"Hoping you might be able to repair one actually," James replied, retrieving his broken wand from within his robes, "Had an unfortunate accident, canine in nature, and my wand came off on the worse end of things. I suppose if it is irreparable, though, then I shall have a need to purchase a new one."
James set his snapped wand down on the same table where it had been set before; when he was 11 and was first chosen by the wand. The shined Cypress wood was now marred, splintered at about 3 inches from the tip, the tip held on only by a wedge of wood not even an inch thick. The phoenix feather could clearly be seen, gleaming dully from within the recesses of the wand. His wand had been rigid, so it had snapped fairly cleanly with no deep furrows running clear along the sides, as would happen with a more flexible wood.
"Cypress, phoenix feather, 11 inches long, and rigid," James said a little wistfully, still remembering when he had first received the wand, "Though being a wandmaker, I am sure you saw that the moment I brought my wand out."
James looked Aaron square in the face, the emotional affect of losing his wand showing on his own face, "If it can be fixed, please do so. I'll pay any sum."