The Taste of Euphoria: A Farewell to the Potterverse
by Cassandra Vablatsky
1: Lily
(In later years, Snape would remember that sixth-year Potions class almost as a dying person might recall their last period of remission. A brief, graceful interlude that could not last. James Potter, mercifully, was not present. Nor were Avery and Mulciber. Snape and Lily worked together in every lesson, apparently reconciled, the most able potioneers in the school. Sometimes he could even imagine they were as close as they once were… yet each knew that this restored friendship was too fragile to survive outside the classroom, in a world in which they were already irrevocably divided.)
‘Once again, Miss Evans appears to have rewritten the textbook,’ said Professor Slughorn, with an appreciative wink. He had lingered by their table for most of the lesson, prepared to be impressed. Now he bent over the cauldron, which seemed to be full of liquid sunlight, and stepped backwards, shading his eyes.
‘Dazzling,’ he said, beaming at Lily Evans. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Euphoria this pure. How did you do it?’ he asked, looking at her in fascination, as she stirred with her wand.
Lily seemed to feel the intensity of his gaze.
‘It wasn’t just me,’ she said fairly, with half a glance at her partner. ‘I was working with Severus.’
Unaccountably, Snape scowled and looked down at the heavily annotated old book on the desk between them. ‘You brewed it,’ he muttered, ‘I was taking notes.’
Slughorn smiled his genial, complacent smile and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Ah, too modest,’ he sighed, in a tone of mock sorrow as his moustache twitched. ‘A Gryffindor trait, I’m afraid.’
Lily blushed furiously and stared at the table-top with a grimace of horror, biting her lip. She looked appalled rather than flattered but Slughorn did not seem to notice. He nodded at Snape, whose jaw was clenched as he stared fixedly ahead.
(At least, she had the grace to look embarrassed, Snape thought, even if it did mean she was thinking of James Potter and his wretched friends.)
‘She would have done better in Slytherin, don’t you think, Severus?’
‘Yes,’ said Snape surprisingly, still staring at the blackboard.
Lily raised her eyes. ‘A Muggle-born Slytherin,’ she said quietly to her teacher, ‘Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’
Snape dropped his quill. For the first time, Slughorn looked uncomfortable. Evidently this was a debate he wished to avoid – there was a war on, after all. He shook his head.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said airily, ‘There are always exceptions, you know.’
‘I don’t want anyone to make an exception of me,’ said Lily fervently.
(She would die an exception, of course: the only one of Lord Voldemort’s many victims to have been offered a choice.)
Slughorn demurred. Further political discussion was obviously not what he had in mind. He looked away from Lily’s earnest face and Snape’s frozen expression to the cauldron full of shimmering elixir.
‘But you are exceptional, my dear,’ he said lightly, before moving away.
Snape shot a covert, very serious look at Lily.
‘I told you once it didn’t make any difference,’ he muttered finally, not daring to look at her.
Lily looked round, startled. It was a subject they had not discussed since that awful day in the previous year when Snape had called her a Mudblood. Lily had not forgiven him on principle but she hated to be cruel. Both impulses showed on her face.
Finally, Snape looked at her. His colour had risen, he was trembling with agitation and shredding his quill nervously between thumb and forefinger. Their eyes met and she seemed to soften slightly.
‘Yes, I remember,’ she said gently, to the desperate appeal on his face. ‘If you still think that – it’s not too late!’
(In retrospect, he knew exactly what she meant: it’s not too late for you as a person. She did not love him but she pitied him. How could he possibly have misunderstood? No doubt her too-tender Gryffindor conscience had reproached her for those earlier, terrible words : ‘You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.’)
Slughorn was addressing the class. ‘You may now taste your potion,’ he said loudly, ‘Listen up at the back! Euphoria is strong stuff – so no more than three spoonfuls, please. Otherwise, you’ll find the withdrawal is almost unbearable.’ He half-groaned and rubbed his plump stomach.
‘Are you having some, sir?’ called a cheeky voice from the back of the classroom.
Slughorn went pale. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said hastily, ‘There are some things you’ll understand better at my age… the price of experience,’ he chuckled indulgently.
(Snape never forgot the taste of Euphoria: though he would never taste it again. It tasted like hope: the look in Lily’s eyes when she smiled at him and told him he still had a chance; the moment when he knew she forgave him. That memory became his Patronus – though he always struggled with the Charm – it was joy too swiftly followed by pain.)
Slughorn came over again and stared wistfully at the brilliant, sparkling liquid in Lily’s cauldron as if he were half-inclined to change his mind. ‘Ah, the mystery ingredient! Let me guess: phoenix tears?’ he said heartily, and Lily nodded.
(She was creative that way – loved to experiment. He, Severus, preferred following rules – much good it did either of them in the end.)
At the end of the lesson, Lily left with Mary MacDonald; Snape lingered by the cauldron. Slughorn slapped him on the back in a satisfied sort of way. ‘You’re in for a bad night,’ he said cheerfully, lapsing into soliloquy, ‘Ah, Euphoria! The most terrible joy, the most exquisite agony!’
(He knew nothing about it, of course.)
