Hello all, here is the latest installment! Please, again, I beg you for your input and suggestions, as this is my first attempt at writing a full bodied story. Any comments on my character interaction? Do my dialogues in which Snape speaks sound Snape-ish enough? Any input is greatly welcome! Ok! Also, due to a few friends alluding to the desire for such, I'm going to start adding summaries before the new chapters, just the last paragraph of the last chapter to get you back in the mode! Enjoy and thanks again for reading, it's an honor.

Summary:

I have never loved any one

In my entire life.

Affection made me venerable once in my youth,

And in nearly losing my life, I lost my faith in humanity.

…

Yes…it always came back to Potter, one generation to the next. His sins are diluted silhouettes of his fathers. James Potter. My first crush, my hardest learned lesson. Severus's thoughts darted drunkenly around each other, like two swords masters in the dark, tied at the waist by a thick chord, taking tentative swipes into the darkness that was the reality of the situation. With a quick snap of his fingers he summons a house elf to deliver his letter to the owlery. Two shots of absinthe later, he passes out a few feet from the bed, engulfed in the black cotton embrace of alcohol.

Chapter Four: Development

Harry cannot imagine a world with out love. Love is as much a part of his being as his arms or toes. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. He is fortunate, in that those he chooses to love invariably return the sentiment. As Harry rereads the confession, over and over again, the words become a litany of loneliness and isolation that Harry can barley comprehend, let alone identify with. The owl came to his window at nearly four in the morning, and he has lay awake on his bed, sheets over his face, ever since. He can smell the salty scent of his skin, the musky scent of his hair, on the surface of the sheets. He hears Ron mumble quietly in his sleep, and is further assured of his capacity to love unselfishly and wholeheartedly.

A question has grown inside Harry since he first read the confession. Indisputably he loves, and with all his heart, but who truly loves him? The group is small and select. He finds his mind trying to differentiate between those bound to him for his natural attributes, or those bound to him by his charisma and fame. Harry is naturally charismatic,…then again, so was Satan. He tricked a third of the stars and God's angels into insurrection. Out of all his loves, who is genuine? In a world full of deception, is there purity to be found? With these lonely thoughts sparring in his head Harry drifts off into a restless sleep.

…

"Harry, you're not looking well," Hermione states over her toast the next morning.

Harry smiles ruefully at her. "I've had a lot to think about lately," he replies evenly as he reaches for a blueberry muffin in a nearby tray. Ron giggles shrilly from behind the Quibbler he received in the mail that morning. The brittle sound of owl's wings made Harry recall that he had a confession to pen, and that he had intended to compose it before drifting off, but sleep for Harry has always been a uncompromising warden.

…

Severus is almost disappointed the next morning as he watches the owl's stream into the great hall like a great grey sail, and he realizes that he will not be receiving a letter. He nearly hexes himself for indulging in such sentimental behavior. Displeasure, he believes, can quickly accelerate into pouting. He steals a glance at Potter as he reaches for another strawberry from the cream filled dish in front of him. Severus, sensitive to the fickle variations of appearances prevalent in potions, notices immediately Harry's pallor, the dark rings around his eyes, and the way the edges of his cheeks protruded sharply from his face.

Something is troubling the boy greatly. He indulges briefly in the thought that it could be his confession. Has my own sorrow compelled him to explore the cavernous realms of dark tattered thoughts? Severus gives into his urge and smirks at the thought, but his lips freeze when he realizes that satisfaction isn't the sole emotion he is experiencing. Like a wine connoisseur trying to identify a vintage of an unknown wine, Severus finds himself rolling the emotion around on the palate of his mind. Regret, he realizes. This is what regrets feels like. He shrugs away the thought quickly. Such emotions are not part of his character. He has defiantly misidentified it. Tossing his utensils aside, he hurries out of the Great Hall before his mind is polluted with such wasteful emotions a second time.

…

Harry can't concentrate in Potions today. This year he has been making efforts to be attentive in class, but the oppressive atmosphere in the dungeons and his definite lack of proximity to any other Gryffindor in the class leaves him listless and easily distracted. Stealthily, he snakes a hand into his satchel bringing out a sheet of parchment and his quill. Almost immediately Snape turns around from the potion he has been fussing over at the front of the room, to fix him in a glare that feels more physical than a simple facial expression should.

"Mr. Potter, I wasn't aware that reading pages 145 to 189 was a written assignment." Snape drawls.

"I'm taking notes, Professor." Harry replies, exasperated. "My memory is chock full right now and I need just a bit more enforcement than usual to make sure I have this."

"Mr. Potter, if your memory is insufficient to effectively retain forty-four pages, one might question how it could possibly recall almost every Quidditch strategy ever implicated on a moments notice. It seems to me that you should save your limited mental capacity for items of more pressing importance, such as passing this class."

Harry wants to let go. He simply wants to flop forward and let his head thunk against the wooden surface of the desk in exhaustion, but he doesn't. He simply shoves the quill and parchment back into his satchel and stares at the malicious book in front of him, attempting to fall asleep with his eyes open. The period passes slowly and when it finally ends, Harry had never been more grateful.

…

Severus is vegetating in the weekly staff meeting. Minerva is clucking ruefully over the upcoming sixth year trip to Diagon Alley to shop for Christmas presents. It was a tradition that had been at the school as long as the Annual Diagon Christmas Market. Sixth years had always had the privilege of going, as well as seventh years, who could legally get into bars, and therefore trouble. Contrastingly, fifth years and below, by law, could not travel fifty miles or more from the school without their parents during the school year.

The trip was to be that weekend, and many questions had been raised as to security measures. Three Auror escorts had to be arranged for Potter alone, not to mention his "entourage," as Severus termed Hermione, Ron, and Neville. Severus's head snapped up at the words, "And Professor Snape, if you would help escort Mr. Potter it would certainly be the best arrangement, as a teacher escorting a known troublemaker would hardly attract excessive attention," Albus said with a knowing smile and twinkle like a cat over cream in his eyes.

Severus half gags at the idea of leading Potter around by the nose all weekend while he shops for overpriced gifts for Severus's least favorite holiday.

"But Headmaster-" Severus sputters indignantly. He argues for the next half an hour to no avail. By the time he returns to his quarters, he is ready to get genuinely pissed, and with good cause. As he kicks open the door to his bed chamber, tosses his robe onto the bed and scuttles into the adjoining bathroom, he is struck by the overwhelming sensation that some thing is not quite right. Retreating slowly into his bedchamber he notices the tawny owl perched smugly on the corner of his night stand. Snatching the letter from the owl's outstretched leg, he tosses the offending creature out his window, not pausing to watch it soar indignantly off.

I read Muggle poems,

Then copy them out and slip them

In between the pages of library

Books and return them

So that other people

Stumble upon them, and fall in love with them as I have.

…

Harry falls asleep quickly, with a smile translucent as a bride's veil hovering over his lips.