She didn't like the wand. Gideon was less disappointed and more simply confused. He was not accustomed to misreading the signs when matching someone with a wand; he was the master wandmaker, the owner of the shop. If anyone could match a wand, it was him — and this was only meant to be a temporary match, which meant it ought to have been easier, even though it felt like the stakes were so incredibly high for this. But she was right: that was her, not the wands. There was something about her that made him feel as though his whole afternoon hinged on the next few minutes, and which made his stomach sink at the look of hesitation on her face.

He could recognize that something existed there without being able to identify it, and Gideon was left trying to reconcile the sudden realization that his judgement in this interaction may have been flawed. "Perhaps I've overstepped," he allowed gently, though he still wasn't sure exactly where this interlude had gone astray. "I don't mean to insist on anything you're uncomfortable with."

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