A/N: I've been waiting to work on this for a long time, and now that I've finally sat down to write it, the words are practically appearing on the page! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Chapter 2

The house the mysterious man leads me through is dim, the stair case seems rickety, and the air itself is stale, like the house is not often lived in. Combined with my confusion on what day it is, the old fashioned light fixtures, overstuffed wingback chairs, mountains of books, and silk wallpaper give the sense of being out of place in time. I feel like I was yanked from my time, my world and deposited a few hundred years ago in the middle of England.

I still have so many questions, but the man has made it clear he won't be answering them, so I simply follow him in silence. So far, he hasn't hurt me. I just have to hope it stays that way.

On the first floor, we pass the living room, a couple of closed doors, and enter the kitchen. It's quaint, but more modern than the rest of the house. The stainless steel appliances assure me that though I'm in a foreign country, I am seemingly still in my own time. A pair of French glass doors lead to the back patio, and I cannot help but stare at them.

"Miss Daisy, let's be civilized," the man says, startling me. His voice is smooth, but it sends a shiver down my spine. "If you agree not to do something rash and certain to fail, I won't restrain you. Do we have a deal?"

I pull my gaze from the doors, turning to face the man, who is standing at one side of the small table.

"I don't make deals with people whose names I don't know," I say, trying to probe him for more information.

"By all means, make a run for it. I don't mind. But you may find yourself quite...put out." It's the vagueness of the threat that makes me the most uneasy. He doesn't have a gun or knife on him from what I can tell, but he could be concealing it in his cloak.

With a glare, I sit at the other side of the round wooden table. He turns his back, walking to the counters further in the kitchen, returning with two plates of steaming food. My stomach grumbles audibly. He cocks an eyebrow in amusement as he sets one down in front of me. I don't wait for him to sit before I start digging into the food.

It's extremely British – baked potato, boiled beans, chicken potpie and cornbread – and tastes as bland as it looks, but I don't complain. I feel as though I haven't eaten in days. Maybe I haven't. Again, I try to rack my memories for some explanation of how I got here, but there is nothing.

I finish the plate of food in minutes. My stomach gurgles happily, but it's still aching for more. Not wanting to test the dark man before me, I sit silently, gaze at the table. I don't trust his stormy eyes that look at me with equal parts disinterest and heat. I'm afraid to find out why I am being kept prisoner, but not knowing is its own form of torture.

"Do you want more?" he asks, breaking into my thoughts.

I risk a glance up at him, slouched over his own plate. He doesn't look as threatening while we're seated at the same table in this quaint room. "Yes, please."

He stands with a flourish, returning to the counters to get me more food. Strangely, when I peer past him, I don't see any dishes or pots where he's taking the food from. But my mind is quickly preoccupied by other matters. When I asked him before, he made it sound like he was forced to keep me captive. Maybe he's not the man in charge here...am I being held for ransom? It's not like my family is all that wealthy, but my father works for the government. Maybe they're trying to blackmail him somehow?

My stomach twists in knots at that thought, and I end up only pushing the second plate of food around, barely nibbling at it. At least, I try to rationalize, if the man was going to attack me, he probably would have already.

I feel the prickling heat of his gaze on me, and I force myself to bring my gaze to meet his. I'm still unprepared to deal with the intensity of his eyes, so guarded, but still they seem to draw me closer.

"Since you will be here for the foreseeable future-"

"Is there anything I can do to be freed? I can give you money, my father could use his connections to-"

He holds up one hand for silence, and I bite back the torrent of words.

"No. And as I was going to say, we need to lay out some ground rules. First of which, you will not interrupt me."

I press my lips together so they don't blubber. Seeing that I will be silent, he continues.

"Secondly, you will not leave this house. All the doors and windows are alarmed. I will know the second you try to leave, and you will be punished accordingly. Lastly, I will be coming and going. You will keep yourself preoccupied in some harmless fashion or another. I do not care. But you will not traipse around after me in the house, pester me with questions, or otherwise irritate me."

"That's...it?" His rules are so...mild.

"That's it," he answers curtly. "It would be best for both of us if I can pretend for as long as possible each day that you are not here."

"I...don't understand."

"I expect you don't."

Risking a question, I take a deep breath. "Can you tell me anything about why I am being held?"

"No." The gravity of this situation begins to sink in, though I am still struggling to comprehend what is going on.

"You can eat three times a day. You can use your bedroom, kitchen, and the living room as you wish. You will stay out of all the other rooms, and you will never open a closed door. You will be quiet, and when I am in a room, you should be in a different one. Is that clear?"

"Yes," I mumble, eyes downcast. Why keep me trapped here if he wants nothing to do with me? Is this some sick form of torture?

"Good. I expect you are still tired from the...journey. Follow me."

I do so, obedient while I am still trying to figure out this crazy man. Aside from his strange clothes, he seems so normal, calm, and even handsome, if in an unconventional way. I don't want to do anything to disrupt this uneasy status quo. But I will not be indefinitely kept prisoner by this stranger. He leads me back up the stairs to the hallway outside of the room I woke up in. I suppose that will be my bedroom. The man mutters something to himself, and then opens a closet door. I'm starting to see some hints of his peculiarities. Maybe he's not as stable as he seems.

"You will want different clothes to sleep in, no doubt. I suspect that dress is not too comfortable."

I glance down, remembering for the first time what I had worn to the mall...my skin-tight denim dress with the triangle cut outs around my abdomen and lower back. I start to feel myself flush. No wonder I saw him glance at my cleavage. I wore this trying to attract the attention of the college seniors who hang out at the food court...clearly that didn't work out as planned.

He pulls out of the hall closet an oversized plain black t-shirt and linen trousers. I nod, accepting the bundle of clothes.

"There is a bathroom one door to the right. You'll find the toiletries you need in there."

"Thank you."

He stiffens at that. I suppose gratitude wasn't what he expected, but I sense my situation, as confusing and tenuous as it seems, could be a lot worse.

I can feel he wants me to go into the room now, locked away for the night, probably. Still, my head spins with questions.

He turns on his heel, heading back down the stairs.

"I," I call out before I can help myself. He turns back around, looking at me with impatience. I suppose I have to speak now. "Will you at least tell me what to call you?"

His stormy eyes seem to churn with uncertainty and reluctance. "My name is Snape."

I cannot help but stiffen in surprise at the unusual name. He probably made it up, I realize after he's already down the stairs. I tread into the bedroom and shut the door before changing into the clothes – his clothes, I realize. I try to brush off the strange sense of intimacy I feel wearing his clothes.

Despite how long I must have already been sleeping, when I climb into the bed, I quickly fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.