An absence.  An absence that so quickly became a constant agitation.  When she thought back to it, to the cause of this absence, alls she could see was a twisting and a kneading of the water, a purple-black cloud of ink exploding underneath the weaving waves. 

She still padded herself down, scouring her body for it, not understanding how it could be gone, as if it were an organ, as if it were a soul.  How was it that this hollow spot inside her palm would not again be fitted by the smooth Cocobolo wood, twisted by the hunger of an ivy, extending her Self into the world? 

It had been a whole week since Dazmond had found her weary way home, and it had passed in a ghostly flash.  Today the Autumn begged the clouds in, but the last of Summer still clung to the skies.  A half-obscured sun shone down on a humming weekday's Hogsmeade.  Some vendors lined the streets, but there was only one on Dazmond's mind as she hustled by them, eyes actively searching for an image to fit some odd descriptions she'd gathered at the Hog's Head.  A reed-like man, they said.  An old fogy with a spirit young as a grasshopper.   A rustic wagon on the edge of the town, surrounded by a thick aura of raw magic. 

Daz came to a stop soon in her search, her eyes fixed on a man who could only have been this legendary nomad of a wand-whittler, Deaglan McDonough.  Bodies passed before her vision, but Dazmond could have stood still for a century.  She was land-locked, she felt, by some bout of denial that her wand was gone.  If she went off with another, wouldn't it be akin to adultery?  Suppose it turned up after, would it then reject her for choosing another?  She bit down on her lip and clutched her bag as she forced herself into motion, in a purposeful bee-line toward Deaglan's wagon.

Her eyes darted quickly round his things, then snapped to his and stuck.  What sort of a man was this?  She made to smile, but her nerves were bolder than she at present, which was perhaps especially noticeable by the man who stood a good seven decades over her.  Dazmond had never realized what a shameful feeling would accompany a sudden wandlessness.  She felt naked and inadequate, and it was a problem that was in need of fixing, quick.

"Yer McDonough," she said.  A good flush of fascination touched her voice.  "Dazmond Wiedman," she said.  "I might be in need of a wand."

All that pureblooded nonsense aside, the wizarding village of Hogsmeade was far more tolerant of wacky old men and their horse-drawn carriages than most muggle towns were.  The dirt-covered streets and its robe-clad residents and patrons were already old-fashioned in many ways.  For a town who, twice a year, watched an army of thestral-drawn carriages pass between the school and the train station, a horse drawn wagon was downright mundane.  It was only because of the sheer number of Travellers getting pushed out of Ireland and into England that muggle towns, like London, had been forced to find a way to deal with their lot - mostly by trying to provide enough official sites where the Travellers could set up camp.  Away from the tourist areas if they could get away with it. 

But, in Hogsmeade, far fewer heads turned at the sudden and random appearance of a camp at the end of the main street, in the shadow of the spires of Hogwarts.  Most of the shop owners were rather tolerant of his appearance - more so than many muggle business owners.  As it was, on this fall afternoon, few of the shoppers strolling through Hogsmeade gave the old man, the wooden wagon or the horse plucking lazily at the yellowing late-season grass much of a second glance.  Nor did they notice the scraggly grey dog curled up in the shadows underneath the wagon.  Deaglan, in turn, wasn't paying them much mind, either. 

Dressed in a flannel shirt, leather vest and grey wool trousers, Deaglan's outfit was just about as out of place in Hogsmeade as it usually was in London.  He'd laid down, a short while before, a dog-eared and generally mistreated copy of Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump he'd found discarded haphazardly in the street, propped open on his knees as he'd waited for the kettle of water to boil on the stove.  Between the warmth from the stove and the autumn day, he'd quickly dozed off.  He was still snoozing about the time the young visitor approached the wagon.

A sharp, familiar bark roused Deaglan from his snooze and he pushed himself to his feet.  Once out from the shadows of the wagon, he stood barefoot, his hair it's usual disorderly mass of white, at the top of the steps and, squinting against the sunlight, he peered down at the dark-haired young woman.  "Aye, that I am," an amiable grin on his face.  The years had done little to diminish his heavy brogue. 

"Ye might?"  Deaglan considered the woman a few more moments, his eyes traveling over Dazmond as he nodded.  It was an odd choice of words - whether or not one needed a wand didn't usually have a lot of grey area.  Unless they were experiencing difficulties with their wand.  Which wasn't a common occurrence.  Wands weren't like cars - they weren't prone to wearing out or needing to be replaced with new models.  They were, of course, susceptible to trauma but - unless it was a partial injury that might be reparable, it was usually fairly obvious if an old wand was dead.  Kaput. 

Bare feet padded against the four steps as Deaglan climbed out of the wagon.  The hound fell into step just behind him as crossed the short distance towards the young woman.  "Are you experiencing difficulties with your current one?" 

As Deaglan made his way down the front steps, Dazmond craned her neck up to peer inside his wagon.  Her eyes expanded softly as she stole in visions of his vagabond existence.  The magic in the air was thick with a gypsy yarn, stirring something well-rooted in Dazmond's psyche.  It was a land of milk and honey, it was a comfort food for the bones.  It helped her to feel more at ease around this strangely dressed man who was suddenly seeming like the long-lost uncle she never had.

She spun slowly on the spot to face the sun, her gaze toward Deaglan again as he spoke.  She considered his words a little too long and tried to consult the rational observer within, but it was to little use; the more she thought about it, the more distanced the answer and the more lost she became.  When she came back from her thoughts a moment later, it was to settle down on the steps with the slinky posture of a tired kid.

"Not exactly," she said.  "No, it's more like... well, it's not...."  She leaned in and dropped her voice.  "It's not there, mate.  And --" she slowly nodded, her eyes unfocused, thoughts absorbed in red-brown circles of knotted wood.  "I'm pretty sure," she said, "I'm pretty sure that my wand is gone, and it's not coming back, like." 

There was a place where Dazmond's denial and Dazmond's desire met, some place in the pit of her heart, where something was happening.  Something unsettling.  Some little rustling.  And she couldn't keep it back where it ought to stay, not since the end of Summer.

She paused her gaze once again on Deaglan McDonough, and she thought that -- the way the sunlight fell, or perhaps it was more how he held himself -- that he looked like he was very much alive, that he knew how to live more than other folks.  What've you seen, then? she thought.  He must have not led a life of service, he must have been free the whole while, leashless and breathing air so fresh.  The possibility of such a life was realized in this man, who was so curious, who defied adjectives and yet -- demanded new ones be made, solely for his use.

Something strange was happening.  Dazmond was Dazmond and not someone else; like a child, Dazmond was earnest and silent and practically ready to hear this man's life story.  She wasn't forgetting why she was there, but the fact that he made wands just made him all the more fascinating.  She couldn't help herself, she had to say something.  Unfortunately what came out was a little less than refined; it was more of her way of bragging than it was a direct inquiry.

"You oughtta know, right -- never can guess what's going to happen out in the world, when you're out for your own in a strange place and all.  Accidents, anomalies... snapped wands sunk into the black sea...."

Deaglan waited, patiently, as the young woman surveyed the vardo's interior.  It had been over fifty years since the wagon had experienced the more refined touch of a woman.  Despite the years, with the help of magic, the satin drapery, lace accents and bedding had changed very little.  The engravings that adorned the wagon's interior and exterior were all carved by hand and were a vain yet fair illustration that the wandmaker's woodworking ability went well beyond the simple lathe turning of wandwood. 

A nomadic life on the road certainly hadn't been easy.  Deaglan had never known the comforts of luxury or abundance and he'd had more than his fair share of cold, hungry, rainy nights on the road.  But, he'd always had as much freedom as any individual might hope to have - he had very few shackles to speak of.  He was not tethered to any location - his home, his belongings and his livelihood were all entirely mobile.  While he was, indeed, a rather accomplished wizard, he chose to live in a manner that allowed him to move freely between the wizarding and muggle worlds.  Most importantly, with very few financial obligations, Deaglan had never been tethered by money.  He paid no rent, the countryside of Great Britain and Ireland were still filled with plenty of free game.  Wands fetched a handsome price - selling even a few of them, or a few bodhrans here and there, brought in more than enough for the tea, produce and trade supplies he needed. 

Deaglan nodded, compassionately, as Dazmond tried to wrap her words around the profound loss.  Wands were inanimate objects, though just barely.  They weren't their own conscious being - but the relationship a witch or wizard shared with their wand was difficult to explain.  There was an intimacy with one's chosen wand, not unlike that shared with a spouse - or perhaps that shared between twins.  Given the woman's explanation, it was easy to explain her hesitancy.  If the fate of the wand was unknown, it was understandable why the owner would be reluctant to give up on it.  Like a parent who chose to keep a child's room the same even years after the child had gone missing.  To know was absolute - to not know was, often, terrifying.

"I was just making some tea, care for some?"  He asked as she slumped down on one of the lower steps, not immediately remarking on the wand.  They could come back to that.  Not being shackled to income or profit and sales numbers, Deaglan was lucky enough to be able to approach the partnership of a wand and its wizard with the patience and intimacy such a relationship deserved.  Like enjoying a calming cup of tea before fully parting ways with a lost wand.

Snapped wands sunk into the black sea?  She still seemed uncertain but, if had been her wand's fate, at least it had gone out with a bang.  He could only hope that his own end would tell even half as good a story. 

But, her statement was more than just a simple retelling of recent events - there was, quite clearly, a philosophical spin to the tale.  A certain underlying comment about life and Deaglan's own experience with the unpredictability of it.  "But, that's the beauty of it, yes?" Deaglan asked as he glanced along the side of the wagon to check the mare and foal were content.  Satisfied the grass would keep her occupied, he climbed up into the wagon.  "Where's the mystery of life if you know what's going to happen?  It seems like watching a play when you already know the ending." 

There was one matter she seemed to have come to the wrong conclusion about - at least in his case.  "I've spent over seventy years roaming the British Isles.  It has been quite some times since any of it has felt strange.  But, I've spent very little time outside of it.  The Black Sea would, no doubt, feel foreign.  And, how does one go about loosing a wand in it.  Boating trip gone wrong?" 

Dazmond picked idly at the long grass growing beside the wagon steps, nodding her agreement to share a cup of tea.  Silently attentive, she listened well to Deaglan taking to the bait of her nuanced question. 

Seventy years he said!  Seventy!  Dazmond tried to hide her excitement, considering how humble he was being and all.  She really didn't want him to think she was a hopeless dreamer.  It might be kind of odd, she realized, for Deaglan to be beset by an idealistic fan girl.  Nomadic old men didn't usually have groupies.  Still, seventy years off the leash was commendable.  And Daz could look at his wagon and Deaglan and his furry critters, and remove them entirely from her normal world, thanks to the romanticized stories of wagon-clad nomads she was fed in her youth.

Dazmond picked herself up and trailed behind Deaglan, letting herself in.  She was absorbing the decor when she realized that the Wizard had greatly misunderstood her frame of reference.

The sight she had of the incident involved black water, but not the waters of The Black Sea.  Nevertheless, Dazmond didn't contradict him.  Daz thought that she had been on the Isle of Lewis, but in reality it was the tiny island of Staffa -- a dot on the map between the Sea of the Hebrides and the Firth of Lorne.  But, it was all the same to Dazmond.  All she had preserved from this Summer and her sudden wandlessness was a conglomeration of images, most of which had no grounding in reality.  So why not choose the most illustrious tale?  Why not let him think she dropped it in the Black Sea?  If it meant not letting on to anyone that she had the weakness of a memory deficit, and a newfound ability to get terribly confused, then it was all well and good.  Besides, it was a place that was foreign to him.  And that made her feel like a gypsy Witch indeed, having been there now.

"I guess you could say that I was lucky to not share the same fate as my wand," she said.  Daz's mind was flooding quickly with stories of the Black Sea region, and she couldn't really keep herself from building up a beautiful lie.  She walked around the wagon as she spoke, investigating little details in the wood without ever really looking Deaglan in the face. 

"Yeah, I had some business with the Amazons out there -- real fiery bunch of Witches, their lot.  I've been enough times to say they've sort of adopted me, like.  But we were on ship, just a flimsy thing, really, a couple of us.  Met up with some Medusa-haired gorgons and their shite got out of control over some petty trade deal, and the whole scene got real sour -- right quick."  She considered her story for loopholes, then added, "It all happened so fast, I wasn't sure where my wand went -- then I heard this loud crack right, and had to ap out.  So then now... I just feel it, right.  Like it's gone, I guess.  I feel a bit hollow, right.  But it's not like I'm going to go diving in the Black Sea for it, you know.  Who knows what kind of monstrous fish are in there." 

She really had no clue why she was elaborating so much, other than the fact that it was entertaining to let her imagination loose a bit.  She was fairly used to coming up with stories on the spot, and not too bothered with the whole morality question around deceit and dishonesty. 

Dazmond was right to pin this weirdly brimming, hollow feeling on the fate of her wand.  But she could never have guessed or fabricated the true story:  that a high-energy wand barrier had made her connection with the Cocobolo rod abnormally (and compulsively) strong... and that in the midst of this possessiveness, she had had to forcefully snap it herself in order to move beyond the magical barrier to a place where she could apparate home.  It was quite a traumatic experience, and to have no memory of it simply made it all the weirder and all the more emotionally unmanageable.  But Daz was a master of illusion and distraction, and actually -- was having quite the bit of fun making up stories for Deaglan McDonough.

The wagon had few magical embellishments.  Over the years, especially back in the days when the vardo had served as home to himself, Siomha and Sinéad, many had suggested that he enhance and enlarge the interior in a similar manner to wizarding tents.  Perhaps, Sinéad would have preferred it - living with ones parents wasn't easy.  Living with ones parents in a nomadic manner and such tight confines was ... difficult.  Either one loved it or hated it. 

But, Deaglan had always refrained - to do so would have alienated him from the rest of the Travelling community.  Or, gotten him in trouble for violating the Statute of Secrecy laws.  And, in his youth, he'd always believed the close confines would only strengthen the family.  Unfortunately, in the end, it hadn't worked that well.  Sinéad had chosen to settle - though, that seemed to be the trend, wasn't it?  Government supplied housing or, if they were lucky and managed to find a decent job, their own house.  Sometimes, with the spotted pony tethered in the front yard. 

From one of the carving-adorned cabinets, Deaglan retrieved a painted earthenware teapot.  A spoonful of  loose, dried tea leaves were sifted into the pot, followed by boiling water from the kettle on the stove.  Earthy, fragrant steam instantly rose from the pot to drift along the rounded roof of the wagon. 

"Amazons around The Black Sea?"  Deaglan asked, glancing towards the younger woman as he retrieved a pair of teacups.  The notion that the story might have been entirely fabricated didn't even cross his mind.  "That sounds like a rather adventurous endeavor.  But, you're right, plunging in after your wand would have, likely, been foolish.  As tragic as loosing ones wand might be, I understand there's not a lot of opportunity to replace one at the bottom of the sea.  Still, only living witches and wizards can wield wands." 

Some tea was poured into both of the cups and he handed one to Dazmond, gesturing to one of the cushioned benches in an invitation to sit.  "And, you don't feel any pull?  Any ... drag ... any need to follow a certain path without any explanation or reason to it?"  If she'd had the wand for any length of time and it was still magically viable, there was often a subtle tug towards the wand in question.  A subconscious desire to reconnect. 

"And, your previous wand.  Tell me about it.  What was it made of?  What did you use it for?"  Hopefully, the woman would be honest and avoid sugar coating or omitting the less than favorable details. 

Deaglan appeared to have believed her, and for a moment this fact satisfied Dazmond intensely.  There was always the moment of subtle trepidation, where the heartbeat tripled as you took that leap.  But when it went swimmingly, you could just relax back into your own cleverness.  That and the rush was fantastic.  Dazmond had satisfied two things by lying.  First, the agitation she felt for not knowing the real fate of her wand.  Second, her desire to live up to the standards of myth, to travel the world and become her own heroine.  She was now on the same level as Deaglan the rolling stone, in that regard, and she could settle down with that (thanks to the power of overcompensation).  She was just as cool as Deaglan McDonough.

But that conciliation only lasted the stretch of a moment, because the topic was still her wand, and her wand was still at the bottom of the sea.  Somewhere, maybe.

Deaglan was clearly an unpretentious man, and it seemed to Dazmond that he was dealing with the topic with great concern and sincerity.  And -- as a Wandmaker -- the questions he followed up with may have been pertinent to any new wand she might acquire.  So Dazmond resolved to level with him; she would have to be diligent now, for the conversation that was coming on called for complete respect and tedious attention to detail.

Dazmond wrapped both hands around the warmth of the tea, and blew upon its surface as she settled down on the bench.  She considered his questions, and the tired look returned to her face.  There was certainly a great deal going on energetically, a great deal of which she couldn't explain.  But would she call it a tug?  A pull?

"No, I -- I don't think so," said Dazmond.  Her voice slowed and deepened as she thought aloud about the sore spot.  She gave a great deal of concentration to his questions, and began to open up.  Simply talking about the wand itself brought out Daz's soft side.  The more details she gave the more tender her voice became, as though recalling a loved one fondly.  Of course the tea helped as well, the aroma of it and the warmth all made for a comforting atmosphere, and Deaglan for his part was an attentive and supportive set of ears.

"The real heaviness," she said, "is that I don't feel its energy.  Just the absence of it.  And I don't remember ever being without it in the past -- it was my first wand, right. 

"Olivander made it out of a warm cocobolo wood.  It was twisted along the shaft, like it'd been wrapped by an ivy branch.  About a quarter inch deep, I guess, running up.  It had a big knot that sat -- right here."  Daz balanced her teacup to point at the soft spot of flesh between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. 

"It also had smaller knots, three, that were smoothed over.  They were just bumps really."  She gave a little sigh before continuing.  "Eleven inches, precisely -- and a core of dragon's heart-string.  I used it mostly in potionsmaking.  It's always been used primary for potions.  A lot of work with fire, plants, and animals.  Sometimes, y'know, controlling animals.  And then the usual every day uses -- common charms, shrinking and lifting objects and the like.  I think we also did a great deal of -- ahh -- getting into things."  She shrugged and settled her eyes on Deaglan.

Her response was ominous.  Deaglan offered a sympathetic and gentle smile at Dazmond as he settled himself on a bench.  Wands and their wizards had a connection which, indeed, distance could weaken - but couldn't, alone, destroy.  One could command their wand from a short distance away, even if their fingers did not have physical contact with the wand.  But, the absence she described - the vacancy usually couldn't be attributed to simple distance.  Or billions of gallons of water in between. 

"It may not just be lost," Deaglan offered the young woman, gently.  "A wand is durable, but it's really only as durable as the wood that it is made from.  Cocobolo is a strong hardwood and its naturally resistant to water damage.  Of course, meaning, you can get caught in a sudden downpour without worrying about the fate of your wand."  One could only imagine what challenges would face a wand as it was slowly sinking to the bottom of the sea.  There were countless hazards - fish to grab it, rocks to get bashed against by underwater currents, ... who knew. 

They may never know the fate of her wand.  But that, now, seemed irrelevant.  At least, his observation might ease her transition to a new wand - alleviate some of the uncertainty and potential guilt.  She wasn't betraying her old wand.  "Chances are, your old wand is destroyed.  Wherever it is, its just a plain piece of wood."

Like a seamstress hearing the description of a bride's ideal dress, Deaglan nodded slowly as he listened to the woman's description of her old wand.  So - she was used to an Ollivander wand.  Deaglan generally preferred wizards who began their magical careers with his wands to those who transplanted themselves from Ollivander.  There was always a transition period when the wizard learned that no all wands were as smooth-working as Ollivanders.  They were perfect, responsive and consistent but, in Deaglan's humblest opinion, they lacked personality. 

"Are you ready to move on?" he asked.  Chances were, she was.  Otherwise, she wouldn't have come looking for him. 

Dazmond considered his analysis, nodding her solemn agreement.  The visual of the water and the snapping she could still feel in her chest were too strong to have been fabricated.  Whatever had happened, it was very likely that her wand was lost for good or, as he hinted gently, eroded or damaged beyond repair.  Certainly the hollowness she felt gave no room for a remnant spark, somewhere far-off and waiting.  She felt nothing, and had to let go.

The dark spot in her consciousness kept her back from impulsive searching.  She would not venture back to the Hebrides to find it.  Not when she was so unsure of what had happened there.  What sort of gorgon creature she had really faced, if any.  There was a certain presence behind all of this nonsense.  And she wasn't about to go rushing to find it.

Residing in Knockturn and dealing in dangerous exchanges were not things Dazmond wanted to ever do wandless.  She was a small woman, but she could hold her own.  And while most of her power resided in the poisons and herbs she toted around in that bag of hers, she still felt defenseless without a wand.  She would have to settle in to a new bond.  Accept a new channel toward which to put her energy.  And in time, who knew.  Having had only one wand in all her life, she wasn't sure if it would be the same.  Perhaps there would be just as strong of a connection in time.  Although Dazmond hadn't forgotten Cin's words at the Black Chimaera, right about the time she was flopping to the floor, that it was... never the same.

Again, Dazmond nodded, this time more definitively.  Something locked into place as she kindly absorbed her emotions into whatever compartment she was used to storing her unruly feelings in.  She looked to Deaglan.

 "Yes," she said.  "Ready to move on.  But how does this work, then."  There were plenty of cubby holes in the place, but she wasn't so sure it'd be the same as Ollivander's, where there were stacks upon stacks of wands awaiting the eager touch of a young Witch.

"Very well," Deaglan nodded, pushing himself to his feet without, initially, offering an answer to her question.  He lifted the tin cup of tea to his lips and took a long sip before setting the cup on a back corner of the stove to keep warm.  Between what he'd seen, so far, of the woman and what she'd described of her previous wand, he had a good sense of what direction to take with her new wand. 

He didn't have the access to large quantities of wandmaking supplies nor did he have unlimited storage capabilities.  Especially considering wands were not the only product he peddled.  They represented his true passion but bodhrans and tippers made up the majority of his actual sales.  At any given time, Deaglan usually had between thirty and forty wands of various cores and woods.  From one of the cupboards closest to the bed, Deaglan withdrew a small multi-drawer wooden box and set it on a small table. 

With a determination that made it clear there was some methodology, despite what appearances might reveal, Deaglan began selecting wands at random from the drawers.  They varied widely in shape, size, color and degree of finishing.  Some were plain and simple - little more than a stick plucked up from the ground.  Some displayed the vibrant colors of foreign and exotic woods with intricate carvings and designs that easily rivaled the decorations on the wagon. 

"Well, if we are lucky, your match will be here," he finally offered once the wands were laid out in a line on the soft cushion of the bench.  "If not, I may have to custom make one.  Should only be a couple weeks, but you do loose the bliss of instant gratification." 

Standing back from the bench, he beckoned Dazmond to step forward.  He wasn't into all fan fare that  Ollivander put into finding a wand for a customer to try.  There was no tape measure, no close analysis.  In Deaglan's view, wands wanted to find their user; the wizard or witch wanted to find his or her wand.  When placed in the same vicinity, any magical individual with some degree of personal intuition would be drawn to their wand. 

"Close your eyes," he instructed.  "And reach your hand out.  Don't try to think about it - your mind will only get in your way."  Despite the instructions, it usually took a few tries for a new customer to let themselves go.  "The draw could be any number of things - warmth, electricity, physical.  Given your choice of magic, be on the lookout for anything electrical feeling.  If you get drawn towards one, pick it up.  Then, give it a try." 

Dazmond watched intently as the man went about his work, her legs criss-crossed beneath her as she leaned forward, her cup of tea braced in both hands.  Her eyes followed the compartmentalized box with great fixation, though she was by now heavily relaxed and even allowing her bag to slip from the guard of her shoulder.  Goosebumps crept up as Deaglan began extracting his wands with a careful precision, and her mouth parted slightly as he sat them down gently on the cushioned bench.

Feeling the groundedness required, Dazmond uncurled herself from her perch and set down the teacup, kneeling before the wand-laden bench.

Daz was a Witch well-versed in the way of the woods, so she had little problem with doing as Deaglan said and tapping into that elusive intuitive space.  Dazmond frequently slipped into and betwixt various meditative states.  Whether she was working with wild plants, potions and star vibes, or just being her street-smart self, Daz was always Earth-bound and lived her life by the phases of the moon.

A tentative hand arched up and hovered.  She breathed deeply through her nose and concentrated on the waxing energy, honing her attention on the idea of a companion, images of ferns unspiraling and datura claws gaping open -- of fire licking the bottom of a cast iron cauldron -- as her fingers plucked at the air above the wands.  She went back and forth over them, feeling a great array of energies, some pleasant and some... disturbing.  Dazmond slowed her movements to feel out their individual radiations. 

Here, a bit of overly sweet joviality.  And there, a darkened tug she backed away from.  For a moment she had paused by an emanating heat.  But finally she felt a handsome, eager pulsation.  Behind the lids of her eyes, Dazmond envisioned bursts of purple - spots of green, and her chest was filled with a stirring sensation of pure excitement.  She made a quick darting motion toward the spot compulsively, her hand landing on the center of a simple looking stick of a light, red-brown wood.  It felt remarkably smooth and -- as Dazmond creaked open her eyes -- she saw the bleary vision of a crooked, twisting... twig. 

She briefly glanced back at the line-up, enviously regarding the fancy cuttings.  The one she'd picked had felt absolutely right but it was so... raw.

Dazmond passed the short shaft through her hands.  Despite her judgments, she felt what could only be called a pulse as she gripped its end with a firm fist.  With a steadfast determination, she rose up and held it out toward the ground past the open door.  And it felt like her whole body was buzzing as a right lightening bolt exploded out its end, digging into the Earth and causing ahh -- quite the noise.  The grass was blown away in a small round spot, and a hole half a foot deep marked her pride.  A little worm wriggled over itself in the rich, damp soil there.   

Dazmond appeared extraordinarily pleased with this; her spine straightened in an expression of hubris and she gave a little crease of a smile. 

"I'd say that was ahh -- electric," she said.

To Deaglan's delight, his customer took to the task ahead of her with an obvious ease and familiarity.  Simply due to the sheer number of wands in Ollivander's shop, it was usually up to the shopkeeper to make the initial selection - once a wand had been selected, it was, then, handed over to the the seeking wizard for a magical test drive.  Newcomers to McDonough wands were often initially confused and hesitant about playing a more active roll in finding their wand. 

Dazmond, indeed, seemed to take naturally to the process of identifying her own, potential, match.  Confident he was free to assume the role of curious spectator, Deaglan retrieved his cup of tea from the stove and sat back down.  Every wandmaker approached their craft with a deep, personal - for lack of a better term - intimacy.  Each wand on that bench had a story; each brought forth vivid memories.  The wood might have been acquired through a shady business deal in some small, dank pub in Belfast or in payment for a previously crafted wand.  Rumors of a strange wizard hawking chimera bones on the Isle of Skye might have prompted Deaglan to turn his horse's head north to follow that lead.  For each and every wand laid out on that bench, he could remember where he was when the shafts of wood were crafted and united with their core - in many cases, he could even remember the weather. 

Deaglan had no standard recipe or approach with his wands nor did he have regular suppliers for materials.  Very much in the style of traveling merchants of past centuries, his materials were largely found by chance, through following rumors and bartering.  As a result, many of he wands were quite experimental.  It was always a mystery which wand would draw what type of wizard or witch to it.  Until this very moment - when a witch's hand hovered over the smooth finished wands or ragged, natural state twigs. 

Her hand hovered and Deaglan leaned forward, like a fifteen year old boy eagerly watching a the final goal of a tied football game.  The stick that her fingers closed around was smooth though still very much in its natural state.  It's silky exterior was a testament to the hardness of its wood rather than any effort on Deaglan's part to provide a solid finish.  Deep red and dark brown veins ribbed vibrantly across the smooth surface of the wood.  An interesting, though not entirely surprising partnering. 

"I'm not surprised," Deaglan admitted, clearly amused by the woman's understatement.  If they were, indeed, a match her chosen wand was rather precocious and could be rather electric.  It probably was not what the woman was expecting, but, once they got to know each other, the wand would likely serve her well.  Their initial honeymoon period, however, might be a bit interesting.  "Raven tail feather tucked inside a bocote tree branch.  An young muggle woodsmith had a stock of it at the Puck Fair in County Kerry a few years back - it seems to prefer a creative mind.  It also tends itself well to more Earth-based magics; it should serve a potioneer well." 

The core he refrained from commenting on, initially, curious to gauge her pure reaction, unmuddled by his own impressions. 

His amusement with the dual reaction of the wand and Dazmond caused a flashing grin across her face -- the wandmaker approved of the match, and she was left with a proud and giddy second wind.  Dazmond passed her hands over the dark-veined wood as Deaglan spoke, considering its particulars with smug curiosity. 

But wait one moment -- Wood collected by a muggle?... it was a bit off-putting.  What would a muggle know about taking wood from a tree?  There would have been no energy there, she thought.  No magical exchange.  Dazmond in truth knew next to nothing about the subtleties of wandmaking; the source of the wood was either terribly important or inconsequential -- in the manner of fate, it may have taken whatever avenue in order to be turned by his lathe and find its way to her hand.  Perhaps the intention of the wood was unfocused before finding itself whole as a proper wand.  Dazmond only knew the art of communing with, collecting and preparing plants, parts of trees, ivies and fungii in their raw states.  She assumed that it was the same as this, that the wood of wands was cultivated with the intention of a magical hand. 

It was nothing short of shock she felt, that he had bartered with a muggle for his wood.  The way her curiosity turned upon him was sudden and betrayed her sense of discretion.  But it was not a note of nastiness that donned her face; rather she seemed confused.  She had always assumed that even the raw components of a wand were treated from start to finish by a trained Wizard like Deaglan.  She looked at him curiously, and questioned the hint of fondness in his voice.

"The wood is... imported?"   Dazmond was sure this was so; she was familiar with the native plants and had never heard of bocote.  Like Cocobolo, it didn't grow in the United Kingdom but was nevertheless a prized and individualized energy for wands.  With the rarity of access to this wood source that existed, it quickly ceased to matter what avenue it had come to her by.  It was soon enough that Dazmond digested the necessity of this manner of trade, as the properties he'd cited outweighed her prejudice.  The energy of the wood was there regardless of who cut it.  She would simply need to purify it back at home, to clean it up of residual energies of discontent.

The wood was dense and heavy and had a pleasant weight in her hand.  Dazmond would likely go with her first impulse, having chosen this wand for their initial affinity and now learning it would easily specialize in Earth-based magics; she was not prone to questioning her intuition.

"It's feeling good, Deaglan," she said definitively, making no show of brown-nosing his name with a title.  "I like the wood, the core --" Daz shrugged a shoulder.  "The Raven energy will serve me well, I'm sure.  Always was drawn to them; and with their traveling between realms, well," she nodded.  "It all fits, mate."

Ravens were a sure force in Dazmond's life.  And in every aspect.  With Nathan as her Raven twin, she outwitted all with her cleverness and cheek.  The sense of play betrayed the deep intuitive connection between multiple dimensions, through which Raven flies in inky blackness to bring messages to the Gods of the night sky.  Wise wings with sharp instinct dive and swoop with glee, riding the wind.  And memory and philosophy reside were they nest.  She had nothing but respect for the birds who now inhabited her form, through the short, slender stick of Bocote wood that would become in a sense her home.

"What's the charge?" she asked, donning a small smile and arching her brows.  She was holding the wand aloft with both tips in hand, strangely with a countenance that could be paralleled to a bemused child recovering from a crying fit.   

It had been over sixty years since Deaglan had first delved into the art of wandmaking.  The young woman wasn't the first and would hardly be the last to question Deaglan's methods or sources.  Their's was a highly divided world with the magical on one side and the mundane on the other with very little room for crossing between the two.  But, in the end, these definitions were imposed by the human world on the world around them, wasn't it?  An oak tree was an oak tree was an oak tree - the tree cared very little about the bipedal creatures that harvested its wood. 

 It was true - there was an art to selecting the best piece of wood to serve as the future base for the wand.  Each tree had its own voice, each branch was the tree's verbalization of that voice.  The voice in some pieces of wood was muddied, jumbled, confused - if crafted into a wand, it was impossible to predict what might result.  Perhaps the wand would be excessively volatile or maybe the power would be so weak as to render the wand useless.  But, the power - the voice within the wood was an entirely intrinsic property.  It was highly egotistical of any witch or wizard to pretend that they had any hand in embedding any piece of wood with its inherent power.  The same piece of wood would have the same magical potential regardless of the magical ability of the harvester.

Deaglan had to concede, however, that out of ignorance Muggles were prone to destroying a piece's magical potential, simply by they way they selected and milled a piece of wood.  Oblivious to the potential in their median, they may accidentally cut through the heart of the wood.  But, then, a hasty or ignorant wandmaker was prone to the same mistake.

Sometimes, though, the muggle got lucky.  Nine times out of ten, they butchered the magical potential in the wood.  But, that one time out of ten, by sure chance and luck, they found themselves in possession of a remarkable magical canvas.  Deaglan usually had to go through stacks and stacks of raw materials to find the few gems in the coal.  And, those bits of coal were just as good for woodworking.  But, muggle woodcrafters made much better use of international trade - dealing with them broadened Deaglan's supply base considerably.  And, oblivious to the magical worth of their wares, a raw piece of powerfully-embedded wood cost nowhere as much from a muggle dealer as it did from another wizard. 

He, initially, opted to share none of his reasonings with the woman.  He was curious whether, left to her own, Dazmond would allow her own prejudice to stand in the way of her ability to connect with her wand.  He could talk her into the wand, but if she didn't learn to accept it herself, it could make what would be, initially, a rather difficult relationship near impossible. 

"It is," Deaglan confirmed with a nod.  "Panama, I believe.  Makes wonderful drums, too.  It resonates with a beautiful tone."  Then, quickly turning his attention back to the matter at hand - she wasn't here to discuss drums.

"Good, good."  Time for the warning even though, like most folks, it was unlikely she'd listen.  Until the first time it hiccuped and then she'd be back complaining.   "Now bear in mind that all wandmakers approach their art differently.  All wands will, then, behave and feel differently.  There's bound to be a bit of an adjustment period.  Like any relationship, there's a bit of a getting-to-know-you phase." 

The question of payment arose and Deaglan slowly nodded his head.  "I charge fifteen galleons for my wands.  But I also accept barters and trades for wares and supplies.  Feel free to make an offer."  As a potioneer, there was no question what peculiar, useful and interesting items this young woman might be willing to offer."

"Well, tell you what," she said, tucking the wand carefully into her right pocket.  Feeling the weight again in her robes gave her a sense of redemption and wholeness.  "Other than for my loss -- that trip of mine proved to be rather prosperous.  I'd like to be generous, with all the work and energy you've put into this replacement." 

Dazmond turned back to the bench and sat on its edge, going into her purse.  She took out a sack of coin and counted out fifteen golden pieces.  As soon as she had handed them over, she was back in her bag. 

"I made you something before I came," she explained.  She pulled out a small round wreath of raw herbage that had purple hues; it was about the size of a palm and was fixed tightly with silver wire.  She held it up for him.  "It isn't much, just a wreath of mugwort but -- it's rather good for the travel-weary to keep close.  It'll keep you from tiring out on the road."  She shrugged.  "I'd heard of you a while back and always liked that you go by wagon.  You see so much of the natural world when you take the time to really be where you are."

It was another source of contention between worlds, usually, to dispute over methods of transportation.  Apparition, portkey, floo -- even thestral-drawn carriages were worlds better than the less refined methods concocted by the non-magical.  But there was something in the wheel and the ship that Dazmond held a deep respect for.  Some ways of travel were just as much about the traveling as they were about getting some place.  And in the Wizarding world, this aspect was often lost on folk who relied too heavily on the instant gratification provided by no-hassle transportation techniques.  Perhaps the one exception to this was the Hogwarts Express which twice a year instilled adolescents with a sense of anticipation for the castle they all loved.  But the wagon was even more impressive to Dazmond, for the reason that you often saw and were exposed to the same world as the plants.  You were less removed from nature in that way.

"I also would be -- inclined -- to offer you my services.  If you ever need a potion -- of any sort -- I'll give you a good price.  I brought some samples along, if you've any interest." 

Dazmond was very aware of the wand in her pocket.  It felt foreign, yet caused her to glow -- an energetic upliftment that centralized in her chest.  Despite the origins of the wood, Daz felt assured that the wand was imbued with the proper energies.  She felt exceedingly connected with its subtle humming in the pocket against her hip.  And Deaglan's warning went right over her head.  The 'adjustment period' he referred to seemed obvious, and a walk in the park.  Of course they would need to get used to each other.  Dazmond didn't realize that might mean the wand would, for a time, have a mind of its own.