Work Text:
Harry has been staring out of the kitchen window for... quite a long time, honestly. An hour maybe, or perhaps as long as two or three.
(He didn't sleep well last night, the room too dark and, despite how much he loves his room, the walls had felt too close, too looming, and leaving his door ajar hadn't fixed any of it, no matter how it meant he could reassure himself that he isn't locked in-)
So it isn't really a surprise when familiar footsteps scuff down the stairs, barely audible but noticeable for Harry, a fact that he suspects the man has deliberately ensured, nor when they come up behind him, just enough to the side that he can see Snape in his periphary,
"It's tipping it down again, I see." The words are calm, just-warm, but Harry only sways slightly, that tiniest bit closer, gaze still caught upon the world outside.
"Mhm." Snape- Severus glances down at Harry, but doesn't admonish him for the wordless reply. No, he simply hesitates, briefly drapes long fingers upon his shoulder, and leaves again, heading into the kitchen.
Harry likes rain. He likes the noise of it, the steadiness of it, the way that it never hurts, and soothes sunburns, and helps the garden to grow. There's a reason things always look so green, except when they get their occasional summer heatwaves, but those don't count. (They were awful, awful things, summers where Harry would pass out, skin as bright as the shells of the lobsters that Aunt Petunia would make him cook for their summer parties, and when he would have to wish and wish and wish for the plants not to wilt and die, and somehow their garden would end up the best of them all, which at least saved him from too many beatings-)
Harry likes the mud that he was never allowed to play in, and he likes the puddles he was never allowed to jump in. But most of all he likes that he can tilt his head back and drink straight from the sky, can close his eyes and be nothing but a single being in the middle of nothing but water and air and earth had been... It had been free. Harry had been free.
"Breakfast is ready." It startles Harry somewhat, and he drags himself away from the window to go and eat. He hadn't realised that he was staring outside for long enough for Snape to have already made breakfast.
He's admittedly glad that it's porridge, something warm on the cool day, and he's even more glad that his teacher has taken to just leaving a few different pots of condiments out, rather than asking him directly what he wants, or leaving them on the side for Harry to have to go and take from himself. This way he doesn't feel greedy for taking some, but it also doesn't feel like he has to make the correct choice.
It means that this morning he can just hesitate, before digging a teaspoon into the raspberry jam. It was good when he had it in rice pudding the other day, and that's sort of similar to his porridge, he thinks.
The choice was a good one, enough so that Harry nearly wiggles in his seat, quietly delighted by having such a tasty breakfast, knowing that he can eat as much as he wants of it. (With Snape's steady reassurances, many of them nonverbal but undeniable all the same, he is becoming steadily confident in that knowledge, in trusting that Snape thinks that he deserves to eat, and that he isn't being a burden for being hungry. Snape won't starve him if he's bad, even. The man has made it perfectly clear that if Harry breaks the rules he has set, then he will lose flying privileges or have to write extra essays. He won't be locked up, or starved, or made to do things that hurt, or just hit-)
It's a good morning, honestly, no matter what sort of night preceded it. The weight of the rain is sinking into his bones, and he has a tasty, filling breakfast, and Snape is sitting across from him, quiet and content.
This approximate sort of routine has become familiar, and very much something that Harry enjoys. It just feels right.
(It feels like what he thought a home might; he had imagined it to be busier, perhaps, with more family members, with more chatter and extravagant food and lots of hugs and laughter, but he is now realising just how overwhelming that would be. And, well, any home is a precious one. Maybe Harry would like to have more people, one day, and lots of pancakes with sugar and lemon or with golden syrup like Dudley always had, but he doesn't want what the Dursleys had.
He wants this: something true and safe and warm.)
But such thoughts aren't all that consume him. No, there are more idle things, mostly prompted by the steady background noise of the rain.
He dares to ask a question, halfway through his porridge, hoping that the man won't mind,
"Is there a Wizarding version of raining cats and dogs? Like, the phrase?" Snape doesn't hesitate to glance up from his morning paper, folding it closed, one finger holding his place between the pages, the immediate and overt attention a boon to Harry's nerves.
"Raining crups and kneazles." That answer, however, makes him frown a little, shoulders hunching without his own thought or intention,
"I-"
His confusion must be obvious to Snape, given how he leans in slightly closer, a flick of his wand, which hadn't been in his hand a moment ago, huh, has two little creatures of light and dust forming in the air, walking around a little and sniffing at each other,
"Crups are akin to dogs, albeit with two tails and some mild magical properties. Kneazles are similar in that they are mildly magical cats, and generally rather intelligent."
Harry spends several breaths entranced, staring at the palm-sized animals that Snape had Conjured as they amble around in midair, the Crup occasionally barking, silent but obvious all the same, and the Kneazle sometimes swipes out at the Crup when it gets too close.
"Oh," he finally murmurs, glancing back up at Snape,
"Why do we say raining cats and dogs, do you think?"
"I believe it is likely to do with how dead animals that used to be discarded in drains or streets would get washed down the roads and onto the pavements."
"Aunt Petunia used to threaten to drown me like a kitten a bit like that." The words are both too casual and too careful all at once, and Severus loathes everything about it. It's visible, to Harry, in the sudden sharpness of his jaw, the way his eyes flare darker, a iron-clad stillness to his shoulders.
It's only the kindness still in that gaze, the Crup and Kneazle still hanging in the air, that assure Harry that he is safe. Snape isn't angry at him. Probably.
"And that was beyond awful of her, to say the damn-well least." No, Snape is angry for him. (And oh, what a brilliant thing that is, a blessing that he never fathomed having, more than a little terrifying for all of its wonder-)
"I- I think it might have been," Harry hums, ever-more aware that a lot of the things that the Dursleys have done were, well, not exactly good. He knew it, but it's different now.
"I know so, child. But it's quite alright if you don't know it yourself yet," Snape goes on, tone velveteen, low, a timbre that shudders pleasantly down Harry's spine,
"Things come with time."
That understanding, the consideration of it, is very much appreciated. Harry needs that space, in all truth, to be able to process what Severus is saying regardless of his own thoughts, to try and assimilate the far more kind words against what he has been taught for years already, an incredibly difficult process.
But Harry is trying, and he thinks that Severus knows that, from the somewhat-soft glance he offers the boy.
They settle back into silence then. With a little twitch of his fingers, Snape sends the dust-light-life creatures dart forwards, nudging at Harry's wrists before dissipating into nothing at all. He can't help but giggle, snickering under his breath.
(He doesn't see it, doesn't know it, but Severus watches this, hears that tiny, bubbling shard of joy, and feels a quiet joy of his own take root in his chest, unable to help it, peering from beneath his eyelashes, flicking his newspaper open once more, to see the smile on the boy's face.
It's an undeniably sweet expression, a little bit Lily, a little bit not. It's entirely Harry, and entirely stunning, the cluster-blossoming of hydrangea.)
By the time they have finished their porridge, Harry is very much calm and comfortable, mind still caught somewhere between the rain and the little animals that had just been trotting through the air. He's content.
Snape seems content too, putting aside his newspaper, although he stretches one hand partway across the table, a little like he's reaching to stop Harry from getting up, but never actually reaching to grab him. It's enough to stop the boy from getting up from the table either way.
"Would you like to go out today?" Harry snaps to attention, staring at Snape with quivering-tight shoulders, fingers clenching together, unable to help the sheer hope rising through him,
"Out in the rain?" He doesn't want to trust it, to assume that it's just okay. He doesn't think that Snape would be trying to trick him now, but it's still hard to trust something he wants so much. He knows that wanting something normally means that nobody else wants him to have it.
"Should you want to." Harry, of course, wants that, desperately, achingly so, but he doesn't want Snape to feel obligated,
"Is- Is it really okay?"
"Yes." The man doesn't hesitate, not for a single blink,
"You'll need a good bath afterwards, but I see no reason why not."
"Oh. I'd like that," Harry confides, quiet but heartfelt.
"Then we shall do so."
Harry is still a little shocked, honestly. But he- he won't complain.
That thought is thoroughly cemented only twenty minutes later, when he's bundled up in a coat and Transfigured wellies (they each have little twin blobs on top of them, painted like eyes to match the green colour, and it makes them look like frogs in a way that brings him far too much joy-), happily pushing his hood back to let the rain smother his hair down despite the fact that it makes Snape grumble half-heartedly. It's just- he loves the rain. He likes being able to feel it, even when the water clinging to his glasses makes it hard to see.
That being said, he can see well enough to make out that there's a perfect puddle ahead, just before the end of the pavement, where the estate's street meets the main road. Big and wide but not, to look at, too deep either, just enough for the perfect splash and ripples without the risk of the water coming over the top of his wellies.
Half of Harry wants to sprint forwards and just jump, but he hesitates. He- Snape was the one to offer the trip in the rain, sure, but that doesn't mean that Harry can just go and take advantage of that, to abuse the trust that his teacher has offered him. Even just being out here, free and calm in the rain, is already something that he is beyond delighted by. It's- It's so much more than he could have hoped for, really.
He should have known, honestly, that Snape would pick up on the hesitation, the way that his shoulders have gone a little bit tight, leaning forwards slightly without really meaning to.
"I'll repeat my earlier sentiment, Harry. There's a hot bath waiting for you at home, just be careful of other people and any cars. I am quick, not a miracle worker." Harry is already beaming, gasping out a quiet 'thank you', and he only takes one more half-breath, sharp, before practically throwing himself forwards, already laughing under his breath as he sprints, the boots wallowing around his feet in a way that makes funny noises, like the quack of a duck and only adding to his amusement.
And all at once he's leaping forwards, jumping double-footed, knees bent-
Water splashes out in a big wave, all noise and movement and spattering, the weight of his own landing shuddering through him in the best way.
Harry can't help but laugh, loud and bubbly and utterly unrestrained, with just how very fun this is. How free he feels. It's glorious, and unfamiliar, but the best thing ever as well, a so-much better version of some of the rare bright moments of his childhood.
(Severus, behind him, hears this sound with a thrill of his own, a marrow-deep shudder of joy, of relief that he decided to try and indulge the boy who has so clearly never been indulged like this, never been allowed to simply be a child, to have fun and freedom.
It was worth the possible mis-steps, for this instant of blatant glee for Harry.)
The man follows Harry, occasionally calling out which direction to turn at the end of a street, as he runs from puddle to puddle, the wellies with the little frog eyes drenched in water and mud but that's okay. It's what they're for.
Sometimes he pauses though, at where the bushes growing above someone's low garden wall have overgrown to the point that half of the pavement isn't walkable for even someone of Harry's small height, gently brushing a finger over the leaves, gathering rain drops, or stopping to offer his hand to a cat, their collar bright green and bell tinkling, that is making their way across the street, surely headed home given how their fur is soaked through.
He's having far too much fun, honestly. Part of Harry knows that he shouldn't be, but he really can't help it, and Snape doesn't seem to mind, judging by how, every time Harry looks back at him, the man's expression is something of a soft not-scowl, the lines around his mouth not as deep as usual.
It's nice to see Snape looking more happy, too, drawn-up hood casting his face in shadows or not.
And so Harry continues running from puddle to puddle. One house has a bush of the little flowers that his primary school had, the bright pink-red-purple ones that Harry can't help but reach out and pop one of, the droplet bud splaying out into beautiful petals under his brief pressing touch (he does not see how, in his wake, several more of the flowers abruptly flare open, untouched, nor how Severus falters, the tiniest bit, visions of daisies in the back of his mind, even as the fuschia sway in front of him, towards Harry-), before he's looking around for the next perfect puddle for jumping into.
He doesn't think much before sprinting towards the nearest one, just before the bend of the road, already thinking about how big of a wave it's going to make when he leaps forwards, feet-first.
There is a moment where he wobbles slightly in his landing, and he can hear something roaring in the back of his head, except it isn't just inside his head, he realises within a blink, already half-turning around, throwing himself backwards, wide eyes catching on the wild grin of someone who doesn't seem that old, surely no more than the oldest years at school, but none of that really matters because the car they're driving, the flash of a Toyota badge, water spraying, is careening over the tarmac, just as close to the pavement on Harry's side of the road as the other, the roaring getting louder, and a wheel clips the kerb-
There is the feeling of magic, a blanket and a hook and a hand in one, at the back of his neck, yanking at the hood that he has left down this whole time, the curve of too-wide, too-gentle fingers around his ribs that aren't there except he can feel them, they're pulling him away, and Harry can't breathe.
Other hands are on him once again, but these ones are real, spitting a few sparks that fizzle into nothing in the rain, rough but not unkind, pulling Harry around,
"Oi, Harry, be bloody careful! Pete's sake, givin' me a bloody fucking heart attack, Jesus Christ." The man is crouching in front of him, eyes wild and dark, shoulders heaving with every breath, something like panic to him that very much reflects Harry's own, enough that the boy is already trying to ramble out apologies, explanations, whatever it takes to make Severus calm and okay and less likely to be mad at him.
"I- I'm sorry. They just came so quickly, and the corner-" Except he's being cut off too quickly, still kept close to his teacher.
"You're not in trouble, Harry," Severus sighs, voice remaining tight as his hands tremble, the tiniest bit, where they settle more firmly upon Harry's shoulders, very much tighter than is comfortable but he doesn't really mind. He's shaking himself, acid-sharp adrenaline frissoning through him.
He came far, far too close to getting run over, then. Bloody hell.
"I was watching, that wasn't your fault, child. The yelling was not really for you. I was w- I was alarmed, but you are not in trouble for some stupid arse's shit excuse for driving. Fuck me," Severus breathes, hands spasming a briefly even tighter hold. Harry suppresses his own wince. He doesn't want to make the man feel even worse than he clearly already does.
"Uhm." Harry- Harry doesn't know what to say, still trembling fiercely, leaning forwards into the solidity of the hands, letting them be all that keeps him upright, knees weak. Severus' support does not falter, continuing to brace Harry upright.
"Are you hurt at all? No twisted ankles or the like?" His knees are still trembling, a match to his hand, his heart, but Harry isn't actually injured, he's sure. Even with his high pain threshold, he normally notices.
"I- I'm fine. Thank you. I'm okay."
"I asked if you were hurt, not if you were okay, but I understand what you mean. Can-" He heaves a long breath, fingers loosening slightly for all that his support doesn't falter or waver,
"Can I pick you up?" Harry... Harry doesn't want to impose, doesn't want the man to feel obligated, or to think that Harry is too weak. It's not like the car even hit him.
This thought is what has him shrugging a wee bit, as much as he can beneath Snape's hands,
"I can walk."
"Again, child, not what I asked." Oh. Oh, okay. That insistence, the precision of it, is enough to make Harry hesitate slightly, abruptly aware that maybe Snape wouldn't see it as something stupid or annoying,
"I don't mind, but you don't- you don't need to. I can walk back."
"You definitely don't mind." It's more of a statement than a question, but Harry knows he has room, in this moment, to tell the man otherwise, to say that any more contact than he has right now would be too much.
It wouldn't though, he thinks. Harry would be okay with it. It's not something he's really had before, he's not sure if anybody has carried him since he was a toddler, or maybe even a baby. (Something in the back of his mind harks back to when Snape first took him away from the Dursleys, how even then he gave Harry the option of being carried or taken on a stretcher after he collapsed, let alone now, when they have spent several weeks together, still asking Harry before doing something, still trying to respect his boundaries and choices.)
So he just nods slightly,
"It would be okay." Those dark eyes linger for a few more caught-short breaths, warm as embers, glazed-amber around the edges, before Snape nods in return,
"Then I'm going to pick you up now."
Moving slowly, Snape shifts so that he has one knee braced on the ground, rather than just crouching, and loops his arms around Harry's back, and just above his knees, drawing Harry in close even whilst pushing back upright.
It's warm, despite the wet raincoat, when he leans into Snape's chest, not flinching from the cold water pressing against his cheek, he'd already had his hood down after all, plus it's still raining either way. He can, very faintly, hear and feel a mostly-steady heartbeat echoing against his ear, where it's pressed just below the faint ridge of a collar bone.
Harry relaxes, letting his adrenaline fade and the heavy rain in the air help soothe his breathing.
He counts Snape's steps to himself as they walk, half-closed eyes catching on familiar sights, the bush of fuschias, the brick wall with the lattice smothered in ivy, where someone has left their wheelie bin out from bin day yesterday. The puddles are still wide and reflecting the grey clouds above, rippled by the falling rain. He can't hear any cars, or anyone shouting, only steady heartbeat-footsteps-raindrops. It's safe.
By the time they get home, Harry is beginning to feel sleepy, warm and cool all at once, panic fully faded. Snape doesn't put him down. No, a twitch of the man's fingers has Harry's wellies sliding off, left upside-down by the front door, and surely Snape's leather boots are left behind too.
Harry is placed down atop the toilet, seat and lid both down, the wood not cool like Hogwarts' ceramic, a fact that he's very much glad for. The chill from the rain (perhaps a decent measure of shock too-) is beginning to set in now. He'd rather not be sat somewhere cold too.
He watches, attention vague, as Snape kneels beside the bath, pushing in the plug and starting the water. The man turns around to dig through the cabinet that's in the room, pulling out phials of potions and random bottles of Muggle products, checking labels but none of them seemingly what he wants. Harry winds his just-shuddering fingers into the thick knit of his borrowed jumper as he watches.
Finally though, Snape presumably decides that what he wants just isn't there, because he shoves everything back into the cabinet, scowling down at the dust on his hands for a moment. He promptly just wipes them on his jeans, and turns back to the bath itself. Harry doesn't ask what the man was looking for; there's no point when it clearly isn't here and it just risks annoying the man.
"Add more hot or cold if you want, child, just don't scald yourself," Snape adds on, even as he twists off both of the taps, one by one, the other hand still trailing in the bathwater.
"It should be about right for now though. Do you want anything?"
"I'm fine. Thank you," Harry murmurs. He can't help the edge of hesitation, of bashfullness, because he's never had a bath before, but Snape has so clearly wanted this to be a good experience for him, or at least a neutral one, and it makes it easy to forget how Harry has had his head pushed beneath a half-full bath a few too many times before.
Easy enough that he doesn't hesitate, when Snape leaves, to shed his jeans and t-shirt, peeling off damp socks, carefully folding everything on the floor next to the counter, not wanting to put their dirtiness on the surface itself.
The just-hot water is brilliant. Harry can't help but sigh, sinking down, although he carefully keeps the water level at his shoulders, glad that it isn't cold. It feels good. Genuinely nice, like he's safe and can relax. The chill of being outside whilst it's tipping it down begins to fade, as do the tremors of the adrenaline crash, all soothed away by almost-floating in the heat of the bath.
He doesn't really bother with washing, he wasn't dirty anyway, mostly just cold with some mud around the top of his calves where it soaked through his jeans, above his wellies. He just enjoys the warmth.
(New experiences and sensations seem to be a big part of his summer with Snape, and yet it seems like none of them are bad things per se. Sometimes they're a bit overwhelming, but that doesn't mean Harry can't handle them, can't take joy from them. He's beginning to enjoy lots of things, honestly, which is a weird adjustment, but not one that he minds, even if sometimes it feels kinda dangerous, like the ground is going to drop out from beneath him, or the pieces of Snape's kindness, rough but warm, will crumble into ash and nothing beneath his own burning hands.
With every passing day, he feels less like that's going to happen. He's daring to hope, now.)
It's hard not to fall asleep, between the hot water and the sound of the rain against the tiny frosted window, but Harry remains awake if only to keep his head and neck above the water, his sleepiness abating every time he starts to slip down and the water presses against the hollow of his throat, threatening to set him into panic. He's still calm overall. Still content.
That being said, Harry still forces himself to get out once the water begins to cool, not wanting to use up more of Snape's hot water regardless of the fact he has permission to do so.
The towel Snape left out is slightly rough, old and burgundy, but it's big enough that he can wrap himself up from shoulders to ankles, and judging by how warm he suddenly is, Snape must have placed a Warming charm on it. If Harry didn't know better than to say it, he would call the man sweet.
Although that thought is very much reinforced once he's gotten dressed and mostly dried, wriggling his toes into a pair of thick socks before he rushes down the stairs, careful not to slip or make too much noise, looking forward to wrapping himself up in the blankets again. His hair is still damp, occasionally dripping on his neck.
Because the first thing that Snape says, upon noticing Harry, is:
"We'll grab some bubble bath next time we go shopping. Or I'll find a spell or a recipe for it." The idea of that catches Harry off-guard, enough so that he physically falters in place, fingers abruptly tangling, twisting, fingertips still prune-wrinkled from the water,
"Oh! Uhm, you don't have to. The bath was already really nice." Snape's gaze lingers on him then, heavy, speaking once again when Harry doesn't continue,
"Perhaps so, but still. It's a small amount of input for a decent potential output of amusement."
Admittedly, that has Harry hesitating. Because Snape- Because Severus has been doing oh-so much for him already. He creates little miniature creatures out of dust and light to help explain the answer to a completey irrelevant question, and reads off lists of Potions ingredients and instructions when Harry is still half-caught in a nightmare just to be able to help calm him down, and he feeds Harry three times a day, making sure it's food that he actually wants and likes, and always offers up snacks too, and even tells Harry, time and again, that he can go and just get himself food whenever he wants, that there's no punishment or payment for it.
So perhaps he can allow Severus to do a little extra something. To do something that he wants to do for Harry, that he has actively offered, particularly when Harry genuinely thinks it would be fun.
(He doesn't allow himself to think too much about how childish it is of him to want a stupid bubble bath of all things. Even Dudley has grown out of them by now. Harry remembers how when precious Dudders, maybe four years ago now, starting throwing tantrums every time that Aunt Petunia tried to set him up a bubble bath with toys, helping her darling baby boy to wash, because he was a big boy who didn't need any of that. Or so he would scream.
But surely it isn't so bad that Harry just wants to have a tiny bit of the childhood he didn't really get?)
"I- I think I'd like that, if you really don't mind," he finally manages. Snape leans in slightly, expression set, certain,
"Child, I haven't lied to you yet, and I don't intend to start."
"Oh."
"Rather." There's a glint to Snape's eyes, mischievous, almost teasing, enough so that it loosens something in Harry's own chest, the release of a drawn-tight tension.
Snape gives him seconds to just breathe. Then he stands fully upright once again,
"Now, are you certain that you weren't hurt earlier? Nothing sore, twisted?" Harry genuinely thinks about that for a long few seconds, knowing that Snape would expect nothing less, before shrugging slightly,
"I'm alright."
"Good." His nod is curt, not unkind,
"Now, do you want soup or a sarnie for your lunch?"
With every passing day, questions like this, choices, feel less and less like traps to Harry, aided by the fact that they alternate days for choosing lunch now. (Harry is very carefully ignoring how he had a bit of a meltdown over lunch last week, because he had snapped and then sobbed, and Snape, once he had gotten over his own initial whiplash, had quite simply been there, offering Harry plenty of logic and quiet words and assurances over the fact that Snape would never consider something like a choice of lunch a reason to punish him, as long as he is getting some sort of nutrition, and even that would only warrant a conversation.) He is actually beginning to believe that Snape doesn't really care what he chooses, no right or wrong answer to be given.
"We still have cheese, don't we?"
"We do," the man agrees, an edge of curiosity to how he tilts his head ever so slightly, one eyebrow raising.
"Could I, uhm, make cheese on toast?" It's a hesitant question, admittedly, but Harry thinks it would be tasty, and Snape doesn't have a toastie maker like the Dursleys did, but to be honest he prefers cheese on toast even though it's easier to burn.
Snape is clearly thinking about it though, head still tilted just enough for his hair to be swayed to one side,
"Have you done so before?"
"Yep." Harry is telling the truth, for all that it's been a year or two since he's made it. Dudley went through a phase of loving anything with cheese when they were eight, and Harry got plenty of scorched fingertips for it. Enough to no longer feel the heat of it.
"Fair enough. Wait until I'm back downstairs to use the grill, please."
"Yessir." And for all that's clearly a very automatic response, there's the edges of an impish grin to Harry's expression, enough so that it eases any hesitation Snape had.
The man turns around then, headed upstairs, and Harry turns his attention to the fridge, crouching down to stare at the contents, finally spotting the Cathedral City tucked behind some tomatoes.
Snape didn't say anything about using a knife, or not, so Harry sets to cutting off thin slices of cheese, enough to cover three slices of bread, before buttering said bread, glad that they have the orange pack of Warburtons because it really is the best for cheese on toast or fishfinger sandwiches, and laying out all of the cheese, ready to melt.
He pauses at that point, because he isn't entirely sure if just turning the grill on counts as using it, because it will need to preheat. He doesn't want to push such a clearly-defined boundary. No, Harry would rather not, particularly after he's so clearly stressed Snape out already today (it looked more like worry than stress, but Harry doesn't want to think too deeply abut that-). No need to make it worse. To make the man more likely to be upset with him.
Given this, Harry ambles back over to the sofa, picking up the book that he had left on the coffee table last night, one of Snape's that the man has let him read, content enough to wait for now. And, well, reading more about how curses and countercurses work is more than interesting enough that he certainly won't complain about being able to spend some time reading it.
Despite certain things, Harry has honestly had a really lovely day. He got to play in the rain! It makes him feel like such a child to be so excited about it, but he can't even bring himself to feel bad about that fact, really. He's had too much fun. Plus, well, Snape doesn't seem to have minded, not when he's actively encouraged it in fact, so Harry figures that it can't be too bad.
Not when, seeing Harry curled up in a corner of the sofa with a book braced against his drawn-up knees, a blanket draped around his shoulders, Snape gets that soft not-scowl expression on his face, the one that's almost a smile, eyes warmer than even the emmbers still glowing in the grate.
"Ready for lunch?"
"Sure!" Harry takes note of the page he's on and rushes to get up, already looking forward to the hot, melted-cheese meal, glad when Snape doesn't so much as blink at Harry switching the grill on.
It's been a good day, and Harry thinks that it will continue to be, with the rain and Severus and the promise of tasty food. He's happy, either way.