Chapter 5: Spinner’s End

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The remaining days passed swiftly, accompanied by sunlight and drifting white clouds.

The students soon welcomed the final day of the winter term at Hogwarts.

Severus Snape took only about ten minutes to pack all his belongings. The longest task was erasing the words "This book belongs to the Half-Blood Prince" scrawled on the inside cover of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. After futilely tapping his wand for half a minute with no effect, he reluctantly dug out an ink bottle and, frowning, thickly blotted out the inscription with a quill.

Avery, on the other hand, had a mountain of things to pack. He owned several sets of dress robes for various occasions, and emptying his wardrobe took nearly an hour.

"So many clothes," Snape remarked, clicking his tongue in amazement. "Do you even wear them all?"

By the time they hurried to the Great Hall for the end-of-term feast, it was already packed with students. The hall had been transformed with Hufflepuff's signature yellow and black decorations. A massive banner adorned with the Hufflepuff badger hung on the wall behind the staff table.

Thanks to an unexpectedly stellar performance in the Quidditch Cup, Hufflepuff House had clinched the House Cup for the first time in five years. Their table was the liveliest, buzzing with excited chatter and cheers.

Moments later, as the professors took their seats, the clamor in the hall gradually subsided.

"Another wonderful year has come to an end!" Dumbledore rose, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Let us congratulate Hufflepuff!"

With a wave of his hand, a notice appeared before each student: "A reminder: all students under seventeen are prohibited from using magic during the holidays."

"And with that, the important matters are done. Let the feast begin!"

Snape's plate and goblet instantly filled with an array of foods and drinks, alongside sweets of every kind—Liquorice Wands, Fizzing Whizzbees, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Pear Drops...

The next morning, over a hundred horseless carriages waited outside the castle. As always, they ferried students in their second year and above between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade Station.

Snape, Avery, and two younger students climbed into one carriage. Before long, the wheels creaked and began to turn.

As the Hogwarts Express chugged through forests, fields, and lakes, the countryside outside grew increasingly tidy. Snape's mood, however, grew more tangled. He even lost interest in his Cauldron Cake.

Truth be told, he wasn't eager to return. He didn't know how to face the "home" of his memories—or the "parents" who lived there. He even considered finding somewhere to hide out for two months, until September, until he could return to Hogwarts.

But his instincts told him some things needed closure.

The train slowed with a whistle's cry. When it finally clattered to a stop at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Snape, as he had done before, dragged his trunk off the train.

After waving goodbye to Avery, he turned and joined the noisy, bustling crowd heading toward the enchanted brick wall.

Sunlight bathed the streets beyond. No one was waiting for him.

A towering chimney loomed in Snape's line of sight, and the murky river wailed in his ears. His trunk rattled over the cobblestones, clattering with each step.

Snape stopped before a dilapidated brick house. A faint yellow light seeped through the gap in the curtains of a ground-floor window.

After a moment, he fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys and used one to unlock the door.

With a creak, the door opened, revealing a woman who looked strikingly like him, only older. She was frail, her face sallow, her hair a tangled mess.

At the sound, she paused her mending and lifted her swollen eyes toward the doorway.

"You're back," she said, her voice hollow.

Snape's lips twitched, but the word wouldn't come.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"Out," she murmured flatly.

"Out?" A surge of nameless anger flared in Snape's chest.

The woman shook her head sadly, her eyes flickering with a hint of fear.

That look was like a bucket of cold water dousing his heart.

He suddenly felt a pang of discomfort.

"Sorry," Snape said, steadying his heaving chest, trying to control his breathing.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

Before he could answer, she set her needlework and clothes on the wooden table and shuffled toward the kitchen door.

A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a tray with a bowl of boiled potatoes and a small dish of parsnip sauce. She placed it on the slightly wobbly table and gestured for Snape to eat.

The room fell quiet, save for the faint sounds of chewing.

"Why is it like this?" he asked softly. "You're a witch."

The woman lowered her head, her hands unconsciously twisting the hem of her clothes. She looked more like a child caught in wrongdoing.

"I've been here... for over ten years..."

"But you—we—could change things, couldn't we?"

"He doesn't like magic..."

Her voice was barely audible.

"He doesn't like much of anything."

"You haven't used magic in all these years. Do you not want to be a witch anymore?"

"I..."

She faltered, unable to give a complete answer.

Snape looked at her, his anger replaced by an indescribable emotion. He didn't want to blame her entirely; he didn't believe these problems were primarily her fault.

Only dark shadows swayed gently in the dim yellow light.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A rapid knock shattered the silence.

Snape shot to his feet, his chair tipping backward, its legs scraping harshly against the worn floor.

He gripped the doorknob and turned it.

A hawk-nosed man stood unsteadily in the doorway, reeking of alcohol.

"Sev'rus..." The man squinted at him, slurring, "What're you doin' here...?"

Snape let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, his shoulders trembling slightly.

The scene was so absurd it could make a dozen Boggarts cower in a wardrobe.

At the sound of Snape's laughter, the man's face darkened instantly. He lunged forward, his grimy hands seizing Snape's throat.

"Put it away!" he roared like an enraged beast as Snape pulled his wand from his jeans pocket. "Filthy stick! Don't think I don't know—you can't use it!"

Staring into those black eyes brimming with hostility and rage, Snape saw something else: a frail woman trembling amid shouts, a dark-haired boy curled up in a corner, sobbing...

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