he spat out, “Ugh! Do you believe that?”

“Oh, yeah,” agreed Ron, moving to rest on the wooden table. He grunted. “The Huff ‘n Puffs are as kinky as they come.”

“I meant Neville.”

“Oh! Well...” he feebly shrugged, looking over at their unconscious captive. “It sounded true enough.”

“But will it be enough to clear him?”

Ron shrugged again. “That’s up to you, mate.”

He nodded morosely. He was afraid Ron would say that. If he absolved Neville, there was nowhere left to look besides Seamus. If he didn’t, there was still a small chance left to disprove him. And he wasn’t about to take that pervert’s word for anything. Not on all the Chocolate Frogs in the Northern Hemisphere. Or bon-bons. Or any dessert.

Staring intently at the wood design beneath his fingers, Harry nodded firmly to himself. “I’m still keeping an eye on him,” he curtly decided. “I don’t care who he is or what he’s done or who’s snarg he’s a-luffing, he’s still a suspect.”

“Good.”

“I’m not letting him or anyone else get away with this.”

“Great.”

“I mean it. I’m at my wit’s end.”

“Can I go now?”

“I’ll be watching him, though not too close,” he continued. “Who knows what ungodly things they get up to, with—with ... Puffapods and Snargaluffs and all those—wriggling ... fuh-Frogs....” He choked on the words and pressed the back of his hand over his mouth. Even that couldn’t stop the assault of images flashing through his mind of Neville and Hannah and plants and ... Frogs....

Grimacing, Harry slapped a hand over his mouth as his stomach violently churned. “Oh, God...” he groaned, muffled by his hands. “I’m gonna vom.”

“Oh! Oh, no,” Ron objected, leaving his line of sight. His eyes quickly scanned the room for any safe place to be sick besides the front of his robes, Neville’s lap, and Ron’s shoes. The fire was out of the question and the nearest lavatory was two floors down. Harry knew he’d never make it and would probably just end up spewing all over a suit of armor. If only he had a pail or a—cauldron! His eyes darted to the cauldron on the table and it took a split second before he lunged.

As he felt the first chunks rising in his throat, he vaguely heard Ron protest, “No, no, no, no! Not on the toad, mate—agh! Ugh. Oh, Harry....

“I’m not cleaning that up. Nope.”


* * *