CHAPTER 3
Dearest Hermione,
I can't believe it has already been a week since the last time I saw you. As much as I miss home, time is flying a bit now that we're busy. There's so much to do every day that it helps keep me distracted. I'm always thinking about you though, and how I can't wait to be home with you again.
Bunking with Malfoy is insufferable. If you thought going to Hogwarts with him was bad, you should be here now. He's downright miserable all the time and it's hard not to let it be contagious. He tried talking with Kingsley to get out of it, but no go. Too bloody bad – I was kind of hoping he'd get his shit and get out of here.
I miss you loads. I will be home before you know it.
Love, Ron
Ron leaned back in his seat, interlacing his fingers and flexing them. Lengthy writing had never been his strong suit, and his hands always seemed to cramp quickly when he did so. He could hear crickets chirping outside the tent already – it was growing late. He would have to go to bed soon if he hoped to be well-rested for tomorrow.
He folded his letter with care before handing it off to Pig, who seemed all-too-eager to have something to do. He had taken off through the tent flaps before Ron could even say good-bye. Oh, well. He knew where he was going.
"Weasley," Malfoy muttered sleepily from his bed. "Put the bloody lantern out."
Ron rolled his eyes. Case in point – miserable to live with.
Nevertheless, he did as Malfoy commanded and began shuffling towards his own bunk, distantly aware of the sores that were burgeoning on the heels of his feet. It had been a long first week, and it would only continue to get worse from here on out.
Olanofsky – the Russian Death Eater that he and Malfoy were charged with – surely didn't make things any easier. They had to be on high alert when guarding him, for he was constantly attempting to play mind games with them. His latest idea was to try to pit Ron and Malfoy against one another by claiming the other had said foul things. Too bloody bad that Ron and Malfoy already hated each other and couldn't be bothered with listening to his rubbish. He had to hand it to him, though – he wasn't going down without a fight. But it was growing very old, very quickly.
Malfoy was awful to Olanofsky, as well. He was not taking his duties seriously whatsoever, and spent most of his shift trying to get a rise out of the ex-Death Eater. He would berate him with insults day after day, and he would throw scraps of food into his cell and laugh as he ate them off the floor. It was quite horrible, really. Not that Ron had any sympathy for a follower of Voldemort…but Malfoy had a knack for making feelings like sympathy rise from the pit of Ron's stomach. Or maybe it was just bile.
Ron had considered reporting this behavior to Kingsley, but ultimately couldn't find the effort to care enough. It was admittedly rather refreshing to have Malfoy tormenting someone else for a change.
Ron slinked beneath his covers and allowed his tired eyes to flutter shut. He was asleep before his head had even hit the pillow.
"He's a bloody nightmare, I tell you," Ron was saying to Harry and Neville the next morning at breakfast, gesturing pointedly to Malfoy sitting alone at a distant table. "I don't know how the Slytherins ever put up with him."
"Probably isn't terribly difficult when you're cut from the same cloth," Harry reasoned as he poked at his scrambled eggs, yawning sleepily. "It's just a few months, mate. You'll get through it."
"Not likely," Ron growled. "One of us is going to kill the other before time's out. Or kill ourselves. One of the two."
"That's not funny, Ron," Neville chided indignantly.
"Right. You see? I'm starting to sound like him!" Ron declared brashly. "All morbid and doomy gloomy."
"Maybe you should try just focusing on your job," Harry offered. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, but Ron ignored it.
"Easy for you to say. You try having that lazy bastard work your shifts with you, and then tell me that's all it takes."
"Ron, honestly," Harry began. Ron could see that not only was Harry physically exhausted, but he appeared to be growing tired of Ron's complaining as well. "There's nothing you can do about it except try to make the best of a bad situation. The more you bitch and moan, the worse you'll feel."
Bullocks. He was right. But it was painful to even try admitting it.
"How's your job going?" Ron said, suddenly eager to change the subject. Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"It's fine. I mean, how hard is it to make sure prisoners are getting fed and staying on their best behavior, right?"
"Well, then why are you so bloody tired?" Ron demanded.
Harry shrugged distantly. "Just haven't been sleeping properly."
Neville was shooting Ron a pointed look that he tried to understand. He attempted to understand the underlying meaning of Neville's gaze, but was having difficulty interpreting his message.
Ron was shaken from his reverie when the sound of the time gong cut through the entire dining hall. Plates disappeared and the Aurors-in-training began standing diligently, operating robotically on the schedule they had been following all week. Ron was no exception – he was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
"I'll see you at dinner," Harry muttered irritably as he began heading in the direction of his station. Ron didn't even have a chance to bid him farewell. Neville, however, was taking his time.
"It's the nightmares, Ron," Neville said hastily. "They're back."
"But how?" Ron demanded. "He hasn't had one since before the battle."
Neville shook his head helplessly. "No idea. All I know is that he wakes up hollering at the moon most nights, and none of the Healer's sleeping draughts have helped."
Ron turned this over in his brain. He remembered vividly the manner in which Harry would wake up, disturbed by his nightmares. Only they weren't quite nightmares – they were real-time images of the Dark Lord's own thoughts.
Before he could ask another question, however, Neville was gone. Ron found himself suddenly alone as he began to head towards the quarantined building in which Olanofsky was being held. After a moment or so, Malfoy had caught up with him.
"Another bloody day of watching that arse," he was mumbling. Ron wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or to him. Or something like a bit of both. He simply chose not to respond, and subsequently the remainder of their journey was entirely mute.
Olanofsky's building was heavily guarded with various enchantments, mostly to ensure that his disease did not become airborne. There was very little ventilation from the outside – all of the windows had been sealed up with some kind of Muggle technology of bullet-proof double panes. A magical orb surrounded the post like a shield, keeping unwanted entities from leaving or entering. Too bad that didn't include Ron, himself, who would have been all-too-anxious to be turned away at the entrance.
Instead, all he and Malfoy needed to do was put one hand each on the orb. After confirming their identities, a gaping hole would appear in the bubble, serving as an entry-point. Once they were both inside, it would seal itself once more.
"All right, bugger," Malfoy began darkly as he and Ron entered the holding room. The room itself was nothing to gawk at, for it simply housed Olanofsky's cell, and a small area of chairs and a table for the guards. "I'm in no mood to deal with your bullshit today, so don't try anything stupid."
Olanofsky was slouched grumpily on his bed mat, staring daggers through the narrow slits between his iron bars. He said nothing. He was a dangerous-looking fellow, and Ron was reminded of the nasty posters that had been floating around of Sirius Black years prior. Eyes that may as well have been black holes of death and destruction, unkempt hair and skin that was in desperate need of washing, and a determined jaw line that could have cut glass.
Malfoy plopped himself heavily into one of the chairs, kicking his feet up onto the table. "All right, Weasley. I'm going to be taking a nap for the rest of the day. If you need me – well, that's too damn bad. Figure it out for yourself."
"Lovely, Malfoy," Ron grumbled sarcastically. As he sat beside him, he purposefully pushed his feet off the table. Malfoy simply put them back as though nothing had happened.
"Did you get your breakfast yet, you sodding arse?" Malfoy called to Olanofsky. He was met with some form of guttural noise as a response.
Ron rolled his eyes impatiently, standing to approach the cut-out area of the wall that often summoned meals and medication. It was the safest way for everybody on the island to remain distant from the pathogens that were assuredly bombarding the building, but still seemed a bit pretentious. Malfoy had nicknamed it the Servinator 5000, which Ron had had to struggle significantly not to laugh at.
Sure enough, he was right on time. A bowl of unappetizing gruel appeared on the platform.
"Oh, your lucky day, Olie," Malfoy quipped mockingly. "Gruel – again!"
With a flick of his wand, Ron magicked the bowl into Olanofsky's cell. The burly Death Eater merely studied the food for a moment, as if uncertain whether he was actually hungry or not.
"What's the plan today, Weasley?" Malfoy asked with forced enthusiasm.
"Thought you were napping," Ron muttered disdainfully.
"That was last week." Malfoy pulled his feet from the table and leaned over. "As much as I hate being here – and believe me, the company could be better, as well – there has to be some way to pass the bloody time every day. Because at the rate we're going, I'll be in St. Mungo's within a week."
Ron raised a brow. Malfoy seemed to suddenly have an epiphany.
"I'm brilliant!" he declared. "Why didn't I think of that sooner? Quick, Weasley – Obliviate me. Give it your best shot."
"Malfoy," Ron began tiredly, sighing. "You know that if you go insane, they'll just have you working with the Healers on the island? You won't actually get to leave."
Malfoy's face fell, and his characteristic glower returned. "Well who asked you?"
You did, Ron said silently in his head, but neglected to answer aloud. He was unearthing a chess set from his bag – one that he had brought with him from home. Malfoy was looking on, feigning disinterest.
"What's that?"
"What does it look like?" Ron retorted.
"It looks like a bloody board game," Malfoy replied peevishly. "Which, to me, means a time killer."
Ron stared at him, bemused. "Oh, so you actually want to play? With me?"
"No, with Olie over there," Malfoy quipped sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Who else is there?"
Ron eyed him suspiciously. All things considered, Malfoy seemed to be in a much more chipper mood than usual. And with all of the unrelenting jabs he had already put forth today, that was saying something.
"Thought you were content to just ignore the fact that I was here with you," Ron began darkly.
Malfoy narrowed his eyes in his direction. Ron was reminded eerily of a snake. "I would love nothing more than to be anywhere else – with anyone else."
Well then. That was that. Ron was setting up the chess board, preparing to have a go at a one-on-one game with himself. Malfoy was still staring at it, conflicted. He then released an all-mighty sigh, as if he was being forced into something by threat of death.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Weasley…I call black."
