Just Brewers (G; Severus, his mentee; 1050 words)
Title: Just Brewers
Author:
iulia_linnea
Characters: Severus, his mentee
Rating: G
Word Count: 1050
Summary: Severus' mentee wants more than to find a wail of banshees for research purposes, but Severus can only assist him so far.
Disclaimer: This work of fan fiction is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from (and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by) the posting of this fan work.
Author's Note: Written as a Category Three pinch-hit for the 2023 run of snapecase.
"A wail of banshees, but why?"
"Magical song theory says that certain beings and creatures' sounds, isolated, can be used to-"
"Harm," interrupted Severus.
"Heal," Ophiuchus retorted.
"In my day, we didn't call such nonsense 'magical song theory'."
"Severus, you're being you again." Ophiuchus ran a hand through his long black hair and sniffed. "You promised to stop that, remember?"
"I promised to try to stop it."
Ophiuchus sighed. Severus stopped breathing to hear it; it was his sigh, had always been his sigh.
"You promised, Severus."
"I am trying not to be so me."
"Yeah, no, I mean you promised to help me with my interdisciplinary project, and I have to find banshees to make it work."
"We can't just go gallivanting off to banshee territory. I've classes starting again soon."
"Portkey, much?"
"Ophiuchus . . . ."
"Fine, if you don't want to he-"
"No, I didn't sign on to mentor a brat. Don't do that, Phi."
Ophiuchus blinked. "A nickname?"
"Why not? You gave me one."
Beet red, Ophiuchus coughed.
"I am not a bat, nor even a vampire. You have seen me in the sun." Severus watched Ophiuchus attempt to stop coughing, sighed, and popped the top off the bottle he held. "Take this. It will help."
"I'm not . . allowed to have beer."
"It's not beer," Severus replied. "It's medicinal wine."
"Ew!"
"You haven't even tasted it."
Ophiuchus screwed up his face as he inhaled, his prominent nose twitching as he did so. "It smells like a sock left outside during a too hot summer."
"Drink," Severus ordered.
Ophiuchus did, choking down his swallow. "Did you make this? It tastes of piss."
"Guild house-elves made it. I'll be sure to te-"
"No! Don't tell the house-elves what I said. They'll hurt themselves."
"And you care?" asked Severus.
"Mitsy brings me food in the night. She's nice. I don't want to hurt her feelings-or any of the other Guild elves."
"Even though the wine tastes like-"
"Itdoesn'ttastelikepissallright?"
"What was that, Phi?"
"I said," Ophiuchus spat, taking another swig from the bottle, "that it does not taste like piss!"
"Then why did you say it did?"
"Why are you so thick, Severus?"
"Why are you behaving like an arse, Phi?"
The two wizards stared at each other, both annoyed, both amused, both unwilling to talk about what was really up for discussion. Severus was Ophiuchus' mentor. Ophiuchus, Severus' mentee. That was all. Officially. If one were blind.
Ophiuchus wasn't blind. "Why are you even helping me? You're a professor at Hogwarts, the youngest Head of House in forever. You don't even belong to the Spellcraftres' Guild."
"I'm a lot of things," Severus began.
"So I've heard."
"Oh?" asked Severus. "Just what have you heard?"
"I know you were a Death Eater."
"You can read," replied Severus. "That should prove a useful skill for you."
"Fantastic sarcasm. Super." Ophiuchus glared at the ground. "I want to know why you give a damn, now, I mean. You didn't, before."
"There are some things that we cannot, that I cannot-"
"Talk about," interrupted Ophiuchus. "Yeah, I know. The masters never tire of telling me what I can't talk about or ask about or even, as if they could stop me, wonder about!"
Severus cleared his throat, glancing around the quiet forest clearing. He and Ophiuchus had left the Spellcraftres' Guild to collect certain rare fungi toward Severus' tutoring him as to its preservation and use in brewing. On the strength of Albus' recommendation, he was to begin mentoring the Guild's more promising novices. Ophiuchus, who had been orphaned at the Spellcraftres' very gates as an infant wrapped in a Black blanket, was Severus' first mentee.
"You're doing well, the youngest ever novice. Thirteen and allowed to travel off grounds. Great things are expected of you."
Ophiuchus rolled his eyes. "You sound like Master Spurlock."
"He's proud of you, as proud as any . . . father."
"But he's not my father."
"He's your foster father, and he has been good to you, so you've said."
Ophiuchus wouldn't meet Severus' eyes. "I guess, sure."
"Some people," replied Severus, looking over Ophiuchus' shoulder, "would be grateful to have a good and decent father in their lives, even a foster one."
"Some, er, people had shit fathers?" asked Ophiuchus.
"Very much shit, yes."
"Oh." Ophiuchus kicked the leaves under his feet. "What about . . . their mothers?"
"Mitsy's the closest thing to a maternal figure you have, isn't she?" Severus asked in turn, quite unwilling, as of yet, to entertain any discussion of mothers.
"Well, yeah, but I mean, what about witches? What about witch mothers, Severus?"
"What about them?"
"Are they sometimes shit, too?"
Severus made himself look at Ophiuchus, at the deep hunger to know this particular answer in his eyes, and cleared his throat again. "Well, some of those are shit, too, but sometimes it's . . . ."
The discussion was becoming dangerous. Severus had known that it would, eventually, and now that the topic had been broached, he wasn't at all certain what to say. That said, he was certain that too much honesty would get his, get the boy killed, and that he could not countenance.
"Sometimes it's what?" pressed Ophiuchus.
"Sometimes witch mothers are bat shit," said Severus, knowing that he was admitting too much even though he was barely saying anything at all.
"You mean mad? Insane?"
"And . . . cruel and . . . racist and dangerous. The sort of mothers who . . . who don't love, who can't love."
"Oh."
Ophiuchus' comment carried with it a cold desperate aching tone that Severus recongnised, as well, though he could not comfort him. He had no idea how he possibly could do so. Instead, he moved a little away to give Ophiuchus privacy enough to shed his tears.
"Don't go! Don't leave me, too."
Severus turned back towards Ophiuchus, his words spilling out of his mouth without control. "I won't leave you, Ophiuchus. I'm your . . . mentor, and . . . I won't stop being that. Do you understand?"
Ophiuchus sniffed and stared for a long moment before finally speaking. "Y-yes."
"Good," Severus told him, awkwardly moving to clap a hand on Ophiuchus' shoulder. "It's safe for us to collect the fungi here. No parents, er, parental relationships. No danger. Just brewing. You do understand that, don't you? We're just brewers."
"Yeah," Ophiuchus affirmed. "Just brewing, er, brewers. We're just brewers."
"That's right." Severus Summoned his work basket with a shaking hand, sternly repressing the urge to say more. "And while we gather, you can tell me more about this ridiculous theory of yours with regard to wailing."
With the resiliency of youth and an honestly inborn quickness to anger, Ophiuchus exclaimed, "It's not ridiculous! Merlin, Severus! You're such an old stick. Don't you even want to learn new things? Banshees' wails can be . . . ."
Author:
iulia_linnea
Characters: Severus, his mentee
Rating: G
Word Count: 1050
Summary: Severus' mentee wants more than to find a wail of banshees for research purposes, but Severus can only assist him so far.
Disclaimer: This work of fan fiction is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling and owned by J. K. Rowling and various publishers, including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from (and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by) the posting of this fan work.
Author's Note: Written as a Category Three pinch-hit for the 2023 run of snapecase.
"A wail of banshees, but why?"
"Magical song theory says that certain beings and creatures' sounds, isolated, can be used to-"
"Harm," interrupted Severus.
"Heal," Ophiuchus retorted.
"In my day, we didn't call such nonsense 'magical song theory'."
"Severus, you're being you again." Ophiuchus ran a hand through his long black hair and sniffed. "You promised to stop that, remember?"
"I promised to try to stop it."
Ophiuchus sighed. Severus stopped breathing to hear it; it was his sigh, had always been his sigh.
"You promised, Severus."
"I am trying not to be so me."
"Yeah, no, I mean you promised to help me with my interdisciplinary project, and I have to find banshees to make it work."
"We can't just go gallivanting off to banshee territory. I've classes starting again soon."
"Portkey, much?"
"Ophiuchus . . . ."
"Fine, if you don't want to he-"
"No, I didn't sign on to mentor a brat. Don't do that, Phi."
Ophiuchus blinked. "A nickname?"
"Why not? You gave me one."
Beet red, Ophiuchus coughed.
"I am not a bat, nor even a vampire. You have seen me in the sun." Severus watched Ophiuchus attempt to stop coughing, sighed, and popped the top off the bottle he held. "Take this. It will help."
"I'm not . . allowed to have beer."
"It's not beer," Severus replied. "It's medicinal wine."
"Ew!"
"You haven't even tasted it."
Ophiuchus screwed up his face as he inhaled, his prominent nose twitching as he did so. "It smells like a sock left outside during a too hot summer."
"Drink," Severus ordered.
Ophiuchus did, choking down his swallow. "Did you make this? It tastes of piss."
"Guild house-elves made it. I'll be sure to te-"
"No! Don't tell the house-elves what I said. They'll hurt themselves."
"And you care?" asked Severus.
"Mitsy brings me food in the night. She's nice. I don't want to hurt her feelings-or any of the other Guild elves."
"Even though the wine tastes like-"
"Itdoesn'ttastelikepissallright?"
"What was that, Phi?"
"I said," Ophiuchus spat, taking another swig from the bottle, "that it does not taste like piss!"
"Then why did you say it did?"
"Why are you so thick, Severus?"
"Why are you behaving like an arse, Phi?"
The two wizards stared at each other, both annoyed, both amused, both unwilling to talk about what was really up for discussion. Severus was Ophiuchus' mentor. Ophiuchus, Severus' mentee. That was all. Officially. If one were blind.
Ophiuchus wasn't blind. "Why are you even helping me? You're a professor at Hogwarts, the youngest Head of House in forever. You don't even belong to the Spellcraftres' Guild."
"I'm a lot of things," Severus began.
"So I've heard."
"Oh?" asked Severus. "Just what have you heard?"
"I know you were a Death Eater."
"You can read," replied Severus. "That should prove a useful skill for you."
"Fantastic sarcasm. Super." Ophiuchus glared at the ground. "I want to know why you give a damn, now, I mean. You didn't, before."
"There are some things that we cannot, that I cannot-"
"Talk about," interrupted Ophiuchus. "Yeah, I know. The masters never tire of telling me what I can't talk about or ask about or even, as if they could stop me, wonder about!"
Severus cleared his throat, glancing around the quiet forest clearing. He and Ophiuchus had left the Spellcraftres' Guild to collect certain rare fungi toward Severus' tutoring him as to its preservation and use in brewing. On the strength of Albus' recommendation, he was to begin mentoring the Guild's more promising novices. Ophiuchus, who had been orphaned at the Spellcraftres' very gates as an infant wrapped in a Black blanket, was Severus' first mentee.
"You're doing well, the youngest ever novice. Thirteen and allowed to travel off grounds. Great things are expected of you."
Ophiuchus rolled his eyes. "You sound like Master Spurlock."
"He's proud of you, as proud as any . . . father."
"But he's not my father."
"He's your foster father, and he has been good to you, so you've said."
Ophiuchus wouldn't meet Severus' eyes. "I guess, sure."
"Some people," replied Severus, looking over Ophiuchus' shoulder, "would be grateful to have a good and decent father in their lives, even a foster one."
"Some, er, people had shit fathers?" asked Ophiuchus.
"Very much shit, yes."
"Oh." Ophiuchus kicked the leaves under his feet. "What about . . . their mothers?"
"Mitsy's the closest thing to a maternal figure you have, isn't she?" Severus asked in turn, quite unwilling, as of yet, to entertain any discussion of mothers.
"Well, yeah, but I mean, what about witches? What about witch mothers, Severus?"
"What about them?"
"Are they sometimes shit, too?"
Severus made himself look at Ophiuchus, at the deep hunger to know this particular answer in his eyes, and cleared his throat again. "Well, some of those are shit, too, but sometimes it's . . . ."
The discussion was becoming dangerous. Severus had known that it would, eventually, and now that the topic had been broached, he wasn't at all certain what to say. That said, he was certain that too much honesty would get his, get the boy killed, and that he could not countenance.
"Sometimes it's what?" pressed Ophiuchus.
"Sometimes witch mothers are bat shit," said Severus, knowing that he was admitting too much even though he was barely saying anything at all.
"You mean mad? Insane?"
"And . . . cruel and . . . racist and dangerous. The sort of mothers who . . . who don't love, who can't love."
"Oh."
Ophiuchus' comment carried with it a cold desperate aching tone that Severus recongnised, as well, though he could not comfort him. He had no idea how he possibly could do so. Instead, he moved a little away to give Ophiuchus privacy enough to shed his tears.
"Don't go! Don't leave me, too."
Severus turned back towards Ophiuchus, his words spilling out of his mouth without control. "I won't leave you, Ophiuchus. I'm your . . . mentor, and . . . I won't stop being that. Do you understand?"
Ophiuchus sniffed and stared for a long moment before finally speaking. "Y-yes."
"Good," Severus told him, awkwardly moving to clap a hand on Ophiuchus' shoulder. "It's safe for us to collect the fungi here. No parents, er, parental relationships. No danger. Just brewing. You do understand that, don't you? We're just brewers."
"Yeah," Ophiuchus affirmed. "Just brewing, er, brewers. We're just brewers."
"That's right." Severus Summoned his work basket with a shaking hand, sternly repressing the urge to say more. "And while we gather, you can tell me more about this ridiculous theory of yours with regard to wailing."
With the resiliency of youth and an honestly inborn quickness to anger, Ophiuchus exclaimed, "It's not ridiculous! Merlin, Severus! You're such an old stick. Don't you even want to learn new things? Banshees' wails can be . . . ."