CHAPTER EIGHT

"That's absolute rubbish!" Lysander huffed, his voice filled with indignation. Kit flinched slightly at his outburst but resisted the urge to recoil. His frustration was palpable, radiating off him in waves. "How could anyone think that brutally harming magical creatures to extract wand cores was ever acceptable? It's so inhumane!"

Kit placed a calming hand on the edge of the book they were sharing, her tone steady. "I agree, Scamander. It's uncalled for, cruel even. But that's how things were done back then. Thankfully, your great-grandfather changed all that. Thanks to Newt Scamander, they discovered more ethical methods to obtain cores without harming the creatures."

"100 points to Great-Grandfather Newt," Lysander said dramatically, gesturing as though awarding house points. He huffed again and flipped the page Kit had pointed out. "Still, I cannot believe it—how barbaric those methods were. Honestly, if I had a sickle for every horrifying detail I've read about the past practices in wand making, I'd be richer than the entire Sacred Twenty-Eight combined!"

Kit gave a small chuckle at his flair for dramatics, but her expression grew thoughtful. "I get where you're coming from. It's disturbing to read about. But knowing the history is vital, Lysander. Understanding the mistakes of the past helps guide us to do better. My grandfather always said that learning about the origins of a craft is the first—and most crucial—step toward mastering it."

Lysander leaned forward, his interest piqued. "How many steps exactly are there?" he asked, his frustration momentarily replaced with genuine curiosity.

Kit smiled slightly at his enthusiasm. "Quite a few. After learning the history, we delve into understanding the properties and benefits of each wand core. That part alone is divided into sections because every core interacts differently with different types of wood and magic. That phase can take years to study thoroughly."

"Years?" Lysander whispered, his eyebrows rising as he absorbed the enormity of the process. "Merlin's beard, that's so much more than I expected."

Kit caught the whispered disbelief but chose not to comment. Instead, she reached for one of the books stacked in front of her. "There's more to wand-making than any book can ever fully convey," she explained, lifting a journal and placing it between them. Its leather cover was worn, edges frayed from frequent use. "This is my personal journal. It's where I jot down things we've discovered on our own—details and nuances even my grandfather didn't know."

Lysander's eyes flicked to the journal, intrigued. "Like what?" he asked.

Kit hesitated, her fingers brushing over the journal's cover. A small smile tugged at her lips, but it was tinged with sadness. "There were moments when we'd uncover something completely new," she began, her voice softening. "And Grandfather would be so stunned. Cato..." Her voice faltered, the mention of her brother's name catching in her throat.

Lysander noticed her shift, the way her expression tightened and her shoulders slumped. Before she could pull back entirely, he reached out, his hand lightly resting on hers. "It's okay to feel it, Kit," he said gently. "It's okay to let yourself feel the sorrow."

Kit drew in a shaky breath, her grip tightening briefly around his hand. She was surprised by how comforting his presence felt. Against her better judgment, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability, her walls crumbling just a little.

"He'd brag," she said after a pause, her voice wavering but steadying as she continued. "Whenever we'd find something Grandfather didn't know, Cato would do this ridiculous dance. He'd prance around like a complete fool and sing off-key at the top of his lungs, 'We know more than you, Pappy!' over and over again, in the most absurd pitches imaginable."

Lysander burst out laughing, the mental image vividly forming in his mind. "Merlin, I would've paid to see that," he said, grinning. "Cato dancing and singing? That's a sight I can't even picture properly, but it sounds brilliant."

Kit found herself laughing too, the memory of her brother momentarily outweighing the ache of his absence. "Oh, it happened more often than you'd think. Too often, honestly," she said, shaking her head but smiling fondly.

The laughter faded into a companionable silence, the weight of her grief easing slightly. Kit lowered her gaze, tracing the edge of the journal with her fingers. She didn't need to say it aloud, but Lysander seemed to understand.

After a moment, he broke the quiet. "Cato would've been an amazing wandmaker, wouldn't he?"

Kit nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "He would've been brilliant. But he'd have hated the patience it requires," she added with a small smirk.

Lysander chuckled at that, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, patience was never his strong suit."

Gradually, their conversation shifted back to the wonders of wand-making. They spoke about the intricacies of wood selection, the challenges of balancing core properties with magical compatibility, and the art of creating something that felt alive in a wizard's hands.

For a while, Kit found herself untethered from the grief that so often consumed her. The ever-present weight on her shoulders seemed lighter, the shadows that clouded her mind retreating as if Lysander's laughter and the exchange of knowledge were enough to banish them, if only temporarily. The plan Lorcan had concocted, with all its flaws and uncertainties, faded into the background. Even the walls Kit kept so carefully constructed around her heart seemed less insurmountable, softened by the easy rhythm of their conversation.

In this fleeting moment, it was just the two of them—Kit and Lysander—immersed in the shared world of stories, learning, and genuine human connection. The way Lysander spoke about wand-making, his enthusiasm practically radiating from him, reminded Kit of how her brother used to speak when he was excited about something. It was bittersweet, but instead of the usual sharp sting, it was a gentle ache that reminded her of what she'd once had and what she still carried forward.

Lysander's questions came faster now, and his passion for understanding wand-making was as genuine as it was contagious. Kit found herself explaining more than she initially planned, sharing insights she normally kept to herself. There was something about Lysander's curiosity that made her want to open up, even if just a little.

"What about Wand Woods?" Lysander asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Do you have a favourite? Something you feel more drawn to when crafting?"

Kit tilted her head thoughtfully, considering the question. "I don't think I have a favourite," she admitted. "Each wood has its own personality, its own unique quirks. It's fascinating how the same core can behave so differently depending on the wood it's paired with. It's not just about compatibility—it's about balance and harmony. Sometimes, it feels like the wand chooses the combination as much as it chooses the wizard."

Lysander nodded, his eyes gleaming with fascination. "That makes sense. Wands are...alive, in a way. They're not just tools—they're partners. Extensions of who we are."

"Exactly," Kit agreed, her voice softening. "That's what makes wand-making so special. It's not just about creating something functional. It's about creating something that will become a part of someone's life, their story."

The way Lysander looked at her then, with genuine respect and admiration, caught Kit off guard. She wasn't used to being seen that way—as someone with something valuable to share, someone worth listening to. It made her feel a little less invisible, a little less alone.

As their conversation drifted, weaving through topics both profound and mundane, Kit found herself laughing more freely. Lysander had a knack for making her smile, his quick wit and lightheartedness a refreshing contrast to the somberness she often carried.

It didn't erase the pain. It didn't bring her brother back or change the struggles she faced. But at that moment, it reminded Kit of something she'd almost forgotten—there were still moments worth savouring, still people worth connecting with, and still pieces of herself worth holding onto.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.