After six; Level Ten.



The corridor of the detention cells was long and narrow.

Despite the hardness of her heels, footsteps were a quiet patter against tile, marked only by surety and swiftness. As she trailed after her uniformed escort, Shona was a mix of wariness and dark humor. Finding herself here, now – led into the Ministry of Magic’s cells for werewolf reasons—it was both like and unlike anything she had imagined. Some part of her had prepared for the possibility that she might find herself in such a situation for pack, or even herself, and yet…

And yet, here she was—not for pack or even herself, but for one Hannah Bombay. The smile on Shona’s lips took on a faint, wry twist. Solomon had been been more than generous when he agreed to letting her try helping the other werewolf; she didn’t pretend to know the details of Hannah’s crime or what kind of investigation was taking place, but with the healer facing possible indictment, this was her last chance to help her.

Not for the first time, Shona regretted not reaching out sooner – only to remind herself that the idea had never been an option, not really; Hannah’s troubles had begun long before Shona’s arrival. By the time the older werewolf had enough connections, credibility and time to have been of help, the healer had disappeared from public eye – resurfacing only now and then because of the occasional rumor, idle gossip that had nothing to do with St. Mungo’s or werewolves. Not once did she ever reach out to the network maintained by the Registry.

Shona couldn’t tell if it had been because her troubles had been over or that she simply wanted nothing to do with the community, or a combination of the two. Nevertheless, whichever the case it had been, Shona had no longer been in a position to reach out; while she may have failed to contact Hannah, her efforts with other werewolves – unregistered werewolves – did not. One by one, they came her way, by reference or their own volition. Before long, Shona was hiding the exact number of werewolves she now worked with from the Ministry behind careful omissions. But as a consequence, Hannah had become a legal liability. A flight risk.

Was, in fact, still a risk. Even if taking her in was no longer an option, attempting even this much posed its own risks. If discovery was not a threat, then Ira was. Sometimes corruption hid in plain sight. And as much as the very thought settled guiltily in her gut—Rick had taught her that much.

But what had changed?

It was a question that would have to wait, for Shona and her escort had arrived. In the darkness of fleece-lined pockets, hands curled into fists; the cell door was solid in a way only cell doors could be. Imagining what it might be like from the other side of it– She waited for the auror to open it, taking a slow, quiet breath.

The auror – a young man who couldn’t be any older than his early twenties – spoke first.

     “Someone is here to see you, Bombay.”

Shona exhaled. She rolled back her shoulders. Flashing JJ a cursory smile, she stepped into the cell.

Whatever reservations she had about the meeting disappeared into the loose set of her shoulders, the even footing of her stance once she was inside; in its place, calm took over, contained but palpable. The years she had spent holding her own, looking after others, settled on her like a second leather jacket: sleek and fitting. Under the cell’s lighting, sharp features were even sharper, their own defense against the cell’s spartan interior.

There was no hiding the tiny crack in expression, when her gaze settled on Hannah, but then that, too, disappeared.

“Hannah Bombay?” Shona’s voice rang clear and steady, but that had more to do with being the only one speaking than actual volume. Despite the self-assurance with which she carried herself, it was a contained air rather than a projected one. “My name is Shona Donovan. I work as a mentor with Werewolf Wing.”

7 nights. Nearly 165 hours spent within the walls of the Ministry for Magic. About 150 hours in the cell if one counted the estimated time spent in interrogation, at Gringotts collecting her saved letters and blood contract or ‘helping’ the aurors with the evidence she’d changed. On average, the prisoner guessed she’d had about 4 hours of sleep a night. Despite it being difficult to judge without natural light or a pocket watch, she’d observed the guard’s habits and spent a lot of her waking hours counting.

150 hours in the cell. 28 of those asleep. 122 hours awake and staring at nothing but four stone walls. The cell was bare and dimly lit. In the corner was a metal toilet with a small privacy divider. The bed was squeaky and when sat or lying on it, one could feel every broken spring digging into their back or side. The pillow was flat, pointless. The food brought to the cell was tasteless, mushy and unpalatable. The water glass was grubby.

Despite being allowed to bathe quickly each morning; She was convinced she smelt. The air in the cell was musty, unpleasant. It smelled lived in and stale. Each guard or auror coming in brought their own scent of sweat which mixed with hers.

165 hours locked up and she’d still not been offered a trial. Solomon Carstairs had promised her Azkaban for crimes she’d been forced to commit but he’d failed to tell her when she’d be going or for how long.

More than 170 hours since she’d last been home. The flat would be ransacked by now and Merlin only knew what Almasy would have done to her belongings after finding out what she had done. There’d been no one to feed Herbert for 7 days. She’d not considered the ginger cat when asking Lawrence to kill her.

A clanging of the large metal door signalled a visitor but she didn’t move. She was sat up on the bed, legs curled up to her chest as she hugged them. Her head was resting back against the cold stone wall. The prison dress was long and baggy, covering what it needed to but leaving her feeling vulnerable in company. Her hair was straggly, falling down her back in messy curls and knots. Her eyes were closed.

It was too early for another meal of lukewarm chicken and vegetables.

“Hannah Bombay?” Well it wasn’t going to be anyone else in this cell. Hannah’s eyes shot open to stare at the tall pretty witch.

“I’m rather past mentoring, now, Shona Donovan.” Her gaze travelled to the marks she’d scraped into the wall beside the bed. “165 hours, nearly. You’d have been helpful 165 hours ago.”