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Harry doesn't want to get up today, he can admit. The dungeons are cold on any given day, but even colder again in the midst of winter, and he has no less than three blankets piled over him. They're a luxury, honestly. And he loves them.
Hence just wriggling impossibly further underneath them now, curling up so tightly that it almost aches except it honestly just feels good, all warm and comfortable and safe. (Having his own bedroom has been an absolute wonder, honestly, something that has been a little hard to believe quite often. Sometimes he wakes up and just wonders if he's still dreaming, if the dark grey canopy above him is really his, all golden-stitched constellations and shifting whorls of paler tones to look like clouds.
But it is his, now, and he doesn't have to earn it, not when Snape just seems to think he deserves it, with no hesitation or issues. Harry's even beginning to feel comfortable with that, he thinks.)
Still, he eventually drags himself out of bed, albeit after drifting in that half-asleep, half-awake space for a while, grumbling to himself at the freezing cold of the slate floors. He shoves his glasses on, roughs a hand through his hair, and wraps his dressing gown tightly around himself, shuffling his feet. It doesn't really help.
Oh well. He needs the loo, and some food.
Only a few minutes later, he's padding into the living area, completely unsurprised to see Snape sitting in the armchair, one of his potions manuals in his lap.
"Good morning, Harry. Just about," Snape adds on, sarcastic, but Harry knows that he isn't in trouble with that arch of the man's brow. He knows very well, by now, what it looks like when Snape is taking the mick rather than being genuinely annoyed or judgemental.
"It's the holidays," he shrugs, feeling comfortable enough to grin at the man.
"So it is." There's a faint edge of a smile at that, Snape's lips twitching up in what can only be amusement.
Something along the lines of Harry's shoulder unspools then, an elastic-strained tension lost to the assurance.
(He still worries that he'll be annoying or that he'll just frustrate Snape enough that the man won't want him anymore. The man seems to have far more patience for Harry than anyone else previously has, and yes that was kind of disconcerting at first, but they've both settled into it, at least a little. Harry just hasn't learnt to entirely trust it yet. Because no matter how patient or even kind adults are with him, they always seem to be put off by Harry and his freakishness sooner or later.)
The man waves his hand towards the little kitchenette area, then, drawing Harry's attention to a plate next to the butterdish and a knife on the table,
"There are some scones under a warming charm on the side. Don't forget some fruit," he adds on. He's paid a lot of attention to Harry's nutrition since taking him in.
"Thank you," the teen murmurs, a little subdued about it, admittedly, because he hasn't really gotten used to having food so casually offered to him. His friends, in a way that he is both very grateful for and hates, push food at him, sneaking extra toast and mashed potatoes and slices of meat on his plate or nagging him when he skips meals, because he knows that they mean well, and it's genuinely helped to some degree, but he also hates the attention on his eating habits.
But Snape is just firm, casual about it in a way that somehow doesn't feel overbearing, doesn't push, doesn't prod, just makes it very clear that there is food and that Harry specifically is allowed it, with no caveats, payment or expectations.
It makes it easy to go and sit at the small dining table and just make his way through the two scones Snape has left out for him, warm with butter in the way that he prefers. It isn't over-facing.
That being said, when he gets to his feet, putting his plate beside the sink and turning around to come and sit down in the living area, he gets halfway to the sofa to find Snape looking around at him. A single raised eyebrow is a sufficient reminder.
Harry grins, crooked, sheepish, and pivots back around to examine what's in the fruit bowl. (There are no longer oranges in the bowl, because after the first few times that Snape noticed how strongly Harry disliked the scent of them, for all that the teen tried to hide just how hyper-aware he is of that citrus scent for no discernible reason, the man has stopped keeping them in the fruit bowl.)
Standing there, trying to decide whether he would prefer an apple or a pear, Harry abruptly realises how cold his feet are.
And apparently Snape was still watching him, because he says Harry's name lowly, already holding up his wand,
"Foolish child," the man huffs, yet with two flicks of his wand, the slate floors have been warmed, and a pair of socks have rocketed into the back of Harry's head.
"Rude!" he cries, even as he scuffs his feet very deliberately over the now-warmed floor, glad for the friction of it.
"Am I wrong?"
"Uhm," Harry starts, trying to decide the safest but snarkiest answer. He doesn't want to annoy Snape, but still. It wouldn't be them if not for some back-and-forth.
"Just put your socks on, Harry. And choose your fruit."
"Yes, Severus," he returns, rolling his eyes even as he crouches down to get the socks, grabbing a Braeburn from the bowl on the way up.
He's got all the way to perching on the arm of the sofa, one foot raised to put the first sock on, before he realises why Snape hasn't replied. What Harry himself just said.
"Uhh, sorry? I didn't mean-" Harry starts to try and take it back, to try and prevent Snape being offended or something, thorns tangling at the back of his throat, along the lengths of his fingers, prickling in an abrupt waves of pins and needles to match how he is abruptly breathless.
He didn't mean to say that. He meant it, but it wasn't his intention to actually say the word aloud-
"It's fine, Harry. No, Harry, listen to me," Snape insists, when the teen is already shaking his head, the man leaning forwards now, for all that he keeps his hands open, elbows braced against his knees, cutting Harry off before he can fall into panic,
"It is fine. I told you months ago that you can call me whatever works best. Severus, Father, Da, whatever."
"Da is very Northerner of you," Harry returns, words trembling despite how he's clearly trying to distract himself. The fingers that he can only half-feel are clutching at the thick fabric over his elbows, catching, twisting.
Snape is blatantly aware of this, given how he continues speaking, keeping his voice immaculately steady for all that he tries to keep it light,
"I'm from the Midlands, Harry, not Yorkshire, let alone, say, Newcastle."
"Still Northern enough," Harry returns, grinning faintly by now. He loosens his fingers from his dressing gown slightly, even as the man snarks right back,
"Says the boy from the South East."
They both pause, then. Harry is very much calmer, and Snape seems content with that, leaning back in his armchair once again. He still has to check though, just to be sure.
"And it really is okay?" Fortunately for Harry's dignity, Snape doesn't so much as look at him askance for this, casually paying him very little attention in a way that is a reassurance rather than offensive, even as the man replies, speaking to the fire as much as Harry (it helps far more than it should, really, because it takes the pressure off, makes this less like a heavy conversation-),
"It is, Harry. You're not being rude, you're not being disrespectful, you're just being comfortable. That's fine with me."
"Okay. I, uh- Thank you."
From the look that Snape shoots him then, Harry knows that the man doesn't think he should be thanking him for this. That won't stop Harry, however.
(Being taken in by Snape was an adjustment, of course, and not a particularly pretty one at first, but it's been several months now, and still Harry keeps on finding new reasons to be grateful to the man.
And despite his relative lack of outright softness, a notable contrast to people like Mrs Weasley, Snape keeps on being kind. Understanding. He doesn't blame Harry for flinching away, or for nightmares, or for the dumb reactions that he can't help, and even when he gets angry it only ever seems to be out of worry, Harry thinks, and he- Snape doesn't shout at him, or lock him away. No, even when he's angry-worried he still makes sure that Harry is eating snacks between his meals and isn't struggling too much with his homework.
He has a lot to be grateful for, no matter how many times Snape refuses to accept his thanks.)
It's New Year's Eve, now, and Harry is daring to be happy about it. He never got to see fireworks before, because they don't have them at Hogwarts and the Dursleys never would have let him out of his cupboard on such an exciting night.
But tonight, Severus has promised to take Harry somewhere to see fireworks in person.
He's struggling to tamp down his eager excitement as he pulls on more layers of clothing, a thick jumper that is dark green but he loves regardless of how several Gryffindors have mentioned the Slytherin colour, and a scarf in grey and gold, and a coat that isn't waterproof but that's fine because it's warm and has an impermeable charm on it. A second pair of socks, too, because Severus bought him new boots for Christmas but they're not broken in yet and he doesn't want to get blisters if he can help it.
(He doesn't want to get his hopes up, it has to be said. Admittedly, he mostly feels able to trust Severus, or at least more than he does any other adult, but he also knows his own past, how he is a freak that oh-so many people have abandoned and turned their backs on, even those who initially wanted to listen to him or help him. Adults, in particular.
And Severus would never be swept up in the lies of the Dursleys, not like the people from Harry's childhood, but he might still get fed up of Harry, might still be pushed too far, might still be too wrong for Severus.
But until that day, Harry can only do his best, and enjoy the good things that he is granted for now.
If that also means that he hasn't called Severus by his first name again since the time he originally did it, at least out loud, then so be it. The man hasn't mentioned it, has just let Harry take his time, and it's yet another thing that Harry hasn't quite been able to squash his hope over.)
A knock on his bedroom door startles Harry a little, and he calls out an affirmation easily enough. When Severus peers through the doorway, hair falling around his face, he also has a scarf and coat already on, for all that his are a Slytherin striped thing, and a dark grey similar to Harry's scarf.
"Ready to go?"
"Yep!" He looks around for his boots, trying to remember if they were in his wardrobe or tucked under his bed- Ah. Yes, under the bed.
"One sec."
He ducks down to grab his boots, and follows Severus out. He tries not to let the joy bubbling along his spine show too much, but judging by the mostly-soft glance Severus levels him with the man knows that it's there, knows that Harry is struggling not to beam like an actual child, swinging his boots from his fingertips, enjoying the weight and hang of them.
"We'll leave in a few minutes, alright?"
"Sure," Harry returns, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he pulls on his boots, one by one, and laces them tightly, pulling hard enough that said laces dig into his fingers a little, just enough to hurt. But it will help mould them to his feet better this way. Or so Severus told him the other day, anyway.
And then he's standing, resisting the urge to fidget as he waits for Severus to also be ready, scuffing one of his feet slightly against the slate and wriggling his toes, trying to get used to the boots that he's only worn twice so far, and both times only for short stints.
"Where are we going, sir?"
"A small town in Kent that I have been to a few times before, I happen to know that they have a rather good fireworks show, particularly for the size of the settlement. And it's a Muggle place, so we shouldn't have to worry about being recognised."
"That's good," Harry replies, all at once a little too subdued.
(Severus, seeing the ducked head, the hesitant tone, wonders how he ever thought that Harry was arrogant, how this child could enjoy the fickle attention that he had no choice in.
But what has been done has been done, including his own mistakes, and so Severus takes... not comfort per se, but satisfaction, relief, from knowing that he is supporting his- his son, that he is rectifying what he can, and mitigating other issues as much as possible.
Slowly, things are getting better. Harry is happier, freer, more open. And having things like tonight very much help, Severus knows.)
"It is indeed," he agrees, instead of vocalising any such things, continuing their conversation instead,
"Ideally I would have found us a Muggle telly to watch on. The BBC always has good global coverage of the different displays of capital cities around the world, but smaller local ones can be good too. Seeing them in person is different."
"Oh. I think-" Harry pauses, swallows, and the man has no doubt that he was about to speak about the Dursleys until the teen caught himself,
"I think Hermione's family normally watch the BBC?"
"I would expect so. It's what I did as a child."
Harry falls silent at that, eyes a little wide, fascinated but clearly unwilling to push, and Severus doesn't think that talking any further would be wise. No, it would only invite less savoury elements of his childhood.
It's not an issue, however, as he can push that aside by telling Harry that, unless he needs the bathroom, it's time to leave. From there, they walk out to the edge of the Wards, through the grand gates and another few minutes on, before Severus draws Harry close, a slow, careful touch that becomes a firm hold as they spin away.
Severus buys them hot chocolate, mostly for the sake of their cold fingers, and because he remembers how, at Harry's age, being able to have an unnecessary solution to such an issue, one that was nigh-on luxurious, meant so much more than a simple Warming charm. Sometimes things just aren't the same.
With that hot chocolate in their hands, Severus keeping his son close to his side, they weave through the crowd until it begins to thin around them, the outskirts a calmer, safer space. And, then, in contented quiet, they wait.
Finally, the show begins. The sky is dark, a deep shadow-rich thing, stars scattered upon its surface, but it is dark more than light, except now there is a thin trail of light skittering up, a second not long behind it, a third, and all at once all three are exploding, flaring out in sparks of red and gold and green, spiralling outbursts of beautiful light, and Harry can't help how he gasps, eyes going wide, swaying slightly in place.
And the lights only continue, utterly stunning in a way that Harry doesn't think he's ever seen before, something similar yet so very, very different to magic, and he-
Some part of him still wishes that he could have seen this sooner, but he's mostly just delighted to have been able to see this now at all. Grateful that Severus brought him here, allowed him to do this even though it's so unnecessary, so much more than he needs let alone deserves.
Perhaps it's this gratitude coursing through him, hot and heady and oh-so fierce, that prompts Harry to, thoughtlessly, instinctively, lean into Severus' side, listing into the warmth, the solidity, revelling in it as much as he dares.
And, like this, he gets to stare up at the night sky, full of stars and fireworks, feeling hope burst and blossom through his chest just like sparks are in the sky, and have Severus slowly shift to wrap an arm around his shoulders, a warm, steady weight. It's a moment that feels like it could go on forever, or that he will at least remember for just as long, a wonder, timeless, eternal.
"Thank you, Severus," he murmurs, in between the bangs and bursts and the crowds' exclamations. It wasn't even necessarily meant to be for Severus to hear, Harry just needed to say it, but the man squeezes him slightly, just enough to be an acknowledgement, a comfort,
"You're welcome, Harry."
Harry smiles even wider, and watches the fireworks, and leans impossibly further into his Severus' side, and he thinks that his hope has been worth it, if only for this.