Though his throat was half-crushed and his breath came in ragged gasps, Zayn couldn't stop the warped, bitter laughter that tore from his chest.
He flung his wand aside, snapped his head back, and slammed it forward—straight into the bridge of the man's nose.
A sickening crack rang out.
"ARGH—!"
Tobias Snape howled in pain, blood gushing over his face and staining his collar deep red.
"You—bloody brat—!"
Terror flashed in his eyes for a brief instant, but it was quickly consumed by unfiltered rage. His fists began to rain down in a flurry of wild, punishing blows.
But Zayn clung to him like a mad creature, fingers digging into Tobias's shoulders as they both collapsed to the floor in a crash of limbs and shouts.
They rolled violently, striking the floorboards with heavy thuds.
Then—Zayn bit him. Sank his teeth deep into the side of Tobias's neck.
"AAAH—!"
The man screamed and thrashed, clawing at Zayn's hair in an attempt to wrench him free.
But Zayn didn't let go. Not immediately. He clamped down like a predator, rage and survival blending into one primal act.
Warm, coppery blood flooded his mouth, its metallic tang burning every nerve, stoking a fire inside that felt almost… holy.
Tobias's thrashing slowed. His grip weakened.
Zayn pulled back. Tobias fumbled at the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding with trembling hands. His legs twitched. His eyes were black and wide and begging.
The fire was dying.
In the corner, Eileen Snape watched in mute horror, hands over her mouth, tears brimming.
Suddenly, she turned and fled up the stairs, as if something had jolted her awake.
She returned moments later, clutching something unfamiliar in her hand.
A wand—dried out from disuse, cracked near the handle.
Zayn was kneeling now, panting hard, blood dripping from his chin to the floor in a steady rhythm.
Eileen's face was ghost-white. She raised the wand in both hands. Her arms trembled. Her gaze flicked from Tobias to her son. A moment passed.
Then—
A flash of green light.
Avada Kedavra.
Tobias Snape went still.
—
Eileen looked even paler in the afterglow.
She slumped to the floor, unmoving, staring into nothingness.
Only when the heat had long since fled the room did she rasp, "Go upstairs. Now."
Zayn dragged his bruised body toward the stairs, each step up carved from iron.
By the time he reached the room, dusk had smothered the light. He sat alone in the darkness.
Before returning, he had only hoped for a reason never to come back. Then, after crossing the threshold, he'd intended to give Tobias a lesson. And somewhere in the fight, he'd simply wanted to hurt him.
But in that final moment… he'd thought Eileen was aiming at him.
His thoughts splintered, veering between memories and imagined futures: Chinese firecrackers cracking open New Year skies… snow drifting over Godric's Hollow's statue at Christmas… a body falling from the Astronomy Tower… the Malfoys huddled together in the rubble of the last battle… and even Merope Gaunt, staggering alone to the steps of a Muggle orphanage on New Year's Eve.
Zayn didn't know whether he had fallen asleep or simply passed into blankness.
When he opened his eyes the next morning, his mind felt lighter. As if a fog had finally lifted.
He was simply… himself.
On the bedside table sat his wand.
He washed and dressed, then hesitated at the top of the stairs before descending.
The sitting room below was immaculate.
The blood, the grime, the smears on the walls—gone. Cleaned to gleaming.
Eileen sat in her usual chair, mending clothes in the morning light. Her wand rested quietly beside her.
She had combed her hair.
At the creak of the stairs, she looked up.
"I'll make you breakfast."
"No," Zayn said quickly. "I'll do it."
She started to rise, but he moved faster, heading into the kitchen.
"I mean it. I'll cook."
He toasted a few slices of bread in a pan, sliced some hard cheese, arranged it neatly on a tray, and returned to the sitting room.
"Mum… eat with me."
She accepted a slice and nibbled slowly.
"You've gained weight," she said after a while, studying him closely.
Zayn noticed the callouses on her fingers, thickened from years of hard labor.
"I had an uncle," she said abruptly. "Your great-uncle. Sharlen Prince."
Zayn didn't speak. She continued.
"You've never met him—he died when you were five."
"No need," he said, cutting her off. "After term starts, I'll speak to the Headmaster—Dumbledore. I'll ask him to give you a position at Hogwarts."
"But—"
"He'll agree. I'll make sure of it."
"Sharlen… he died when you were five."
Under the pale morning sun, a faint flush crept into Eileen's cheeks.
"After I ran away from home—with nothing but a sack of Galleons to my name—I lost contact with Sharlen. We never spoke again.
"When he died, a Ministry official came while Tobias was out. Sharlen had donated all his magical equipment, his home, his personal effects to St. Mungo's.
"But in his will… he left me the Prince family vault at Gringotts."
Zayn blinked.
"All these years… and you've never gone?"
"No," she said softly.
"Why not?"
She hesitated—then said, aloud and clearly for the first time:
"He hated magic."
"Did he know?" Zayn asked.
She shook her head. "The Ministry owl came while he was out."
Zayn didn't dwell on it. He knew plenty of wizarding families—like the Weasleys—whose vaults were emptier than a goblin's conscience.
And the Prince name… it wasn't Sacred Twenty-Eight, nor one of the grand old houses. What could it really hold?
Eileen must have read the doubt on his face. "There may be some gold," she said. "Let's go tomorrow and see."
"All right," Zayn replied offhandedly. He picked up the empty plate with one hand and her sewing tools with the other.
"Don't fuss with all this. Take a break."