Chapter 201
This was a rather small classroom. Most of the desks had been pushed to the back, leaving a wide open space in the middle. In front of the blackboard stood three desks covered with a long velvet cloth, and behind them were five chairs—one of which was already occupied by Ludo Bagman.
A pot-bellied man held a slightly smoking black camera, glancing at Fleur Delacour out of the corner of his eye.
"What is your wand made of, Draco?" Fleur asked casually. Their chairs were now quite close to each other.
"Miss Delacour, should I assume you're trying to gather intelligence?" Malfoy replied, lifting his head with a faint, tired smile.
"What's there to hide? It will all be made public anyway. Didn't we come here today for wand inspection?" Fleur said, a little annoyed.
"It seems the Champions of Hogwarts and Beauxbatons get along quite well." A voice accompanied by a soft clap sounded behind them.
Fleur turned at once and saw a witch in magenta robes smiling at them.
"Achoo." Malfoy sneezed just then. Fleur turned back abruptly, and her hair—faintly scented with shampoo—brushed past the tip of his nose, making it itch.
"Who are you?" Fleur asked.
"Master Malfoy, we meet again!" the woman said with a sugary smile, approaching them while ignoring Fleur's question.
"Mr. Lucius must be very proud of you," she added flatteringly. Then she extended a hand toward Fleur. "Hello, I'm Rita Skeeter, a special correspondent for the Daily Prophet. I've been invited to cover the Triwizard Tournament."
"Cheap cosmetics. Cheap taste." Fleur stepped back in open disgust, not even bothering with basic politeness.
The woman's hair was styled into stiff, elaborate curls that clashed awkwardly with her broad, jutting chin. She wore jeweled glasses, clutched a crocodile-skin handbag with thick fingers, and her nails—two inches long—were painted bright red.
Fleur hadn't noticed much from a distance before. But now, up close, she felt an overwhelming sense of distaste.
"Oh… hehe…" Rita gave an awkward laugh, as though she were used to such reactions.
"Mr. Viktor Krum, you look even more handsome than in your photographs. May I ask you a few questions?" She quickly shifted her attention, targeting Viktor Krum, who stood silently in the corner.
Krum closed his eyes and said nothing, as if asleep.
Clearly, he wasn't the only one who disliked her. His approach, however, was more subtle.
"Harry Potter!" Rita suddenly exclaimed, spotting her next target.
Her savior had arrived.
Harry Potter had just entered the room when the middle-aged witch rushed toward him excitedly.
"Now that everyone's here, let's begin. The judges are waiting," Bagman announced, standing up.
"Before we start, may I have a word with Harry?" Rita asked, though her eyes never left him. "You know—the youngest Champion. Adds a bit of flavor to the article."
"No problem!" Bagman said cheerfully. "Though… Harry, do you mind?"
"Uh…" Harry hesitated.
"Poor kid," Fleur said, a rare trace of sympathy in her voice. "I nearly suffocated just standing near that perfume." She waved a hand in front of her nose, as if to dispel the lingering scent.
"The 'kid' you're talking about is in the same year as me," Malfoy said dryly.
"You're different," Fleur replied, looking straight at him. There was something complicated in her gaze.
She had never imagined she would be the one pursuing someone. It had always been the other way around—she was the one admired, surrounded like the moon among stars. And yet this boy, younger than her, remained indifferent.
Perhaps it was his lack of interest in her beauty that stirred her desire to win him over. Or perhaps it was because he had helped her before. Either way, things had developed to this point.
In truth, Malfoy wasn't as composed as she thought. These past few days, he had lost count of how many times he'd been distracted around her. Fleur's boldness—combined with the natural charm of her Veela heritage—was… troublesome.
Age, however, was not something that bothered him.
"Fleur?" a voice called from outside.
Fleur stood immediately. Malfoy guessed it was Olympe Maxime.
Soon enough, Madame Maxime entered—and behind her followed the others.
Among them was a new face: an elderly wizard of average build. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, but his pale eyes shone with intelligence and quiet confidence, the kind that inspired trust.
Those who had mastered their craft often carried such an aura.
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Ollivander," said Albus Dumbledore as he took his seat behind the judges' table. "One of Europe's finest wandmakers. He has kindly agreed to inspect your wands before the Tournament, to ensure they are in perfect condition."
Garrick Ollivander stood by the window and nodded. He even offered Malfoy a faint smile—after all, he had once been his customer.
"Oh—we should wait a moment. One Champion is still missing," Dumbledore added, glancing around.
"Potter is finishing a brief interview with Rita Skeeter," Bagman explained.
Just then, the door burst open. Harry stumbled in, clearly trying to distance himself from the woman behind him, nearly colliding with the door in his haste.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, adjusting his half-moon glasses before settling back into his usual posture, fingertips pressed together. "Now that everyone is here, shall we begin? Mr. Ollivander?"