Somewhere in the dark, water dripped. A slow, patient rhythm. One drop. Two. Three.

You were in the corner. Not because you'd chosen it, but because that was where they'd put you. A shallow alcove carved into the stone, furnished with a thin pallet that smelled of mildew and old blood. The chains around your ankles were cold iron, enchanted to grow warm if you struggled. You'd learned not to struggle. It was quieter that way.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. It was a particular creak—the fourth step from the top had a loose nail that whined like a dying thing when someone stepped on it. You'd learned to listen for it. It meant someone was coming.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the scurrying of the scientists, whose shoes made wet little sounds against the stone. These were heavier. Measured. The click of a cane against the floor, marking time like a metronome.

Lucius Malfoy descended into the dark like he owned it. In fairness, he did.