We sat down again, new drinks produced (I was warmer now so we both went with a tea).

“Please explain,” I begged.

“Well, when I was sixty-three I was diagnosed with pharynx cancer… or, rather... cancer of the throat.”

“The pipe?” I asked, suddenly aware.

“Woah, hold on there,” he laughed. “I’ll get to that. When I turned sixty-eight I went in for my next check up to find that I had oral cancer, too. Now, the pharynx cancer, in me anyway, runs behind my nose and through my throat… the oral cancer is simply that; my throat. As you know… cancer has no cure; only treatments. If I’d used the Heithcruel Harridocks with a pipe when I was sixty-three, I actually would’ve burned the inside of my mouth, eventually putting a hole straight through my cheek. Luckily, I had a good enough doctor who spent hours a week turning the potion into a powered form for me… so I had to snort it. When the oral cancer came along, the pipe was much more reasonable, and smelled a lot better too.”

“So what condition are you in now? How long until you… die?”

“You say the word ‘death’ like it’s a bad thing. Trust me Lily, it isn’t,” he replied softly. “I’ve only postponed mine to create this potion… and hopefully make it known to all makers. However, it’s complicated, and not many are willing to learn. Ah, yes, your questions… I’ve escaped with seven years longer than I should have. I’m going to pass away… well… soon.”

“Is there… anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t want you worrying about it, Miss Evans. If you learn to successfully make… and promise to teach others… the potion, I will die a happy man.”

I promised him that I would, and then walked back home, realizing that there was much more to life than fighting about Severus Snape.