April 6th, 1895—a Saturday, and by technicality, the first day of Easter break for Hogwarts that year. A sign hangs in the window of Spintwitches’s door, proclaiming: Back in Ten Minutes. Inside, a transaction many months in the making is reaching its conclusion…
Door shut and locked, Albie strides past his two of his least favorite, but most lucrative customers. “After several prototypes, I think we can finally put this to bed. Or to leg, I suppose. —What’s left of it anyway.”
With his crutch jammed under an arm, Aesop clears his throat, pressing, “The details, Mr. Weekes?”
“Of course, if you’re going to be stodgy about it,” Albie huffs. Disappearing briefly into the shop’s larger-within backroom, he returns with a long item, swaddled and partially bent. Laying it out on the counter, he unwraps the cloth. Within lies the fruits of their labors: a surprisingly handsome prosthetic leg. Smooth wood, sanded and polished. Metal fixtures, clean and dark. Leather, flexible and strong. It’s a gorgeous creation, and the sight of it stills Aesop’s breath as he surveys the length of it. It’s done. It’s his and it’s ready and if their collective efforts hold solid, it should change his life.
Before he can reach out to touch, Albie’s hand overshoots his, warding him off.
“Now, before I let you paw all over it like some filthy old man grabbing thighs in a private theater box, my preface warning is that most of this is hazel. In broommaking, it’s excellent for precision and handling—so should this function the way I've imagined, the choice should be a boon.”
Aesop raises an eyebrow. Barred from action, he leans heavily on the counter’s edge. “And the hypothetical downside?”
“Ah,” Albie adjusts his glasses. “In wandmaking, it’s a really sensitive wood with a penchant for absorbing and discharging energy unpredictably. This is especially true for wielders with tempers.”
At Aesop’s side, Teodoro does a poor job at suppressing a giggle. Aesop knocks him gently with an elbow, only to get one in return.
Staring flatly, Albie mirrors Aesop’s earlier annoyance with an unenthused ‘ahem’. Caught red-handed like misbehaving children, the pair shuffle a few inches apart.
“As I was saying,” Albie continues, “should this channel any sort of ambient hissyfit, you might run afoul of issues, up to and including explosive fire hazards.”
“Fire hazards?” Aesop's brows vault up into his hairline. That hadn’t been in the briefing.
Unbothered, Albie nods. “Let me finish. Considering all the trouble that follows Teodoro like a bad smell, and for that matter, your former reputation as an Auror,” (Aesop swallows and bites his tongue.) “I’ve slathered this in quite a thick layer of anti-jinx varnish. It’ll need more as you wear it down—not unlike normal broom maintenance.” He crosses his arms. “But we all know how varnish reacts to heat and sparks.” With gesture and sound, Albie mimics a small explosion.
As a teacher often around both open flame and students with little concern for safety measures, Aesop finds idea of strapping oneself to a waiting flare less than appealing, but in the hindsight provided by the rest of his life, it’s not as if he hasn’t taken worse risks for less. Exchanging glances with Teodoro—long-lingering and simmering with long-lusted after hope, Aesop knows he already has his answer.
