Disclaimer: I don't own… oh, eff it. You know I'm not JK.
It had always been his favorite. It was served for desert; it was stuffed into the holiday stockings; it sometimes even found its way into the bedroom for rather creative uses. But there was only one kind he ate. Never any of that imitation stuff; no, Lucius Malfoy demanded only the best. Honeyduke's Best.
And so Narcissa used it. She never bothered to tell him that it made her sick, never bothered to tell him that her stomach would turn just at the sight of it sitting so innocently on the table. She would just sit there and smile politely at him—but never too big, no, a Malfoy mustn't smile too widely or she'd disgrace the good, pure name—and pretend it made her happy. She never bothered to tell him of the memories it stirred up, memories of that dark room and the other Slytherin boys and what they used to do…
But as she read the letter her husband had sent from his cold cell, as she read the blank and empty words, Narcissa thought that she just might like some chocolate anyway.