The name is meaningless. The name isn't important. Lucius is still and unresponsive for a few moments, before there's the whisper sound of wood sliding against wood succeeding the click of metal detaching. His wand is taken from walking stick piece, and in the same movement, waved in an arc not so far from his own nose. Whatever incantation that goes with it isn't spoken, merely thought.

Nothing happens.

Nothing apparent or even not apparent, dissatisfaction having Lucius' mouth curl, and by the time he is turning back to the clerk, the length of mahogany-- it isn't the wand that he went to school with, refitted into silver snake head handle after the war had ended and he was able to get another one-- is slid back into its sheath. He moves towards the counter-- nine, six, four paces-- and takes one of the cards for himself.

He turns it over, unimpressed. "Thank you," he says, anyway, tone dry. "I had it in my mind to negotiate for ingredients with promise of return in the form of working concoctions, but I assume your employer would have no need."