From where I sat in the corner of the drawing room, I watched them tug the frail wandmaker through the door and into the light. Each inch of his face was creased in terror, but by now I was numb to this. The woman who clutched at his arm with unnecessary strength looked gleeful, her tangled black hair caught slightly between her exposed teeth. This was Aunty Bellatrix’s favourite part.
‘Just because the Dark Lord doesn’t require any more from him,’ she said between cackles, ‘doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have a little fun.’
The drawing room burst into roars of laughter, and while I felt an overwhelming urge to cringe away, I let out a weak but strained chuckle myself. Beside me, my mother glanced in my direction. Her expression appeared concerned, but not in a way that suggested she feared for the wandmakers well-being. My mother was worried for me.
Her voice was inaudible over the Death Eaters’ excited uproar, but I easily read her lips. ‘It’s hard,’ she said, eyes scrutinising me closely, ‘I know.’
My eyes averted from hers for a moment as I observed the scene before me. Bellatrix had by now thrown the man over the table, and several others stood, sneering, over him.
I looked away. ‘No. It’s not.’
And then I heard the first cry of pain.
My eyes snapped back involuntarily to where Bellatrix had pinned Ollivander, his body now writhing in reaction to her curse. I had the sudden urge to purge the entire contents of my stomach.
I had become accustomed to the fearful expressions on victims faces as they anticipated their torture, but this – witnessing the pain – had the strongest effect of all.
And I knew that I wasn’t wrong in feeling this way. Tormenting the wandmaker was unnecessary, the Dark Lord had no use for him now. Why waste time inflicting pain on him? It was useless. At least, that was how I justified the sickness I felt when seeing him squirm.
Then, before I could have predicted, the groans became screams.
My stomach churned, and I almost stood up immediately to run. But, remaining seated, I turned to my mother again instead. ‘Has the other prisoner been fed yet?’ I asked her over the mixture of screams and jeers.
She stared for a moment, confused as to why I would care. ‘No, she hasn’t,’ my mother replied. ‘You could...’
She didn’t need to complete her sentence, as I was already up from my chair and out of the tension-filled drawing room.
The cries of Ollivander were still audible as they echoed through my home. Well, at least it used to be my home. I imagined that one was supposed to feel entirely comfortable in the place they called home, but it was now impossible to find comfort here. Not with such untrustworthy people lurking about, both Death Eaters and prisoners alike.
I reached the kitchen, finally, where the screams were almost faint whispers that could be ignored. I found it easy to block things out, once they were out of reach.
I snatched up a loaf of bread, deciding not to be too generous – people might think that I’d softened – and rushed through the halls toward the cellar.
I reached the door and loudly announced that I was about to enter. Receiving no reply, I heaved open the cellar door and swiftly stepped inside, closing it behind me.
It was pitch dark, and I could hear the screams again from down here. I placed the bread down and raised my wand in the air. ‘Lumos,’ I said, and my wand erupted with light.
I pointed it around the room, wondering where the prisoner was hiding. For a brief, terrifying moment I wondered if she’d escaped. But my wand light eventually found her sitting in the far right corner, hugging her knees tightly to her chest.
It was then that I noticed a sound that was far less consuming than the screams. The girl, her endless mane of hair falling over her bowed head, was humming.
The tune was unfamiliar, yet comforting. ‘Stop it,’ I immediately told her, not enjoying the feelings her song evoked in me.
The girl’s sound ceased, and the low groans from above became more prominent.
I watched as she hooked her hair behind her ears with fragile fingers, and her eyes met mine. ‘Why?’ she asked curiously. Her tone wasn’t defiant, but it still enraged me. How dare she?
‘Because I said so,’ I replied, ignoring the childishness of my retort.
She nodded solemnly and looked down again. I considered leaving, until I remembered the bread. I bent down and picked it up from the ground, wondering if this would be enough to fill her stomach. Not that I really care, I tried to convince myself.
I walked over, stopping a few feet in front of her and dropping the bread onto her knees. It seemed to balance there for a moment, and then it toppled off onto the floor again.
I rolled my eyes and made to lean down and pick it up. But she had snatched up the bread before I could reach it. I stared as she brushed off dirt and dust that it had collected from the cellar floor, knowing she still had full intention to eat it.
She tore off a corner of the loaf and began to chew. I narrowed my eyebrows. ‘No problem,’ I muttered scathingly.
She looked up and swallowed her mouthful. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said apologetically. ‘Thank you for bringing me this bread. I’m glad you didn’t think to bring butter or jam, or anything I could make a sandwich with. Not even a knife. The dust is fine, too. It’s easy to wipe off.’
My mouth fell open in shock, and I subconsciously inched closer to her in fury. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to speak to me that way, to mock me.
But then I realised that her tone hadn’t even been sarcastic. She had conveyed her words as sincere, as if she actually appreciated dirty food. This proved itself to be accurate as she continued to take large chunks out of the plain loaf of bread and nearly swallow them whole. She must have been the strangest prisoner I’d ever seen.
So strange that I’d almost forgotten about the screaming.
I suddenly found myself searching for an excuse to remain here in the cellar, where the sounds from above were far more tolerable. I couldn’t think of one.
But just as I had made the effort to turn around and leave, the girl spoke, as if she had read my mind. ‘It’s the screaming, isn’t it?’ she asked from behind me. ‘You can’t stand it.’
I snapped my head around, sending her a cold glare. ‘What did you just say?’ I asked, though I had heard every word.
She stared straight back at me, her expression failing to falter. ‘I can only think of one reason you would come down here,’ she said serenely, ‘and it’s that you can’t stand to hear Mr Ollivander’s screams.’
I had to admit, I was speechless. This had me feeling very uncomfortable, as it wasn’t often that I was short of a rather witty comeback. But this girl – this prisoner in my home – had read me so well that, for a moment, I couldn’t tell her that she was wrong.
I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes still watching me closely. ‘I’m sorry. I should make myself clearer.’ And then she raised her voice to say, ‘You don’t like to hear –’
‘Shut up,’ I hissed, interrupting her. I was worried that, even over the screaming, someone would hear her and have my reputation ruined. ‘You are completely out of line.’
She blinked. ‘Yes,’ she strangely agreed, ‘I suppose I am.’
I stared at the girl, baffled by her bizarre nature, as she started to nibble again on the bread I had given her.
There didn’t seem to be any further reason for me to remain in the cellar now, so I sighed and made to turn around. But then an idea struck me. I couldn’t have this girl telling anyone else who came down here that I had been hiding or that I was afraid. No, I definitely needed to set things straight.
I stepped a bit closer to her, and looked down at her with an expression I hoped was fierce. ‘I do not hate the screaming. In fact, I quite enjoy it.’
There I thought, that was pretty convincing. But then I remembered that this was not an ordinary individual that could be easily manipulated. She started to stare again, and I fidgeted anxiously.
‘I really don’t think you do,’ she said boldly. ‘I think you’re pretending to be someone you most definitely are not. It hurts you to hear Mr Ollivander in such pain, almost as much as it hurts me.’
Her words struck me hard, and once again I found it difficult to fight back. This girl was comparing the two of us, making it seem that perhaps we were in this together. The thought of being placed at the same level as this girl made me feel ill. She was, well, absolutely crazy.
It was now that I was convinced I had to leave. Perhaps I’d take refuge in my bedroom and put up a few spells that would make it harder to hear the torture. I also found that a part of me wished Bellatrix would stop the torture all together. I tried to convince myself that it was only a very small part.
I turned around and made my way towards the cellar door, but once my hand had curled around the handle, I heard her speak quietly once again.
‘You remember me from school, don’t you, Draco?’
I felt my hand subconsciously clench the door handle tightly, though I didn’t turn it. I refused to turn and look at the girl again, knowing that it might be impossible to forget her face now. Now that she had said my name.
The fact that she had recognised me for who I was - a Hogwarts student named Draco - sent a slight chill down my spine. Since the girl had arrived here, I’d spent most of my energy trying not to acknowledge the one thing that kept trying to force its way into my thoughts. I did recognise this girl.
Of course I did, how could I not? She was the butt of every joke; that freak from Ravenclaw. She was one of Potter’s many accomplices; she had fought against my own father at the Ministry of Magic. She was the most horribly intriguing person at Hogwarts, and I knew very well that her name was Luna Lovegood.
Despite not having turned to face her, I knew I could picture her precise expression in my head. The one she always wore; the look of complete curiosity with a sickening amount of interest. Her face was so strikingly familiar that I had been horrified to see her in this cellar for the first time, bruised and bewildered. It had brought the reality of all of this crashing down, so hard that I couldn’t help but reflect on every choice I had made.
And I was enraged by the effect her presence as a prisoner was having on me. To have her sit there, eating the food I had provided, and challenge the person that I had tried so hard to be. But the hardest part about all of this was that within Luna Lovegood’s insanity, there was sense. Sense that even I could not deny.
So I didn’t take another glance at her, and I slowly turned the handle on the door. I pulled it open and paused for a moment, inclining my head in her direction, though not looking at her at all. ‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘I don’t remember you.’
As I spoke these lies, I was uncertain if they would convince Luna, though I knew it was likely that they wouldn’t. She was, after all, infuriatingly perceptive.
She didn’t speak as I left the room and shut the door behind me, the wails from above sending an unpleasant shock through my body.
I walked back through my home, abandoning all thought of going to my bedroom. I reached my destination, and pushed open the door to the drawing room. By now, I was somewhat numb to the sounds of torture.
No one glanced up at me as I walked across the room, apart from the person I planned to speak to. My mother greeted me with concerned eyes, and I managed to force a smile.
I didn’t sit down to join her, deciding to remain tall. ‘Mother,’ I said loudly, though she was probably the only person listening, ‘I think it’s time they left the prisoner alone, don’t you?’
My mother’s eyes widened, but she nodded and stood. I felt her warm hand touch my shoulder, and waited for her to speak.
‘Bella,’ she called. I watched as Bella snapped her head up to face us, a sadistic grin still lingering on her lips.
‘Yes, Cissy?’ she asked with insincere kindness.
My mother took a deep breath, and I didn’t blame her for hesitating. ‘This is getting quite tiresome. Might I suggest we send the prisoner back to the cellar?’
For a long moment, Bellatrix looked horrified at the idea. But, to my surprise, she made a small movement that was likely to be a shrug. ‘If you insist, Narcissa. This is your home, after all.’
Her words were not sincere or even reminiscent of her true feelings, but they were enough. I watched as the Death Eaters retreated from Ollivander, grudgingly putting their wands back into their robes.
I looked away as Bellatrix dragged the wandmakers limp form from the room, and looked directly at my mother. I hoped my expression was thankful, because I didn’t want the other occupants of the room to hear the words. She seemed to understand, as she returned the silent communication with a smile. Together we returned to our seats in the drawing room in attempt to restore our positions within this group.
I drew in a long breath, finding that I now appreciated silence far more than I ever had. So I silently tried to convince myself that Luna Lovegood was not the motivation to do what I had just done, but I knew that, ultimately, she probably was.