The waves splash to and fro on the beach as Snape approaches the cottage. Crookshanks walking along his leg.
"You are sure about it?"
"No, but you can ask."
Snape pushes open the door, breathing deeply. The familiar living room opening before him. Nagyi's room. He circles the floor, the same teacups dusty and on the shelf. The knitting aside on the couch. Icons of Saints follow him as he finds his old bedroom. The bed is still made but now smelling rather ratty. And the walls rather ratty. And the ceiling leaking. But nothing that he cannot fix. Now he turns to talk to Crooks, but the cat is gone. How had he followed him here?
He hardly remembered. But he did remember Hermione. That final kiss, that final gaze into her eyes. It was best she didn't see him again. That she knew he was gone forever. Dead.
He runs to the kitchen taking a knife and slicing his finger. Crimson blood pours out. And he smiles. He is truly alive.
The following week, he walks back to the village to gather supplies and everyone greets him. Tobias Snape. A striking image of his father. Tobias Snape, the missing son has returned back home. He reminds them his name is Severus. Severus Snape. Son of Eileen and Tobias. Half Wizard, Half Man.
And Nagyi Piroska is nowhere to be seen. He comes to the church inquiring and they show him her grave. Now covered in cobwebs and dirt. He leans over and picks off the dirt and strewn bits of grass around it. He waters the flowers, and plants a row of carnations, her favourite. He polishes the tombstone with a cloth and traces every engraved letter of her name. Beside hers, Tobias Snape. His grave he cleans as well but not as thoroughly. His mothers had been moved to a new cemetery. Nagyi had never approved of the witch's body being buried on Holy grounds.
The Village is small. But there is a bookstore and antiques. The first thing he does is buy the Muggle classics. He clears off a shelf at home, setting the novels on it. He dusts off the cushions on the sofa, washes the floors, polishes a teacup and brews a fresh pot of Earl Grey. He nestles himself on the sofa, book in hand. He opens it to the first page and reads.
Then realizing he needs tea, he runs to the kitchen and pours himself a cup, setting it by the side table. Now he realizes he needs more light. He flicks on the little lamp and settles back in with the book. Then he realizes his clothing isn't very comfortable. He roots through the closets and finds a more comfortable pair of pants and sweat. He cracks open the window, letting in the salty breeze. He sits down, tea in hand and book opens to the first page.
He begins.
But as the words follow through, he cannot remember a single one. And the house seems to quiet without the purring of the cat or the ticking of the clock or the knitting of needles. And then he realizes he misses the sounds of Hermione's nags. And the way she stocks her cupboards with those digestive biscuits he likes. And the way she makes him those little books with the notes.
And he realizes that it isn't the tea or the book. Nor is it the clothing or the sofa or the gleaming of the floors that is bothering him. And it all seems quite meaningless without her by his side. He sets the perfectly made tea aside and packs a bag and apparates to London.