"When the darkness falls like a curtain

And the night ahead is a long and uncertain

Dream beyond the loss and the hope of redemption

At the broken heart of the city

Where the hollow light of day never reaches in

A man can break down and fall into pieces"

"Sunday Morning Yellow" – October Project

In the top-most loft of a decrepit building somewhere in the county of Nottinghamshire, Severus Snape had his music so loud that his silencing charms barely met his needs for containment.

He'd been at it for hours. Since he'd awoken that day. Typing and then deleting entire pages of text at a time, and nothing seemed to want to come together...

There was an enormous update planned. In the hub cities the developers decided they wanted adjustments to all of the decorations, planned giveaways of premium items, updated NPC dialogue, and a string of festive events.

This had all been prepared months ago and would kick off with the Christmas event going live on Tuesday of the coming week. It was more than just a yuletide celebration, however. The idea was to reboot the entire main quest line to complement the novel game mechanics and skill trees, and Severus was expected to have the first chapter finished by the New Year.

It hadn't been for a lack of trying. Severus Snape was no slouch when there was work to be done... but the new updates were slated for the second or third week of January, and he was expected to write new characters—those characters had to be sent off to the art team for mock-ups and design, then they had to be coded into the game. Coding the dialogue he wrote was to be the easy part, but designing the world around the new cast and in-line with the updated graphics engine would be a nightmare he was grateful to not be a part of. Yet, it did leave him with the dilemma of writing a whole chapter of events and developing a new starting area guide, from scratch, in only a little more than two weeks.

The NPC guide had to be decent too... they couldn't reopen the game with some obnoxious string of gather quests. If he had the new NPC sending the player out to hoard endless stacks of monster parts for hours people would quit. No, this had to be good.

It was lucky that they were only planning on advancing the new questline a chapter at a time once a month. Once he had a hold of the idea, doubtless he could flesh it out—it was finding the inspiration in the first place. Admittedly, he'd not thought a great deal about work while he was acting the part of Tony Adkins to his mother... and in the aftermath of their falling out... well... he'd quite lost any will or inspiration to write more. He'd done his best to sit down and simply work, as he had trained himself to do for years—after all, he'd never depended on something so fickle as inspiration to correct Potions essays—but there was an element missing from his work that he felt certain the fans had come to expect, and that would be criticised mercilessly should he fail to deliver.

It was all looking quite hopeless at the moment. He rested his weary head in the cradle of his spidery fingers.

Normally, he'd gotten his best work done with the stereo blaring on dark and freezing nights like these. The amount of privacy he had earned by being dead had done him a world of good: he'd never felt freer to be his authentic self, to say whatever he liked, to whomever he liked, which usually was no one, but was occasionally a coworker stopping by. He'd disconnected from so many of his filters, and it had, in the past, paid dividends in allowing him to write. Even if it was for some silly muggle internet game. He certainly preferred it to spying, and a great deal over teaching as well.

That night, however, neither the howling of the wind against the old building, nor the shriek of Ronnie James Dio's vocals were inspiring in him the usual sense of being a world away—somewhere fantastical and in the midst of some great adventure (even for a magical being like himself who had been both a linchpin and a veteran in a great magical conflict, in his own right).

"I am anger—
Under pressure!
Lost in cages, a prisoner
The first to escape.

"I am wicked...
I am Legion...
Strength in numbers, a lie:
The number is one..."

The world hadn't lost its magic. Neither had he for that matter... But the story he knew he felt like he wanted to tell was evading him. It felt as if it were playfully fliting at the edges of his consciousness and then darting away again into the fog of the unknown and the unknowable. He could feel it. He would get this...

Severus stared, eyes bloodshot, at the Excel spreadsheet, as if it would begin to populate the fields with text on its own.

There was, of course, no such luck with these sorts of things. Even in the magical world, he knew better than to trust any object that could do his thinking for him. The fields would remain empty of dialogue until he mustered the creativity to fill them.

He wasn't even entirely sure whether he wanted the new NPC to be male or female... the previous one had been loosely based on Dumbledore, an infuriating and annoying presence that never seemed to leave the player be, and who would offer advice at the worst of times that would confound and bemuse even the cleverest of players.

The fanbase loved to hate the character, and he'd inspired forums worth of discussion, sometimes good, and sometimes bad—though always appreciative of the old wizard's presence in the story.

"On the edge of the blade...
But the knife can't cut the hero down!"

However, as much as that felt like a closed chapter in his life, Albus having been dead and gone for nigh on ten years, the new event seemed to be asking him to prepare something for where he existed now: and he didn't quite understand his positioning himself. He'd had much to say about the twenty years he'd lived sandwiched between Albus Dumbledore's brilliance and Tom Riddle's decadent evil, but to characterize the current moment required more introspection than he preferred to engage in anymore.

It hurt to think like that. Without his Occlumency to shield his soul from harm. It was like a deep ache in his psyche to begin to interrogate himself as to where he was, why that might be, what he wanted, and where he planned to go.

"I am virgin,
I'm a whore.
Giving nothing, the taker,
The maker of war.

"I'll smash your face in
But with a SMILE—
All together, you'll never
Be stronger than me—!"

Perhaps, recently, he'd begun to have an inkling of that. Rekindling his relationship with his mother had felt like a step in that direction: but he'd been thoroughly and righteously rebuked. It was evident that he had made the wrong choice in going about it through the same subversive methods he'd so keenly relied upon in the past.

The guilt hurt, and there was nothing for it. The first few nights he'd merely laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling as if the very last link to his personhood had been eradicated from the crust of the earth. He was nobody's spy, nobody's teacher, nobody's lover, nobody's father, and now, nobody's son.

Hell, even to the netizens of Galdrvale, he was an amorphous entity known only as The Scribe. If he disappeared and they replaced him, nobody would be the wiser.

"On the edge of the blade
But no one makes the hero bleed!

"No, no, no
No, no, no...

"I am hunger ... no, no, no
Feed my HEAD... no, no, no
All together, you'll never
Never make the hero bleed... no, no, no"

He'd felt all of four years old again, as it had been when he'd gotten lost at the market that set up on Saturdays in Cokeworth and he was screaming his head off from that special kind of terror that only came from being completely and unmistakably alone. Only four... and he badly, very urgently, wanted his mother.

She'd found him back then... and she'd comforted him with all the skill that a loving mother could. But now? Now it felt as if he'd forever be trapped in that moment: even if the only person who could hear the shrill cry of his terrified voice was himself hearing it echoing throughout his own skull.

What was worse was that he knew he could have screamed, had he wanted to... and that would have only served to underscore to yet a further degree how very alone he was, and that there was absolutely no one around to hear or respond to his pain.

By now, it felt as though the monitor was burning a hole in his retinas. He glanced away to blink rapidly, finding that there was a distinct square spot that wouldn't seem to dim in brightness no matter where his eyes turned in the dark apartment. The effect was only heightened by the fact that he'd neglected to turn on any lights that morning when he'd awoken.

Sighing, he rose to do just that, when his temporary blindness was renewed by an even more powerful light source.

"The hell..." he mumbled, disorientated in the glare. He'd still not retained his sight by the time he heard Granger's annoyingly pert voice speaking to him as if she were in the room herself.

"—gone to your mother, she called me just now. I think something may be wrong, please stand by in case something's up—"

The creature, a lithe spritely thing, circled his legs for a lap, sniffing with curiosity at his ankle before it blinked out and shrouded him in darkness once more. An otter. Odd thing, that.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and then continued about his business, turning on lights.

It was unlikely that his mother would want to see him... even if she'd called Granger.

Yet a deep sense of dread burned in the pit of Severus' stomach, and he felt bile rising to his throat. It would have been bad enough to have lost touch with his mother for a second time, and seemingly permanently... but for her to be gone entirely? He'd be adrift... and he'd thought himself unmoored before.

Taking a few moments to steady himself, he sat heavily at one of the kitchen stools and rested his head in one palm, staring about the near empty flat. What if she'd consent to see him again? Even once more? Even if it were to be a death bed visit...?

Snape's face crumpled, a hideous mixture of grief and rage. What if he missed out on the chance due to cowardice? The same cowardice that prevented him from making proper amends with his mother in the first place? Severus shook with a violent start.

No. He would not let that happen.

Like a whip, he brandished his twisted wand into the emptiness before him and called to mind the distant memories he'd always relied upon to ignite his corporeal patronus—the last time he and Lily had spent a day together where there was nothing but laughter and where they'd not fought... probably some time in his fourth year. He was barely aware of the circumstances surrounding their fun in that far away time.

The doe that erupted was dimmer than he'd known her to be the last time he'd called her forth, but no less faithful in her appearance, nor gentle in her mien.

As always, he reached his hand out to stroke her head, and it went straight through, like a ghost only not freezing cold. There was simply no sensation whatsoever. It was an echo. A shadow of past happy times. He frowned with bitterness.

"Go to Hermione Granger. The message is 'Keep me apprised, Granger. I'll be standing by.'"

Snape swallowed thickly as the icon of his departed friend leapt with unerring grace from sight. He wasn't sure whether a prompt response would be preferable, or whether it'd be better to not hear another word for the rest of the night.

At least now he'd have a proper excuse to ignore his deadline for a few hours more. He found he couldn't sit still... It was possible there would be a long night before him.

Rising from the stool, he made his way into the kitchenette to prepare a cup of Nescafé. Snape had long preferred the bitter tang of instant coffee to the actual brew. Even better, he preferred to undermine what he perceived people would assume about him as a Potions Master. Not that anyone assumed anything anymore... excepting that he was dead, of course.

He was neither a coffee snob, nor a tea snob. When he prepared a real meal for himself, on the extremely rare occasions that he made the effort, he didn't put any special work forth to make sure that his vegetables were chopped in the same precise, consistent way that he would for potions preparations. It was almost a form of revenge. He'd lived on a razor's edge of precision for so long, where every misstep spelled misfortune, that where and when he could, he took control back by being as slovenly as he could get away with without feeling himself a complete and utter waste of space and humanity.

The bed didn't need making every morning. He could clear away the cans and cups by his desk when his space was too crowded and not a moment before. There was no urgency to do a chore before he felt the need to abolish a particular element of the mess that offended him—and then he'd do it all in one fell swoop, being nothing if not thorough.

He did keep his bathroom sanitary, and he'd banish dust and debris on the floors... but it helped to have a wand in such cases.

The servers downstairs he kept scrupulously clean and organized: much as his Potions classroom had been. He was paid to do so, and he took his duties seriously. Besides, he had bigger plans for the behemoth computers occupying the floors below. Plans that his partners weren't currently privy to, nor would they likely ever be.

On the other hand, it paid him nothing but irritation to make any efforts to tidy his space more than he needed to operate on a day-to-day basis.

The CD-changer built into the stereo had since switched to a Simon and Garfunkel album and at the moment of the change Severus had been inordinately grateful. His intentions on including the Black Sabbath album in the queue were for the sake of writing, but the respite from the heaviness of both the music and the subject matter felt necessary given the circumstances.

Even so, he now felt the need to make his way over to the system and to turn it off. The sound of silence, and by this he meant the actual phenomenon and not Simon and Garfunkel's song, was preferable in such times. Then again, he really didn't want to meditate too deeply on the content of the verse 'Hello, Darkness, my old friend.'"

For really, it had been playing as the backdrop to the entire episode with the otter, and even so as he was left with the echo of Granger's words to him. It had continued to play while he'd been obliged to watch his patronus proceed him into the night, as it always did: walking away. Leaving him.

And when he'd finally killed the power to the stereo, the song died with the words "'Fools", said I, 'You do not know; Silence like a cancer grows,'"

Finally, the apartment was absolutely still. Such that Severus' only and most fervent desire was to disturb that inappropriate and wholly inadequate stillness with his own screams of anxiety and despair—even though in the instant before he'd been desirous of the absence of sound.

Just as his sanity felt as if it couldn't tolerate a moment more, however, another otter glided toward him, seemingly on a wave of brilliant and sparkling magic—far brighter than Granger's patronus had come to him the first time. This one looked a bit like it was composed of the Christmas lights he'd observed while out at the shops in Nottingham earlier in the week.

Inexplicably, as if divining that he needed whatever Christmas cheer the patronus itself was composed of, it climbed his body weightlessly, and settled on his shoulder to impart its message.

"Your mother wants you—she'd prefer you with your own face. The front door is unlocked, it'd probably be best if you removed your glamour in the entryway."

When it faded away, it was like the snuffing out of individual lights, but it continued to glimmer for a second longer than he thought was usual. He wasn't sure whether it was this lingering that felt as though it had warmed him to his toes, or the hopeful message the animal spirit had imparted: his mother wanted him...

Snape gasped then, a strangled breath that he hadn't realized he'd been neglecting to take. He was out the door so quickly that he had to backtrack on the stairs to grab his coat, and then he tore down the spiral stairwell, jumping down the final flight in his haste.

He didn't even pause to apply his glamour, feeling that it was unlikely anyone would catch too close a look at his face. With his collar pulled up around him, it was difficult to see his likeness anyhow, and he was apparating directly to her door. Granger could maintain the civility of walking the neighborhood all she liked, and he'd only done it in the past to maintain the pretense that he was from the area. At this point, he was in too much of a hurry.

The trappings of Nottingham disappeared from his vision and the tidy brick of Waldweirness swam into view. He barely paused to open the door, instead shoving at it in his impatience.

Curiously, the entryway and sitting room were empty and dark. Cold as well—they were nearly the same temperature as it was outside. Far too frigid for his mother to have been safe or comfortable... And the house was a frightful mess, at least by what he knew his mother's standards were...

It filled him with an instant sense of foreboding. It looked much like the abandoned home of someone whisked away in the middle of tea by a Death Eater raid, years before...

Luckily, before he managed to linger on the thought, Granger shouted out to him from down the hall: his mother's bedroom.

"We're in here!"

It was curious. Where before he'd been in such a rush, he now stepped with a certain amount of trepidation. Perhaps, he sneered to himself, even cowardice. Oh, how he longed to see the woman and also dreaded it to the deepest part of his soul. Yet, there was nothing for it. He knew that only hours before he'd have given the contents of his muggle bank account for one last shot with her. So, he proceeded through the hallway, his heart beating like for a death march all the way.

Severus felt the change in atmosphere as his hand reached the doorknob, it was warmer than the ice-cold metal he'd encountered on the way in. Indeed, when he opened it, he stepped into a cocoon of warmth that felt curiously familiar. A distant part of his brain told him that it was obviously Granger's unique magical signature he was feeling.

She'd sent lights about the room, but even brightly lit, the horror of the scene was enough to fell him to his knees. His mother appeared impossibly small, terribly frail, and frighteningly broken—from her tears to the evident injury she'd sustained.

Granger had moved to the side to allow him to kneel before her, but he didn't really notice.

"Mam?" his voice shook, "What happened?"

At seeing her son, Eileen Snape's tears had renewed in full force. It appeared she didn't feel the strength to look up into his face, but after a few moments of her shoulders shaking with sobs, she reached out to him blindly, their hands grasping as he used her arm to pull her shuddering frame against his own.

He'd seen his mother like this before. This was even a familiar embrace. So many times, after the constable had been called, and Tobias had stormed back off to the pub in a towering fury, or had passed out on the mouldering sofa, Severus would be left to comfort his mother in exactly this way while he tried to convince her to allow him to take her to hospital for treatment of her injuries.

"You c-came... I d-didn't t-think you'd c-come..." she wheezed against his arm. She'd buried her face into the wool of his coat.

"Of course I came, Mam. You can't get rid of me that easily."

Eileen seemed in no mood to explain what had happened, so finally, his eyes sought Granger's for the story.

"Explain." It came out as commanding as his voice had sounded a decade and a half before. It was completely inexplicable, but he felt some amount of regret at that... Granger had come immediately to help. She was still here to help. He amended himself before she got the chance to answer, "Please."

Oddly, her mouth seemed to twist, whether in a smile or a grimace he couldn't tell, but her eyes had softened when he'd added the please, that he was sure of.

"She twisted her ankle a week ago, and this morning, she said it went out under her when she was trying to get out of bed, and together it caused a bad fall on her hip..."

"How bad is it?" He turned his eyes back to his mother, but it was Granger who answered.

"It looked pretty bad, Snape—"

"No," he growled his black eyes like flecks of flint. "Mam," he laid especial stress on the word, "How bad does it hurt?"

Eileen merely shrugged against him, but after their history together he knew better. Eileen wouldn't admit to how much pain she was in, particularly if it meant she could avoid seeking medical care. Sighing, he thrust a hand into his breast pocket, the action causing the sound of many small phials clinking together to ring out into the air between them. He managed to withdraw a tiny, knobbly phial by feel alone—having selected different containers for each for that precise purpose.

"Take this: it shouldn't interact with anything the healers might give you when we take you to the ward—"

"But I'm not going to the ward!" Eileen protested, her voice suddenly less shaky and far stronger.

Granger frowned at him, and strangely it felt as if they were almost commiserating for a moment. "We did talk about this," she said. It was ostensibly directed toward Eileen's objection, but with her keeping eye-contact with himself, it was more that she was letting him in on the situation, one caretaker to another. "You'll need to be seen at St. Auberts, and a stay in the convalescent ward is likely going to be necessary. I can't fix this for you Eileen..."

Eileen let loose an aggrieved wail into his shirt, gripping it with a bit more vehemence than he thought was sincere.

"You know I'm not a healer, mam. Granger's right. In a day or two, you'll be back here and feeling much better—"

"I C-CAN'T!"

Quite against his wishes, Snape felt his head tip back on his shoulders, as he gave a rather expressive and frustrated sigh. This was not new behaviour, but after thirty years he had quite forgotten how to deal with it. As a teenager he'd had to beg and cajole her, but now he was well into his forties and far more unsure of his relationship with his mother. He was at a loss for how to proceed.

"Why not, Eileen? What harm will it do?" Granger asked, her voice soft, soothing even. She'd moved to sit on the other side of his mother and had grasped her pale hand between her own.

His mother only shook her head and wept into his shirtfront, quite unwilling to elucidate.

Together, the three sat in silence broken only by Eileen's hiccoughs and wheezes, but Severus thought he could recognize the look in Granger's face. The cogs were turning in that enormous, overlarge brain of hers. He only hoped she'd come up with something good this time, and also that she'd forgo the hand-waving.

"Are you afraid of after this moment? After having us here?"

His mother moaned but didn't object.

"Are you afraid we'll be gone again? I can't speak for your son, but I know I told you that I'd do my best to make it up to you—"

"That makes two of us." He cut in, as quickly as possible. It'd be dangerous to show even a hint of reticence toward the idea, and besides, he was admittedly desperate for a way to win his mother back.

"Let me propose a bargain," he began, when he noticed that his mother's tears had slowed in the aftermath of the concession. "You take this potion, and you allow Granger and me to take you to a healer—and you name your price, we'll do anything we can—"

Granger frowned at him.

"As long as it's legal," he amended, for her sake. Technically, his entire life was illegal. Whatever. "And after that, I'll come whenever you like, as myself—like it never happened."

Finally, Granger seemed to be catching on, "Yeah—and I'll be by as often as ever, and I'll again be your case worker,"

"T-two weeks..." came the weak reply.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, he wasn't sure he understood what his mother meant.

"I want you both by for the entire Christmas h-holiday—two weeks."

Both himself and Granger seemed to respond in the exact same instant.

"Agreed."

"Oh, Eileen, I can't!"

Granger gripped his mother's hand, her eyes were nervous. "I have other clients to see—and I promised my parents and some of my friends that I'd make their parties..."

"After then," Eileen amended. "You come to dinner or for afters every night, or every afternoon during the Christmas season, and you spend time with us. And on Christmas Day. Severus will stay here."

"I will?"

His mother merely glared at him, her hand clawing in his shirt.

"Erm... Yes. I will." He wanted to sigh in frustration. How would he write his new event? Oversee the servers? Perhaps one of those laptops that seemed so popular these days...

It was nearing 9 o' clock by the time he finally got her to accept the pain potion. Just a willow bark tincture, nothing so strong as an opiate, which he hoped the healer would consider necessary. Really, his mother's hip looked extraordinarily painful.

After she'd secured their word that they'd stay with her throughout the yuletide season, Eileen had required additional calming down before she'd allowed him to conceal his face with a glamour and to conjure a stretcher for her. Granger had helped his mother into her coat—inadequate for the season—but had augmented it with additional warming charms. Eileen had protested mightily, but Granger had also managed to wrestle her own hat and scarf onto the woman's head, and had tucked the blanket over her legs, one of which Severus had had to charm into a splint—a rather traumatic endeavour for all involved.

Once they were all properly attired and, in his own case glamoured, Granger led the procession out of Eileen's home as he directed the stretcher behind her and in front of himself.

He had a curious sense of déjà vu... this was almost exactly as it felt it had been in Granger and Potter's third year after the incident with Black... Hopefully this evening wouldn't end with his enemy escaping and himself losing his cool in front of the Minister for Magic.

Years ago, he'd merely been embarrassed. In this case it would mean ending up dead.

The hospital was only a short walk from the residential neighborhood. It shared a courtyard with the Wizarding Outreach to the Elderly Department's ministerial building.

The hospital was similarly situated, and also looked like a derelict factory, but upon entering, one was greeted with a foyer that seemed far more beautiful than the rather utilitarian one that St. Mungo's had.

St. Auberts had far more long-term clients as it almost exclusively worked with patients considered to be too high maintenance for St. Mungos, in addition to any and all residents of Waldweirness, both in the greater borough and within the specific proscribed neighborhoods that were designed specific to the residents' needs (The exception of course, being St. Mungo's Janus Thickney ward). St Aubert's had been charmed and created with a similar philosophy in mind as had many of the muggle sanatoriums of the time: for long term convalescents, it was helpful to be surrounded by beautiful architecture and environs while being provided with round-the-clock care.

Eileen seemed almost cowed by the polished wood of the trim and the prim, old-fashioned outfits the nurses wore.

She leaned toward him and whispered at him.

"They look like they would have done in the sixties in Cokeworth—I don't remember healers or healers' assistants dressing like muggle nurses..."

Snape merely shrugged. Even as he remembered it from his frequent trips to hospital in his youth the nurses hadn't dressed quite so elaborately.

"It's to put some of the residents at ease, Eileen. Many of our clients are quite old fashioned, particularly if they have Luenfeldters. My superior told me once that the healers in the wizarding world used to dress like this rather than in robes," she said, gesturing to the fully-frocked healing assistants. To Severus they looked rather like they were dressed in what he imagined Florence Nightingale might have worn. The matron at the desk even had a fussy little white lace cap to set herself apart from the others.

He seemed to remember Poppy wearing one rather like it on occasion...

Checking Eileen in was a straightforward process. Within ten minutes she'd been greeted by the healer who assured her that he would immediately fix her hip and proscribe her something for her pain, and who had turned to Hermione (for she was technically responsible for Eileen's healthcare) and informed her with a crisp bow that Eileen would be back in her home by Sunday evening, at the latest.

His mother had had a mighty sulk when she'd been informed that it was past time for visitors however, so she had instead solicited promises from the both of them that in Severus' case he would be waiting for her at her home on Sunday, and that he would begin his penance at that time, and that Hermione would accompany her back from the hospital, where she'd spend the evening with them before retiring to her own flat until Monday—also beholden to two weeks of itinerant atonement.

Snape sighed as he and Granger parted ways outside the hospital. She had offered him a small smile. Her brown eyes had twinkled at him, reminding him of the strange, Christmas-lights-like quality of her most recent patronus. He had only nodded, though he'd withheld himself from scowling or sneering. Really, he wasn't in a terrible mood all things considered.

He was concerned for his mother, but he was grateful to be back on solid ground with her, even if he did only get one day to sort out his affairs before he turned himself over to his mother's custody, as it were. He could do a lot with twenty-four hours.

Now, seeing Granger for the whole season? There was the trouble.

"He can feel his skin like a prison

Like a dying cage he struggles to live inside

He tries to call out but nobody hears him

At the ragged edge of the silence

In the calm that only comes with the violence

Sleep inside the heart and the hope of redemption

Hide your eyes

(Hide your eyes)"

Sunday Morning Yellow (reprise) – October Project

A/N: Thanks for the support and reviews, they are all much appreciated!

Track List Honorable Mentions:
Black Sabbath – "I"

Simon & Garfunkle – "The Sound of Silence"