"You know, it's a real shame we don't have a Fwooper down here."
Olivander concentrated on being still. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. In the darkness behind his eyelids the pain arced from rib to tooth to skull and back again.
"I'm sorry?" he finally whispered.
"Tailfeathers. They're very good for this sort of thing. And they don't mind, you know. It doesn't hurt them a bit if you take one just right. But you have to sing. They'll just fly away if you don't sing."
Olivander's mouth was scabbed and swollen – he'd spasmed during this morning's torture and bitten through the ripe, blistering bruise that already covered his lips. But inside, he managed a little smile.