Any further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Dumbledore and Ollivander.
Rita quickly masked her irritation, slipping back into her polished facade as she turned to Dumbledore, her voice suddenly bright and enthusiastic.
"How are you?" she asked, extending one of her large, mannish hands toward him. "I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"
"Enchantingly nasty," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."
Rita Skeeter didn't look remotely abashed.
"I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street—"
"I would be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, giving her a courteous bow and warm smile, "but I'm afraid we must postpone the discussion. The Weighing of the Wands is about to begin."
The other champions, who had been standing around the room, began taking their seats near the door.
I followed suit, settling next to Cedric and glancing up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were already seated: Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman.
Rita Skeeter seated herself in a corner, pulling out a roll of parchment.
She smoothed it across her knee, flicked the end of her Quick-Quotes Quill, and placed it on the parchment, where it immediately began scrawling on its own.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, now seated at the judges' table. He gestured toward the elderly wandmaker, who stepped forward with a serene expression.
"He will be examining your wands to ensure they are in perfect condition for the tournament."
"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" asked Mr. Ollivander, moving into the open space in the center of the room.
Fleur Delacour swept over and handed him her wand.
"Hmmm…" Ollivander murmured as he twirled the wand between his long fingers. Pink and gold sparks shot out of the tip, illuminating the room briefly.
"Yes," he said quietly, examining the wand closely. "Nine and a half inches… inflexible… rosewood… and containing… dear me…"
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur explained, her tone proud. "One of my grandmuzzer's."
"Ah, yes," said Mr. Ollivander, nodding. "I have never used veela hair myself. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands… but to each their own. If it suits you…"
He ran his fingers delicately along the wand, checking for imperfections, and muttered, "Orchideous!" A bouquet of flowers burst from the tip, earning a faint smile from Fleur.
"Very well, very well. It is in fine working order," Ollivander declared, handing both the wand and flowers back to Fleur. "Mr. Diggory, you next."
The wand inspections continued, much as they had in canon. Ollivander was noticeably more enthusiastic about Cedric's wand, which he had crafted himself, and less so about Viktor Krum's, which bore the mark of Gregorovitch.
Finally, it was my turn.
"Which leaves… Mr. Potter," Ollivander said.
I rose from my seat, walking past Krum to hand over my wand.
"Aaaah, yes," Ollivander said, his pale eyes gleaming with recognition. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember."
He spent considerably more time examining my wand than he had with the others. As he did, he gave me a curious look, one I couldn't quite decipher.
Eventually, he conjured a fountain of wine from the wand and handed it back to me, announcing it was still in perfect condition.
"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, rising from his seat. "You may return to your lessons—or perhaps go directly to dinner, as they are about to begin."
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?"
"Er—yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, her eyes flicking to me with a gleam of interest.
The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her.
Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group.
The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and trying to make me stay at the front.
Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, we were free to go.
I said goodbye to Cedric before heading toward the Great Hall. I was starving, and the thought of dinner quickened my pace.
When I entered, I spotted Hermione sitting at our usual table, saving me a seat on her right.
With a sigh, I sank down beside her and began recounting just how much hassle the whole affair had been.
As I started relaying the details to Hermione, she gave me an amused smile, shaking her head slightly.
"Sounds like it was exhausting," she said, cutting into a piece of roast chicken on her plate. "I have heard of Rita Skeeter. She seems to be a real piece of work . Did she ask you for an interview?"
"She did," I replied, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "But I turned her down. I got the feeling she wasn't interested in the truth—just something sensational she could twist into a headline."
Hermione nodded approvingly. "Smart decision. Rita Skeeter has a reputation for bending the truth. She'll write whatever sells, no matter how it affects people."
"Yeah, I figured that out pretty quickly," I said, rolling my eyes. "She spent more time chatting with Dumbledore than paying attention to the wand weighing."
Hermione gave a small hum of agreement, but her brow furrowed slightly. "Be careful, Harry. Just because you didn't give her an interview doesn't mean she won't write about you. People like her don't let facts get in the way of a good story."
"Don't worry," I assured her. "If she tries anything, I'll deal with it. I'm not going to let her mess with me."
Her expression softened. "Good. You've got enough to worry about without her adding to it."
We returned to our meals, the conversation shifting to lighter topics as we finished eating.
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