Chapter 3: Snape's POV
It is late morning when I hear footsteps on my stairs. Startled, I reach for my wand before I remember. Remember the distasteful task the Dark Lord set for me. Perhaps he is testing me, that this is Bellatrix in disguise, trying to determine if I will show mercy to a Muggle, or he will summon us and interrogate her if I was kind hearted. But his orders were clear – I am not to physically harm her, so at least I don't have to torture for appearance's sake.
I've been in this game for a while though, and I've learned to trust my instincts. My gut says this isn't about me, but the girl. Woman, rather. Whatever the Dark Lord has in store for her, it certainly won't be pleasant. But my brain keeps picking at the mystery, curious how this random American Muggle woman picked up Voldemort's attention. She's stunning, there's no denying it. But if he merely wanted to use her for sport, he would have done it already. My blasted inquisitive nature is what got me involved in the Dark Arts to begin with. I should have learned by now to leave well enough alone.
However, if she is important to Voldemort, she may be important to foiling his plan. If she is, she is completely oblivious to it. Coming down the stairs, she yawns, stretching languidly. Then she must notice me at the table, and she stiffens, freezing mid-inhale.
"Sorry, I didn't realize you were still down here." She turns as if to head back upstairs.
"It's fine. Sit." It comes out brusquer than I intended, but there's no point trying to be courteous to this muggle. She'll probably be dead before the end of the summer. My conscience prickles me. Perhaps that is a reason to be nice to her. But treating her well will just confuse her more. I resent that Voldemort has kept me so removed from his plans that I cannot even answer the inquisitive doe's questions.
She approaches slowly, each footfall deliberate, as if she is waiting for a trap to spring.
"Did you already eat?" she asks, voice small.
"I did."
She approaches the refrigerator, and I leap to my feet, tossing down the newspaper. My sudden movement startles her, which has the benefit of stopping her, arm outstretched to the refrigerator door. If she opens it, she will see that it is nearly empty of food, and holding an odd assortment of suspended beetle wings, fly eyeballs, and other temperature-sensitive potion ingredients.
"Please, sit," I say, stiffly. "Allow me. What do you want to eat?"
"Well, what do you have?" Her tone is steady, but her eyes are still blown wide in fear.
"Whatever you want," I say without thinking. A muggle couldn't make such a generous offer, and she's confused enough about her situation here that I don't want to add in the existence magic.
She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. I try to ignore how delectable that makes her full lips look. She's still in her pajamas and, I realize as she turns away from the fridge to sit at the table, is not wearing a bra, judging by how freely her chest sways.
"I guess toast and scrambled eggs would be good. And some coffee," she ventures.
Such a simple request. But I suppose she seems sensible enough to not ask her captor for bonbons and champagne.
"Cream in your coffee?" I ask, turning toward the counters.
"Yes, please."
I try to make a big show in the kitchen, conjuring smells and the sound of eggs frying, and I keep the lights low so she can't see the details of what I'm doing, if she even cares to look. She hasn't proven too observant yet, most Muggles aren't. Or maybe she's just not remarking on the oddities she's noticed.
I wait a few minutes, after conjuring her food and coffee, and then bring her plate to her.
She inhales the aroma of the coffee deeply, a peaceful smile settling on her face, like for a moment she was transported away from me and this house. Tucking into the food, she makes a bit of a face of disappointment. I suppose food made magically is never quite as flavorful as that made by hand, but it's so much more convenient, and I don't care to cook.
I turn back to my newspaper, doing my best to return to ignoring her. I had a month – a month – of summer vacation solitude before I had to start looking after the prisoner.
She rises, and puts her plates in the sink. I hear the faucet turn on.
"Leave it," I say, but it comes out as more of an order.
"Are you sure? I assumed that you want me to pick up after myself."
"I'd rather have you out of the space," I say honestly. Perhaps too honestly. But really, I'm not going to have the poor captive doing dishes when I can just charm them clean.
She turns to head back upstairs, but then stops and stalks nearer. Sensing she's in a combative mood, I lower the newspaper. I was wondering if I was ever going to see some fight from her.
"You abduct me, order me around, seemingly want me gone, give me no explanation at all, leaving me to wonder what is wrong with you – are you crazy? In the mob? Involved in human trafficking? Is this how you get off, this particular type of cruelty, not telling me who you are or what is going on? Please, Snape," my name sounds unfamiliar on her tongue, "tell me why I'm here. I'm driving myself mad."
I glare at her and stand to my full height. How dare she speak to me so demandingly in my own home. But I realize her eyes are brimming with tears, and my weary soul softens for a moment. I can only maintain so much cruelty.
"I cannot tell you, because I do not know myself." That seemingly pulls her up short. She must be thinking I'm crazy for sure now. Deciding to be reckless for once, in case it gives her some measure of comfort, I continue. "My...boss instructed me to hold you here. He did not tell me why."
"Do you know...how long I will be here for?"
"I don't." I tell myself it's not a lie. She could be needed anytime before the end of the summer, no telling when, exactly.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, trying to soften her harsh reality.
She swallows hard, and her eyes look past me. "Will your boss?"
I hesitate. She's helpless to do anything about her situation. Maybe it would a kindness to lie, so she wouldn't worry so much. One of the limited ways I can protect her. But I've never been one to sugarcoat reality for others. After all, no one ever did for me.
"Probably," I answer honestly.
To my surprise, she doesn't blubber or scream or plead. Her shoulders sag, but it almost seems as if it is with relief, that at least something makes more sense. Otherwise, she bears the news stoically. With a nod, and turns to go back upstairs. I think I hear a whispered "thank you", but I tell myself it's just my mind playing tricks on me.