“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Snape said, very softly.
Harry, not sure whether he’d been meant to hear that, simply closed the door and returned to his borrowed chambers in Gryffindor Tower.
The odd looks he got from students and staff alike puzzled him until he got to his rooms, pulled himself out of his reverie, and remembered he was only wearing a towel.
“Oh, hell.”
Looking in the mirror, he noticed his blush extended all the way down his chest. Interesting.
Day Two
At 9:17 Snape banged on Harry’s chamber door. “Potter!”
It was a minute (63 seconds, but who was counting?) before Harry unlatched the door and opened it. Snape’s furious tirade about consideration for other people’s time evaporated on the tip of his tongue.
“Sorry I’m so late, sir,” Harry said weakly. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but his feet were bare and his face chalk-white.
“What’s happened?” Snape demanded, plunging into the room and grabbing Harry’s arm to steer him to a chair. The muscles in that arm felt like overcooked noodles.
“I was sick,” Harry said. “All night.”
“You vomited?” Snape asked.
“All night,” Harry said, smiling faintly. “Stopped around dawn, and I fell asleep. That’s why I’m late. I didn’t hear my alarm.” He indicated a disgruntled-looking alarm pixie, sitting with its arms crossed on the table near the bedroom door. “I’m a bit slow getting dressed, too. Sorry.”
“What did you eat yesterday?” Snape asked, kneeling beside Harry’s chair to feel his pulse. It was strong and steady. His skin had already improved as well, showing significantly less flaking and peeling, though it was still too rosy. “Everything.”
Harry groaned. “I can’t remember everything I ate, for God’s sake.”
“Do you wish to see Madame Pomfrey?”
Harry looked down at him. “No. I feel a lot better this morning. I mean, I’m worn out, but I don’t feel sick at all. Do you think I should?”
Instead of answering Snape slipped his hand under Harry’s T-shirt without so much as an ‘excuse me’ and laid his palm on the boy’s stomach. It was flat and silky-smooth, warm, taut with muscle. Not that he noticed.
“Revelaro heri cibus.”
A list, fairly impressive in abstract but of normal size for a healthy active young man, appeared in the air in glowing golden letters. Snape read it swiftly, with an eye to whether there was anything with which his potion might have interacted badly.
“Nothing odd at breakfast aside from the sheer volume.” He felt the stomach under his hand twitch in laughter. “Fruit at midmorning … I should advise you to avoid citrus, Potter. That might’ve contributed to your illness. Coffee as well. Tea should be fine. Chicken and – half a chocolate cake? It’s a wonder you don’t weigh 20 stone, Potter. Hm … more coffee in the afternoon. That may be … ah, coffee and brandy in the evening.” He shot a stern glance at the boy, who was watching him, eyes wide. “No alcohol, Potter.” He turned his eyes back to the list. “I don’t see it listed here, but it is my understanding from Madame Hooch that you ate a fair amount of crow yesterday on the Quidditch pitch. Dinner … nothing out of the ordinary. Hm…”
“Professor…”
“I’ll make a list of the things you’ll need to avoid this week. The house elves will enforce it, since I doubt I’ll be able to rely on your will power.”
“Professor.”
“Perhaps I can add some mild buffering agent without its affecting the potency of the potion, but –”
Two fingers kissed his mouth into silence, then turned his startled face so Harry’s eyes and his could meet.
“Your hand is still on my stomach,” Harry said, his voice strained. He was breathing through his nose.
“Yes?” Snape said.
“Professor,” the boy’s tone changed, and Snape felt something like a blush start behind his own eyes, “I’m not that sick.”
Snape snatched his hand away and got to his feet. “I …”
Harry got up as if he weighed a ton. “Sorry sir. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m okay now. We’d better go do the vampire routine so you can get to your classes.” He headed for the door.
They descended to the dungeons side by side in silence, Snape hyperaware of Harry’s unsteady gait and prepared at any moment to catch him, Harry hyperaware of the words Snape was fighting to keep from blurting out – though he had no idea what those words might be, he could almost see them pressing against the back of the man’s teeth.
In Snape’s back office, Harry leaned slouching against the desk again while Snape gathered his equipment and took a small sample of blood.
“If this reveals some change, be warned, I might have to alter your diet further,” he said.
Harry nodded. “Whatever you need to do, sir.”
Snape sighed. “Mr. Potter…”
Harry just looked at him.
“I … apologize for touching you without permission.”
A faint smile lifted Harry’s mouth. “Consider this carte blanche for the future, sir. I’m sorry I offended you by …” He didn’t quite know how to describe it. By implying your touch turns me on? That would go over well.
“I was not offended,” Snape said.
“Horrified, then,” Harry clarified.
Snape smirked. “Nor was I horrified, I assure you.”
“Disgusted?” Harry suggested. Snape shook his head.
“Overcome by desire but at the same time too chivalrous to take advantage of a sick man?”
Snape snorted a laugh, obviously against his will. “Precisely.” And even knowing Snape didn’t mean it, Harry felt better.
Snape took the phial of Harry’s blood into his adjacent lab and set it on the table he’d reserved for making the boy’s potion each day. Looking at the ranks of ingredients, he realized it gave him surprisingly little pleasure to know Harry’s life was in his hands. He’d prefer the brat simply be well.
When he went back into his office, Harry hadn’t moved. He was staring in blank, exhausted longing at the leather couch against the wall. If Snape’s eyes or the dim light weren’t deceiving him, he was shaking.
Some alien force possessed Snape’s body, forming strange words and using Snape’s voice to sound them.
“You may rest here, if you like.”
