Shelter of Our Night || Sebastian Sallow

Prison Cells are Always Cold

It didn't matter what time of year it was, prison cells were always cold.

You knew this more than anyone.

This cell was particularly draughty. A chamber with a low ceiling and vertical iron bars that separated you from the corridor, from the outside world. There was a wooden pallet hung on a chain, a bucket to relieve yourself, and shackles attached to the wall, currently fastened to your wrists. With no leeway to move, the furthest you could reach was a hair's breadth away from the bars, but never closer. They didn't trust you with anything closer.

Right down to the stains from prisoners long deceased, those things were similar to the last cell you were kept in. It was almost mundane to notice the similarities.

What made this place different... was magic.

Thick and oppressive, you could smell it permeate around you, sulphurous and sharp, the tanginess of blood as it was the sweetness of honey. These enchantments were strong enough to prevent any and all spells from being used. No conjuration, no charm, no transfiguration nor curse could penetrate these shields, as fortified as diamond walls. Even the most skilled wizard would struggle to light a wand in here, and the wrongness of it trembled in your bones, keeping you constantly on edge.

The worst of it was, you didn't understand these feelings of wrongness. You didn't understand what made them so wrong.

A week ago, you didn't have magic, let alone... whatever it was that awoke in you.

"Another visitor's here to see you. Aren't you lucky?"

You'd adjusted to the routine now. Twenty-four-seven surveillance by at least one Auror, two if you were being particularly moody with your replies, such as that day. You'd taken to naming your captors Sour and Dour, for though they looked nothing alike, one tall and lanky, the other short and stocky, both wore near-identical aloof expressions, like they'd rather be anywhere other than watching a strange and volatile teenage girl.

On that day, they'd diverted from routine, Sour slipping out the door of your chamber. You looked up after Dour spoke, fixing him a deadpan expression through the bars, but for once he wasn't looking at you. You warred with yourself about whether to retort – you were neither popular nor lucky – but not two minutes later Sour returned, and this time with company.

He was a man you'd never seen, draped in jewel-toned robes and a friendly, if apprehensive smile. His white, brittle hair was combed back against his head, sideburns thick, and though old, well into his sixties, there was a spry look to him. He shuffled into the chamber with his lips buttoned in polite curiosity, like he was venturing into the foyer of a sparsely-decorated manor house.

"Go on, then, prisoner," said Sour. "Introduce yourself."

Another quack Healer, then. "He knows who I am." Your voice came out disused, rusty.

"Mind the attitude," snapped Dour, and he nodded the old man forwards.

Finally he made eye contact with you. Spry, certainly – you could tell just by looking. No pity though, which was strange. You were used to pity.

"I suspect it would be more polite for me to introduce myself first. Hello there, young lady. It's nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Eleazar Fig. I'm a professor of Magical Theory at Hogwarts."

That raised your brow. "Hogwarts? The school?"

"The very one," said Fig. "I've come to talk to you about the incident."

"You'll have to be more specific, sir," you said, not flinching. "I've been involved in too many incidents thus far."

"The juvenile detention centre," he said. "You were imprisoned. Then you caused an explosion."