The cell is small. Stone walls, slick with damp, close in on every side. A single cot, thin and lumpy, sits against the far wall. The floor is packed dirt, scattered with dust and the occasional skitter of something unseen. The only light comes from a single torch guttering in the corridor outside the bars, casting long, unsteady shadows that writhe across the walls.

Y/n is on the cot. Not asleep—but not quite awake either. The world swims in and out of focus, and there is a dull, throbbing ache pulsing at the front of her skull. Something warm and wet trickles slowly down her forehead, tracing a path over her brow before dripping onto the thin mattress. Blood. The smell of it is sharp and metallic in the stale air.

Her clothes are the same ones she was wearing when she was taken. Baggy jeans, pooled over all-black shoes now coated in a fine layer of dust. A fitted black hoodie, streaked with grime from the floor. Her hair is tangled, her face smudged, and still—even now—there is something striking about her in the dim light. Beautiful. Confused. Alone.

The last thing she remembers is Hogsmeade. The cobbled streets, the cold air, the distant sound of laughter from the Three Broomsticks. Then—nothing. A flash of movement. A hand. Pain. And now this.

Above her, far above her, the common room is warm and full of noise. Friends laugh, gossip, pretend like the world isn't still bleeding. They don't know she's down here. They don't know what Theodore has done.

The silence down here is absolute, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the dark.

The torch outside the bars flickers.