The boy hiccups another sob at that - making a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat as he is wrapped up in that embrace. Why should Harry be sorry? He was the one who - who murdered him, there were no two ways about it. Murdered him and animated the husk left behind like some sort of sick, twisted puppet.

Ah, the movies. That hadn't been great for him, either. His two roles were that of a perverse murderer and a vindictive automaton. Logically, he knows he would never do either of those things, but...there were kernels of truth in both of them, if he looks at them for long enough. And he has been overthinking for a very long time, now.

When his face is cradled, inspected, he allows it - but he looks down and away, unable to meet Harry's eyes with his own teary ones. He looks...very tired, exhausted in a way he doesn't normally let show. His eyes are swollen from crying so much, his face drawn and pale and sallow from lack of sleep. He looks regretful. Haunted.

There are also scratch marks over the scar on his neck, as if he's been picking absentmindedly at it with his claws.

"...I...I'll be fine," he mumbles, completely unconvincingly. He winces at how it sounded. "I - I'm...I'm...no. No, Harry, I'm not - I'm not okay. I...I never want to do that again-"

His voice breaks, dies. His hands rest on Harry's waist now from where they've pulled back from the hug, fingers lightly twined in the fabric of his clothing.