Somewhere in the English Midlands
Silas Woodward, age 14

Silas found himself sprawled across the half-made sleeper couch he'd been using for the past six months. His head ached, which the weak lights of their little shack made worse. He rolled onto the floor, failed to get his bearings, and grasped for the memory that would tell him why his chest hurt so much. When he caught it, he cursed under his breath. "Damn it, Lee!"

The older man -- the host of Potterwatch, the one he'd been working with all year, the one who'd taken him in as a false cousin for his own protection -- had stunned him. They'd gotten word, via a fake coin, that Harry Potter had returned to Hogwarts and needed back-up for a big fight. They'd argued, as Lee was heading out the door, as to whether Silas would come along. And just as Silas insisted that the man couldn't stop him, Lee had whipped out his wand.

Now Silas was alone and Lee was long gone, leaving him with no way to get to Hogwarts. Silas swore again and pounded his fist on the floor. So what if he was under-aged? He'd bet his wand that Felinus would be at Hogwarts the moment he heard the call, along with his aunt and uncle and all the rest of their friends who'd survived this bloody awful year. He wanted to be there to, to help, to do something, anything but sit here alone in this stupid little shack, safe and sound and utterly useless.

A scratching sound caught his attention in the silence that followed his muffled curse. It came from the makeshift pirate radio studio that filled the room next door. Cramped in between refurbished soundboards and the other bits of charmed equipment, a black quill hovered over a pad of parchment, writing entirely on its own. Writing names.

Silas stumbled to his feet, pausing only to crane his head into the kitchen to check the time. He'd lost several hours to that stunner. The battle must be underway by now, which meant that he knew exactly where the names were coming from. They'd been getting updates like this, via a certain spell, from loyal listeners and moles in the Ministry all year. With so much being hidden, it was the only way to make sure that those who had been lost were remembered.

Which meant that Silas had a job to do now, since Lee was away. When the final name was scratched out, he snatched the top sheet of the pad and re-igniting their equipment with a wave of his wand. He dropped into the chair behind Lee’s make-shift broadcasting desk, dragged the microphone into his reach and, as an after-thought, retrieved his mother's black scrying mirror from the corner of the room that was technically 'his.' He set it in front of him, just as the last bits of equipment hummed to life and Potterwatch Radio went live.

“The sleeping dragon has been disturbed.” Static crackling, Silas’s voice flooded the magical airwaves with the same coded alert Lee had used hours before. The soundboard whined in protest, which Silas ignored as he ratcheted up the dials, spreading their signal into as wide a frequency as he could manage. “I repeat: the sleeping dragon has been disturbed, it is awake. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Intern Reed—no.”

The time for codenames was over. If Potter won his fight, the Dark Lord and his corrupted Ministry would be gone. If Hogwarts fell, they’d come for him, but then it wouldn’t matter anyway.

“This is Silas. Silas Menelaus Woodward, coming to you now for Potterwatch. As previously announced, Hogwarts is, at this moment, under attack by agents of the so-called Dark Lord. The dark forces have gathered in Hogsemede in search of Harry Potter, who is – as we have always told you – alive and well and currently within the walls of Hogwarts castle.

“The false Headmaster and corrupt Professors installed by our farce of a Ministry have been expelled. All students under-aged as well as those who did not wish to remain have been evacuated. The battle is under way, and the forces of the Dark Lord descend on the school en masse. I repeat: they are attacking Hogwarts, a school, full of children. Any witch and wizard who has ever called that place home is asked to come now and defend Hogwarts in its time of greatest need.

“Our own River – Lee Jordan – leaving me here alone. I am under-aged. I would not be permitted to fight.” “But my conscience will not allow me to sit by in silence while so many brave witches and wizards risk and lose their lives for the sake of us all. And so, listeners, I bring you now the list of those fighting, now confirmed dead.”

“That list, so far, is as followed: Anita Canterwall. Bernard Austerlitz. Roger Malone. And Colin–”

Silas’s throat closed up. Colin Creevey – he knew Colin. The skinny kid with the camera, brilliant at getting a good shot with that camera of his. A bit of a pain, sure, but a journalist through and through. Or at least, he had been. Now he was dead.

Silas swallowed the painful lump and pressed on. No dead air. No dead air. “Colin…Colin Creevey, Gryffindor Sixth Year.”

He set the parchment aside, holding onto his mirror and the microphone to keep his hands from shaking. He thanked heaven and good luck for the headphones, because otherwise he would have been straining his ears to hear the next scratching of the quill he prayed would never come.

“That’s all for now. But the battle continues, even now. Even as I speak, brave men and women are risking their lives.  And if any of those brave defenders can hear me, please know that all of us out here -- all of those too young or too hurt or too trapped to fight -- are with you. And know that I am with you too, listeners. Those of you who are, like me, alone and afraid for those you love. For now, at least, and for as long as it lasts, we are alone together and waiting for news. I promise, as soon as I know more, you’ll know more.

"So, until then, listeners…Until then, I’m staying right here. On the air, with all of you, for as long as I can."