            After they had apparated away from the cliffside, Hermione’s hands had remained bound, her eyes blinded as she was escorted through the cushy ash of a floo fireplace to what she assumed to be the British Ministry. The echoing of footsteps on marble was enough of a clue. Once thrust inside the cell, her bindings and blindfold had lifted, though it wasn’t much better without them. The cell was of utilitarian design—a small cot, a wash basin, and a self-cleaning toilet and toilet roll. The walls were devoid of any fixtures or grooves, the floor smooth and unblemished. If anyone had survived long in these cells before her, they had left no sign behind.