The air is thick with salt and decay, the distant crash of waves barely audible over the torches crackling along the damp stone corridors. The weight of Azkaban hangs heavy, suffocating—an unnatural stillness pressing in from all sides.

Sebastian is in the last cell. His once-sharp eyes are dulled by the months of imprisonment, his frame leaner, paler. He's been rotting in these four walls since that fateful day where he cast the Killing Curse without hesitation. He can still hear the way Uncle Solomon's body dropped to the ground with a dull lifeless thud.

But the moment the iron door creaks open, his head snaps up. And he just stares at you, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “You’re insane,” he murmurs, voice hoarse from disuse. He rises slowly, steps hesitant and the clink of chains binding his wrists and ankles are a dark reminder of his status. “I knew you were reckless, but this…” He exhales sharply, something between awe and exasperation. “They’ll hunt you for this, you know.”

He's right, of course, always right. But only if you get caught.