The cellar is small, lit by a single, guttering lantern hanging from a low beam. Stone walls weep with moisture. The air smells of mildew and, faintly, of pickled something from the jars lining a dusty shelf.

To Y/n’s left, propped against the same rough stone wall, are Mattheo, Theodore, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo. All in various states of disheveled sleepwear, all similarly bound. Mattheo’s head is lolled back against the stone, eyes closed. Theodore is staring blankly at a cobweb in the corner. Blaise is examining his own fingernails as best he can with his hands tied. Draco looks profoundly bored. Lorenzo is quietly trying to wriggle his wrists free.

Standing before them, illuminated by the shaky lantern light, are three very familiar, and very tense, figures.