Cedric, desperate and kind, nodded.
Albus and Scorpius woke on the cold floor of the Tickling Teapot, the shard in pieces between them. The rain had stopped. And in the doorway, holding a too-large umbrella, stood Harry Potter—disheveled, exhausted, and utterly terrified.
“I don’t need you to be someone else,” Harry whispered into his son’s messy black hair. “I just need you to be here.”