Harry Potter and the Chocolate Factory

Chapter One

Finders Weepers

It was June, not so very long after the funeral of Albus Dumbledore. Most of the students had already packed their bags and left for home. But not Harry. Oh, he had some vague ideas about going back to Privet Drive for a bit, but despite all his noble proclamations, he really wasn't in a hurry to start searching out the horcruxes. Sounded like a lot of work, and anyway, once Voldemort was dead, Harry's career as the Most Special Wizard Alive was over and he didn't relish that prospect in the slightest.

So there he was, laying on his stomach in the Gryffindor common room, paging through a Sultry Sorceresses magazine and feeling particularly smug that those male hormones had finally kicked in. He was so immersed in his perusal of Vonda Wetbody's good bits that he was completely oblivious to his surroundings until the sudden slamming of a door caused him to jump up in alarm. He hastily stuffed the magazine down the front of his pants, where it made a large and very obvious bulge. "Yeah?" he called innocently, hoping to forestall any questioning.

But it was only Colin Creevey. "Oh, there you are, Harry!" he exclaimed - giggling girlishly, as usual. "Ron didn't know where you were - didn't think you'd heard the news -- "

"News?" Harry's brow wrinkled. What could it be? A Death Eater attack? Someone at the Ministry killed? Was he going to be forced to get off his ass and fulfil his destiny after all?

"Yes!" chattered Colin, oblivious both to Harry's thought process and the padding in his pants. "Willy Wonka is going to open his factory to five lucky children!" He beamed.

Harry frowned, took out his wand, and used it to chase down an annoying itch in his hair. "Who the blazes is Willy Wonka?" he asked, scratching away.

Colin gaped. "Why, don't you know? He's the wizard who makes all the magical sweets!" He paused. "At least I guess he's a wizard. . . "

"I thought the sweets were made by Honeydukes and Bertie Botts."

"Well, they make some, yes, but they also buy from Wonka. Wonka's a genius! He can do anything with candy!" Colin's eyes sparkled.

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything!"

"Can he make it taste like pork?" Harry vastly preferred pork chops to candy.

"Uhh. . . " Colin was evidently dying to ask why anyone would want to make chocolate taste like pork, but didn't dare question his idol. "Sure."

"All right." Harry shrugged. "I'm ready to go." He caught the look on Colin's face. "What? I mean, I must be one of the ones who's invited, seeing as how I'm the Boy-Who-Lived." Colin was shaking his head. Harry's mouth fell open in outrage. "You mean I'm not?"

"Mr. Wonka doesn't seem to care about You-Know-Who and all that," Colin explained apologetically. "If you want to go into his chocolate factory, you have to find a Golden Ticket."

"Oh, do I?" growled Harry between clenched teeth. "And just where do you look for those?" He began rolling up his sleeves.

"They're hidden inside Wonka bars -- "

"Right!" Harry shoved Colin aside and stalked out the portrait door. The students who remained were running frenetically through the corridors, some waving their arms over their heads and banging off of walls and exclaiming something that sounded very like 'Gahttufinuhticktohmiighddd!!!,' but Harry ignored them all. He was a man on a mission.

Let it be said that Harry did not particularly care about the prize. Until five minutes ago, he'd never heard of Willy Wonka, and if he wanted chocolate, all he had to do was run to his ex-professor Lupin and take a dementor lesson. But to his mind, this Mr. Wonka had a heck of a lot of nerve not knowing who Harry Potter was and not specifically inviting him to the factory.

Harry would find a Golden Ticket if it killed him -- if only so he could gain admittance to the factory and kick Willy Wonka up the arse.

* * * * *

"Hey, Remus, have you heard the news?"

Remus Lupin looked up from his tea into the excited face of Sirius Black. "Oh, are you back again?" he asked unenthusiastically.

Sirius frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're dead, Sirius. Sometimes I wish you'd act like it. Especially since you couldn't be bothered to leave me so much as a single Knut in your will," he muttered into his teacup.

Sirius didn't hear him, or perhaps he was oblivious to the comment. Having never been poor himself, Sirius could be thick about such things. "Have you heard the news?" he repeated impatiently.

"What, that Harry's finally discovered his testicles? Yes, it's been fairly obvious. Trying to snog everything he can wrap his tongue around."

"No, no no - although speaking of snogging, I'm not sure I approve of what you're doing with my cousin - I'm referring to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory!"

"What about it?"

"He's letting people in!"

"Any free samples?" asked Lupin, already halfway out of his chair.

"Probably - Hold your horses, Moony, it's only for five people."

Lupin paused in putting on his cloak, then sighed and hung it back on his hook. "I should have known there'd be a catch. Okay, which five people?"

"The five who find Golden Tickets."

"Golden Tickets," Lupin repeated. "I suppose it's too much to hope that they're laying around on the ground, like Easter eggs?"

"No. They're hidden inside Wonka bars." Sirius grinned. "C'mon, let's have a go."

Lupin stared at Sirius, incredulous. Had the man actually overlooked the peeling paper on the walls, the rickety bits of furniture with stuffing coming out the seams - not to mention Remus's own patched and tattered clothing. "Have a go with what, precisely?"

"At finding a ticket, of course!"

"I was referring to my finances, actually. Sirius, I cannot afford to buy chocolate bars by the dozen. I can't even afford to buy one. I can't even afford to take Nymphadora out to dinner. Why, the last time we had coffee together she had to pay -- " He suddenly remembered something Sirius had said a moment earlier. "I say, you haven't been spying on us, have you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Only a little."

"How little?" asked Lupin, eyes narrowing.

Sirius shrugged. "A couple hours every day. Or night. Tuesday night was particularly interesting. Glad to see you finally discovered your testicles too."

"Sirius!" Lupin's pale cheeks flamed. "I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my love life!"

"That's cold, Moony." Sirius managed to make his lower lip wobble. "I mean, what am I to do for entertainment, being dead and everything?"

"I have no idea what dead people do for a thrill," said Lupin coldly, "outside of tormenting the living, that is."

Sirius beamed. "Exactly!"

Lupin sighed. "Well, stop it. You're going to cool my ardor."

"That might not be a bad thing at your age." Sirius jigged impatiently up and down. "So, are you going to have a go?" he asked before Lupin could demand to know precisely what he meant by the age comment.

"You weren't listening, were you?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're poor, yada, yada. Heard it before, Moony. Now let's go buy a Wonka bar."

Lupin got up and crossed to a small safe sitting on an old table. There was nearly an inch of dust on the top. He spun the lock and opened the door.

A couple moths flew out.

"My life savings," said Lupin quietly.

Sirius frowned, puzzled. "Oh." He considered.

While he was considering, there was the sound of running feet outside. Alarmed, both men rose, their hands going for their wands (Sirius forgetting, once more, that he was dead and couldn't do a damn thing). A moment later, the door burst open with a bang. Framed in the entrance stood Harry Potter, panting, his eyes wild, a large and disturbing bulge in the vicinity of his groin. "I need some dementor lessons, quick!" he gasped.

"Whatever for?" asked Lupin. "You can already conjure a Patronus."

"Err, I forgot. Teach me again!" Harry advanced, face pleading.

"Forgot? Don't be ridiculous. You conjured one for your OWLs, I hear." Lupin considered. "I suppose I could teach you how to communicate with your Patronus, like the Order does -- "

"No, no!" Harry shook his head. "I need to face a dementor."

"Why? No - hang on a second. What's that in your trousers?"

"Oh, uh. . . nothing." Whistling, Harry nonchalantly waggled his hips until the forgotten Sultry Sorceresses magazine slid down his right leg. Now he had a bulging kneecap, but as that was far less disturbing, Lupin decided to ignore it.

"So why are you going on about dementors?" he asked.

"I, err, want to learn to call one up the way the Ministry does?" Harry offered.

"Why on earth would you want to learn anything like that? And why would I teach you, even if I knew how - which I don't," he added hastily.

"You do know how, don't you, Moony?" murmured Sirius.

"Shut up."

"Oh, come on, Remus," Sirius wafted lazily towards the ceiling. "If the boy needs a lesson, teach him. Why not? You love to teach."

"The operative word here is 'need'. It makes no sense that - hang on." Lupin scowled. "This doesn't have anything to do with Wonka's chocolate factory, does it?"

"Why, no," replied Harry, widening his eyes. "How do you figure that?"

"Because whenever you face dementors, I shove chocolate at you." Lupin laughed hoarsely. "Well, forget it, Harry. I don't have any chocolate on me. And as I was just telling Sirius here, I can't afford to buy any."

"Oh, please!" cried Harry, abandoning all pretense.

"Harry, I can't afford it."

Harry attempted emotional blackmail: "You owe me for all those Christmas and birthday presents you never bought me."

Lupin folded his arms. "Do I? Well, it just so happens I couldn't afford those either, sorry." And turning his back on the Boy-Who-lived, he began shuffling through some papers on his desk. They were old and unimportant, but perhaps Harry would take the hint and leave.

He didn't. "How about you, godfather Sirius?" he pleaded. "Could you buy me a bar or two of chocolate?"

"Eh?" Sirius blinked. "I'm dead. You inherited all my money." (Lupin growled a little under his breath.) "Why don't you use that?"

"Because I'm saving that for something important," Harry explained. "That's why I sponge off other people as often as I can."

"Commendable, but I don't have any money. Can't take it with you, you know."

Harry looked tearfully at Lupin. "And you. . . ?"

"Feel free to search my house if you like, Harry, but you'll find no money."

Harry took Lupin at his word and searched. He found some interesting objects, which he pocketed, but no money. "Bah!" he wailed, once he had thoroughly ransacked the place.

Lupin gazed at the wreckage of his home. And just half an hour earlier, he'd thought it couldn't look much worse. "Yes, 'bah' for me too."

"It isn't right," continued Harry miserably, "I want it more than anyone in the world. The whole wide world." He seemed to have regressed; he was smaller than usual and his voice had shot up to a pre-adolescent squeak. Lupin grimaced.

"You'll just have to use your own money, I'm afraid," he said, but Harry shook his head.

"I can't do that. Guess I'll just have to give up on my dream." He turned and sadly toddled out the door. Somewhere overhead, a disembodied voice began singing a soft, encouraging song with lyrics like 'Cheer up, Harry. Give me a smile.'

Sirius watched Harry go, frowning thoughtfully. "Hey, Remus," he said at length, "I suppose you could have used a little of my cash, couldn't you?"

Remus had gone back to his tea. "Oh, just a bit, Padfoot," he replied in a perfectly even tone. "Just a bit."

* * * * *

Oh, it was so not right! How was he going to find a Golden Ticket now? He couldn't afford to buy a chocolate bar - not without cracking into his Gringotts account and spending a few of the six or seven hundred thousand Galleons in there, at any rate. Harry shed bitter tears as he wandered the streets, his arms wrapped around his skinny, shivering body, forgetting entirely that it was June and rather warm at that. He did take a certain pleasure in pointing his wand at the sky and aiming a curse at the disembodied voice. There was a chicken-like squawk and the song cut off abruptly. Good. He'd been getting a headache.

Well, nothing for it but to return to Hogwarts and eat a bowl of watery cabbage soup, he lamented. Probably give him gas too.

And just as he was working up to a new and hateful round of sniveling, something in the gutter caught his eye. Something bluish and papery, not much to look at on first appraisal, but Harry knelt for a closer inspection. . .

It was a five pound note. With a 'bah!' of triumph, Harry plucked it from the refuse. A moment later, it was trembling lightly in his excited grip.

"Please, sir," said a weak little voice in his ear. Harry turned his head to behold a small and ragged boy looking at him beseechingly. "That's my money. A gust of wind yanked it from my fingers -- "

Harry spotted a chocolate shop and dashed for it, bowling the little boy completely over in his haste. He banged the door shut on the rest of whatever the child was saying, and took a deep, greedy gulp of the sugar-flavored air, scenting victory along with the candy.

"I want a Wonka bar!" he announced to the proprietor, laying the five pound note on the counter. A hungry little face was pressed against the shop window, but Harry expertly ignored it.

"What kind?"

"Umm. . . " Harry studied the labels. "Umm, a Tutti-Frutti-Nutty-Crunchy-Toffee-Munchy-Fudgy-Whipply-Ripply-Marshmallow-Whizbang-Whirlo-Delight," he decided at last. It was the longest title. Size was very important to Harry.

"Here you go," said the proprietor, who'd had the chocolate bar ready before Harry had finished saying the name. He rang up Harry's change, but Harry had already snatched up the bar and left. He flew back towards Hogwarts on swift, sure tiptoes, knocking over the boy in the street one final time as he did so.

Safely ensconced in the Gryffindor common room, Harry could hear the excited voices of his classmates outside. He cackled to himself. Let the poor fools search all they wanted - he knew that he, the Boy-Who-Lived, was the one who would actually find the coveted Golden Ticket. He stroked the bar lovingly, pressed it against his cheek. He even licked it, but the red-and-gold wrapper didn't taste very good.

Ah, well, here goes nothing, he thought, and tore the shining paper down the center. He was instantly rewarded with a flash of gold.

Harry blinked. What the heck? He peeled the wrapper back more carefully, thinking that perhaps he'd just seen a flash of foil.

Nope. It was a Golden Ticket all right. Stained with chocolate from being clutched in Harry's hot, moist hand, but definitely a ticket.

"Bah!" exclaimed Harry indignantly. Damn, that had been far too easy! Just took the top off the whole thing. Disgusted with the whole Wonka business, he crumpled up the ticket and stuffed it deep into a rubbish bin. He left the chocolate bar to melt on the rug - he wasn't going to have to clean it up, after all.

Harry wandered off to fetch his Firebolt, wanting to wash away the whole wasted afternoon. Perhaps he'd try flying around the towers and peering into the girls' dormitories again. That was a frequently rewarding activity.

* * * * *

It was growing dark by the time Harry returned, tired but satisfied with the peeping that he'd accomplished. He was all ready to get back to his magazines -- provided Ron hadn't nicked them again - and had almost completely forgotten about the tickets. So he was caught completely off-guard when he stepped through the portrait door and Ron practically leapt into his face brandishing one. For an instant, he thought Ron had gotten a boogey stuck on his fingers and wanted him to wipe it off. It had happened before. But --

"LookHarryIfoundaGoldenTicketI'mgonnagettogotothefactoryit'sminewhoopee!" Ron shouted.

"Oh." Harry looked disinterestedly at the ticket in Ron's hand. Damn, those things really were easy to find, weren't they? Stupid Willy Wonka probably printed five million of them instead of five - it was the only way to explain how a shite-poor moron like Ron could have found one. Harry allowed himself a small, condescending chuckle. "Well, congratulation, Ron," he oozed.

Neville's congratulations were more sincere. "Gee, you're so lucky, Ron," he said wistfully. "Promise to tell me all about it."

"Sure," agreed Ron.

"Can I hold it for minute?" asked Dean Thomas. All the Gryffindors were clustering around him. Harry's smugness faltered as jealousy began to seep in. Since when had Ron been worthy of so much attention?

He turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Hermione had just entered through the portrait door. Harry opened his mouth, thinking he had found an ally, that together they could commiserate, maybe poke fun at Ron's stuck-up behavior. But the words died in his throat. Hermione had a bright, eager look on her face.

And she was carrying something shiny in her right hand.

"I found a Golden Ticket too!" she shouted, waving it above her head.

"Wow! That's terrific, Hermione! We can go together!" Ron pulled her in for a smooch, and excited Gryffindors, barraging them with questions, instantly engulfed the pair.

Harry ground his teeth as he did a slow burn. So much for support. Just how many of the stupid things had Willy Wonka printed after all?

Oh, well. Perhaps it was better to simply ignore the excitement in the common room. It would surely blow over once the other fifteen thousand ticket finders cashed in. To distract himself, Harry turned on the radio. There was a brief trill of lively music, which abruptly cut off, to be replaced by an announcer's voice.

". . . This just in! The third Wonka Golden Ticket has been found by a Muggle! Yes, my fellow wizards, a Muggle boy will be joining the other happy finders on the fabulous factory tour. Here with us now is none other than lucky ticket holder number three, Dudley Dursley!"

Harry's mouth fell open even as he tried to make excuses in his head. Surely it couldn't be his cousin. The world was probably cram-packed with Dudley Dursleys. It had to be some other -

"Could you say a few words for us, Dudley?"

"Yeah, sure," answered a voice that was unmistakably his cousin's. A small 'bah!' of outrage slipped past Harry's lips. "I'd just finished working out at the gym - I'm the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast, don't you know -- and I was really, really hungry. Always am, after a workout - often feel like I can't wait until dinner. So I just stopped off in this drugstore on my way home to grab a snack, and there was this strange chocolate bar sitting on the shelf. Never seen that type before, but man, it was huge! A great bargain. So I bought it and -- "

Harry snapped off the radio and sunk into a brood. Dudley had found a Golden Ticket. Good God, what was the world coming to?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, Lavender Brown came bursting through the door. "Pansy Parkison just told me Draco Malfoy's found the fourth Golden Ticket!" she shrieked.

"No!"

"Damn!"

"Aww, not a Slytherin!"

"Only one left now!"

"BAH!!!!"

Everyone turned at Harry's outburst. His teeth were clenched, his face the color of ketchup. "Bah!" he repeated, just for good measure. "Anyone can find a Golden Ticket, so stop acting like it's so special!"

"Well, no," replied Hermione, speaking slowly, as if she were talking to a young and very thick child, "Willy Wonka only printed five Golden Tickets, so Draco's finding one means there's only one left."

Harry snorted. "Nonsense!"

"No, really, Harry!" Neville insisted. "I've bought a dozen bars and haven't found a thing."

"Yeah, but you're a loser. Okay, I'll prove it." Harry sprinted out of the room and, forgetting entirely that he hadn't intended to spend any of his Gringotts gold on chocolate, bought a bar off the nearest house elf (they were selling the bars on the black market). He returned to the common room and plumped back down in his chair. "Just watch!" He tore the wrapper open.

A plain brown bar of chocolate fell into his lap.

"Watch what?" asked Seamus pointedly.

Harry picked the bar of chocolate up and turned it over, puzzled. "Bah?"

There was simply nothing else there.

"See?" said Hermione. "You'd have to be incredibly lucky to find the last ticket."

Harry gritted his teeth at her know-it-all tone, raced back outside, came back with another bar. "Okay, so that one was a dud. But this one -- "

Just chocolate.

"Bah! Well, third time's the -- "

Another dud.

"Well. . . well. . . surely this -- "

No ticket. . .

Four hours and nine hundred and fifty-eight bars later, Harry paused to scratch his head. Most people had long since lost interest in his obsession and drifted away, but Ron and Hermione stayed, Ron looking astounded, Hermione smug.

"Ready to give up yet?" she asked.

"I just don't get it," said Harry.

Hermione carefully maneuvered her way past the mounds of chocolate and discarded wrappers and sat in one of the squashy chairs. "What don't you understand? There's only one ticket left and there are millions of Wonka bars. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"But - but -- "

And finally the truth hit Harry. "Bah!" he cried, leaping headfirst into the rubbish bin.

"What are you doing, Harry?" goggled Ron.

"Bah! Bah! Bah!" Harry shifted through the can. Then he withdrew his head and dumped it own the floor, searching frantically. . . "Where is it, where is it?" Clotted tissues, broken quills, crumpled parchment, dried-up bubble gum, a used condom - ooh, naughty!

But no Golden Ticket. The house elves must have emptied this bin while he was out peeping.

"Bah!" he squealed and dashed out of the common room looking like a madman, wrappers caught in his hairs, face flaming red and stained with chocolate. . .

Ron gaped after him. "Harry's gone mental! The chocolate must have affected his brain."

Hermione harrumphed and took out a book. "Don't be silly, Ron. Harry hasn't got a brain."

* * * * *

The house elves had already dumped the trash into Hogwart's main garbage chute. A mound of smelly rubbish was piled up at the bottom, waiting to be vanished in the morning.

Well, there was nothing else for it. Harry dove down the chute.

Eight stench-filled hours later, Harry emerged clutching the crumpled ticket he'd shoved into the rubbish bin half a day ago. "I found a Golden Ticket!" he shrieked triumphantly to the golden-pink morn. A seagull looked at him, scandalized, then flew off to have breakfast someplace quieter.

Tired but triumphant, Harry headed for the common room, thinking of all the praise and admiration he'd receive when he got there. Despite the thick layer of garbage that coated him, he felt a deep satisfaction; at least this way it had been a bit of a challenge.

Halfway to the common room, he suddenly realized that he probably could have summoned the ticket with the 'Accio' spell.

Oh, well. He didn't have to tell anyone about that.

* * * * *

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Hermione, dropping her fork with a clatter. She'd been reading the back of her ticket. Astoundingly, she'd been too excited to read it before.

"What?" asked Ron, looking up from his fried eggs. It had never even occurred to him that there might be something written on the tickets. He peered over her shoulder.

"It says all children must be accompanied by a parent or guardian!" she answered. She looked most discouraged. Ron merely shrugged.

"We're seventeen. We're legally adults."

Hermione cleared her throat and read off the ticket: "P.S. By 'children,' I also mean nauseating adolescents. That means anyone under the age of twenty. In fact, I might just include it to anyone under the age of thirty. Not that forty-year-olds are that trustworthy either. . . " She looked up. "The writing kind of trails off from there."

Ron frowned. "Weird man, this Willy Wonka."

"Ron, what am I going to do? My parents are dentists! A trip to a candy factory is right on the same level as a trip to Hell in their eyes!"

"Oh." Ron thought. This required more effort than should have been necessary. "I know! Just say you're twenty. Put on a gray wig, really thick glasses, and false buckteeth and Wonka will never guess!"

There was a bit of a pause.

"Lot of twenty-year-olds running around with gray hair and buckteeth, then?" Hermione asked coolly.

"Errr, well, my aunt Mavis -- "

"Never mind. I have an idea. I'll just ask one of the teachers. I'm sure they're all dying to get in."

"Not me," chuckled Dumbledore, appearing out of nowhere. "I'm already dead."

Hermione let out a perfectly forgivable shriek for seeing her ex-Headmaster drifting so nearby. Ron promptly wet himself on principle.

"Oh, no need for that, no need for that." Dumbledore cleaned Ron's trousers with a negligent wave of his wand. He looked exactly the same as he had in life, only slightly more befuddled. "Don't worry; I'm not a nasty. In fact, I've come back to Earth to volunteer my services. I shall be your guardian." He beamed.

"But. . . but. . . " Ron quavered, "shouldn't you be in Heaven or something?"

"My dear boy, do you really imagine Heaven can compare to the world's largest chocolate factory?"

Well, he had a point there, thought Hermione, recovering.

"So I'm coming with, right?" said Dumbledore brightly.

"Err. . . I think Dad'll want to come with me and see all the machinery," said Ron, who was still in shock.

"I wasn't talking to you, stupid boy." Dumbledore looked expectantly at Hermione.

"Well. . . well. . . certainly. All right." Hermione had been brought up to be polite to Headmasters, even dead one. Besides, it did solve her dilemma.

She regretted it a moment later when Dumbledore beamed so hugely his false teeth fell out.

"Ooh, brilliant!" he squealed, picking them up and shoving them back into his mouth with less attention than she felt the action deserved - she was almost certain he'd put them in upside-down. "I've always wanted to know how chocolate was made!"

"Couldn't you just. . . I dunno, float through the wall and take a look now that you're dead?" asked the finally-recovered Ron.

Dumbledore burst into tears. "Had to bring that up, did you?" he wailed, and vanished with a poof, leaving the smell of unwashed socks behind.

Ron gave Hermione a confused look. "I thought he brought it up himself?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," she consoled him.

"Okay. Want to snog?"

Harry burst through the doors. "There you are! I found a Golden Ticket!" A whiff of sewage entered the room along with him and began to do battle with the old sock aroma.

Hermione waved her wand to clear the atmosphere. "Just where did you find the Golden Ticket?" she asked, trying not to gag.

"Err. . . in a chocolate bar?"

It was so blatantly and pitifully a lie that Hermione lost all interest in pursuing the matter further. "Well, congratulations," she said, tallying up her factory companions in her mind. Harry and Ron. Draco Malfoy. Oh, yes, and Dumbledore, of course. Perhaps she should just sell her ticket off to the highest bidder. . .

Oh, who was she fooling? She didn't want to imagine how Dumbledore would react if she told him he couldn't go after all. But it did remind her - "You have to be accompanied by an adult," she informed Harry.

"Bah? I'm almost adult."

Hermione gestured to Harry's ticket. Harry flipped it over and read the back, his lips moving laboriously. "Bah!" he repeated when he'd finished. "What's this all about? I mean, it's not like I'm going to go round sticking my tongue into every puddle of chocolate I see!"

"You're not?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Harry quickly backpedaled. "Well, adults do that kind of thing too. Besides, I don't know any adults besides my aunt and uncle, and I wouldn't let them wipe my bottom, even if it were really smelly and itchy and needed it badly."

"Couldn't you wipe it yourself?" asked Ron, missing the point. Hermione dug an elbow into his ribs.

"Of course you know adults, Harry. Ask one of the teachers. Professor McGonagall, for instance -- "

"I'd be terrified."

"Well, how about Hagrid?" Harry just gave her a look until she squirmed. "Er, I see your point. How about Professor Flitwick? Or Professor Sprout?"

"Oh, come on, I hardly know them! Besides, who wants to go with a teacher?"

"You have to take somebody, Harry. Wait, how about Lupin?"

"Lupin?" Harry looked astonished. "He's a werewolf."

"There's nothing on the ticket that says werewolves aren't allowed in."

"Yes there is!"

"No there isn't."

"I saw it."

"No, you didn't, Harry," Hermione told him wearily. "Read it again."

Harry read it again. Hermione was, of course, correct. He scowled and decided it was more important for him to be right than truthful. "Says right here, 'no werewolves.'"

Hermione plucked his ticket out of his fingers before he could react and handed him her own. "There. My ticket doesn't say anything about 'no werewolves,' so now you can take Lupin."

"Oh, all right." Harry sulked. He hadn't forgiven Lupin for refusing to buy a chocolate bar for him and couldn't see why he should reward such behavior. "I suppose I'll go tell him now." He stood and a bit of rancid orange peel fell off the seat of his pants.

"Why not wash first?" Hermione suggested, gazing distastefully at the trail of rubbish Harry had brought in with him. "It's only a little after eight, after all. He may still be in bed."

"Good." Harry mooched out the door, hands stuck deep in his pockets and lower lip thrust out. Clearly he intended to make this as unpleasant as possible for all parties concerned. Hermione once again considered auctioning her ticket off. . . but no. She was a Gryffindor, dammit, and she was brave and strong and clever! Besides, she sat up half the night reading books on chocolate-making techniques, and she was just dying to ask Willy Wonka which ones he used. Perhaps she could even give him advice on how to improve his chocolate works if his machinery was out of date.

She was quite sure he'd be delighted to benefit from her intelligent and well-researched knowledge. Why not? Everyone else was - even if they sometimes had difficulty showing their gratitude. That was the one bit Hermione never quite understood.

"Hey!" cried Ron, breaking into her thoughts, "the tour's scheduled for the tenth of June - that's tomorrow! Mr. Wonka didn't give people much time to find the tickets, did he?"

"Well, he must have known that everyone would rush out and start buying chocolate bars like mad. He could have put all the tickets into the first five boxes he shipped out. There are ways of controlling these things." Hermione picked up her fork again, thinking about the eleven books on chocolate that she still had up in her room. Did she have time to read them all before tomorrow? Well, certainly she could read them all, but would she be able to make notes and memorize certain passages to spit back out in case Mr. Wonka asked a few questions? That was trickier. Perhaps she should just select seven or eight of the more intensive books and concentrate on them.

Hermione heaved a sigh of martyrdom. Yes, it was a wrench, but it was probably for the best.

* * * * *

"I want to go with you!"

"No!"

"Sweetie, Mumsy would really like -- "

"No, no, no!"

"Forget about Mumsy! Auntie Bellatrix wants to go!"

"Absolutely not!"

"I'm the Dark Lord! I will accompany young Malfoy!"

"Err. . . no."

Draco was having a rather hard time of it. No sooner had it been discovered that he required an adult to accompany him on the trip than volunteers had come swarming into Malfoy Manor. Big mean volunteers. Death Eater Volunteers.

Including Voldemort himself. Draco cast a quick, sidelong glance at the Dark Lord. He was throwing a sulking fit, kicking at the walls and muttering nasty imprecations to Nagini. So far, the only two who hadn't asked to go along were Fenrir Greyback and Severus Snape - or 'The Evil One,' as people had taken to calling him recently.

"Let me go with you boy - or I'll eat you!" smirked Greyback, ending that distinction. He bared his yellow teeth and Draco quailed.

"Uhh. . . " Draco glanced at Snape. If he put his two cents in, everyone else would back down. But he seemed perfectly uninterested.

"I am perfectly uninterested," said Snape, snatching the wandering thought out of Draco's head with an air of bored superiority. "Hate chocolate. Disgusting, sticky brown stuff. Reminds me of that blasted werewolf."

"Eh?" asked Greyback, offended.

"Not you! Lupin!"

"I like chocolate too!"

Snape stared at Greyback. "You do?"

"Yeah."

"Bit out of character, don't you think? I mean, it's hard to be terrified of a werewolf that breaks off hunting to take a bite out of something whipply and covered in nuts."

"All werewolves adore chocolate!" Greyback insisted. "All of them! Adore it!"

"Yes, fine -- "

"Adore it!"

"I heard -- "

"Adore! Adore!"

Snape rummaged in his pocket for a rawhide dog treat and tossed it at Greyback, who caught it between his teeth and began gnawing contentedly. That shut him up for a bit. Snape turned his attention back to Draco. "As I was saying, I have no interest in visiting a chocolate factory. Now vinegar - there's a food for a man of intellect. Ennobles the mouth, wakes up all the senses." Snape licked his lips.

"Thanks, sir. I'll remember you when I win a ticket to a vinegar factory."

"So, who are you going to bring along with you, poppet?" asked Narcissa, staring adoringly and only a trifle obsessively at her only son.

Draco returned the look, straight-faced. "Pop."

Her expression lost a little of its cuddliness. "Your father?"

"Yeah. It'll be nice for him to get out of Azkaban for a while."

"Darling, your father's enjoying Azkaban. Don't worry about him."

"I already owled him. Besides, I haven't seen him in a year. It'll give us a chance to do some, err, father-son bonding crap."

Bellatrix snorted. "You don't want to bond with him. You think he's a twit."

"I do not!" Draco protested, concentrating hard on Occlumency all the while. Because it was true, of course - his father was a twit. But at least he was not thuggish, insane, or downright scary, which was more than could be said for the rest of his choices. "Anyway, Pop's already on his way, they already let him out, he's going, and that's final!"

Narcissa pouted. Bellatrix scowled. Amycus and Alecto pulled sour faces. Peter Pettigrew sniveled and Voldemort kicked the wall petulantly. Greyback gnawed a strip off his rawhide chew, swallowed it, and belched juicily.

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," said Snape bored. "And it will be nice to see old Lucius again."

"I wouldn't go that far, sir," said Draco.

"No, well, neither would I, really. Is he arriving soon?"

Draco checked his watch. "Any moment now."

"Ah, in that case, I'd better go ensconce myself in the library. Otherwise I might actually have to socialize with him or something." Snape paused on the way out. "Are you sure this manor doesn't have a dungeon?"

"Positive. Mum wouldn't allow it. Said they just collect mildew."

"That's part of their charm. Oh, well, I'll just be -- "

"Am I late?" Lucius Malfoy wafted into the room. Not a single hair of his silvery-blonde mane was mussed, and by the look of his handsome black-and-silver robes, Azkaban must have been filled with highly skilled tailors. There was a jaunty spring in his step, and he twirled his silver-topped cane in one hand.

His appearance was met with a circle of unfriendly stares. Voldemort stopped kicking the wall and glowered. "I'm not happy with you," spat the Dark Lord.

"Oh, the cock-up at the Department of Mysteries, yes," drawled Lucius. "Dreadfully sorry. I can't imagine how so many things went wrong."

"Screw the Department of Mysteries cock-up!" Voldemort screeched. "I want to go to the candy factory!" He went back to kicking the wall.

"Oh, that." Lucius removed his cloak and draped himself across a chair. "Yes, it was good of Kreckor to invite me."

Draco closed his eyes. "Draco."

"Eh?"

"My name is Draco, not Kreckor."

A furrow appeared between Lucius's eyes. "Draco? What kind of stupid name is that?"

"It means 'dragon!' Grandmother chose it!"

"Oh, that old hag -- "

"Hello, Darling." Narcissa growled, and Lucius jumped nearly a foot, his easy posture vanishing in a blink.

"Oh. . . oh. . . Sweetie Pumpkin!" he sputtered. (Several Death Eaters made retching sounds.) "I didn't see you there -- "

"This is my home, Lucius Darling. Where else would I be?" She was studying him the way she might study something multi-legged, foul, and yet fascinating that crept out from under one of her rugs. "Wasn't it kind of Draco to invite you along to the chocolate factory?" She placed possessive hands on her son's shoulders as she spoke, and her eyes told him that she was anything but pleased. In fact, looking around at the circle of people gathered, (and what were they all doing here anyway?) not one of them seemed pleased to see him. His feelings were rather hurt by this.

"Well, it does make a nice break from Azkaban," he replied, wondering why they were all glaring at him as if hoping he'd drop dead - and perhaps thinking they could help him to do just that. "Not that Azkaban's so terrible these days. A bit drafty, and it can get noisy at night. I don't know exactly what Crabbe and Goyle are up to, but whenever it gets dark Crabbe creeps into -- "

"So, looking forward to Wonka's factory, Pop?" Draco broke in desperately, a fixed grin on his face.

"Oh, it'll be fun, I suppose." His utter nonchalance won him more glares from the Death Eaters.

"Chocolate! Adore!" shouted Greyback, abandoning the rawhide. Lucius patted him absently.

"Nice doggy."

Draco hid his face in his hands. If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have just gone to Wonka's' factory wearing a gray wig, thick glasses and false buckteeth. That would have fooled him. But now he was stuck taking his father along. . . assuming one of the Death Eaters didn't kill him beforehand. Lord Voldemort was working up to a full-scale temper tantrum, pounding the wall with his fists as well as his feet. There'd be hell to pay later. . . and maybe not so much later. Narcissa was glowering at the black marks the Dark Lord was leaving on her walls, and a thunderstorm was growing behind her pretty face.

Perhaps he should just sell the ticket off to the highest bidder? But no, he was a Slytherin, dammit, and he had to grab every opportunity that came by. He'd go to the factory, learn all the chocolate-making secrets, and then he'd sell them to other companies and make a fortune. Not that he needed the money, but it was the principle of the thing.

"That's right," agreed Snape, picking up on that thought too. "Never pass up on the opportunity to spread a little spite and hatred into the world, I always say."

* * * * *

Somewhere behind the walls and the impressive gray façade of the worlds' largest chocolate factory, a man lay on a chaise lounge, nervously drumming his gloved fingers against the leather material.

"I just don't know, doctor, I just don't know," he babbled. "I'm repeating myself, aren't I? Yes, I am - I'm doing the whole Golden Ticket thing all over again. Why do I do these things?"

The psychiatrist, shadowed in the wings of an enormous armchair said nothing. There was only the scratching of his pen taking notes.

"I mean, I still need an heir to run the factory. And the ticket thing seemed to work the last time - until Grandpa Joe drowned in the chocolate river, that is. And Mr. Bucket got pulled apart in the taffy machine, and Mrs. Bucket was assaulted by squirrels, and Grandma Josephine hung herself with a licorice rope, and Grandma Georgina ran off with the chief Oompa-Loompa - oh, sorry." The man's gaze flicked uneasily to the psychiatrist. "Didn't mean to open old wounds."

The doctor still said nothing.

"And Charlie choked to death on an Everlasting Gobstopper," continued the man regretfully. "What was he thinking? I mean, I know I told him that they weren't for chewing, but that didn't mean he had to go and try to swallow it. Even if he had succeeded, he'd have had a heck of a time trying to pass it."

The man suddenly had to stifle a giggle.

"Anyway," he continued, recovering, "do you really think wizards will do better than non-magic people? What's that word they use - Muggles? Because if they don't, what's the point of my doing this? That's what I'd like to know."

He waited, but there was no response from the doctor.

"Oh, well," said the man at last. "I guess I'm committed now. They're arriving tomorrow. Your lot is umm. . . going to behave, right?"

Again the doctor said nothing. But a faint, mischievous gleam came into his eye. Come to think of it, it was a very small eye, and his head didn't seem to reach anywhere near the top of the chair, nor his feet come anywhere close to the floor.

"That's what I thought," said the man, sitting up. He brushed a hand through his straight, chin-length hair. The purple glove on his hand squeaked. "Well. I'm kind of looking forward to it. Really," he said insistently, as if the doctor had thrown him a dubious glance. He stood and donned a tall top hat that had been resting on a nearby table. The doctor watched impassively as he fussily straightened his clothes and picked up a candy-filled walking stick. When he was finally satisfied with his appearance, the man turned to the psychiatrist with a brave smile.

"Okay, maybe it's an old idea, but this time it'll work. I just know it. One of the children is certain to be kind and generous. . . imaginative, bold and adventurous. That kind of stuff. And then I'll have my heir at last."

He forced a laugh. "After all, how many Augustus Gloops and Veruca Salts can there be in the world?" Nodding as if he'd managed to convince himself at last, he strolled out the door. Light glinted momentarily off the small silver 'W' set into the collar of his shirt.

All this time, the doctor had not said a word. But after the man left, he finally permitted himself a sigh and a shake of his head.

Poor Mr. Wonka. He meant well - some of the time, at least. But if he was expecting wizard children to be better behaved than Muggle ones, he was in for a rude awakening. . .