Hello.

This is a first, fearful attempt at writing fiction. I always preferred unsavoury Snape, and so thats where I'm going. This is probably more of an exsercise in me indulging than anything else. Thanks to DraconisMalfoy14 for being my beta and pointing out a glaringly obvious omission.

I own nothing.

Have fun and be gentle.

P.s please forgive the hastily thought up title.

She turned from the basin which, oddly, was placed on the opposite wall to the mirror, and regarded her reflection. She was surprised at how intact her appearance was, given the ordeal she had endured. Her physical and mental being had been ravaged and pillaged enough that she had felt her insides congealing into ragged remnants, and had expected her face to follow suit.

It couldn't have been more than half day previous that she had applied her magically waterproof make up and hair styling products. They worked well enough for a few hours, but failed to ensure perfection for any length of time. Most witches as a matter of routine used muggle products to avoid the general faff of bewitched products, but on special occasions such as tonight, Hermione would opt for the magical equivalent. This way her much toiled at masterpiece was kept looking fresh for as long as possible, which explained her not yet ghastly appearance.

Her eyes had not changed, they had kept the lightly bronzed shadow and thin line of black that flicked out slightly at the tips. Her cheeks remained delicately pink although her subtle lipstick has long since waned. Her face was washed out but intact. Her hair, on the other hand, was a different matter. The strands had been forcibly removed from their bonds, whether on purpose or in the chaos she didn't know. The magical hairspray had diminished and reset itself, leaving it looking irreparably wild and tangled, so she tried her best to pat it down and tuck it behind her ears. She didn't know what was coming, but if she could ensure one less humiliation, she would do just that.

She'd been at a gala held in honour of the Order of the Phoenix to celebrate their role in Voldemort's defeat. She was on the honours list and was set to receive Order of Merlin, 1st Class, along with her two best friends, Harry and Ron. She was immensely proud of them and their achievements. This night was to mark the rise of the light and a new beginning for them all.

Something had gone wrong.

The festivities had barely started when they were ambushed. Everything had happened so quickly that Hermione had barely registered the stupify spell coming her way. It was smart tactic, taking her out early to rid the group of her famous defensive skills. She'd woken up here, groggy from the sleeping potion issued after the short round of 'roughing up' from the group of 'friendly' Death Eaters who no doubt viewed it as nothing more than a light dalliance to pass the time between raids.

A fizzing and a clicking alerted her to the impending presence of another. She cursed silently. Not yet fully compos mentis, she didn't feel equipped to navigate this situation so quickly. From a brief training session with the Order many months ago, before the end of the war, Hermione remembered that in captive situations, it was imperative to establish favorable roles within the relationship from the outset, lest risk becoming set in an inexpedient dynamic for the duration.

She stood defiantly and turned towards the doorless wall where she could detect the presence of charms being countered, presumably to let her new friend into the room. If she felt out of sync from the effects of a sleeping draught, it was nothing compared to the shock she felt when she laid eyes upon the man who entered through the bricks. Sneering as he took up a dominant stance, the man said nothing as he allowed Hermione to jerk her sluggish mind into action. His greasy, black hair fell limp at his face, which was covered with the remnants of a nasty battle. His stoney eyes scanned over the small figure in front of him as his lips curled further down at the corners. He regarded her like this for a moment, something close to revulsion etched on his features, before finally he spoke.

"You will," Snape purred, taking a step forward "do as I say."

More to come.