Vonne: Hello! I'm so glad you've all come back to read the second part to 'Radio'. There's a long story that goes behind why 'Basket Case' (for some of you) seems to be starting from the beginning again without any reason at all. But, to make a long story short... by accident I deleted the original 'Basket Case'. Yes, that means all fifteen chapters of it. I had meant to delete a different story I had pretty much rotting in my profile and yet, without thinking, deleted 'Basket Case' by mistake.

I hadn't even noticed that I had done so until M.R . girl sent me a message about it. I was mortified. I hadn't saved a single word of this 'Radio' sequel and I was not about to rewrite fifteen chapters that I had already penned down all over again! But M.R . girl had actually saved all fifteen on her computer! Seriously, she saved the future of this fiction and saw to it that it got an ending after all. So, I have to thank her profusely for that. I would not have been able to revive this story without her.

I apologize to all of you who sent me messages about the missing 'Basket Case' that I never got to respond back to. Thank you for all the concern and interest in getting this back up and running!

So, with all that being said, I will update the chapters as I go along. And then I will be able to continue where I left off. I am still hoping to get the reviews back, as well.

Thanks so much! -Vonne

Prologue:
Psychosis

Laying on his front in the mass darkness, a rather blond boy of twenty-two gave a slight shift in what had been a fairly sound sleep. It was, of course, the most peaceful bit of rest he'd endured in a long while and he wasn't entirely sure on how to take the most of this once in a lifetime moment. Halfway under the bed sheets, his pale foot gave a slight twitch and, rooted in the delusion of sleep, he gave a rested groan before shifting slightly on the mattress. From the looks of it, a spectator might have guessed that the man was, all things considered, a rather normal one. He was almost healthy-looking, besides being a bit too skinny and far too pale, and he lived in a house that was considerably comfortable. However, the average onlooker may not have known that the man they'd been scrutinizing was none other than that of Draco Malfoy, who had spent five years of his life living all but normally.

But it was far more than the simplest abnormalities that had been plaguing one Draco Malfoy. From what he'd learned, the man had come to realize that these strange things were almost bound to happen to him one way or another. But it was because he'd gone almost two weeks without anything out of the ordinary occurring in his life, he had, for the first time in a long time, considered the worst to be over. Of course, he'd been bitterly mistaken. As Draco slept soundly for the last time in a long time, a long scratch filled his silent head and his eyes broke open with a forceful start.

Whatever the scratching had been, it was pulling its way through the halls of the very house. The long, overdrawn sound was prolonged, as if to purposely make its way into Malfoy's very mind. Then finally, after a long while, the scrape, which was not short of fingernails running horribly across a chalkboard, stopped. But Draco Malfoy, however, kept going. His eyes not even completely adjusted to the blackness, he stared in space, his forehead breaking out in a slight sweat. Momentarily, he glanced around his bedroom, a rather tidy room as of currently. But the sleeping area contained nothing heavily out of the ordinary, minus a long slender wand and a discarded and unused broomstick at the corner. Though perhaps the noise was only that- a noise that was not to be taken seriously. With his breaths nothing more than broken inhales, Malfoy remained silent and waited for the noise to come once again.

"Draco..." something high-pitched and horrible said in his eager ear, "Draco, it's been long. Far too long..."

Consequently, Draco shot upright, his breaths having doubled in their size towards the act of hyperventilation. The room shrunk around him. His heavy shoulders once again carried the unmistakable weight that he'd once thought to have shed. And still, he was almost completely rooted to the mattress, holding on to the sheets like a lost child, unsure as of what to do next. Then his eyes glanced over to the tiny radio, a silly little toy he'd kept by his bed whenever he'd thought he could get away with it. However, his consideration towards using the thing was instantly put down. The last time he'd spoken with Hermione Jean Granger was, regrettably, two weeks ago. He couldn't exactly give her a ring now, not at this moment, when he could barely even compose himself. "Draco, where have you been? We've got some things to further address..."

Malfoy's clammy palms grabbed for the edge of his throbbing temples. Tormented, he brought his weak knees to his head, hoped that his father would bust in the room and claimed to have heard it, too. However, in the back of his mind he'd known that such a desire was rather far fetched. He, Draco Malfoy, had been hearing the same high-pitched voice for quite some time and all he needed to do was find the source of his problem. Rather, get his head straight. But why was it that he could hardly pick himself up from his mattress? As he contemplated the act of locating the voice he'd known was only in his head, he knew that getting up was going to be a new accomplishment entirely. His legs were far too shaky, his heart pumping nothing but battery acid. If he could just get a move on, maybe progression wasn't too far ahead in the future.

He drew in a deep breath, yanked the covers off of him completely, and stood beside the bed. His entire body ached and though, as to why, he was completely unsure. All he knew was that the bedpost was the only true thing keeping him properly upright. He glanced around, heard the breaths of the man he knew he'd never truly forget. Lord Voldemort was, even dead, rooted in his life. "There is..." the voice calmly breathed, "so much left unfinished."

Barefoot and uneasy, Draco released his fingers from the sturdy bedpost, only stumbling slightly as he drew himself away from it. His head was restless, his chest heaving spastically. And what was he doing, anyway? Searching for the speaker that he knew only to exist in his mind? However stupid and unnecessary the act was, his denial and pride was, characteristically, far too developed. Consequently he forced himself through the room, and pushed the door open with anxious aggression. The hallway expanded desperately before his very eyes, winding down before him like the body of a massive serpent. He stood behind the doorframe, surveying it, and then extended his foot into the section of the house, watching the Manor as if through someone else's eyes. The entire house seemed foreign to him. Though he'd grown up in the enormous building, he almost didn't recognize even the family pictures that hung on the walls. These photographs were almost way too old that have been at all familiar to him. And as he watched himself at eight, smiling devilishly with his pretty mother and his handsome father, he could have sworn that the boy was someone else entirely.

Draco neared the steps and he looked down them as if he were about to plunge down a significantly steep cliff. He could hear Voldemort's rattling breaths, the root of them coming from the living room. Shaking, he approached the first step, handled the railing with extreme care. As he descended, he mentally scolded himself. What was he doing? Surely, at two in the morning, the likes of a dead man paying him a visit were, quite frankly, fairly slim. The sensible part of his mind told him to go back up the stairs, get under the covers, and go to bed. But Draco Malfoy knew more than anyone that he was far too long gone to even listen to a single sensible thought. No, whatever thought forced him urgently forward, that was the thought that he minded. Still unstable, he pulled himself to the middle of the staircase, his eyes bolted to the frame that exposed only a fraction of the family living room.

In the dark, Pettigrew's insufferable scratch marks lined the wallpaper, a decoration that had once made the house almost impossibly lovely. Now, the ruined wall dressings only reminded him of everything he had tried so hard to forget. Though perhaps it was not in Draco Malfoy's being to be able to forget... perhaps remembering was something he would always be doomed to. "Ah," the voice said, more than heavily amused, "I knew you'd come back, sometime."

It seemed so real, that voice inside his head.

The severity of his thoughts kept him rooted to the last step. His feet had never felt so heavy. And what was almost unfathomable was the fact that he'd managed to push himself, almost too desperately, from the very last step. He stumbled into the open space before the living room, his mind racing.

Voldemort, his awful voice said almost triumphantly, "every dead body that is not exterminated, gets up and kills. The people it kills, get up and kill."

It was now or never. Move forward or go back. Time to think about a decision was no longer an option. With the breath of a dead man so realistically pumping in the mind of Draco Malfoy, there wasn't truly much more he could do. Furthermore, he plunged himself towards the daunting room. Darkness was instantly thrust upon him. In the blackened room, Malfoy could only now hear his own breathing. Panting, the noise bounced mercilessly off of the walls. Everything around him seemed so utterly hollow. Standing there dumbfounded, he felt completely solitary. If he hadn't known any better, he would have reckoned that his parents were not up stairs asleep in their bed after all.

His entire body was shaking, almost fit-like with the anticipation of it all. There he stood, almost drenched in his night clothes, bare feet sticking to the stone flooring uselessly. His night shirt stuck to his chest in the same way that his white-blond hair stuck to his forehead. His throat was so dry that he could hardly find it in himself to swallow, though he desired desperately to rid himself of the large lump that was rooted in the depth of his throat. And there he was, alone, standing at the edge of the living room, his shoulders low and limp at his side. The light of the moon outside was, in fact, his own source of enlightenment. The large illuminated globe shone down on the center of the room ever so slightly, reflecting nothing to him but the marble stone of the floorboards.

And so, what was it, exactly? What had he proved to himself by investigating the voice that was so obviously in his head? The realization that there was no dead man lurking about his house in the early morning was, if anything, only further indication that he was not sane. He breathed out, blinked the sweat from his eyes, and walked himself towards the couch, flopping on top of it with a lifeless breath. Even as tired as he was there, his own foolishness disheartened him. And he'd gone two whole weeks without a single problem in the world. He should not have come down at all, should have left the event as just that, an event that should have gone ignored.

Thus he leaned forward, pressed his head into his palms, and hoped he could simply fall asleep as such. Truly, he did not think he even possessed the strength to head back up the stairs for a second time. Though perhaps the fact that he was in fact alone was a good thing. At least he wasn't seeing things.

"Finally," the voice breathed, this time so close to Draco's ear that he had to once again get back up, "you can never truly leave..."

And there he was. Standing before Malfoy in the flesh, or at least, what was left of the flesh, was Lord Voldemort. The smile on his face was so carved in to his skull. His two eyes were blank and locked only on to Malfoy. His jaw seemed almost impossibly unhinged. In his dark luminous cloak, the Dark Lord looked every much alive as he looked dead. And the rotting corpse extended his hand out towards Draco, several of his slender fingers missing completely. He touched his hand on Draco's face, though Malfoy could not truly feel anything upon him. However, he could see the dead man so clear, as if it were day. Nonetheless, he could feel himself loosing everything- his posture, his strength, his consciousness. The room was spinning before he even knew it, everything whirling around in dangerous circles expect for Voldemort himself, who stood still throughout the mental earthquake that tormented the mind of Draco Malfoy.

"So much to do," the voice told him as Draco felt his eyes flicker up to the back of his head, "and so little time."

So perhaps the worst was not over for Draco Malfoy, perhaps the worst had only just begun. There, as he stood havering in his own delusional earth-quake, it took only a matter of minute moments for Draco's body to go entirely limp. His body stumbled over in parts; his knees went first, slapping the marble tremendously too hard. And then his head, colliding with the floor with an effortless bit of power. And then both the voice and the corpse had gone, leaving Draco to nothing but the night's false solitude.