On the Plain
She was here again. In this place again. A featureless desert plain stretched toward the horizon on all sides. Above, angry black clouds rolled over the expanse of sky and the sound of distant thunder could be heard.
She waited for the inevitable wind and rising of sand to obscure her sight, the harbinger of the rest of this recurring dream.
A slight breeze lifted her bushy hair and robes, becoming stronger, the sand rising and swirling about her. There was no sting, no blinding. She could see the familiar shadow through the whirling dust billowing toward her, unaffected by the tempest.
She watched as he approached, a wraith from outer darkness. He returned again and again this way.
Hermione stood facing him, her brown eyes full of remorse.
Snape stopped, his black eyes hard in his sallow face, his lank hair unaffected by the wind, which died down now that he had appeared.
"Again?" he asked her, bitterness in his voice.
"Yes, again," Hermione answered him. "I don't do this on purpose."
"You lie. It is on purpose. Only purpose could draw me here in this manner," he hissed at her.
"I'm sorry."
"You're not. You want absolution for letting me die."
Hermione stared at him.
"If only—if only you would take what I offer, my most precious—"
"I don't want you. Save it for Weasley."
"Take me. Take me so we can both be free of this."
"Not even in your dreams. Do you think your body can undo my loss? Do you think it can make a difference? You let me die."
"Please. I can't take this—this haunting. If the dream ends differently—perhaps—perhaps this will all stop."
Snape's face contorted.
"Suppose I want you to suffer?"
"Don't. Please—"
Hermione stepped closer to the wizard, who whipped his robes about himself as if she would come into contact and contaminate him.
"Can't you let the dead rest?"
"The deserving dead—yes. But not you. You should have lived."
"You did nothing."
"I—I didn't know. Please, let me—let me—"
"Martyr yourself? Now, you're willing to spill a bit of blood for me. Too little, too late, Hermione. Besides, this is all a dream. It is meaningless."
"Not to me," Hermione said, pleading with the wizard. "If—if I give myself over to you—even like this—I'll be able to let you go."
Snape sneered at her.
"If you gave yourself over to me—you could never let me go. I would sink into your psyche and remain there."
"You've already taken it over."
"No."
Snape turned away from her and began to walk, the sands rising again.
"Come back!" Hermione cried, running after him, knowing it was pointless. He would fade back into oblivion and she would once again awaken, lying beside her guilt. Her constant guilt.
Until the next dream.
A/N: Writing this was like pulling teeth. I've moved from my home and left it to my children to pay the mortgage and bills. Too many people, too much stress, too much tension. I now have a one bedroom apartment and it's the first time in my life that I've ever lived alone. First it was my parents, then my children's father, then my children. I'm 48 years old and am finally cutting the apron strings. Needless to say, the adjustment is kind of difficult. No babies crying in the night, no grands pulling on me crying, Grandma, can you (fill in the blanks.) No constant babysitting or asking surly kids about money for bills. My muse seems to have stayed at the house. At least it feels as if she has. I wrote this trying to find her. Maybe I'll write more while waiting to start up my other unfinished stories. Thanks for reading.