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Throat
The throat is an incredibly vulnerable place, particularly for Severus. There one can find the solid thrum of Harry's favourite rhythm, the small bob of the elder's Adam's apple, the softness of the skin. Then there are the jagged ropes at the base of his neck, now faded to a pale pink, that tell of Severus' brush with death. Well, only one of many, but one that will forever haunt Harry, lingering in the shadows of his nightmares, screaming at him with blood-flecked spittle in the worst of them. But still, it is that scar that symbolises how far they have come. How much Severus has survived.
How lucky Harry is to be able to hold this man now.
Of course, that survival, that badge of honour, doesn't make the scar a pretty thing. It's lumpy and messy and sometimes gives Severus pains and aches that he hardly deserves to have. Which is what makes his allowance of Harry caressing the scar all the more treasured. When the pains flare up, the Potions Master wincing with every turn of his head or rise of his shoulder, Harry will conjure a layer of frost upon his own hand and smooth careful fingertips over the old wound, circling it at first, following the column of Severus' throat, but then he will begin to carefully press cold fingers to the scar itself, revelling in the shudders of relief it elicits, how dark eyes will flutter closed and his partner will lean into him, trusting him utterly.
And obviously, that isn't to say that Harry doesn't appreciate the rest of Severus' neck too. It's an enrapturing column of flesh, leading down to the immaculate lines of his collar bones, straight and solid, perfect for drumming a breathing pattern against, so grounding and present. As with the rest of the man, it's soft and sharp and elegant. Open only to Harry's touch.
Neck
Harry loves Severus' hair. He adores the way that it swings with every tilt, twitch and turn, glossier than a raven's wings, all the hues of a rainbow hidden in its depths. But what he loves most is when Severus ties it back. When he exposes his neck. It's like the man removes a barrier between them, lowering his walls, a simple physical demonstration of the trust that the beautiful, damaged man is willing to offer the younger who is just as damaged, just as true in his trauma.
And it certainly doesn't hurt that being able to see his partner's face is one of Harry's favourite things.
Severus may not be conventionally handsome, but for Harry, the man is the epitome of beauty. He's all strong lines and lean muscle, sharp angles and sharper wit, but with a soft core and sweet heart. There's an elegance to the curve of his neck, broken only by the faint indentations of his spine, the pale skin thrown into stark, beautiful contrast by his dark hair; the skin is smooth and warm, so wonderful to stroke his fingertips along, so perfect for burying his hands in the hair at the nape. And, like the panthers of their shared Patroni, there's a level of trust, almost submission, in Severus baring the base of his neck. A tacit declaration of feeling safe. Comfortable. Knowing that he's earned that level of faith from a man so often turned upon, so often left alone and hurt, is more than a blessing to Harry. Certainly nothing he'd ever break.
Ankle
There's something so domestic about seeing Severus' bare feet and ankles. No socks, no shoes, just pale skin. Like every part of Severus, there is an elegance to the high arches, to the gentle slope of the ankle bone, the neatly trimmed nails, that Harry admires and adores both.
Harry loves to sit on the sofa with Severus after a long day, each taking one end, book or magazine in hand, Severus' legs stretched out in between them, feet in Harry's lap where he can casually wrap a gentle grip around his ankle, thumb brushing a steady back and forth over the protrusion of bone, the movement thoughtless but a point of soothing consistency all the same, such a minor detail but one just as welcome as the blazing fire or the quiet evening itself. It's domestic and sweet and simple. Not necessarily something to write home about (as though just being in Severus' presence wasn't already home) but a pleasant interaction regardless. And for Harry, that in itself is more than enough.
Waist
It's an intimate place, the waist. Somewhere that only those closest to you dare to hold tight, will use to pull you close or alert you of their presence. Harry, for one, loves to lean against Severus' back, positively draping himself across the elder, slotting his arms around the slender waist, holding himself close and tight to the rise-and-fall, to the warmth, that is to be found there.
In return, Severus will brand his hot hands on Harry's waist, fingers fine and potions-stained as they clutch through the fabric, finding that soft, vulnerable space between ribs and hips and taking silent delight in the subtle thrum of life to be found.
Sometimes they use this to drag each other close. It could be with growling menace, never more than a quarter meant, at other times with giggles and belly laughs, always seeking that proximity, eye contact, touch. A visceral expression of emotion, backed by love. Sometimes it's a single hand, laid there with reverence, as they sleep back-to-front or face-to-face, breathing from the same air, foreheads pressed together, a two simple points of contact so precious. Other times, there'll be music playing from their Wireless or from the old burnished gramophone, threads of pretty music drifting around them as they spin in a slow step, step, step, occasionally stumbling as Harry misses a pace, but never faltering, never losing the gentle touch or faint smiles. It's a vulnerable place, made all the sweeter for it.
Forearm
Severus, for so long, hid his forearm. Hid his shame behind a façade, the evidence with long sleeves and private closets, hiding the white and black of his sins. Sins so long paid for, so long forgiven.
Now, Harry refuses to see Severus be ashamed. He touches the man's forearms as any other part of him: with casual affection, with adoration, with reverence for the beauty before him. The Dark Mark, he touches with lips and fingertips. He mouths over out, offering near-silent words of forgiveness and gratitude and commiseration, breathed against the skin, the blemish, the beat of the wonderful heart beneath, just as Severus does his cursed lightning bolt. He does not pity his partner, doesn't ignore his past. But nor does he ignore his future, his actions, his words. Their love.
It's that forearm that tells Severus he can confide in Harry. The initial almost non-reaction to the stark grey, that of charcoal and thunder clouds, that has been left, lingering, permanent, was a sign of knowledge, understanding, acceptance. Harry, too, has been scarred within and without by this war, by Voldemort. Has been irreparably changed, become someone he himself doesn't know, for the sake of others. For the sake of their expectations.
And so, Severus does confide in Harry. In strong voices but hushed tones, they exchange tales of cupboards and bottles and belts. Fists raised and spittle flying. Of finding a home in Hogwarts, a refuge in great stone walls that all too soon turned to a danger, different from that of their so-called homes but, in some ways, both worse and better. Yet a danger all the same. Having nothing and nobody who could fully understand, confidants who would only ever know or believe half the story, half of the truth, only seeing the front and what they might wish beyond it. Never do they see beyond the lightning bolt, beyond the skull and snake, to see the men beneath, the damaged, hard-shelled, soft-centred men who have found such refuge in each other.
Harry
Severus loves how Harry is himself. He loves that the younger man soothes his aches and pains; lowers his walls; offers him a home with his mere presence; holds him close, tight, and provides forgiveness and gratitude and commiseration. Understanding.
It's all in the little things. Harry's eyes are always bright around him, full of dimension, every thought and emotion developing, deepening, dissolving, laid bare for his view alone. The way that Harry gravitates towards Severus, into his reach, without hesitation or thought. Being with the younger man is the easiest thing and, for someone who has so long had a difficult life, horror and shame and the anger-fear-determination-cunning balance comprising every moment, being able to comfortably breathe and relax with another person is akin to miraculous. Harry himself, of course, is the miracle.
A miracle so very treasured, so very loved.
So Severus holds Harry close. He talks him through nightmares and panic attacks, the rumble of his voice deep and reverberating, a grounding sensation for Harry to press his ear to, tugging at his attention, slowing his breathing and heart until he can slump against Severus, steady and hale once again, barely trembling hands reaching to clasp potion-stained, holding them tight. Those moments are the purest absolution Severus has ever known. And those of the purest joy are their quiet evenings, their burning fire and simple affection, Harry's hand curling around his ankle, or the younger's head settled in his lap, reading together, discussing theory and students and themselves and life. Something neither of them expected to keep, but that, in the haze of war and dedication, they had found for and within each other. A reason to live, with their once-purposes fled into the dark and bloodshed.
Together, they are safe. They can be vulnerable or blank or joyous, and it is only the other there to see it, appreciate it. That, for them, is love. And there is nothing better.