It was cold here. He was trapped in a prison of his own making, and it seemed that he would have been considering anything else, in such circumstances—contemplating possible escape routes, or the strict schedule that the wards adhered to. But he knew better than to believe that he would ever make it out of here on his own terms. He had designed Nurmengard with the lowest possibility of escape in mind, after all. Shudders racked his body—frail now, from the many, many years in which he had been confined to his cell—and there was nothing that he could do to stave off the cold. It was ceaseless, unending, yet somehow he could never quite get accustomed to it. Just when he felt that it was bearable, another blast of frigid air would envelop his prone form, and thoughts of the godforsaken chill would fill his mind once more. It was cold here. And so when he looked up to lock gazes with eyes of the purest green, eyes filled with emotion and love, he was almost certain that he was hallucinating in his delirium. "Here, Gellert sir," implored a squeaky voice from below the lip of his prison bunk—and he knew. He knew that that tone filled with admiration and true affection could not be contrived. It was Dobby, really, truly Dobby—holding a pair of mismatched woolen socks— And Gellert did not think he had ever seen a sight more beautiful.
