Ron Weasley was a man on a mission—a mission to change the quality of prisoner nutrition at Azkaban Prison. If you knew him well enough, for example, if you were Hermione Granger and you were around when he was at home watching muggle television after work, then you would know exactly where he drew inspiration.

He began by asking Dolohov to show him around the kitchen and to introduce him to the process of food preparation. Contrary to his demeanour, the prison management said that he was one of the best-behaved inmates and had the respect of his fellow prisoners, which was why they appointed him as the leader of the kitchen team. The team was tasked with looking after the kitchen, cleaning it and maintaining some standard of hygiene, and to prepare the daily meals according to recipe at the prison. Not that there was much of a recipe to follow, for once a week they received an owl from the 'welfare director' with a list of food items they could expect to receive, and the daily catering menu was formulaic, comprising of a carbohydrate item, a meat item, and "fruit or vegetables". The "fruit or vegetables" component was open to very broad interpretation, as it could sometimes consist of bottles of fruit-flavoured syrup that were past the expiry date and had to be removed from shelves.

Ron Weasley noted that, given the conditions, the level of hygiene in the kitchen was very high. Dolohov claimed to be obsessed with cleanliness, and he ruled the kitchen with an iron fist, threatening the younger inmates with a brandish of the knife if they failed to wash their hands before handling food. He also seemed fond of throwing random insults at these younger inmates ever so often, and inmates whose concentration wandered from the task at hand often found themselves at the receiving end of some frozen food or the other. Today, it was expired cocktail sausage buns.

Dolohov led him to the oven, where he picked up yet another box of frozen food. Reading off the box, he proudly announced: "Frozen Welsh faggots!"

A scowl soon befell Ron's face. He was sure Dolohov was taking the mickey out of him with that unfortunately named product.

"Frozen Welsh faggots," Dolohov said again, clearly enjoying the moment. "Made with the heart and liver and many disgusting fatty parts...of a pig."

It took all the self-control Ron had not to punch him in the face right then.

"I take it it's your favourite?" he asked Dolohov through gritted teeth.

Dolohov raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "I can't imagine why you would think so."

Ron snatched the box of frozen Welsh faggots from Dolohov's hands. "This isn't proper food," he huffed.

"I know," Dolohov replied with a huge shrug. "Since coming to Azkaban I have put on so much weight. It is quite obvious what this diet has done to us." He nodded to indicate the teeming mass of prisoners on the other side of the kitchen counter gobbling up piles of so-called food.

"You've seen our pictures from when we were first arrested," Dolohov said in what sounded to Ron like a flirtatious tone. "You know I used to be quite svelte and I do not mean to brag but I was much better-looking than I am now. Then I was slim with lean muscles but now I am all big and burly like a barrel."

Ron looked at Dolohov, exasperated. Yes, he had seen enough photos, the bloody damn photos about which he could not even squeeze a word out of him. The bloody photos that nearly glowed with the radiance of two young men basking in the sun and delighting in their earthly bodies.

"Fuck you," Ron uttered to Dolohov under his breath, as Dolohov emptied several boxes of the faggots into a large pot on the stove. He could barely be heard above the din of the sizzling oil, and the air was soon rancid with processed fat.