Chapter 4: Daisy POV

I spend the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom. Snape made it clear he wants nothing to do with me, and I am happy to oblige. I feel less afraid when I am out of arm's reach. I still feel like he might snap at any moment and attack me. Though I also feel like I've trespassed too much on his space. It's no fault of my own, of course, but he's been kind enough to me, and I don't want to upset that precarious balance.

It has become clear that I won't figure out what I am doing here for a while, and for now, I want to relish in that ignorance. I have spent hours tossing and turning and imagining various fates worse than death. That certainly hasn't made me feel better. And I'm wasting however many hours I have that remain between now and then. I'm limited in my freedoms, but I can at least try to enjoy these relatively peaceful moments. At least I don't have to work in the restaurant, I think, managing to chuckle to myself.

To start, I scan the shelves that are stacked, in some places two thick, with books. Based on the covers, a fair number of them are fantasy books I haven't heard of, nearly all dealing with magic to some degree: spellcasting tutorials, astrology, and magic history. It's a little funny to think of this buttoned up man being so interested in fantasy books. But when I try to thumb through them, they're presented as if they are dry, instructional texts. Is this some bizarre British comedy that goes over my head? Instead of trying to puzzle through that, I gravitate for the poetry and novels of famous English authors.

When my stomach rumbles and the sun is high in the sky, I head downstairs. Though of course he said he had other things to do and wouldn't always be home, I'm still surprised he's not in the kitchen. For a moment I consider going to look for him in case he wants to eat together, but he said not to open any doors or to bother him.

I head to the fridge intending to fix myself lunch, when I notice the doors have been locked together with a heavy chain lock.

"What the hell?" I mutter to myself, yanking on the lock to see if it is a fake, some sort of joke. But it holds firm. How am I supposed to eat without breaking one of his rules? Looking at it closer, it seems almost to be glowing? I lean to inspect it closer.

"What are you doing?" Snape's deep voice rumbles behind me, and I jump nearly a foot upright.

I hadn't heard him come in. "I could ask you the same thing. What's this lock doing on the fridge?" It could be my imagination, but he stiffens just so slightly at my words. Did I overstep my bounds?

"You...can see the lock?"

I tilt my head, peering at him. Is this some weird game? "Obviously..."

He seems to shake himself slightly, clearing his head. "Yes, I mean, of course you can see it. I...I didn't want you raiding my food stores."

"Okay...but I'm hungry and want lunch."

"I...suppose that is fair. Give me just one moment, and I will prepare lunch. What do you want?"

"A sandwich, I guess?"

"Very well. Please, sit." He gestures at the table, but the movement seems hampered, rote. And I sense the command behind his kind words, sitting as requested.

While I wait, I thumb to the earmarked page where I stopped in the Keats poetry anthology. I'm only interrupted when Snape places the plate down in front of me.

I look up from the book to thank him, but there's something in his eyes that makes me pause. For the briefest moment, his usually disdainful gaze looks positively intrigued. But then his removed expression is back, and he cocks an eyebrow at me in inquiry.

"Thank you," I say simply.

"You're welcome." The words sound stiff, like he's not used to saying them. Perhaps he's also not used to being thanked by his captives. "I will be...unavailable until dinner. Please do not touch anything in the kitchen until I return."

"As you wish."

I spend the rest of the afternoon reading in the living room, settled in one of the overstuffed armchairs. I get sidetracked from the book quite often when I can see people in the yards and sidewalks. I've never know this strange desire to be near other people. Even just looking at them brings me a burst of yearning – to talk with them about the weather or even just make eye contact. Something to interrupt the confused monotony of my captivity and make me feel like a real, normal person again. But they all pass the house without a second glance, almost as if they don't even see it.

Days begin to pass, and Snape and I settle into an uneasy routine. I wake a little after dawn and eat while Snape reads the newspaper, having already prepared breakfast. He rebuffs all my attempts at contributing to the meals. I don't dare risk telling him this, but I think I could cook a lot better than he does. After breakfast, I return to my room to read and pass time staring out the window. At around noon, I head back downstairs for lunch, and usually Snape is not present, instead leaving out a sandwich and fresh fruit.

For the afternoon, I have the run of the kitchen and living room, which just means reading in a different location than I did in the morning. In the evening, I stay in the living room, gazing out the sidewalk as people stroll by, utterly envious of their freedom while Snape prepares dinner. We eat, usually in silence, and I then retreat to my bedroom once more, to lie awake, pondering my fate, whether I can trust that Snape has been honest, and how I could possibly get home.

I have never heard Snape leave, but he must sometimes, in the stretches when I do not encounter him in the three rooms I am allowed to enter. Often, my thoughts turn to escaping. I consider how I could break a window, run out during the evening commuting rush, and scream for help until someone called the police. Or run out in the middle of the night. I think I could outrun the near middle-age Snape. But I have no idea what direction to go to find help. And there's something so unusual about this house. There are locks on the doors and security bars on the lower level windows. But he said the exits were alarmed, yet I see no security system.

Could he be keeping me captive by empty threats alone? And yet, there is a cruelty in his eyes and the harsh lines of his form that suggests to me the potential for unimaginable evil. So far, he has been kind enough. I'm too worried about unleashing that cruelty to run on a half-baked escape plan.