Harry meets the look he's given with a crooked, boyish smile. He's so proud of the mess he's made of his room, an explosion of personality and power that he's draped over every surface. In the wake of his previous apartment having burnt to the foundations and been built over (it still stings a little, sue him), he gradually built the new rooms into something he could take refuge in. He might not claim his new abode as a sanctuary, he'd undoubtedly taken steps to make something of it.

He repossessed the rooms with candles, with shelves full of books and knicknacks - the majority of which had suddenly appeared the evening he'd come back from birthday festivities, courtesy the Winter Queen and her daughter. One night spent in the bed had convinced him that he absolutely hated how lonely it felt, and he'd abandoned it for the semi-circle pit by the fireplace, piling pillows and blankets and throws into it with greed rivaling any dragon.

"She told me to make myself at home," he replies, speaking of no other 'She' than Mab herself.

Harry shuts the door quietly, toeing his shoes off so that his steps are silent as he slips up behind John. His arms settle around the man's waist, fingers absurdly graceful as he steadily unbuttons the coat he'd lent him. "First thing's first," he explains, having bent down just enough to press his mouth along the curve of John's ear, "let's get you out of those damp clothes and warm you up."