A/N: EDITED - This is, I must report…very odd, and very, very silly…a totally off the cuff one shot….I hope it makes you giggle.

And then it gets serious and angsty, which was not meant to happen…well…try it anyway.

Disclaimer – Not mine.

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When your cousin is a size that no self-respecting whale should ever be; and you have lived with said whale for the majority of your life, it stands to reason that junk food and candy would be easily accessible in the near vicinity.

Which in itself was true enough.

However, when you live in a cupboard, wear hand-me-down whale clothes, eat less than table scraps at your one meal of the day, and your best friend *read: only friend, is the tiny spider that lives in the corner of your cupboard, whom you have named Max (the spider, not the cupboard), it stands to reason that the closest you might ever get to a sugary treat that most children stuff their faces with, is trying to not watch your cousin as he eats the 4litre tub of ice cream while watching TV, another thing you've never really done. Oh…and all this while you're scrubbing the kitchen floor.

Your Aunt would probably insist you did this with your toothbrush, only they never gave you one.

In normal circumstances, this lack of junk food would have been deemed incredibly healthy; and Harry's weight and teeth would have benefited greatly, not to mention his skin when he reached his acne prone teenage years. That's not to say that a treat on occasion is a bad thing, but rather a matter of better too little than too much, Dudley being case in point.

Harry however, possibly as a result of his parent's petite stature or maybe due to the complete lack of decent food, nutritious or otherwise, his daily chores list, aka child slavery, the slightly cramped living quarters and general all around abuse, was not your average child.

Oh and Lily was very slender, true, but she was also at least average height and James Potter was 6'1 (Just saying).

In fact, Harry could have done with a few of the calories that Dudley consumed every day.

Anyway…Getting back to the point, Harry Potter was the well advanced age of 9 years before he tasted his first confectionery.

Now I see you staring at the computer screen, one eyebrow raised in incredulity (or both if you can't manage one), thinking… 'Do you really mean to say that in all Harry's childhood he never stole one of Dudley's sweets or was given a lolly-pop at the doctors or received one at school as a treat, hell, that he never picked one up at school and ate it from the ground, after all, children can be unhygienic little buggers…"

Well, look at it this way:

Harry was not, is not and never will be a thief. Not even just to steal from Dudley. Also, the whale ate much too fast for Harry to get a look in, much less a hand for sneaky little tricks.

Harry wasn't permitted to leave the house until he was school aged (the yard was exempt from this- after all, someone had to paint the fence white and weed the garden and mow the lawn and plant the summer annuals and water the flowers, and re-grout the pavement and clean the garage and repaint the fence white. On a daily basis. Didn't they).

If Harry wasn't even given a toothbrush or allowed to be seen in public, what were his chances of visiting the doctor?

In Harry's early years at school he was awarded several treats for good behaviour, however school policy was that they were to be saved until break times, and with Dudley in the same classes, do you think Harry got a look in once the bell went?

Harry was a strange little child.

That should cover it.

Oh, also – My story, my rules.

So, where were we?

Oh yeah…

Little Harry, 9 years old and never having dipped his tender taste-buds into so much as a sugar sachet.

The proceedings proceeding (see what I did there?) up to this rite of passage were both tragically sad and horrifyingly confronting to anyone with a dash of moral sentient or plain humanity; so naturally, the Dursley's were either unaware, unbothered or gratified by the situation. Or all of the above. Although how they could be unaware and unbothered, unaware and gratified or both unbothered and gratified let alone all three, I have no idea. My only recourse is that they are the Dursley's and hence would manage it somehow.

So yes, 9 years old and innocent to the world of teeth rotting goodness.

Our little tale really begins on the fifth day of summer, about a fortnight before Harry's tenth birthday and it was, as such, report card time.

Now in the formative schooling years, grades 1-3, students are given generalised report cards.

'Jenny has good group skills and works well in a position of leadership…she is a pleasure to teach'

'Tom lacks confidence in team sessions, but is rather advanced in maths…he is a pleasure to teach'

And so on.

Any truly individualising and detailed reports start in the fourth grade as the start of senior school preparation…and as such, a fortnight before he turned 10, Harry and Dudley received their first individualised report cards, and for the first time someone outright told Mr and Mrs Durlsey that their good for nothing nephew was more intelligent than their precious Dudders. Which, while being grossly obvious and strangely comforting, considering the whale boys lax face during most of his lessons, was not going to be tolerated by the Durlsey parents, and faster than Dudley could spell cake, Harry was in a world of suffering. Cake being a word Dudley both saw and used most every day, this was only as long as it took for Vernon to read the little yellow booklet and relay the information to his wife.

Poor little Harry, punished for the crime of being smarter than his cousin was screamed at, belittled with every synonym for "dumb" and "worthless" that Vernon could think of, which was mostly just 'dumb' and 'worthless 'with a few 'freaks' thrown in for flavour. He was then dragged to his cupboard by the ham fisted hand gripping his mess of black hair and tossed in, the door slammed shut behind him, cutting of all light, save for the tiny sliver than shone beneath the door.

The added "YOU STUPID, BRAINLESS LITTLE FREAK….HOW DARE YOU BE SMARTER THAN DUDDERS….IF I SEE YOUR FREAKY LITTLE HEAD BEFORE I LET YOU OUT…" was a rather ineffectual threat, but the low growl in his uncles voice and the familiarity of such words persuaded the smart little boy that staying where he was might prove prudent.

Harry had, on past occasions, been forced into his cupboard for long stretches of time, but Petunia usually called him to cook dinner or weed the garden or mop the kitchen, and he'd have a respite before his incarceration resumed.

However two days later and he hadn't heard hide nor hair of his 'family', he was beyond famished and rather dehydrated, and knew (because he was a smart little boy) that he needed some water before he shrivelled up and died.

And his waste bucket was getting rather odoriferous.

So, disinclined to meet his Uncle doing exactly as he had been told not to do Harry waited until it became dark again, or until his sliver of light disappeared and then he waited some more.

Sure enough, Dudley's thudding steps shook the stairs as he made his way down for a midnight pit stop in the bathroom before plodding, half asleep, back to his bedroom.

Several minutes later Harry pushed open the cupboard door, taking himself and his bucket on a forbidden midnight jaunt.

In the bathroom he poured the contents of his bucket into the toilet, noting, without surprise, but necessary relief, that Dudley had neglected to flush. Having to flush in the middle of the night would certainly bust him.

He then rinsed his bucket in the tub, using only a trickle of water so as not to make much noise. He crept to the sink to wash his hands and face and then slurped quietly on the chemically treated tap water, drinking his fill, until he felt nauseous but sated, apart from the gnawing hunger that permeated his stomach.

And then, bucket in hand he crept back to his cupboard, said good night to Max and fell asleep, hoping that tomorrow they would let him out, or at least feed him.

Two nights later, Harry repeated the process.

And then again two nights on.

Six days, a week was the longest he had ever spent in the cupboard and Petunia had chucked a slice of stale bread and tap water in every morning. That stint had been in retaliation for turning his teachers hair blue.

Finally, two nights on again, and past his previous record Harry discovered that Max, in no way, tasted as good as he looked. (And this is when I could totally do a Harry/Spider-man crossover *must resist giant stealth bunny.)

Harry knew that if he didn't get food soon, he would not have the strength to eat it when he did. The week's starvation wasn't being kind to his already malnourished body, beautiful emerald orbs were anguished with the dullness of fatigue and fine tremors shook his delicately boned extremities.

That night, after returning to his cupboard, empty bucket in hand, Harry turned and snuck back out again, creeping, slinking slowly along the hall, pressed into the shadows; passing the bathroom door and continuing on towards the kitchen, freezing at every creak, jumping at every sound.

Once in the kitchen, apparently safe, as his disobedience had yet to be detected by any of his family, Harry came to a stop, arms crossed protectively across his stomach as he rocked on the balls of his feet, gaze speculative as it wandered over the room's offerings.

He immediately bypassed the fridge, refusing to even acknowledge the temptation that the succulent cold meats and chilled treats held; knowing that the annoying 'bing' the stupid thing emitted when opened would have Vernon storming down the stairs like a walrus in heat, which was not something Harry liked to imagine, let alone come face to face with.

Instead he turned to the pantry, easing the door open without so much as a squeak. Not in Petunia Dursley's house.

A hinge wouldn't so much as squeak, a speck of dust not so much as sneak.

Ignoring everything above his eye line, not willing to risk falling or breaking the shelves should he try climbing them, Harry stepped into the enclosed space, searching for something to satiate the all-consuming hunger.

The tinned goods were discarded without a thought; simply too much effort and would leave too much evidence. Likewise went the dinner goods, such as pasta and rice. Cooking ingredients were deemed unsuitable and just the thought of the unholy mess flour would leave turned Harry green.

Not that he wanted to eat flour anyway.

Finally his gaze settled on Dudley's shelf.

(Yes. Dudley has his own shelf).

Bags and bags of crisps and lollies and biscuits, cartons of soft drink and individually boxed cakes all lined up in a myriad of bright colours and attractive boxes.

And Harry knew he couldn't have any of it.

Dudley, for all that he was a stupid, pigheaded, big headed, bigoted brat, had one skill that defied reason. Dudley had counted and recounted every single individual packet of crisps, knew how many biscuits where in each specific brand, every detail, down to the last Twinkie.

And if even one item was missing, Harry would be blamed, whether he was guilty or not.

Harry knew this because Dudley had cried wolf way to many times in the past, it was always unpleasant for Harry and resulted in Dudley being placated with an obscene amount of new confectionery.

Harry shuddered to think what the result would be if he actually did take some of Dudley's food.

Tearing his eyes from the all too enticing junk food, Harry continued his search.

He knew exactly what he needed- the only problem?

He had no idea what that actually was.

He knew it had to be readily edible; no cooking involve. It had to be something that the Dursley's wouldn't miss, i.e- Dudley's food was off limits, as was Petunia's dried fruit and nuts. It also had to be something that wasn't going to be noticeably missing; it was no good taking a bag or box of something if he left a gap on the shelf that his anal Aunt would no doubt see.

Each idea he considered was all too soon discarded and Harry was beginning to despair that nothing would suit his clandestine needs and that he would be found starved to death in his cupboard one day, and most likely buried out back under the roses he was tasked with planting come next month.

And then, like the holy grail of starving little boys, he saw them, several, innumerable, in a clear glass jar, one shelf above his head and slightly towards the back, just peeking out behind a box of breakfast cereal.

White and pink and pink and white, softly dusted with icing powder.

Gently, gently Harry eased the large jar out from behind the box, carefully taking note of the exact way it was facing, and the exact position of the box behind it.

Grinning madly,he pulled his prize to his chest.

Stilling for an instant and silent for a second, he tilted his head and listened, and having reassured himself that he could still hear Vernon's snores from upstairs and that there was no footsteps within the house, he eased the solid glass lid from the jar, pulling gently, breaking the seal slowly, avoiding any popping noise as the lid came of silently, and Harry bent his nose to the open jar, taking a long, slow sniff.

All he could really smell was sugar, and that suited him just fine.

Of course, fruit and vegetables would be a better option for the starving orphan, but unfortunately, as we have already discussed this was not an option for young Harry and so a quick energy hit would be a distant second best.

Resisting the urge to stand there in the kitchen and stuff his face with the ill-gotten goods, Harry forced himself to be rational, fear that the Dursley's would find out increasing as his stomach awoke and started to rumble in the presence of sustenance. Knowing that every extra second he spent out of his cupboard increased the risk of getting caught, Harry broke from his fanciful musings and stuck his hand in the jar, grabbing a modest, but decent handful, and was pleased to see that once he replaced the lid and shook the jar, the missing quantity wasn't noticeable at all.

Stashing his loot into the pocket of his much too big sweat pants, Harry carefully and exactly replaced the jar back in the cupboard, slowly closed the door with barely a click and crept back out of the kitchen, stealing down the hall and back into his 'room'. He flopped on the bed, giddy with adrenaline, barely able to believe what he'd just done.

Finally the insistent grumble of his stomach pulled him from his exuberant yet disbelieving thoughts and he pulled one of the soft treats from his pocket, ignoring the sudden urge to gulp them all down at once, knowing that he needed to ration his available food and allow his body time to register that he was actually eating.

Starvation was one of Harry's skill-sets.

Putting the soft lump to his lips, the-boy-who-would-soon-know-he-was-the-boy-who-liv ed took a tiny nibble from one side, barely more than a hint of sweetness and then it was gone, melted and swallowed in his suddenly salivating mouth.

Shrugging one shoulder, Harry decided that a nibble wasn't enough, and without further thought, put the whole thing in his mouth.

Heaven, pure and utter delight.

Exquisitely soft, cool against his warm searching tongue, creamy inside, almost softly sponging, with just the barest amount of structure forming the exterior. Eyes closed in blissed out sensation, Harry savoured every taste.

Pulling the rest of his loot from his pocket Harry quickly counted the soft swollen lumps, and then rechecked, just to be sure; coming to the conclusion that he had nine of the unknown yet heavenly little confections left.

Without knowing how long his incarceration in the cupboard was to last, Harry couldn't logically ration and so with all the intelligence that smart little 9 year old could muster, determined that three a day, breakfast lunch and dinner, would give him enough to last three days.

So naturally, they were all gone by morning.

Fortunately, Aunt petunia's shrill squawk echoed through the house while Harry was still mourning the digestion of his final treat.

"Harry! Breakfast on the table in 20 minutes!" the words themselves could have been the loving wake-up call from Aunt to nephew, if it hadn't been for the vile manner in which 'Harry' was screeched, as if the word was as disgusting and loathsome as she thought the child himself.

Harry was more than aware that it was a summons to prepare breakfast, and the 9 year old knew that he'd be lucky to scavenge a few scraps.

However, he couldn't feel too poorly for himself that morning, not with the last remnants of the powdery sugar still coating the inside of his mouth.

It was the following winter that Harry found out the identity of his stolen sweets, when Aunt Petunia used them in Dudley's hot coca.

Marshmallows.

Marsh…mallows.

Marshymallows.

Harry had rolled the word around his mouth a few more times, and decided that it was an appropriate name for the soft lumps; of course, had it not been, he would have just renamed them.

Thankfully, Harry never had need to steal from the Dursley's pantry again (although, frankly he would have welcomed the chance to liberate a few more of his hidden treat); certainly, he was locked in his cupboard again, on numerous occasions for many serious and dastardly behaviours, like not mowing the lawn to an exact uniform 10cm height, and being too convincingly stupid at school.

All in all, he really was a rather beastly child.

And then of course, came the Hogwarts letter…and everyone knows how that debacle went.

Now – if this were a movie, (an anti-budget, no taste, shot on my iPhone movie at that) this would be where we would see the psychedelic swirls and pulsating colour on a black backdrop that ran for approximately 30 seconds,followed by a large florescent green 'word-art' like scroll across the screen, intoning –

3 YEARS LATER.

(With numeric details for the digit three – yes, it's that crass)

Thankfully – it's not such a movie – so instead I'll just tell you that its three years later.

THREE YEARS LATER

The first time he had stepped onto the thick, moss covered stones that formed the entrance chamber floor and run his fingers across stone walls that while cool to the touch, were so warm with life and magic; Harry knew he had finally come home.

And then of course, came the fame, -'eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad', adventures -'flying ford Anglia anyone? ', misfortune – 'Dobby and that pudding, fear – 'giant basilisk serpents' - bravery - 'Dementors' ..Stupidity- 'mountain trolls'…. And of course… magic.

"You're a wizard Harry"

Now, putting all that aside, because I'm sure that someone has already written just such a tale; with a lot more finesse than I could ever put to paper, we might manage to progress with the plot of this 'plot, what plot' ficlet.

A family better than the Dursley's had ever been, a dorm with more warmth than his cupboard had ever held, clothing which he needn't learn to swim in, enough food to fill the emptiest stomach and no walruses, horses or whales to speak of.

Heaven.

Ron Weasely, for all his families basic poverty was, in Harry's opinion, the richest person that he had ever met.

Family, love, loyalty, affection.

Harry would give every last galleon, sickle and knut in his vault for just a fraction of that wealth.

Hermione Granger, despite all her intelligence and wit; with its well documented ability to corrupt, was still the most steadfast, loyal and slightly nosy, (in a good way) girl that Harry knew. The rest just stared, blushed and giggled when he entered the room.

Shy Neville – so softly spoken and generous, so good, kind and gentle.

Loud Dean – with his tragically warped fashion sense and overly developed comedic humour.

Shamus – Already two foot taller than his dorm mates and three taller than Harry. He thought it uproariously funny to tie his dorm mate's socks to their beds' high curtain rails. Except Harry's, who's honour he often defended like Harry was some blushing damsel in disguise rather than the boy-who-lived, already with a dark lord under his belt.

Well – that came out wrong.

Regardless – all good friends, all different, unique, but all good, and over the course of his years at Hogwarts Harry became fast friends with all of them.

Often they studied together, sat through meals and quidditch games together, attended borderline illegal parties in the dorm room after curfew together (courtesy fire-whiskey supplied by Fred and George) – many an evening would find them sitting in their dorm room, or the common room (before Hermione braved the boys dorm room (when she didn't care about her reputation or people became too afraid of her to ever suggest anything of the kind) sharing tales of their growing distant youths, expulsion worthy adventures, and as they grew, more serious 'kiss and tell – or not' topics.

Splurging on pilfered sweets, treats and candy – from the kitchen, home care packages, pilfered from younger students and in third year – Hogsmeade.

Over the years, favourites were decided and freely offered as well as viciously hoarded.

Ron loved the exploding orange flavour of Nitro dragon eggs – tiny egg shaped hard candy in a furious shade of orange. Upon contact with moisture they grew warm until exploding and the feel of simulated claws and talons trekked across the tongue gently – like a tiny horde of dragons within ones mouth.

Hermione, respecting her parent's profession as dentists chose the most sugar soaked sickeningly sweet candy she could get her hands on. Her utmost favourite was the magical equivalent to cotton candy; fairy gossamer.

Dean discovered, about two thirds of the way through third year that he absolutely loved blood pops. It had started as a rather disgusting prank played by Fred and George, but the resulting infatuation caused the Gryffindor to all but profess his undying love for Gred and Forge.

Shamus adored the rare, and bloody expensive, if he did say so, (if he didn't than Ron surely would) 'Velvet Diamond's, 'glazed diamond, sliver thin, augmented by magic of course, slathered in rich milk chocolate. He insisted he just liked the flavour, but no one was fooled- it was the prestige and distinction that the high priced morsel attracted that really drew the young Gryffindor. Although, admittedly; they did taste divine.

Neville was predictably enamoured of 'Mr Juleps' mint fudge', in fact he liked anything with mint, but was particularly favourable towards the soft candy.

And so it was, that Birthdays, Christmas's, Valentines, Easter's, pick-me-up's, forgive me's and all other assortment of occasions were accompanied by the specifically required confection, assured of being favourably accepted.

Except for Harry.

The boy-who-lived was quite reserved when it came to candy, in fact he was indifferent to all meals as no teenage boy should be, no doubt courtesy of all the whale slobber he had been forced to observe over the years.

However, come his birthday of second year, none of his little friends had any idea what would be a great birthday treat and what would be received with lacklustre, though polite, enthusiasm.

Ron had no idea what to get Harry after one of their usual spats, during which even Ron was aware he had been blatantly unreasonable (after much prodding from Hermione), unsure which candy would be best received as a silent, manly, yet heartfelt 'sorry.'

Hermione, ever the know-it-all, smartest-witch-of-her-age, wise-beyond-her-years etc., etc., accolades, accolades…. Had no idea what to get Harry as a thank you gift after he spent several long, exhaustive hours trying, (and eventually succeeding) to teach Hermione the hair straightening charm – not that he would ever straighten his hair, and if he had happened to test the spell – well his hair was as unruly as ever within two minutes.

And so it went, Harry disabused with the allure of candy, unsure what the fuss was about and his friends were all stuck in mild states of disbelief and despair.

This was a very serious issue after all.

Easter of fourth year they had even tried to hold an intervention, cornering Harry in their dorm with bucket loads of sweets and chocolate.

Forced, much to his wary disgust to try each and every one of the 812 varieties of confection had produced two things.

1 – Harry still stubbornly refused to pick a favourite

2- They tasted even worse coming back up, periodically over the next two day, where Harry was confined to the hospital wing under the disapproving eye of Madam Promfey.

The five were treated to a furious tongue lashing, the silent treatment and the cold shoulder.

For good few minutes, until Harry's innate goodness rose to the surface and he forgave them.

Thus time went by, those who had favourites enjoying them, and those who didn't (Harry) not enjoying them.

Summer Holidays before fifth year, beyond dealing with the inconvenience of Cedric's death, all students were of course, required to shop for the coming years school supplies.

Which is what found Harry perusing the deep, dim, dank, dusty, dark, dull, dingy and altogether quite disgusting glass front cabinets at his local Diagon Alley apothecary.

Fifth year potions students, now officially classified as 'seniors' were therefore required to assemble their own 'senior' potions kit , taking into consideration the potions the syllabus declared they would be brewing throughout the year.

He'd already located the majority of the ingredients and was just searching for four Gollyhart…well, hearts.

Gollyhart hearts.

Finally he located the little black buttons under several reams of some poor unidentified skin, and carried his haul to the counter; which, to his disgust, still came to the height of his chest. With effort he managed to get the quite considerable armful of goods onto the counter and stepped back to wait for the store owner to notice him.

Several minutes later he was still waiting and so he finally tapped the small silver bell on the counter.

A loud commotion echoed from the back room and the sound of several mild explosions predetermined the flustered apothecia's entrance to the actual store.

"Lad! How can I help you?" his robust voice boomed out as he clapped Harry on the shoulder.

What then followed was one of the most uncomfortable 15 minutes of Harry's life.

Which – having lived in a cupboard, fought dementors, Voldemort and seen a friend die, was really saying something.

It had started out innocently enough, with Harry gesturing to the counter and withdrawing his money pouch.

That's when it deteriorated.

Firstly the man had asked who he was buying the ingredients for, an older brother or sister perhaps.

He had then proceeded to quite kindly tell Harry that he couldn't purchase several of the ingredients himself as the age restrictions didn't allow non-seniors to come into contact with such volatile reactions.

Harry had of course corrected his mistake, informing the man that he was both 5th year at Hogwarts and 15 years old.

Which set the man off into hysterical laughter and earned Harry several more hefty pats on the back and a "Good one, Lad!"

So Harry had become frustrated, insisting that he be allowed to buy his ingredients, knowing that if he was late getting back to the predetermined pick up destination then Vernon would have no qualms leaving his nephew behind.

The good natured owner had then become a little riled at such "Blatant lying and disrespect".

To which our calm tempered young Gryffindor had responded quite serenely.

Not.

Harry would be hard pressed to remember exactly what he had said, but several phrases still echoed in his mind afterwards.

"Discrimination against the vertically challenged!"

"Recognise the truth if it flew up your ass!"

"RESPECT!…how about a little respect for the chosen one!"

"Save your life! No thanks, no parade, no accolades…Turn on me!"

"Harry BLOODY Potter!"

"Merlins sake…GIVE ME MY INGREDIANTS!"

He may have also conveniently flipped his fringe up at the correctly timed interval.

And that's when the discomfort started.

"Oh! Harry Potter!...You're Harry Potter?...Of course you're Harry Potter!"

"Deepest apologies. So terribly sorry, please forgive me…never would have assumed…"

"My Store…Harry Potter in MY store!"

"All Free…and here have this gold cauldron!"

"Honour of shaking your hand?"

"Autograph?"

"Hug?"

It went on and on and on….and on.

Until finally Harry managed to weasel himself out of the free cauldron, reluctantly accepted the apothecia's last offer of half price ingredients, shook his hand, avoided both an autograph and a photo but was down one hug.

Quickly forking over the pitiful amount of gold he was allowed to part with Harry began to gather the ingredients into his bottomless potions kit, avidly avoiding the openly staring owner.

And then his eyes settled on it.

On a shelf, high above the apothecia's head was a small Jar – tiny in fact, no bigger than Harry's clenched fist (Which we have already established as being quite small). Inside were several small white lumps, glowing with soft radiant light; very obviously magical, yet Harry immediately recognised them.

His eyes grew huge, his hands clammy and his mouth started to water, it had been 7 years since he had sampled that divine taste, but he remembered as if yesterday.

If the besotted store owner had somehow missed the freezing of Harry's hands halfway to putting the CornJacks in his bag, then there was no way he missed when Harry's fiery green eyes of emerald death started to actually glow.

Swivelling to see what had enchanted the young saviour so, the store owner's eyes widened as he recognised the most expensive item he kept in stock.

His eyes narrowed slightly and then glinted as he quietly summoned the jar, pulled the lid and put three of the small morsels in a specially designed box, specifically for this ingredient.

He handed it to the boy, realising that he was handing over almost a year's earnings, yet not caring.

"That must be some potion, Lad!" was all Harry got before he was ushered out of the store, cheeks flaming, gift in hand.

Harry had of course been unable to wait for the return to Hogwarts to savour one of his precious treasures; in fact he had been hard pressed to wait until he got back to the Dursley's. The whole return car trip Harry hadn't even heard Uncle Vernon's tirade, his mind firmly entrenched in the contents of the little white box.

That night, after having mowed the lawn, painted the fence, weeded the garden, cooked tea and cleaned the kitchen Harry had finally escaped to his room, sinking his weary body down onto the thin mattress and leaning back in exhaustion.

The little white box caught his attention.

He eased it open, gleefully counting the three little white puffs and finally stealing on the one to the right.

Lifting it from the box he held it aloft, green gaze studying every minute detail, until eventually, finally, devastatingly afraid that it wouldn't live up to his expectations and memory, Harry placed the blob on his tongue.

His eyes dropped closed in ecstasy, all but dribbling with the sensational burst of flavour.

It rose to his highest expectations and then surpassed them.

It was, without a doubt, the most heavenly thing he had ever tasted.

The magical worlds answer to the muggle Marshmallow.

And Harry had a favourite.

A/N - As I said, very silly :) please Review, even if its just to ask what I'm on!

-Now, if you want baby unicorns, heavenly treats and more fun, click 'next'.