Henry hopped onto the bed. Side by side, Henry was struck, as he often was, by how much more he took after his mother. His light brown complexion and short-cropped black hair, courtesy of his mother’s Navajo roots, were in sharp contrast to his father’s fair Irish skin and reddish mop of curls.

“Dad, Brianna was—”

“How is your wand coming along?” his father interrupted.

Henry was surprised by the question. Since his father had gifted him the guidebook some weeks ago, he hadn’t shown much interest in whether Henry was reading it or not, much less whether he was following its instructions for crafting and personalizing a wand. In fact, Henry had taken the task very seriously—but he knew adults had a tendency to dismiss such things as flights of boyish fancy.

He pulled the wand from his pocket, holding it lightly in his fingers—like the conductor of an orchestra with a baton—just as the book had instructed.

He’d taken steps over the last several weeks to infuse it with his personality. The bottom third of the wand was hollow, allowing him to insert several objects that reflected his interests:

A feather from a blue jay, his favorite bird.

A gray rock with a vein of pink quartz running through it—quite extraordinary.

A small vial of water from the fish tank in which he’d raised tadpoles into frogs. He reasoned that there must be something special about the water where such an amazing transformation had occurred, and he wanted to capture that quality in his wand.

He had also stained the wand, quite cleverly. From his room, he sometimes watched blue jays eating chokecherries in a tree tucked into the far corner of the backyard. He had gathered some berries that had fallen to the ground, mashed them into a paste, and rubbed the juice into his wand. He thought that this would form a further connection with the blue jays. And after all, purple was his favorite color. A good thing too, since it took weeks for the color to wash off his skin.

“It’s looking fine, Henry.” An odd gleam flashed in his father’s eyes, for only a second. “In fact, it’s looking better every day.”

Henry twirled it delicately between two fingers, thinking about all the work he’d put into personalizing it. He was pleased with how it looked. He just wished that it would do something.

A quick spark prickled his fingers, like a shock from static electricity. He jumped, and for the second time that night almost dropped the wand. A curious smell drifted up—somewhat like the scent of charred wood.

“Careful, son,” his father whispered in a strange voice. “You have something very special there.”

Henry wanted to reply, but he was mesmerized by the tingling sensation in his hand.

Yes, thought Henry, my wand is very special.