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He’d flinched and grabbed his wand when Ron’s shout rang out from the other side of the tent. Harry lowered it quickly when Ron turned around, a grin on his face and a small green and purple packet in his hand.
“Dad always loved this shite. Never really appreciated it, myself, until now.” Ron tore open the wrapper. “Split it three ways?”
They’d been separate buttons once, he could tell, as promised by the label above the simpering king. Harry went to the kitchen and returned with the knife Hermione had last used to slice the gray mushrooms; he hoped never to eat or even think of them again. White chalk spots bloomed here and there on the chocolate’s surface. Ron had fallen far, indeed, to still want his share.
“I’ll have mine later,” said Harry, and left Ron to his treat, turning his head and calling out the afterthought a few moments later. “Thanks.”
Hermione wouldn’t like this, he thought later that night. In his bunk with the map, lights off, teeth unbrushed, food dangerously near parchment. Come to think of it, Ron might not like it, either.
“Lumos," he muttered, and a bead of light appeared. Ginny Weasley in the dormitory, her dot still and safe. The towers, the corridors, the classrooms…the library. A memory of fresher chocolate, and something warm in his belly that he’d thought might be hope.
“Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”
Reverently, carefully, he broke off a piece. Closed his eyes to make her real again. Breathed deep and bit down.