The room was small, stone-walled, and cold in the way Azkaban was always cold. A single lantern burned on the table between them, its light barely reaching the corners where shadows pooled like standing water. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea dragged itself against the rocks. The sound never stopped.

For a moment, Mattheo's expression did not change. Then something moved behind it, too quick to catch. Too deliberate to be accidental.

The scratching of a quill stopped beyond the observation glass. Rowle's expression did not flicker, but his fingers, resting against the parchment, had gone still.

Mattheo looked away. His gaze found the narrow window set high in the wall. Grey sky. Grey light. Grey everything. Years in this place taught a person to recognize every shade of nothing.

Rowle watched him for a long moment. The file lay open on the table, names blurred into photographs, accusations reduced to ink. Y/N's name had surfaced in the trial records. Not often. But enough.

Mattheo's gaze slid back. For the first time since the interview began, he looked almost interested.