And for the first time in Albus’s life, that felt like enough. End.
The words had burrowed under Harry’s ribs like a splinter of a broken wand. At that same hour, Albus stood with Scorpius Malfoy in the shadow of the Tickling Teapot, a derelict shop in Hogsmeade. Rain slicked the cobblestones. In Scorpius’s hand was a sliver of enchanted glass—a , a lost relic from a broken Time-Turner, which had called to Albus in his dreams for a month.
“My father is a living scar,” Albus replied bitterly. “And he’d rather I were someone else. What if we just… tweak one thing? The Triwizard Tournament. The second task. What if Cedric Diggory never felt the humiliation of losing? Then he wouldn’t have been in that graveyard. He wouldn’t have died.” Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Parts One an...
Twenty-two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter, now Head of Magical Law Enforcement, still woke at 3:47 AM most nights. Not from nightmares of Voldemort anymore, but from a quieter dread: the face of his youngest son, Albus Severus, twisted in silent resentment across the dinner table that evening.
She pointed at the hourglass around her neck. “The only way to restore the timeline is for one of you to stay here. Forever. A soul for a soul.” Albus looked at Scorpius—his only true friend, the boy who chose him when his own family couldn’t. Then he looked at the twisted reflection of his father. And for the first time, he understood. And for the first time in Albus’s life,
The Augurey’s quill scratched a single, slow tear onto the prophecy registry in the Department of Mysteries. No one was there to hear it.
It was the day of the Second Task, 1995. At that same hour, Albus stood with Scorpius
Albus smiled—a real, aching smile. “Then let’s not go. Let’s stay and fight.”
They found Cedric Diggory alone by the lake, nervously retying his black fabric pouch. He was all broad shoulders and earnest hope.
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.