Severus listens. He can muster that much. But the more Harry speaks, the less impressed he becomes. Perhaps it should be a comfort that there appears to be no intentional duplicity involved - and yet he just feels gnawing anger at the fact that he can't let anyone do anything on their own, ever, without it getting fucked up all to hell.

"Someone was very kind to me, once," he says at length. His temper is there in his words, barely restrained. "He encouraged my magic. He treated me with respect."

That statement gets left alone for a moment. Severus stares at Harry, gaze like iron. There is no question that he means Voldemort.

"You spoke to me of frustration and humiliation at being treated like a child despite the war you've fought and the experience you've had. I gave you that courtesy and respected your claims." His voice is low, in that slightly terrifying way that's worse than his explosions. "I watched you from afar liaise with beings whose magic left such an impression on the world around them I could practically feel it in the air. I said nothing, because you have fought the Dark Lord, and you should know already what that feels like. Why," he leans forward slightly, "would you need some elf to take you by the hand and explain to you how darkness works?"