AN; This may be slightly graphic in a gross kind of way…just a warning.
Rose awoke to the sunlight warming her cheek, the aroma of breakfast thick in her nostrils, and the voice of her mother calling her name. Pushing the blanket away, she began to stumble down the stairs; then she realised that the battered old couch was not her bed, and even the most luxurious of wizarding tents do not have stairs. This was not her home.
Utterly overwhelmed, she sank to her knees, only to find herself eye level with a baleful yellow gaze. The large ginger cat huffily disentangled himself from her skirt, and with a disdainful flick of the tail, stalked off towards a small table from which the delicious smells were emanating. The familiar scent of a cooked breakfast only served to remind the small girl further that she was entirely alone and lost; but refusing to let her fear overwhelm her, Rose climbed up to the table and tucked in. The tawny eyes of the cat showed nothing but contempt; however the large fluffy tail entwined itself around her legs like a feather boa as she ate, before the throaty purr resonating throughout the tent was cut off by an abrupt chuckle. The cosy little tent all of a sudden seemed ice cold, and heart thumping in her chest, Rose whirled around, the memories of the shadow people by the lake suddenly shoved to the forefront of her mind. The tent was silent and still. Her companion had streaked off into the recesses of the tent. Rose Weasley was alone once more.
The young girl stumbled from the tent to find that the scenery around the tent was not quite as she had remembered; she could almost convince her overwhelmed self that it was, in fact, a different place entirely. A colourless grey sky wept upon the leafless, clawing limbs of the endless forest of trees. The lake was still nearby, however the earthy forest floor of the previous night had been replaced by a dilapidated boardwalk beneath her feet. The mouldy old planks of wood led from the entrance of the tent off into the distance across the lake, presumably ending in a pier out over the water. Rose could just make out a large figure in the distance ambling towards the shore. What appeared to be a fishing rod was slung over its shoulder, so she supposed that it would be benign and may help her; yet still wary from her previous encounters, she made her way to a small shack near the side of the path instead. This was Rose Weasley's second mistake.
Opening the door revealed a cramped dark hovel and air that was both thick and sweet. Very little was in the room, save for three masks hung from the ceiling against the far wall, facing away from the entrance. At first glance the back appeared to be crafted from a reddish brown material, however on closer inspection was actually a soft leather, easily giving way to a probing finger; the mask was very thick and slightly warm to touch. A gentle breeze let in by the open door caused the masks to spin slightly on their moorings, bringing the central mask face to face with the child.
Rose felt the empty spaces where eyes should be stare into her soul, chilling her to the core. The gaping rubbery lips had fallen open into a silent scream, unsupported by a jaw. The two on the outside appeared to be remnants of middle-aged men; one had dark hair, the other fair; both had dirty, uneven stubble covering their cheeks. The middle, however, was the face of a boy, with a brown afro and dark skin. The faces of all three were marred with peculiar red ridges; peculiar, at least, until the body of a maggot was spotted hanging from a hole in one ridge.
Whispers fluttered through the dark, causing her to whip around; until she realised that they were coming from the masks themselves. Two muttered incoherently. The third said simply one word, over and over; "Seamus."
Rose took several deep breaths to prevent the vomit rising in her throat; she made to dash for the exit, but caught sight of the shadowy figure from earlier making its way from the end of the boardwalk to the entrance of the hut; except it was a lone shadowy figure no longer; it was three smaller ones. She only realised her grave mistake when she caught sight of what was slung over the shoulder of the figure on the left. It was no fishing pole, but rather a biting, bloody scythe.
AN; I'm in a weird mood; I never actually intended for this to be a horror fic. Sorry about that :P I don't know if I'll stick with it or not yet. There will definitely be lots of normal fluffy bits anyway. Also this story may not be strictly canon in places, but in general I will try to stick to it quite closely; obviously Dean didn't actually die alongside Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell upon capture by the snatchers. I might come back later and alter some of this, so I will love you forever in exchange for some constructive criticism; if you think it's rubbish, please let me know why! :D
