38 Degrees

Beta read by Jen & Anna.

38 degrees

He lets out a sigh of relief as he slams the door behind him and leans against it.

I raise my eyebrows. "I never knew you cared so much for this part of the castle, Mr. Potter."

"Are you kidding?" he says in that Americanised way, still not opening his eyes. "It's SO hot outside."

"And?"

"And it's about 75 degrees cooler in here. Dumbledore still refuses to air condition the castle."

"Tyrannical bastard. Why ever not?"

"Some waffle about learning to withstand the extremes of life."

"Is it really that hot outside? Don't ask me if I'm kidding. As you well know, I do not kid."

He grins and launches himself off the door towards me. "It's 38 degrees in the shade."

I groan. "I have fifth-years after lunch." I narrow my eyes. "Do you not have a class?"

"Herbology. Professor Sprout told us she didn't think it would be right for us to be in the greenhouse. Apparently, it's so hot that the thermometer exploded."

I raise an eyebrow. "I find that extremely hard to believe."

"Same. I think she just can't be stuffed teaching us. So I'm studying," he says brightly, leaning against my desk with his pelvis. He picks up a quill, examines it.

"Clearly," I say, watching him fiddle with my quill. Something in me stirs as I imagine him out there, in the oppressive heavy heat of Hogwarts in summer. Complaining, sweaty, sticky, his hair damp at the nape of his neck--

"Can I sleep here tonight?" he says, cutting into a thought process that doesn't really need to continue.

"Surely Albus will allow you to charm your beds."

"Probably... but yours is so much more... charming," he struggles not to laugh at his own joke.

"How terribly humourous, Mr. Potter."

"But you love me," he says.

I don't bother to deny it.

"So can I?" he asks, putting down my quill and circling the desk with that ridiculous "come hither" look. It's never worked on me, but apparently he's a slow learner. He comes to stand before me, my left knee between his legs, running his hand over my hair to rest at the back of my neck.

"Harry," I breathe.

"Mmm?" he responds.

"You... absolutely stink. Please have a shower."

He begins to laugh. "You coming?"

"Far too much marking to do."

He leans down and kisses me softly. "Okay."

I lean back in my chair as he leaves, and watch him saunter to the bathroom.

That arse of his is doing nothing for my concentration.

--//--

Halfway through some blatantly unresearched waffle about the potentially lethal properties of hellebore, The Boy Who Lived (and Showered) returns.

Naked.

He climbs into my lap.

"Better?" he says.

"Well, the aroma has certainly improved."

My fingertips graze the shower-soft skin of his back.

"What are you marking?" he asks, and suddenly I understand.

There are times when his nudity isn't sexual, it's raw... All he wants is to talk to me and be held by me and for me to keep him safe. And sometimes, but not today, to keep him warm. Which I'm happy to do. As long as he doesn't know that I'm ever 'happy' about anything.

"Fourth year essays about hellebore," I reply, pulling him closer to me.

"Fascinating. I don't remember anything about hellebore."

"Perhaps you should be studying, after all."

I can't see his face, but I know it is screwed up and distasteful at the thought.

"As if hellebore will be in the Potions N.E.W.T. Will it?" He looks up at me.

I shrug. "I wouldn't have thought so; I'm not writing it this year."

He pulls away to look at me better. "You're not?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I sigh and stroke his hair. "Because Dumbledore didn't think it would be particularly ethical."

"Because of me."

"Yes."

"Sorry," he says, his head resting back on my chest, his arms coming around my back. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It's simply one less thing I have to do. Harry, I would rather..." Go on. Say it. "I would rather have you here with me than write a Potions paper."

"I know you can't see me," he says a moment later. "But I'm smiling."

I smile too. After all, he can't see me. Why shouldn't I?