The prefects’ bath was a sanctuary of warmth and quiet, the water shimmering under the enchanted candlelight as steam curled lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. You had waited until the castle was hushed, the hour late, to indulge in the deep, sunken pool—its depths perfect for sinking into, for letting the heat seep into your bones.

You took a breath and submerged completely, the world muffled and weightless for one blissful moment. But when you surfaced, shaking water from your hair, your heart lurched violently.

There, silhouetted in the arched doorway, stood Severus Snape.

His dark eyes were wide, his usually impassive face frozen in rare surprise. The realization struck you like a curse—you were naked, the water doing little to obscure what the steam hadn’t already betrayed. A startled squeak escaped you, and in your frantic scramble to cover yourself, your feet slipped on the slick marble.

The world tilted. Your arms flailed. Then—splash!—you plunged back underwater, the shock of it stealing your breath. When you broke the surface again, coughing and sputtering, your face burned with humiliation. Water stung your eyes, your hair clung in dripping strands, and worst of all—he was still there.

Snape hadn’t moved. His gaze was dark, unreadable, but the faintest flush tinged his sharp cheekbones. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the quiet drip of water from your trembling fingers.

Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he stepped back—vanishing into the shadows without a word, leaving you alone with the echo of your own mortification.

The bath had never felt so cold.