"This?" Ollivander moves to pass on the wand he has between his fingers before quickly backtracking and shoving it back into the box he retrieved it from, gliding a finger along the shelves and picking three new boxes for testing.

Snape runs a hand down his face from where he's sitting, having grown tired of the continued standing in one spot for too long. Though Harry thinks it's more of everything they've done in the past few hours taking its toll on the man. Hedwig's still perched on his shoulder, nipping at strands of black hair every now and then.

Snape's learnt to ignore it rather than fight it.

Harry lets his gaze scour the shop, books and dust that may very well have been present since a decade ago scattered along the shelves or in cluttered piles on the wooden floorboards. There's a multitude of broken lamps with pieces of parchment littered around; some appear to be burnt, which Harry can only assume to be the aftermath of other people testing out their wands only for it to backlash horrendously.

And it's funny— anywhere else, the place would've seemed dull because of its overall lack of colour, lack of vibrancy. But it has its own kind of magic that's sunken into it, its own history. And there's certainly nothing dull in that.

"Harry boy, if you'd please?"

He turns around to come face to face with Ollivander, who's suddenly almost nose-to-nose with him. There's a new wand that he’s brandishing in front of him, pearly white with a thick handle. It makes him recoil when he realises the similarity it has with Voldemort’s own wand, but he takes it in stride and wraps his fingers around the base of it, flicking his wrist experimentally.

Which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the wisest of choices that he’s made today.

It sends a party of bubbling firecrackers hurling towards one of the bookshelves that are situated to the opposite side of the room, knocking over a table lamp that pulls an unlit lantern down with it crashing to the floor.

Harry’s making a face that looks like he’d just swallowed something sour while Snape massages his temples testily. Hedwig, whose continued residence on the Potion Master’s shoulder has now officially become her most favoured perch, hoots as a reasonable contribution to the event that has transpired.

“Ah, no worries,” Ollivander chimes in enthusiastically, holding four new wand cases that he’s presumably conjured out of thin air in front of himself. “We still have plenty of options for you to choose from! Let’s get to it now, shall we?”

---

“Thank you,” Potter says, eyes soft, voice kind. “For taking me shopping when my relatives couldn't.” There’s a smile of a thousand words that he wears like a gift, words that while left unsaid, got across by expression and expression alone. There’s that same feeling of something chipping away at the walls of Snape’s barriers; it feels like lava, he notes, a lava so hot and burning that it feels like it’s melting him from the inside.

He displays none of its effects. But he doesn’t respond to Potter’s appreciation, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Just pushes the boy through the rest of the street, casts a swift disillusionment charm on the both of them, and then apparates them both to the suburban streets of Privet Drive.

Severus can't help but feel that Potter already knows that his words have gotten through to him.