Testing the Wand

Chapter 367 Testing the Wand (6.2K) (2/2)

Everything happened too fast.

In fact, Harry's attention wasn't entirely focused on the tedious standoff before the conflict escalated into a flurry of spells.

The intense training over several consecutive days had almost completely exhausted him. The sharp, noisy taunts from Pansy and the others sounded more like annoying background noise to him; the deeper fatigue in his brain filtered out most of their impact.

He just wanted to leave as soon as possible; he didn't want to, and had almost no energy for, this pointless entanglement.

His vigilance dropped to a low point, and his reactions were slower than usual.

Harry was jolted awake from his weary daze when the light of the spell suddenly pierced the air.

In a moment of desperation, he suddenly held the thick "Complete Book of Potions" in his hand in front of a beam of magical light!

"Thud! The spell struck the book with a muffled thud."

The heavy book suddenly burst open, the binding snapped, and the yellowed pages scattered like a flock of startled birds, landing all over the two of them.

Merlin, I will definitely keep my wand in a more convenient place from now on!

The thought of regret and anxious fear flashed through Harry's mind the instant he blocked the spell.

This man was caught off guard!

In that chaotic moment of books blocking each other and pages flying everywhere, another beam of yellow light appeared—Pansy's "front teeth against a big stick."

One had already swept through the air. Hermione, in order to dodge another spell, leaned back, and the yellow light narrowly grazed Harry's raised arm cuff, but struck Hermione's exposed cheek squarely.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned in pain, covering her mouth. The intense sensation of the foreign object and the pain made her body go limp, and her wand slipped from her hand and fell to the ground.

"Hermione!" Seeing his friend afflicted by the curse so close to him, Harry's taut string snapped.

Anger, anxiety, and all the pent-up frustration of the past few days erupted instantly.

Ignoring the tingling in his arm and the scraps of paper all over his head, his right hand flashed into his trouser pocket, finally grasping the familiar holly wand, and yanked it out. Almost as soon as the wand was in his hand, he adjusted his posture, better protecting the grotesque Hermione behind him, the tip of the wand pointing directly at the Slytherin students who were still approaching or preparing to continue casting spells.

His eyes changed, becoming cold and focused.

The magic within him began to surge with anger and fighting spirit. He stared intently at Pansy Parkinson, his grip on the cane steady and powerful—Uncle Lynch's demanding requirements regarding distance, timing, and subconscious reactions seemed to have seeped into his very blood.

He wanted to retaliate, to test the results of his special training, and to show those who hurt his friends what the price would be.

The incantation was already brewing on the tip of his tongue—

"Stop it, all of you!"

A cold, drawn-out yet extremely penetrating voice suddenly rang out, like an ice shovel piercing a powder keg about to explode.

Draco Malfoy parted the crowd and slowly walked in.

He first glanced with disgust at the students of his house who were sprawled on the ground, making a complete fool of themselves, then gave a cold look to Hermione, who was covering her face, and Harry, who was gripping his wand tightly as if facing a formidable enemy. Finally, his gaze, as if carrying shards of ice, was fixed on the pale-faced Pansy Parkinson, who was still trying to direct the others to continue.

"Parkinson," Malfoy's voice wasn't loud, but it silenced the surroundings instantly, "with your bunch of—idiots, launching a siege in the corridor? And making such a spectacle of it?" He paused deliberately, letting the humiliation permeate the air, "You're not ashamed of yourselves, I'm ashamed for Slytherin. Immediately, take these pieces of trash," he pointed to the people on the ground, "and disappear. Don't stay here and tarnish your family name."

The words "family disgraced" felt like heavy shackles, causing the faces of several Slytherin students from pure-blood families to change. Pansy opened her mouth, but under Malfoy's cold gray eyes, she ultimately dared not argue further. She could only glare at Harry resentfully, signal the others to help their companion up, and quickly retreated amidst whispers and angry stares from the Gryffindor students.

Harry remained in a defensive stance, wand not lowered, chest heaving.

Malfoy's gaze finally fell on him, a mocking smile playing on his lips. He said nothing, as if he had merely dealt with an unsightly problem, then turned and left with his head held high.

The corridor returned to a semblance of calm, save for Hermione's suppressed groans and the books scattered on the floor.

Harry slowly lowered his wand and helped Hermione up. The conflict had temporarily come to an end in this unexpected way, leaving him with very mixed feelings.

He turned around and saw Ron watching from a distance, his feelings becoming even more complicated.

Hermione was immediately taken to the school infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey cast a counter-curse on her abnormally growing front teeth, but the shock and discomfort caused by the curse still required rest and observation.

In the next Potions class, Harry ran into trouble. The Potions Compendium, which was used to block spells and was completely broken, was unusable, and Snape noticed his empty desk almost immediately.

Snape, drawing out his words and speaking in a volume loud enough for the whole class to hear, sneered, "It seems our famous Mr. Potter, besides throwing his own name into the Goblet of Fire, is incapable of even fulfilling the most basic student responsibility of properly safeguarding his textbook. Because of your—'heroic sacrifice' of a textbook, resulting in inadequate preparation and severely hindering the class's progress, Gryffindor loses ten points."

Suppressed laughter echoed from the dungeon classroom. Harry felt his face burning and could only lower his head, enduring the extra humiliation of protecting his friend, forced to awkwardly share his textbook with the person at the next table.

Just as Snape turned back to the podium, preparing to continue explaining the key steps of the swelling potion, "Bang!"

The door to the potions classroom was pushed open a crack somewhat clumsily, and Colin Crevy's furry head peeked in, his face flushed with excitement.

He was ordered to call Harry to take a picture, adding that "the Daily Prophet's reporters and judges are waiting."

Although Snape was extremely displeased with this, his face darkening terribly, he could not forcibly stop it since it was a notification directly arranged by Headmaster Dumbledore and involved official matters of the Triwizard Tournament. He could only reluctantly allow it to proceed.

Harry followed Colin up the castle stairs and was eventually led to the door of a small classroom on the third floor that was rarely used.

"This is it, Harry!" Colin said excitedly, his face still beaming with the pride of someone who had participated in a momentous event. "I have to go back now—good luck!" He finished speaking quickly and jogged away.

Harry pushed open the door and went inside.

The classroom was more spacious than I had imagined; several desks had been pushed against the wall, leaving space in the middle.

The first person to catch the eye was Ludo Bagman, the Director of Sport and Physical Education at the Ministry of Magic. He was wearing a yellow and black robe and had his back to the door, chatting amiably with a witch Harry had never seen before. The witch wore a magenta robe, her curls were meticulously styled, her nails were painted bright red, and she carried an alligator skin handbag, giving her an overly refined and sharp appearance.

Harry quickly glanced around. Cedric Diggory, standing by the window gazing at the Forbidden Forest, turned at the sound of the door opening, nodded to Harry, and smiled gently.

Fleur Delacour sat on a desk that had been moved against the wall, her legs elegantly crossed, seemingly checking her nails. She glanced at Harry with her large, bright blue eyes before looking away again. Viktor Krum leaned against another wall, his face more somber than usual, arms crossed, as if annoyed by everything around him.

All three warriors are present.

However, Harry noticed that none of the people he expected to be there—Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and especially Uncle Lynch—were present. Only Bagman and the unfamiliar, somewhat boisterous witch seemed to be the temporary owners of the place.

This made him feel somewhat uncertain.

Just as Harry was secretly taking in his surroundings, the witch in the magenta robe keenly noticed his arrival.

Her face immediately lit up with an overly enthusiastic smile, as if she had discovered some rare treasure. She interrupted her conversation with Bagman and walked over quickly, her high heels clicking on the floor.

"Aha!" she exclaimed dramatically, her bright red-nailed hand reaching out as if to pat Harry on the shoulder, then changing it in mid-air to an exaggerated welcoming gesture. "This must be our youngest hero, Harry Potter! Seeing is believing, my dear child."

Harry was taken aback by her overly enthusiastic attitude and mumbled a reply, "Hello."

"I'm Rita Skeeter, a special correspondent for the Daily Prophet." She introduced herself quickly, her eyes scanning Harry rapidly behind her jeweled spectacles, from the potion-stained hem of his robes to his slightly tired face. "We're waiting for you! The others," she waved casually in the direction of Cedric, Fleur, and Krum, "have already finished their little warm-up interviews. Only you left, my dear. We need to hurry. Before the official photos and wand testing, let's have a lighthearted chat so the readers can get to know you better, shall we?"

"An interview?" Harry was taken aback; Colin hadn't mentioned that.

He glanced at Bagman, who simply gave him a bright but meaningless smile and nodded, as if to say, "Go ahead."

"It'll only take a moment, it won't interfere with our business." Rita Skeeter gently put her arm around Harry's shoulder without giving him a chance to speak—her strength was surprisingly greater than expected—and led him toward a small space in the corner of the classroom, separated by a simple screen. "This way, please. We have a quieter place to talk. Relax, darling, it's just a few simple questions."

Harry was half-pushed and half-forced into the small cubicle, and the feeling that something was wrong with him grew stronger and stronger.

He glanced back at the others in the classroom. Cedric gave him a slightly sympathetic look, Fleur seemed indifferent, and Krum frowned. What unsettled him most was that he still hadn't seen Dumbledore or Uncle Lynch until he was led into the cubicle and the door closed.

The cubicle contained only two chairs facing each other. Rita Skeeter sat down gracefully and took out a shorthand notebook and an oddly shaped, brightly colored green quill pen from her crocodile-skin handbag. The pen stood upright on its own as soon as it touched the parchment, its tip trembling slightly, as if it had come to life.

"So, Harry, may we begin?" Rita Skeeter leaned forward, a professional smile on her face, but her eyes behind her glasses gleamed with a probing, even predatory, light. "Let's start with your truest thoughts. As a fourth-year student, what does it feel like to be chosen by the Goblet of Fire? Surprise? Fear? Or—was it all expected?"

Harry sat in the hard chair, facing the eerie, self-writing quill and the reporter's overly focused gaze. Exhaustion mixed with wariness made his muscles tense slightly. He had a vague feeling that this "relaxed conversation" might not be so simple. And the absence of Professor Lynch and the others seemed to have emboldened the reporter even more—unrestrained.

Rita Skeeter's interview was by no means the "relaxed conversation" she described.

Her questions were as intricate and enticing as a spiderweb, and her bright green shorthand quill danced wildly across the parchment, writing embellished sentences that went far beyond Harry's original words.

Harry felt extremely uncomfortable from the very beginning.

She relentlessly pressed for details about his "chosen" status, implying he used underhanded tactics; her interest in his "celebrity" status far outweighed her concern for the competition itself; she tried to uncover rumors within Hogwarts about his "cheating," deliberately steer the conversation towards Harry's "tense relationship" with other champions, especially Cedric. Harry's weary brain struggled to cope, attempting to provide brief, vague, but truthful answers, only to be consistently steered in unpleasant directions by her persistent questioning and the quill's misinterpretations.

Resentment is building up.

He hated her appraising gaze, her feigned sympathy masking a manipulative tone, and even more so, the quill pen that clearly hinted at fabricated stories. As the interview drew to a close, Harry secretly breathed a sigh of relief, but Rita Skeeter leaned forward, a feignedly gentle yet inquisitive expression on her face, and posed the final question: "So, Harry, dear," her voice was low but penetrating, "as the 'Boy Who Lived,' carrying such a legendary past and the pain of losing his parents, participating in such a dangerous competition, do you see it as a courageous continuation of your parents' fate, or—something unavoidable, heavy burden?"

The air seemed to freeze instantly.

Harry felt as if he'd been punched in the chest, caught completely off guard, all his carefully maintained composure and politeness crumbling instantly. The color drained from his face, his lips tightened, and a cold rage and sharp pain suddenly ignited in his green eyes. How could she—so casually, even with a calculated "sympathy," touch this deepest, most painful scar? This wasn't concern; it was blatant exploitation and offense.

His emotions surged like a violent storm—anger at her rudeness and coldness, stinging at the old wounds that had been forcibly reopened, and a powerful urge to end it all immediately. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched silently, his nails digging into his palms. He stared intently at Rita Skeeter's triumphant eyes behind her glasses, using all his strength to suppress the urge to slam the door shut, but the words that escaped through clenched teeth were as cold and hard as stone: "I think—this has nothing to do with the competition." He said curtly, abruptly standing up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound. "If the photography and testing wands are ready, Ms. Skeeter, I think we should go out."

Without waiting for her reply, and not wanting to look at that repulsive quill pen again, he turned around abruptly, roughly pulled open the curtain of the cubicle, leaving Rita Skeeter and the suffocating air behind him.

My heart pounded in my chest, a mixture of lingering anger and the dull pain of my privacy being violated.

The air in the classroom seemed a little fresher. He took a deep breath and subconsciously looked for a figure that could put his mind at ease.

His gaze swept across the room and he immediately saw that familiar, upright figure by the window—Uncle Lin Qi had arrived.

He was slightly turned to the side, speaking in hushed tones with the wand-making master, Mr. Ollivander.

To Harry's surprise, Mr. Ollivander, who usually had a dreamy, dazed expression, was unusually excited at this moment. His old fingers trembled slightly, and his light-colored eyes were fixed on Professor Lynch, asking him questions in an unusually eager tone.

Harry's frustration subsided somewhat, and he unconsciously moved closer to the window.

As we got closer, fragmented conversation drifted into my ears.

"—Is it still in the same condition as before? That hard material took me a lot of effort to make!"

"I don't think I'll ever be able to make a wand just like it again in my lifetime—" Ollivander's voice was filled with the unique concern of a creator and an almost pious pride.

"As always, Mr. Ollivander," Professor Lynch's voice remained steady, but seemed to carry an extra touch of respect for the old craftsman. "It is perfect, always."

"Perfect—yes, yes!" Ollivander murmured, his silver eyes gleaming with excitement. "The gripping feedback of the spiral grooves, the converging lines and the final tip—every inch embodies the inspiration and decision of that night. Can I—may I see it again? Just one more look—"

Seemingly sensing Harry's approach, Lynch turned his head, his gaze lingering briefly on Harry's still somewhat pale face before turning back to Ollivander and nodding slightly.

Then, under the joint gaze of Harry and Ollivander, Professor Lynch simply raised his right arm naturally, his wrist turning slightly in a smooth and steady motion—like a swordsman demonstrating his sword.

The next second, the wand, a cold, ivory white color, with a unique, deep spiral groove on the handle, a long, tapering shaft, and a sharp, icicle-like tip, appeared steadily in his hand. In the sunlight streaming through the window, it quietly exuded a silent and perfectly geometric coldness, perfectly matching Professor Lynch's own temperament.

Mr. Ollivander gasped, like a young apprentice seeing a unicorn for the first time. An indescribable radiance shone on his wrinkled face as he cautiously, almost reverently, extended his hands.

Lin Qi handed over the white magic wand.

The moment the old wandmaker's fingertips touched the familiar, cold, and deep spiral grooves of the wand's icy blade, it seemed to emit an almost imperceptible "hum," so low it was almost a hallucination, as if a sleeping weapon had been awakened by a familiar craftsman, emitting a soft hum confirming its identity.

He held the handle with utmost care, while the fingers of his other hand gently traced the smooth, mirror-like, rapidly tapering shaft upwards. Wherever his fingertips touched, the perfectly smooth surface seemed to repel all dust, reflecting his fingerprints even more clearly.

My finger finally hovered just inches away from that sharp, icicle-like tip, not daring to actually touch it.

His eyes were fixed on the object in his palm, his lips moving slightly, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet filled with unmistakable passion and pride, as if he were speaking to a masterpiece imbued with spirit: "Thirteen and a half inches—white hardwood—" His fingertips traced the cold, hard surface of the wand again, "Such perfect geometry, such an icy touch—and these spiral patterns, each grip feels like a struggle against the wind and snow itself—" His gaze finally settled on the wand's unadorned, impeccably sharp tip, his voice tinged with awe, "—and this resolute 'point'—it never compromises, never deviates—"

He paused slightly, as if sensing the silent pulse deep within the staff, and then, in a softer yet more solemn tone, added the last and most important part: "—and its heart—that hair—from the source of its bloodline—is eternal and absolute."

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, as if this brief touch and examination had completed a sacred pilgrimage.

He carefully held the wand in his palm, looked at it for a long time, and then reluctantly and gently handed it back to Lynch, his eyes still gleaming with the excitement of reuniting with his masterpiece.

Just as Mr. Ollivander reluctantly handed the wand back to Professor Lynch, he finally caught a glimpse of Harry standing to the side.

His large eyes blinked, as if he had just snapped out of his reverie at reuniting with his masterpiece.

"Oh! Mr. Potter!" Ollivander's voice regained some of its usual ethereal tone, but the lingering excitement remained. "Hello, hello."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Harry greeted hastily, always feeling respect and warmth towards the craftsman who had chosen the holly wand for him. "You—what are you doing here?"

"Ah, of course, it's for you, my dear children, for you four champions!" Ollivander rubbed his hands together, his light-colored eyes sweeping over Harry before looking at Cedric, Fleur, and Krum waiting in the center of the classroom. His voice carried a hint of solemnity. "Before a serious tournament like the Triwizard Tournament, which can involve intense magical combat, checking the champions' wands is an ancient and necessary procedure. We need to make sure every wand is in top condition, functioning perfectly, and won't malfunction or break down at crucial moments. After all," he leaned slightly towards Harry, his tone becoming as if sharing a secret, "a wand is a wizard's partner, and its condition directly affects your performance, even your safety."

Harry nodded, understanding why Mr. Ollivander was there.

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