Not the familiar chill of a British winter, but something deeper. Something that seeps into bone and stays there. The air tastes of salt and rust and despair.

Iron shackles bite into Y/N's wrists as she's led down the narrow corridor. The lantern the Auror carries barely pushes back the darkness—it only makes the shadows dance and stretch like living things.

To her left, a cell. Inside, a figure presses against the bars, face half-rotted, eyes white and unfocused. He doesn't speak. He only breathes, each exhale a rattling groan.

To her right, another cell. Empty. But the floor is dark. Stained.

Inside, a woman sits on a stone slab that serves as a bed. Grey hair falls in tangled ropes over her face. She doesn't move when the light hits her.

But her fingers twitch.