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Harry said, “Not really,” and turned away, pulling off his sweatshirt.
He stripped methodically, neither fast nor slow, any pride in his physique counterbalanced, just now, by the knowledge that his skin was a flaking, peeling, red-blotched battlefield. He piled his grungy clothes – not looking forward to having to climb back into them – on the edge of the bath and risked a glance at Snape just before removing his glasses.
Snape watched him, his eyes flat and unreadable, his arms clenched around the towels he held and his mouth short of agape – Harry hoped – only by the length of his pride. Which was some going.
And was that a trickle of sweat sashaying down the man’s adam’s apple?
Harry gulped and fumbled his glasses off. He sat on the stone edge, put both feet in the tub and eased quickly into the fluid. It felt good, a little oily but warm and rather soothing on his itchy peeling skin. And opaque enough to hide … things.
“Immerse yourself,” Snape said from behind him. Harry discovered a shelf running around the edge of the tub, and sat on that, sliding a bit due to the oiliness of the fluid. It left him nipples-deep in the stuff.
“This feels nice,” he observed, watching the light dance over the green water – or whatever it was.
A hand on his head pushed him down. He slipped off the ledge and completely under the water. He clamped his mouth shut and flailed pointlessly for a few seconds.
He came up sputtering, heart hammering, blinking near-sightedly at a soft-focus Snape, kneeling at the edge of the bath.
“Hey! What was that for?”
“I would suggest that you invest in a dictionary,” Snape said, clearly amused, “and pay particular attention to the definition of the word immerse.”
Harry shook his hair out of his face, blinked the fluid off his eyelashes. “Smart ass.”
“What was that, Potter?” Snape set the towels on the stone edge.
Harry reached out as if to grope for his glasses – then grabbed the front of Snape’s shirt and pulled a little, grinning.
“Don’t do it, Potter,” Snape rumbled, not pulling back. “You have no idea how wholly you are at my mercy.”
Their faces were only inches apart, their gazes joined. Harry smiled, pulled just a little more. Snape didn’t resist or surrender.
Harry said softly, “I think I do.”
He let go and Snape drew away, observing him with a thoughtful expression.
Harry sat back. “What is this stuff anyway?” He discovered then that, even blurry, Snape’s smirk was unmistakable.
“Do you actually want me to list the ingredients? The process?”
Harry shrugged. “Not really.” Potions had never particularly interested him beyond the level of necessary knowledge.
Snape snorted. “I thought as much. Or as little.”
“How long do I need to stay in here?” Harry asked, leaning back against the side.
Snape turned to the shelf behind him, rearranging bottles and jars in a pattern known only, Harry suspected, to him. He wondered if this was Snape’s bathroom. If Snape had sat in this tub as he did now. If Snape had stood naked under that dragon-head shower…
“Half an hour,” Snape said. “The potion needs to soak in. You will need to immerse yourself at least three times to be sure a sufficient amount of the potion gets where it needs to get. When you are finished you may rinse the residue off there—” He nodded toward the shower at one side of the room—”and rejoin me in my office.”
Harry stretched, spreading his thighs and settling in. “Thank you, professor. I mean, for everything.”
Snape, headed for the door, stopped. Harry would have given a lot for clear enough vision to see the man’s expression as he looked back at him. On the plus side it was blurred enough that Harry could more easily imagine the man was coming back toward him, shedding his clothes, flinty stare fixed on Harry …
“Half an hour,” Snape repeated. “Three full immersions.”
And he was gone.
Harry stared at the door.
“Fuck.” He wrapped his hand around his throbbing erection. “Oh well.”
* * *
Snape leaned against the cool stone of the corridor outside the bathroom and groaned, resting his head on the wall. It was more than any man with blood in his veins should be asked to take – particularly a man who, due to one thing and another, had almost forgotten he had blood in his veins. It was reminding him now, with a vengeance.
He sucked cool air in between clenched teeth. If he closed his eyes Harry sprang into view, naked, climbing into the tub, strong and smooth and oh fuck …
His body throbbed with every heartbeat, hungry, insistent.
Snape groaned. Perfect. You survived the dark lord only to be brought down by a skinny (but he’s not skinny any more) little (and he’s not little, not at all) nearsighted (well…) brat (true, but irrelevant).
“Shut up.” Snape shoved himself off the wall and stalked back to his office.
Hopeless fool. Now you’re arguing with your own body.
He adjusted his trousers as he stalked.
And losing.
* * *
Snape was resting his eyes after a prophylactic session with the most dry and tiresome historical text he could find when he heard the door creak open.
Harry’s wet head poked around the edge of the door and he scanned the room, clearly not seeing Snape in the far corner, seated in his favorite armchair and blanketed by shadows.
He came into the room and tiptoed toward the other door. He was wearing a towel.
Only a towel.
Snape gulped and sat up; the book fell off his lap with a thunk.
Harry froze, head swiveling.
“What in the name of the Founders do you think you’re doing?”
Harry straightened up, revealing the deeply … deeply …. interesting fact that when he blushed, the color spread down his neck and halfway down his sternum. The black towel wrapped around his hips was decent enough, covering him from waist to knees, but altogether too much moist, well-muscled young flesh was being flashed for Snape to do anything other than …
* * *
