Ollivander tried shouting Daphne away, but she kept insisting he come help this customer. "I should just walk over to the fireplace and Floo on home," he sighed as he set aside the wand he was working on. Daphne was invaluable, he was thankful to have her.
As he walked toward the door and undid the lock, he felt his knees pop, he was getting old. His body ached. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had found someone, in Daphne, to continue on his work. She was quite talented. He hadn't told her that, and sadly, he would never get to.
He followed his employee through the hall, oblivious to her shuttering of the windows. As Ollivander entered the front room he stopped dead in his tracks.
He knew that face. It couldn't be. He was supposed to be imprisoned in the depths of the Ministry of Magic.
"I..." he stammered. "I won't help you. Not again!" Ollivander fumbled in his pockets for his wand. He couldn't give this -- thing -- a wand again. He had to be brave. But before he found his wand, it was already too late. The disarming spell was cast and the Dark Lord now held his wand.
He stood there, as defiantly as he could, his aching knees, though, wobbled, betraying his strength. "I'll ... I'll ... I'll die before I help you again."