Apotheca Briarwood
Fleamont exhaled slowly as he sank into the worn leather armchair, its familiar creak echoing in the quiet of the sitting room. The fire crackled steadily before him, casting flickering shadows across the ornate rug and the heavy curtains drawn closed against the chill of the day.
His fingers, still cold from the outside air, wrapped around his firewhiskey glass. He hadn't sipped it yet. Instead, his thoughts wandered—as they had more and more lately—to the young woman who stood behind the counter with such quiet efficiency.
There was something… unusual about her. Not dramatically or ostentatiously—no, that wasn't it. It was something subtler. Fleamont had spent a lifetime amid charm, where elegance was second nature—polished in manner, poised in stance and graceful without effort, by the bold and beautiful.
But she was none of those things. There was a sharpness to her, a carefulness. The kind of woman who weighed every word before she spoke, who carried herself like she expected the world to disappoint her, because it often did, and would be more surprised if it didn't.
She intrigued him.
Fleamont brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. Warmth bloomed in his chest, but it wasn't the firewhiskey that lingered.
It was easy for him to imagine how she would look as she rearranged a row of potions—a slightly furrowed brow, her hands deft and practised, while her eyes would never stop moving. Flickering over every item before, ensuring all was in its proper place.
She struck him as the sort of woman who liked things in proper order.
Not the sort of woman you'd stumble across in a typical shop. Not someone forgettable. And yet, he had the distinct impression she wanted to be forgotten.
He leaned forward, setting the glass on the side table, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I wonder," he murmured, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. "What are you truly like under all that?"
"I like to think I wouldn't change much, my boy," said Alaric from the chair beside him.
Fleamont jolted slightly, caught off guard. In his moment of musing, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. A sharp cough escaped as he choked on his sip of brandy, the warmth burning in his throat for a different reason entirely.
He cleared his throat, brushing his collar with a feigned air of composure. "I wasn't talking about you," he muttered, avoiding Alaric's gaze.
"Oh?" Alaric's eyes twinkled with amusement as he leaned back comfortably. "So who were you talking about, then?"
Fleamont lifted his glass again, stalling. "No one in particular."
"Mm," Alaric hummed, not pressing further but clearly unconvinced. He turned his attention to the fire, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel pointed. "You know, it's rare these days to find such obsidian eyes and hair that dark," he mused.
Fleamont stilled.
His grip on his firewhiskey didn't tighten, but it didn't relax either. He glanced sideways at the older man, trying not to let his flicker of interest show.
"Is that so?" he said, casual enough to fool someone less perceptive.
"Yes, quite odd, isn't it?" Alaric hummed, tracing the rim of his glass. "While black hair isn't as rare, hair that dark is. And to top that off with obsidian eyes? Makes one wonder what bloodline someone like that could stem from. Maybe the Blacks? Or a more distant line? Maybe French or Russi-"
"Can we please get to business, Alaric?" Fleamont snapped, a little harder than intended.
Alaric paused, unbothered, and took a slow sip from his glass. "Of course," he said, settling deeper into the armchair. "Just making conversation."
Fleamont exhaled, pressing a thumb against his brow as if to ward off the beginnings of a headache. "I didn't come here to discuss someone's heritage."
"No," Alaric said mildly. "But it does make for interesting conversation."
Fleamont gave him a dry, tired look.
Alaric chuckled softly and waved his hand. "Alright, alright. Down to the brass track, then."
A soft clink echoed as Alaric placed the metal potion bottle on the table between them. There was a faint hue of blue that encased the entire thing. Fleamont placed his glass down and picked up the potion; the metal was slightly warm to the touch as he rolled it around in his hand.
"Well, I've had a little better luck with it this time around," Alaric said, pushing his glasses up his nose "Not as much as I would've liked, but the progress is there."
"Hmm," Fleamont turned the bottle again, staring at it in thought. "And? Is it working?"
Alaric sighed and sipped on his own firewhiskey, "Yes and no, it works, but not for long. The time limit is still confined to ten minutes, not the original forty-five we discussed."
Fleamont nodded and set the potion down "And the potion itself?"
"A few little hiccups, which is to be expected, why, just this morning, I was pouring some mana into it, to see if that would help stabilise it for a longer duration and enhance the spell. Let's just say, I don't think it liked that."
"Didn't like it?" Fleamont's brow furrowed as he asked, "Would you mind explaining?"
Alaric hummed, "As you know, my boy, potions, in a sense, are alive, yes?" At Fleamont's nod, he continued, "Well, our potion here did not like the fact that I was adding mana, it's rather temperamental." He chuckled, taking another sip of his drink, and sat back with a loud sigh.
"If only it could speak! Then I could ask it, 'what on earth do you need, you stubborn thing!?'"
Fleamont smirked, hiding his mirth in his drink, "Mm, the day potions can speak, old friend, I think that's the day you should dread. Imagine all the secrets they would spill, and as your friend, what could I do besides listen?"
Loud laughter rang throughout the room "HA! My secrets? Why! I do believe it's not my secrets we should worry about, hm?" Alaric looked at him pointedly.
"Oh? Then whose?" Fleamont asked, ignoring the way Alaric was looking at him knowingly.
He chuckled, shaking his head "Who indeed," Alaric replied. He removed his glasses, wiped them down before placing them back on, and tipped his head towards the potion bottle. "You'll take that home with you, won't you?"
"Of course," Fleamont picked the bottle up and tucked it into a bottomless pocket on the inside of his coat. "No explosions I should worry about?"
"Why, lad, don't make me sock you 'round those ears of yours," Alaric mock-threatened, holding a fist towards him. "I've been brewing long before you were even a thought in your father's loins."
Fleamont grinned amused as he held up his hands "Yes, yes, I know all about how old you are," he teased.
The two men stared at each other for a moment longer before they started laughing. Once they calmed down, Fleamont said, sighing, "Old habits, you know the kind of people I have working for me."
He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Several of his workers had given him 'faulty' potions in the past. Too eager to prove their potions worked. Fleamont had been on the rather unfortunate end of some not-so-amusing potions.
"Oh yes, I remember!" The old man released deep guffaws, making Fleamont shake his head in amusement.
"Perish the thought, Monty!" Alaric finally said between chuckles, "I completely understand!"
"You crazy old fool," Fleamont responded good-naturedly as he drank the last of his firewhiskey.
Alaric's chuckles slowed, and the old man let out a deep breath, "Ahhh, laughter is good for the soul, keeps you young!" He winked and flicked his wand at the hearth, another log of wood adding itself to the fire.
Fleamont relaxed back into his chair, swirling the last drops of amber liquid in his glass. "Young," he mused, voice distant. "Wouldn't that be something."
Alaric glanced at him over the rim of his glass. "You're not that old, Monty."
"No," Fleamont said quietly, "but I'm getting there."
The fire crackled, casting shadows that danced across the stone hearth. The light flickered against Fleamont's face, softening the lines that had only deepened in the past year. Lines born from stress and grief, especially the kind that settles deep in the heart.
"I'll make it work," Alaric said suddenly, breaking the quiet with certainty. "The potion. Even if I have to brew it a hundred more times, I'll get it right."
Fleamont met his gaze, something solemn flickering behind his eyes. "It has to work, Alaric. There's no other option."
If this product failed, it could very well threaten all the work he and many others had put in over the last two years. He wouldn't say the enterprise he's built over the years would fall, but it would be a significant blow. After all, a product of this kind would not only support the company further but also launch them further into the limelight.
Alaric nodded, the joking tone gone. "I know."
The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet born from years of friendship and shared secrets, unspoken understandings that didn't need words to hold weight.
After a while, Fleamont checked his pocketwatch. With a slight grunt, he stood, brushing off the front of his coat. "I should go." His tone reluctant.
Alaric didn't try to stop him. He stood up as well, walked him to the door, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Be careful, Monty. You're playing with old magic here. It's not the kind that easily forgets."
Fleamont gave a faint smile. "Neither do I."
He stepped out of the room, the door softly closing behind him. His mind lingered on the conversation, on the weight of the bottle now tucked securely inside his coat. What had started as a half-baked thought—an idle "what if" tossed across the apothecary counter—had grown into something real. Tangible. Dangerous. And Alaric, bless his mad old heart, had poured himself into it without hesitation.
The shop smelled of dried rosemary, ground mandrake root, and the ever-present hint of something metallic, like old coins or blood magic left too long in the air. Fleamont crossed the threshold into the main room, scanning for a particular head of raven-dark hair.
The counter was empty.
He frowned slightly and turned, his eyes moving toward the shelves near the far end, half-hidden behind a thick curtain of hanging ivy. There, in the narrow aisle between powdered roots and bottled moonflowers, he caught sight of her.
Severa stood with her back to him, one hand lifted to a shelf, fingers skimming over the neatly labelled jars. Her hair was loosely tied back, a few strands falling forward as she leaned in slightly to read the label of a faded jar. She looked... at ease. Unaware of his gaze. Unbothered.
"Powdered moonstone?" he read the label of the bottle in her hand. "You planning on slipping someone a love potion, Ms Snape?" he teased, leaning against the shelves "Powdered moonstone?"
He leaned casually against the shelving, arms folded, watching her with open amusement.
Severa looked up, blinking as if pulled from her thoughts, and gave him a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but was polite all the same. "Hardly," she said gently, her voice low and smooth. "This is for a headache tonic. One of Alaric's more popular blends." She held the bottle up slightly before tucking it into her basket.
Fleamont raised a brow, his lips twitching. "Pity. I was hoping you'd say yes, so I'd have an excuse to be suspicious."
She laughed quietly, a light, unexpected sound that made something in his chest loosen. "I think your imagination might be worse than Alaric's, Mr. Potter."
"You wound me," he said, placing a hand over his heart with dramatic flair before smiling at her, "And please, call me Fleamont, I do believe we'll be seeing each other more often than we think."
This time her smile reached her eyes, crinkling the corners slightly in that shy, endearing way she did when she wasn't putting up a wall. She stepped past him with an effortless grace, the hem of her blouse brushing his sleeve. "You'll live, Fleamont," she murmured, heading back toward the counter, missing how his eyes lit up at her saying his name.
He followed without thinking, watching the way she moved, every gesture careful and precise. There was something deeply grounding about her, like the comfort of warm tea and quiet rooms and the soft scratch of a quill against parchment.
"You know," he said as he leaned against the front counter beside her, "Moonstone's also been used to calm the mind. Balance emotions. That's its real strength."
She looked at him with something between curiosity and thoughtfulness. "I know," she said. "It's always been one of my favourites. There's something… peaceful about it. Like it remembers how to breathe, even when I forget."
That surprised him more than he let on. He studied her face for a moment longer, noting how the firelight from the nearby lantern flickered softly in her dark eyes. They really were so dark, darker than any eyes he'd ever seen before.
She was so different from the first impression she gave—steel wrapped in silk. And in moments like this, more silk than anything else.
Alaric's voice called faintly from the back: "Severa! Don't forget the dittany before you close up!"
She startled slightly, cheeks flushing as she turned and yelled back. "Right! Thank you!"
She turned back to him, her cheeks still flushed, and he couldn't help but smile.
"He's already cracking the whip, eh?" He said teasingly, tapping his fingers against the counter.
Severa grinned, "I wouldn't expect anything less, if I'm honest, I would be rather disappointed if he didn't."
Fleamont nodded in understanding, his following words coming out thoughtlessly, "I see, so you like to be ridden-" He cut himself off, his eyes widened in horror as he stared at her, his mouth falling open ever so slightly.
She stared at him with equal surprise, seemingly at a loss for words.
"I am so sorry," he started, he could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, "I didn't- I meant-" He looked away and gathered his thoughts. How on earth had that slipped out!?
"Please, I beg your pardon, that is not at all what I meant to say," he finally managed to get out.
He watched as she didn't say anything; every second that passed weighed heavier and heavier. And just when he went to say something, anything, to beg her forgiveness….She laughed.
And not just a quiet laugh like he'd heard her give before, no, this was a full, deep belly laugh. And quite frankly, it startled the hell out of him. He could only stand there and watch as she laughed hysterically. She held onto the counter with one hand, the other on her stomach as she bent over laughing.
His own lips twitched as he tried to keep a suitable look of absolute remorse, but her laughter was contagious, and he soon found himself chuckling along with her.
After a minute or so, she finally calmed down. She wiped a finger under her eye "Ah, that was good," she said, letting out another giggle.
Fleamont gave her an apologetic look, "Truly, Ms Snape-"
"Severa," she cut in and gave him a look of amusement "I think after that we're close enough for you to call me by my name," she teased him.
He chuckled and nodded before giving her a serious look, "I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue, I would never insinuate such a thing. It was terribly vulgar. It shan't happen again, I promise you." He said, ending the whole thing with the briefest of smiles.
Severa's lips quirked up "Apology accepted, however unnecessary I feel it might be. I'm not offended, a little surprised, but it all made for a good laugh, no?"
He nodded, glad he hadn't offended her in any way. In fact, the whole thing just endeared her a little more to him. Most women he knew would have been horrified, mortified, and everything in between. He held back a wince, just thinking about the screech that could've happened.
"Very well," he said, sighing in relief.
She smiled at him, this one lighting up her entire face, and he felt his breath catch and more warmth creep up his neck. He immediately scolded himself.
Foolish Potter, he thought to himself, you're a married man, perhaps you've spent too much time away from home and Euphemia.
He cleared his throat and looked off to the side, but it only took a second for his eyes to be drawn back to her. It was quiet between them, the air thick, the warmth still on his neck that he denied was anything but the leftover embarrassment he felt from earlier.
He opened his mouth but was cut off, this time by Alaric, who yelled once more from the back room, "Ah, Severa dear! Grab me some armadillo bile from out there, and then come here and help me with this, would you? "
Fleamont closed his mouth, and the air between them cleared. The woman in front of him blinked before turning behind her "Sure! Just a second!"
He didn't want to know what he would have said if they hadn't been interrupted.
Severa turned to him and gave him an apologetic look "I better go before he cracks that whip any harder." She joked, making him chuckle.
"Of course, it was a pleasure seeing you again today; I look forward to our next meeting."
"Me too. Goodbye, Fleamont, and safe travels." She said softly, giving him a smile before rushing away as Alaric yelled out again.
Fleamont watched her retreat to the back shelves, smiling quietly to himself.
Kind. Thoughtful. A little shy under all that calm.
Hair like the midnight sky and eyes that drew him in like a dream he didn't want to wake from.
He should have walked out right then.
But instead, he found himself lingering, fingers lightly brushing the counter where her hand had rested.
"Goodbye, Severa." He said even softer.