The ground was frozen; he could not dig any deeper. His hands were bloody, torn scraps. His hands were the winding sheet of death and the pregnant witch was wrapped within them. How could he deliver the stillborn child? His hands weren't large enough to hold everything. The grave was shallow. He laid her down. Was she his Queen of Winter? He was the King of Fall. He threw his crown of twisted canes of blackberries onto her corpse. He would refuse the throne. She looked cold, he felt cold. He climbed down into her shallow bed and pulled her body to his and embraced her as he drifted into a glacial sleep.
Snape woke into the dark of the early morning hours, it was HallowTide. He was breathing like a spent horse run too hard. Turning heavily onto his stomach and bringing both arms up under his head he cradled himself back into slumber.
He was in a field of Autumnal dry grasses and withered winding vines with their forgotten fruit, cracked pumpkins spilling bellies full of seeds. She was coming for him. His heart was pounding with anticipation and excitement. She was coming. For him. He could feel her approach. He was crouched naked on his knees, his arms encircling his head, hands clasped behind his neck. He pushed his face into the cold earth of the meadow. He felt his shoulder blades crack and burst from the skin of his back. Massive wings begin to unfurl from his body. Was she coming from above, hands reaching down for him? Or was she rising from below, hands reaching up for him? He wanted to stand to look about for her, but his knees were locked and he could not move. His face was in the dirt and stalks and he lay prostrated before the fact of her approach. He closed his eyes and in his dream he slept.