Harry Potter and the Half-Blood and Sand

Upon legal advice, I have included the following disclaimer: For the intents and purposes of this blog, this parody depicts characters of legal drinking age where you come from – and this might be the least distressing Harry Potter blog post or fanfic you’ll ever read with those words at the start.

Blood and Sand Cocked Ale

Cocktail Sour

Sailors Grave Brewing

Chapter 10.

“Now don’t forget that nice wrist action we’ve been practicing” squeaked Professor Tosspot, as the class tittered at the notion of nice wrist action. “It’s “lift and sip, remember, it’s lift and sip. And saying the name on the can properly is very important too – never forget Wizard Borracho who got to that slurring stage and woke up with a technicolour yawn on his chest.”

                It was pretty easy. Seamus cracked and poured, and Harry marvelled at the delicate rosé coloured brew – almost like an orange pet nat. They watched its snowy head rapidly subside.

                Ron, at the next table wasn’t having as much luck. “Blood and Sand Cocked Ale? Does that mean the brewer’s put their… you know… in it?” he said, as he mopped up his spilled can.

                “You’re saying it wrong” Harry heard Hermione snap. “It’s cocked ale. Like cocktail. It’s based on a classic cocktail, Blood and Sand, with scotch and vermouth and blood orange and cherry liqueur.” She rolled up her sleeve, grasped the stem on the glass, and sniffed inquiringly. “Smells like barrel-wood and sour orange.” She took a long sip. “Hm, tastes like that too. Sort of like orange juice just past its use-by date.” She swished and flicked the brew across her palate. “Vermouth is there – very subtle. Like the cherries.”

                “Oh well done!” Cried Professor Tosspot, clapping. “Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s on it!”.

                Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the evening. “It has too crisp and malty a back-palate!” he said to Harry as they pushed their way into a crowded kebab shop. “It’s no wonder no-one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly.”

                Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione, grasping a felafel in her hand. Harry caught a glimpse of her face – and was startled to see she was in tears.

                “I think she heard you.”

                “So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. “It’s true. Also it’s a bit too sweet.”

                “Come on, it’s not that bad. I like those odd little hints of chocolate and vanilla that you get in between the sour and the fruit.”

                “Yeah, alright. But I’d say its more of a ‘change-of-pace’ beer, it’s certainly not a sessioner. And I probably wouldn’t open with it. Or finish on one.”

                “Fair. But it is pretty tasty nonetheless.”

                “Yeah, I ‘spose.”

                They took their kebabs and walked away in silence. “Think we should go after Hermione? Y’know, say sorry or something?” asked Harry, tearing the foil and the paper to get at the steaming bundle.

                “Nah. We’re all gonna end up married anyway. You know how your world never expands beyond the people you meet when you’re 10 years old?”

                “Of course” replied Harry. “Obviously.”

                They hungrily tore at their food and walked like that for a while. Ron shifted uncomfortably, as if steeling himself to address the elephant in the room. “Are there any pointless details you want to add, like that us wizards used to just shit in the corner like dogs and magic it away? Any unnecessary ret-conning you’d like to do to include details you didn’t have the courage to add the first go around?” he asked.

                Harry, preoccupied with a Santorum trickle of hot grease, chilli oil and garlic sauce running down his wrist and his mouth full of kebab, simply shook his head. “Any unasked for and controversial opinions on trans-people you’d like to offer? Just remember, no-one is asking.” Harry choked a little on his kebab, and shook his head again, more emphatically this time.

                “Yeah, probably wise” said Ron. “Wouldn’t want to tarnish your legacy or anything, would you?” They walked on together in silence, with only the occasionally gross sound of the wolfish consumption of a late-night kebab.

                “You know what?” asked Ron.

                “What?” answered Harry.

                “I rather fancy another of those cocked ales, actually.”

                “Agreed. Lets see if we can find one.”

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