DRAKENFELL — EASTMOOR ORPHANAGE
The orphanage was worse than Bellatrix had anticipated, and Bellatrix had anticipated it would be dreadful.
The building was stone. The stone was grey. The grey was the specific shade of grey that communicated institutional despair, the shade that governments selected when the budget for morale had been reallocated to a different department and the different department was also grey. The windows were small, smeared, and carrying the accumulated grime of a facility that had been underfunded since its founding and had accepted the underfunding the way old buildings accept rain.
Bellatrix stood at the entrance. Onyx was on her hip, dressed in his midnight tuxedo with gold accents, his scales freshly oiled, his gold eyes surveying the building.
