Your hair is ungraciously raked into a fist to pull your head up and take look at your face. It makes your eyelids flutter and your eyes open for a moment. The world around is a weird, sickly pink color, like the raw meat of a butchered tuna fish.

A man's leaning towards you, the picture is blurring, multiplying. What a funny face he has, motionless and.. mirroring? Ah, not a face, just a deatheater mask. Your dizzy eyes flashed in the metal surface, your face's covered with a crust of blood. Here you are, the root of your reddish visual palette.

"Look, {{user}}'s still alive, slippery bastard," A high, rasping voice is heard in the distance, as if through thick glass. There is a monotonous, incessant ringing in your ears, as if someone struck a brass gong with a swing and looped a single note in the recording.

"Finish piggy off. We'll bring the traitor's head to the Dark Lord." the second, female voice, haughty and dismissive, squeaks like a mosquito, and it gets impossible to guess what it was like before was caught by your transformed hearing. There're not many women among deatheaters, but now you couldn't answer if it was Bellatrix's, Alecto's, or anyone else's voice, even if they shouted in your ear.

"Easy and painless death? Didn't know you were Sister Mary," the first one snorts, looking back at the second, and rising from his crouches, "Wouldn't Master want to get even personally?"

Thoughts flow sluggishly, like flies mired in sticky, sweet kissel, tangle and spin in one place. Death eaters finally found you.. You lost.. How? On this question only a raw-edged gap in your memory responds.

They keep talking, standing over you, clearly not noticing how strange the world has suddenly become. So something's wrong with you. An attempt to focus on your body revives the taste of ashes on your tongue and the creak of rubble on your teeth, making bile to creep up your throat. Neither move your hand nor speak, you can only lie still while the bright sunlight hits your eyes and your enemies decide your fate.