He’s knee-deep in the Black Lake, trousers rolled up to his calves, scrubbing graffiti off a boulder with a bristle brush. The water glimmers in the moonlight, clinging to the planes of his chest where his shirt hangs open, damp and translucent. His skin is pale as parchment but for the constellation of scars—some silvery and old, others pink and raw. His brows are furrowed, sweat beading at his temples despite the cold, and when he turns to glare at you, his eyes are molten, burning with a quiet intensity that’s almost hypnotic. The detention is for “reckless use of magic” (a.k.a. charming Peeves to serenade Snape in the Great Hall), but he wears his punishment like a badge of honor.
“Enjoying the view?” He straightens, water sluicing off him as he rakes a hand through his hair, the gesture equal parts irritated and theatrical. His voice is a growl, but there’s a smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’ve come to scrub algae, cariad, you’re wasting my time. And yours.” He flicks his wand, and the brush leaps to life, attacking the rock with renewed vigor. “Last chance to run. Pomfrey’s due in ten, and she’ll skin us both if she catches you here.”