It Rains - Severus Snape / OC

It was almost 8 a.m., and Laurel was walking briskly, trying to avoid the puddles that had formed on the pavement after the previous night’s storm. That summer had been unusually cold and overcast, and that late July morning brought with it a particularly humid breeze.

In one hand, she held an umbrella; in the other, a small bag containing her lunch — which, that day, also included a slice of chocolate cake that she intended to smuggle into the care home where she worked. Her most cherished resident was turning sixty-eight today, and she wanted to give him a small reason to smile, even if it meant bending the strict rules of the care home (no sugar, no junk food). She was also carrying a copy of The Twelve Caesars, which she had recently begun reading to him.

Laurel had never been particularly strong in history lessons back at school; she struggled to remember dates, and the names of empires and emperors always blurred together in her mind. Still, she had never imagined that, after meeting old Tobias Snape, she would spend the quieter hours of the day reading historical accounts of the Roman Empire. He was utterly fascinated by Roman history, and Laurel was eager to please him.

At times, she doubted whether the poor man even realised he was living in the twentieth century. Dr Rosen had diagnosed him with early-onset Alzheimer’s and, considering his history of depression and schizophrenia, Laurel suspected that Tobias scarcely understood that he had been in a government-run care home for over a year.

Heavy raindrops began to fall once more, and Laurel raised her umbrella just as she reached the base of the long stone steps that led up to the great grey-walled house at the top of the hill. Despite its sombre appearance, the Guildhall Care Home had large windows that offered a wonderful view of the city and the River Thames. During milder weather, the windows let in a fresh, clean breeze — perfect for the well-being of the elderly spending the twilight of their lives in the care of idealistic and tender-hearted young women like Laurel.

She had started working there two years earlier, after qualifying as a nursing aide and moving to London from her home village of Hackleton. She missed her mother dearly, as well as the modest house where she had grown up alongside her younger sister, Fern. But her work — and the pressing need to send money home — left her little time to visit. She sent half of her wages to her arthritic mother and to Fern, who by now must have been in her sixth month of pregnancy. The rest went towards the rent of a small flat she shared with two other girls. One of them, Rebecca, also worked at the care home. Laurel giggled at the thought of her friend snoring away after finishing a night shift.

Their work was hard and often exhausting, but Laurel always ended her day with a smile — and the ability to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She shook the rain from her umbrella as she stepped through the heavy oak doors, then placed it in the stand by the entrance, already crowded with others. She greeted Edward, the head nurse on her shift, with a cheerful “Morning,” and picked up her worksheet before heading to the lockers. As she dropped her bag into place, she caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror affixed to the inside of the door — her brown eyes scanning her round, olive-toned face as she tried to tame the wisps of hair escaping her bun.

She always wore her long, dark hair in a braid, coiled into a bun she pinned tightly in place. Even so, she could never escape Mrs Caster’s constant harping on about how a nurse’s hair ought to be: immaculate, neat, and practically glued to the scalp. Laurel barely muttered under her breath that she wasn’t actually a nurse — she was simply there to do all the work that the ever-pristine Mrs Caster didn’t deign to do: feeding, bathing, and offering comfort to the poor elderly residents whose families had long since forgotten them.

All this, she grumbled silently to herself. Confrontation was something she avoided at all costs. She preferred to lower her head and stay quiet. Rebecca always laughed when she did that.

“One day you’ll blow up and spew all that poison you’ve been bottling inside.”

The truth was, Laurel had learnt early on how to control her impulses and swallow her resentments. As the elder sibling, she had taken on the responsibility of looking after Fern while their mother worked. She quickly realised that moaning and getting bitter over small injustices wouldn’t make life any easier. Her escape had always been physical labour — and the feeling of being useful to those around her. She went out of her way to help, often to the point, as Rebecca liked to say, of forgetting she had needs of her own.

With a resigned sigh, she gave up trying to wrestle her hair into submission. Slipping into the hallway, she made sure to avoid any chance of crossing paths with Mrs Caster and her ever-scowling disapproval.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The timid rays of the afternoon sun filtered into Room Fourteen. The remains of a birthday cake sat on a small table beside the bed, and a young woman was reading aloud.

“And his beloved Agrippina bore him a son, named Drusus, and he professed great affection for her, but despite this, he was forced to repudiate her…”

“Severus…” Tobias whispered suddenly, his eyes snapping open. Laurel paused, her voice fading as she looked at the old man’s contorted expression, concern washing over her.

She recognised that sharp, lucid gaze — one that often made her wonder if the doctors underestimated just how much Tobias still understood. His eyes filled with tears, which slid silently down onto the pillow. Gently, Laurel set the book aside and reached for his hand, just as she had done countless times before, offering comfort whenever he remembered the son he had long ago abandoned.

“Shhh…” she murmured, patting his shoulder and squeezing his calloused hand. “It’s me, Laurel. Severus isn’t here, but if you’d like, we can look through the photo album together.”

This happened several times a week — sudden flashes of memory that left Tobias weeping inconsolably for the family he had lost. Laurel felt deeply for him. He had been found sleeping next to rubbish bins in the middle of winter, and brought to the care home, where — despite numerous attempts — no trace of any family member could be found.

She was well acquainted by now with the story of the Snape family: how Tobias had once met a sweet, shy young woman who had agreed to run away with him, leaving behind her wealthy family. How he had worked tirelessly to support her and their son, struggling to keep them afloat in a tide of poverty. And how schizophrenia and alcoholism had eventually led him down a path of violence against those he had loved most.

Laurel crossed the room to the white cabinet that held Tobias’s few possessions. She rummaged through the shoeboxes which, like old treasure chests, contained letters, diaries, and photographs — all fragments of Tobias Snape’s life. These mementoes helped keep his memories alive, even as time and illness slowly erased them from his mind.

She found what she was looking for: a battered black leather photo album. Bringing it back to him, she settled beside his bed and opened to the first page. A black-and-white photograph showed a couple: a tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside a very slender woman with strikingly large black eyes and heavy brows. They were smiling and waving at the camera, a river rippling in the background.

“Eileen — how young she looks! How old do you reckon she was there, Tobias? Twenty?”

He stared at the image as though seeing it for the first time, his thick thumb brushing softly over the face of his young wife.

“Cokeworth.”

“Yes, Cokeworth. One weekend we ought to go. I’ll speak to the director, see if we can organise a little outing,” Laurel said with a quiet trace of sadness. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t hesitate to take him — but deep down, she knew Tobias would likely never leave the care home again.

The next photo was also in black and white. Eileen sat in front of a modest brick house. Her smile was gentler this time, her eyes more distant. One hand rested on her belly. There was no visible bump, but Laurel guessed she must already have been expecting their child.

“Is your Severus in there?” she asked, smiling softly. Tobias barely lifted his eyes from the photo.

“Summer, Eileen,” he murmured.

“You loved her very much, didn’t you, Tobias?”

Tobias’s ability to hold a full conversation had declined over time, yet the intensity in his gaze left no doubt that he remembered — and deeply missed — his wife.

Slowly, he turned the page of the photo album, revealing a picture of himself smiling as he cradled a baby wrapped in blankets. Laurel had always been amused by that one. Little Severus, no more than a year old, already had a wild mane of thick, dark hair.

“Look at him! Same hair as his mother,” she said with a chuckle, playfully rubbing the sparse patch at the top of Tobias’s head. “Let’s hope he had better luck than you in that department.”

“He’s a wizard. Severus can do magic — just like his mother.”

Laurel glanced up sharply, surprised to hear him form such a clear, articulate sentence. His amber eyes were still locked on the photograph. He sounded so certain. It was the same story he’d told from the beginning: that his wife and son were sorcerers who could vanish objects with wands and fly on broomsticks.

Dr Rosen had long since concluded that this fantastical narrative was a manifestation of Tobias’s delusions — part of his schizophrenia. No amount of therapy or medication had been able to draw him fully back to what the doctors deemed reality.

Laurel had been tempted more than once to ask him where the belief came from — why he was so convinced his son could perform magic. But she remembered the doctor’s instructions and decided, once again, to let the remark pass without challenge.

She turned to the next page. It held the first colour photograph — and, curiously, the first image in which something clearly seemed wrong. The three Snapes stood in their living room: behind them, a faded old sofa and a peeling wall. Laurel’s attention was always drawn to the boy in the centre. Severus must have been around ten. Pale-skinned and sombre-faced, he was the mirror image of his mother — save for the hooked nose he’d inherited from Tobias.

He wore a shirt far too big for him, clearly his father’s, and a pair of trousers covered in patches. Eileen looked thinner than ever, her black hair dulled and lifeless. Her smile had vanished entirely, replaced by a downcast, hollow expression. Tobias wasn’t even looking at the camera — his hand rested on Severus’s shoulder in a way that felt more possessive than affectionate. Perhaps even threatening.

Laurel stared at the photo, as she always did. Each time she saw something new, some subtle detail she’d missed before. She often hoped the picture would offer some insight into the shift — the moment when Tobias’s schizophrenia took hold. She could almost feel the quiet anguish in both Eileen and Severus.

Severus’s dark eyes stared straight back at her, cold and unreadable. Laurel felt a strange helplessness rising in her chest. That gaze held a depth of despair she recognised — the same despair she’d felt the day her own father walked out and never came back. She had been seven.

Tobias’s hand reached out and gently brushed her cheek, wiping away a single tear that had escaped without her noticing. Laurel smiled softly, embarrassed, and reached for a tissue.

“Sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Tobias gave her a kind, wistful smile, and looked once more at the photograph.

“I won’t see Severus again,” he said quietly. “I don’t deserve to. You couldn’t find them either. We’re Muggles, Laurel.”

“Muggles?” she asked, dabbing her eyes. “You mean… non-magical people?”

It had always struck Laurel as odd that, even with official requests and police involvement, there was no trace of Eileen or Severus Snape. The administrators had eventually concluded that they’d likely changed their names and emigrated — or perhaps, more bluntly, that Tobias had invented them entirely.

Laurel, however, knew Tobias had named his son after the Roman emperor. “Eileen wanted to call him Vespertilius, can you believe it?” he had once told her with a chuckle.

“Yes,” she murmured. “They call us Muggles.”

“Tell me about the magic school, Tobias,” Laurel said gently. Since he was so willing to talk today, she thought it best to simply go along with him.

“Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “It’s a castle where they go every year to study. I don’t know exactly where it is — I’ve never seen it — but Eileen said it was enormous… Severus went for the first time when he was eleven, with a girl who lived nearby… I can’t remember her name…”

Tobias began flipping through the remaining blank pages of the album, clearly searching for something.

“It was here. I took a photo. The summer before they left for Hogwarts. Have you taken it?”

“I haven’t,” Laurel replied kindly. “Maybe it got lost, Tobias — it’s been a long time.”

“Yes… a long, long time.” His eyes grew distant. “I don’t want anything else to get lost, Laurel. That’s all I have left.” He pointed shakily towards the cupboard.

“Don’t worry, Tobias,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I promise I’ll take care of all your things.” She carefully returned the album to its shoebox and smiled as she added, “So what do they teach at this school? I’d love to learn how to fly on a broom…”

She jumped slightly when she realised Tobias had gotten out of bed and was shuffling over to her. His bony knees cracked loudly as he knelt down beside her. With trembling hands, he began to rummage through the boxes until he found a pair of rolled-up socks. From inside them, he withdrew a small velvet pouch.

Laurel’s mouth fell open when he revealed a silver pendant, clearly very old, adorned with a family crest. With surprising gentleness, Tobias fastened the chain around her neck and smiled.

“It’s the crest of the Prince family. It belonged to Eileen. Now it’s yours.”

“Tobias, I can’t accept this. It’s an antique,” Laurel said, leaning in to study it. The pendant was shaped like a shield, with a snake coiled around the crest. Tiny emeralds glittered in the eyes of the serpent, and finely etched letters beneath it read:

Ut Luceant in Tenebris.

“What does that mean?” she asked softly.

“‘We shine in the dark.’”

“No, I’m sorry.” She began to unfasten the necklace. “It looks incredibly valuable. I really can’t keep it — it’s yours, Tobias. It belongs to your family.”

“I lost my family, Laurel,” he said simply. “You’re the closest thing I have to one. I want you to have it.”

Laurel hesitated, her heart swelling. Then she sighed and nodded, deeply moved.

“Thank you, Tobias. I’ll take good care of it,” she promised. “Now — let’s get you back to bed, shall we?” She stood and reached for his arm with a warm smile. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

That night, Laurel was getting ready for bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she gazed at the beautiful medallion Tobias had given her. The vivid green eyes of the snake seemed to watch her, and once again, that familiar feeling of quiet despair crept in. Where had the Snapes gone? Where had her own father disappeared to? With a weary sigh, she placed the pendant gently on her bedside table and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

It was early morning when Severus Snape finally sat on the edge of his bed. The small room was crammed with shelves piled high with books, their spines worn and titles faded. The light from a single candle cast gloomy shadows on the flaking ceiling above. His long black cloak had been carelessly thrown over a battered armchair, and he was now removing his coat, left in just his white shirt and black trousers. The Dark Mark still throbbed after his meeting with the Dark Lord, but he was barely aware of it. His mind was submerged in the depths of an Occlumantic ocean—one even Lord Voldemort could not penetrate.

He lay back on the bed, staring blankly at the shadows that danced across the walls. He had spent days in this state, buried deep within his own mind, and he knew he had to come back. He needed to rest. He needed to become Severus Snape again.

The process would not be easy, but it was necessary. Slowly, he slid a hand beneath his pillow and drew out an old photograph. Lily’s green eyes smiled up at him. They were seated side by side in the old Cokeworth playground—young Severus with an awkward arm draped around her shoulders, and Lily resting her head gently against him. It was his favourite photograph. The first they had ever taken together, using a Muggle camera. Though the image was still, the light in Lily’s eyes gave it a kind of quiet life.

Slowly, he let himself begin the climb out of his Occlumantic refuge. He allowed himself to feel. To think. Lily was his guide. The light in the dark. And finally, he surfaced.

“Lily… forgive me, Lily.”

The remorse that had shadowed him for years came rushing in. It was always the first to greet him. Guilt had long since taken root in his soul, spiralling out of control during long, silent nights, haunting him with vivid nightmares of Lily’s lifeless body—and the echo of Harry’s screams. The night of 31st October 1981 was branded into his memory. It was a wound deeper and more enduring than the Dark Mark etched into his skin.

Severus closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the memory of Lily’s last look and the festering hatred he bore for himself were like blades—merciless, and unrelenting.

He was so drained that for a fleeting moment he considered reaching for the Draught of Living Death. One sip, and there would be silence. But before his hand could even move, a blinding silver light burst through the gloom.

“It’s time, Severus. My office, if you don’t mind.”

Dumbledore’s voice echoed faintly as the silver phoenix faded into nothingness. Severus rose at once and, with a slight flick of his wand, dressed in his robes. The fabric whispered against the floor as he vanished into the shadows.