Hot Fudge

Hot Fudge

by Mephistedes


***


He couldn’t say he never expected to return to McGonagall’s office so soon. The kitchen elves weren’t loyal to him after all, no matter how much he paid them.

The weight of McGonagall’s disapproving glare was strengthened by Phineas Nigellus and Snape’s intense looks from over her shoulders. Although he couldn’t really tell with Snape’s portrait, as small as it was. Thankfully Dumbledore happened to be napping in his chair, his hand tangled in his long white beard, propping his head up. Or perhaps he’d learned the elements of fake slumber from his wall-mates, since they were old hats at phony snoozing.

With a nervous chuckle, Harry made the first move, reaching into his robes and pulling out a familiar souvenir in hopes of softening the blow to come. “I’ve, uh ... brought your tin back for you, Professor.” He said, setting it atop her desk with care. McGonagall eyed the biscuit tin as if it would suddenly sprout fangs and bite her.

“I haven’t done anything to it. I promise.” He darted out a hand to sweep off a light sheet of dust with a weak laugh. “Just a bit of ... dust, I.... That tartan really makes the room pop, I must say.”

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall began with deceptive calm, “have you been abducting students and members of staff?”

“Heh, no—NO!” he spluttered with an incredulous laugh, wincing as his insides coiled with fear. Good heavens, was the wizarding world so sunshine and daisies carefree that even good old threats held little meaning anymore? “Why, did someone tell you that? Not that they’re telling the truth,” he quickly added.

McGonagall’s eyebrows drew together. “Is that so? So you wouldn’t mind telling me why Eloise Midgen came to my office this morning, crying that you’d abducted her and threatened to harm her toad Malcolm?”

That pockmarked pain in the arse.

He appreciated that in some respects McGonagall was nothing like Dumbledore with his subtle prodding. Always straight to the point, that old bat. He fiddled with a clasp on his robe, avoiding her incisive gaze. “Oh?” he whispered in mild interest. “I have no idea why she’d say that.”

“Really?”

“I’ll handle this, Severus,” she tetchily stated, throwing him a look hard enough to melt the Arctic. After Snape crossed his arms and scowled at the corner of his frame, she again focused on him. “Really, Potter?”

He nodded, breathing hard. “Really. The force of her exploding pimples might have rattled her brain. She’s confused.”

“The boy has a point there, Minerva,” Headmaster Dippet supplied. “I’ve seen the girl; I’m surprised she still has actual skin under those blisters.”

“Yes, thank you, Armando.” Her lips stretched into a line so thin he was sure they could bind books. “And Mr. Longbottom, your own housemate,” she resumed. “He tells me you attacked him with your cauldron without provocation and proceeded, with Mr. Weasley’s assistance, to menace him about Chocolate Frogs. Is he confused as well?”

Why, that sweet-stealing, Hufflepuff-stalking, plant-porking snitch....

“Neville?” His voice cracked halfway in, earning him a celebratory snort from portrait-Snape. He cleared his throat tried to think of something fast to recover with. “Erm, Neville, well ... he’s just confused is all.”

She looked openly unconvinced. “Confused.”

“Yeah ... yeah, see, Romilda Vane was hanging off him like a ratty stole the other day and I had to save him,” he explained, gaining a bit of his old bravado back. “And you know, and I know, and Ron especially knows how sneaky that one is with love potions.” He leaned in slightly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she got to Neville before I did. Er—I mean, got to him before I could rescue him from her clutches.”

“Maybe so,” she woodenly replied, “but that would not explain why Professor Slughorn stormed in here threatening resignation because you Stunned him and awoke him with questions about christened pineapples.”

“Crystallized.”

“Thank you, Albus!” She seethed through her clenched teeth. Harry briefly wondered if they were even hers before she rounded on him with a black look. Perhaps Dumbledore and Snape hadn’t been the only Legilimency experts on staff.

“Mr. Potter,” she drew out his name with a hiss, “do you want to finish your seventh year here at Hogwarts?”

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Uh—yes?” Where was she going with this?

“Well, I can assure you it would be much harder to do so if you were expelled.”

From the way his eyes widened behind his lenses, he was sure McGonagall was seeing his best imitation of Trelawney stammering at her. “I-I ... beg your pardon, ma’am?”

McGonagall laced her liver-spotted fingers together and eased forward on her desk to deliver a powerful stare. “The world is watching you, Mr. Potter. They’ve seen you as a hero in all your years of life, but since the start of this year, all I’ve witnessed is a distracted little boy who will not properly acknowledge the weaknesses that afflict him.” Her sharp words were like knives in the dark, springing at him from all directions. He winced, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, but the vein twitching near her tight hairline stopped him.

“You are not a hero, Potter. Not if you can’t face your inabilities and turn them into strengths. Only then can you consider bearing that title again. You survived this long to defeat the Dark Lord only to find the one thing that could bring about your destruction is yourself.

“If you want to leave this school with the honor you so rightly earned by bringing down Voldemort, I suggest you cease and desist this nonsense, clear the kitchens of the rest of your sweets—yes, I know—focus on your less than remarkable academic performance, and conclude any further plans to abduct my staff and your fellow peers.”

Biting his lip, he unthinkingly added, “And Ambrosius Flume.” When her nostrils flared, he held up his hands to stall her potential conniption. “Allegedly.”

McGonagall remained stoic. “You’re dismissed. You’ve got a kitchen to clean out. I suggest you do it sooner rather than later.”

“I’m on my way, ma’am.” Taking the hint, he was on his feet and halfway to the door, amazed that he’d survived this time around. He could feel her eyes on him since the moment he left his chair, and he knew he really had no room to take chances. But it’d been several hours since he’d had his usual fill of sweets. Perhaps, just maybe, he could get away with asking, just this once....

“Um ... Professor?” he asked, halfway over the threshold already. Her beady eyes glittered with impatience. “I was wondering if you restocked your biscuits? You didn’t have any last time, and you did offer—”

“Get out of here, Potter.”

“I will handle this, Severus,” she fumed through pressed lips as tight as the bun on her head. Turning to him with a cross expression, McGonagall barked, “Get out of here, Potter!”

“Getting out, ma’am.”

Harry snapped the door shut behind him and slunk down the winding steps and through the corridors, bursting with despair. That went surprisingly better than he’d expected. He’d had the niggling feeling that he’d forgot to do something, only realizing now that he hadn’t made an attempt to shield his identity. As well, his threats hadn’t held. Next time—or rather if he ever found himself in that situation again, he’d be more careful. Or he’d just get Hermione to tag along. Things were easier when she was around.

But even as he bristled about his thickness, he realized McGonagall had been right. Too long had he ignored his sordid little nightmares starring Voldemort. The sweets had become his crutch since emerging some two weeks after Voldemort’s final burning.

Back then, he’d thought nothing of them; they were just lingering delusions of a dying Horcrux, he assumed. And then Nagini started joining them in bed, and Voldemort began demanding sex and wearing increasingly less clothing and the next thing he knew, he’d gulped down every sweet Grimmauld Place had to offer. The dreams went away, for a short time, until he ate something sweet. Soon, sweets became his tonic, like a Wolfsbane Potion to calm the raging wolf laying waste to his mind.

He’d of course talked about it with his best friends, but they were busy mourning their losses and he hadn’t wanted to disturb them. Telling Ginny was never an option, a gaffe he was still paying for as she hadn’t spoken to him since breaking things off. Actually, she’d ended things after discovering he was only using her to get to Molly’s fudge. It was only by sheer grace that she hadn’t told Ron, else horny Voldemort would no longer have been a problem; Ron would most assuredly have killed him for upsetting his sister.

Come October, he had already built a steady diet around his obsession. Instead of facing it head on like a hero, he had run. He’d become the very thing he despised the most: a coward. Even thinking the word made his knees buckle. God, he needed something savory and doused in powdered sugar right now.

He froze on the spot, shaking his head. No, no he didn’t. He was going to beat this. He was going to face it head on like McGonagall’s hero. It was time to become the hero he’d long since forgotten he’d become.

Then his stomach gave a rolling gurgle in protest.

Tomorrow, he resolved with a grimace, patting his roiling belly. He’d start, first thing. Right now, he could wallow in a nice pudding or two. Or eight. Eight sounded nice.

He continued his wistful walk all the way to the portrait of the bowl of fruit. It wasn’t overly strident, but he could hear the faint clanking of pots and pans from behind the painting. Dinner must have been over by now. What lovely desserts had he missed this time? The very thought of missing out on something spectacular made him feel as if a hole was slowly eating through his middle.

Extending a hand, he frantically tickled the pear and hopped back to give it room to swing forward. The clanging of cookware was much more jarring now, but he still ducked into the hidden kitchens with urgency.

No sooner than he’d pulled the door shut was he bombarded by fresh afters and sandwiches and pitchers of pumpkin juice by eager-to-please house-elves. Rolling his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, “I don’t have time for this. Itzy!”

Not a moment later he heard the excited scurrying of several feet in numerous directions and didn’t open his eyes until he heard that familiar voice. “Itzy is here to serve Master Harry Potter, the victor of the Dark Lord, defender of Kreacher’s—”

“Yeah, sure, look: I’ve got to get my things and maybe a pudding or six to go. McGonagall’s still on her mood swing and wants me to get everything out of here before she tosses it,” he quickly explained. “Is everything where it usually is?”

“Yes, sir, but Itzy must—”

“Good. I’ll be in and out in a blink, mate; you won’t even know I’m here.”

“Yes, but Itzy must warn Master Harry that—”

“I know, McGonagall’s been down here, and Neville, I’ll bet, even though I’m certain he’s lying,” he sneered the last bit, steering a course through the house-elves scrubbing the wares back to their spotless splendor and putting tonight’s leftovers away. “I’m just going to grab a snack—ooh, is that cobbler? Save me some too, yeah?—and I’ll be gone. I’ll need to find a place to put everything, though. Definitely not the dorms: Seamus could smell strawberry mousse through a Gringott’s vault.”

He narrowly avoided a precarious stack of floating plates as he rounded tables piled high with dirty dishes. He peered sternly down at Itzy. “Speaking of which, he hasn’t been here, has he?”

“No, Harry Potter sir, but Itzy must be telling Master Potter about—”

“I’m only asking because I really haven’t thought of him before. He’s always nosing after my sweets, and trying to get his grubby hands on them,” he groused. “He saves a few lives, defies a despotic rule under the Carrows and he thinks he’s hot shit. You know, I haven’t forgot about fifth year when he didn’t believe me about Voldemort returning. Wasn’t so cheeky then, was he?”

“Please!” Itzy breathlessly shouted, struggling to keep pace. “Itzy must warn Harry Potter about—”

“Warn me? About what?” he suddenly froze, narrowing his eyes.

From the way Itzy shook her head with such intensity, he feared the worst. Dread blossomed in his chest and made the hole where his stomach had been fearfully larger.

He leaned on a cart with fruit bowls for support and gripped his middle. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me Professor McGonagall ordered my sweets destroyed? Ohh, I knew the biscuit question was overreaching!”

He made a mad dash for the other side, his view blocked by heaps of uneaten food and dishes clean and dirty alike. Itzy was hot on his heels, calling for him to slow down, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not until he saw the devastation for himself. “You saved a little something, right? A Frog? A Cauldron Cake? A bloody bon-bon? Tell me you at least saved a Pumpkin Pasty with all the gold I’ve been giving you!”

“Itzy does not accept wages!”

“That’s good and well, because I’m sacking you anyway!”

He had several near misses with the goblets and overturned a bucket of dirty mop water. Still, he urged his legs to carry him faster toward the mountain of dinnerware that was his destination. There he’d find the small abandoned prepping area where he’d paid to keep his cache of Honeydukes’ finest. His heart was thudding wildly against his breastbone as he prepared himself for the worst. What would he find? Empty boxes? Full boxes? No boxes? McGonagall wouldn’t be that cruel, would she? Unless she leapt off the mood swing and hopped on her menstrual cycle already?

God, if there were no sweets left.... He could already see visions of Voldemort licking at the edge of his vision, doing a one-person tango in a frilly nightgown with Nagini draped across his shoulders. Oh no, oh no, ohgodohgodohgod! If that was what was waiting for him tonight, he might as well just left Ron know about Ginny so he could die and be done with it.

Finally, he was four strides away from reaching the end of the kitchen. Just beyond the massive stack of cups and plates and platters, two steps, one.... He skidded around Mount China and ground to a halt, his side in stitches and his eyes bulging from his sockets.

No way.

Impossible.

Unbe-fucking-lievable.


***