Harry, too, was driven by a certain, deep seated drive--to help people, and to atone for the mistakes he had made, both wittingly and unwittingly. To protect his family as he had not been able to do back home. Those protective instincts were part of him, who he was, and he could no more deny them than he could deny breath to his lungs.
He'd nearly destroyed himself, trying to rescue his daughter, and now he would probably never get to see her grow up. He'd lost the love of his life, nearly gotten his apprentice killed, and even tried to have himself assassinated--and yet somehow he was still alive. God, the universe, whatever force directed his life just wasn't finished with him yet.
So here he was. "Sorry, I'm not much of a conversationalist," he said, "I talk to myself sometimes. Give myself very good advice. Unfortunately, most of the time, ignore it."