Harry Potter and the Chocolate Factory

Chapter Five

Sugar Rush

"What is all this 'Mein Fuhrer' business?" cried Voldemort, utterly confused and a little worried as well.

None of the Death Eaters could answer him, for, as previously mentioned, they were completely ignorant of Muggle history. But they had bigger problems to contend with at the moment anyway. Namely in the shape of twenty small men in black jumpsuits who stood in a circle around them, holding shiny metal implements of unknown purpose.

Whatever the objects were, they looked potentially lethal And the little men seemed adept at using them.

"Shoo!" snarled Bellatrix, who was apparently more discomforted by facing down a gaggle of midgets (The proper term was a 'balaclava of midgets;' Lucius Malfoy said so.) than she was of taking on a Hungarian Horntail. "Shoo! We're the public health inspectors! Piss off or we'll arrest you!"

"Public health inspectors aren't allowed to arrest people, Bella," Narcissa whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"How do you know?"

"How do I know? Have you ever smelled Lucius's bathrobe after he's been living in it for a few months? We had a couple public health inspectors round last year wanting to know if there was something wrong with our plumbing."

"Shh," warned Snape. He wanted to see how the little men reacted to all this. They were conferring amongst themselves. They didn't seem convinced. Nor, from their snickering, the slightest bit intimidated. One whistled a few bars of 'Springtime For Hitler' and the rest burst into laughter.

The Death Eaters didn't get this joke either.

"Do you think they believe us?" Voldemort asked.

"Oh, certainly. That's why they're laughing." Snape gritted his teeth. "Show them our papers. Maybe that'll convince them."

"Papers?" Voldemort repeated stupidly.

"Our. . . health inspector papers!" Snape hissed. These little men were far too alert; they listened to every comment knowingly, their dark eyes gleaming.

Probably a good deal smarter than the Death Eaters. Damn.

"Oh, Greyback has the papers," Voldemort said, remembering.

Snape closed his eyes in pain. Of all the people to assign to keeping hold of important documents -- ! "Excellent, my Lo--Mr. Oakumsmokum. Perhaps he should present them now."

"Oh, right." Voldemort located Greyback near the back of the group, studying the little men with the interest of a diner perusing a menu. "Biteme?" called Voldmoert, trying to attract his attention. "Biteme, could you please show the gentlemen our credentials?"

"Oh, papers! Yes!" Jolted back to reality, Greyback began searching through his mangy pockets.

"Biteme?" Snape whispered in horror.

"Yes, 'Bartholomew Biteme.' That's the name he decided on," Voldemort whispered back.

Snape contemplated screaming. Then he thought about all the stupid names the other Death Eaters could have bequeathed themselves, and considered keeling over in a fit of apoplexy.

(Snape, by-the-by, had settled on 'Sanguineus Royale' for himself, so don't go thinking he was innocent in this matter.)

"Here!" proclaimed Greyback, pulling out a sheaf of crumpled papers. One of the little men stepped forward to take them - although his comrades kept their weapons (or whatever the shiny metal objects were) trained upon the intruders.

"Doesn't say 'Adolf Hitler,'" commented one of the little men, peering over the leader's shoulder.

"Perhaps he's just a distant relation," said another.

The little men all stared at Voldemort and nodded.

"Who's Adolf Hitler?" asked Voldemort, puzzled. It was a rather catchy name, now that he thought about it.

A long-buried memory was struggling to emerge from Bellatrix's head. Years ago, in her rebellious youth, she'd actually watched a Muggle movie -- on a dare, mind you. It didn't mean she liked Muggles or anything. Perish the thought - although if the next movie she viewed hadn't been 'Ishtar,' Bellatrix might have been permanently cured of Muggle hatred. "I think he was a painter," she said slowly, dredging her memory. "And he sang and danced and told jokes."

"Oh! They've mistaken me for a famous performer!" Voldemort's bony pale chest swelled and he preened a bit. "Perhaps they'll want my autograph," he added hopefully.

"Let's just hope they don't ask you to sing," said Snape, a little jealously. No one ever mistook him for anyone famous and he felt he had a perfectly classic profile. But he also had a point; Voldemort's voice had been known to shatter steel girders - not glass. Glass was no challenge at all; it gave up on existence the instant Voldemort opened his mouth and began to ululate.

"Well, maybe not - but I could dance!" The Almighty High Dark Lord struck a pose on tiptoes. The little men giggled louder.

"Stop making an ass - I mean, please comport yourself with dignity, Mr. Oakumsmukum. Remember, we're very dignified public health inspectors!"

"Oh, yeah." Disappointed, Voldemort twitched at his shirt again. The thin fabric wasn't going to put up with much more of that abuse. "Sorry, lads, I can't oblige you with a performance right now," he told the little men, who grinned sardonically. "I'm here on business. Must, uh, duh. . . " Voldemort's mouth hung stupidly open as his brain shut down for lack of anything to say. His expression resembled that of a wet sheep.

"We have to examine the factory to make sure it's sanitary," Snape explained, stifling his horror that Voldemort had actually said 'duh' in front of witnesses.

"Yeah, that's right," agreed Voldemort, recovering. "There have been rumors of people getting orangutan flu from eating the chocolate here."

The little men snickered.

"Orangutan flu?" muttered Narcissa, a muscle jumping at her jaw.

"Yeah, it's some kind of dangerous disease Muggles get," Voldemort replied with great certainty. "I think it makes you go all hairy and your eyes bulge and you start dribbling from the mouth."

"Muggles is so disgusting," said Pettigrew with a shudder that set his lard a-quivering. "We won't catch it, will we?" he added in sudden worry.

"Nah, it's just a bluff," Voldemort whispered back. "You have to snog monkeys to catch orangutan flu, I think."

The whole conversation was turning too surreal for Snape to follow, so he watched the little men instead. Voldemort's story had not seemed to impress them, although they were snickering more than ever. "There is no such thing as orangutan flu, is there?" he asked them.

For reply, they conferred amongst themselves. Their language seemed to consist of several short, shrill screams accompanied by a lot of rapidly flickering tongue action. Well, there's one Mr. Crouch never learned, Snape thought rather absurdly to himself.

"Of course there's such a thing as orangutan flu," said the leader, his dark eyes glinting. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a little person. "Incurable. And humiliating. You grow a big poof of wiry hair on your bum before the end."

"The end?" repeated Bellatrix, horrified.

"Before you die," the leader qualified. "Which happens in about three days. Three very painful days. Makes you smell bad too. Every smell the monkey pit at the London Zoo on a hot day?"

The other little men were holding back their giggles only with tremendous effort, but the Death Eaters were too scared to notice.

"We don't really think there's a problem with the factory," Snape tried to assure them. "It's just our job to check -- "

"Oh, but you're right," said the leader cheerfully. "We're loaded to the brim with orangutan flu." He gestured to the strange metal implement he was holding. "See this? The tip of it is simply covered with the germs. If you don't do exactly as I say. . . " he made a stabbing gesture. "We'll infect the lot of you! Now, hands in the air."

Every Death Eater hand shot up at once. The leader nodded with satisfaction.

"Now, march! Left, right, left, right. . . Lift those legs higher!"

"Like proper Nazis," murmured one of the other little men, falling in behind the terrified Death Eaters. Stifled laughter greeting his remark.

"Wizards are so stupid," said another. "They actually believed it!"

"And they can't even recognize a mixer when they see one," returned the first, lifting the contraption in his hand. Bits of melted chocolate still clung to it.

"What do you think Mr. Wonka will do with them?" asked another. "Use them as test subjects for new candy?"

"Stick them in the fudge boiler?"

"Toss them in the caramel lake?"

"That depends on if he believes they're spies or not," said the leader. (They were conversing in Loompish, so the Death Eaters hadn't the faintest idea what they were saying.) "If Mr. Wonka decides they're spies. . . " he let the sentence dangle. The other Oompa-Loompas nodded thoughtfully.

If Mr. Wonka decided these poor fools were spies, there was no telling what his reaction might be - save that it would probably be highly amusing.

So, there wasn't anything else for it.

They were going to have to convince Wonka that the Death Eaters were spies.

* * * * *

"This is where I get my nuts cracked," announced Mr. Wonka cheerfully.

There wasn't a single person in his tour group who couldn't think of a better way to phrase that comment - many better ways -- but they nodded dutifully and gazed down at the sight before them.

They were standing on a railed landing overlooking a large, circular room, painted in swirls of subdued blue and white. All around the perimeter were workstations, each with a tall stool set before it. Sitting on these stools were the several hundred fluffy gray squirrels, busily cracking the walnuts that rattled down out of the dispensers and placing the meats into bins. Periodically, Oompa-Loompas dressed in yellow jumpsuits would come to wheel the full bins away, presumably to be used in a different part of the factory.

"Neat, isn't it?" Mr. Wonka went on. "See how they rap the nut with their knuckles before they open it? That's to make sure it's a sound nut. They don't bother opening the bad nuts - they just chuck them into the garbage chute." This was a large round opening in the very center of the floor. And indeed, from time to time a squirrel would hurl a nut into this hole before turning back to the rest of its nuts without so much as missing a beat.

"Very neat," agreed Arthur without much enthusiasm. There was a mutter of assent, and everyone watched the squirrels for a bit, barely able to conceal their boredom.

Truth to tell, Mr. Wonka had expected another of his guests to meet his or her fate in the Nut Room - perhaps the brat with the shiny blonde hair or possibly Miss Know-It-All. But he was badly mistaken. Draco vastly preferred scaly animals to furry ones, with the exception of his eagle owl, Fluffy Lucifer. And anyway, he knew that even if he wanted a squirrel, his mother would make short work of it soon after he brought it home, and there were few things more disconcerting than discovering one of your own pets had been cooked up for dinner. Especially your dinner. Especially if you had already eaten your dinner. So Draco kept silent. As for Hermione, she felt that nut-cracking was a perfectly sane and logical job for trained squirrels to accomplish, so for once she made no comment either, watching with something that came dangerously close to approval - she managed to restrain herself, however.

Arthur was bored by the lack of machines. He held up the strip of Ron gum and explained the room to it - he felt he should at least make an attempt to fulfil his fatherly duties. Then he stuffed the gum back into his pocket where it could continue getting linty and talked to Petunia, who hated animals and wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the room. Lucius watched the Oompa-Loompa workers instead of the squirrels and thought yellow was a very fetching color for them. Harry, who had initially been excited by the prospect of a place called the 'Nut Room,' was disappointed by the reality and retreated behind a magazine. Lupin was impatient to get back to the more chocolate-oriented sections of the factory and sighed loudly from time to time. This left Dumbledore as the only member of the party who thoroughly enjoyed visiting the Nut Room.

He began to name the squirrels.

"That's Tinky," he crooned, "and next to him is Twitchy, and there's Puff-puff and Snookums and Jim, and Nutkins and. . . "

Forty minutes and seven pairs of glazed eyes later. . .

"Are we about ready to press on, then?" asked Mr. Wonka cheerfully. He'd allowed Dumbledore time to run the entire circuit of the room and even come up with elaborate back-stories for a few of the cuter squirrels.

The group roused themselves from their torpor. "Oh, yes, please!" begged Lupin fervently, and the rest agreed.

"But I was just about to tell you about Bouncy-ums!" protested Dumbledore.

"You can tell us on the way to the next room," Mr. Wonka told him, and with that the old chap had to be satisfied.

"Bouncy-ums's sister was named Twitchy-poo-poo," he began in a didactic tone. "And all she ever wanted to was be a nutcracker at Mr. Wonka's factory. But alas! Tragedy struck -- "

Mr. Wonka giggled.

"I'm certain the only reason we stayed in that damned squirrel room so long was pure spite," Petunia murmured to Arthur as they moved down the corridor.

"Well, Dumbledore was enjoying himself at least. But for my part -- " Arthur's nose wriggled. "What's that smell?"

The corridors of the factory were generally not very interesting, so no one had been paying much attention to their surroundings. But now that they looked, they saw that the walls of this section were covered with a bright, happy pattern of little fruits. Harry had his tongue out before Mr. Wonka could turn around and explain what it was.

"This is lick-able wallpaper for -- " announced Mr. Wonka, turning around. He trailed off as he spied Harry's tongue at work. "I see some of you have already discovered it."

Harry slurped. His tongue seemed far larger than could conveniently fit into his mouth. He'd already swabbed a good third of the wall with it.

"Oh, well, don't let him have all the fun," urged Mr. Wonka. "Try it yourselves!"

No one moved. Even if they had been so inclined, they would doubtless have been turned off by the flying gobs of Harry's saliva.

"How dreadfully unsanitary!" complained Hermione.

"I'm inclined to agree," shuddered Lupin, moving back a pace to avoid some spittle. "Just think of all the dust it collects!"

"I do not want lick-able wallpaper in the house, Pop!" Draco said firmly.

"I should think not," replied Lucius. "Why, you'd never be able to tell what sort of riffraff might have been at it for starters!" A gleam came to his eye. "However, a sticky paper that traps whoever licks it. . . I could see that being very useful. I think your mother would appreciate that. Probably catch every damn house elf in the manor."

"Hmm. . . " Mr. Wonka pondered, then took a few notes. "It has possibilities."

Harry had completed nearly half the wall. He practically sucked an orange off the paper and paused to belch. "Are you about finished there, Harry?" Lupin asked him.

"Well. . . I might." Harry itched his head, which was still green. "It's not quite faboo. It would be faboo if it were bits of pork instead of fruit." He looked hopefully at Mr. Wonka, perhaps thinking the great candy-maker might pull out a roll of paper decorated with chunks of dead things. But he made a face.

"The paper is intended for nursery room wall. I don't think most parents would buy wallpaper with little red bloody lumps on it."

"Mine would," insisted Harry.

Lupin snapped to attention. "No, they would not have! Lily and James may have had their quirks, but they never would have stooped to buying meaty wallpaper."

"Says you." Harry sulked, then brightened. "I know what would be a great success! Feel-able wallpaper!"

Lupin closed his eyes in pain. He had an idea where this was going.

"I'm a candy-maker," Mr. Wonka replied. "I do taste, not, uh. . . 'feel.' Whatever the word is. What is the word?" He gazed off into the distance.

Harry wasn't listening. "You'd have all these pretty ladies in the nip, or close to it. Or - Hey! They could be wearing pieces of lingerie that you could lift up and peek under! Now that would be truly faboo!"

"Probably be a hit in fraternities," muttered Lucius.

"You're a sick man, Potter!" sneered Draco. "Getting your kicks off groping wallpaper!"

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy. Just because you're a poof -- "

"I am not a poof!" snarled Draco, cheeks flaming.

"You look like a poof to me," remarked Mr. Wonka, drawn out of his musings.

"Oh? And who are you to talk?" demanded Draco, taking in Mr. Wonka's powder-pale complexion, purple eyes, Prince Valiant bob, paisley shirt, and burgundy tailcoat.

"They say it takes one to know one." Willy Wonka's brow furrowed momentarily; he wondered if he'd just insulted himself. Come to think of it, he didn't quite understand what he just said - which meant it probably didn't matter. He dismissed the worries from his mind and beckoned the party onwards. "Well, if you're not going to sample the wallpaper, let's press on."

"Thank goodness," muttered Hermione. This time she had a point - the saliva-saturated wallpaper was quickly taking on the aroma of Harry's mouth. Think halitosis mixed with ham and you have an idea. The group tread the backs of each others' feet in their haste to follow Mr. Wonka. Harry tore off a strip of paper he hadn't gotten to yet and stuffed it into his pocket to suck on later, then tagged along at the back, feeling rather put upon. Feel-able wallpaper was a great idea, he thought, quite certain that Mr. Wonka would market it and make a fortune and he, Harry, would never see a Knut of the proceeds.

He sniveled quietly to himself, but everyone ignored him. "This next room is very new and very special," Mr. Wonka was saying. "You're going to love it. Just love it."

Draco nudged his father. "Get the checkbook ready, Pop."

* * * * *

The Leather Coat and Motorcycle Brigade was doing rather well, actually. Step one of the operation had gone smoothly; the trio had located a motorcycle lot and Kingsley had appropriated three with a cool ease that indicated he had done it before. Maybe rather often before. Now they were flying down the roadway - not as literally as Sirius might have liked - the wind blowing their long coats behind them.

Sirius, incidentally, had not stopped giggling. Parking his ass on the seat of a motorbike had done nothing to quell his rising excitement, and he had to be restrained from popping wheelies and other unnecessary tricks.

Tonks merely had to fend off the advances of a dozen or so admirers. She wasn't sure why, but the combination of black leather, black hair, pale skin, and shades was driving men wild. Add in a large, menacing black motorbike with a throaty roar, and some fellows were all but throwing themselves at her feet. Again, she didn't know why, but she suspected that they wanted her to whip them. Men could be so strange. She made a mental note never to wear this outfit around Remus - if he harbored a secret desire to be whipped, she didn't want to know about it.

Kingsley rode in front, the cool professional, and thus far they hadn't encountered anyone stupid enough to mess with him. But then, people possessing that degree of idiocy were rare indeed and Hagrid was presumably working the grounds at Hogwarts.

Like the Death Eaters, they ran into their first hurdle at the gates of Wonka's factory. Also like the Death Eaters, they received several curious (and in Tonks's case lustful) stares from those who were still loitering by the gate.

Kingsley came to a halt before the gate, reaching out a black-gloved hand to touch the bars. They glowed briefly. He scowled.

"Problem, boss?" asked Sirius, who was by this time surfing so high a wave of adrenaline - or the ghostly equivalent thereof - that he hardly cared if they could get in or not.

"Yeah," replied Kingsley, taking out his wand, cunningly disguised from Muggle eyes (he thought) as a high-tech state-of-the-art electronic analysis doodad - although in truth it looked more like a cheap prop from a bad fifties science fiction movie. He cast a few quick spells and grumbled to himself. "The gate's a no-go." he informed his comrades.

"Oh, what a shame," said Sirius carelessly. "Let's ride around whooping some more."

"You were the only one whooping, coz."

"You should try it. Adds to the thrill of the ride." Sirius gunned his bike. "Bet I can beat you to that flagpole!"

"I don't want to race! I want to go in the chocolate factory!" Tonks prepared to scream, cry, hold her breath, or even throw herself on the ground and kick, if that was what it took.

"The boss says we can't go in."

"No," interrupted Kingsley, "I just said we can't go in through the gate. There are other ways, but they're trickier." He gazed up at the tall gray turrets that adorned the factory's roof.

"Cool!" exclaimed Sirius, doing a handstand on his bike's seat.

Tonks released the breath she was holding, satisfied that at least the plan to go in the factory hadn't been abandoned. "So how are we going to. . . ?" She followed Kingsley's gaze. "The roof?" He nodded. "How?"

For answer, he took a grappling hook and a length of rope out of one of his deep pockets.

Sirius began to chortle again. He gazed at the grappling hook with doe-eyed affection, perhaps thinking of all the trouble he and James could used it for back in their Hogwarts days.

"We're going to climb to the roof?" asked Tonks, just to be certain.

"Yep." Kinglsey didn't seem too put out by this latest development either. Quite possibly he'd owned the grappling hook for a while and had been longing for an opportunity to use it.

Or maybe he'd used it a lot and it was simply one of his favorite toys.

Either way, Tonks didn't want to know. "So we climb up the side of the building, and then what?"

"There's bound to be a door that opens onto the roof. Or some kind of ventilation ducts we can creep into. Or, if worst comes to worst, one of the chimneys."

"The chimneys," repeated Tonks levelly. "Shut up, Sirius." He was laughing louder. "Don't you think that'll attract too much attention?"

"Nah. We'll just flash our credentials at them and they'll leave us alone. Long as you look official, you can get away with anything."

Sirius waved away a pesky bystander who kept asking him if his name were 'Neo' and grinned dopily. "I'm game. Let's bust this popsicle stand."

Tonks sighed. "You know, guys, I had something much smaller and quieter than this when I first suggested this expedition."

"Too bad," they replied in unison, much to her disgust.

"Let's go." Kingsley gunned his motorbike and spoke over the roar of its engine. "Let's try the right side of the factory - it looks the most promising."

He whirled off in a gush of noise and fumes before Tonks could muster another protest. Sirius followed at once - whooping again - leaving her to either sit behind and mope or follow.

She followed. She cursed the entire male gender as she did so, but she followed.

Several members of the crowd did too. That worried Tonks a little. They whistled and cheered when Kingsley threw the grappling hook and caught one of the many pipes that jutted out from the roof on the first attempt. Sirius bowed. Kingsley tugged the line to make sure the hook was securely attached, then offered it to Tonks. "Ladies first."

She folded her arms. "Oh yeah? Why are you being so courteous all of a sudden?" She eyed the rope suspiciously. "You just want me to go first because I'm the lightest and you want to see if it'll hold before you put your own arse on the line!"

"What a clever girl." Kingsley smiled broadly. "The prize for figuring that out is you get to go first."

"Oh no. I may be the lightest, but Sirius is the deadest. Let him go first."

"Oh yeah. You know, I keep forgetting that." He watched as Sirius obligingly signed 'Keanu Reeves' on a few strips of paper. "He's the least dead dead dude I've ever encountered." He raised his voice. "Oi! Sirius! Get your arse over here!"

Sirius signed one final autograph, posed for a picture, then came trotting over. "What?"

"You're going first," Kingsley told him, handing over the rope. Sirius eyed it fishily.

"This has something to do with me being dead, doesn't it?"

"What a clever boy," Tonks smiled. "First prize for figuring that out is you get to climb the rope."

"I want royalties," Kingsley told her.

"Hold your breath." She looked at Sirius. "Well? Get climbing. You're not afraid are you?"

Muttering under his breath, Sirius began his ascent. The crowd loved it - a crowd that was growing larger by the minute. Sirius made it all the more thrilling for them by pretending to slip and only at the last second regaining his grip with his very fingertips.

At least Tonks hoped he was pretending. Frankly, the entire display was doing nothing to bolster her confidence.

Wild applause burst out as Sirius finally reached the roof in safety. He bowed and threw kisses. "Now it's your turn," Kingsley told Tonks.

"How about 'ladies last'?"

"Look at it this way. . . if you fall, maybe I can catch you."

"Yeah, right," Tonks muttered between her teeth. More likely he'd just let her fall for the thrill of watching her burst apart like a watermelon when she hit the ground. Why couldn't she have kept her sulks to herself and waited for Remus to bring her a souvenir?

Oh, right - Remus would have eaten any souvenir from a chocolate factory long before it could reach her hands.

Sighing, she took the thin rope into her hands and began to climb, trying not to think about what she was doing. It was easier that way. Fortunately, her Auror training had included crazy stunts like climbing over walls and running through obstacle courses. They'd never been her favorite parts of the instruction, but they were serving her well here. Of course during training, you had someone sensible waiting to use magic should you slip, whereas here neither Kingsley nor Sirius were sensible and if she fell, she'd probably die while the two of them looked at each other and wondered who should save her.

But in any case, she reached the roof with only one real scare along the way, and the rattle of applause from the crowd below was gratifying, although she refused to whore herself to it the way Sirius did. He was still waving and mugging. She poked him in the side. "Hey," she asked, a trifle out of breath, "I don't suppose you've found a way inside while standing around up here?"

"Honey, I've had more important things to do." He struck another pose. She considered pushing him over the edge - give the crowd something to really get excited about - only she knew it would lead to sulking, and eventually, some form of hot, stinky revenge. So she left him to wank the crowd and examined the roof herself.

Meanwhile, down below, Kingsley held his gloved hands before his face then, dramatically, banged them together. Curved metal claws shot out of the vicinity of the knuckles.

The crowd oohed. Kingsley managed not to smile in satisfaction, although he had to work at it. Completely ignoring the grappling hook and rope, he dug the claws into the factory wall and began his ascent, spider-like.

"Why that creep!" exclaimed Sirius, leaning perilously far over the edge. "He planned to upstage us all along!"

"Help me find a way in, Sirius," replied Tonks. She just had to get him to stop leaning over like that with his bum in the air because it made him entirely too tempting a target.

* * * * *

"Almost there. . . almost there. . . "

Mr. Wonka had been saying this for nearly fifteen minutes, and they'd stopped listening to him. They were passing through a tunnel lined with lit windows, each offering a peek at some candy marvel They'd viewed a field of sugared pumpkins, a lake of sticky golden caramel, a room filled with bouncy marshmallow pillows and another that burbled with pools of hot fudge. Lupin had begun rubbing his face against this particular window and had to be peeled off and dragged along between Arthur and Dumbledore. Then they came to a window that displayed the world's biggest taffy-pulling machine and their position was reversed as Arthur tried to attach himself to the glass like some kind of enormous parasite.

But this time Mr. Wonka seemed to be in earnest. He had stopped before a window - this one circular and perfectly dark - and was once more rattling with his set of keys. "What's in here?" asked Lucius, trying, unsuccessfully, to discern what lay behind the darkened glass. "More Oompa-Loompas, I hope. Is there an Oompa-Loompa Room? Can we go there next?"

"This is an entirely room that has taken me years of hard labor to cultivate," said Mr. Wonka, apparently ignoring Lucius entirely. "The difficulties it presented in creating it were tricky to overcome. And sticky too, come to think of it." He giggled briefly, always an unnerving sound, then sobered just as quickly. "Now, before going in, we must take precautions."

Everyone shifted uneasily. This was the first time Mr. Wonka had done anything to protect them, which meant he had deemed the other rooms - wherein they had lost two members of their party - perfectly safe.

"Are you sure it's all right -- " Hermione began, but Mr. Wonka interrupted her.

"Oh, no one's ever truly sure of anything. Except that the surest way to spot a liar is to find someone who assures you he's sure, surely. Now -- " Mr. Wonka held up a small round bottle with an atomizer attached. " - who's first?"

"Perfume?" cried Draco, doing a marvelous imitation of being outraged by the very suggestion. "I'll have none of that!"

"Then you don't go in," said Mr. Wonka, making it quite clear that he didn't care one way or another.

"Oh, all right." Draco capitulated far too quickly, shoving his father out of the way to be the first in line. Harry, following an inch behind, tread on his heels. "Ow! Stop stalking me, Potter, you creep!"

"I'm not stalking you; I'm eager to see the room!" Harry lied.

"I get to see it first!" Draco's fingers twitched dangerously near his wand.

"Bah!" Harry's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

"It'll only take a second, so you can go in together." Mr. Wonka attempted to sound soothing, but it came out kind of flat and bored instead. Ah, well. He lifted the bottle and gave them one small spritz each.

"Hey! It has no smell at all!" said Draco, inhaling deeply and struggling to sound pleased instead of vastly disappointed.

"No smell to you, perhaps, but compared to many creatures that crawl this earth, your nose is little better than an ornament in the middle of your face. And not a very attractive ornament either," Mr. Wonka added as an afterthought. Draco's hand instantly flew to his nose and he began to feel very self-conscious. "A flower would have been ever so much prettier, don't you agree? More colorful and less bulbous and it would take care of that nasty boogey problem too. But I'm digressing, aren't I? Or is this what I meant to talk about?" He fumbled for his note cards.

"You were explaining this perfume to us," said Lupin.

"No, I don't believe that was it," said Mr. Wonka, scratching the brim of his hat. His purple gloves squeaked. "Oh, well, I'm sure it'll come back to me in time if everyone stops interrupting me. Now. . . all spritzed?"

"Yes," they chorused.

"One spritz each? More than one could be very bad, yes, very bad indeed."

They hastily wracked their brains to make certain Wonka hadn't sprayed them twice during his distraction.

"Yes," they replied after a moment.

"Good, good. Then we shall enter." He turned the key into the lock and led them into -

-- an antechamber.

"Bo-RING!" complained Harry.

"Oh, this is just to make sure none get out," said Mr. Wonka, bustling in behind them. "I'll just shut this door here and then we'll open that door there, and then - then you'll see my superb, marvelous, incredible new room!"

"I hope there's lot's of machinery," muttered Arthur as the second door swung open.

He seemed doomed to disappointment this time. A gust of cool air hit their faces, smelling of fresh green grass, sunshine, and very high quantities of sugar.

They appeared to be standing on the edge of a neat little orchard. Even more strangely, the room had the appearance of being outdoors, although for all they knew, they were several miles underground. The mossy grass was pleasantly springy underfoot and cunningly concealed lights mimicked the sun perfectly. "Trees?" sneered Draco. "What, were you afraid the trees would attack us?"

"Apple trees?" asked Hermione, recognizing the type.

"Wrong!" cried Mr. Wonka, once again doing that cane-waving bit that caused everyone to duck for fear of a concussion. "Wrong! Candy apple trees! The only candy apple trees in the world! In the whole entire wide world! There are five different varieties and it's taken me a good fifteen years to develop them!" He was almost indecently pleased with himself, which would explain his hurt when Hermione sneered.

"Candy apple trees? Whatever for? What utter rubbish! What's wrong with coating regular apples?"

"I think they're lovely," said Lucius - although he had just spotted an Oompa-Loompa wearing a deep blue jumpsuit and may not have been referring to the trees at all.

"I want one," agreed Draco. "Or maybe a whole orchard." Harry had already gone off to sneak a lick.

But Mr. Wonka was not going to let Hermione's slurs wash away this time. "The problems with coating regular apples," he said, speaking very slowly and biting off each consonant as if he wished to spit blood, "are many. First, you can never get the coating exactly even; it's always thick in some spots and thin in others. Second, since the candy isn't naturally part of the fruit, the whole thing spoils more quickly unless you load it up with foul preservatives. Then there's the core. A regular apple's core is always tough and nasty and no one wants to eat it. Finally, there's the fact that in a regular non-Wonka candy apple, all the candy's on the surface, and once you've nibbled it off, you're just left with a plain, boring apple."

Mr. Wonka paused to tenderly stroke the leaves of a nearby branch. "And people don't match the right candy with the right apples either," he continued. "Why, sometimes they'll coat a sweet apple with caramel, which loses the effect entirely. I could just weep when that happens." He shook his head sadly at such ignorance, then brightened. "But now we have Wonka candy apples, which have solved each and every one of these problems. Instead of a core, they have more lovely candy in the center. If you keep them cool, they'll last for weeks after they've been picked. And because the coating grows on them, it's always perfectly even. And the taste is exquisite, of course! Go on, try one."

"Thank you, sir," said Lupin. "I believe you've explained yourself admirably. Umm. . ." He glanced around. "I don't suppose any of these apples are coated with chocolate?"

"Dark chocolate, toffee, and crushed hazelnuts." Mr. Wonka pointed with his cane. "Second row, the ones with the slightly darker, pointed leaves. Adore?"

"Adore," agreed Lupin, heading off in the direction indicated.

"But - I say! - where does this perfume stuff enter the picture?" Arthur asked. "How is it supposed to protect us?"

"Yes," sneered Draco, "does it pacify the trees? Were they going to spit leaves and throw bits of branches at us?"

"No, that would be silly," said Mr. Wonka calmly. "It's because of the bees."

"Bees?" repeated Lucius.

The group got very quiet. Now that they were listening for it, the orchard seemed to throb with a steady, ceaseless buzzing. Now that they were looking for them, they could see the hundreds of little golden bodies darting amongst the apple blossoms. Suddenly everyone was rather apprehensive about moving.

"As I'm sure you're well aware, bees have a highly refined sense of smell," Mr. Wonka explained, gesturing lazily and perfectly at ease. "They use it to communicate and to identify objects. For example, yourselves. Thanks to this -- " He held up the glass bottle, " - you now all smell like bees. To the bees, that is. The boy in the red-and-white shirt still smells like pig to me."

Harry took a whiff of himself and felt thoroughly satisfied.

"So, because you smell like bees, they'll think you are bees and leave you alone. Big, stupid, clumsy, wingless bees, but bees nevertheless, and that's all that matters, right?"

"And if we weren't wearing that perfume?" Hermione asked.

"Er, well, that would be rather nasty. The bees can be overprotective and excitable when it comes to the apple trees."

"Did you breed the bees along with the tress?"

"But of course! And it wasn't easy, let me tell you! Candy-making comes naturally to me, but bee-breeding. . . Oh, it was torture!"

"But why?" she demanded.

"Use your head, you silly ass!" (Hermione bridled while Harry and Draco cackled gleefully.) "To produce an apple, the apple blossoms must be pollinated, correct? Thousands upon thousands of tiny flowers - who's going to do it? While my Oompa-Loompas are multi-talented, none of them has as of yet have demonstrated the ability to shrink, get fuzzy, and grow wings."

Lucius sighed with pleasure at the mental picture.

"I tried using regular honeybees at the beginning. But the smell of my candy apple trees confused them. Bees have a highly developed sense of smell, you know. They use it to -- "

"Communicate, yes, heard it already," interrupted Petunia.

"Oh." Mr. Wonka tossed one of his note cards away. "So you understand I had to breed my own bees to cope with the candy-apple trees. Otherwise, I'd have had to rely on hand-pollination and I'd never have gotten enough apples to satisfy the demand."

"What about machinery?" asked Arthur.

"Goodness, no! Using machines on my delicate trees?" Willy Wonka tenderly kissed the branch he had been stroking, as to apologize for the very notion. "And anyway, my lovely bees make the most delicious candy apple blossom honey from these trees, so it's a gain both ways. What's a little danger of being stung to death compared to that? And you're quite safe, quite safe as long as you don't scrub off the perfume - so you'd do well to stop licking yourself, boy."

Harry hurriedly sucked his tongue back into his mouth.

"All right then, shoo, shoo!" He waved at them again and they got the point and began to mill off. Mr. Wonka watched them wander away, satisfied. Soon he'd have them as well trained as Pavlov's dogs, ready to obey the instant he brandished his cane.

Mind you, he wasn't sure exactly what he'd do with them then, but - ah, well. It would still feel like an accomplishment.

* * * * *

"I don't want a hairy arse, I don't want a hairy arse!" Voldemort was close to blubbering.

"Hate monkey!" Greyback shouted. "Monkey bad!"

Amycus and Alecto sniveled. Bellatrix kept almost tripping Narcissa as she huddled close, trying to keep away from the Oompa-Loompas.

"Just keep calm, everyone," Snape advised through clenched teeth. "Don't panic." Snape wasn't entirely convinced that orangutan flu actually existed. Unfortunately, he wasn't convinced that it didn't exist either, which prevented him from doing anything useful. After all, he didn't want a hairy ass either. Sirius Black would simply laugh himself to death when he found out - except Sirius was already dead, which meant there was no chance that he'd ever shut up.

"Cheer up, your lordship," said Pettigrew, lumbering along at the back. "Anyways, I bet it ain't so bad, 'avin' a big 'airy poof on your bum. Might be dead useful even."

"How might it be useful?" Bellatrix demanded.

"We don't want to know, Bella!" Narcissa snapped.

Too late. "Polishin' the silver?" suggested Pettigrew.

The Oompa-Loompas sniggered. Snape glared down his nose as them, his brain working feverishly on schemes for escape. "I don't care is it's the key to bringing down Harry Potter!" Voldemort wailed. "I don't want a hairy arse! I've got enough problems as it is."

That was perfectly true. When Snape had first heard of Voldemort's little 'Look at me, I'm immortal!' success, he'd felt rather jealous. Until he'd gotten a look at the Dark Lord and seen what it entailed - skin pale as a dead fish's belly, watery scarlet eyes, truly rank B. O., and of course the lack of a nose.

And a blowhole. No one ever mentioned it - it was instant death to so much as whisper about it, but if you looked close, you could see Voldemort had a blowhole on the top of his head.

Now that Snape thought about it, he couldn't see how a puff of bum-hair would actually make a lot of difference. To Voldemort, that is. It would put him right off Narcissa.

Yet these little men seemed to think that being handed over to Willy Wonka would be even worse than catching the orangutan flu. Being a Death Eater, Snape could easily think of worse things than growing a hairy ass, stinking, and dying in three pain-filled days - but that didn't mean he wanted to experience any of it for himself.

So they had to escape. But how to manage it without getting poked by those metal contraptions and infected with the orangutan flu?

"I don't want a hairy arse!"

"We hear you, my lord." Narcissa sounded like she was gritting her teeth too. "What do you propose we do about it?"

"Just keep quiet and follow," the leader of the Ooompa-Loompas told her. "And don't even think of going for your wands. Our orders are to hand all invaders over to Mr. Wonka for. . . questioning."

"Interrogation," added another cheerfully.

"Torture, if necessary."

"Torture?" Snape sneered. "Last I heard, Mr. Wonka was a candy-maker. Don't tell me he has an Iron Maiden in his basement?"

"Oh, he doesn't need that. He has something much worse." The leader beckoned them closer. Curious, the Death Eaters all leaned over and cocked their ears. "Wooden puppets," he whispered.

They drew back in horror. "Wooden puppets?" repeated Bellatrix, shuddering.

"Shiny wooden puppets with big happy smiles and endearing pink cheeks," the leader confirmed sadistically. "They sing and dance. Badly. Mr. Wonka will probably stick you in a room with them for three or four days." He shook his head. "I don't envy you. But rest assured, we'll send you to the finest asylum afterwards."

"I don't want to meet the puppets! I don't want to meet the puppets!" Voldemort wailed.

"My lord!" cried Snape, struck with a sudden inspiration, "Sing!"

"Huh?"

"Sing!"

"Oh." Voldemort hesitated a moment, then scrunched his eyes shut and opened his mouth so wide he could have nestled a guinea pig on his tongue.

"Why are there so many songs about rainbows

And what's on the other side?

Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,

And rainbows have nothing -- "

The din was incredibly painful. The walls of the corridor vibrated, as if the very rocks were trying to escape. Just as Snape had hoped, the Oompa-Loompas had staggered back several paces, some of them dropping their weapons. Greyback let out a howl no one could hear over the Dark Lord's ruckus and bolted. Snape seized Narcissa's arm.

"Run away!" he bawled in her ear.

She simply nodded - no point trying to talk - and pulled Bellatrix off the floor and pushed her in the direction of Greyback.

"Someday we'll find it - the rainbow connection,

The lovers, the dreamers, and me!"

Snape wrestled internally with himself, but he knew that if he abandoned the Dark Lord he'd end up regretting it later. "Very good, my lord!" he screamed in Voldemort's ear hole. "Now's our chance to escape!"

"Who said that every wish would be - huh?" Voldemort opened his eyes and saw the Oompa-Loompas lying prostrate on the floor. "Oh, right! Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" He leapt over the line of little men and began galloping down the hall, giggling. "Oh, the cleverness of me!" he cried happily.

Snape rolled his eyes. Bloody Dark Lord could be such a twit sometimes. At least he could leave Amycus and Alecto behind. No one would miss them. And Pettigrew. It would be a pleasure to leave Pettigrew -

He suddenly realized that Pettigrew was already gone. Trust the blasted rat to seize on an opportunity for escape quicker than anyone else.

Ah, well. Taking hold of his robes, Snape dashed after the departing Death Eaters just as the leader of the Oompa-Loompas hauled himself to his feet.

"Should we go after them, boss?" asked one of his followers.

"No," replied the leader, watching after the Death Eaters. "We'll report to Mr. Wonka and he can do something about them if he likes. And he probably will. But until then. . . the factory can take care of itself, you know."

The Oompa-Loompas all grinned in response. Oh yes, they knew. The Death Eaters would be fortunate indeed if they survived their little adventure unscathed. Especially after Mr. Wonka was alerted to their presence.

"Shall we go then?" asked the leader, grinning.