Disclaimer: J.K. owns what she wrote; I'm just taking it out to play.
I knew what it was to fly.
I knew it as surely as I know my name: Hermione Jean Granger. Yet, here I sit, on a faded grey couch, witnessing the death of fall outside the dirty venetian window. Grey has staked its claim on the world, including myself. I sit here, staring at shadows slipping across the floor. My mind chains me here; my body has long ago become another piece of furniture in this room. My logic and keen intellect are nowhere to be found, and I have started to believe that those qualities can no longer be attributed to me.
I knew what it was to fly.
No one has confirmed my deep suspicion of my mental state, my belief that I am no longer myself. My mind has been chained- I can feel it- by something (someone) unknown. Left here, my body accepts my surroundings and questions nothing. Sometimes, late at night, I can almost hear my mind silently screaming at the chains that bind it. No one else notices it. But then, I don't know anyone anymore. Women I do not recognize gush with blinding enthusiasm at the sight of me. Men I do not know, know me and come to my home (prison) to call upon me, telling me how happy they are to speak with me; I have been away too long. I smile and murmur agreement, hoping against hope they do not see through me and realize I am defective (I hope they take me away with them).
I knew what it was to fly.
That is my mantra now, kept to my own thoughts (what is left of them). I dare not repeat it aloud. Only once have I done so and for long after did I reap the bitter grains that came from it. My guardians (prisoners) took me to taupe hallways from which I left, battered. Even after that, it was months before the looks and prying questions ceased. My mantra is mine alone now; I reminder that I was (am) greater than this. That my life is not repetition done ad nauseam. No, it cannot be.
I knew what it was to fly.
I also know that I knew more than that. But all those remnants of a possible former (current) life faded long ago. Even now, my knowledge of flight (escape) grows stale and slips through the pathways of my mind to collect dust in a place I can't reach. But I'm not gone yet. I still have hope, the bane and salvation of humanity. What my guardians (captors) haven't noticed, and what I have, is that there is a man who has not approached me, a man who seems to content himself with lurking outside my window. I have seen him staring in at me when I am alone on my corduroy couch. Our eyes meet occasionally, and something always pulls within me. He reminds me of flight and hints at all that which I have forgotten. By no means is he traditionally handsome with his lank, black hair and Roman nose, but his gaze draws me to him. His eyes...his eyes tell me he knows me, perhaps even loves me. Many days have I seen him outside my window as I slow fade to match the grey of my seat. I always hope to see him, not just through a window, but face to face. It seems, though, that he is always barred by the strangers surrounding (guarding) me.
I knew what it was to fly.
Today, I lay here, feeling as colorless as I ever have. I have not seen the man in what seems like years, but may be only several weeks. Time is a stranger to me now as well, and my conscious mind is fading more than ever. I am finally succumbing to this dull existence (death). I am even starting to like the corduroy of the couch (tomb). Letting it swallow me, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, bidding the man a silent goodbye before I let go. Yet before I can, he is there in the room, striding over to me and lifting me to sit upright. On the floor, my guardians (no more) lay motionless. I didn't even hear them fall. The man has fury burning in his eyes that fades into elation and heart wrenching hope (I know that look well) when he sees I am conscious. Looking at him, I know I should not know him; we've never met. But he seems more familiar to me than anyone else and when he lifts my chin and looks me in the eye, I don't move away. He is gently stroking my face now, tears pouring down his cheeks. Gathering himself, he puts his head to mine, pressing his fingers to my temples. Still staring into my eyes, he chants words I do not comprehend. Slowly, the fog lifts from my mind. "I know your face," I whisper. Hesitantly, I touch his hair. "Severus." He gathers me into his arms, still weeping, and I join him. We weep and shower each other with kisses and I know. I know the black of his hair and the emerald of his shirt. I know he will never let me go and I know I'm safe now. But most of all
I know what it is to fly.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this one shot. It was fun writing it and stealing a line from Lord of the Rings. For those who want an interpretation, this was written through the eyes of Hermione who has been mentally imprisoned by a spell (probably a botched obliviate or an imperius curse that she tried to fight to hard against, destroying her mind in the process). Hermione's mind assumes she was never a witch and that that world was the work of her imagination. She has latched onto something that resonated strongly with her. Severus comes to free her, restore her mind, and take her back home. The words in parentheses signify an attempt by the rest of her mind to break through the spell. Make of the rest what you will!