Chapter 6

A/N: Raised the rating to M since I guess I hadn't made the relationship dynamic clear enough. If you don't like hostage/captive relationships, don't read.

I stay upstairs for a full day. After a few hours, my terror subsides to a general panic. When I'm undisturbed through the night, I awake with his mistreatment feeling like a bad dream. But when I slip out to the bathroom to relieve myself and shower, I see two splotchy bruises on my shoulders where Snape grabbed me.

Absentmindedly, I trace one of my fingers over the bruise on my left shoulder. How long as it been since another person touched me – over a week? Two weeks? The days are all blending together. Is that why having his hands on me excited me so much? Or was it the coiled power I sensed in his touch, held restrained by a thread?

I push such thoughts away – I'm not so stupid as to come on to my short-tempered captor – so it doesn't matter. Stepping into the shower, I crank it up as hot as I can stand, trying to steam away my stress and fear. For the fifteen minutes or so that I linger in the shower, it works. But eventually I have to leave. I hastily redress in his borrowed clothes and press my ear to the door, listening to hear if Snape has awoken. I can't hide in the bathroom forever, but the last thing I want is to run into him in that dim, narrow hallway.

With a deep breath to gather my courage, I yank the door open and start to sprint to the relative safety of my room. And then I trip over a bag, left at the bottom of the door. I fall on my knees hard and mutter a swear.

I hear someone's footsteps downstairs. Quickly righting myself, I get to my feet, ignoring the burst of pain from my right knee, and scramble to pick up the bundle of clothes. I limp across the hall and slam my bedroom door as I hear Snape start to climb the staircase.

My heart racing, his footsteps thud up to the top of the staircase. The floorboard just outside my door squeaks. I hold my breath while I wait for him to knock or just open the door to start scolding me again. But a few long seconds later, I hear his quiet footfalls tread back downstairs. I sigh in relief.

But then I look down at my knee, and I realize I'm in serious trouble. It's already starting to swell and seems to be sitting at an awkward angle.

"Shit," I mutter to myself. My partially formed escape plan doesn't work if I can't run. And it's not like Snape will take me to get medical attention.

My stomach grumbles loudly. I have to go down to eat eventually, but now I don't know if I can even navigate the stairs.

I manage another day without having to meet Snape, tortured by my self-imposed hunger strike and the increasingly inflamed and painful knee. I hardly slept last night as I tossed in vain to get comfortable. But my hunger pangs are becoming unbearable, so at the first light of dawn, I manage to pull myself out of bed, and navigate to the door by hopping and pulling myself along the shelves. At the stairs, I sit down awkwardly, my right leg extended in front of me, and I scoot my way down the stairs. I feel particularly foolish, but at least Snape isn't witnessing this.

At the bottom of the stairs, I pull myself upright using the banister and then hop down the hall, one hand pressed against the wall for stability.

When the full kitchen comes into view, to my surprise, Snape is already up. I freeze.

He glances up at me, and then does a double take, his eyes on my injured knee.

"What happened?" he exclaims, rising to his feet.

"I fell," I say, voice small.

He takes a step toward me, and I flinch on instinct. And then I watch him stiffen and pull back.

"Forgive me," he mutters. "It...concerns me to see you hurt." I wonder what is motivating this sudden outpouring of concern for me. "When did that happen?"

"Yesterday."

He sucks in a breath. Is it out of pity that I suffered so long? Concern that I'm clearly not getting better on my own?

"Sit, please," he says simply.

I hop my way to the nearest kitchen chair.

"Let me make you some tea. It will make you feel better."

I settle into the chair while he puts the kettle on, bustling around the kitchen as if in search of something to do. I'm already worried about how I will get up the stairs. Maybe coming down was a mistake, and I should have just yelled for Snape to bring me food. Though that didn't seem likely to happen.

Soon, the kettle whines and Snape pours me a cup. He lingers with it in the kitchen, and I wonder what is taking him so long to bring it over. My stomach growls again, loud enough that he can probably hear it.

He approaches the table with the tea and a plate of danishes. Greedily, I gobble down a pastry while I wait for the steaming tea to cool.

"I suppose medical attention is too much to ask for?" My sleep deprivation makes me more direct than I otherwise would be.

"No, I don't think that will be possible. Your tea is cool enough now, you should drink it."

"You English overestimate the power of a cup of tea."

"You might be surprised."

As the warm beverage heats my belly, I find myself getting sleepy. Lazily, almost nonchalantly, I wonder if he put some sort of pain killer in the tea. Because I am feeling almost weightless and very, very sleepy.

"Wow, that's good tea," I mutter.

For a second, it looks like Snape bites back a grin, and then his mask of composure returns. "I'm glad you like it." His voice, always deep, seems to have taken on a particularly soothing tone.

My eyes start to flutter closed, though I feel a last rush of adrenaline at being unconscious around Snape and try to stay awake. But whatever concoction is in the tea drags me to sleep.

Snape POV

Stupid girl, I think to myself. She's still dressed in my old pajamas, despite how I had to traipse to that Muggle store to get her new clothes. But I suppose she couldn't easily change with her injured knee. I wait a few more minutes, watching her face, now more relaxed than I've ever seen it, and her breathing even. I need her to be completely asleep before I dare to pull out my wand.

For the briefest moment, I'm struck by her beauty, her slightly curled hair tumbling down her back as the sun from the window catches her highlights and turns her skin golden. I allow myself just a second to marvel at the fact that I have a beautiful woman dozing in my kitchen, wearing my clothes. If my school friends could see this, they wouldn't believe it.

I scoot my chair closer to her, allowing myself to stroke my thumb over her cheek. She stirs ever so slightly, and I withdraw my hand as if burned. But then she settles back with a gentle sigh. On my next heartbeat, my chest feels tighter as guilt begins to wash over me. Guilt for my part in supporting the Dark Lord. For imprisoning this tender woman. For being the cold-hearted bastard that I am, who scared her out of her wits and didn't know how, or if, to apologize afterwards. So instead I left her to her own devices, knowing full well that meant she hadn't eaten for two days.

Worst of all, I missed her presence during that time. I missed the floral scent that clings inexplicably to her skin. Missed her intelligent eyes. Missed the way she used to look at me, like I was a demigod that fascinated her despite her better judgement. Now, she just looks at me with fear. And I can't blame her. My outburst when I caught her testing my wards made me no better than my father.

In her sleep, she whimpers slightly, and I curse myself for delaying. But what is going to happen next won't be pleasant for her or me. Quickly, I cast the statis charm to keep her asleep until I release her. Next, I practice the wand motion I need. It's been a while since I performed healing directly, and I can't afford to get this wrong. Her knee looks twisted, and this spell will force the joint back into place.

After a few practice incantations, I summon my magic for the real one, calling out the incantation and willing her knee to repair itself.

As the magic winds its way into her joint, slowly knitting her ligaments back, her whole body stiffens, a small groan from her lips. But thanks to the status spell and the mild painkiller potion I laced her tea with, she does not cry out.

I sigh with relief once the spell is completed, and I pull on her ankle twice, testing the motion of her knee is smooth and easy. Then I remove the statis charm and wait for her to awake. I could try to erase her memory of the fall and her injury, but I risk damaging her mind. Instead, I am counting on her to be as observant as the usual muggle, and dismiss away what doesn't make sense.

While I wait for her to awake, I allow myself the simple pleasure of soaking in her presence. There are so few good things in my life – peace and quiet among the one that I savor the most – and I deny myself most pleasures as a form of self-recrimination for my past unforgivable sins. But this woman... so soft, so gentle. Her vulnerability is dangerous. For her, but also for me, as I fight not to try to play hero.

I've tried to ignore her, but it hasn't escaped my notice how she reads voraciously – and some of the most difficult literary books I own. Or how when she allows herself, she has a warm smile that sets my stomach fluttering. Perhaps most impressive of all is her composure. If she's broken down over being a prisoner, it hasn't been in front of me. And I now suspect she's not as docile as I thought. I think she calculatedly asked me to pick her up more things so she could be alone in the house and test if it was as fortified as I claimed.

But there's no point in admiring the woman. Her fate is already sealed. Even if it wasn't, after my display of rage the other day, she wants even less to do with me than before. As her captor, she feared me initially, but was slowly seeming to trust I wouldn't hurt her. Now she looks more afraid than ever, and I didn't even dare to help her into her seat lest I frighten her more.

She makes a small whimper, and her eyes start to flutter open. Hastily, I place my mask of indifference back on, holding an expression of stone as I conjure my own cup of tea and a crossword. From the corner of my eye, I see she rubs her eyes, sits up a bit straighter in the chair, and looks around.

"What time is it?" she murmurs.

"Just past seven."

She rubs her eyes again, and then one hand jolts to her knee. She glances down at it, running one hand over the joint. Her brow is furrowed, her expression cross.

"Everything alright?" I venture. Will she dare to voice her confusion? Will she finally call me out for using magic?

"Yes, I- I guess I must have dozed off." She pauses, glancing around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. "I had the strangest dream."

"It's still early. Perhaps you should go back to bed."

She yawns again, stretching her arms wide. "I suppose I should." Seemingly absent-mindedly, she grabs another pastry and walks back to the stairs.

She is hesitant on her right leg, almost testing out the joint, but then she quickly returns to a normal gait. I hear her pause at the foot of the stairs, and I steal a glance down the hallway. She's peering into the urn, as though checking that remnants of her dress are in there, confirming to herself that she didn't dream the entirety of the past two days.