The Hole

BY : Tnteacups
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Draco/Ron
Dragon prints: 4390
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of J.K.Rowlings ideas, characters, or works. I do not make any money from this fan fiction.


Ron shuddered, the biting cold digging into his bones painfully. He had no idea how long it’d been, but he knew it was nowhere near over. Azkaban had lived up to it’s reputation of being the worst place imaginable, and Ron Weasley had long since stopped hoping for anything better. The only things he looked forward to were the brief interludes of time in which the Dementors were absent from his hallway, leaving him to wallow in his misery without their depressing help.

His cell was tiny, smaller than his bedroom at the burrow had been, and not nearly as cozy. He was surrounded by stone on four sides, with a thick steel door. There were no windows, no bars, no guests. The only opening in the door was a thin slot at the bottom, barely big enough for a bowl to be slid through once a day, half-filled with just enough calories to keep him alive. His bed was barely a thin mat on the floor, no pillows, or covers. There was a small hole in the back corner, for him to relieve himself into, and all he wore were thin, scratchy stripes that had holes picked in them from the last owner. A number had been magically embroidered on the chest of his ratty shirt, and was the only thing in the cell that seemed new, and unfadeable.

Ron spent the first few weeks screaming, banging, and fighting, but now, he sat in the corner, hunched in on himself, no longer having even the energy to sob. He had come in with so many happy memories, he’d been an immediate favorite of the cloaked guards. No longer. Now all he could think about was his brother’s death. Harry’s death. Everyone else who’d likely died, because he hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t fought hard enough. He hadn’t kept a closer eye on his best friend.

Harry had snuck off on his own, into the dark, into the Dark Lord’s clutches, and he’d paid with his life. Hagrid had carried his limp body up to the castle, displaying their fallen savior, for all to see. No one had been expecting him to wake up, jump from Hagrid’s arms, or for him to send Nagini right into their waiting, and deadly, hands. But as Voldemort raised his wand, Harry stood defenseless, wand still pointed toward the snake that twisted through the air toward its doom, before the third killing curse in his life hit him. There would be no fourth.

Ron had screamed, hexing madly into the crowd of Death Eaters, while the Light scattered, running for their lives, as the Dark retook Hogwarts. They’d caught several members of the Order of the Phoenix, and Ron had been among them, still battling to get to his fallen friend’s side as they overwhelmed, and stunned him. No more killing needed to be done. The war was won.

So now, Ron sat meekly in his corner, slowly going mad as the dementors floated past, sucking the goodness, and love from him, leaving him broken, and empty. He paid no mind to the rats that tried to steal his unappetizing meals, ignored the quiet drip of water from somewhere, and tried not to think at all. Thinking only brought more misery.

* * *

Malfoy picked absently at the wall of his cell, his hand resting on the floor as his fingernail scratched at the stone. The slowly growing hole in the wall was the only thing he had anymore, and even it wasn’t his own. The chipped indent had been there when they’d thrown him in, and only after exhausting himself trying to get out, did he realize, someone else had started trying to break through the bottom of the room. He didn’t speculate about the previous occupant, but got to work furthering their progress. It was his only hope.

He couldn’t hear anything from the other cells anymore, not since the occupants had either died, or gone insane. The soft dripping noise was all he could hear aside from his own scratching, and breathing. He’d occasionally hear someone else brought in screaming, but could never identify the voices. The panic all sounded the same. The nightmarish horror quickly robbing them of their identity, and speech. The dementors stole everything that wasn’t horror. Malfoy wasn’t sure if he still felt halfway sane, because of the hole he slowly dug, or the two years he’d spent in a previous nightmare, before being sent here. At least here, he wasn’t afraid for his life. He knew exactly what waited in his future. Here, there was the spirit-draining dementors, but at least, no one to disappoint, no one to mock him, and no one to get hurt.

He knew his nail was bleeding, but kept picking, occasionally leaning down to blow the dust out of his project, and leave room for more growth. The only things that seemed to grow in this macabre place: holes, and desperation. He would get out, even if he was one-hundred, senile, and blind, by the time he made it. He would get out.

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