The first thing she noticed was the cold. It seeped up through the stone floor, through the thin cot, into her bones. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint smell of earth and old stone.

The cell was small. Four walls of dark, rough stone. A narrow cot with a single thin blanket. A small, high window with iron bars, letting in the faintest sliver of gray light. A heavy wooden door, locked from the outside.

There was no warmth here. No softness. Nothing that felt like it belonged to the life she'd once known.

Somewhere beyond the door, the manor was quiet. But the silence wasn't peaceful. It was the kind of silence that made your own heartbeat sound too loud.

The blanket was rough against her skin, barely enough to keep the chill away. Her breath came out in soft clouds in the cold air.

The door creaked open. A house-elf stood in the doorway, small and nervous, carrying a wooden tray with a cup of water and a piece of dry bread. The elf's eyes were wide, frightened, darting around like she expected to be punished just for being there.

The elf hovered in the doorway, not stepping fully inside. Her hands shook slightly, making the cup rattle against the tray.