Harry Potter with Technology System

Ch369- Wands!

Karkaroff, unlike Madame Maxime, didn’t bother improving his students. He made no effort to push them toward the Duelling Club or encourage any additional training. If anything, he seemed content to let Durmstrang’s reputation speak for itself, as if skill came with the name rather than practice. That didn’t stop Krum, though. Nor did it stop a few other Durmstrang students who valued competence over pride. They showed up to the Duelling Club on their own, unwilling to ignore an opportunity to sharpen their abilities just because their headmaster was too arrogant to acknowledge it.

Harry didn’t turn them away. He handed them their own magic books like he had with Beauxbatons students, not making a fuss over it. They were there to learn, and that was all that mattered. Krum, despite his fame, took it as seriously as anyone else, never asking for special treatment. He trained like everyone else, kept to himself, and left without unnecessary chatter.

By Friday, the school was buzzing again. This time, it wasn’t about the Goblet or Harry’s double entry—it was the Weighing of the Wands.

When Harry arrived at the designated room, Bagman was already there, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. The man grinned as if he had been waiting all week for this moment. “Ah, champions! Wonderful, wonderful! Right this way, no time to waste!”

Fleur and Krum were already there, looking unimpressed with Bagman’s enthusiasm. Rita Skeeter hovered off to the side, her quill already scribbling away on its own. She caught Harry’s gaze and winked, her bright red nails tapping against the green leather of her notebook.

“Quite the eventful tournament already, isn’t it?” she purred. “Two champions from Hogwarts—well, one, technically, but twice. How fascinating.”

As soon as Harry saw Rita Skeeter, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. 'Oh, this is interesting,' he thought.

"Alright then," Bagman clapped his hands together, his enthusiasm a bit too much for the room. "We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead." He gestured toward the stairs. "The expert’s upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little photo shoot."

He turned slightly and motioned toward the woman in garish magenta robes standing off to the side. "This is Rita Skeeter," he added, as though introducing someone important. "She’s doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet—"

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Rita interrupted smoothly, her eyes locked onto Harry like a predator sizing up its prey. Her hair was an unnatural shade of blonde, set in stiff curls that looked like they could hold their shape through a storm. Jeweled spectacles perched on her nose, clashing spectacularly with the crimson polish on her claw-like nails.

"I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she said to Bagman, but her gaze never left Harry. "The youngest champion, you know... to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" Bagman said brightly, eager to please. "That is—if Harry has no objection?"

Harry smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "After the Wand Weighing," he said, tone leaving no room for argument.

Bagman looked apologetic, but he didn’t push it. Rita, however, wasn’t as easily dismissed. She gave a slow smile, tilting her head slightly as if already planning her next move.

"Of course, dear," she cooed. "We’ll talk later."

Harry didn’t respond, already moving toward the staircase where Dumbledore was waiting with Ollivander and other Judges. Fleur and Krum followed, neither looking particularly eager about this part of the process.

As they entered the room, Ollivander was already setting up a velvet-lined case with various polishing cloths and small tools. He turned at their arrival, his pale eyes gleaming with interest.

Dumbledore barely had time to settle into his chair before Rita Skeeter swooped in, her smile all sharp teeth and polished charm.

“Dumbledore!” she said brightly, thrusting out a large, heavily ringed hand. “Lovely to see you again. I do hope you caught my piece on the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference over the summer?”

Dumbledore took her hand briefly, his expression as pleasant as ever. “Enchantingly nasty,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an ‘obsolete dingbat.’”

Rita didn’t so much as flinch. “Just a bit of honest critique, Dumbledore. Some of your views are rather old-fashioned, and the public has a right to know—”

“I would be delighted to discuss the merits of your honesty later, Rita,” Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, giving her a small bow. “But at the moment, we have the Weighing of the Wands to attend to.”

He turned his attention to the champions. Fleur looked faintly amused by the exchange, while Krum barely acknowledged it, his usual stoic expression unchanged. 

Dumbledore took his seat at the judges’ table beside Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, Bagman, and Shacklebolt. Across the room, Ollivander stepped forward, his pale gaze sharp as he clasped his hands together. Dumbledore gestured toward the elderly wandmaker standing near the velvet-covered table. “May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” he said. “He will be examining your wands to ensure they are in proper condition before the tournament begins.”

“Ah, yes,” the man murmured, nodding slightly. “A most important tradition. A champion’s wand must be in perfect working order.” His eyes settled on Fleur first. “Mademoiselle Delacour, if you please?”

Fleur approached with her usual graceful air and handed over her wand. Ollivander twirled it between his long fingers, and a few pink and gold sparks flared from the tip. Holding it closer to his eyes, he examined the wood, murmuring, “Nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing... oh dear.”

“An ‘air from ze head of a dead Veela,” Fleur supplied smoothly. “One of my grandmuzzer’s.”

Ollivander hummed. “Yes, yes... I have never used Veela hair myself. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands. However, to each their own.” He ran his fingers along the length of the wand, checking for any imperfections before flicking it lightly. “Orchideous.” A bouquet of flowers bloomed from the tip. Satisfied, he plucked them from the air and handed them back with the wand. “Very well, in fine working order.”

Fleur took the flowers with a polite smile before gliding back to her seat.

“Mr. Krum, you next,” Ollivander said, turning toward the Durmstrang champion.

Viktor Krum got up, his usual slouch making him look even more unimpressed with the entire process. Hands stuffed into his robe pockets, he walked over to Ollivander and wordlessly held out his wand. His scowl deepened slightly, though whether it was from impatience or just his natural resting expression was anyone’s guess.

Ollivander took the wand with practiced ease, turning it over in his fingers with an appraising hum. “Ah, Gregorovitch’s work, if I’m not mistaken?” he said, inspecting the craftsmanship. “A fine wandmaker, though his designs do tend to be… less refined than I personally prefer.”

Krum didn’t respond, just gave a slow blink that barely passed as acknowledgment.

“Hmm… hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” Ollivander continued, glancing up briefly. Krum gave a small nod. “A sturdy build—rather thicker than usual. Quite rigid. Ten and a quarter inches.” He raised the wand, giving it a flick. “Avis.”

A sharp bang echoed through the room, startling a few bystanders as a flock of small birds shot out of the wand’s tip, chirping wildly as they fluttered toward the window. Satisfied, Ollivander handed the wand back. “Good,” he said simply.

Krum took it and returned to his seat without a word.

Ollivander’s gaze shifted to Harry. “Which leaves… Mr. Potter.”

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum, handing over his wand without hesitation.

“Ah,” Ollivander murmured, his pale eyes gleaming as he turned it in his hands. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember.” He ran his fingers along the length of the holly wood, tilting it slightly to examine the core. “Pristine condition. You’ve taken excellent care of it, Mr. Potter. Not a single sign of neglect.”

Harry said nothing. Of course, he took care of his wand. Anything less would be idiotic.

Ollivander studied the wand a moment longer before speaking again. “Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple.” His fingers traced the wood with an odd sort of reverence. “And, as you well know..."

Across the room, Karkaroff gave an exaggerated scoff, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “More theatrics.” Madame Maxime, however, watched with mild curiosity.

Ignoring the distraction, Ollivander flicked Harry’s wand sharply. A thin, golden stream of sparks erupted from the tip, crackling faintly before vanishing. “Still as powerful as the day it chose you,” Ollivander remarked, handing it back. “A most unique wand.”

Harry took it, slipping it back into his robes.

“That concludes our wand inspection,” Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander.”

“Always a pleasure,” Ollivander replied, inclining his head slightly.

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