As usual, all characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
Ah, potions. There was something about brewing a newly tweaked, almost perfected potion that eased his mind, calmed him. Sadly, he did not always have this option on hand when he needed something to calm him. He thought of Lily; he had smiled at her that morning, only to receive the usual hurt glare in return. She still hadn't forgiven him, and to be honest he didn't blame her; he still hadn't forgiven himself either.
Potter was the one on her arm now, much to his dismay. But if she was happy, so was he. No, that was a lie; he was miserable. If he just hadn't. said. that. bloody— oh. He looked down at his cauldron, noticing that he had stirred his potion a few too many times and it had now turned a putrid green colour. So, maybe potions didn't always relax him in the way he needed. After all, it was simply one more thing he couldn't seem to get just right.