When Harry woke up the next morning, he found his bed covered with flower petals.
The petals formed a trail leading him all the way to the door.
As he stepped out of the dormitory, he saw the Weasley twins striking an outrageously comical pose, saluting him with Muggle military precision.
"Atten—tion!" the twins barked in unison, standing ramrod straight. "Salute to the champion!"
"Loy-al-ty!" the other students roared back.
The shout carried the lingering echo of those old lobster soldiers, startling Harry so much he nearly jumped—it really wasn't something to yell; it felt downright ominous.
Colin Creevey twisted himself into an utterly contorted pose and snap-snap-snapped several photos of Harry in rapid succession.
"I think we should have Professor Trelawney divine Harry's future," Neville murmured. "See if he'll really become the ultimate champion."
"Oh, please," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Knowing Professor Trelawney's usual style, she'd definitely say Harry's got an ill omen and is in mortal danger—'Oh, my dear, you have the grim!' Believe that?"
"You've got her down perfectly," Ron said, giving a thumbs-up in praise.
"If she dares say that, we'll have to hit her with a few harmless little jinxes to teach her what to say—" Hermione slammed the table, clearly still holding a grudge against Professor Trelawney. "Why not let your duplicate brothers handle it? Just smash a dungbomb right in her face and yell, 'Damn it, how dare you say he can't be champion!'"
Hermione's face twisted a bit as she said this.
It was obvious she was still nursing that grudge…
"That's exactly what we should do," the twins said eagerly, practically bouncing—they'd suffered plenty of Trelawney's dire predictions themselves.
At breakfast, the Gryffindors sat in the Great Hall with chests puffed out and heads held high, exuding triumph.
The Hufflepuffs were far more open; they swarmed around Harry, asking for autographs.
Then came the Ravenclaw girls, flocking over in twitters and clusters, surrounding Harry so tightly not a drop of water could leak through.
Cassandra sat at the Slytherin table, coldly glaring at the group of girls—if looks could kill, they'd already be riddled with a thousand holes from her stare.
After eating, Harry had planned to go for a stroll to clear his mind, but he was unexpectedly informed he needed to head to the hut for an inspection.
Just as he reached the door, Poppy came rushing over in a swirl of fragrance.
Harry… poor Harry, treated to nearly a full minute of suffocation.
"You really became a champion!" Poppy cried joyfully, not forgetting to pull Harry out from her chest. "You really did—congratulations, congratulations!"
"There's nothing worth congratulating," Harry said, rolling his eyes and muttering, "Competing alongside them feels a bit like winning unfairly—but I'll still give it my all."
Poppy raised an eyebrow, then suddenly leaned in and sniffed Harry.
After two sniffs, her expression shifted slightly.
"Oh," she said. "I've got something to do. You go in first… um, I'll find you later when you're done, okay?"
"Sure." Harry reached out and pinched Poppy's cheek—not bad at all, that feeling.
He waved to Poppy and pushed open the door into the classroom.
It was a smaller room; most of the desks had been shoved to the back, leaving a large empty space in the middle.
Three desks were pushed together in front of the blackboard, covered with a long velvet cloth.
Behind the velvet-draped desks stood five chairs. Ludo Bagman was seated in one, chatting with Rita Skeeter—the reporter from the Daily Prophet.
Viktor Krum, as usual, wore a sullen expression and stood in a corner, not speaking to anyone.
Fleur sat in a chair, looking composed and seemingly uninterested in conversation.
A portly man held a large black camera that was faintly smoking, eyeing Fleur from the corner of his vision.
Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, jumped to his feet, and leaned forward eagerly.
"Ah, here he is! Hogwarts' champion! Come in, Harry, come in… nothing to worry about, just the wand-weighing ceremony. The other judges will be here soon—"
"Wand-weighing?" Harry asked, puzzled. He felt like he'd forgotten something but couldn't quite recall what.
"We need to check that your wands are fully functional and in good condition, as they'll be your most important tools in the upcoming tasks," Bagman explained. "The expert is upstairs with Dumbledore. Then we'll take a few photos. This is Rita Skeeter," he said, gesturing to the woman in magenta robes. "She's writing a little article about the tournament for the Daily Prophet…"
"Maybe not so little, Ludo," Rita Skeeter said. When she noticed Harry looking her way, she gave him a stiff, polite smile.
She knew exactly who Harry was, of course.
As she sized him up, Harry sized her up too.
Skeeter's hair was styled in elaborate, rigid, bizarre curls that looked particularly awkward with her heavy-jawed face.
She wore jeweled glasses. Her thick fingers clutched a crocodile-skin handbag, nails two inches long and painted bright red.
But the outfit did suit her persona perfectly.
Uncharacteristically, though, Rita had no interest in chatting with Harry. She glanced at him once, then immediately looked away, ready to resume talking with Bagman.
Harry sat beside Fleur. Noticing him approach, Fleur spoke gently.
"Good morning, little monsieur from Hogwarts."
"I'm not little," Harry said, trying to prove himself. The silver-haired Veela was stunning, but still a notch below Veratia.
"Hmm, you're not little," Fleur said with a beaming smile. "Fine, I'll go easy on you in the tasks ahead."
Harry glanced at her and said nothing.
Arguing with a woman was a waste of effort.
They'd only chatted a bit when Dumbledore entered with the two headmasters.
Trailing behind them was an old man Harry recognized.
None other than Mr. Ollivander, who'd been making wands since the third century BC.
They took their seats at the judges' table, and Rita Skeeter, who'd been occupying Mr. Crouch's spot, had to stand and move to a corner.
Crouch's face darkened visibly when he saw her—like he was looking at a pile of dung.
Harry held back a laugh.
Rita偷偷 pulled a roll of parchment from her handbag, spread it on her knee, sucked on the tip of her Quick-Quotes Quill, and stood it upright on the parchment.
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said as he settled at the judges' table, addressing the champions. "He will examine your wands to ensure they are in top condition for the tournament."
At that moment, Mr. Ollivander stood.
"Mademoiselle Delacour, would you go first?" Ollivander said, stepping to the center of the empty space.
Fleur Delacour glided over to Mr. Ollivander and handed him her wand.
"Hmm…" he murmured.
Ollivander twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton; it shot out pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes for a thorough inspection.
"Yes," he said softly. "Nine and a half inches… quite rigid… maple… and containing… oh my…"
"Containing a hair from a Veela," Fleur said. "My grandmother's hair."
Oh, Veela indeed.
Harry felt his guess had been spot on—this girl, whose beauty was second only to Veratia's, really did have Veela blood.
But that was none of his concern.
"Yes," Ollivander said. "Yes, of course. I myself have never used Veela hair—I find wands with it too temperamental… but to each their own, and if it suits you…"
Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, checking for scratches or dents. Then he murmured, "Orchideous!" A bouquet of flowers bloomed from the wand tip.
"Very good, very good, in fine form," Ollivander said, gathering the flowers and handing them back with the wand to Fleur. "Mr. Krum, your turn."
Viktor Krum rose, shoulders slumped, and shuffled over to Ollivander with his splayed feet, looking listless.
He shoved his wand forward and stood there frowning, hands in his robe pockets.
"Hmm," Ollivander said. "If I'm not mistaken, this is one of Gregorovitch's—excellent wandmaker, though his style isn't quite to my taste… but…"
He lifted the wand, turning it over and over, inspecting every detail.
"Yes… hornbeam, with dragon heartstring, correct?" He glanced at Krum—Krum nodded. "Thicker than most… very rigid… ten and a quarter inches… Avis!"
The hornbeam wand let out a loud bang like a gunshot, and a flock of small birds fluttered from the tip, wings flapping as they soared out the open window into the pale sunlight.
"Good," Ollivander said, returning the wand to Krum. "And finally… Mr. Potter."
Harry stood, brushing past Krum, and approached Ollivander.
He handed over his wand.
"Ah, yes," Ollivander said, taking it. His pale eyes suddenly gleamed with excitement. "Yes, yes, yes… I remember it well."
"Beechwood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches—" he repeated the words from long ago. "I told you this before: the true match for a beechwood wand, if young, possesses wisdom beyond their years; if adult, they are open-minded and richly experienced…"
"And I forgave you back then," Harry said, recalling the scene in Ollivander's shop, unable to hold back a grin.
"Your magnanimity could light up the entire Hogwarts Great Hall," Ollivander said with a chuckle.
Clearly, Ollivander was delighted to see this wand—of the three champions', two weren't his work, so spotting one of his own naturally pleased him.
"Well then." Ollivander raised the wand and flicked it upward.
A jet of wine spurted from the tip—but here was the issue: the wine was green…
Ollivander: ?
Wait, why is the wine coming out green?
Is it… eco-friendly?
Ollivander examined the wand again, this time discreetly casting a detection charm…
Harry finally remembered what he'd forgotten—back in Moody's class, he'd used this very wand to cast Avada Kedavra.
He wasn't nervous; even if they found out he'd used the Killing Curse, it didn't matter. Moody had told him to, and he'd just done what a student should—obey.
"What's wrong?" Crouch, who'd been silent, finally spoke, though his eyes flicked to Harry.
Ollivander glanced at Harry, took a deep breath, and said, "Nothing, Mr. Crouch—it's in fine condition. I just made a small mistake earlier."
Crouch frowned; instinct told him something was off, very off, but he couldn't pinpoint what.
Green wine? Even if Ollivander had slipped, that shouldn't happen—
Still, he chose to trust a wandmaker's judgment, giving Harry one deep look before saying nothing more.
Ollivander handed the wand back to Harry with a smile. "There you are. Keep taking good care of it."
"I will, Mr. Ollivander," Harry replied with a smile.
Ollivander nodded, planning to mention his findings to Dumbledore later—what exactly had he seen and sensed on the wand?
"Thank you all," Dumbledore said once Harry sat down, standing beside the judges' table. "You may go rest now—perhaps head straight to lunch; it's nearly time, and we've taken long enough—"
Harry stood to leave, but the man with the black camera leaped up and cleared his throat.
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" Bagman shouted excitedly. "Judges and champions together—what do you think, Rita?"
Bagman clearly loved photos; his grin was genuine.
Crouch looked reluctant, frowning in his seat and even using his bowler hat to shield his face.
But Bagman's enthusiasm won out; he dragged Crouch up for the group shot.
"Um—fine, group photo first," Rita Skeeter said, her gaze landing on Harry again. "Maybe some solos later."
She sounded a bit guilty—her leverage was with Harry, or rather, his godfather Sirius.
If she offended Harry, she'd be in deep trouble…
The photos took forever, not because the process was slow, but because arranging the group perfectly was nearly impossible.
Madame Maxime blocked everyone no matter where she stood, and the room was too small for the photographer to step back far enough; finally, she sat, and the others stood around her.
Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee, trying to curl it into a perfect ring.
As for Krum, Harry had assumed he was used to this sort of thing, but he kept dodging behind the others.
Who'd have thought such a burly guy was socially anxious? It amused Harry no end.
The photographer was especially keen to put Fleur front and center, but both Ludo Bagman and Rita Skeeter insisted the fourth-year's height wasn't impressive and he should stand upfront.
Then she insisted on individual shots for each champion. It was ages before they finally escaped.
"I'm exhausted," Fleur said, rubbing her aching shoulders. "I thought photos would be quick—didn't expect it to be so draining. I swear, nothing in the world is more tiring."
"Compared to Potions class, this is a breeze," Harry said with a laugh. "I don't know if you've taken Professor Snape's Potions—if you had, you wouldn't say that."
"Oh, I skipped the last Potions class," Fleur said.
"That's a real shame," Harry said sincerely. "Coming to Hogwarts as a short-term exchange student and missing the Potions class revered by the entire school—wouldn't that make the exchange pointless?"
"Really?" Fleur seemed tempted. "I know you're being sarcastic, but I'm curious—why do you all hate Potions so much? Is it because the professor doesn't wash his hair?"
"The greasy hair is true, but that's just a tiny part," Harry shrugged. "Sure, his hair smells strong, but the potions we brew overpower it—the real misery is his teaching style… Of course, badmouthing a professor behind his back isn't good, so if you want to know what Potions is really like, you'll have to experience it yourself."
Only after saying this did Harry remember Snape's nose, a weapon of causality.
He glanced back—nobody there—and let out a relieved breath.
Good, good I'm not Ron.
Otherwise, Snape would've arrested him on the spot.
--
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