Albus stares down at his feet, his insides clenching uncomfortably with something like a mix of guilt and apology and general awfulness.

He knows about Annabeth. He knows about Scorpius' letter to him.

He'd thought that everything was fine, or it would be -

And just -

Why him? How could he - Albus Potter - possibly have that sort of effect on someone else?

'I have to think that with anything like that, you'll know.
It's when you start trying to talk yourself into things
and out of things that you get yourself in trouble.'

And he doesn't know. He doesn't ...

"I'm sorry," he says again.

He doesn't know what else to say.