"Wormtail – bring the tools forward," Voldemort orders with a lazy wave of his hand, and the servant hurries to do so, rushing to the table of torture instruments that sit at the right of Voldemort's throne and carefully hovering it forward, to settle in front of Hermione. She stares at it, unable to breathe as surely as if the collar is choking her again. Whips. Chains. Shining instruments that looked like pliers, and short-bladed shears, and thin, wickedly sharp probes. Knives. A heavy silver rod the size and shape of a truncheon. Pincers. Things that look remarkably sexual in nature. What she thinks is a Muggle cattle prod. A blowtorch-type lighter.