Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

the girl's ears had pulled back; she paced him in a dance that pleased mahler to his marrow; here was music. presently his steps grew less heavy; he too let his auds fall along the heavy line of his skull and lightened his tread, plume swaying unbidden at his hocks as the threat of a more pointed game ebbed from his muscles. as they moved, the musiker forward and he back, mahler noted the springtime honey of the songnote's clear unafraid stare.
mahler pursued her for only a handful of steps more; in time, he stood blinking in curiosity at her, the expression of a researcher puzzled by a discovery that held both appeal and things that must be questioned, but words had never been a strength for the man. "dancing," he mumbled finally, turning his hard lavender gaze down toward their forepaws.