He was left alone; locked up tight in a filthy rat hole. Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that it was better than being in the Dark Lord’s hands. He couldn’t repress a shiver of sick fear at the mere thought. A dim orb of bluish light lit the long, low-ceilinged space he stood within, and Draco surveyed his self-inflicted prison with dull eyes. Nothing but dirt and four walls, as far as he could tell. He scoffed bitterly. The Order fancied themselves to be so good, so righteous, and they couldn’t even provide him with a bed? Not even a blanket, or pile of rags?