The Cell

Chapter 1: Day 1, Trapped

We think caged birds sing, when indeed they cry.

- John Webster

The first thing she noticed upon regaining consciousness was the smell. A damp, musty scent, reminiscent of decay. It caught in the back of her throat and made her choke.

The second was that she was laid out in a bizarre position, placed on her right side with her top leg bent at the knee and resting on the ground in front of her, twisting her hips. Though the rest of her body registered the cold stone floor, her head was propped up on something lumpy that was stuffed beneath her ear. For as much as the room stank of rot, whatever was under her head smelled vaguely of cedar and mint.

The third, but most clearly defined thing that she became aware of, was pain. Her right arm burned as if someone had dipped it in acid up to the elbow and her bones felt brittle, like they might shatter if she moved. Her skin stung and itched, the slightest friction from her own clothing raked across her sensitive flesh like sandpaper.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes a sliver. It didn't make much difference, wherever she was it was dark. A hiss slipped from between her teeth as she moved to push herself into a sitting position, betrayed by the shuddering muscles in her forearms.

She blinked again and the room became slightly clearer. The defining characteristic of her prison was that everything was grey. Grey stone walls met with grey stone floor and darker grey, or perhaps black, blankets lay heaped in one corner.

There was a large metal pail in another corner that she imagined was meant to serve as a toilet seeing as there was a stack of papery white rags next to it, and a heavy iron door was centered on the wall in front of her.

The only source of light, however indirect, filtered through a square opening at about head-height with tightly placed bars across it. From the slight wavering and flickering she thought there might be torches flanking the opening on the other side. The room was maybe six or seven meters square in all.

"You kept seizing," a low voice drifted from behind her shoulder. "I thought you might crack your head open on the stone."

She whipped around to face whoever had spoken, which was a serious and rather painful mistake that almost made her lose consciousness again.

Propped in the corner nearest to her sat Draco Malfoy.

From what she could make out, he appeared rather unkempt. Blonde hair fell forward across his forehead and he was dressed only in black trousers and a wrinkled black button-down with the sleeves cuffed and rolled up around his elbows. One leg was extended forward, prostrate across the floor, the other bent and leaning against the wall, supporting his arm. His head was inclined, resting at the temple against his fist.

She looked down and realized that her make-shift pillow had been his jacket.

"How long have I been unconscious?" She asked, her voice rough and gravelly from screaming.

He shrugged without looking at her. "Eight or nine hours maybe?"

She started - "Harry and Ron, are they - "

"Weaslebee and Scarhead got out," he sneered, "or at least I think they did."

Okay. Okay, she could deal with that. She didn't know what had happened to them, but at least they hadn't died at the manor.

"Where exactly are we?" she asked, her thoughts still a little fuzzy.

He finally turned his head and shot her a withering glare. "I don't know. I was stunned and then I woke up here. About eight hours ago. It's not anywhere in the manor, not that I'm familiar with."