Being only twenty-five, Severus has very little preconceived notions of what Harry Potter is supposed to sound like as a fully grown man with a lifetime's worth of magical damage; the heyday of his youth was spent in the seventies, dealing drugs, learning black magic and listening to acid rock. 'Fucking hell' doesn't make him blink.

The fact that he's fairly certain - based on lore dug up in the nexus about horcruxes and the disturbingly keen sense of familiarity - that this is indeed Harry potter, fully grown man with a lifetime's worth of magical damage, however, does.

There's a narrow table with a tool under it at the back of the room, and he leans against it, still in pain and still thrown, staring at Harry and wondering what the fuck he's gotten himself into. He's too shocked to be angry (that'll happen, though, sure as he's Severus fucking Snape), and for a long moment he doesn't say anything, until he thinks 'I should probably unstun the dog, at some point', though when he sits up again it's to point at the other man's hand and stitch his skin back up from afar.

Finally, in a shaky tone: "Is there really no one else competent in the whole of reality that you all end up on my doorstep."