Back in the wand inspection room, Rita hadn't left. Instead, she found herself a quiet corner and sat back down.
She still needed to interview the rest of the champions, and clearly felt confident that Cohen no longer had any dark intentions of vengeance against her.
There were now a few more people in the room: Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, and an elderly white-haired man.
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said as he took his seat at the judges' table. "He'll be inspecting your wands to make sure they're in proper condition for the tournament."
To Hogwarts students, Ollivander was a familiar face—after all, he was the only wandmaker in all of Britain.
But for Fleur and Krum, he was a stranger. Well, maybe not entirely—they might've heard of him in some newspaper column or bit of gossip.
Cohen glanced at his wand. Though he had originally bought it from Ollivander, it had undergone quite a few changes since then.
For one thing, it had once been accidentally broken by Sisoko—and Dumbledore had been the one to repair it using the Elder Wand.
That incident had also revealed something surprising: the wand's core was made of Arie's hair. And Arie's hair was unmistakable—unicorn hair wasn't supposed to be black unless it came from her.
Cohen wasn't sure how the wand would behave in Ollivander's hands now. Ever since it had been broken and repaired, neither the Count nor Edward had been able to use it for any spellwork.
If he had to describe it, he'd say the wand had grown sensitive and suspicious toward anyone who wasn't him. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel⸺fire.net
"Let's begin with you, Miss Delacour."
Ollivander stepped into the open space in the center of the room and gestured to Fleur, who sat on the far right.
Fleur walked gracefully over and handed him her wand.
"Very nice…" Ollivander murmured, studying it closely. Golden sparks shot from the tip as he tested its power. "Nine and a half inches, quite flexible… maple wood… and the core is… oh dear…"
"A Veela hair," Fleur said. "From my grandmother."
"Yes, yes… of course. I've never used Veela hair myself—wands with that core tend to be a bit temperamental…" Ollivander said, "But everyone has their preferences. If it suits you, that's what matters."
After testing a few spells, he returned the wand to Fleur.
Next up was Cedric, then Krum, and finally Harry—who looked visibly nervous. Right before his turn, he was trying to polish his wand with the edge of his robes, wiping off smudges like it was a prized possession.
When he noticed Cohen watching him, Harry gave an awkward little smile.
At last, it was Cohen's turn. Ollivander's eyes lit up with recognition.
"I remember your wand too, same year as Mr. Potter. But yours was quite different from your father's… very different…"
"No worries. Give it a few years and I'll look more like him," Cohen replied casually.
"Hmm?" Ollivander let out a puzzled little grunt, but didn't press the matter. He chalked it up to the kind of strange humor teenagers often had.
"Twelve inches, elder wood, unicorn hair… I recall that unicorn hair came from a rather mysterious merchant. I'd never seen black unicorn hair before…"
And yet you still put it in a wand? Cohen thought to himself, eyebrows twitching.
Honestly, if the hair had been cursed, Ollivander's shop would've changed ownership by now.
"But the magic it channels is even stronger than normal unicorn hair," Ollivander went on, admiring the wand like it was a finely crafted masterpiece. "I had to try several types of wood before I found one that wouldn't dissolve from the force… Avifors!"
Ollivander frowned. The spell hadn't worked at all.
As a wizard of no small talent, he should've been able to produce at least some effect—even wandless. But not only had the wand failed to amplify his spell, it seemed to have outright blocked it.
This wand didn't recognize him. And he had made it!
"Mr. Norton, have you modified it in any way?" Ollivander asked.
"Not physically," Cohen replied. "But maybe it's because I've trained it a lot. I don't want someone else to just pick up my wand and be able to use it right away…"
"I always thought a wand's loyalty was something only its maker could sense…" Ollivander muttered, recalling a less-than-pleasant memory—when Cohen had first walked into his shop, half the wands had retreated into the shelves like frightened animals.
Given that, it wasn't too hard to believe Cohen had managed to "train" his wand not to respond to anyone else…
Still, that kind of relationship with a wand… felt a little off, didn't it?
"Shall I just demonstrate a few spells myself?" Cohen suggested. The judges at the table were starting to whisper amongst themselves.
Ollivander handed the wand back, and Cohen flicked out a few solid, technically impressive spells. After that, Ollivander declared the wand to be in excellent condition.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Dumbledore stood and addressed the group after the checks were complete. "You're free to return to class—or head to dinner, if it's that time."
"Wait, photos first!" the photographer called out to the champions and headmasters as they began to leave. "Group shot, and maybe a few individual ones. Rita, which do you need for your article?"
"Um… start with the group. Then one or two singles…" Rita said distractedly. She wasn't even looking at Cohen anymore—her eyes flicked back and forth between Harry and Krum, as if she were trying to get back into her usual interview mindset.
The group photo should've been quick, but Madame Maxime was simply too large to fit properly into the frame, no matter where she stood.
In the end, they had her sit down while the others arranged themselves around her.
"Come here, Viktor," Karkaroff said, grabbing Krum—who was trying to hide at the back—and fussing with his own goatee, curling the end in an attempt to look elegant.
"I thought he'd be used to being front and center…" Harry whispered to Cohen. "Isn't Krum a celebrity?"
"He's probably got a second face for private use," Cohen whispered back. "Forget Krum—just look at the camera, Harry—"
The camera shutter clicked several times, sending pale blue smoke puffing from the photographer's old-fashioned device. These shots would almost certainly grace the front page of the next Daily Prophet.
After the group shot came the individual portraits—two for each champion. Rita hauled everyone except Cohen into another room one by one for private interviews and photo sessions.
For some reason, Cohen felt like his photo shoot had been shorter than everyone else's.
"I've been discriminated against!" he grumbled after Harry came back from his interview. "And that photographer flattened my glorious slicked-back hair. Said a middle part looks more youthful…"