The remaining days slipped quickly by, in the company of sunshine and drifting clouds.
Soon, the students welcomed the last day of the winter term.
Snape packed all his belongings in about ten minutes.
What took him the longest was, after half a day of fruitless attempts with his wand, finally having to dig out an inkwell and, frowning, use a quill to heavily blot out the words he had once scrawled on the back cover of Advanced Potion-Making: "This book belongs to the Half-Blood Prince."
Abbott, however, had a mountain of things to sort. Just his various sets of dress robes for different occasions numbered several, and clearing out his wardrobe took nearly an hour.
"So many clothes. Do you ever wear them all?" Snape smacked his lips in faint amazement.
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 Hall was newly decorated in Hufflepuff's yellow and black. On the wall behind the staff table hung an enormous banner with the Hufflepuff badger emblazoned on it.
Thanks to their unexpected and brilliant performance in the Quidditch Cup, Hufflepuff had, for the first time in five years, won the House Cup.
Their table was therefore the most boisterous, everyone chattering, cheering, and celebrating.
Moments later, as the professors took their seats, the noise gradually subsided.
"Another wonderful year has passed!" Dumbledore rose to his feet, the twinkle in his eyes shining behind his half-moon spectacles. "Let us all congratulate Hufflepuff!"
He gave a wave of his hand, and in front of each student appeared a notice: "A reminder once again: all students under seventeen are strictly forbidden from using magic during the holidays.
"Well, that's all the important matters. Let the feast begin!"
Before Snape, plates and goblets instantly brimmed with a dazzling variety of food and drink, and all kinds of sweets, licorice wands, Fizzing Whizbees, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, pear drops...
The next morning, more than a hundred horseless carriages were waiting outside the castle.
As always, they were responsible for ferrying second-years and above between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade Station.
Snape, Abbott, and two younger students boarded one carriage. Soon the wheels beneath them began to creak and rattle as they turned.
As the Hogwarts Express rumbled through forests, fields, and lakes, the countryside outside the window grew tidier and tidier. Snape's feelings grew more complicated. He even lost all interest in cauldron cakes.
Truth be told, he didn't really want to go back. He did not know in what state of mind he could return to the "home" in his memories, nor with what attitude he could face the "parents" in those same memories.
He even considered finding some random place to stay for two months, until September came, and he could return to Hogwarts again.
But his intuition told him that certain matters had to be resolved.
The train whistle blew as it began to slow.
When it finally clattered to a halt at Platform 9, just as he remembered, he dragged his trunk off the train.
After waving goodbye to Abbott, he turned and merged into the noisy, jostling crowd, heading toward the enchanted brick wall.
Sunlight shone down on the street. On the other side, no one was waiting for him.
...
A massive chimney rose into Snape's view. Black, murky river water gurgled beside him.
His trunk rattled over the cobblestone street with a clattering sound.
Snape slowly came to a halt outside a shabby brick house. From the crack of a downstairs curtain glowed the faint yellow of lamplight.
After a moment, Snape fumbled in his pocket, produced a ring of keys, and opened the door with one.
With a creak, he saw a woman who looked very much like him, only older.
She was small and thin, her face sallow, her hair in disarray.
Hearing the noise, the woman paused her mending work and lifted her swollen eyes toward the doorway.
"You're back." Her voice was hollow.
Snape's lips worked soundlessly for a few moments, but he couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"Where is he?" Snape asked.
"Out." The woman murmured in a flat tone.
"Out?!" A surge of nameless anger welled up in Snape.
The woman shook her head in quiet sorrow, her gaze tinged with fear as it met his.
Her eyes were like a bucket of cold water poured over Snape's heart.
He suddenly felt a pang of misery.
"I'm sorry." Snape steadied his heaving chest, forcing his breathing under control.
"Have you eaten?" the woman asked.
Without waiting for an answer, she set down her needlework on the wooden table and went toward the kitchen door.
A few minutes later, she returned, carrying on a tray a bowl of boiled potatoes and a small dish of parsnip-root sauce.
She placed the tray on the wobbly table and signaled with her eyes for Snape to come eat.
The room fell quiet, broken only by the faint sound of chewing.
"Why has it come to this?" he asked softly. "You're a witch."
The woman lowered her head slightly, twisting the hem of her clothes unconsciously in her hands.
Like a child caught in wrongdoing.
"I've already... been here... for more than ten years..."
"But you-you and I-we can change, can't we?"
"He doesn't like magic..."
Her voice was so low it was almost inaudible.
"He doesn't really like anything.
"All these years, you've never used magic. Do you not wish to be a witch anymore?"
"I..."
She faltered, unable to give a complete reply.
Snape looked at her. The anger within him had already been replaced by some indescribable emotion.
He did not want to reproach her. He did not believe these things had arisen chiefly from her fault.
Only the pitch-dark shadows continued to sway gently in the dim yellow lamplight.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A sudden, violent knocking shattered the silence.
Snape shot to his feet, his chair tilting back with him, its legs screeching against the worn floorboards.
Hand gripping the knob, he turned it lightly,
A hook-nosed man swayed on the doorstep, reeking of alcohol.
"Hhh... Severus..." The man squinted at him for a while, then slurred, "What are you doing here..."
Snape let out a snickering laugh, his shoulders trembling with it.
He found the scene so absurd it could frighten a dozen boggarts into hiding inside a wardrobe.
Hearing his laughter, the man's expression darkened instantly.
He thrust out two grimy, massive hands and clamped them around Snape's throat.
"Put it away!"
Seeing Snape draw his wand from the pocket of his jeans, the man bellowed like an enraged and filthy beast.
"Filthy stick! Don't think I don't know, you can't use it!"
In those black, hate-filled eyes, Snape seemed to see a frail and beaten woman trembling under shouts, and a black-haired boy curled in a corner, crying...