Hello! I would like to say thank you to all those who have read my story, and to my two, precious first reviewers:D Ya'll have made my day! I hope this chapter pleases!

Severus is hung over. He sits hunched over his breakfast plate, little bits of his hair brush into his omelet, much to his annoyance. Last night was another regrettable liqueur orgy, he indulges in them the way other men indulge in emotions. As he finishes shoveling the last of the 5 egg omelet past his thin lips, his eyes dart upwards as the chorus of wings from the owl post fills the great hall. His heart begins to beat faster now, and he forces himself to look away; yet he can't deny the faint gleam that is beginning to grow inside him. What will this day bring? It is a question he hasn't asked himself in years. Minerva turns to stare at him, as if sensing some change imperceptible to human eyes or ears. He glares and turns away feeling guilty and delightfully self indulgent.

Then, as if in a dream there is his little owl, soaring towards him steadily, dusky wings flapping in the morning sun, and landing non to gracefully in the grit dish to his left. Severus snatches the letter from the owl's leg, and with the haste of a cheating school boy, slips the attached note deep into his robe pocket. He will finger it throughout the day through the silk fabric that lines his pocket, like a rosary. His classes draw slowly by, dull hour, by agonizing hour, until at last, he has the chance to slip into his store room, during his last hour, double Griffindor and Slytherin potions.

His rib cage feels 3 sizes too small as he struggles to breath slowly while tearing at the slip of paper. As he read the message, all the air in his lungs escapes as swiftly. My god. He ducks his head out the door nervously. His thoughts race, coming to one conclusion which he desperately tries to avoid, to disprove, anything! But the blood evidence is to hard to ignore…Harry potter, stirring his cauldron looks up briefly, sensing a change in the tone of the room, there eyes meet briefly, and Harry nearly drops his ladle. Scrabbling to pick it up, he begins chopping his nettle roots (which really need to be shredded) in an effort to look busy. Severus doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. His brief ray of hope, his confident, is none other than Harry Potter. Severus nearly wretches.

…

When he bursts into his rooms at the end of the day, he has decided his course of action. With all the eagerness of a child, he has decided to maintain his correspondence with Harry Potter, to draw all those silly emotional secrets out of the boy, then delight in them in private. It is his own, most subtle form of revenge. They will trade secrets, Severus decides, until, he will reveal the best secrete of all, that he known all along to whom his correspondence has been addressed. Like a tea kettle about to boil over, a jolly, alien laugh erupts from deep with in his chest. The sound surprises him greatly, and he stops abruptly. Getting down to business, he takes out parchment and pen. His hands are perfectly steady as he begins to write, his secret is safe after all.

…

Harry floats between classes that day, his spirit buoyed by the enlightenment of correspondence. His smile, his real one- the one he thought he'd never use again- seemed attached to his lips, like a false mustache. His friends shot him confused looks all that day, secretly wondering if he and Neville had been practicing cheering charms again. By the time Harry lies awake in bed that night, it's not from fear of nightmares, or anxiety, it's from anticipation. Morning it seems, could never come too soon.

…

The next day, Harry sits between Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, picking at his pancakes and beacon, waiting. He keeps glancing up at every slight rustling sound, waiting for the chorus of wings that will herald his letter. Ron, noticing the tightness in his friends face, the sporadic movements of his arms and hands, finally speaks up.

"Harry mate, what on earth are so anxious about?"

Harry, blushing, can't help but grin.

"Nothing Ron. Nothing. I'm just...waiting for the post. Expecting something good."

Ron stares at him blankly and shrugging indifferently, turns back to his cereal. Harry notices Hermione's eyes narrow. If she were a cat, he could have sworn her tail would be thoroughly twitching. Then, suddenly, the rustling from the widows announces the morning post.

Harry can barley remain seated, tension like a corset binds his breast. Then- he spots it, the little dusky owl from the night before. It doesn't bother to halt its flight, merely dropping the letter into Harry's lap. Harry, snatching the letter to his chest, rushes out of the Great Hall, mumbling some nonsense about a bathroom. He sprints until he sees a closet near the main doors, jumping in it like a kid over hopscotch. He slams the doors with a dull thud. The scent of mothballs and dust fills his nostrils. Sneezing primly, he whips out his wand, mumbling

"Lumos" as quietly as a prayer.

Setting his wand in a nearby coat pocket he unfolds the letter, and, tries to read the paper that shakes like a leaf in his hands.

I tell myself I have no time,

And do not have the energy to spare on the effort,

But in truth,

I'm terrified of any relationship

Other than tolerance and antipathy.

Harry smiles, already composing his reply in his minds eye. Through the door of the wardrobe he can here the footsteps of the first years tramping down to Care of Magical Creatures. When the hall is silent Harry climbs quickly out of the closet, and sprints to transfiguration, forgetting his books and cloak. It will be a long day for Harry yet.