Neither of them had spoken. They had already done their jog, and had gotten their coffees. They'd been sitting on the bench for a few minutes now, and Harry waited for Snape to say something of his absence. When the man finally did speak, it was with veiled curiosity that Harry decided he didn't want to address.
"You've been gone."
"I came back."
This was all that passed between them as they watched the joggers, hoofers, and dog walkers for more than an hour. Harry fought with himself not to explain his absence, or his return, and he wondered if Snape struggled similarly not to question either. It was anger, righteous anger, that kept Harry from speaking. In the time since he had woken from his dream about Ron, he'd convinced himself that it was Snape's fault for planting the idea of self-disdain in his head. He couldn't let himself believe that he might be really capable of turning his back on himself, and the homosexual community, for the sake of a friendship he was no longer sure he wanted.
When they parted ways that morning, Harry wondered what had come of their animosity. When had it become okay for Snape to advise him? They weren't friends, and six years of schooling had taught Harry that they never would be. Couldn't be, given that Snape despised him for who is father was, and that Harry hated him as much in return. The nagging question Harry found he couldn't answer was why he hated Snape. In years past, it had been a simple answer: Snape was a cruel, sadistic, loathsome bastard. Only now, in the Muggle world, he wasn't. And even if he had been, it no longer seemed reason enough for something so strong as hate. Malfoy was as much a sadistic little prick, and much more often than Snape ever had been, and Harry hardly hated him; he thought he was an obnoxious puke, but he didn't hate him. So what about Snape had caused such a harsh reaction? And why was he suddenly finding it hard to hang onto?
Harry pondered these things for the next several days. Each morning he would meet the man in the park. More than once, he thought to voice these questions, but…how did you ask a man what it was about him you hated? He certainly wasn't confused enough to query the sudden lack of hatred. Eventually, Harry gave the questions up as hopeless. It was not the first time he had questioned himself so strongly, and he doubted it would be the last. Instead, he pushed the questions to the back of his mind, where they would answer themselves in time, as they always did. In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with companionable silence over coffee. What else was he going to do with his summer?