It had been a gross indiscretion on his part, attending the party. Of course, the Slytherins were happy that they had won a Quidditch match, and he hadn't taken a whole drink of the punch before the familiar odor made him set the glass violently on the too ornate tablecloth: firewhiskey didn't smell that different from its Muggle analog, but only older students were there, and though Slughorn had complacently turned a blind eye, attendance seemed to be limited to those who sympathized with the Dark Lord.
And to his shock, Severus had found, after examining himself all these months, (especially after he had been granted the reprieve from attention by the new robes and cloak) that he didn't. He really didn't. Muggles weren't evil, or vile, or filthy, or any of the host of other unfavorable adjectives frequently heaped upon them (excepting 'non-magical', a tautology) Nor were purebloods powerful exempla of perfection.
Trying to study potions for a certificate without pureblood money behind him, without any money behind him, really, considering his financial prospects, would be difficult, true, perhaps nigh on impossible. It was a crazy notion, really.
Yet it was the only way he would do this at all, and the epiphany somehow intoxicated him with an insane, inadvisable euphoria.
He was wandering the halls restlessly in that state when, like a sudden shower of ice cold water, he came upon Lily, her blouse askew and partially unbuttoned, eagerly kissing Potter in a nook on the third floor.
It was the time of year when—firstly, though he wouldn't usually have thought about it, spring was coming to these latitudes—and secondly, and possibly more significantly, the fifth and seventh year classes were coaxed into revision for their important end-of-year tests (OWLs and NEWTs respectively) by teachers who slipped the material into class. The sixth years—as he was—did not have to worry about it for this year, which meant the Marauders were trying for springtime romance instead of reluctantly worrying about their scores. He, oddly enough, had been sent a parcel of quite helpful books with a note saying they would be helpful for his NEWTs.
But at the moment he was far more concerned about Lily, an attitude which had previously caused him difficulty, he knew, but an inescapable feeling. The discomfort she had been carrying since the year began or before seemed to have become more intense of late.
She summed up the worry in a brief sentence, which did not speak for all the other things that had bothered her, the things he still couldn't do anything about, "He asked me to marry him, Severus."
He looked at her, his angel Lily, and he thought about Potter, trying to weigh him without their enmity, but somehow he did not think the rash, brash, hero-complex, cruel Gryffindor her equal.
Yet there was nothing at all he could say to this, because he held no alternative.
Green eyes met black, and she turned from him.
A/N: There is only one more chapter, a three-parter, left for A Certain Trigger, after which I may depart from this particular story entry and begin a new one in a slightly different format to continue the tale with Our Earthly Pleasures-as I currently do not intend to include Missing Songs in this storyline. Intended: skipping a period to after James and Lily are married. There might also be a side story-in yet a different format, likely without Maximo Park inspiration-to explain further the mysterious man and what's going on with Eileen.