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The fundamental things apply
Somewhere in the balmier waters of the western Atlantic there is an Unplottable island, inhabited by brightly colored tropical birds, palm trees, and, as it is the last stop in the old Portkey relay to America, home to a small and largely transient population of wizards. Traditionally it was under the rule of the British Ministry of Magic. Practically, it is generally accepted that the island is a law unto itself.
With the coming of the Second Voldemort War, many eyes in occupied England and France turned to the island as a last stop before safety in neutral America. But getting that far is difficult enough, and once on the island it is a matter of having the money, or connections, or luck, to get the registration which would entitle you to one of the few legal Portkeys off the island. Here, then, are the flotsam and jetsam of a wartorn wizarding world washed up: on the shores of the Wayward Island . .
Tap.
Tap tap tap.
Draco Malfoy opened his eyes, yawned, and swung his feet off his desk, then turned around enough to open the windowscreen. The large, pink-tailed Bird of Paradise which had been pecking for entry stepped with dignity into the tiny office and Draco pointed it with a flop of the wrist to the corner where bowls of water and Brazil nuts had been set out for passing deliverybirds. He yawned again, and stretched, and took a few more minutes to relax before retrieving the no doubt vitally important message it had brought from his superiors.
Draco Malfoy had come to the Wayward Island upon his discovery seven years ago, much to his surprise, that he was entirely unsuited to war. It had, it seemed, been a surprise to nobody but him, as his father found him puking his guts out that night on the floor of the toilet, and coldly informed him that the position of the Administrator-General of the island had unexpectedly become vacant. Would he be willing to sacrifice his own pride for the honor of his family, and serve the Dark Lord in that out-of-the-way position? He'd been here ever since, as the war dragged on behind him in Europe. It was a position of great authority but little responsibility, which suited him perfectly, leaving him plenty of time to indulge himself, and when a killing was absolutely necessary he could order somebody else to do it, and not have to watch.
Still and all, it was occasionally necessary to exert himself for the government he served. Whichever government that happened to be at the time. When the Wizengamot had proclaimed Lord Voldemort three years ago, a government-in-exile had been set up in Gibraltor. Draco still officially reported to them, but the Death Eaters effectively came and went as they pleased.
The bird had finished its refueling and was standing on his desk, glaring at him with one beady eye. He sighed and pulled the rolled parchment off its leg. It settled its feathers irritabley and launched itself out the window, not waiting for a reply. He opened the letter:
Draco cursed and threw the parchment down on his desk. The loyalists didn't dare balk the new order on such a minor matter, and that left him ten hours to set the machinery of law in order and make preparations for his father's arrival. And blast them all, couldn't they have told him if they were ferrying weapons through *his* island, and perhaps he could have done something to *prevent* their disappearance. At least it was not as if the making the arrest would be difficult. There was only one person on the island with both the gall and the guile to pull off something like this, and there was only one place to be, come evening. Everyone went to Ronald's.
---
(much later in the story)
"The first thing I ever had that was really mine," Ron said abruptly, "that I didn't have to share with my brothers, or my friends, or the whole bloody world, was my Cleansweep. The one I got for my prefect's badge. You remember. And I knew that even that should have been yours, if you weren't too busy off saving the world. I should have known right from the start."
Harry looked up at Ron, green eyes burning behind his cracked glasses, and opened his mouth to speak, then turned back to the towel he was winding around the oozing hexmark on his arm. He spoke very slowly. "I know you know a little about the years I spent with the Dursleys, before Hugwarts, but I never said very much. They gave me just enough to keep me alive, if I worked for it. The first thing I ever had, really, beyond the clothes on my back, was Hedwig. And she was a gift. She was so perfect, more than I ever dared hope for, and I couldn't believe she was really mine. And the day I sent her off with a letter and she didn't come back, I realized that I had loved her too much because she had come to me so freely. I couldn't own her and she didn't deserve to be taken for granted; if I loved her I should let her go learn to be a bird on her own wings." He tied an awkward one-handed knot and then looked up. "But the first time I ever bought something with my own money, the first time I realized that it was all really real and I could have things I wanted, was when I bought out the sweets cart on the train. And I loved it, but all I really wanted to do was share them with you."
Ron grinned against his will, raised one hand, dropped it. "We're all messed up, aren't we?"
Yeah," Harry replied in kind. Then he lifted his uninjured hand to touch Ron's cheek, carefully. "Ron, d'you think we could ever--"
He was cut off by the appearance of Crabbe and Goyle in the open doorway of the club. "Mr Potter," Goyle said with relish, "yer under arrest."
With the coming of the Second Voldemort War, many eyes in occupied England and France turned to the island as a last stop before safety in neutral America. But getting that far is difficult enough, and once on the island it is a matter of having the money, or connections, or luck, to get the registration which would entitle you to one of the few legal Portkeys off the island. Here, then, are the flotsam and jetsam of a wartorn wizarding world washed up: on the shores of the Wayward Island . .
Tap.
Tap tap tap.
Draco Malfoy opened his eyes, yawned, and swung his feet off his desk, then turned around enough to open the windowscreen. The large, pink-tailed Bird of Paradise which had been pecking for entry stepped with dignity into the tiny office and Draco pointed it with a flop of the wrist to the corner where bowls of water and Brazil nuts had been set out for passing deliverybirds. He yawned again, and stretched, and took a few more minutes to relax before retrieving the no doubt vitally important message it had brought from his superiors.
Draco Malfoy had come to the Wayward Island upon his discovery seven years ago, much to his surprise, that he was entirely unsuited to war. It had, it seemed, been a surprise to nobody but him, as his father found him puking his guts out that night on the floor of the toilet, and coldly informed him that the position of the Administrator-General of the island had unexpectedly become vacant. Would he be willing to sacrifice his own pride for the honor of his family, and serve the Dark Lord in that out-of-the-way position? He'd been here ever since, as the war dragged on behind him in Europe. It was a position of great authority but little responsibility, which suited him perfectly, leaving him plenty of time to indulge himself, and when a killing was absolutely necessary he could order somebody else to do it, and not have to watch.
Still and all, it was occasionally necessary to exert himself for the government he served. Whichever government that happened to be at the time. When the Wizengamot had proclaimed Lord Voldemort three years ago, a government-in-exile had been set up in Gibraltor. Draco still officially reported to them, but the Death Eaters effectively came and went as they pleased.
The bird had finished its refueling and was standing on his desk, glaring at him with one beady eye. He sighed and pulled the rolled parchment off its leg. It settled its feathers irritabley and launched itself out the window, not waiting for a reply. He opened the letter:
The Portkey of two messengers carrying important war materiel was intercepted en route to the Wayward Island. It is believed perpetrators, possibly subversives, plan to transport the stolen materiel through the island. Round up all suspicious characters and search them for stolen items. High Inquistor Malfoy of the Third British Inquisition will be arriving on the 9 o'clock Portkey to oversee your efforts.
(Verified, the Minister-in-Exile, Amelia Bones.)
Draco cursed and threw the parchment down on his desk. The loyalists didn't dare balk the new order on such a minor matter, and that left him ten hours to set the machinery of law in order and make preparations for his father's arrival. And blast them all, couldn't they have told him if they were ferrying weapons through *his* island, and perhaps he could have done something to *prevent* their disappearance. At least it was not as if the making the arrest would be difficult. There was only one person on the island with both the gall and the guile to pull off something like this, and there was only one place to be, come evening. Everyone went to Ronald's.
---
(much later in the story)
"The first thing I ever had that was really mine," Ron said abruptly, "that I didn't have to share with my brothers, or my friends, or the whole bloody world, was my Cleansweep. The one I got for my prefect's badge. You remember. And I knew that even that should have been yours, if you weren't too busy off saving the world. I should have known right from the start."
Harry looked up at Ron, green eyes burning behind his cracked glasses, and opened his mouth to speak, then turned back to the towel he was winding around the oozing hexmark on his arm. He spoke very slowly. "I know you know a little about the years I spent with the Dursleys, before Hugwarts, but I never said very much. They gave me just enough to keep me alive, if I worked for it. The first thing I ever had, really, beyond the clothes on my back, was Hedwig. And she was a gift. She was so perfect, more than I ever dared hope for, and I couldn't believe she was really mine. And the day I sent her off with a letter and she didn't come back, I realized that I had loved her too much because she had come to me so freely. I couldn't own her and she didn't deserve to be taken for granted; if I loved her I should let her go learn to be a bird on her own wings." He tied an awkward one-handed knot and then looked up. "But the first time I ever bought something with my own money, the first time I realized that it was all really real and I could have things I wanted, was when I bought out the sweets cart on the train. And I loved it, but all I really wanted to do was share them with you."
Ron grinned against his will, raised one hand, dropped it. "We're all messed up, aren't we?"
Yeah," Harry replied in kind. Then he lifted his uninjured hand to touch Ron's cheek, carefully. "Ron, d'you think we could ever--"
He was cut off by the appearance of Crabbe and Goyle in the open doorway of the club. "Mr Potter," Goyle said with relish, "yer under arrest."