Harry handed over his wand.
Ollivander accepted it, noting its pristine condition with a smile. "Harry, it feels like just yesterday you bought this wand from me."
"It's been over three years—more than twelve hundred days," Harry reminded him kindly.
Ollivander pursed his lips. "I know you're the master of a cedar wand; you don't need to remind me."
He paused, ensuring Harry had nothing more to say, before continuing. "It's remarkable—there's no sign of wear or damage. Hard to believe for a Quidditch player like you."
"I usually tuck it into my hat during games," Harry replied.
The Sorting Hat spoke up loudly, "He means he shoves it into me."
Fleur jumped in surprise. "It talks?"
"Of course! Little Veela girl, surely you've heard of Hogwarts' talking hat?" the Sorting Hat grumbled. "I'm the famous Sorting Hat of Gryffindor!"
Fleur scrutinized it, hesitating before saying, "I always thought Gryffindor's hat would be… more…"
She struggled to find a word that wasn't insulting but accurately conveyed her expectations.
"It does look like an old, dirty, and worn-out hat," Harry said, finishing her thought.
The Sorting Hat yelled indignantly, "Harry!"
"But that doesn't change the fact that it's the best hat in the world," Harry continued calmly.
The Sorting Hat let out a smug hum. "That's right. I'm the best hat there is."
Fleur opened her mouth but hesitated again.
She wasn't sure what to comment on first—how easily the hat was flattered, or the fact that it didn't even seem like a hat anymore.
Ollivander coughed lightly to regain focus. "Harry, you've taken excellent care of your wand. I was always a bit worried—considering the rather unusual request you made when you bought it—but it's clear you haven't let it down. It works harmoniously with you."
"Eleven inches, cedar wood, phoenix feather core. A wand for those of sharp perception," Ollivander described as he flicked the wand gently. "Aguamenti."
The wand reluctantly obeyed, releasing a small burst of water.
"It's not very fond of me," Ollivander observed with a sigh. "And I'm its creator."
The wand seemed to bristle in Harry's hand, its magic rippling defiantly.
Ollivander quickly handed it back. "An excellent wand—treat it well."
He turned to leave but stopped when Harry called out.
"Wait, Mr. Ollivander."
Ollivander turned back, puzzled.
"My situation is a bit unusual. I have two more items I'd like you to inspect," Harry said calmly.
Ollivander's heart sank. "You didn't secretly buy more wands from other wandmakers, did you?"
Harry shook his head and pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat. "No, but in addition to my wand, I also have close-combat weapons. Could you inspect them for me?"
"Gryffindor's sword," Ollivander murmured, recognizing the blade. He sighed, his expression complicated. "Ah yes, I recall when you first asked me where to have a sword made. And now, you've gone and acquired one."
"The Sword of Gryffindor is truly remarkable…" he began but trailed off when Harry pulled out another weapon.
It was the Basilisk Bone Sword.
Harry now held both swords, one in each hand, while his wand, sensing betrayal, wrapped its magic tightly around Harry's wrist in a sulky protest.
Ollivander's jaw clenched. He could almost hear the wand's silent outrage: How dare you?
Ollivander gritted his teeth. "I don't specialize in these… clumsy, brutish weapons!" he spat. "Mr. Bagman, you should've brought in a goblin for this. I'm a wandmaker, not a blacksmith!"
Bagman leaned forward curiously. "But Mr. Ollivander, I've heard tales of you in your younger years—"
Ollivander cut him off. "Baseless rumors! I have only ever worked with wands."
"Well then, should we summon a goblin for the inspection?" Bagman asked, disappointed, as he reached for his wand to summon one.
Karkaroff coughed sharply. "No wizard would use such weapons in a tournament. I don't see why they need inspecting."
"Should I bring Gryffindor's portrait here to explain?" Harry asked, his face expressionless.
Karkaroff instinctively flinched.
"Harry, do you suspect your weapons are in poor condition?" Dumbledore asked gently.
Harry shook his head. "I'm confident in their state."
Dumbledore turned to Bagman. "Then there's no need to trouble a goblin. If I recall, one of Harry's swords was crafted by Ragnok?"
Harry nodded.
"That goblin?" Bagman's eyebrows rose. "The Ministry had to blackmail him into working for them last time. How did you manage to convince him, Harry?"
Bagman hesitated before adding suspiciously, "You didn't… threaten him with Gryffindor's sword, did you?"
Harry interrupted flatly, "Do I look like someone foolish enough to do that?"
Bagman paused, then nodded reluctantly. "Fair enough. But if you're sure, I can still summon Ragnok to double-check—"
"Bagman," Madame Maxime interjected, her tone sharp with disapproval. "You're showing Mr. Potter too much favoritism. Don't forget your role as a judge. You must remain impartial."
Bagman sighed and relented. "Alright then."
Ollivander handed Gryffindor's sword back to Harry but awkwardly attempted to return it to the Sorting Hat.
"Not like that!" the Sorting Hat protested loudly. "Be gentler! Line it up properly! Oh, forget it—just let Harry do it."
Harry took over, sliding both swords back into the hat with practiced ease. Ollivander seemed relieved, his sense of propriety restored.
That's more like it, he thought. A wizard should wield a wand, not a sword.
The wand inspections didn't take long, but the group photos afterward dragged on.
Karkaroff insisted Krum should be in the center, while Maxime and the rotund photographer argued for Fleur. Bagman and Rita sided with Harry.
After much bickering, Dumbledore intervened, and they settled on placing Bagman in the center, flanked by the three champions. The headmasters stood behind them, with Maxime dominating the rear center due to her towering stature, and Karkaroff and Dumbledore on either side.
The photoshoot wasted the entire afternoon and caused Harry to miss a Potions class. He was in a foul mood by the time he returned to the Great Hall for dinner.
His plate already held a few of his favorite dishes, though it was clear Ron and Neville had sampled them first.
"Why did it take so long?" Hermione asked, glancing at the staff table, where the late arrivals, including Rita Skeeter, were just settling in.
"Pointless things—interviews, photos, and the like," Harry replied, tearing a piece of lamb off the bone. "Honestly, I think the Ministry's usefulness has run its course."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "The Ministry was ever useful?"
Her disdain for the Ministry was evident—after the Quidditch World Cup fiasco, where they showed up late to the chaos Harry had already resolved, her opinion had hit rock bottom. That Ludo Bagman faced no consequences and still oversaw the Triwizard Tournament only cemented her views.
"Maybe," Harry said, glancing at the cheerfully chatting Bagman.
Halfway through dinner, Hagrid snuck into the hall, hunched over to appear less conspicuous—though his massive frame still towered over the students.
He approached Harry's seat. "Harry, congrats! How's it feel to be a champion?"
"A bit annoying," Harry admitted honestly. "Wherever I go, people stare. Professor Sprout was too lenient last time; thirty people crowded into the greenhouse to watch me during Herbology."
"That's the price of fame, lad." Hagrid patted him on the shoulder and lowered his voice. "Tomorrow night at midnight, come to my hut. Bring that invisibility cloak of yours. I've got a surprise for you."
Harry studied Hagrid's large, bearded face, which radiated excitement. "Does it have to do with the first task?"
Hagrid hesitated, his surprise betrayed. "Harry…?"
"So it is," Harry murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "But isn't it against the rules for professors to assist champions, Hagrid?"
Hagrid beamed at being called "Professor." "Officially, yes. But just like Hogwarts' rules, every school's professors do their best to help their own champions."
"Midnight tomorrow, don't forget the cloak. Make sure no one else sees—"
"Let me guess," Harry interrupted, "the first task is dragons?"
Hagrid looked stunned. "How'd you know?"
"Charlie sent me a birthday gift over the summer—mini dragon models and a book on dealing with dragons," Harry said, deadpan. "He knows I prefer dragon materials, especially since they're cheaper than the models."
Hagrid blinked in disbelief, then nodded. "Blimey, Harry, you're sharp as ever. It was supposed to be a surprise."
"Well, I'm certainly surprised," Harry replied dryly. "Only the Triwizard Tournament would kick things off with dragon-slaying."
Hagrid hesitated. "Well, you might have the strength to slay a dragon, but the other champions don't. I don't think the task will be that extreme."
Harry shrugged, leaving Hagrid puzzled.
Hermione clarified, "What Harry means is that no matter what the task is, for him, it'll still end up being dragon-slaying."
She tapped Harry's robes. "Dragonhide is better than Basilisk hide, right?"
Hagrid looked at them in horror.
"Are you coming tomorrow night, Harry? There'll be dragons," Hagrid asked weakly.
"Of course," Harry replied cheerfully.
Ron leaned over, his mouth full of pudding. "What are you talking about?"
Hagrid struggled to keep the discussion vague, his face red with the effort.
"Want to see something cool tomorrow night?" Harry asked Ron casually.
Ron nodded eagerly, too distracted by food to ask further questions.
Hagrid left, beaming as he headed toward the staff table and began chatting animatedly with Madame Maxime.
Hermione watched him go, expressionless. "Oh no, Hagrid might be in love."
"Hagrid deserves some happiness," Harry said, glancing at Maxime. "They might be a good match—not many people have their size in common."
"What are we seeing tomorrow?" Ron asked, his curiosity piqued again.
"You'll find out," Harry replied, placing a lamb chop onto Ron's plate.
Ron grinned and dropped the subject.
On Sunday night, Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak, covering himself, Hermione, and Ron before sneaking out of the castle.
They arrived at Hagrid's hut and knocked on the door.
Hagrid opened it and glanced around at the seemingly empty space outside. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Harry?"
"It's me," Harry answered calmly.
Hermione and Ron stared at Hagrid in amazement. Even though there was nothing to see, they felt the trip had already been worth it.
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Powerstones?
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