Spinner's End

The remaining days flew by, accompanied by sunshine and white clouds.

The students soon reached the final day of the winter term at school.

Snape took only about ten minutes to pack all his luggage.

The most time-consuming part was when, after tapping his wand at it for a long time to no effect, he had to dig out an ink bottle and, with a frown, use a quill to thickly smear over the words "This book belongs to the Half-Blood Prince" that he had once written on the back cover of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

Aber, however, had a mountain of things to pack. He had several sets of dress robes alone for different occasions, and emptying his trunk took nearly an hour.

"With so many clothes, can you even wear them all?" Snape clicked his tongue in admiration.

By the time the two of them hurried to the Great Hall for the end-of-year feast, it was already packed with people.

The entire Great Hall had been decorated in the yellow and black of Hufflepuff, and a massive banner featuring the Hufflepuff badger hung on the wall behind the staff table.

Thanks to an unexpectedly brilliant performance in the Quidditch Cup, Hufflepuff had won the House Cup for the first time in five years.

Consequently, their table was the liveliest, with everyone whispering and cheering in celebration.

A moment later, as the professors took their seats, the noise in the hall gradually died down.

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

He waved his hand, and a notice appeared in front of every student: "A reminder once again: all students under the age of seventeen are not to use magic during the holidays."

"Well, that is all for the important matters. Let the feast begin!"

The plates and goblets in front of Snape were instantly filled with a wide variety of food and drinks, as well as all sorts of candies, such as Licorice Wands, Fizzing Whizzbees, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Pear Drops...

The next morning, over a hundred horseless carriages were parked outside the castle.

Every year, they were responsible for transporting students from the second year and above between Hogwarts Castle and Hogsmeade Station.

Snape, Aber, and two younger students boarded a carriage, and before long, the wheels beneath them began to creak and turn.

As the Hogwarts Express traveled through mountains, forests, fields, and lakes, and the countryside outside the window grew increasingly tidy, Snape's mood became more and more complicated. He even lost interest in his Cauldron Cake.

To be honest, he didn't really want to go back. He didn't know what kind of mindset he should have to return to the "home" in his memories, or what attitude he should take to face the "parents" in his memories.

He even wondered if he should just find some place to stay for two months, waiting until September, until the day he could return to Hogwarts.

However, his intuition told him that some things had to be brought to an end.

The train began to slow down amidst the sound of its whistle.

When the train finally clattered to a halt at Platform 9, he dragged his trunk off the train, just as he had in his memories.

After waving goodbye to Aber, he turned and joined the noisy, crowded throng, heading toward the enchanted brick wall.

Sunlight shone down on the street. Outside the wall, no one was waiting for him.

A massive chimney towered high within Snape's line of sight, and the black, murky river whimpered in his ears.

The suitcase rattled as it rolled over the cobblestone road.

Snape walked slowly to the front of a dilapidated brick house, where a dim yellow light leaked through a gap in the curtains of a downstairs room.

After a long moment, Snape fumbled a set of keys from his coat and used one to unlock the door.

With a creak, he saw a woman who looked much like him, only far more aged.

She was thin and small, her complexion sallow, her hair a tangled mess.

Hearing the commotion, the woman stopped her mending, lifted her swollen eyelids, and looked toward the doorway.

"You're back," she said in a hollow voice.

Snape's lips moved, but in the end, he could not bring himself to say it.

"Where is he?" Snape asked.

"He went out," the woman replied in a flat, murmuring tone.

"He went out?!" A nameless rage surged in Snape's heart.

The woman shook her head with a touch of sorrow, her gaze toward him seemingly tinged with a hint of cowering.

Her look was like a basin of cold water poured over Snape's heart.

He suddenly felt a pang of distress.

"I'm sorry," Snape said, steadying his heaving chest and trying to control his breathing.

"Have you eaten?" the woman asked.

Without waiting for Snape to answer, she set her needlework and clothing on the wooden table and rose to walk toward the door leading to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the woman returned, carrying a tray with a bowl of Boiled Potatoes and a small dish of Parsnip Paste.

She placed the tray on the slightly wobbly table and gestured with her eyes for Snape to come and eat.

The room fell silent for a time, with only the faint sound of chewing to be heard.

"Why did it end up like this?" he asked softly. "You are a Witch."

The woman lowered her head slightly, her hands unconsciously twisting the hem of her clothes.

That appearance made her look more like a child who had done something wrong.

"I have... I have been here... for over a dozen years..."

"But you—we—can both change, can't we?"

"He doesn't like magic..."

The woman's voice was so low it was almost impossible to hear.

"He doesn't like much of anything."

"You haven't used magic for so many years; I suppose you don't want to be a Witch anymore?"

"I..."

The woman stammered, but failed to provide a complete answer.

Snape looked at her, the anger in his heart long since replaced by an indescribable emotion.

He did not want to blame her for everything; he did not believe these circumstances were primarily her fault.

Only the pitch-black shadows continued to sway gently under the dim, yellow light.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

A flurry of urgent knocking shattered the silence.

Snape stood up abruptly, his chair tilting backward as he did so, the legs scraping against the worn floorboards with a harsh, grating sound.

He gripped the doorknob and gave it a gentle turn:

A man with a hooked nose stood swaying outside the door, the stench of alcohol hitting him in a wave.

"Whew... Severus..." The man squinted for a moment, then slurred, "What are you doing here..."

Snape let out a sharp, cynical laugh, his shoulders unable to stop a slight tremor.

He found the scene ridiculous enough to make a dozen Boggarts hide in the wardrobe, too terrified to come out.

Hearing his laughter, the man's face darkened instantly.

He reached out with two large, grimy hands and grabbed Snape by the throat.

"Put that away!"

Seeing Snape pull his wand from his jeans pocket, the man roared like an enraged beast.

"Filthy stick! Don't think I don't know—you can't use it!"

Staring into those eyes filled with hostility and rage, Snape felt as though he could see a frail woman trembling amidst the shouting, and a small, black-haired boy curled up in the corner, weeping...