No...A low-pitched murmur of despair escaped from his throat, and Harry slumped back against the pillows. No. It couldn't be. He'd finally had it all planned out. Everything. The knife, the tower, the letters, it was time to finish it. Time to rid the world of his uselessness.

But no, someone had clearly found him. Had stopped him. Harry looked around, eyes wild, before his frantic gaze finally lit upon the person dozing by his bedside.

Severus Snape.

For a moment, his mouth rounded in a perfect O of shock. Of all the people Harry could have expected to rescue him, Snape wasn't even on the list. Snape understood him, didn't he? Snape was the only one who didn't hold an over-inflated opinion of Harry's value. Snape was the one who understood what the Dursleys knew, too. Harry was a freak, that was all. A worthless, useless freak.

But if Snape knew that, why had he saved Harry? Harry's brow furrowed as he pondered the options. Perhaps Snape simply couldn't stand to see a potentially useful tool be 'thrown away,' for lack of a better word. Harry was worthless, but he did have a scrawny set of well-honed muscles and he had technically defeated Voldemort. He was sure if he put his mind to it, he could be directed to kill other dark creatures or wizards/witches.

Perhaps Snape thought Harry hadn't suffered enough, either. Not nearly enough to make up for all the deaths that had occurred during this War. Harry accepted that suffering as his due, but he knew it wasn't nearly enough.

At that moment, Snape stirred and Harry found himself holding his breath, praying the man would stay asleep. Maybe then he could remove the IV from the back of his hand (and why did he have one, anyway? Surely IV's were a Muggle thing--he'd certainly never had one in the Hospital Wing before), tear off the thick white bandages that covered both arms, and finish the job. Quickly, before Snape woke.

The hope was dashed however when Snape opened his eyes and said wearily, "I already know what you are thinking, Potter, and no, you cannot go off and try again. For one thing, the Hospital Wing is now spelled to disallow any attempts at self-harm. Not to mention, you're stuck to your bed."

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed in outrage, flushing when he tried to move and realized that was indeed the case. "I'm fine, sir, let me go."

Snape snorted, an acerbic sound that made Harry flinch.

"Right," he said softly. "You're so fine, you trekked all the way up to the Astronomy Tower in freezing temperatures to attempt suicide. What kind of fool do you take me for, Potter?"

"I don't...sir," Harry managed to croak out, feeling like the worst sort of person. "But you didn't need to stop me, Professor," he challenged. His arms still throbbed and burned behind their thick antiseptic-smelling covering.

"Yes," Snape said. His eyes seemed to fix Harry to the bed, like a beetle on a card. "I most certainly did."

Harry felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes, frustrated ones, angry ones, and he blinked them back hastily. He couldn't stop himself from uttering the next words, however, the ones that made Snape freeze as if he'd been turned into stone.

"But I thought you understood, sir! I thought you understood I was a worthless freak!"

"What on earth ever put that particular thought in your head?" Snape inquired sharply. Harry turned his face away, pressing it hard into the slightly scratchy surface of his pillow.

"It's...just the truth, Professor," he finally answered, sounding like a bewildered child. "Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia know it. And...you, well, you treat me a bit like they do...like I should be treated. I hate how everybody else treats me, bloody fawning over me, or acting like I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. I never was."

"What do you mean your uncle and aunt know it?" Snape questioned, and the whole story of Harry's childhood came tumbling out of his mouth. Things he had thought he would never tell anyone, but somehow managed to spill to the black-robed man sitting so austerely by his hospital bed. When Petunia had nearly hit him over the head with a frying pan. Dudley bullying him. Uncle Vernon's constant angry tirades, the lash of his belt against the boy's back. Missing meals. Being locked outside, or locked in the shed when it rained, like an ordinary dog. Having his fingers burnt just because he'd dropped a piece of toast. When Dudley tried to bury him in the back garden and Uncle Vernon had only laughed and then scolded Harry for making a mess. By the end of it, Snape was actually carding his fingers through the boy's hair in an awkward attempt to soothe him, and Harry was laying there in shock.

"You are not worthless, Harry Potter," Snape said sternly. "You are not a freak, you are not useless. And I am--sorry that my behavior towards you has ever enforced that. You...are not your father," the words sounded strangled. "You should not have had the mantle of celebrity thrust upon you from babyhood, but that does not and will not ever mean that you are worthless. Do you understand, Potter?"

Slowly, Harry managed to nod. He didn't really, not yet. But maybe in time...maybe in time, he would.

And he knew he'd like to try.