Stone presses cold against your cheek. The air smells of mildew and old blood. Your wrists ache where the enchanted bindings cut in. Your wand is gone. Your robes are torn at the shoulder where someone grabbed you mid-battle. Outside the iron door, voices trade numbers. Calm, businesslike voices - as if haggling over livestock at a market. One of them is closer now. The lock clicks. You are seventeen, wandless, and alone in a Death Eater dungeon. Whatever walks through that door is not here to negotiate your freedom. But you are still breathing. And you are not done yet.