He hears the drum of feet down the hall, the click of hard boot heels on stone. He wants to hide, to avoid the paint that’s coming, but in his tiny little cell, there is nowhere to go, and he has no energy to even rise to his feet. So, he stays curled up in one corner, the straw of the thin, moldering mattress poking his skin. The heavy cell door swings open with the scream of metal hinges, and Harry flinches at the light they bring with them, so bright that it seems to burn him. He curls in on himself more tightly. Aurors assigned to the prison, but they’re not much better than the prisoners really, angry and more than willing to inflict pain on others. They talk amongst themselves, their words beyond the comprehension of his food and sleep deprived mind. He feels hands grab onto him, lift him, and he welcomes the darkness that swallows him. He doesn’t want to know what comes next.