The curse of Carlisle (слэш)

“Enough!” he barked. “It’s been, what, a minute? And you’re already taking the piss! What did I do? Tell me—what exactly did I do, sir?”
“Would you like the list read aloud or written on parchment?”
“Oh, come on!” Harry’s voice cracked. “I dragged you to St Mungo’s, helped Professor McGonagall restore Dumbledore’s portrait, spent two bloody weeks giving testimony before the Wizengamot until my throat was raw from that sodding Veritaserum, and you—”
At ‘sodding Veritaserum’, Snape was suddenly looming over him like a hawk, something dangerous flashing behind narrowed eyes.
"And am I expected to prostrate myself at your feet in gratitude, Potter? Shall I lick your heroic little boots?"
“This isn’t about heroics!” Harry shot back. “You talk to me like I’m some child—can you at least, for one bloody second—?”
A cold nudge at his ankle cut him short. Glancing down in horror, Harry found the pointed toe of Snape’s polished shoe brushing against the shorter of his mismatched socks.
“Shall we begin with the right or the left?” Snape spat. “Your preference?”
Harry recoiled as though confronted by a bloody boggart.