It was a young, blond man—likely her own age, by the look of it. He was sitting still, hands bound with long chains to the nearby floor. His clothes were worn out and rotten, their style older than anything she had seen even Purebloods in England wear. A geometric pattern too faded to fully tell apart stood out on the coat’s breast pocket. Despite it, his hair fell neatly just above his shoulders. Skin, though caked with dirt and grime, smooth and unblemished.