— 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐒, things are locked.

Creatures, potions, books, people.

Along with things he cannot name because even though the fourteen-year-old boy is familiar with the spells against dark magic, he is still kept in the dark about many things. Some are simply forbidden to him.

The plate in his hands trembles as he takes a step down the stairs. Wood creaks below him. He focuses on not dropping the plate rather than his dark surroundings. They're not pleasant anyway. Spiderwebs, dust, and little remains of blood, stained through the planks.

Despite the efforts of countless house-elves and maids, the dungeons are only ever cleaned by his and his father's footsteps.

"Hurry up!" A loud yell mirrors against the many walls from above. "Your train leaves in half an hour!"

He startles so hard that the plate nearly falls onto the ground. Yet he catches it right before it shatters, and continues his walk towards the cells.

"You're not much of a brave guy, are you?" Asks the voice, hoarse from screaming and then not talking for at least a week.

A shiver runs down his spine at the way every word echoes everywhere. If his father wanted to, he could easily overhear this whole conversation.

So he chooses not to reply as he fumbles with the dozens of locks. It's a struggle in the darkness. Only two faint lights illuminate the cell, casting long shadows against the fence.

Inside the cell, he holds the plate forward, keeping as much distance as possible.

"It's either you untie my hands or you feed me," the man says coolly.

"Or I place it down right in front of you and you will never be able to reach it, only stare at it with the deepest desire you've ever felt, for a whole week long, watching the food that could've been in your empty stomach rot," the boy replies. He does his best to sound as tough as possible, while all he feels for this guy is pity.

The man's scowls deepens. 

"So don't talk to me like that again. You're not a guest nor a friend, you're the imprisoned," the boy adds.

"And you're a little kid who thinks he can mimic his father's high voice."

Without a reply, he swallows some nerves away and then start stacking the food onto a fork, bringing it to the prisoner's mouth, who eats it with the scowl glued to his face.

"Do you have water?" The man then asks. The desperation fills his blue eyes.

"No, I do not." The boy turns away. "I'll be gone the next months. Good luck surviving."

"Can you shave my hair off? It's itchy and annoying."

He twists back, eyes lingering on the greasy hair on his head. On the blonde goatee. "No, I cannot," he says.

And he closes the cell again. Protests and begs and threats slip from the prisoner when he starts walking away, pretending to be unaffected.

A fancy, woven bag appears from his pocket. It's large enough to fit a whole body, if not two.

The prisoner's cries remain on the background as the boy opens the cage. It's a tight space in there, too cold and hollow for any creature to survive.

For a moment, his head lingers in front of it. It's impossible that it's still alive, but sticking his hand inside this dark hole is like sticking it in the Draught of Living Death, a highly dangerous potion.

But he does it anyway—

No. A rare, venomous snake that thrives in darkness and has the ability to blend with shadows, his father's words come back to him.

The snake's been in here for months, though. There is no way that it could've survived without food.

He pulls another attempt on clenching his fist around whatever he finds, and succeeds while holding his breath.

The vertebra of the snake is in his hand when he pulls it out, long and fragile. Carefully, he places it in the bag.

If this bone breaks, it won't be the only one.

His heart thumps in his throat during his way back upstairs. Light increases. Safer light. The weird, gassy smell floats away.

At the top of the stairs, his father awaits. "Took you long enough. Have you got it?"

"Yeah—" he barely gets to finish his response; the man has gripped the bag out of his son's hands. Takes a quick glance inside of it.

The boy nervously bounces on his feet. "Is it good?"

"It'll do," he says. "Go do something about your hair before we leave."

It's all part of his father's new idea of making a wand out of a nightshade serpent's spine. He has collected the other ingredients already. Months have passed and the wand will finally be created.

Illegally.

But still, it will be produced. How else would Mr. Romanov be this wealthy? Most D.A.D.A. teachers don't have a house as big as this one, or as much power.

"And don't you dare share this with anyone!" The man adds before the boy walks up the stairs.

"Yes," he says, well-aware.

"Because next thing you know—"

"—it's a wand made out of my spine, I know."

Satisfied, the man nods. "Very well, Thomas."