could see what they were doing.
"You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to
you normally. .."
"A what?" said Harry.
Rita Skeeter's smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again
into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of
parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-
Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth,
sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the
parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.
"Testing. . . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter."
Harry hooked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the
green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment:
Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, who's savage quill has punctured many
inflated reputations -
"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment
off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward Harry
and said, "So, Harry... what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Er -" said Harry again, but he was distracted by the quill. Even though he wasn't
speaking, it was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake he could make out
a fresh sentence:
An ugly scar, souvenier of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of
Harry Potter, whose eyes --
"Ignore the quill, Harry," said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly Harry looked up at
her instead. "Now -- why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?"
"I didn't," said Harry. "I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I
didn't put it in there."
Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow.
"Come now, Harry, there's no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all
know you shouldn't really have entered at all. But don't worry about that. Our
readers hove a rebel."
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"But I didn't enter," Harry repeated. "I don't know who -"
"How do you feel about the tasks ahead?" said Rita Skeeter. "Excited? Nervous?"
"I haven't really thought. . . yeah, nervous, I suppose," said Harry. His insides
squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke.
"Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" said Rita Skeeter briskly. "Have
you thought about that at all?"
"Well. . . they say it's going to be a lot safer this year," said Harry.
The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as
though it were skating.
"Of course, you've looked death in the face before, haven't you?" said Rita
Skeeter, watching him closely. "How would you say that's affected you?"
"Er," said Harry, yet again.
"Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove
yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to
enter the Triwizard Tournament because - "
"I didn't enter," said Harry, starting to feel irritated.
"Can you remember your parents at all?" said Rita Skeeter, talking over him.
"No," said Harry.
"How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard
Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?"
Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was he to know how his
parents would feel if they were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him
very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and hooked down at words the quill
had just written:
Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he
can barely remember.
"I have NOT got tears in my eyes!" said Harry loudly.
Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled
open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood
there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard.
"Dumbledore!" cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight - but Harry
noticed that her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of
Magical Mess Remover, and Rita's clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the
clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she said, standing up and holding
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out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece
over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"
"Enchantingly nasty," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "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,
Dumbhedore, and that many wizards in the street -"
"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," said
Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to
discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot
take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."
Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The
other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly
next to Cedric, hooking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five
judges were now sitting - Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and
Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip
the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the
Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, taking his place at the
judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to
ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."
Harry hooked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large,
pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before -
he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three
years ago in Diagon Alley.
"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said Mr. Ollivander,
stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.
Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Olhivander and handed him her wand.
"Hmm..." he said.
He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number
of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it chose to his eyes and examined it
carefully.
"Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches. . . inflexible.. rosewood.. . and
containing. . . dear me. . ."
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmuzzer's."
So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a mental note to tell Ron. . . then
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he remembered that Ron wasn't speaking to him.
"Yes," said Mr. Ollivander, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I
find it makes for rather temperamental wands...however, to each his own, and if
this suits you.."
Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches
or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the
wand tip.
"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up
the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Diggory, you next."
Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her.
"Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" said Mr. Ollivander, with much more
enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember it well. Containing
a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn. . . must have been
seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve
and a quarter inches. . . ash. . . pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition...You treat
it regularly?"
"Polished it last night," said Cedric, grinning.
Harry hooked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it. He
gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously.
Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very
patronizing look, and he desisted.
Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of
Cedric's wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, "Mr. Krum, if you
please."
Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr.
Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the
pockets of his robes.
"Hmm," said Mr. Olhivander, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much
mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I. . .
however. ."
He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his
eyes.
"Yes.. . hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather
thicker than one usually sees. . . quite rigid. . . ten and a quarter inches. . . Avis!"
The hornbeam wand let off a blast hike a gun, and a number of small, twittering
birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.
202
"Good," said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves. . . Mr.
Potter."
Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his
wand.
"Aaaah, yes," said Mr. Ohlivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes,
yes. How well I remember."
Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened
yesterday....
Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander's shop
with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then
started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in
the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him - this one, which was
made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a
phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so
compatible with this wand. "Curious," he had said, "curious," and not until Harry
asked what was curious had Mr. Olhivander ex