And Harry crumpled. Wet, miserable sobs broke their way out of him, shaking his shoulders, and bending him at the waist so that he was curled over his lap, his hands fisted in his hair. He felt his mother carefully working his fingers free from his hair and carefully soothing the hurt he had left behind by tugging at his scalp. He could faintly hear her consoling him, soothing him, and gradually, very gradually, she penetrated the ball of devastation that he had become. He couldn’t have said how long he sat on that bench, screaming and crying his heart out. It could have been a minute - it could have been an hour. When he stopped, he found his mother’s arms wrapped tightly around him, her face resting on his back where he had curled over himself.