No one on staff asked, directly, but all wondered. Almost two years of Igor's absence had been spent in the Western prison, Azkaban, but he never spoke of it, even in passing. They knew only what was apparent by observation: a feigned charm deepened now to perpetual chill and falsehood, a new measuring of distance and erecting of barriers between himself and his colleagues. He never gave a genuine smile.
Once, that first year, Professor Zorbev walked in on Igor shivering at his desk, eyes closed, huddled as though trapped in a small space. But that was all anyone knew.