A young woman rises from a tousled bed. She has not quite left its comfortable embrace. She lingers in the solitary comfort of her three favourite words: “five more minutes”. But soon, the time has come for her to begin her day. She leans over and kisses the man, who lies next to her, at the base of his neck. Rubbing the sleep from her tired eyes, she throws the blanket off of her. She is careful not to disturb her husband, but she feels a warm, intoxicating hand grab her arm. He attempts to coax her back to bed, just like he does every morning. She slips from his grasp, kissing and rubbing his graceful hands. She knows she will not find the warm reassurance of her bed until the sun finally sets at nine o’ clock this evening. She may find his arms again today, but it is unlikely. He will rise soon as well and disappear off to his job for the day. The woman imagines him meeting her for lunch in The Three Broomsticks, or herself feasting with him at one of their favourite places in downtown London. She can almost taste the strong hint of coconut at the Thai food restaurant they haunt together on their lunches off. She smiles at the thought.
Crossing the room, she opens her wardrobe and pawns through it. Absentmindedly, she flicks her wand at the bed. She doesn’t even blink as it begins to make itself in the space she has just left unoccupied. So many colours to choose from! Blues, reds and greens crowd her wardrobe, but she knows she will only wear one colour with a profession like hers. She throws on the chocolate brown robes without thought. She would love to wear more vivid colours, but she has had far too many stains forever imprinted on her robes for her to wear any other colour. Sometimes the chocolate is forgiving, but others times it is not. Over the years, she has learned not to take her chances with it. Even with the many aprons she has acquired over the years, chocolate has found its way onto every piece of clothing she owns.
She blows a kiss at her husband, and she leaves the room for breakfast. It is a tedious process, she knows: doing the same thing every morning. But she relishes in it. However, the simplicity of her life does not stop her from complaining to Michael about it every evening: she regrets never having any adventures of her own.
Except, it is an adventure. Every morning, the sun looks different to her, and the chocolate she plays in is different. Different people enter Honeydukes every day and she has a brief look into their daily lives. And every one of them is different.
The woman walks into her cavernous kitchen. With a yawn, she stretches her arms upward towards her ceiling. She rubs her blue eyes and opens the shutters. She struggles with the latch for a moment, reminding herself all the while to oil it later today, but soon the little metal hook has been worked upward and she throws open the window. She gasps like she always does. She grins at the bright sunrise that has just stretched its arms over the horizon. She puts some water in the kettle for her early morning tea and oatmeal, and she settles in to wait. The cool sun bathes her with soft light as she waits for the customary whistle of the kettle as it steams and boils. With a shrill shriek and a burst of steam, the kettle cries out for attention.
She shakes her head to clear it of the emptiness that so often starts her day and grabs out a mug and teabag. It takes only a moment to brew and another to drink. She downs the oats just as quickly before she turns to light the stove. One batch of candy before the day begins is a wonderful way to start the morning. She drags out the old cauldron and sets to work.
She hums absentmindedly to herself as she taps the inside of Cathy with her wand. She remembers when Michael asked her how she could name her cauldron. She had just smiled and laughed and dropped in cocoa powder. Milk spills out of her wand and begins to sing a song made up on the spot. She tosses in some brown sugar and white sugar, still singing her little song. She startles suddenly when she feels warm arms snake around her.
“I’m working, Michael,” she says. She has no conviction in her words, but she knows how quickly the milk can turn. Michael does too, for he reaches up with his wand and sets the spoon to work, keeping the milk-sugar mixture from scalding to the bottom. He sets his wand down and begins making a complete and utter fool of himself. She turns around to face him and succumbs to his touch completely. She loves how he can still make every vein in her body blaze with passion, even after several years of marriage. She hopes he will not bring up the subject they have been discussing for months. It would ruin such a perfect morning.
She has avoided the subject of having a baby like a plague. He may not think that far ahead, but she knows she would be nearly crippled for five months. Goodness knows she cannot afford that time lost. She does not even want to think about what those hormones would do to a woman with so much chocolate and sweet things to eat on hand. She has had nightmares of herself breaking down in front of customers. She will have children someday. Maybe, but not today.
Michael’s nose is in her ear and she pulls away from his ticklish touch. He pulls her back in for one more kiss that she feels all the way down to her knees. Her back practically buckles from the strength in it. She loves the feel of his hand on her back, supporting her. She knows it will end in a minute or so, but for now she is content to stay here in his arms. But then she remembers: “The milk!”
She lunges for the cauldron, breaking the embrace to save her precious mixture. She looks over her shoulder at Michael. He shakes his head in acquiescence, and gives her a disapproving look. She smiles meekly at him and he rubs her back, forgiving her in a simple motion. Only one word is said and that is her name, “Claire.”
How could one word have so much emotion in it? She asks herself this every day. She does not understand how he can meld both annoyance with love, eagerness with control, and exasperation with care. But he does, and that is why she married him. She turns and kisses him goodbye.
“Will I see you at lunch?” she asks him. She would give him a taste of the soon to be pralines, but they are nowhere near ready yet.
“Do you love me?” he asks in return. She smiles and nods, returning to her work without another thought. She feels his hand slide along her back as he mutters goodbye and walks out the door. She breathes a sigh of comfort and sets to work. She tosses in butter and vanilla and pecan halves, and stirs them about until they have boiled for a bit. She takes it off the heat and waits for five minutes or so. She is sorely tempted to cook up some fudge, but she has to open soon. There is no time to make some of the chocolate she is craving. She grabs the wooden spoon again and stirs up the pralines diligently.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” she says, waving her wand in a swish and flick motion. The cauldron lifts itself up and she brings it upstairs with her. As she reaches the front counter, she tilts it onto the flat, open counter space. She pours out the candy and cuts it into tiny pieces. Perfect for the younger guests that so often frequent her shop. Besides, if they like it, they may buy more. That was what her Grandpa had told her. It has been several years since she took over his shop. No one had been surprised when her Grandpa had left her his shop. It was where Claire had spent her summers, slowly being pruned into a chocolate lover and businesswoman.
A brief rapping on the glass door startles her from her reverie. She looks up and sees her assistant standing in the morning air. He is a young one, always trying to impress. She wonders if he would be better at what he did if he concentrated on the tasks at hand as opposed to the praise he will get if he does a good job. “Good morning, Tomàs,” she says cheerfully as she opens the door.
“Porca madonna, Zoccola!” he cries as he runs into the shop. For a few moments he speaks nothing but Italian, rubbing his arms and flapping about like a bird. Claire struggles not to laugh at the spectacle. Soon she can bear it no longer, however, and she bursts out laughing. The young Italian glares at her for a moment, but soon he cannot help but join in with his great guffawing laugh. Clutching her side, Claire remembers that she is young too. Twenty-five, to be exact.
“It only took two weeks visiting family in Italy for it to be cold in Britain?” she asks him with disbelief, “Tomàs, it’s summertime!” She pats his head, though he is quite a bit taller than she is, and pulls out the small box she has been saving until he came back. She gives it to him and goes off to finish opening. She hears him muttering reverently at his own key to the shop in Italian and looks up. She smiles at him and asks, “Would you like some pralines?”
***
The customers arrive in droves. Judging by the large number of children in black robes and different coloured scarves, Claire guesses it is a Hogwarts weekend. She watches a pair of young children fight over the last box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans. Tomàs is busy mediating between them and she hears him threaten to throw them out if they do not decide who gets them quickly. Claire wonders where the mother is. One of the two clutching the box, a boy of about seven, rips it from the little girl’s hands and runs to the counter. The girl is right behind him, but the boy has already paid and left before she can process that she has lost the box for good. When it finally registers, her chin begins to quiver and she walks up to Claire.
“My big brother stole my candy. Do you have any more?” she whimpers.
Claire judges her to be not much older than five and takes pity on her. “You know, dear, we’re having a special today,” she begins, “any girl robbed of rightfully earned Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans receives a box of homemade chocolate, free of charge.”
Wiping her tears, the girl giggles in delight at the kind stranger.
***
It is almost noon. Claire looks at the slow moving clock and wonders if it was like this for Methuselah. It is always noon when Michael comes to get her for lunch. She taps her foot impatiently. While she is not quite snapping at the customers, she is quite visibly annoyed with them. Her regular customers know not to come in this close to lunchtime, but she almost feels sorry for the children she is waiting on right now. The children’s reactionary looks vary greatly. Some have looks of puzzlement, others hysterical laughter, but nothing pleases her more than the looks on the Twins’ faces.
As usual, she knows that they are up to something. She sees the mischievous glint that looms behind their eyes. She puts Tomàs behind the counter and goes to see what they are doing. “Pocket anything and you’ll pay in more than Galleons, you two,” she says fiercely as she stands behind them. The sixth year boys jump to attention and set down what they are carrying. They look extremely guilty as they look down at her. Claire is not nearly as imposing as she was when they were 13, but she is quite like their mother in the fact that they can never hide anything from her.
“Claire”,” says George. The three have been on first name basis since the first time the boys snuck out of the school for Chocolate Frogs. It was particularly convenient that they came up through her cellar. They had begged her not to turn them in and she had decided it was better they came for chocolate than alcohol. She had never turned them in: for some reason or another she had taken a liking to them.
“You know us, we’d never pocket anything,” finishes Fred. Claire raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not in the mood to do this now and you know I’ll get them all anyway. If you confess now, I might just give you some fudge. It’s almost noon and I’m going to lunch with Michael. If I am delayed you might wind up with pus coming out your ears,” she warns. The boys look at each other and begin pulling candies out of their pockets. The pile grows quickly and she enlists them to put it all away as she prepares some of her not-so-famous fudge. Few people realise she sells her own candies as well. The student customers are so busy with the mass produced candy they don’t see the delicacies at the front.
With Fred and George shipped off to Three Broomsticks and Tomàs relatively in charge, Michael sweeps in and takes his wife to lunch.
***
“Michael, you are wonderful,” says Claire as he drops her off after an hour of bliss. She loves how he can kiss her on a busy walkway and not be the slightest bit embarrassed. He kisses her on the cheek, lightly, before sending her into her shop. She pulls away, and he pulls her back for one last kiss before she walks away for good. She shivers from it and kisses back. He lets her go this time, Apparating before her eyes. She smiles at the spot where he stood for a moment and heads back in to the shop.
She is assaulted by the noise immediately. After such quiet lunches, it is always difficult to return to the pizzazz of brightly coloured wrappers and bleating children. She touches the kiss still lingering on her lips and asks herself if she wants a child. She could always sell the place to Tomàs and set up shop in a quieter neighbourhood. Maybe they could move to a Muggle village like the one she had lived in as a child. Soon a harassed-looking Tomàs leaves the shop in her care, disrupting these quiet thoughts. She plunges back into the fray”the afternoon rush is always the best time for business.
Customers flow before her eyes and she has no time to recognise them. It is just punching in keys and bagging goods. Sooner or later Tomàs joins her and the line goes more quickly. But like death and taxes, at Honeydukes the never-ending line is inevitable. Claire loses herself in the tedium and before she knows it, it is eight o’ clock and time to clean up.
Tomàs scrapes the leftover candy from the counter and throws it into two tins: one for each of them. Claire sends him home and mops the floor, waiting for Michael.
The bell at the door tinkles as he walks in. He locks the door behind him and she sets aside her mop. He grabs her hand and leads her up the stairs to her flat. They climb into their pyjamas and meet at the bed. They lay down for the night and just as Michael is about to drop off, he hears Claire mutter, “I’m ready.”
“For what?” he replies.
“To have children.”
A/N: Porca madonna, Zoccola ! means Jesus Christ, Lady... Only substitute a bad word for lady....