Harry woke slowly and found himself bombarded by a number of things that assaulted his senses as being out of place. Clearing his mind, he sorted through them, trying to remember what had happened before he passed out from sheer exhaustion. He'd been cleaning cauldrons.
(the scratch of a quill as paper shuffled and a fire cracked)
There had been an unusually stubborn spot on the last cauldron, and Harry had glanced at the clock. He'd still had an hour before curfew. If he could just get this spot, he could maybe get back to the Common Room and finish his homework before Hermione started badgering him.
(the smell of an unfamiliar shampoo, slightly floral, and a separate scent of sandalwood and rose, his favorite smell. Aunt Petunia always used mulched sandalwood around the base of the rose bushes in the backyard, and he'd spent many a pleasant summer afternoon and evening hiding from his relatives in the thorny, fragrant shade.)
He'd been scrubbing at the spot, and everything had suddenly gone woozy. Snape had released him, hadn't he? But no, that had been a dream, wishful thinking at best. So…
(he was curled up on a couch, a blanket tangled with his legs and a pillow under his head)
Harry shot up, and began kicking the blanket off his legs as he looked around for his glasses. Spotting them on an end-table near where his head had been, he pressed them onto his face. He was suddenly almost certain of where he was, whose bedding he'd been curled up with, and he had no desire to be here. Why the hell was he in Snape's quarters? He was fairly certain the burning hate he felt for the man was mutual (even if he secretly respected and admired the self-involved prick). So why hadn't Snape thrown him out on his ear when he'd fallen asleep, with another detention for good measure? Why had the man moved him at all?
"You fell asleep during your detention."
Harry almost gave himself whiplash when his head shot around to stare over the back of the couch at the man sitting at a desk in the corner. He glared suspiciously. What was Snape up to? No one did anything in this world without a price, especially not a Slytherin. So what did he want in return for the uncharacteristic kindness he'd shown in safeguarding his most-hated student's sleep?
The Gryffindor asked none of this. If the man wanted something, he could damn well come out and say it. Instead, he asked a question on a slightly safer topic.
"Since when do you wear glasses?"
Snape glared back at him and swiped the vaguely attractive half-moon spectacles off of his prominent nose. "If you must know, I require them when my eyes tire. Which, I should point out, is bound to happen when I'm awake into the wee hours of the morning waiting for my student to vacate my couch."
Harry glanced at a clock above the fireplace. It was two, five hours past curfew. Dammit. He turned on the couch, his legs finally free of Snape's blanket, and found his shoes thankfully lying neatly next to the leather furniture he'd been laid out on. If he was lucky, Hermione had already gone to bed, and he could get his homework finished before morning. None of it was due tomorrow, but it was already the middle of the week and she harangued him every time he waited this long to get it done.
"I didn't ask you to do that," Harry spat angrily. "You could've-should have just woken me. I'd have been fine." He started trying to pull on his shoes, but was horrified to find they wouldn't cooperate.
"I made a decision as your professor," Snape excused lightly.
Harry scoffed as he tried to shove his foot into his sneaker. "Right, because you're the sort to help a student in need," He muttered. He twisted his toe awkwardly as it caught on the worn inner-lining of the shoe and gasped in pain. "Ah, bastard!" He tossed the shoe down in frustration and disgust as Snape rounded the couch. "Sorry…Sir."