Hogwarts' Golden Glory

In the corridor, Colin led the way, so excited that he practically skipped as he walked.

"Dumbledore said it's a routine check, every champion has to do it! To make sure the wand doesn't malfunction during the game!"

They walked up several stairs and came to the door of a large classroom that had been specially set aside—the door was open, and several people were already standing inside.

Krum leaned against the window, his dark gray eyes staring blankly out the window.

Furong stood beside a table, her long, silvery-white hair gleaming softly in the candlelight.

Cedric sat in a chair, holding his wand and gently turning it.

Ollivander stood in the center of the room, in front of a long table covered with velvet, on which sat the golden scales.

"Ah, here it comes."

Ollivander raised his head, his silver-white eyes looking towards the doorway. "Two more warriors are needed."

The remaining people have already been tested.

Dumbledore stood in the corner, his blue eyes holding a gentle scrutiny.

Moody stood by the door, his prosthetic eye spinning wildly.

"Mr. Potter, please." Ollivander extended his hand.

Harry walked over and handed him the wand.

Ollivander took the wand and placed it on the golden scales.

Time seemed to have turned back to the past.

The scales trembled slightly, and the pointer swung back and forth.

Ollivander stared at the pointer, his silvery-white eyes narrowing.

"Hollywood, phoenix feathers." His voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself. "Eleven inches, supple. I remember it clearly. The feathers on this wand—from a phoenix."

Harry vaguely remembered that day when he learned that the core of his wand and Voldemort's wand came from the same phoenix.

Dumbledore's eyebrows twitched slightly.

Ollivander paused, his gaze lingering on Harry's face for a second.

He didn't finish his sentence—"The other wand, made of feathers, belongs to Tom Riddle."

He swallowed those words and continued his examination.

"No problem. No damage. No spells cast." Ollivander handed the wand back to Harry. "Next."

Kane stepped forward.

He drew his wand and handed it over.

Ollivander remembers this guy!

The Malfoy children.

Upon first seeing the child, he believed that the child would rival Voldemort.

In hindsight, he was right.

In just two years, Kane's fame has rivaled that of Harry Potter.

The Malfoy family's power has even become a source of fear for the Ministry of Magic.

And the other party's wand was from his great-great-grandfather's time.

Of course he remembered the wand; after all, he couldn't use it back then.

Ollivander stared at him for a few seconds, then looked down at the wand in his hand.

The staff is dark in color and has no decorations, yet it has a strangely warm feel when held in the hand.

Ollivander tried to draw a small circle in the air with his wand.

The wand remained still.

It's not that they can't move—it's that they refuse to move.

It resisted him.

He returned the wand to Kane.

Kane took the wand, and the tip of the wand glowed slightly, as if confirming its owner's hand.

"It recognizes you," Ollivander said. "Only you. No one else can use this wand."

"I know," Kane said.

Ollivander stared at him for a long time, then wrote a few lines in his notebook and closed it.

"Both warriors' wands are fine. They can be used in the match."

Just then, the sound of hurried high heels came from the doorway.

"Oh—that's great—everyone's here!"

Rita Skeeter swept in like a gust of wind, her green robe billowing behind her, her nails painted with blood-red nail polish, and a dark green quill pen in her hand.

The quill pen, suspended in mid-air, had already begun to dance wildly.

"Warriors! Warriors of the Triwizard Tournament!" Skeeter's voice was high-pitched and excited. "The readers of the Daily Prophet need to know every single one of you! Every single detail!"

Her gaze swept across the room—

She didn't look at the Warriors first, but turned to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster!" Her voice was as sweet as honey water that had been steeped for three days. "You look radiant today. Is this robe newly made? I'll definitely write about it in my article."

Dumbledore smiled. "No need, Miss Skeeter. The warriors' wands are the point."

"Of course, of course." Skeeter then turned to Moody. "Professor Moody! You're still so energetic even in retirement. Your prosthetic eye is moving particularly lively today!"

Moody snorted but didn't reply.

She then looked at Ollivander. "Mr. Ollivander! The expert in wand examination, your work is truly invaluable—may I quote you a few words?"

Ollivander lowered his head, adjusting the scales. "Don't disturb me."

Skeeter's smile froze for 0.3 seconds before returning to normal.

After speaking with all the professors, she finally turned to the warriors standing in the center of the room.

Her gaze swept over Krum, Cedric, Fleur, and Harry, finally settling on Kane.

Then her smile became somewhat forced.

To be honest, she didn't want to come.

Krum leaned against the window, expressionless.

Cedric sat in the chair, polite but somewhat reserved.

Furong stood by the table, a hint of wariness in her pale blue eyes.

Harry stood next to Kane, his expression stiff.

Kane stood between Harry and Fleur, with Igor perched on his shoulder, his silver eyes calmly watching Skeeter.

Skeeter's shorthand quill paused for a moment.

Her gaze swept quickly between Kane, Harry, and Fleur three times—then she smiled.

That professional smile a journalist gives when they discover "untouchable news".

"Mr. Malfoy!" Skeeter's voice suddenly softened. "Your performance was truly outstanding! I still remember the scene where you confronted the former minister—no, wait, it was... well, anyway, you are simply the pride of Hogwarts!"

Kane glanced at her but said nothing.

Igor gently flapped his wings.

Skeeter immediately turned to Krum.

"Mr. Krum!"

Skeeter turned to the Durmstrang Warrior by the window, her tone instantly shifting from sweet to sharp. "The Durmstrang Warrior, the Bulgarian Quidditch star. But Quidditch and magical duels are two different things. Do you think readers will believe that someone famous for playing Quidditch can survive in a dungeon?"

Krum frowned. "I didn't—"

"How did your wand check go?" Skeeter interrupted him. "I heard you blew your training puppet to pieces during practice. That's not something a normal spell can do. Did you use dark magic?"

Krum's face darkened. "No comment."

Skeeter has turned to Cedric.

"Mr. Diggory! Hufflepuff's pride!" Her smile was sickeningly sweet. "Everyone says you're a perfect warrior—handsome, excellent, and upright. But have you ever considered that you were chosen only because the Goblet of Fire needed a 'normal' warrior to overshadow the...special qualities of the others?"

Cedric's smile froze. "I don't think—"

“Of course, of course, you don’t think so,” Skeeter interrupted him. “The readers will judge for themselves.”

She scribbled wildly in the notebook with her quill pen.

Then she turned to Hibiscus.