Chapter 47: CH 47
Fleur was the last champion to arrive at the wand-weighing ceremony, slipping embarrassedly through the door until she realised the wand-maker was not yet present and relaxed. Krum was leaning against the wall on the far side of the small room, staring at nothing in a rather broody fashion. The strong-browed Bulgarian looked slightly unkempt, his robes ever so slightly disarrayed, as if he had been interrupted from doing something rather more active. His headmaster, in contrast, was immaculately dressed. The silver-goateed man stood, close-mouthed and rigid, next to his champion, warily eying anyone in the room that passed too near to either of them.
The Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, stood in the centre of the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels as they waited. He seemed oddly at ease, even with Madam Maxime towering over him.
The final competitor, though Fleur hesitated to think of him as such, had been abandoned to the wiles of the reporter Rita Skeeter. The two of them had withdrawn into the only unoccupied corner as the colourful, blond woman sought to extract anything she could write about.
Better him than me, Fleur decided, though she was a little put out the reporter had not tried to speak to her, or any of the other champions from the look of things. She would have thought he first target should be the ones that were chosen properly, and actually had a chance of winning.
The boy looked surprisingly unruffled at being the focus of Miss Skeeter. He had composed his face into the sort of effortless, charming smile Fleur normally found herself the target off and was nodding along attentively to whatever the woman was saying.
He had not, Fleur noted, actually answered any of her questions with anything more than that bright smile and a few vague words. This was something that the woman's bright, green quill seemed to find distressing as it hovered agitatedly behind her, swaying, twirling and often dipping towards her notes, but never getting so far as writing anything.
A Quick-Quotes Quill.
They were a sure sign of a reporter who liked to give their articles a personal touch. The sort of characteristic flourish that left the article's subject wondering just how their words had been so misrepresented when they read it the next day.
The boy was doing a masterful job of fending Rita Skeeter off and from what Fleur could see she didn't seem to have noticed. The reporter's eyes were sparkling with unsuppressed glee, even as her quill writhed disconsolately behind her.
It was then that she noticed the tip of Harry's wand protruding from his sleeve and tucked alongside the inside of his palm. It was glowing ever so faintly. Rita Skeeter could not possibly see it from the way his hand was angled and no hint of anything suspicious could be seen from his relaxed, casual posture. The only sign that the fourteen year old had outwitted the journalist was that subtly concealed two inches of wand and an ever so slightly amused glint in his eyes. He earned a little of her respect for that.
'I think it is time the ceremony began.' Albus Dumbledore had entered the room and, as he always did, commanded its attention with a gentle, aged authority. He gestured very politely at the wall that was least in the way of proceedings. 'If you'd be so kind as to release our youngest champion, Rita.'
'Of course, headmaster,' she smiled victoriously. She slid graciously to the back wall and began, to Fleur's quiet delight, an inspection of her notepad. She had never seen anyone's face shift from glee to fury so fast, nor flush that particular shade of puce. The boy inclined his head with an innocent smile when she looked up at him and poor Rita Skeeter frowned in confusion, unable to realise what had happened. For a fourteen year old, he had played that very well. 'Let me introduce you all to Mr Garrick Ollivander, Britain's finest wand-maker.' Dumbledore stepped aside, and in the moment everyone else's eyes flicked past him Fleur alone caught the flash of surprise as he glanced at the Boy-Who-Lived.
The wand-maker was a tall, thin man. He had odd, silver eyes that shone brightly out from underneath a wrinkled brow as he peered curiously at each of the room's occupants.
'Ladies first, perhaps,' he suggested softly.
Fleur would have preferred to go last, but stepped forward regardless.
She handed him her wand, perfectly polished as of the last two nights and waited for his response with come curiosity. Many wand-makers, including the one who had actually made her wand, were surprised by its unusual core.
Mr Ollivander turned it over in his long, delicate fingers. 'Nine and a half inches of inflexible rosewood,' he noted, 'but with an uncommon core.' He cast an eye over her curiously and Fleur tensed. 'Veela hair, I would imagine.' He had no further reaction as she feared he might.
He twirled it round once more, eyeing both her and her wand with interest. 'A beautiful wand, both within and without. You have a strong bond with your partner, Miss Delacour,' he remarked approvingly.
'Orchideous,' Ollivander murmured and a bright bunch of yellow roses swirled into existence at its tip. He nodded, satisfied, and returned her wand to her. The thirteen roses fell to the floor. Glad that her part in the ceremony was done she retreated back next to her headmistress, taking the place of the Hogwarts champion as he moved forwards.
Fleur watched the wand-maker curiously as Cedric passed over his own wand. There was much she could learn about her competitors from their wands.
'Ah,' Ollivander smiled faintly, 'I remember this wand. Twelve and a quarter inches long, ash, and still as springy as when it left my shop. You've kept your wand very well, Mr Diggory.'
'I polish it often,' the Hogwarts student admitted embarrassedly.
'As we all should.' The wand-maker ran a finger along the length of the wand. 'A single hair from a very impressive male unicorn for a core.' Ollivander flourished the wand exuberantly and stream of burgundy wine sprang from it, fountaining over the floor.
The wine formed a puddle around the roses. The wand-maker was beginning to make quite a mess.
'Mr Krum,' Ollivander beckoned. The dark, surly Bulgarian slid off the wall and strode to the centre of the room. He took care not to step in the wine, Fleur noticed.
Krum proffered his wand stiffly to the silver-haired man, stepping back while the wand-maker examined it.
'Hornbeam, ten and one quarter inches, thicker than one usually sees, and quite rigid.' Krum nodded, eyeing the wand rather protectively. 'This is a creation of Gregorovitch,' Ollivander mused. 'Judging by your age it must have been on of his last.'
'It was,' Durmstrang's champion replied, in a thick, eastern european accent.
'A fine crafter of wands, Mykew Gregorovitch, with a knowledge of wand lore second to none.' Ollivander swept the hornbeam wand into the air. 'Avis,' he commanded.
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