Sorry all…it's been a while, hasn't it? You owe this new update to a certain reviewer who I won't name, but will quote from…

'WHERE is the bloody update? DAMN IT! I gave you ALL those ideas and you PROMISED you'd be updating soon. Yet I haven't seen ONE new word! RAWR!'

Etc. For future reference, if you want me to update THAT badly, you could just say 'get off your ass and update already'…the 'rawr' wasn't really necessary…but I'm grateful to you, cause it's always nice to know people want to read my stuff.

Oh yes, and belatedly, a huge thank you to BlackPriestess, who is an incredible writer, and still finds time to send me nice, encouraging reviews, and good advice that I use, and forget to thank her for (until now)

AHEM…to the rest of my readers, if you aren't reading BlackPriestess's fic 'Severus Snape, Favorite Enemy', you should be.

Harry woke up quickly. There was no fuzzy moment, where he wondered where he was. There was no lag between the dream of the Quidditch World Cup, and the dark room smelling of sandalwood. One second he was flying around the pitch, staring at the black-haired Veelas with sharp noses, who smiled and tossed their hair at him, and the next he was staring at another sharp nose, inches from his own, and the few strands of hair that had drifted over Severus Snape's eyelids.

The thin lips of his potions master were twisted into a smile, and Harry resisted the urge to lean forwards and kiss them. He wasn't ready, quite, for Severus to wake up and find him in his bed.

He thought of the previous night, of the desk in the potions classroom that undoubtedly still carried traces of his sperm, and knew he was blushing. What had, a few short hours ago, seemed perfect, now struck him as brash and faintly wrong. He'd spent almost a year lusting after his teacher, thinking that he'd be satisfied with just the physical, and now realized, with a jolt of surprise, that he hadn't gotten what he wanted after all. That the physical wasn't enough.

What he wanted was long afternoons of lazy kisses, those long fingers stroking his hair, and whispered endearments. He wanted to look into those black eyes, and know what thoughts were going on behind them. He wanted Severus Snape, the complete works, not a quick fuck over a desk.

And, even after the quick fuck, Harry had no idea what Severus really thought of him. The older man's face was peaceful, and he looked much more vulnerable than usual, much younger. The thought of him waking up, the thought of seeing that peacefulness change to loathing or disgust was intolerable to Harry.

The wrongness that surrounded his thoughts of their night together was slowly changing into something worse. Guilt. Taking advantage of someone when they're drunk…Harry was disgusted with himself. There was no excuse.

He knew what he should do. He should get dressed and wake Severus up, and apologize for forcing himself on the other man.

But somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't bear the knowledge that Severus would probably hate him again when he woke up.

Harry dressed as quietly as he could, and slipped out the door into the passageway. It was still dark out, and he knew Ron and Hermione would still be sleeping. The Fat Lady would never let him in at this hour…

He'd tell them that he'd fallen asleep studying after his detention. Resolutely, Harry set off in the direction of the library, trying to pull his thoughts away from the room he'd just left. The best thing he could do was leave, so at least Severus didn't have to wake up faced with someone he hated.

Harry had never hated himself more than he did now. Damn it, he'd taken advantage of the man.

It didn't occur to him that perhaps the seduction had gone both ways, and that alcohol had had very little to do with it.

And it didn't occur to him until he lowered himself into one of the stiff-backed library chairs, when it was altogether too late to go back, that he should have left a note.

His first emotion of the day was contentment. This was very unusual, particularly as he was also sporting a hangover.

Severus was used to waking up with hangovers. His dependence on alcohol had intensified over the years, as he realized that the pain resulting from a massive intake of Firewhiskey was definitely worth escaping the pain of the things he'd done, and the thing he was.

When he went to the Dark Lord, he was a Death Eater. Severus the teacher, the follower of Dumbledore, was buried so deeply that the Dark Lord could never see him. It was a protection, and Severus was very, very good at it. At first, he took pride in the lie he lived, and imagined how admired he would be when the Dark Lord was killed. How people would respect him, and marvel at how he'd kept alive for so long.

But as the years went by he retreated further and further behind his masks, afraid that if he let them go at all they would slip one day, and it would be the end of him.

He did horrible, sickening things in service for the Dark Lord, and he found himself thinking longingly, not of life after the war, but of death. Of finally being allowed to die without being plagued by guilt.

Alcohol numbed the self-disgust, the loathing that he felt for the personality he forced himself to wear. Firewhiskey helped him forget what the Death Eater inside him had done.

But it only helped so much.

So Severus was accustomed to hangovers, and he accepted them. What he was not accustomed to, was feeling contented upon waking.

Despite the blinding, head-splitting hangover that he could feel with every beat of his pulse, Severus stretched his arms, his eyes closed, with a feeling of contentment.

And then, when his arms did not connect with another warm human, the contentment vanished, and his eyes snapped open.

His bed, with the obvious exception of himself, was empty.

Of course, he reasoned, when has it not been empty?

His bed had been empty for years beyond counting…

Until last night.

Until last night, when the green-eyed ghost from Severus's school days had come along, and looked at the potions master as if he were attractive.

"Harry Potter." Severus breathed, and looked around, as if the name itself was enough to conjure the boy to his side. He sat up, slowly, and swung his feet over the side of the bed, wincing when they touched the cold stone.

"Harry Potter stepped here." The words sounded ridiculous, and he looked down at the bed again, at the extra pillow one of them must have conjured up, and the rumpled indent in it.

Then, still wondering if he'd dreamed it, Severus picked up the pillow and held it to his face, inhaling sharply, burying his hooked nose in the smell of Harry.

That is not the smell of a dream.

Severus dressed very slowly, stiff in all the wrong places, stiff in a way he had not been in a long time.

By the time he'd dressed and woken up fully, he'd realized that the boy had not left him a note.

Surprised?

The more he retreated into his own head, the louder the voices in there seemed to become. Severus never worried about becoming mad, though. He thought, all things considered, that it would be more of a relief if he ever went insane.

Why would he stay, after all?

This particular voice was nasty.

I'm hardly something to be desired, after all. I am old, and hardly gentle, and quite probably repulsive. Perhaps he was more inebriated than I.

And then, an even nastier voice, perhaps he's gone to the headmaster.

The worst thing was that Severus couldn't blame Harry if he'd done just that. Damn it, he'd taken advantage of the boy.

Severus had never hated himself so much.