Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors. Is the rating necessary?

Jouir...

The hot water always felt as though it were not only cleansing his mud-splattered body but also soothing his hectic mind. Harry tilted his head upwards so that the spray fell directly onto his face, and smiled to himself. Back at Privet Drive, he had never been allowed the luxury of a bath, and the idea was still somewhat unfamiliar to him. Whether by habit or design, he would probably always prefer showers.

After Quidditch games, when every male in the team would stumble into the cubicles (grumbling or rejoicing, depending on how the match had gone) Harry made do with a quick wash, reluctant to bare his scrawny body to the others more than absolutely necessary. The dormitory bathrooms provided a more relaxing experience, but there was still always the possibility that someone was going to come crashing through the door to brush their teeth or urinate, so he could never let his guard down completely.

Showering here, now, in the abandoned changing rooms, had to be the best solution. He ran his hands over his chest, enjoying the smoothness of the soap against his skin. His muscles still ached from the demanding routine he had pushed himself through, performing and re-performing complex manoeuvres out in the bleak September drizzle.

Flying allowed him a brief moment of respite, an escape from his fast-paced life. At high altitude, with moisture splattered across his face and the wind ruffling his hair, he had finally found a place to think.

Eventually, though, the near-freezing temperatures had driven him inside, to the hot embrace of the showers. The water caressed his thighs, tickling his throat and dribbling down his calves, and he made a low humming sound in the back of his mouth. Almost without realising it he moved one of his hands downwards to palm his half-hard member, cleaning and stroking at the same time.

That familiar feeling began to build inside, that curious heat pooling at the bottom of his stomach, and he unconsciously licked his lips in anticipation. Behind him, someone wolf-whistled.

Harry whirled around, erection forgotten as panic flooded his brain. His eyes widened as they focused on Marcus Flint's tall form, leaning against the doorframe with an expression on his face that could only be described as smug.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Harry gasped, eyebrows furrowing as he hastily tried to cover himself up. The Slytherin captain smirked at him, his dark gaze travelling over the teenager's form in a way that made the Gryffindor flush hotly.

"Keep your knickers on," Flint drawled, "Oh, wait… I suppose it's a little late for that." Harry ignored the older teenager, even as he snickered to himself, and looked over to where his clothes lay, carefully folded on one of the changing benches. To get to them he'd have to go past Flint, which meant giving him a far closer look at his naked body. Plus, there was no way he'd be able to cover up his crotch and backside at the same time.

"You shouldn't even be in here, you pervert!" he snapped, deciding that he'd rather Flint get a quick glimpse than have to extend his current humiliating situation.

He swallowed, and then hurried past the Slytherin as fast as he could, cringing as he rushed past and scrabbled for his clothes. He pulled his robe on, covering his body before he turned to glare at the seventh year.

"Calm down," Flint told him, infuriatingly unruffled, "I was just looking." Harry gaped at him, more blood rushing to his cheeks. His wet hair stuck to the back of his neck, uncomfortable and dripping.

"Are Slytherins really that immoral?" he demanded, "You can't watch people while they're showering!"

Flint shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall. He was a good deal taller than Harry, well over six-foot, and a hell of a lot heavier, with toned muscles visible even through his shirt. If he decided to attack him for any reason, there was no question as to who would win. Harry shuffled a little further away from him, the floor cold against his bare, damp feet.

"I think I just did," Flint replied dryly. He folded his arms and smiled, revealing crooked teeth. Harry pulled the robe a little tighter around himself, shooting the Slytherin a glare that even Voldemort would recoil from.

"I could report you," he said. Flint raised one dark eyebrow.

"You could," he agreed, "But it wouldn't get you very far. I've got a perfectly legitimate reason to be here."

Harry snorted, outraged by the other boy's audacity. "Yeah, right," he scoffed, "A good reason for a Slytherin to be hanging around in the Gryffindor changing rooms?"

"Yes." Marcus said simply, and walked past him to the far corner of the room, where for the first time Harry noticed a pair of grubby socks propped up on a peg. "Someone thought it would be funny to send me on a nice little treasure hunt for these. Typical Slytherin sense of humour." He grinned at Harry. There was darkness there, but try as he might the boy couldn't detect any actual malice.

"A prank?" he asked weakly. Marcus retrieved the socks and turned them over in his hands. They might have been white, once, but were now stained brown with dirt.

"Yes. I suspect one of my housemates was bitter about how we lost the last game - and our house's dignity – and decided to pull a little trick on the captain." Harry watched him carefully. It was strange to think that even the hulking Slytherin had to put up with the occasional taunt.

"You shouldn't have watched me," he grumbled, although his anger was begrudgingly beginning to fade.

"I did let you know I was there," Flint told him, shoving the socks into the pocket of his robe, "And besides…" He stepped closer, until there were only a few feet between the two boys, "…You're the reason we lost all those matches. I figured a little repayment was justified."

With one last wolfish grin, hovering between sinister and mischievous, he turned and walked away.

"See you around, Potter," he called as he left the changing rooms.

Harry sat down heavily on the bench, feeling rather frustrated. Somehow, that damn Slytherin seemed to have got the better of him. He remained in that position for a few minutes, before coming to his senses. He rummaged for his towel; cheeks still flushed a dull pink.

He really had to be more careful about when (and where) he took his showers…