She barely registered the two men in front of them, she had forgotten Luna was there, holding her in her arms, speaking sweet nothings into her ear, begging her to stay alive a little longer. Time and space and people no longer existed to her – she was only a pile of nerve-endings set on fire. She was only a flesh of misery, a screeching mess of soon-to-be-dead molecules. She didn’t know her name, didn’t know her gender, didn’t know what the word Mudblood meant, and it was both freeing and terrifying. Luna’s hands were switched with something else, something firm and hot and a solid, and she saw a shock of platinum blond hair ghost over her vision. She saw a skull-like mask and she was sure death had come to her at last. If she saw as good as dead, then why didn’t the pain lessen? Wasn’t death supposed to be peaceful? Didn’t she deserve complete senselessness on the last moments of her life? Wasn’t she good enough for a mercy like that? Then the mask was gone, and she saw a face which she did not recognize. A scar, similar to hers, on an exquisitely handsome face that she couldn’t put a name on.