Awakening

CHAPTER FOUR: Awakening

Hermione woke the next morning to the sound of shuffling feet and murmured conversation. Her neck was stiff, and her side ached from the awkward position she'd slept in - no, not the position. She realized, as she sat up, that she was sore because she'd slept on the hard stone floor. She breathed in quickly, feeling a thrill run through her body; it hadn't been a dream.

She really had gone to her hearing, things had gone marginally well, and Neville - dear, sweet Neville - had sat with her last night.

It wasn't the same sort of giddiness one felt when getting a special smile from someone they longed for, but it was close. Simple human touch had become, somehow, the most exhilarating thing she'd experienced in nearly six months. It made her smile, just a bit, before scrambling back to her bed and crawling up on top of the hard mattress. The springs creaked and groaned in a steady rhythm, and it was then that she realized that she was rocking.

Why was she rocking? This was ridiculous!

Telling herself that it was nerves and excitement (and not the inevitable loss of her sanity), she reached across to the small shelf next to her bed and fetched Wuthering Heights. Why not? After all, she was so close to either never reading again or having the world of books at her disposal once more. One more go with Heathcliff and Catherine couldn't hurt.

Thus, she fell into the story. She read it as never before, her eyes hungrily devouring page after page of the dramatic, passionate tragedy.

She laughed right out at the witty passages, pouted unconsciously at moments of pity and sadness, and found herself nearing the end before she knew it, her eyes watering as tears spilled out onto her cheeks. Hermione Granger, engrossed in a tale that she'd read so many times before, was experiencing a strong and undeniable awakening. All of her feelings, her thoughts, her emotions were bubbling back to the surface. Neville had started a tidal wave within her, and it was now crashing down all around her as she openly wept for Heathcliff's tortured soul.

Hermione did not eat; her food deliveries had come and gone, each untouched plate taken away after an hour of being given to her. She was so deeply invested in the story that she'd not even noticed its arrival nor departure. The visiting hours did not faze her, nor did the sounds of mail arriving for her fellow inmates. No notion of time occurred to the maddened young woman until it had become too dark to see the words in front of her. Glancing up in slight confusion, she noticed that most of the torches had been extinguished.

Was it really so very late?

She twisted around frantically, looking up to the small, barred window that was at least fifteen feet above her head. The only light that slipped through was dull and blue, shifting in intensity as clouds slid over the moon.

Surprised at how quickly the day had passed, Hermione reluctantly set down the book and wiped at her eyes. She was a mess of tears and snot, and her lids felt heavy and hot. Yawning, she slipped down under her scratchy blanket and blinked into the darkness, wondering if she'd missed anything more significant during the day. What if a guard had come with news of her release? What if they'd opened the cell and waited for her to exit, but she was so involved with the book that she'd ignored it?

What if?

Those thoughts began to eat away at her, turning her excitement and anxiety into worry. Her mind was racing endlessly with those scenarios as she drifted off into a fitful, restless sleep. Filled with alternating nightmares and dreams - part of her night consumed with visions of running free in the sunlight, and the other full of dark scenes in which she spent the rest of her life in the dank cell of Azkaban.

"Up, Granger," the voice barked, pulling Hermione rudely from sleep. She was still so tired, so unrested; why would they force her to wake? She was a prisoner, she had nowhere to be! This was a new kind of torture; that was the only explanation. Some sort of horrible sleep deprivation. "UP!" it repeated, this time angry and impatient.

Blinking and groaning, Hermione rolled over and stared wearily at the bars of her cell, brow furrowing as she fought to focus. The shapes were all so blurry; the combination of sleep and tears had really done a number on her vision.

She sat up, finding her head pounding and resisting the waking process; More sleep! it demanded. But her eyes were slowly focusing on her visitors - visitors! It couldn't be, could it? Someone was visiting Hermione Granger?

She blinked again, reaching up to rub at her eyes before trying to look at the strange, foreign figures once more. As she did, however, her heart sank down to her stomach. She hadn't expected to see her very own public defender standing there, waiting for her to wake up.

"I- Professor Snape," she started, finding her voice crackly and grossly gargled.

"I am no longer a professor, Miss Granger," he corrected, not moving from his position. He stood, chin held high and his hands clasped regally behind his back as he stared down at her. "Are you presentable?"

Blinking, she looked down and quickly stood before brushing down the ragged robes she wore on a daily basis. It wasn't really a possibility to be indecent in prison. There was no privacy, after all.

"I am," she replied weakly, feeling as if she were about to be led to her death sentence. Why was he there to retrieve her? Why couldn't the rude, hair-pulling guards come and fetch her like last time? She was frowning in thought, hardly noticing that the cell was being unlocked and her former Potions master was stepping through it as if it were nothing.

He walked with more confidence than the guards, for crying out loud.

Bewildered, Hermione stared at him and felt herself back up an inch or two. Was he going to... hex her? Kill her? This was messy; why were they doing this here?

Her eyes were wide and frightened, but he did not back away. He reached into his robes, and Hermione clenched her eyes shut; she refused to look down his wand, refused to see his face in her last breath. But nothing happened.

No hex, no Killing Curse.

Peeking back out at him, she found nothing more than an irritated-looking man, holding a small package out to her. She glanced back down to the package, eyeing it carefully; what sort of trickery was this? "Er..."

"Are you going to take it, Granger, or am I going to forcefully dress you myself?"

Hermione's mouth fell open. She was partly surprised to learn that the contents of the package were obviously clothing and partly appalled at his statement. Since when did greasy, batty Snape make comments such as that? She supposed it was a good prod, however startling it may have been. Because she quickly reached for it and opened the plain brown paper with eager hands.

It wasn't anything special; in fact, it was her own robes. Taken from her, confiscated, when she was arrested. Still the same vivid, Gryffindor red... She leaned in, breathing the scent of the familiar fabric. It was comforting, and she stalled in the process for long enough to enjoy that familiarity.

Without a word, Snape turned and glared in the opposite direction, putting his hands to his hips; she admired the stance for a moment, thinking of how very funny it looked, before she realized that he was giving her privacy to change. The flow of his dark robes gave her a bit more coverage, and she murmured a barely audible word of thanks.

Hermione quickly dressed, discarding the dirty robes she'd worn since her arrival in a pile on the floor. She relished in the way that her old robes grazed the floor, how they hung much more daintily, how they hugged her waist a bit. She'd had them tailored before her seventh year at Hogwarts, determined to look more feminine. It felt good to be in them once more, even if she was significantly thinner and almost sickly.

Finally turning, she paused awkwardly. Snape still stood with his back to her, somewhat patiently. "Um..." she hesitated, then reached up and tapped his shoulder lightly. His head jerked to the side, eyes narrowing as he glared down at her. "I'm done," she added hastily, turning a bit red. She shouldn't have touched him; people didn't like to touch her. Neville had made her forget that momentarily.

"Very well," he replied, nodding once. "Gather your things."

Gather your things. Those words echoed in her mind for a moment, and she looked up at the man with a dumb, blank stare. "My... things?" she repeated, obviously not understanding.

"Yes, Miss Granger, your things," he repeated, his tone short and lacking any signs of the patience that he'd so graciously shown beforehand. "Gather them, unless you wish to leave them behind."

She still didn't understand. "Am I moving, or..." she trailed off, hoping he'd explain further. The expression that crossed his face was not foreign to her, however; it was that same look he had given her when she asked too many questions, or when she attempted to answer every question he threw at the class. It was annoyance, aggravation, frustration.

"Has being in Azkaban dumbed you down, Miss Granger?" he asked, barking at her. His tone was not unlike the rude guards. "Have you lost so many brain cells that you are too idiotic to understand your great fortune in being released from this hell?"

Hermione swallowed, and then felt her eyes grow so wide that they stung when the increased amount of stale air made contact with them. "Released?" she repeated in a soft breath. "From Azkaban?"

His expression hardened, which she honestly didn't think was possible. Without another word, she quickly tore through the cell, gathering those things that she refused to leave behind. There wasn't much, anyway; they allowed her so very little in the cell. She was most concerned with her books, having felt a stronger fondness for them after her experience the day before.

"All right," she finally said, not believing that what she heard was her own voice; it was laced with such a small trace of hope, of happiness, that it didn't sound like the person she'd become. It was light. It was eager.

"Come along," Snape said, not gracing her with another glance as he headed from the cell and stalked down the corridor. Fumbling with the things in her arms, she quickly scrambled out after him and followed along silently. His cloak was whipping up at her heels as he walked, his wake leaving her feeling insignificant and rather small. But she also felt safe. Protected.

He'd freed her, after all. At least, that's what she could gather at the moment.

They continued on, the guards following behind. It was more so like they were escorting her this time. Not like when they forcibly held her elbow, shoving her along if she walked too slowly.

Of course, she wasn't walking too slowly now, but that was only because she had no choice. Severus Snape would have surely left her in his dust if she didn't keep up on her own.

The lift rattled as they all climbed aboard and it descended down through the levels of prisoners. Down through the prison. Leading Hermione slowly to freedom, at least she hoped it was. All of the excitement building up inside of her would surely cause her to die of disappointment if she was being led to her death. But, she thought comfortingly, at least she'd die on her own terms.

More walking, more silence; past the other guards, past Neville Longbottom, past the doors without so much as a fuss. Out, into the pale light that Hermione immediately investigated. It was cloudy, overcast; but the air was warm and breezy, and she breathed it in with a smile on her face. This had to be freedom. She wouldn't have been allowed to stop, to admire the beauty of the sky, if she were still anyone's prisoner.

Finally feeling stronger, more sure of herself, she looked to Snape with brighter eyes. "Is there another hearing?" she asked, the hope still strong in her voice.

"It's already been held. There was no need for you to be summoned once again, only to return to your cell and gather your things." He didn't look at her, but merely stood a few feet away, narrowed eyes glaring across the choppy water that surrounded the small island. He looked disinterested, and Hermione wondered why he was even here.

"I'm free?" she asked, voice small and scared. What if the answer wasn't what she'd assumed? It all sounded like she was right, but... one never knew.

"Yes."

Hermione exhaled, her breath shaky, and was on the verge of frantic tears. It was a strange sensation, to feel so relieved and happy that she wanted to weep hysterically. Closing her eyes, she slipped down to the ground and sat, legs crossed, as she dug her fingers into the grass and earth. Such a simple pleasure, something she'd never thought she'd feel again. Despite her efforts, she did cry. She cried softly, silently, thankfully - but she cried. And Snape stayed at his distance, appearing to not see her tears as he looked off to the distant shore.

He allowed her all the time she needed, all the time she wanted; it wasn't until she'd stood and dried her face, speaking softly, that he gave her another look. "I'm sorry," she apologized, offering a very small smile. "I just-"

"It's nothing," he interrupted, looking back to the shore before glancing up at the gathering clouds. "If you're finished," he added, tone only slightly sharp as he headed toward a small row boat, "we should head to the shore."

Hermione looked up at the sky as well, noting that it looked like rain. It amazed her, momentarily, that she could still tell what exactly 'looked like rain.' She supposed that some things were never forgotten, no matter how long they were gone without. Still not questioning his presence, and assuming that this was customarily what those who freed prisoners did, she nodded and climbed carefully into the boat. He followed, pushing them off effortlessly and dipping the oars into the black water.

She watched, holding her tongue; she'd have assumed that he would charm the oars somehow, but he merely used human effort to get them out into the churning water. Waves were capping white in the distance, and she contented herself with admiring the nature around her. She'd have plenty of time to ask questions later. She was sure he didn't want to hear her go on and on and on.

It wasn't long before the spray on her face grew heavier; it was no longer the simply churning of the water that was sending moisture up to greet her, but quickly coming raindrops that started as a mere drizzle. Bit by bit, it evolved into a sprinkling, then a steady rainfall. She turned, looking behind her to see how far they were from the shore. There was no way they'd make it by the time it began to downpour, and she honestly didn't care.

The rain felt like it was cleansing. And, she supposed, it was. In a way.

The heavier rain felt cool and refreshing on her skin, and she almost didn't hear his voice over the now spattering sound that surrounded them. The loud whisper of the rain on the water was punctuated only by the thumping noise it made when hitting the wooden boat, and the rumble of his voice.

"What?" she called, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the boat to keep her balance. She could feel a splinter digging into her palm, but she wasn't terribly concerned at the moment. He had said something, and it seemed important - after all, he didn't speak often. Not of his own free will, anyway.

He merely looked at her, as if annoyed that she hadn't heard him, and gave a shake of his head. He wasn't repeating himself, and she felt slightly disappointed. Her curiosity had been piqued, and the ruddy rain had ruined her hearing. Deciding it best to not push him, she leaned back and enjoyed the cool wetness until the rocking of the boat was more solid. They'd made contact with the shore, and she happily stood to get out. The wood was slippery when wet, and she caught her balance only barely.

However, the rocking had made it difficult for Snape to stand without wobbling, and he cast her a sharp glare that spoke volumes; he wasn't happy about looking foolish. She quickly stilled herself until he'd tied the boat off and then stepped out onto the land. She waited until he was completely steady before she climbed out, finding her hand in his without any effort.

Quickly withdrawing, she looked around and admired the rain falling down all around them. It was a perfect day to be released from prison in her opinion. Perfect.