Who: Leslie Ollivander and OPEN to visiting DEs (Mulciber? Lucius? Macnair? Bueller?) When: Friday, September 16 Where: Undisclosed location What: Ollivander is a prisoner - woe! Rating: PG-13 but may get heavier, depends on who comes Open/Closed: Open! Multiple characters may tag in at different threads, coming to visit Ollivander at different times.
In a cold sweat, Leslie awoke from a nightmare only to remember that his nightmare continued. The bare, concrete floor upon which he lied, provided no comfort whatsoever, and when he tried to sit up, every muscle in his body protested with pain. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, back against he wall. The room was dark, the only light coming from the crack at the bottom of his cell door. There was nothing much to look at anyway, in this bare room, which was strong with the stench of urine, feces and death.
Without any external clues, Leslie did not know what day it was or how long it had been since he was captured. He'd resolved that he was going to die in this place, if not by Voldemort's hand or one of his Death Eaters, then surely from pneumonia or some other sort of disease. He was an old man who had lived a full life - dying didn't matter as much to him as the distressing thought of his shop being closed and all his precious wands sitting on the shelves without owners.
The heavy manacles around his wrists clanked with the chains as he shifted his hands to rest upon his lap. Shackled to the wall, there was only one thing that Leslie could do, and that was to retreat into his mind. Resting his head back and closing his eyes, he tried to imagine himself in more pleasant surroundings. His workshop. Surrounded by the tools of his craft. The scent of fresh wood shavings and polish. The turning of a new wand on the lathe. It was a beautiful wand that he'd been making, in his imagination. The detail was so clear, Leslie foolishly considered that if he should ever be freed and actually survive, that he would make this wand manifest. And it would be his crowning achievement. His pièce de résistance, his magnum opus as it were. For really, it would be a magnificent work of art.
Perhaps it was this thought alone that kept him going.