I'll try to be quick! If you know Silent Hill, you could consider this a crossover fic in regards to the "Restless Dreams" universe. If you have no idea what that means, then the world is more like an AU that I don't own, seeing as you need no knowledge of Silent Hill whatsoever, and the entire plot is based on Snape and Snape alone. I'd really rather not move it, if you don't mind!

Though the story is rated T, it can be quite graphic. Warnings include strong violence, blood and gore, general horror, mild language, and mild sexual themes.

Updates Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and Silent Hill belongs to Konami.

Thanks!

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Love was never meant to be such a crazy affair, no

And who has time for tears?

I never thought I'd sit around and cry for your love,

'Till now...

- Mary Elizabeth McGlynn, Silent Hill 3 OST

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Prologue

The war had ended. It had been over four months now, the hours trickling away as slowly as sand through an hourglass. At least, it was this way for Severus Snape.

Other people had flown through a rollercoaster of grief and joy; burying their dead, celebrating their renewed freedom. But the ex-professor had remained stony and apathetic through his days in St. Mungo's, finding no pleasure in the supposed gift of life, or in this supposed freedom.

In all truth, he really should have been dead.

The gaping wound in his throat had closed, the bruising in his face had faded, the hospital food had made his ribs a little less visible under such pallid flesh. And yet, something deeper within him resonated with a hurt that no doctor or nurse could possibly have a cure for- let alone have any understanding of. For truly, there was no reason for it. There was no reason that he should have been nursed back to health like a wounded dog, and there was no reason that court proceedings should have been held to clear his name. Now that he could no longer serve Lily's memory, his life held no purpose.

He had fully expected to die in that final battle, and had welcomed the notion. With the Dark Lord defeated, and Potter's ultimate fate decided, there was nothing left for him to do, no driving force to urge him onward, no sense of determination to keep his bones and skin together.

He was nothing more than an empty shell now.

These were Snape's thoughts as he dressed himself on the morning of September the 15th, if nothing else glad to be rid of the thin hospital gown that he had been confined to. The hospital had provided him with new attire: a simple Muggle-styled shirt and formal black trousers, along with a new pair of boots. Though the nurse had insisted that Muggle-wear was all the rage at present, he still felt uncomfortable and vulnerable without his coat and cloak.

Potter had deprived him of his mental shields: the barrier of fearful respect that he had built over so many years. Now when people read his name in the paper or spoke of him on the street, their voices were filled with pity or revulsion. One person might cluck their tongue and say, "Oh what a pathetic way to live; that sad, unfortunate man." Another might give a sigh of disgust and say, "What a pervert; lusting after someone who clearly didn't want him. Couldn't he take a hint?" So was it really so much to ask to have at least those few extra layers of fabric? Couldn't he have that one protective, physical shield between him and them? After all, that's what it always was. Him and them.

Snape took one look around the room, just big enough for a bed, a nightstand and a single chair for visitors. No one had sat there. Simply, he knew he should have been in the public ward with everyone else, but there seemed no end to the reasons that the staff decided against it. At first, they most likely believed that he was still a Death Eater, and wanted to keep him somewhere that they could lock from the outside, like an animal's cage. Later they realized that people were straying from the patients they had come to see in order to catch a glimpse at the man who killed Albus Dumbledore. The nurses no doubt thought that one of them might try to kill him. But that, Snape thought, would have been the first stroke of good luck he had had in years.

His personal effects were laid out on the nightstand: his wand, a leather courier bag, and a small vial of green potion were all that remained. Whatever he had left in his chambers had been confiscated by the Ministry and somehow lost or sold off, while his home on Spinner's End had been burned to the ground months before the war had even ended. And then of course, the things he had carried on his person, like his well-worn and familiar clothes, had been soaked with blood and were therefore unsalvageable. The memory of the blood caused a dull ache to rise up in his neck.

Today was the day he would be released.

Released into what? Nothing. He had no home, no family, and no purpose. Snape picked up the vial of potion and examined the loop worked into the cork stopper, before raising his wand above it. Without words, a leather string materialized through it, and he silently hung it about his neck and slipped it into his shirt.

They shouldn't have wasted their time with him.

He was about to leave then, about to abandon this accursed place forever, when an odd feeling overtook him. The room seemed to spin for a split second, causing him to place a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, and the hair prickled on the back of his neck. And then it was gone as quickly as it came.

He slowly turned, wondering if this was another cruel act by God that would once again confine him to the piercing whiteness of the hospital sheets. But instead, he noticed a whiteness of a different kind: a pristine envelope lay across the previously bare nightstand. He retreated back into the room, looking warily down at the object before picking it up, holding it by the corner as though his fingertips might dirty its perfection.

The smell hit him first. It was like a wave of memory; the warm cinnamon sugar of her mother's best Christmas desserts, the sunlit grass of her backyard ground into the soles of her feet, that distinct flowery scent of her hair and her skin as they sat for hours talking on her bedroom floor.

Snape dropped the envelope as though it was on fire, staring down at it with wide eyes for several minutes. It had to be a dream, he thought, or perhaps he had already poisoned himself and this was simply a hallucination. But nonetheless, he again took it delicately into his hands, slit through the snow-white seal, and began to read the words written in her handwriting.

Dear Severus,

Today is your first day of freedom, isn't it? Or doesn't it feel that way? I've been thinking about you: about what you've done for me and for my family. Surely you have as well? To be honest, I've had many things to think about. Do you remember that time I went to my cousin's wedding, and you spent hours helping me paint my fingernails and braid my hair? We were so young then, and I remember feeling so badly that you couldn't come with me. But that was the way of things.

I want you to come see me. I've enclosed the location of a car that I want you to take; I remember my father teaching you to drive, and so I'm not worried about that. Simply, you will not be able to Apparate to where I want you to go. Inside the glove compartment will be a map, on which I've circled the location of a particular town. This will be your final destination, a place called Silent Hill.

I will be waiting for you,

Lily

Suddenly there was no question in his mind. Any thoughts of ending himself were gone; suddenly there was a purpose, a goal once again. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but it had to be. It smelled like her, it was in her handwriting- she had even recounted one of their moments together. Surely...

A knock at the door startled him, and the door opened to reveal a petite nurse dressed in white. "Mr. Snape? All of your paperwork has been processed. You may leave whenever you wish." There was a pause as Snape stared down at the white parchment. Then she spoke again. "Do you have anywhere to go, Mr. Snape?"

He suddenly became aware of himself and replaced the letter in the envelope before turning sharply. "I certainly do," he said firmly, and brushed past the woman. The envelope was clasped tightly between his fingertips, and he whispered the name to himself.

"Silent Hill."