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The first thing Wedge notices when he arrives at Azkaban is the cold. It worms around him and slips under his cloak, making him shiver even as he pulls the garment closer. It melds with the general feeling of despair that hangs over the prison island like a heavy blanket. He shudders harder, imagining what it must be like staying here for more than a few minutes.

Imaging what it's like for Tycho, his best friend, wrongly accused and locked up here until Wedge and his team can get him free.

Wedge sets his jaw determinedly and walks toward the prison. He's relieved to see that the Dementors are keeping their distance; they knew to expect him. The cold stone halls of the tower are eerily silent, except where the quiet is pierced by screaming or crying or senseless gibbering. Wedge hurries along to the cell number he's been given, one hand clenched at his side within reach of his wand. He doesn't know if he'll be able to keep himself from casting his osprey Patronus the moment a Dementor so much as twitches toward him.

He reaches the appointed area and glances in through the bars – and his heart falls even though he knew what to expect. Tycho is huddled atop his ragged cot, head buried in his arms resting on drawn up knees. He already looks thinner than when Wedge had seen him only a week ago as he was dragged off; the white and gray prison uniform hangs on him. His blond hair is limp and dirty.

“Tycho,” Wedge murmurs his name, and when his friend looks up, his blue eyes stripped of their usual brightness, Wedge's breath catches in his throat. He clutches the iron bars of the cell.

Something that might have been a smile shivers onto Tycho's face. “Wedge. You came.”

“Of course I came.” Wedge's voice trembles with outrage. “I haven't been able to convince them to let you out of this hellhole yet, but I'm not going to leave you alone.”

Tycho drags himself to his feet, seemingly with great effort, and steps closer. Wedge keeps an eye on a pair of Dementors stationed at the end of the hall; they don't seem to mind. Yet. His fingers twitch again, wanting nothing more than to grip his want. A single bombarda and he could be halfway to getting Tycho out of this awful place.

Tycho's lips twitch again. “I can tell what you're thinking, you know.”

“You always could.” Wedge leans closer, hates the bars between them, the reaction it would surely provoke from the guards if he was to try and touch his friend. “It's not fair,” he says, even though he knows it's pointless. He has to say something. “Everyone knows you could never be a Death Eater. And that fact that they're keeping you here when they haven't even properly begun the trial-”

Tycho shakes his head. “It is what it is.” He shrugs, and the gesture is so helpless, it drains some of Wedge's anger right out of him. Tycho has always been so optimistic and strong. This place is getting to him, that blanket of despair and hopelessness dragging him down, and Wedge hates it more than anything he ever has.

“I'm going to get you free,” Wedge insists, fanning the flames of his upset. He's not going to let this die. He'll keep fighting forever if he has to. “I'll prove your innocence if it's the last thing I do.”

Tycho just nods. “I have faith in you, Wedge. Even these monsters can't shake that.”

For a second, Wedge throws caution to the wind. His hand darts between the bars and grabs Tycho's, squeezing tight, conveying so much he can't say with words. Tycho squeezes back for just a moment, eyes sparking, then he pulls away and backs further into the cell. Wedge sees from the corner of his eye one of the Dementors look in their direction, but it doesn't draw near.

“The Ministry wouldn't have let you come here just for a social call,” Tycho sighs, sitting on his cot heavily.

“Of course not.” Wedge sighs. Not many people are given permission to set foot in Azkaban, and he'd had to fight just to be allowed to be the one to do it. “We have more questions for you. Clarifying details, that sort of thing. Basically, they want you to repeat things you've already said half a dozen times.”

Tycho waves his hand in invitation. “Ask away. If you think it will help.”

“It will,” Wedge insists as he pulls parchment and quill from his pocket. The words are much surer than he feels.