InsaneJournal

NaNo FanFic Part 6
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Pairings this part: None
Rating: PG-13

January, 1998, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Luna had lost count of the days; she had gone through seven of the slow-burning candles, one at a time once she realized that although they were small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, they were charmed to burn for days and not to blow out.  Nothing differentiated her hours save the occasional appearance of a plate of food by the door or the replacement of the chamber pot in the corner.  A single candle lasted about seven meals, and each time she lit a new one she made a little mark on the wall with the white wax.  The door had not opened since Malfoy had gone, but twice footsteps outside her door had brought the shuddering convulsions of the Cruciatus cast through the tiny window near the top, and three times someone else in the dank cellars had screamed their own pain. 

At first she had tried apparating out, but after five unsuccessful tries she almost splinched herself into the wall and gave up.  Then she tried scratching at the mortar between bricks, but all of it was solid with protective charms and she only bloodied her fingers and lost two fingernails in the attempt. 

At one point she tried clinging to the chamber pot until it vanished from her arms.  Then she tried standing in it, but the only result that had was that the house elves didn't take the pot until she collapsed from exhaustion and rolled out of it. 

She didn't regret those attempts, but she did sometimes wonder if she was a failure for giving up so quickly.  Would Ginny or Neville have given up already? Would they curl up in different corners each night with a carefully safe-guarded candle, hoping that the bursts of light behind their eyelids were simply capillary action and not the attacks of night-dwelling zarclems?   

Sometimes she thought she would die from lack of soap alone.   Never certain how long it would be between meals, she hoarded her water, and the tiny splashes she allowed herself only shifted the grit on her body, never washed it away.  She changed the layers of her winter uniform, or what remained of it, so that no particular article got more wear than the others. 

She told herself stories to fill the empty hours, and to distract herself from the noises that came from the shadows.  Her voice did nothing to drive away the tiny biting insects that tormented her whenever she tried to sleep, but it did seem to keep the darker, more frightening dwellers of shadow at bay.  She kept careful watch over her candle's flame, because as long as she had light, even such a weak and flickering thing, there was some protection from the dangers of the dark. She clung to the hope that her imprisonment would not last forever. She feared that by the time it ended, she would have gone truly mad. 
   

Candle number eight was one-third burned when the door opened. 

Luna was in the middle of a narration about the Great Gnome Revolution that was surely taking place across England even as she spoke, when the mutterings from the corridor became a deep, ugly voice that negligently threw a word through the window that immobilized her.  She stared - she had no choice in the position the spell had caught her - at the growing square of light filling the floor and then one wall of her cell.  Three shadows, two tall and robed and one slumped between them, came into focus in the doorway. 

Luna never saw the faces of the Death Eaters, but the man they dropped onto the floor she recognized immediately.  That was what made her believe the whole thing was real, and not a hallucination.  Not even in her wildest, most bizarre dreams of captivity would she have provided herself with Mr. Ollivander as a cell mate. 

The door slammed shut behind the two guards, and Luna heard them laughing as they walked away. She watched Mr. Ollivander curl up onto his side, holding his shaking hands close to his chest.  He was the same as he had been when he'd sold her her wand - she felt a pang of loss at the thought - and yet he was completely different.  Cowed, small, defeated, as Luna herself had become. 

It took another quarter of the candle for the spell on Luna to wear off enough for her to crawl, muscles knotting with each bend of her knees, to the old man's side and whisper, "Mr. Ollivander?"     

His whole body jerked, and he stared at her, his eyes slowly focusing on her face.  "I... remember...  your... wand..." 

Luna touched one of his hands and shook her head.  "Broken. Don't think about it."  Her fingers closed around his and she lay down at angles to him, her head very near his.  "My name is Luna, remember?  Luna Lovegood.  I've been talking to myself for so long I may not remember how to have a conversation." The relief at the presence of another human being made her light-headed. 

"They will...  come back...   Work... is not... finished."  His voice was barely even a whisper, but it filled Luna's heart near to bursting.  She squeezed gently at his hands, mindful of their trembling. 

"Rest now.  Rest, Mr. Ollivander." 

Somehow it was easier to sleep with someone else's hand in her own. 


They came back for Mr. Ollivander when the ninth candle had barely started, and returned him before Luna lit the tenth.  She found it was harder to talk to herself during those days, after having a true listening ear. 

When Luna lit her twelfth candle, and worried that she would run out long before her imprisonment came to an end, another set of guards came for Mr. Ollivander.  These were louder than the original two, and there were four of them.  One of them kicked Luna awake and out of their way, and she rolled out from under further blows until she hit the wall.  As two of the men - young men, really, and Luna was dreadfully sure she had recognized one voice from school - dragged Mr. Ollivander from the cell, the others gave Luna a few new bruises and singed a lock of her hair off. 

Then just as they pulled the door closed, the largest of the group pulled his wand and spat, "Aguamenti," over the candle.  Doused with water, the flame went out, and then the door closed.

Luna was alone, in the dark, again. 

This time she did not scream.  She breathed deeply to control her shaking, and gave herself the best examination she could by touch, to assure herself that she was in one piece.  Her legs had cramped again, one elbow and her right cheek were sticky with clotting blood, and bruises were blossoming on her hips and ribs. No permanent damage.  

She crawled along the wall until she reached the puddle and picked up the candle, shaking it as dry as she could, then crawled back with it until she thought she was opposite the chamber pot. 

Rolling the candle between her hands, she thought about wax, and cotton wicks, and bonfires, and storm lanterns, and fairy lights.  She recalled the bright hearth fire where she had enjoyed stories and songs as a child.  She thought of the spark that certain incantations drew from the tip of a wand.  

She set the candle on the floor, framing it with one hand.  Her other hand fumbled a moment until her fingertip touched the exposed wick.  She closed her eyes, which made no difference at all, and breathed. 

"Incendio," she whispered, with all the force of her will behind it.
   
Nothing happened. 

She took another deep breath and thought of the Common Room in Ravenclaw Tower, and the great roaring fire there.  "Incendio." 

Still nothing. 

She lost count of how many times she said the spell before she switched to others that might cause a spark.  She came back to Incendio quite often, since it had been a spell she knew and could perform with ease when she had had a wand. 

Magic was a matter of focus and will, according to her professors.  She had nothing but time in which to focus, and a will to stave off despair.  The darkness would not defeat her.  


February, 1998, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Mr. Ollivander had been escorted to and from the cell twice more before Luna felt even the slightest glimmer of power from her wandless casting.  It was February, according to the wandmaker, who apparently had some access to the outside world when he was upstairs.  Imbolc had passed while he was working, and he returned to the cell and lay down in silence. 

Luna was used to doing most of their talking, but she had also learned to listen for the change in his breathing that meant he was going to speak.  She spent most of the time that he was awake in conversation, or in storytelling, and found that she worried less about the dangers of the darkness when she knew he was there.  While Mr. Ollivander slept, and when he was upstairs, she concentrated all of her thoughts and energy on the flow of her magic from her fingertips. 

How often she had seen Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor Flitwick light candles with an effortless wave of their hands!  It could be done.  She refused to live the rest of her life, short and tormented as it may be, in the dark.  

She held the candle in one hand, and passed her other hand back and forth over the top.  "Incendio."  When it finally happened, she almost dropped the candle.  Instead she set it on the floor and curled her body around it, as if the tiny pinprick of flame could offer warmth.     

She pulled a couple of threads free of the fraying hem of her skirt and held them between the candle and her face.  As Luna breathed the word, "Incendio," she touched the end of the threads and they ignited.  She pulled and lit threads four more times before she was convinced that it wasn't just a fluke and she would be able to do the spell on demand. 

Tomorrow she would practice with something larger, like a patch from her robe. 

Her heart lightened at the thought of having a skill she could use in her own defense, although only as a very last resort.  Incendio was suddenly the most beautiful word in the world.  Where there was fire, there was hope. 

For the first time in weeks, Luna laughed.

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