Under Mrs. Green's encouragement, everyone grabbed a piping bag and struggled to trace shapes onto baking paper. The classic milk chocolate bars, bestsellers in the country for over a decade, were transformed under their hands into letters ("Who wrote 'OWLs'?"), numbers, suns, simple houses, and abstract geometric blobs ("That's a pumpkin!").
"And now?" Zelma asked.
"Now we wait for them to cool," Mrs. Green said. "Most visitors skip this part and come straight here…" She led them to a large glass window beside the main hall. "To purchase some pre-made chocolates as souvenirs."
Through the glass door, a spectacular sight awaited. Chocolates of every kind were neatly organized: dark, white, milk, some studded with almonds or dried fruit. Filled chocolates sat next to tempting cross-section diagrams revealing colorful centers beneath thin dark shells. Tiny, button-sized chocolate beans in every color filled small bags in children's hands, with staff nearby weighing them.
"But we have time," Mrs. Green said. "You booked a group tour. That means there's one more place for you to see… a place regular visitors don't get to see."
She didn't lead them into the shop. Instead, she continued down the corridor, finally stopping at a small door marked 'Staff Only.'
"Dear chocolate enthusiasts," she announced with a flourish, "allow me the honor of showing you the heart of this factory." She pushed the door open with dramatic force. "The assembly line."
Once everyone was inside, Mrs. Green asked Anthony to close the door behind them.
They stood in a narrow walkway. One wall was solid, the other a vast glass window looking into a room of steel machines and workers in white uniforms and caps.
The laughter from the Magic Chocolate Room vanished. The soft, chocolate-brown carpet underfoot was gone, replaced by beige floor tiles. A low, steady hum filled the air, punctuated by mechanical clicks and clacks. The factory had swallowed them whole.
"What you see here is already the downstream section of the line," Mrs. Green explained, gesturing through the glass. "The chocolates are already formed. The staff are inspecting them for defects. After this, the perfect ones are packaged, sent to the shelves, and eventually become the sweets in your hands and pockets."
They walked forward.
"This is the moulding section. Liquid chocolate enters the cooling units here, just like the unique chocolates you created are doing now. My colleagues will take good care of them. And when they emerge… ta-da! Chocolate!"
The chocolates on the conveyor belt moved slowly, steadily, like a mighty, disciplined river.
The students watched, mesmerized. Following Mrs. Green, they walked upstream, tracing the chocolates' journey backwards: a thin cascade of liquid chocolate from above, forming the dark shell of a filled chocolate; pink, berry-flavored white chocolate coating a fruit-filled center; further on…
"What are those people doing?"
Mrs. Green explained, "They're placing the filling centers in the correct spots. That way, the machine knows where to pour the chocolate shell."
The students gathered by the window, watching the uniformed workers. Several women chatted as they placed red fruit pieces onto the moving belt with precise, rhythmic motions. One looked up, spotted Mrs. Green and the cluster of teenagers, paused, nudged her neighbor, and nodded towards the window with a small smile. Her hands never stopped working.
"They're not even looking!"
"Can't a machine do that?"
"Why don't they eat some?"
"Machines certainly can," Mrs. Green said. "And I know some factories have started replacing workers with them. But, dear, if machines replace them, where should they go?"
"They could build the machines, or keep working here but for fewer hours," a student said. "I don't see the problem."
Anthony placed a hand on his shoulder. The student looked back. Anthony shook his head.
"I'm afraid it's a very complex issue," Anthony said quietly. "Sadly, we haven't found a solution that makes everyone happy yet."
…
Leaving the assembly line, the students were more pensive than when they'd entered. Factory, a word absent from the wizarding world, lay heavy in the air around them.
Here were mixers larger than the biggest cauldron in Diagon Alley, churning ground cocoa beans into glossy, silken liquid. Propelled by electricity, a force magic couldn't quite grasp, countless gears, gates, and mechanical arms assembled rows of chocolate with humbling efficiency and accuracy. Chocolate slurry flowed through stainless steel pipes above the visitors' heads, a thick, sweet lifeblood sustaining the factory's pulse, the workers' wages, and the burst of sweetness on countless tongues across the world.
But another sight soon grabbed their attention. Passing machines separating cocoa beans from stones, they followed Mrs. Green through another small door and found themselves in a long gallery. Display cases lined the walls, holding every chocolate variety and packaging design the brand had ever sold.
"I've had this one!" a student exclaimed with delight, pointing at a case. "A distant cousin sent it to me!"
"Ah, a very classic Easter egg," Mrs. Green said, glancing over. "I'm not surprised."
Claire said, "No, ma'am, you don't understand how hard it is for us to get these."
Mrs. Green nodded with a professional, polite smile. As the students clustered around an especially gaudy wrapper, she whispered to Anthony with barely contained curiosity, "A rather impertinent question, Mr. Anthony. Do they have to learn circus skills?"
"What?"
"I've heard circus performers have certain… requirements regarding weight and physique," Mrs. Green explained.
…
At the end of the chocolate history gallery, a handsome glass door awaited. No introduction was needed. The mountain of chocolate beyond told them exactly where they were.
This was the shop they'd seen at the start. Having seen an extra part of the assembly line, the tour group had finally arrived. A queue had formed at the checkout. Visitors who wanted nothing were frowning, muttering apologies, trying to squeeze past the crowd to escape.
"If you'd like to take some souvenirs home… as students, you get a ten percent discount," Mrs. Green said, smiling as Zelma made a beeline for the chocolate biscuit balls she'd admired earlier—a snack you could pour straight into your mouth or sprinkle over milk or yogurt.
"I'm going to mix them into my porridge," Anthony heard Zelma tell her friend. "With a huge spoon of peanut butter."
"If you make your porridge too sticky, it'll be even harder to pick the feathers out," her friend warned.
Anthony stood by the entrance, scanning the shop. He was watching for any student who might find their three pounds insufficient and need to exchange more money, or who might suddenly decide to whip out a wand and shout "Accio pounds!"
It was then he realized the shop sold more than just chocolate. Right beside him were cocoa powder, chocolate milk, chocolate moulds, chocolate-shaped fridge magnets, keychains, factory postcards… Further along, he even spotted chocolate ice cream, its sign boasting that both the cocoa powder and the dark chocolate chips mixed in came from this very factory.
And among all the chocolate, the bestsellers were the classic milk chocolate bars. A stand among them displayed a quote from the brand's founder, likely from a speech or interview: "They are the physical manifestation of joy and comfort… Like a knight holds his sword, I hold my chocolate bar to beat back despair."
…
Perhaps because the students had already eaten so much chocolate, they weren't wildly enthusiastic about buying more. Besides, for young witches and wizards raised on Honeydukes, Muggle chocolate, while winning on variety, lacked the familiar, comforting touch of magic.
"Like suddenly-exploding syrup fillings, or chews that glue your teeth together…" one student said, shoveling handfuls of chocolate balls into a paper bag.
"That sounds dreadful, dear," Mrs. Green said sympathetically.
"What? No, it's actually quite fun."
"Yeah," his classmate muttered. "And your favorite, frogspawn."
"What's that?" Mrs. Green asked cheerfully, probably thinking they'd given a specific product a funny nickname.
"It's… well…" They looked at Anthony, who was standing nearby.
Anthony was busy watching a student deep in conversation with a Muggle teenager. The student kept touching his pocket, as if debating whether to fling a jelly slug at the other's head.
The students beside Anthony called for help. "Professor?"
He snapped back to attention. "Oh, a type of white chocolate bean." If you dropped them in hot milk, you got tiny chocolate frogs and a cup of milk that tasted… interesting.
…
Most students just picked a few flavors they couldn't get back home (yuzu, orange, sea salt caramel) before turning their attention to more lasting souvenirs. Following the advice of classmates who'd already been on Muggle Studies trips, many grabbed fridge magnets. Others crouched by shelves, examining keychains.
Thomas turned directly to Anthony. "What would you buy, Professor?"
"Hmm…" Anthony scanned the area. "The postcards look nice."
"Postcards?" Thomas repeated, puzzled, already pulling one from the rack. "Can they be sent to our school?"
Anthony took one too. It showed a massive chocolate waterfall. "Absolutely," he said with certainty.
Hogwarts must have some magic—or magical house-elves—monitoring all mail addressed to the school.
That's how he stayed in touch with Mr. Lind: occasionally slipping a letter into a postbox on a Saturday trip home, then finding Mr. Lind's reply on his desk a few days later, complete with Muggle postal service postmarks. He felt a bit sorry for the postmen who must have noticed letters going missing for no apparent reason.
…
The postcard in Thomas's hand immediately drew the others' interest. Upon hearing they could be sent to Hogwarts, they eagerly grabbed some—some for siblings, some for friends.
"Hey, what if I sent one to a professor?" Thomas whispered. He and his friends were hunched over a small table, writing their cards.
"Professor Anthony said he gets post," Claire said. She'd just confirmed the mailing details with him. "But why would you send one to a professor? You could just turn around and hand it to him."
"Not Professor Anthony." Thomas flipped his card over to show them.
It was a photo. A deflated piping bag lay to the side. In the center, written in melted chocolate on a marble surface in bold capitals: "GO EAT CHOCOLATE, YOU WANKER!"
"I was going to send it to Fred and George. For shaking me awake before their morning training," he said. "But then I thought they'd prefer I sent it to Filch or Snape."
"Try McGonagall. Or Dumbledore," a classmate next to him encouraged. "Or Lockhart."
Thomas made a face. "Nah, that's a waste. It'd just get lost in his fan mail."
…
After buying souvenirs, they walked with Mrs. Green to the factory's main entrance. Anthony did a final headcount and turned to have them say goodbye, only to see Mrs. Green smiling as she produced a very large plastic bag from behind her.
"You forgot something, chocolate enthusiasts," she said.
Anthony took the bag and peered inside. "So we did."
Inside were their creations from the Magic Chocolate Room, now cooled and carefully wrapped into their various shapes. The factory staff had even piped a border of white chocolate around the more fragile designs for reinforcement.
"Thank you very much," Anthony said, shaking Mrs. Green's hand. "For the tour and your company. It's been a wonderful trip."
"My pleasure," Mrs. Green said. "Well then, I wish you joy in your chocolate, and joy in your days. And the very best of luck on your future… magical paths."
A student, looking at his handful of chocolate, suddenly called out to Mrs. Green as she turned to leave. "Ma'am! Can I show you a magic trick?"
"Of course!" Mrs. Green stopped, delighted.
The student winced—his friends were kicking his shoes, jabbing his back, and pinching him—then shoved the chocolate into his mouth.
"The chocolate is gone," he said, his voice muffled by the mouthful. He broke into a huge grin. "But the happiness is here! Thank you, and your colleagues, ma'am. This afternoon was brilliant."
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