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Voldemort could have nearly superhuman patience when he was trying to get something, and the session with Ollivander lasted hours. Ollivander thought of anything and everything he could that had nothing to do with the Elder Wand or Luna: the contents of his pantry, people he knew who had names beginning with the letter R, the step-by-step process of closing down his shop each night, and words he could make from his mother’s full maiden name.

“Wormtail!” Voldemort eventually called. “Get him out of here before I decide whatever he knows is worth less than the pleasure of killing him!”

The pain stopped, or at least no fresh wave of it crashed over him. He lay on the carpeted floor, panting, staring at the intricate pattern woven into it. A pair of shoes came into view, and he felt himself being hoisted up, one arm draped around Pettigrew’s neck as he was half-carried, half-dragged out of the room. He opened his eyes to see the outline of Voldemort still silhouetted against the fire, menacing and unreal.

As Pettigrew staggered into the hall, Ollivander unexpectedly made eye contact with Malfoy’s son standing in the shadows, pale and gaunt as a wraith.

Ollivander had never been fond of the Malfoys. He had sold Lucius his wand long ago, and Draco’s more recently, but the aura that they controlled the universe and it was in their debt for the honor of their attention was palpable in both father and son, a certainty of superiority.

Looking at the him, barely more than a boy but with eyes haunted as much as any old man’s, all that had been burned out of him until even the ashes were gone. A pitying look passed between them for the briefest moment, then dissolved in pain and hopelessness.

Pettigrew opened the cellar door, and Ollivander thought he was going to be tossed down the stairs like a bag of rubbish. However, probably because Voldemort thought he might still have some hidden arcane knowledge on the Elder Wand, Pettigrew reluctantly guided him to his prison, then dumped him on the floor before spitting on him and returning back upstairs.

Not one second later, Luna was kneeling next to him on the floor.

“Are you alive?” she asked tremulously. “Can you hear me?”

He tried to speak but found it impossible. Instead, he managed to grasp her hand weakly.

“Just rest,” she said, and he felt her blotting away Pettigrew’s spittle with the edge of the tattered jumper she was wearing. “I think they’ll leave you alone for a while now at least.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized she was probably right. Voldemort wouldn’t ask for more information from him again until he was truly desperate. Still, he wondered what had prompted the interest again. Perhaps something had happened near Christmas.

It was his last thought before consciousness left him, either from deep, inexorable sleep or from passing out. The difference was hard to tell.

Ollivander didn’t know how long he slept, but when he woke, Luna was nearby.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

She was trying to be cheerful, but he knew he must look a fright, and worry was clear in her eyes.

“I’m alive,” he managed to say.

“That’s always good,” Luna said, smiling, but still concerned. “It’s fairly late in the morning, but there isn’t any breakfast yet.”

And that meant no water. Ollivander chewed on his dry lips. It would be like their tormentors to punish him by withholding food and drink. Unfortunately, Luna was suffering the same fate.

“I’m sorry, child,” he managed from his parched mouth. “This is my fault.”

“No,” Luna said simply.

“I won’t tell them anything, and now they won’t even give us water,” he explained.

“No, you aren’t doing this to us. They are,” Luna said, inclining her head towards the stairs. “My father always tells me that hatred destroys the one who hates, but it’s getting a bit hard to stop that feeling. They’re dreadful.”

“They are,” he agreed.

“Do you want to sleep more?” she asked.

“I’ve slept long enough,” Ollivander said, stretching carefully, trying to see what damage was done.

Ollivander took a quick inventory of his injuries. His feet felt sore, as though he’d walked a very long way. His hands were swollen, his head splitting, and he suspected he’d cracked two ribs. The Cruciatus curse didn’t normally leave external injuries, but he might have broken the bones himself just from shrieking for so long. Aside from that, he hurt all over, but he would survive. Even more amazing, his sanity was still intact.

He was about to say something encouraging to Luna when he heard the sound of the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked.

Ollivander’s first instinct was to push Luna out of the thin beam of light coming from upstairs, but he couldn’t move enough for that. Why Pettigrew would be returning so soon he didn’t know. Was Voldemort finally about to kill him? He would rather Luna didn’t see that, particularly if he was to be fed to Nagini.

But the slithering rasp of scales over the steps did not come. Instead, only the sound of shoes on stone echoed through the empty room, and when Ollivander looked up, the silhouette was not the same as the oafish, perpetually hunched over Pettigrew.

As the figure was lit from behind, Ollivander couldn’t make out the details of his face at first, but he did know he was carrying something, and by the smell of it, it was food. He heard the footsteps abruptly stop, probably because whoever it was had seen Ollivander’s huddled form on the ground.

“Hello, Draco,” Luna’s voice said from somewhere behind Ollivander, her tone completely neutral.

The figure twitched as though startled. Apparently he hadn’t known there was anyone else down here.

“Luna?” he asked.

Of course, Ollivander realized, she would have been at school with the Malfoy boy.
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