The prisoner was chained by thick chains, too thick they make a person wonder if they bind properly, but the inspector knew they did. They were charmed with a binding charm; even if they weren't chaining him properly, the prisoner would still stay put. It was a simple but strong charm.
The dungeons were reserved for prisoners sentenced to a life sentence. They must've committed grave, really grave crimes to be put there. Why else would the Council put all those protective charms in here? The prisoners were each allocated with their own special corner is the vast, dark, hot, smelly dungeon, with dozens of binding and silencing charms. The only time they were spared with a little act of humanity was when the Meal Boy came down to the dungeons to make sure each prisoner had their meal. Nobody wanted to be a Meal Boy; that meant they had to go to the dungeons. Fortunately for the Meal Boy of the time, only four human beings ever committed a crime grave enough to be sentenced the rest of their lives in the dungeons for. He completed his job every day twice a day in a maximum of half an hour and left to the beautiful real world after that.
Today, though, the prisoners' guest was not only the Meal Boy. Surely he came and gave them brunch, which was the only meal they ever got to have except dinner, then left, but now somebody else came, before dinner time. This man's arrival made the four miserable prisoners of the dungeons aware of what time of the year it is, or at least the two prisoners that still had their sanity intact. It was the time for the dungeon inspection that was conducted every five years. The council used to conduct it every ten years, but they realised that a lot happens in ten years, as if nothing happens every five years. Their visitor that day was the inspector from the council. Now unlike the Meal Boy, the inspector was professional. He never got moved by the appalling state of the dungeons. Why would he? Why the crimes the dungeon prisoners committed made them deserve hell itself! Everybody in the Council believed that!
He inspected the prisoners while holding a candle in a tray to illuminate his surroundings, starting with the two who lost it, as if he knew these exact two lost it, then proceeded professionally, ignoring the cold and smell of sweat and puss, onto a third who appeared mad at first sight, but the inspector knew otherwise and ended up right. He just wanted to fool the inspector and obviously didn't know that the inspector, though young, knew nastier and more cunning people, and also didn't know that madness won't get him anywhere. It actually made the council more satisfied. The inspector didn't bother to waste his breath on that though; he had a job to do.
Onto the fourth and the last who would look dead for a normal person. Even the meal boy panicked a couple of times when he saw him. The chains were somehow loose, but the binding charm kept him still. The prisoner never moved, even when the inspector laid down the candle tray on the cold, wet, floor, and sat down to face him directly. He just kept his face low, leaning on the wall, and breathed weakly. He did breathe, so he wasn't dead, but his breaths were so quiet and weak, the inspector had to move his ear just in front of the prisoner's nose to hear anything. They were so weak, the inspector had to keep his hands on the prisoner's chest to actually believe it was moving up and down. The inspector pulled back himself and looked at the thin, ragged, oil-covered figure in front of him.
'Jarod Stone,' said the inspector, 'how do you like it here?'
A low chuckle was heard from the corpse in front of him. Oily long strands of hair covered his lowly hung face well, so no one could see his expression.
'Can't say it's my favourite place in the world.'
The inspector rummaged in his coat's breast pocket and took out two items. One looked like candy, which he immediately threw to his mouth, and the other was a lab glove. He wore it, and searched in another pocket on the side of his coat, then pulled out a small rectangular box.
'Now if you ask me,' the inspector started while placing the box on the floor, 'I believe the council went nuts.' He opened the box, and with his glove-clad hand, pulled out a gun from the box. 'Professionally speaking, they didn't conduct the investigation correctly.'
'Are you here to keep reminding me that?'
The prisoner still hadn't pulled up his face yet and still looked as dead as ever. The way a dead corpse could speak so casually could scare any person out of his mind.
The inspector placed the gun in front of the prisoner on the floor. 'No, I'm here for a job, concerning you, Jarod Stone. You're lucky that one man in the Council cared. Surely these people went mad with you, locking you up here.' The inspector lowered his voice then. 'They even used magic out of the book. Did you know that, Jarod Stone? I'm sure you noticed the feeling of gloom and doom once you came here 4 years ago, when you were just a 17-year-old boy. It's all magic you know. I'm fascinated by the fact that you didn't go mad yet.'
The body didn't move.
After a couple of minutes, when the inspector was convinced nothing will come out of him, he said, 'Now back to the job. Sir Dolohov went through your case.'
'Why didn't you?'
'It's not my position,' answered the inspector. 'However, Sir Dolohov had enough power. He had enough power to look over your case, enough connections and resources, but mind you, the Council was still furious, if he got caught, he might've ended up here, just like you. So he had to go slowly.'
'You're drifting off,' the prisoner interrupted.
The inspector steadied himself and coughed a little. 'Sure, you are right. Now, here, I have the gun, your father's gu_'
'I DIDN'T KILL HIM!' the prisoner bellowed. The voice echoed in the wide dungeon, and now, facing the inspector wasn't the weak, dead-like body he saw when he entered the dungeon. There was a young man, with what looked like a burning passion in his eyes, and despite the oil and the grease and the cuts on his hands and face, he looked more handsome than expected, more handsome than a man that spent four years in a dungeon that seemed to be made to make people wish death. His hair was shoulder length and greasy, but still rich in its brown colour.
The chains magically tightened around his limbs when he lunged forward, and, with loud clanking sounds that echoed throughout the dungeon, pulled him backwards quickly to the wall. He hit the wall with great force and the prisoner gave up, resigning in his place, once again, with head hung low, but unlike before, with heavy breathing.
The inspector didn't flinch at the loud sounds and kept still.
'I once said,' started the inspector, 'that the magic of the dungeon won't change the innocent.' The inspector pushed the gun, the box and the candle tray forward, and even pushed himself forward to get closer to the prisoner. 'As I was saying, Jarod Stone, I have your father's gun-'
'I didn't kill him,' the prisoner whispered.
'-which was the main reason you were put here.'
'I didn't kill him,' the prisoner whispered again.
'Sir Dolohov went through your case even though the Council didn't even want to think of you.'
'I didn't kill him.'
'He almost lost the trial when the Council discovered his actions. If it wasn't for Lady Brittany, whom you should thank later on, your case would've been lost again.'
The prisoner raised his head a bit. 'What are you trying to say?'
The inspector kept quiet for a while, then said, with a nostalgic face, 'You didn't change that much when you were 13, Jarod Stone. It was very unfortunate that the Council decided to throw you here.'
'What are you trying to say?' he asked again.
'Today, Sir Dolohov was given the permission to further his investigation,' continued the inspector while rolling back the sleeves of his coat.
'What are you trying to say?'
'However, that means considerable cooperation from your part.'
'Wha-'
The inspector, with his gloved hand, held the gun in front of the prisoner, and with the other, held the prisoner's hair-covered, greasy forehead. The prisoner faced the gun with wide eyes. 'There are 2 suspects up till now, including you, Jarod Stone. Sir Dolohov is suspecting another man, and if he is to be right, then the man that killed chancellor Horton, the reason you were thrown here, is dead. I'm going to perform a nasty spell now, Jarod Stone, but if you cooperate with me, it will be less nasty. Look at this gun well, and I will search for everything you know about it.'
For a moment, the prisoner was gaping, wide-eyed at the gun, in another, he collapsed to the cold ground. The inspector returned the gun in the box and placed it back in his pocket, then leant on the closest wall.
'You're a free man, Jarod Stone. I just need to wait till you wake up though.'
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