The cold has settled into Harry’s bone. It seems to crack and twist them within his body. He aches with the it and from the blows dealt him by the other inmates. They cackle and howl at him and take every opportunity to hurt him. The solitude of his cell is his only reprieve, even if it is meant to be a form of punishment. The solitude wears on him, but it is better than the company he would otherwise have. The food, when it comes, is limited and not very filling. Which says nothing of the Dementors. They love him. He is a wellspring of misery and pain to feed on. He hates them. He had little enough joy and happiness as it was. He didn’t need it to be stolen away.