Harry woke in a room he'd never seen before. It was warm and he was covered in a heap of warm, fuzzy blankets and duvets which engulfed his thin, lean body. The sofa where he was placed was in front of the fireplace, as if it had been specifically moved so he would be warmer. A cough from his left caught his attention. He stared up in dark, foreboding eyes.
Snape stared down at him and coughed lightly. He glared at Harry, as if this was all his fault. "Mr. Potter," he whispered venomously, "would you care to explain how I ended up out of this so called journal and into a corridor of Hogwarts where I found you lying, freezing to death whilst clutching said journal?"
The enchanted, green-eyed boy just stared up at him, as if he didn't understand what he was seeing. "Whaa…?" he just murmured.
"Very intelligent response, Mr. Potter," Snape quipped, clearly unhappy about the situation, "but I need more of an answer than that muttering you've been carrying on with for the last few hours."
At this, Harry blushed, trying to push of the duvets and blankets but finding himself too weak to do so. The effort caused the world to shift uncomfortably, sliding back and forth in his blurry vision.
Warm, rough hands pushed his glasses on his face but before they could pull away, Harry caught one of them and held it for closer inspection. Though he had never seen Snape's hands close up before he died, there was no mistake in his mind that these were in fact the same strong hands he'd seen stirring potions for years. His mind was fuzzy and it became very hard to concentrate.
"Sir?" he asked, still holding the hand like a precious flower.
Snape yanked it from his grip as if burned. "I have no idea why you're fondling me, Mr. Potter, but please stop. I have no idea why this is happening and if you don't either, then we have some serious problems to consider. Mainly, the fact that I'm supposed to be dead and obviously am not."
He straightened Harry up on the couch though, and plopped down beside him once he was sitting firmly upright. Harry had no idea if this was for comfort or to make sure he didn't topple over again, thus effectively ending their conversation, if you could call it that.
A wave of sleepiness washed over Harry from the warmth of Snape's body in such close proximity to his own. He'd never thought Snape would be warm. He rested his head against his most hated teacher's shoulder, drifting off into sleep. "I'm glad you're not dead, sir."
The drifting teen missed the look of sorrow passing over Snape's countenance as he put the boy back under the sheets.