"I'm not hungry," she tells the warm darkness, hugging her bare legs tighter. If she stays very still and very small, it is...easier. Easier to pretend to be elsewhere, anywhere but here, trapped in Voldemort's seat of power. Malfoy tried to go out to the drop point again yesterday, and was sent back, he told her. Not allowed out; under watch, a consequence of his deceit. She wonders if he is telling the truth, sometimes, in her darker moments, when everything seems hopeless and desperate, as if the end has come for her and she just hasn't realised it yet. Just hasn't lain down and died.