Chocolate didn’t melt at these temperatures; it almost didn’t melt at the skin contact of Harry’s fingers either, the tips of which barely left prints in the surface once stripped of its foil and, really, had one questioning if it were real chocolate at all.

The first occasion he had to feed a square to Henry Collins, its purpose was bringing the man from shock, drawing him to the present where a sweet flavour and scent might drive back the horrors gripping him.

Later, between the wet, slow presses of a kiss, Harry shared his willingness to feed Henry again, for Henry to crack the confection with teeth, melt it messily upon his tongue, and for Harry to touch the apple of his throat as he swallowed the offering down—Henry obliged, naturally, until his kisses tasted only of chocolate and Harry was certain he'd never look at his rations in quite the same way again.