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He rubbed the fine, fine sand over the wood, again and again. Long ago he stopped wondering why such roughness made the wood so smooth

. ............ A perfect balance. He did not smile. There was no reason to be pleased. He was only assisting the wood in becoming what it should be. There was no satisfaction, finishing this step. There would always be more wood, more wands. Magic cannot make more magic. Magic cannot sustain. It is a brief flash, a ‘lumos!' to light the dark, and then it's done. Patience, patience for a wand. It must be coaxed, it must be awakened. Slowly, not jolted. No, wand cannot come from wand." Not that it needed to say any more. ........ Years ago he thought the world would be a better place without all those social niceties.......They had been things he hadn't even known he had, let alone thought he'd miss

.............They keep sending more, for the wands. .......He understood now, that he didn't need it. They kept sending more, for the potions...........

Because, said the reply, you're the only one likely not to care. There was no arguing that logic.....He was pleased with this wand. Fifteen inches. Ebony. This one would be special, he knew, and he must take extra pains with it. Ebony, he reflected as he worked it with sand. A wood with secrets, many secrets. Uncommon, for a wand. This was old, old ebony. Trunk wood. Not branch wood, but not heart wood either. The wandmaker mused over this. Not black hearted then, this wandwielder, but dark. This is no tool for