Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

This is the part of the day she likes best. The part when she can forget about everything else, and just concentrate on her feet, the way her steps coincide perfectly with the ticking of the clocks.

Sometimes she wonders why there are so many clocks. To remind the prisoners? To slowly count the wasted days of their lives? The minutes till they die?

She passes a window and instinctively shivers. It is always cold here. Chill winds blow over the North Sea, carried from the Arctic. A damp fog clings to everything, darkening the grey stone walls of the fortress.

An Auror. She had never really considered it; she had wanted to take S.P.E.W further (She allows herself a smile at this, at how her boys had called it ‘spew’. Even with the Demetors gone, humour is hard to come by here; you have to squeeze out every drop you can). But then there was the War and everything changed.  

So many Death Eaters, killing and burning, their Lord gone, they had no mercy, nothing left to live for, death their only option. And they were determined to take as many with them as possible.

For a moment she considers handing in her notice, but stops that train of though straight away. She is a Gryffindor. She will not quit just because the work is hard.
Nevertheless, she would not have applied. Not if she had known. Known how she would be stuck here, marooned on this forsaken island.

She flicks her wand and the tray of food hovers in mid air as she pushes the door open. As usual, the occupant shows no sign of life.

He sits in the middle of the bench, his face turned to the floor, the long strands of his black hair obscuring his face.

Without a word she turns and leaves. He will die tomorrow. She has never liked him. But she does not think that death is an acceptable punishment. Never.

An hour later she returns. The plate is clean, and he is sitting in the same place, looking at the floor. Carefully she lifts the plate and turns to go.  

“Wait.”

Slowly, silently she spins on her heel, to face him. He is sitting up, his face turned towards her. His eyes are enormous and dark in his pale face.  He says nothing, but she can see the expression in his eyes. The hopelessness. The loneliness.

She does not know why, but she puts the plate down, and then walks the few paces to his cold stone bench.  He is a murderer. Murderers do not need comfort.

She sits down.  His hand is on his knee. Wordlessly she reaches out her own. His is larger than hers. And so very cold. She can feel the calluses, born from years of chopping ingredients, and stirring potions.

And so they sit in silence and listen to the quiet ticking of the clocks, ticking away the hours until his death. The minutes. The seconds.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.