C o n t r o l

(Victim is in the captor's control)

I think I might've blacked out, because the next thing I remember was a horrible smell and bright lights. I coughed.

"Up," growled a rumbling voice. I opened my eyes slowly, realizing that someone was holding something under my nose. I batted the awful-smelling thing away, and hands removed it. I looked up.

And there he was. In black robes, as expected, with dark, dark brown eyes and a hooked nose, greasy hair hanging limply around his ears. He looked nothing like the actor, but he was easy to recognize to my eyes. I blinked sleepily at him.

"This isn't h-happening," I declared, rolled over and closed my eyes. I was still tired.

Have I mentioned that I've got a stutter? It only gets bad if I'm nervous or excited, but it's rather noticeable, to me, anyway. Severus, luckily, did not comment on it.

"Oh yes it is," he hissed and grasped my shoulder, pulled me back. He glared.

And I'll be honest. I was frightened. His eyes were snapping and he snarled, "Get up, Muggle."

I did as I was bid, too afraid to do otherwise.

And it hurt, too, that he was being so mean to me. I'd had him pinned as a good guy in my mind, after all. My eyes grew misty, but I blinked it away. He was mean, I reminded myself, that was his personality.

I drew myself up. "A-are you going t-to take me to d-Dumbledore?" I whispered, eyes downcast.

"What?" he hissed, and glanced around. I heard a window snap shut.

The shock in his voice made me look up.

We were in a room with sunlight streaming through the windows. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with books. It was… not cheerful, really, but not dank and dark, and certainly not dungeons, either.

This wasn't Hogwarts, I realized. Where were we? I looked at him.

And immediately looked down. His face was like a thundercloud. "What makes you think that?" he spat.

I shivered, afraid. He was really, really scary. I was fighting back tears.

Yeah, I was fifteen at the time. I'm a wimp, what can I say? I shut my eyes.

"You know," I mumbled, "Y-you work for him."

I'd always trusted him. Always. But now, now that he was here, so real and so scary, my trust was wavering, and it broke my heart. I really did like him. Or, rather, liked his character. His reality was, however, almost too much for me.

"I thought," he said slowly, threateningly, and I cringed away a bit, "you said Lucius was the spy."

I shivered. "D-d-d-didn't w-wan-n-nt t-to in-in-in-incrimi-n-nate you," I managed, my stutter getting worse in my fear. I took a peek at him.

He was staring at me. "You do realize," he snarled furiously and I cringed away again, "that you've just fooled the strongest wizard of our time?"

"He's g-got l-Legilimency," I whispered, "I j-just remembered f-fanfiction."

I think I did trust him, even then. I wouldn't have told him that, otherwise.

Actually, I shouldn't've told him that, to be honest.

"Fanfiction," he said in disgust, and that was my breaking point. A few tears leaked down between my lashes. And they weren't the perfect single tear by any stretch of the imagination – my nose started to clog up and they were salty and stinging. I tried hard not to sniff and wiped the tears away.

"S-saved your l-life, though, didn't it?" I whispered hoarsely to my feet. I felt him move away.

"It's true, then," he said harshly. "This is a book."

I nodded.

"What is it called, may I ask? And who is the author?" he growled. I never knew someone could ask a question so curiously and be so intimidating at the same time.

I grimaced, and tried not to sniffle. "Um… if-if you'll excuse me, I d-don't think you really want to know what it's c-called," I said quickly, afraid of his reaction to my refusal, "but the author's JK r-Rowling."

He glared, and I backed off. "Harry Potter t-takes the title, m-Mr. Snape" I said. Where Mr. Snape came from, I don't know, but there it was.

"Potter," he spat, "naturally."

Well. It was an improvement, to be honest. At least he wasn't being all nasty to me…

I shrugged a little, and wiped away one of my irritating tears. "Book's f-from his point of view, too," I offered, hoping that he saw the olive branch, "kind of annoying, actually. You see e-everything through Harry-colored glasses."

Snape snorted, as if amused, but then turned flashing eyes to me. "You will not be able to win me over with niceties, Muggle girl," he spat, "I can see right through you."

I flinched as if slapped, and it felt like he'd just lured me over with a sweet, only to box my ears as I approached. I closed my eyes, calming myself. So much for making peace, I thought.

He was mean, the little girl in me wailed.

Of course he's mean, I thought back, he's Snape. I squeezed my eyes shut, preventing more tears. "Where are w-we?" I whispered, "This isn't H-Hogwarts."

"Don't ask questions," he spat, "and sit down. Tea?" I blinked, startled, and looked at him. He was wearing a thunderous expression and holding out a plain white tea cup as if it would bite him. I wondered momentarily where it had come from, but then realized that he had probably conjured it. I've never really liked tea, so I shook my head. "N-no thanks," I whispered.

He gave a little nod and poured himself a cup.

"I," he started, falling into what seemed to be his default sneer, "do not live in Hogwarts year round. This is Spinner's End." He sipped. I didn't know someone could look so scary while drinking tea.

"Oh," I said softly. Half Blood Prince hadn't come out yet, remember, so I didn't know this.

"Don't interrupt," he snapped after he'd swallowed, "Tell me, girl, who will win this war?"

I blinked at him. "Um. The series isn't f-finished yet, and I probably shouldn't t-tell you, anyway," I said, my sentence fading away as he glared. I squirmed in my seat, but I held my ground.

"Should you not?" he growled, intimidating me for all he was worth. I shrank in my seat.

"I d-don't really know, to be honest," I whispered, afraid, "I suspect Dumbledore's side, but I c-could be wrong. The series isn't f-finished yet."

Snape's eyes glinted for a moment. "And what year are you up to, in this book?"

I shrugged. "Harry P-Potter's fifth year."

Snape looked startled, for a moment. "Who is the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher?" he asked, sounding more curious than intimidating.

I wrinkled my nose. "Umbrige," I said.

"That witch!" Snape exclaimed, leaping up, "that conceited ministry pawn? What is Dumbledore thinking?"

It clicked. This was the summer before Harry's fifth year.

You shouldn't've told him that, I thought to myself. Too late now. I smiled faintly. "Yeah," I whispered, offering another olive branch, "She's a t-toad, isn't she? The whole m-ministry's a toad." I thought for a second, realized that it wouldn't hurt and added, "You'll want to make a batch of f-fake Veritaserum. She'll ask you for the r-real stuff, later. This year is r-rather disastrous." I smiled at him shyly.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then, to my shock, he didn't say something nasty. "I see," he said lowly. He studied me for a long time, and I fiddled with my necklace.

I sighed softly, homesick already. Then I blinked. "M-Mr. Snape?" I asked quietly. I figured I'd called him that once and he hadn't responded with anger…

"What?" he asked sharply, far-away eyes focusing.

I ignored the tone and asked softly, "Do you n-know where my backpack is? I had it when… when Belatrix L-Lestrange brought me here."

Snape snorted. "It's Le-strange. Not Le-stronge," He said scornfully. I quirked a half-smile at him, self-mocking. "I always r-read names wrong," I said.

"Oh?" he purred dangerously, "What of my name?"

I smiled now. Self-mockery was my thing. "Oh, you were al-always Severus Snape to me," I said, but then leaned in towards him with a shy grin, "but I thought the g-game Exploding Snap was Exploding Snape for a while, and w-wondered for a while why thirteen-year-olds wanted to p-play pretend."

He snorted. I was beginning to think that that was all he could do. He didn't laugh – he snorted. Well, at least I'd amused him. If I'm amusing, maybe he won't be so mean to me, I thought.

No such luck.

He drawled nastily, "My, my, you must be incompetent."

Alright. That really hurt. The words weren't so bad, but it was the condescending, cruel tone. Here I was, trying to be friendly, and he had to go and be nasty like that. Tears pricked my eyes again. Damn it, I thought, hating to be so sensitive. I tried to shake them away, but it didn't work. I bit the inside of my cheek, and that sort of worked. I was shy, but by now I was assured that he wasn't going to harm me, so I plucked up what little courage I had and said, "That was un-uncalled f-for. I l-like you a lot; I was h-hoping that w-we c-could at least be s-civil."

His eyes flashed. Wrong thing to say, I realized a second before he exploded. "L-like me a l-lot?" he mocked, "Does my character fascinate you, little girl? Training to be a psychologist? Think I'd be an interesting case? I'm no figure of fantasy, little Muggle girl, I'm as real as can be, and not your little sugar coated imaginary friend."

I reeled back and tears immediately sprung to my eyes. That was really mean! I wiped them away.

"I could kill you with a word," he growled, moving to stand in front of me, a tower of black cloak.

I was sniffling by now.

"Weakling," he spat, "I know your type. You live in a world of your own making, a fantasy land. Well, here you are, in your world – like it?" he demanded harshly, "Think it's f-fun?"

I glared at him under wet lashes, heart broken as he mocked my stutter. I had sugar coated him; the Severus of my mind was nowhere near this mean. He was sharply witty, yeah, but not like this, not unreasonably nasty. The real Snape in front of me wasn't really witty, he was just cruel and mocking.

"There's a room upstairs," he growled. "Now go."

I fled like a bat out of hell.

-

My bag was sitting on the bed when I got there. My eyes stung and all I really wanted to do was to sit down and have a really good cry. He was right, in a way, I was a bit of a weakling, back then. I did cry a bit, head down in the pillow, but after fifteen minutes or so I was cried out. My life in general isn't really that distressing, so I don't have that much crying stamina. I wiped my eyes and tried to get a hold of myself, hiccupping softly. I tried to build another wall, but the red bricks in my mind were too cheerful, and I was too distracted. The wall wavered and vanished like so much mist. I looked around my room, fiddling with my oak leaf necklace.

You'll notice that I've started calling him Snape, rather than Severus, while in the beginning I was using his first name. This is because, at the time, I wasn't on first-name basis with him, and in my mind I called him Snape. Later, when we got to know each other a bit, I would start to call him by his first name.

I was really lucky, I thought faintly, trying to cheer myself up, I had a bathroom. It would be awkward to go downstairs each time I had to go or wanted to shower.

I was still upset. I turned to my backpack.

I had some books, but I didn't really want to read. I took out a sheet of paper and started doodling.

I can't draw. My studio art class in ninth grade had been humiliating because I am simply unable to draw. My lions look like cows and my cows like aliens. I can draw a decent tree and a pretty good dragon, but that's about it. Maybe, if it's a good day, I can draw a cartoon-ish horse, but that's not very often. I drew a dragon.

I love drawing dragons, despite the fact that they all come out looking like demented puppets or something. I can get absorbed in them, drawing eyes and trying to draw fire in them, never succeeding.

It took my mind off of Snape's cruelty, my dragon. I relaxed a bit, drawing wings and little curly mustaches. I made them as aerodynamic as I could, putting sails on their backs in order to balance them, made huge, huge wings to keep them aloft. I drew one with a little ball-toy-thing and another breathing fire (or something kind of like fire, you can never tell with my drawings). I drew an enlarged eye, with slit pupils and I tried to put fire in it, but it came out looking like cataracts.

I sighed, an hour later, page filled front and back with dragons. Or things that at least looked like dragons. I tried to draw a horse in the upper left hand corner, but it ended up looking sort of vulgar so I crossed it out.

I was bored, now.

Next I tried writing. Not stories, my ego was too bruised for that, but little poems about how mean Snape was. I'm not that great at writing poems, too, unless I get into a mood. I'll spare you, reader; they were rather bad.

So I sat and wrote for another hour or so until I started to get hungry. The exact same moment my stomach complained, a plate of food appeared before me. I blinked, startled, but then I ate it cautiously. I took one bite, and about fifteen minutes later I felt no effect, so I finished it, still worrying an hour later if I'd die from poison or something. But, as you can see, I'm alive and well, so the food was not poisoned.

The first three days or so were like that, me shut up in that little room with nothing to do but eat and sleep and doodle and write. I showered five times, killing time. I slept badly – having nothing to do tends to do that. On the fourth day, though, I wanted something else to do. Stupidly, I forgot that The Odyssey was in my bag and I could have just read that. I decided to go downstairs and ask Snape for something to read. I plucked up my courage and walked from the room, down the stairs where I found Snape making a potion.

I know it's a cliché to say that I was amazed, but it's true. It was like he was dancing, and not some idiotic impromptu thing, but really dancing, really showing emotion. There was an open greenish book and blue steam rose gently from the great black cauldron, and I remember thinking – I've never seen steam that color before. He was chopping some orange thing – a root perhaps – and the rhythmatic sound of the knife combined with the soft bubble of the caldron and the hiss of the flames to create a kind of music. As he chopped, his body swayed slightly, and, after he finished, light on his feet he strode over and tipped the orange thing into the cauldron. It seemed as if he never touched the ground. He took a long wooden spoon and stirred, the soft swishing of it filling the room. Again he swayed softly, completely absorbed. I stood by the doorway, mesmerized.

He was beautiful, I thought to myself. Then I was embarrassed and angry at myself at the same time. He was cruel, I reminded myself, and nasty and he'll bite your head off as soon as look at you. I sighed.

He didn't even notice.

I stood there for perhaps half an hour before he finished; finally a red potion bubbled softly. He turned down the heat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He turned to sit on one of the chairs, and froze when he saw me. The relaxed look vanished, and he scowled.

"What do you want, Muggle?" he spat.

It didn't hurt this time, I realized. I was angry, now, but I knew better than to show it. If I snapped at him, there'd definitely be a shouting match. And he would definitely win. I'm not really good at the whole witty comeback thing unless you give me three hours to come up with one and a pad of paper to write it on.

"I was w-wondering if you have any n-novels I could read," I said softly. I wanted to bring up the potion, but didn't know how. He looked at me for a long moment before, to my shock, he nodded curtly and strode over to one of the bookshelves, snatched a book and thrust it at me. "Here," he said, and the warning that if I damaged it in any way, shape or form I'd be dead meat was perfectly clear. I smiled faintly, and took it carefully.

"Thanks," I said, trying to be polite. I glanced at the potion, now still in its cauldron.

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

"Wolfsbane," he said suddenly. I looked at him for a moment and then I realized–

"F-for Lupin?"

He was looking at me thoughtfully. "Yes."

I looked at him, as if for permission, and then slowly approached the caldron. I peered inside it, careful not to get too close. I leaned away from it and looked back at him. "It's red? I pictured it as b-brownish."

"It changes color," he said. His voice was surprisingly civil. "What grade are you in?" He asked suddenly.

I blinked. I thought he, being a wizard, wouldn't know of this sort of thing. "Tenth," I answered.

"You are studying chemistry?" his voice, now, was stern rather than cruel. I was startled. Why did he know this? I knew better than to ask.

"Yeah." I decided to be bold. "B-bio is m-more my thing, though."

It was a risk, and I waited on tender hooks, but I was rewarded.

"Bio?" he scoffed, "Bio is nothing without Chem."

I was floored. Here, finally, something I can respond to! I relaxed.

"P-perhaps," I said, "but I'd rather c-concentrate on the things I can s-see and interact with than math-y c-chemicals." I smiled at him hopefully.

"Bio can't do this," he gestured at his caldron.

"It can d-do other things," I asserted, enjoying myself now, although I knew I was on thin ice, "it's the reason you're s-standing here, talking."

"No, that's Chem," he said, and I had to tell myself not to stare. He'd quirked a tiny, almost mischievous smile.

"Ah," I responded to his half-smile with a full one of my own, "it could be ar-argued that that's physics."

He scoffed. "Physics is nothing but mathematics and laws."

"I have t-to agree with you on that one," I grinned. I was delighted. Civil conversation! This man was extremely unpredictable. One moment he's snarling, the next he's smiling. Perhaps I have to leave him alone for three days before his mood changes, I reflected with an inner chuckle.

There was an almost comfortable silence.

"Well?" he demanded harshly, suddenly, "are you going to read that or not?"

One civil conversation must be his quota for the week, I thought. I nodded and, waving the book a bit, said, "T-thanks," before racing up the stairs.

I could feel his eyes on my back, as if he was appraising me.

--