February 14th: A Complex Hand

Wand info taken from Pottermore!

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February 14th: True Love - Your character's love for a person/thing knows no bounds. It is purer than a mountain stream and more beautiful than a supernova.

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Spencer was an intense kid to know, but Aaron hadn't known just how intense until now.

He's very quiet, the teachers all said, and Aaron was pretty sure he agreed. Most of the time.

Studious, they would say, and that was true.

Boring, the other students said.

That was completely false.

Aaron made a point not to go into the other kids' rooms, even at home in Padfoot House. He was a prefect, older than most of them, and well… just him, really, and that was enough reasons why he didn't snoop. But today he had—he wasn't sure why anymore, the sight that had met him was enough to push the thought out of his mind—maybe something to do with a textbook. Plus, Spencer was aggressively private, sometimes, and always kept the door closed and jinxed to shout if they opened it. A jinx that Aaron had silenced.

It occurred to him, staring around in awe, that he didn't know his youngest friend very well at all.

"Oh," said a voice, and Aaron turned to find Spencer dressed in a Christmas sweater and antlers standing behind him looking horrified. Hugging a book to his thin chest. "You're in my room."

Aaron looked around again, his face flushing. "I just…" he said, and then stepped further in. "Spencer, why don't you show us this? This… this is… awesome? Did you make all these?"

Spencer blinked, hugging the book tighter. He looked confused.

"Yes, but," he stammered, eyes skipping from teetering stack of books to teetering stack of books. The colour of the walls was a medley of parchment and ink and string tying it all together. Endless sketches, endless notes. A single framed painting of a wizened old man laughing at a misfiring wand, his hands clapping gleefully together. The desk was a pockmarked, scorched chaotic jumble of wood and what looked like potions ingredients; feathers and fur and hair and horn.

And, hanging from the roof, were wands.

"I like wands," Spencer mumbled, closing his eyes with his cheeks bright red. "I… Gideon helps me with them, sometimes. McGonagall, when she's not busy. I…"

Aaron stayed silent.

Quiet, the teachers said, but maybe they weren't asking the right questions.

"Would you like to tell me about them?" he asked gently, inching to the unmade bed and sinking down. Spencer looked at him suspiciously. "I'd really love to know, Spence, seriously. Do they work?"

And Spencer smiled. Shy at first, growing bigger. He looked up at them, the smile splitting his face into a giddy look of exaltation, and Aaron felt his heart kick with warmth. "Oh," Spencer breathed, jiggling in place. "Really? Yes! No, no, none of those really work. Some make sparks, but I've never made a working prototype, not yet. But, since Ollivander died, no one has really—look, these are his real notes, he really wrote these, and there are cores, and over here—"

And Aaron listened.

There was a notebook tucked under Spencer's pillow. As Spencer rambled and rambled and rambled about the thing he was most passionate about, Aaron listened intently. He slipped the notebook out, opening the cover curiously.

The Legerdemain Conspiracy said the front page, a sketched picture of seven wands crossed together. Seven witches and wizards unite against dark forces.

"That's a thing I was working on, it's super silly," Spencer said, noting the notebook. "Just a story. I sorta stopped it recently, started working on something else."

Aaron flipped the page. "This is me," he said dumbly, finding a sharp ink-profile of himself on the page. Except… older. Frownier. Handsomer, and Aaron ran his hand through his hair self-consciously.

Aaron, said the title. Fir wood and dragon heart-string. What does this tell us? Ollivander's notes state that it is the survivor's wood—the most resilient of trees, demanding staying power. Poor tools in the hands of the changeable and indecisive and powerful in the art of Transfiguration. Anecdotally, this seems correct. He states that the wood favours owners of a focused and intimidating demeanour. Re: dragon heartstring – it's flashy, highly magical. Dave has owl talon in his—a new trial material. What could Aaron do with a wand with the whisker of a cat (sense of the dark, navigation) or Transfiguration equals change but fir doesn't like changeability, perhaps something to counter?

"We're all in there," Spencer said, sitting on the bed and drawing his knees up. "I want to make wands, Aaron. I… I think I'd be good at it."

Aaron turned the page.

Emily's wand is Applewood. Ollivander's notes state that it's an unusual wand—often borne by those who are gifted in conversing with other magical beings. Does she show an interest in this? Let her borrow books re: the subject. Perhaps she'd enjoy that. Kelpie hair core.

Emily's drawing was… Aaron swallowed hard and felt a little flushed. It was… as lovely as she was. All sharp lines and angles with just the right curl to her cat-grin smile. Again, he turned the page..

Dave – yew wood, owl talon. Owl talon is new—American wizard working on it, trying to bring in a new line of 'mundane' wands. Good idea, bad execution? Dave's wand is brilliant, but it's NOT mundane. Yew never picks a mundane or timid owner—merely calling owl talon mundane is conflicting the yew (PS, yew for duelling, great protectors)

JJ – Aspen for duelling. Charm-work. She's brilliant in charms. Not sure about duelling.

Derek. Holly wood, jackalope antler. American wand cores making their way over here—must learn more.

Penny – cedar wood, unicorn tail. Pen has trouble with her wand—must find why. Is she ill-matched? Something kinder might suit better. Cedar can be shocking.

"You're not here," Aaron murmured, finding a blank page. "What's your wand?"

The wand in question was being rolled between Spencer's narrow fingers, as he rubbed fingerprints from the light coloured wood.

"Hawthorn," he answered finally. "I hate my wand." Silence. Spencer swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was shrill. "I think I want to go to bed now."

"Okay," Aaron handed the notebook back, carefully standing and moving to the door, aware that he'd stumbled on something deeply personal. "Goodnight, Spence. And… I think you're going to be an amazing wand-maker one day. Better than Ollivander even."

Spencer smiled without looking up. "Thanks, Aaron." Aaron closed the door between them, and hesitated.

He could go to bed.

Or…

He went to McGonagall's library, the room warmly lit, and found the corner that Spencer favoured. There he found the book: Wands and the Art of their Making by Mr Garrick Ollivander.

And he read. And then he thought. And then he slid the book away, and went to bed, his heart aching, just a little.

He didn't mention it again.

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Hawthorn

The wand-maker Gregorovitch wrote that hawthorn 'makes a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.' While I disagree with many of Gregorovitch's conclusions, we concur about hawthorn wands, which are complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suit them.

Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and I have generally observed that the hawthorn wand seems most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a witch or wizard passing through a period of turmoil. Hawthorn is not easy to master, however, and I would only ever consider placing a hawthorn wand in the hands of a witch or wizard of proven talent, or the consequences might be dangerous.

Hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity: their spells can, when badly handled, backfire.