The days that followed drifted by swiftly beneath warm sunlight and wandering clouds.
Before anyone could quite grasp it, the last day of the winter term had arrived.
Zayn packed his trunk in under ten minutes.
The task that took the longest—frustratingly—was erasing the words This Book Belongs to the Half-Blood Prince from the back cover of Advanced Potion-Making. The ink-removal charms fizzled uselessly, so he ended up scowling, dipping a quill into ink, and blotting it out manually.
Patrick Abbot, on the other hand, had an army's worth of belongings. Multiple sets of dress robes for various occasions alone took up three compartments. It took nearly an hour just to empty his wardrobe.
"You seriously wear all of this?" Zayn muttered, half-amused, half-bewildered.
By the time they arrived at the Great Hall for the end-of-term feast, the tables were already packed.
The hall had been draped in Hufflepuff colors—vibrant yellow and black banners hanging from every wall, and a massive badger emblem billowing behind the staff table.
For the first time in five years, Hufflepuff had won the House Cup, thanks to a surprising performance in the Quidditch final. Their table buzzed with cheers, laughter, and loud congratulations.
Eventually, the professors took their seats and the noise died down.
"What a splendid year it's been!" said Dumbledore, rising with a twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. "And let us all extend our warmest congratulations to Hufflepuff!"
With a sweep of his hand, enchanted notices appeared in front of each student: A reminder—students under the age of seventeen are not permitted to use magic during the holidays.
"Well, that's it for business," the Headmaster smiled. "Let the feast begin!"
Food and drink appeared instantly before them—platters of roast meats, bowls of roasted vegetables, jugs of chilled pumpkin juice, and an explosion of wizarding sweets: liquorice wands, fizzing whizzbees, exploding bonbons, and pear-flavoured rock candy.
The next morning, over a hundred horseless carriages waited outside the castle gates.
As always, they would ferry second-years and up to Hogsmeade Station, where the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express stood puffing clouds into the cold air.
Zayn climbed into one carriage with Patrick and two younger students. The wheels creaked into motion, and the thestrals that only a few could see carried them through frost-dusted trees.
As the train moved through hills, meadows, and mist-covered lakes, the countryside grew more manicured—and Zayn's thoughts more tangled.
He no longer felt excitement about going "home."
What did home mean now, anyway? The house in Spinner's End? The people in it?
He even considered hiding somewhere else entirely—vanishing into the Muggle world until September, until he could return to the only place that felt remotely real: Hogwarts.
But something inside him said no.
Some things had to be faced.
The train's whistle shrieked as they approached London.
When it finally ground to a halt at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Zayn stepped off, dragging his trunk like muscle memory.
After a quick wave to Patrick, he slipped into the crowd and pushed through the barrier wall.
Outside, on the Muggle side of King's Cross… no one waited.
—
A towering smokestack loomed against a grey sky. The river near Spinner's End gurgled mournfully at his side.
His trunk wheels clicked over the uneven cobblestone path as he walked toward a sagging red-brick house.
Dim yellow light leaked from the bottom floor window behind tattered curtains.
After a pause, Zayn fished out a ring of keys and turned one slowly in the front door.
A creak. A musty breath of air.
Inside sat a woman who looked too much like him—only older, gaunter, grayer.
She was thin, almost skeletal, with sallow skin and frizzed hair. At the sound of the door, she paused her mending work and looked up. Puffy eyes blinked.
"You're back," she said flatly.
Zayn's lips twitched, trying to form a response—but nothing came.
"Where is he?" he asked instead.
"Out," she murmured.
"Out?!"
His stomach knotted with an old, irrational fury.
The woman flinched and turned her eyes away, and for the first time, Zayn noticed the fear in them.
It doused him like a bucket of cold water.
"I'm… sorry," he said at last, trying to steady his breath.
"Have you eaten?" she asked, standing up without waiting for an answer.
She placed her needlework on the rickety table and disappeared into the kitchen.
When she returned, she carried a tray with a bowl of boiled potatoes and a small dish of stewed parsnip.
She set it on the table without a word and gestured for him to sit.
Silence fell, broken only by the soft sounds of chewing.
"Why did it come to this?" he asked quietly. "You're a witch."
Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her robes. She looked like a schoolgirl caught in a lie.
"I've… been here a long time…"
"But you—we—can still change, can't we?"
"He doesn't like magic," she whispered.
"He doesn't like much of anything.
"You haven't used a wand in years. Maybe you don't want to be a witch anymore?"
"I…" she started—but couldn't finish the thought.
Zayn looked at her. The fire that had sparked inside him on the train was gone, replaced by something heavier.
He didn't want to blame her.
Not really.
Not when he'd seen what that house did to people.
Their shadows flickered on the walls—fragile, trembling under the low lamplight.
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A loud pounding on the door shattered the calm.
Zayn leapt up. The chair scraped backwards with a screech.
He grabbed the handle and twisted.
A large man with a crooked nose swayed drunkenly in the doorway. The stench of ale hit like a curse.
"Ughh… Severus…" the man slurred, blinking blearily. "What're you doin' back here…"
Zayn laughed. A quiet, broken laugh that rippled through his chest.
It was so absurd it could've sent a dozen Boggarts running.
The man's expression twisted.
His hands—big, blotched things—snapped forward and clamped around Zayn's throat.
"Put it away!" he roared, as Zayn reached into his jeans pocket for his wand.
"Filthy stick! Don't think I don't know—you can't use it!"
Zayn stared into those bloodshot eyes, full of hatred and heat—
—and in their black depths, he saw a woman shrinking in fear, a boy crying in a corner, a house sagging under too many silences.