Draco Malfoy sat in his room. Through the window he glanced through the large wooden-framed window and watched the sun tip its hat in farewell as it dipped below the horizon. He did not bother to wave his wand to light the gas lamps that were dotted around the spacious, lavishly decorated room.
As the last few rays of daytime sprung off his icy blond hair, he sighed and glanced up the clock that hung beside the door. The heavy pendulum swung from side to side relentlessly. He watched it, momentarily mesmerised, before checking the time. It was seven.
He heaved himself off the four-poster bed, leaving a dent where his body had been laying on the maroon duvet. Moving with a mechanical unconsciousness that came only with habit, he reached his floor-to-ceiling bookcase full of untouched books. He stood on tiptoe and pulled out three or four books from one of the upper shelves. Behind them, there was a tiny alcove in which a radio snugly fit. He carefully slid the radio from its hiding place and put the books back.
"Muffliato," he muttered, pointing his wand at the doorway.
He wandered back to his bed and set the radio up. The static growled as he switched it on. Malfoy shot a worried glance at the bedroom door, but nothing disturbed this secret ritual.
"Mad-Eye," he whispered at the radio as he tapped a distant pattern with his wand. He said the word with distaste, pulling a face that no one could see as he squirmed with embarrassment. They always chose a word or name that he disapproved of.
Again, his grey eyes darted towards the door, but his charm seemed to have worked: no one had become aware of the multitude of detestable voices that had sprung from the tiny radio.
" – but to start with I shall pass you over to Romulus with an update on our favourite wizard!" the voice took Malfoy back to his Hogwarts' days. Quidditch games and chanting crowds…he seemed only to remember the good.
"Thank you," a rough, calming voice was saying.
An ex-teacher, whom he had hated. Hated like he had done them all. Yet his heart stopped beating, as he wished the werewolf outcast would just get on with it.
"It seems we have no news of him yet," Lupin said gravely. Malfoy let his breath go slowly. It trickled out between his thin lips.
There was a pause before Lee Jordan said tentatively: "But we are sure he is still alive?"
"Yes," Lupin said, his determination to believe forced onto this single word. "They would have let us know if he had died. I am sure of it."
"Is there anything that we can guess about his whereabouts?" Jordan asked. He seemed as relieved as Malfoy by their old professor's answer.
"No," Lupin answered. "I find it quite unnecessary to speculate, but I would bet every Galleon to my name that he has not – and will not – flee the country. He won't abandon the struggle against the Head Death Eater."
Malfoy pulled another face displaying his disgust of such a display of affection towards to boy.
"And of his friend," Lupin added, "we also have no information…but I feel that we can safely presume she is also in good health."
"Thank you, Romulus," Jordon said grimly. "And now onto other news – "
Malfoy switched off the radio. He had heard all he needed to. He could turn it back on later to find the next password.
Every night, this had been his routine. Before dinner was served, he would sneak up to his room, dropping obvious hints to his parents that he was somewhere else. Then he would turn on the hidden radio on and listen for news of his old classmates.
This bizarre, and he was openly honest to himself about this, behaviour had started in October, a month after he realised that he would never be going back to school. When The Dark Lord had decided it would be prudent to keep the Malfoys together, imprisoned in their own mansion.
Leaving the radio on his soft duvet, Malfoy heaved himself off his bed and lumbered over to his mirror. Being permanently terrified did not suit his arrogant features. There were grey circles under his sunken eyes. His face was even more narrower from lack of food: he had not eaten properly for months and months. In fact he could not remember eating a full meal.
The Death Eaters mulling around waiting for murder certainly had something to with the increasing panic that had replaced the blood in the veins. The screams from the dungeons did not help.
He could not go down the dungeons, even though he knew there was an old man and younger Hogwarts student, both wandless, down there. There was no point in risking his neck just to see if they were okay. The only thing he could think of to help was to listen out for news of Potter. A strange way to show his support, he thought, but it was the safest way.
He ruffled his hair, his reflection copied him. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he wondered whether that was really him looking back. They were the same features – a little distorted, yet definitely the same – but he felt altered inside. Like he was becoming a different person.
He checked the grand clock on the wall again and meandered back to the bed. Despite its softness and cosiness, he did not like the feeling. He would not let himself like it, not when people in the same house were in such distress.
The radio crackled into life as he gained access to the programme. One of the idiotic Weasley twins was speaking; a shot of annoyance ran through his body. Blood traitors and full of themselves. Almost proud to be the way they were.
"Well, that's all for now," whichever Weasley it was said. "We shall be back soon, when we next find a safe spot. The next password will be Fawkes."
Farewells were sent through the airwaves. Malfoy scoffed at their choice of password. So… sentimental.
He stopped at this thought: was that not what he was being?