(no subject)
Title: Not With A Bang
Type: Slash
Genre: Angsty very
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: dragon tears
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, minor slashiness
Word Count: 968
Summary: Barty is late for a tutoring session.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Much love to T.S. Eliot for the title. (read "The Hollow Men," if you haven't. It's a downer, but in a good way.) Written for the 7spells challenge.
With the care of a dragon, Barty throws his satchel bag down and storms into the dungeons, heatedly sighing and shoving his exhausted blonde hair off his face. Much calmer, Severus waits behind a cauldron - ingredients expectant and Advanced Potion Making open to the appropriate page. But Barty walks right past him, forehead in palms and eyes threatening to glare holes in the floor.
“I know, I know,” he huffs, not even bothering to look up. “I’m bloody late. Again. Don’t fucking remind me, okay?”
He still isn’t looking at, or listening to, Severus, or else he’d know that the dark-haired seventh-year has neither spoken nor made a facial expression, and Severus knows better than to do either right now. For all the work that Barty’s done over the past few years to gain his father’s acceptance, he’s gotten little - if anything - for it, save headaches and various physical ailments. Whenever he gets like this, it’s inevitably linked to “that bastard.” Having never met him, Severus supposes that he shouldn’t judge him…but Barty’s not one to lie about something that huge. Breathing heavily in some misguided attempt to calm himself down, Barty slumps forward, somehow remaining on his feet in a forceful slouch.
“I just…don’t know why I need this. I mean, I like you, and spending time with you, but…Merlin! I got an O on the bloody OWL! I had top marks, best of everyone in my year! Sure, my father never noticed or cared or anything, I’m never good enough for him, but…how the HELL am I bloody failing? I got twelve bloody OWLS! TWELVE! I got an OWL in Arithmancy! I don’t even LIKE Arithmancy, let alone fancy a career that involves it! And I did for him! But what do I get?! Nothing!”
Groaning, an oddly ghost-like sound, he thrusts the butts of his hands into his eyes and begins violently rubbing them, as though trying to clean a particularly persistent stain. The apparent rage, though, is only transient, and it is soon replaced by a whimpering despondency. By now Severus can read him without looking at his face. Even when he represses things, he can’t keep them down far enough for his body to resist conforming. His arms are tensed up more than they need to be, his legs look on the verge of collapsing underneath him, and his depression traces a bold, brutal line up his arched back. Unfortunately for him, Barty is incapable of staying angry. These moods come in increasing frequency, but, in spite of Severus’s other tutoring, he’s sixteen and still doesn’t accept that his father’s idiocy has nothing to do with him. He shoulders burdens he shouldn’t have to, and, finally, when he can’t hold them up anymore, they force him onto his knees on the dungeon floor. But even that’s not enough, and, soon enough, he’s only sitting there, curled in a ball; Severus is by his side with no time spared over the cauldron.
Watching him cry is only intimidating because it happens so often and he doesn’t deserve it…but he suffers through it anyway, even when Severus’s comforting is transient. If only he’d let on to something that Severus can do beyond running two fingers up and down his spine and dispensing hugs, snogs, and advice. The motion of Severus’s fingers makes him shudder warmly, and the other three help out some, but he’s so easily worn down; it never lasts. How’s he going to be next year, after Severus leaves?
“…I’m sorry, Sev,” he sighs, finally looking up. His face is wet and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy; if he’s gotten sleep, it hasn’t been much. “I just…don’t know why I still care about what he thinks, and I know you don’t have to deal with it, and stay with me, and be so, so-”
“You’re right,” Severus interrupts mildly. “I don’t have to put up with this…but I want to.”
“…Why?” He asks this with a slight whine in his voice, petulantly expecting an answer he’s not going to get.
“Because…well, I don’t like doing it, but I like having you around-”
“I’m not going to go away if you don’t-”
“Maybe not, but it’s worrisome nonetheless.”
“Sev, I…it’s just…”
“Your father?”
He nods and wipes off a tear as it comes. “Mhm…he’s just…he only knows about my OWLs because my mum told him, and he only cares because it makes him look good around the Ministry.”
“I know…”
“I mean…I bust my arse getting top marks in completely worthless classes - like Ancient Runes. I like it. It’s easy. But when the hell am I going to use it?”
“I know…”
“And he doesn’t even care except for his reputation, and…I don’t like it, but I’m bloody sensitive, and…and…and…I don’t know why I bother…”
Suddenly silent - except for the wretched dirge he keeps sniveling - he draws his knees up into his chest and puts his head between them, looking like he’s going to be sick. The thought occurs to go get a basin or something, just in case he is, but Severus stays anyway. After all, Scourgify wasn’t invented for nothing. Luckily, though he doesn’t look up, he isn’t sick, just shivering for no apparent reason; the dungeons are usually cold, but they’re really not tonight, and there’s a fire going under the cauldron. In an attempt to get more out of him than whimpers, Severus switches from two fingers to a whole hand, rubbing the back of it down the spine instead.
“Sev, I-”
“Ssh, it’s alright. I’m here.”
“But it’s not…for once, I know how I feel…”
“That’s good, then-”
“But I don’t like it.”
Choking something back, he cranes his neck up and turns it owlishly to stare at Severus.
“Sev,” he sighs, desperate and imploring. “I hate him…”
And a new icon!
Type: Slash
Genre: Angsty very
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: dragon tears
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, minor slashiness
Word Count: 968
Summary: Barty is late for a tutoring session.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Much love to T.S. Eliot for the title. (read "The Hollow Men," if you haven't. It's a downer, but in a good way.) Written for the 7spells challenge.
With the care of a dragon, Barty throws his satchel bag down and storms into the dungeons, heatedly sighing and shoving his exhausted blonde hair off his face. Much calmer, Severus waits behind a cauldron - ingredients expectant and Advanced Potion Making open to the appropriate page. But Barty walks right past him, forehead in palms and eyes threatening to glare holes in the floor.
“I know, I know,” he huffs, not even bothering to look up. “I’m bloody late. Again. Don’t fucking remind me, okay?”
He still isn’t looking at, or listening to, Severus, or else he’d know that the dark-haired seventh-year has neither spoken nor made a facial expression, and Severus knows better than to do either right now. For all the work that Barty’s done over the past few years to gain his father’s acceptance, he’s gotten little - if anything - for it, save headaches and various physical ailments. Whenever he gets like this, it’s inevitably linked to “that bastard.” Having never met him, Severus supposes that he shouldn’t judge him…but Barty’s not one to lie about something that huge. Breathing heavily in some misguided attempt to calm himself down, Barty slumps forward, somehow remaining on his feet in a forceful slouch.
“I just…don’t know why I need this. I mean, I like you, and spending time with you, but…Merlin! I got an O on the bloody OWL! I had top marks, best of everyone in my year! Sure, my father never noticed or cared or anything, I’m never good enough for him, but…how the HELL am I bloody failing? I got twelve bloody OWLS! TWELVE! I got an OWL in Arithmancy! I don’t even LIKE Arithmancy, let alone fancy a career that involves it! And I did for him! But what do I get?! Nothing!”
Groaning, an oddly ghost-like sound, he thrusts the butts of his hands into his eyes and begins violently rubbing them, as though trying to clean a particularly persistent stain. The apparent rage, though, is only transient, and it is soon replaced by a whimpering despondency. By now Severus can read him without looking at his face. Even when he represses things, he can’t keep them down far enough for his body to resist conforming. His arms are tensed up more than they need to be, his legs look on the verge of collapsing underneath him, and his depression traces a bold, brutal line up his arched back. Unfortunately for him, Barty is incapable of staying angry. These moods come in increasing frequency, but, in spite of Severus’s other tutoring, he’s sixteen and still doesn’t accept that his father’s idiocy has nothing to do with him. He shoulders burdens he shouldn’t have to, and, finally, when he can’t hold them up anymore, they force him onto his knees on the dungeon floor. But even that’s not enough, and, soon enough, he’s only sitting there, curled in a ball; Severus is by his side with no time spared over the cauldron.
Watching him cry is only intimidating because it happens so often and he doesn’t deserve it…but he suffers through it anyway, even when Severus’s comforting is transient. If only he’d let on to something that Severus can do beyond running two fingers up and down his spine and dispensing hugs, snogs, and advice. The motion of Severus’s fingers makes him shudder warmly, and the other three help out some, but he’s so easily worn down; it never lasts. How’s he going to be next year, after Severus leaves?
“…I’m sorry, Sev,” he sighs, finally looking up. His face is wet and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy; if he’s gotten sleep, it hasn’t been much. “I just…don’t know why I still care about what he thinks, and I know you don’t have to deal with it, and stay with me, and be so, so-”
“You’re right,” Severus interrupts mildly. “I don’t have to put up with this…but I want to.”
“…Why?” He asks this with a slight whine in his voice, petulantly expecting an answer he’s not going to get.
“Because…well, I don’t like doing it, but I like having you around-”
“I’m not going to go away if you don’t-”
“Maybe not, but it’s worrisome nonetheless.”
“Sev, I…it’s just…”
“Your father?”
He nods and wipes off a tear as it comes. “Mhm…he’s just…he only knows about my OWLs because my mum told him, and he only cares because it makes him look good around the Ministry.”
“I know…”
“I mean…I bust my arse getting top marks in completely worthless classes - like Ancient Runes. I like it. It’s easy. But when the hell am I going to use it?”
“I know…”
“And he doesn’t even care except for his reputation, and…I don’t like it, but I’m bloody sensitive, and…and…and…I don’t know why I bother…”
Suddenly silent - except for the wretched dirge he keeps sniveling - he draws his knees up into his chest and puts his head between them, looking like he’s going to be sick. The thought occurs to go get a basin or something, just in case he is, but Severus stays anyway. After all, Scourgify wasn’t invented for nothing. Luckily, though he doesn’t look up, he isn’t sick, just shivering for no apparent reason; the dungeons are usually cold, but they’re really not tonight, and there’s a fire going under the cauldron. In an attempt to get more out of him than whimpers, Severus switches from two fingers to a whole hand, rubbing the back of it down the spine instead.
“Sev, I-”
“Ssh, it’s alright. I’m here.”
“But it’s not…for once, I know how I feel…”
“That’s good, then-”
“But I don’t like it.”
Choking something back, he cranes his neck up and turns it owlishly to stare at Severus.
“Sev,” he sighs, desperate and imploring. “I hate him…”
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