Chapter Two

Hot Chocolate

6 tablespoons of unsweetened cocoa
6 tablespoons of sugar
Pinch of salt
2 1/2 cups of milk
2 1/2 cups of light cream
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla
Pinch of cinnamon powder
Whipped cream
Orange zest

Mix cocoa, salt, and sugar. Add milk. Heat to dissolve. Add light cream, cinnamon, vanilla. Heat to just under boiling. Mix very well and pour into warm mug. Top with whipped cream, cocoa powder, and fine orange zest.

Makes an effective weapon due to shock and burns caused by boiling chocolate. Is also a nice way to calm down after a trying day.


No one had come into her shop all day. Oh, a few people almost had; had looked longingly at the window display (which currently housed chocolate-covered cashews and peanuts scattered amongst dipped strawberries), had almost stepped inside, but thought twice about it and continued onward. Hermione forced a smile at them through the glass, but they only looked more frightened and practically ran out of view. One would think her lip curled up to display fangs.

She was annoyed and bored. She had brought a book downstairs; she was prepared to keep herself occupied. Hopefully she could sell something before the strawberries spoiled.

Night was falling slowly. It was a dusky sunset, a mixture of neon colors darkening into the light navy of the star-dotted sky, and the colors were just visible above the sloping rooftops. Most of the shops had closed by now, except for the small café down the street where she had been begrudgingly served dinner, and except for hers. She had promised herself that she wouldn't close until a customer set foot inside her shop, but her conviction ebbed away as the sun fell and the soft light of candles illuminated the windows of her neighbors' houses.

The book was quite interesting, as most books usually were, and Hermione was so ensnared in its words that she barely noticed the click of boots on tile as two highly polished ones stepped carefully onto her floor, carrying a gentle breeze with them.

The breeze and the boots weren't alone, of course.

They were followed by a man of about forty: tall, but not extremely, with a wide, imposing figure and unremarkable straight, short hair that grew in short sideburns below his temples. His face was clean-shaven, but a dark shadow around his mouth told that his facial hair grew very quickly. His eyes were of an indistinct color, unthreatening until they turned upon Hermione.

"Hello," she said, feeling choked and finding herself unable to smile. "May I help you?"

"Oh." His voice was of a medium pitch, weak, difficult to hear across a room. He cleared his throat with his fist, glittering with an unnaturally shiny and almost disturbing amount of rings, to his mouth and spoke again, his voice suddenly at a false low pitch. "No. I just came to look."

"Oh," Hermione answered weakly, her thumb searching for her lost spot in her book. She mentally berated it for distracting her from her job. "All right. Don't hesitate to ask any questions."

He nodded his reply and turned around to bend over, examining her carefully assembled displays. Book forgotten, Hermione settled on watching him, the paperback hanging limply from her hand. The few people that had come in the days before had only glanced over her treats before making a hasty exit, looking almost guilty. No one had ever seemed that interested.

"You do fine work," the man said as if his praises were worth far more than gold, so she better appreciate them if she knew what was good for her. The man hummed gently and bent so close that if someone were to push him over, he would have fallen directly into the display. "Very fine, indeed."

"Thank you, sir," she answered carefully. "But, if anything, I'd prefer to be appreciated for their taste, not their looks. Would you like to try one?"

He straightened, his nostrils flaring, and she heard his back crack. He didn't flinch, however.

Probably the pole up his arse sliding back into place, she thought as he opened his eyes widely, searching for something to say. Bad Hermione, you shouldn't think about potential customers that way.

"Muggle recipes?" he asked, his manner of speaking as stiff as his back.

"Mostly, though I've added magic-inspired touches to some." She made a gesture at the cellophane-wrapped sweets. "Have a try."

"I couldn't," he said, shaking his head. "I promised myself that I wouldn't waste my money."

Hermione felt her face redden, but tried to keep her expression calm and free from traces of irritation. If there was one thing she had managed to learn over the past few years, it was how to keep her tongue under control. She had always criticized Ron and Harry for having little constraint over their anger, but she was truly the same as them, if not worse. She just took it out on the correct people at the correct times and used it to her advantage. It was a gift, being a woman. Somehow, you could always make the man apologize, even if it wasn't his fault. This lesson was one of the few benefits from her several months wasted dating Ron.

However, this man didn't seem like the type to apologize, and Hermione kept her quickly flaring anger at his implications under control.

"It would be my treat," she said coolly, getting up from her stool. Her trainers squeaked across the floor, the sound of rubber on tile causing the irksome man to raise a faint eyebrow.

"No, thank you."

Feeling all the more offended for him not having offered her a reason for withholding, she felt the need to push on.

"Really. It's impossibly to fully grasp art until you can taste its meaning. I insist that you try something."

"No." The answer was simple, but stiff, unrelenting, callous, and as stinging as a string of insults. The look on his face was like how it would probably be if Hermione had asked him to exchange his soul for three knuts.

"All right," Hermione answered quietly, hoping he couldn't hear the angry tremor in her voice. "Whatever you wish." She sat back down, sniffing as she picked up her book, ready to ignore him.

"Look," he said before she could turn to her wished-for page. His tone wasn't apologetic, but at least promised an explanation. She could hear the clicking of his boots as he approached the counter, but didn't look up. "Perhaps I should properly introduce myself. My name is Albert Cincetti, and I am the chairman of the town council."

She finally lifted her face and put her book down. Glaring steadily at him in what she hoped was a challenging way, she replied, "I'm not surprised."

He ignored her comment. "I suppose you could say that if Dihalog had a mayor, that would be me." He laughed gently to himself, as if he found himself amusing. Hermione did not, however, which seemed to fluster him. "And I feel that it is my duty to…what would one say…" He made a hand gesture that was almost obscene for all its flourishes. "…observe the new businesses in town. Especially those that are as talked about as this one."

"Talked about?" Hermione posed mildly, adding a lie for good measure: "I wasn't aware."

"Yes." Cincetti folded his hands behind his back and straightened his spine, apparently adamant in superimposing his greater height over her. "It seems you have made yourself inadvertently popular." He sniffed the air, his wide nose flaring, it seemed, all the way from nostrils to bridge.

"From my sales, it wouldn't appear that way," she answered, her politeness quickly running out. Her hands were grasping the countertop almost painfully.

"Well, of course. Just because you are popular doesn't mean you are well-liked." He looked as thought he was fending off a smile.

Hermione didn't quite know how to reply to this.

"Miss Granger," he said. She started, surprised that he knew her name. "Are you aware that you are renting from me?"

"What?" she spat out. "No. I'm renting from Mrs.-"

"DuChec, who is an employee of mine. When one owns as much property as I do, one finds it difficult to take care of it all by oneself, so one must hire others to manage sections for one."

"One must also learn that one's talking to a full-grown, highly educated witch and not a two-year-old."

"You should be careful, Miss Granger," he said slowly, stepping away from the counter, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Step out of line just once, and I will know. We don't take kindly to Mudbloods here."

Without a word, not even a sign of leaving, he turned and quickly exited the building, the bell tinkling cheerfully after him.

"Thanks, cowboy," Hermione said through gritted teeth as he disappeared from the view of the window. Knowing that throwing something through the glass wouldn't solve any of her problems, she slammed the door shut, locked it, and stomped up the stairs, itching to take her anger out on an object that was much more forgiving.


"You called?" Remus Lupin's face held a grim, but somewhat curious, expression as his head bounced slightly in the flames of Hermione's fireplace. The mantle was a bit dusty, the logs old and coated in ash, and the wall paper in the room was fading slightly while the soft carpet was wearing away with each step. He either didn't notice the somewhat "well-loved" (as the advert had put it) condition of Hermione's room or just didn't think anything of it.

He did, however, see the less than pleased look on her face as she sat in the moldy armchair before the fireplace, legs crossed, arms folded, her right foot wiggling anxiously to a beat only in her head. Crookshanks laid at her feet, stretched out in front of the fire, tail twitching and purring contentedly and his gold eyes glowing.

Silence.

"Let me guess…my fault?" He frowned, but his expressive, chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with amusement.

"No," Hermione sighed, slouching lower in her chair. "Well, sort of. If you want to take responsibility for my annoyance, you're more than welcome to it."

"No thanks." More silence, and Hermione could hear something that sounded like the Wizarding Wireless in the background, followed by Harry's agitated grumbling and a squeal from a young Harry-Ginny hybrid that went by the name of Violet the Red-Headed Horror.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Potters over?"

"Not for long," Remus answered with a bit of a hopeful smile. "It's the one good thing about Ginny being pregnant. They might be having another one, but at least she gets tired easily."

"Remus!'

"I love Ginny," he said in his defense. "But their child can only eat so much before I run out of food and she starts gnawing on the furniture."

"Ah, and it's new, too. Pity."

"You didn't owl me to talk about furniture," Remus said, his eyebrows raised quizzically. "Is something wrong?" He knew that the answer was obvious but asked anyway, letting her have the comforting belief that her emotions were still somewhat of a mystery to him. Truth was, after knowing her for ten years, he could read her like a children's book. Her eyes were aflame, she was squirming in irritation, and her frizzy hair practically crackled in frustration. When she didn't answer, he said, "You look nice."

She softened slightly. But only slightly. "The people are horrible here," she said at last, her voice choked. "I haven't sold a single thing the three days I've been open. And the people that have been in have treated me horribly."

"But you suspected that that might happen," Remus answered. "And you're not advertising that you're Muggleborn, are you?"

"No," Hermione replied, trying to nudge her trainers underneath her chair. "Not at all. But everyone seems to know anyway."

"Then you'll just have to make the best of it," Remus said as Violet's high-pitched scream echoed through Hermione's sitting room, thankfully muffled. She flinched and Remus sighed.

"Make the best of it?" Hermione replied in disbelief. She heard her voice rising, but didn't care. "You're the one that suggested this bloody town!"

"You said that you wanted a small, mostly magical town," Remus answered, the corners of his mouth falling, calm, as always. "You knew what it was like. It was only a suggestion."

She slouched ever lower, feeling herself fall into an immature pout.

"You're free to leave, if you want. My door is always open if you need a place to stay." He sounded strained, somehow. He looked healthier; he had filled out his thin frame a bit, the circles under his eyes were gone, and his smile and gaze remained brilliant. But he was tired, and probably quite annoyed. Remus loved Harry's small (growing) family, but not when they stayed for extended periods of time. She could almost hear him want to say, "If you can keep the Potters away."

"No," Hermione sighed. "I can handle this." Her eyebrows furrowed determinedly. "I've never lost before. No time to start now."

"Hermione…"

"What?"

"Just be careful," he sighed, the flames ruffling his hair. "And don't mention that you know me, unless you want to make things worse. Good night."

His head popped out of the flames and the fire died, leaving empty space where his head had been and plunging the room into cold darkness.


Thanks to: Akasha Ravensong, apple-frreak (I did, thanks!), The Lady Elizibeth (I'm working on it. It's coming out, but very, very slowly), Kailin, Dragon Blade5, mac1, Kneazle (Go ahead, you are more than welcome to write a story based on Chocolat. I don't own the idea (heck knows I've written the same spin-offs as others)), wackoramaco87 (Yup, it works. Though I haven't tried them...very tempted to, though. But I had enough chocolate on my trip and I'm not in the mood to make it, especially since it won't nearly be as good), Senoritatito, Dracula5555 (yes...fluff...will get there, just don't quite know when), and Rylee Smith (oh, you have to!).

Obviously...I'm back now. Will hopefully be updating other stories soon. Classes have started again, but my schedules not exactly difficult, so I should have plenty of time to write.

FF won't let me use symbols to separate parts of the chapters anymore, so excuse the ugly horizontal lines. It's not my fault.