“Why not?” she asked. “I love you,” I relied. “What?” “I love you,” I repeated. “I love you too.” “But my love is different.” ...I said, “How is it different?” she asked, puzzled. “I see you as the most beautiful woman.” She chuckled. “I know I am beautiful.”“but I am serious.” I said firmly .“serious about what mf.?” she asked with a dropped jaw.“I am serious that I like you indeed.!”“I like you too you are my handsome boy.”“Not that, I like you but not as a mother,”she got blushed while she was. It seemed that he did because he smiled again, wider this time. “I read them too,” he said. “They’re good.” Who said the art of conversation is lost? The exquisite torture of our first exchange – if that’s what you can call it – was mercifully snuffed when some more students arrived for class and we fell back into our gender roles of pretending each other didn’t exist. But with the ice broken, we talked freely for the next week in five minute snatches before class, and not always about Harry. More

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