"I was hurt, Harry," he admitted at last, and something tight eased in his chest, made it possible for him to go on. "It had happened to me before, you know, with your mother. Many years ago, in a fit of pique, I called her a vile name, and she refused to ever accept my apology. It was the end of our friendship. And then, when you looked at me with such . . . such distaste, with such loathing, and with her eyes, I . . . I snapped. And yes, I continued to snap well after that, too."
He continued to stare at his hands, unable to bear to even look to see if Harry was listening. Hidden as he was, no one else could see them clasped so tightly. No one else could see his pain. No one could see the tightness in his heart, the cold, dark fear that nothing was left but shards and fragments of the trust the boy had once shown him. The darkness and fear waited, ready to welcome him if he spilled over the edge.
"When you fell in that room, with the Dark Lord and Quirrell and all those flames, with your blood soaking your clothes, I thought you might die before I had a chance to apologize, before knowing I was sorry for hurting you, and it was the worst feeling I have ever had. Worse than the original hurt, I swear it."
Hope was a tiny, fledgling flame buried under the weight of his guilt and shame. Hope was all he had left, hope that he could set things right with young Harry Potter. For so many months, he had not had a chance to speak with Harry. The boy had shut him out, and Severus had nailed closed the door between them. It was not until recently that he realized how much he had enjoyed being able to talk with Harry, about the boy's mother or his studies, or even just about chess. But now he had a chance to say what he needed to, and what he wanted. He had the time and opportunity to share the small details of Hogwarts life as it continued around them, or of his own life, details he had shared with no one till now because he had had no one who cared to hear.
Thus he told Harry about speaking with Dumbledore about what happened with Quirrell, and how he had yelled at the Headmaster for being tricked by Quirrell's duplicity. He described the many get-well gifts which graced the tables beside the boy's bed, including what looked like a toilet seat from the Weasley twins. He told him about the Bloody Baron's recovery from the possession, and the ghost's sorrow that he had been forced out of Harry at a very inopportune moment. "He will visit with you, I am sure, when you are able to go back to the dungeons."
At one point, he said quietly, "We lost the last Quidditch match. We were close enough in points at the end of the game that we still won the House Cup, but it would not have been so close if you had played. Mr. Malfoy was put in as Reserve Seeker, which might have worked if the child's father had not been in attendance. I believe you've only met the elder Malfoy briefly, but you must be ever mindful of where his loyalties lie: To himself, first of all. And then his idiot son spent more time checking to see if his father was watching him than he did looking for the snitch. So the Ravenclaw girl -- Miss Chang, I believe -- caught it instead." He paused, then added, "You were missed."
After telling Harry that he had done very well on his Potions final exam as well as on his other subjects, he said, "The Bloody Baron told me how you connived to have him possess you. A neat little bit of Slytherin cunning there. But listen to me, Harry, this is important, so I shall repeat it as necessary: To chase after a Stone which you knew a madman wanted, with so little disregard for your own life . . . it smacks of Gryffindor stupidity, and I will not have it. I know -- the Baron told me -- that the Sorting Hat thought you would do well in the Lion's den, but child . . ." His voice softened, and he proceeded much more quietly, "But Harry, please understand. You must know that you belong with us, the special ones, the forgotten ones, the ones no one else understands. I know I have not set the best example for you these last few months, but we are the House who protects our own, who watches each others' backs. One of your fellows told me what you were planning the other night, and you should be thankful they did, or I would not have been able to save you from bleeding to death in that maze all alone. You don't need to go through these things alone, Harry, not with your House always at your back."
He paused again, knowing what he said next would be much better said when the boy was awake -- and he would repeat it then; he would probably need to repeat the sentiment over and over for this child. "You nearly threw your life away, Harry, and for what? The Dark Lord could not have taken the Stone; the Headmaster has shared the workings of his trap with me, and his plan, involving the Mirror of Erised, was far more subtle, yet complicated, and far more cunning than any other. He built in failsafe measures, too, to specifically keep anyone who wanted the Stone for themselves from being able to find it. Do you understand what that means, Harry? That the Dark Lord could only have succeeded with the aid of an innocent."
Glancing up, briefly, from his hands, he noted that Harry's eyes were open. He continued in the exact same tone so as not to betray that knowledge. "Only by using you -- if he had captured you instead of trying to kill you -- only then could he have gained the Stone. Do you know what a self-fulfilling prophecy is? Have you ever heard the story of Oedipus Rex?" He waited till Harry shook his head oh-so slowly. "By trying to keep an unwanted, yet prophesied, event from occurring, Oedipus inadvertently caused it to occur, but if he had left things to themselves, the unwanted events would never have taken place. Similarly, by trying to keep the Dark Lord from the Stone, you nearly helped him attain his goal. Do you see how fruitless your scheme was? The worst is, you would have paid for his victory with your life."
Severus sighed and lowered the hood of the Cloak, and then helped Harry don his glasses so the boy could meet his gaze. Once the boy could see him clearly, he continued, "Let me tell you, Harry: you are far too valuable to sacrifice yourself like that."
In the softest voice Severus had ever heard from this boy, Harry whispered, "'cause I'm meant to defeat him."
Severus shook his head. "No. Not for that. Not at all. You are too valuable a person. You are important to your friends, to your Quidditch team, and to me. You are a good person, a brave if insanely courageous boy, a trustworthy, amusing, talented, intelligent cunning person, one whom I do not want to lose. I . . . I enjoyed when we spent time together poring over photographs and playing chess. I am amazed at the drawings you've done. I framed the one you gave me at Christmas, you know, and I treasure it as I do almost nothing else. Though we are teacher and student, I also thought, I hoped we were also friends. I am so dreadfully sorry we parted company. You overheard something, I fear, that gave you the wrong impression--"
"I know, sir. The Bloody Baron told me."
Severus quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"A bunch of times." Harry looked away. "I didn't believe him."
Quietly, Severus said, "Because trust, for you, is a very fragile thing, and to your mind, I had broken your trust by aligning myself with Quirrell, who had tried to kill you twice already."
Harry nodded, but his expression was filled with suspicion, as if he thought Severus had read his mind.
"I understand, Harry. Believe me. I have that same fragile trust in others. Which is why, when I thought you had spurned my offer, I was so . . ."