Sometimes, Alfred doesn't quite know what to make of Harry. He knows he likes the man, even if he seems sort of...lost, much of the time. He's been there at a couple of his lowest moments, gentle, trying to help in his own way. When his horns had twisted open, he had brought serenity, kindness.

And now...he had given up his very soul to help sustain him. The idea sits heavy, still jangling around in him, resounding like the clapper in a bell.

Harry's words, his tears cut through that infernal ringing, though, sadness giving way on his young face in favor of gentle concern. Without thinking, he moves his hands upward from the man's waist to his cheeks, fingers hot as he wicks the moisture away with the calloused pads of his thumbs.

"...Who you are is my friend, Harry," he finally croaks, soft and shaking. "You - you haven't hurt me, not at all. I'm just...I'm scared. I'm so scared. Losing control like that was...was...."

He threatens to break again, eyes welling up.