This is not that.

Cold seeps into your bones, a damp, earthy chill that has nothing to do with Scotland’s climate. The air is thick with the smell of mildew, wet stone, and something else—something metallic and sharp. Your head throbs, a dull, persistent ache behind your eyes.

You are sitting upright. Your wrists are bound behind the wooden slats of a chair, the rough rope biting into your skin. Your ankles are tied to the chair’s front legs. A gag, dry and tasting of dust, is stuffed in your mouth.

The room is a basement. Stone walls, slick with condensation in the weak, grey light filtering from a single, high, barred window. The floor is packed dirt. In the far corner, a pool of shadow shifts.

Five figures detach themselves from the gloom. They move into the thin light, and your stomach turns. You know them. The Slytherin sixth-years. Mattheo Riddle, leaning against a damp wall with his arms crossed. Draco Malfoy, examining his nails with a bored expression. Theodore Nott, his gaze steady and unreadable. Blaise Zabini, a faint, unamused smirk on his lips. Lorenzo Berkshire, who won’t quite meet your eyes.

They’re dressed like they’ve just come from the common room—jumpers, trousers, dragonhide boots. Normal teenagers. Except they’re here. And you’re here.