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And the wandmaster Ollivander would perform his vital and ceremonial duty once again.  He waited at the table for the Champions and their masters to enter in.  This lot looked as jittery and stoic as the last, serious and determined with a few exceptions.  Ollivander was a very old wizard, his face wrinkled and his white hair shock wild around his head and sideburns. 

His long-fingered hands opened and beckoned.  "I'll need the Champions to please come forward.  Wands out please.  This won't hurt a bit."

He beckoned the first Champion forward.  "And who might you be?" he asked in his gravelly, knowing voice.

Heinrich stepped forward.  His heart was pounding so hard he was certain everyone in the room could hear it.  Why had Ollivander stopped at him first?  Hadn't Salem been chosen first?  Hadn't Hogwart's been last?  "I am Heinrich Vladimir Johannes Faust, seventh son of Dietrich Faust, representing Durmstrang," he announced, a little more loudly than he had intended. 

Ollivander smiled.  "No need to be quite so formal," he said, holding out his hand.  "Wand, please."

Heinrich extended his wand in both hands, palms up.  Ollivander lifted it to his eyes and examined it closely, a curious expression on his face.  "I'd almost say that this was one of mine but I know that it isn't," he said.  "Wolfgang Goethe is the only one in Germany who copies my design so closely.  His style is unmistakable."

He stroked the wood thoughtful, his fingers telling him as much as his eyes.  "Seven inches of supple oak with unicorn tail hair, mounted in a spiral shaft.  This wand waited a long time for you, Mr Faust.  It is a rare combination, more easily matched to a witch than a wizard.  It favours those of pure heart.  You carry a healer's wand, a defender's wand, which isn't surprising considering your family's reputation as dark wizard hunters.  Follow your heart but let your head lead you, Mr Faust and it will take you wonderful places."

He paused for a moment, the wand held in his right hand.  "Ferula!"  Immediately the wand conjured a small splint on Ollivander's left  index finger, wrapping it neatly and securing it with bandages.  "Definitely a healer's wand.  This wand is in excellent working order.  Carry on, Mr Faust."

"Thank you, Mr Ollivander,"  Heinrich said, accepting his wand back.  He'd been astonished to learn that his wand was a healer's wand.  He hadn't told anyone about his interest in healing.  Certainly he could understand that it was a defender's wand.  He'd always been better defensively when it came to dueling.  But a healer's wand?  How could the wand have known when he was eleven that he'd develop an interest in healing by the time he was sixteen?

"Next."  Ollivander pointed and beckoned at the next nearest Champion.  It was Figaro who'd been next to Heinrich.  There was a gravity to all this that had already begun to quell his typically flippant demeanor towards serious things, and so he stepped up to the old wizard with more solemnity than he'd displayed in the Great Hall.  (Perhaps it was none of that - perhaps his audience was merely smaller and well-stocked with imposing authority figures...)

Ollivander took Figaro's wand as he asked, "Your name, lad?'

Figaro cringed apologetically and he thought he heard someone snicker.  He'd left his bag and chalkboard in the Great Hall, and had no way of communicating to the famous wandmaker of who he was.  You see, Figaro was being taught a valuable lesson about the power of his words by being deprived of them, and he was only a few days into his week-long sentence.  He sighed, and looked to Headmaster Reid behind him.

The kind Headmaster provided a mercifully brief explanation to Ollivander.  "This is Figaro Sellaphix, Mr. Ollivander.  He is currently under the affects of a silencing spell."

Figaro shifted a bit awkwardly and his eyes met Ollivander's, who's glassy blue eyes searched him.  "Ahh... I see, Mr. Sellaphix.  Good luck to you then..."  Perhaps it was how Headmaster Ried had said it, but Ollivander seemed to catch on that it was...complicated.

"But no matter," Ollivander said pressing forward.  He had Figaro's wand in his hands, holding it up level in his palms.  "Your wand is a sturdy basic maple.  Twelve inches.  I think I recall the grove.  Many tried this wand before it found you, Mr. Sellaphix. [1] I wonder what it could have been waiting for.  You haven't, I think, unlocked the potential of this particular unicorn tail hair.  It's quite a potent one, you know."

Ollivander grasped the handle and took a relaxed casting stance, tilting his head as he turned the wand in his grip.  It was so strange to see a wizard handling others' wands so easily, but Figaro figured that if anyone was permitted, it must be Mr. Ollivander.  Figaro was silent and still as he watched.

"Yes, indeed.  Quite potent.  Great little bend in it there...Anteoculatia!"  Ollivander had taken aim at an unoccupied wooden chair and all turned to see what he'd cast.  Figaro broke out in an easy grin when he saw - Ollivander had made the chair grow a handsome set of antlers.  The wood had creaked and twisted and up they'd sprouted.

"A wand in good shape, Mr. Sellaphix."  Ollivander handed back the wand and Figaro stepped back, feeling somehow... more prepared. 

1.	Maybe even Harry Potter - Harry tried a maple wand before he found his holly one.

"Step forward, young lady," Ollivander said, beckoning next to a witch with bouncy honey-colored curls.  But her demeanor seemed less than sweet.  The wizened old wandsmith opened his hands for the wand and as soon as it was in his hands he said...

"Aaaaah..... Hm....."  He was silent for a moment and then muttered softly to himself.  "Twelve inches, maybe twelve and an eight...hornbeam here and why this must be sequoia.... don't see that every day..."

Then he held it very close to his face.  He thought hard for a moment and then he lit up.  "A dual core!  How interesting!  Manticore's hair and a chimaera scale.  This wand is bold and brash and stubborn and would need a strong personality to manage it well."

He looked away from the wand for the first time to lay eyes on the owner.  It was a puzzlement to see so many strong reagents in a single wand.  It made the wand feel heavy and unweildy - it must have chosen a very particular kind of witch to be its master.

"If you're not careful with this, Miss Parker, it might betray you.  I recommend caution and I recommend you cast softly."

He looked to Headmaster LeBeau and nodded.  "It's fit for the Tournament."

Fyetka Strelnikov couldn't help the simply dashing grin that had settled on his features. This was the whole reason he was even at this blasted school. He was where he was supposed to be: Up in front of the school being named a champion.

Step one complete.

To finish up the first step, they needed to have their wands weighed by Ollivander. Fyetka had heard of the famous wand maker. There were very few people in the world who hadn't. His wands were legendary. Of course, there was nothing at Ollivander's like his Gregorovitch wand.

When it was his turn, he spun his wand around and offered the handle to the elderly wand maker.

Ollivander looked at Fyetka and then to his wand. "And your name?"

"Fyetka Strelnikov, Durmstrang." The Russian wasn't sure quite why Ollivander hadn't taken his wand yet.

"Gregorovitch Laurel? An heirloom I presume."

"Da, my Grandfather's."

The old man sighed and muttered, "Well, it must be done." With a swift movement, the wand maker took the wand and flinched as an electrical shock ran over his hands. "12 and a half inch Gregorovitch Black Laurel. Extremely fickle when bored, extremely loyal once engaged. A very powerful wood, though very rarely does it find an owner. Very picky wood. Gregorovitch would use Laurel." He glared at the Russian and then continued. "Manticore Hair. Rather sturdy, though not inflexible. I would still advise against bending it." With a flick of his wrist, he called out "Impedimenta." A nearby chair didn't even budge. With a scowl, Ollivander tried again. This time the chair flew backwards and crashed into a wall.

Handing the wand back to Fyetka, the Wand Maker continued to scowl. "Loyal to a fault, that wand is. Passionate and courageous, though. I can feel the power in it. It has miraculous good but also great darkness inside of it. Choose wisely as you search for glory, Mr. Strelnikov." He finally turned to Headmaster Eisenburg. "It is fit for competition, though I would suggest no one else touch it." He moved on to the next contestant, cursing Gregorovitch's grave under his breath.

Fyetka's cocky grin had disappeared through the weighing. He had received the wand upon his Grandfather's death and knew that it didn't take kindly to others touching it. Never though had it made a full lightning bolt like legends said. Perhaps he had underestimated  the rivalry between Gregorovitch and Ollivander.

The next to come forward was Cecile Fontaine, a young proper looking witch from Beauxbatons.  Ollivander beckoned her forward and waited eagerly for her wand.

When she gave it, he held it flat in his open palms, and raised and lowered them, feeling its heft, its balance.

"Beautiful craftsmanship... I know the maker..." he mumbled with a bit of disapproval in his voice.  A wand that was too pretty was probably the work of a French smith he knew, a witch with more focus on aesthetics than good solid cores and woodwork.  But they were top-tier when one considered the whole field. 

"A Batonmieux, surely, but it seems to suit you.  I should warn you, but it isn't a very strong wand.  I take it you're not..." how could he put this..."very strong yourself?  I think if you got more sleep you'd have better luck with it.  It's a tranquil wand and I'd work on your healing and counter-cursing."

"The wand is fine," he said.  And he passed it back to her. 

Heinrich raised his eyebrows.  A second healer among the champions?  That didn't bode well at all.  Perhaps the Goblet knew that somehow that particular skill would be needed.  In either case, he made a mental note to track down the Beauxbaton witch.  She might be an interesting person to talk to.  He'd wait until after the task had been completed, of course.  To do so beforehand would not only be presumptuous and rude, it might be seen as an attempt at coercion.

Alex had never been good at keeping her hands still, and now she was rolling her wand between her thumb and fingers. She forced herself to stop, waiting patiently but unable to stop a smile when Ollivander asked for Figaro's name. She stopped short of snickering, because despite the unlikelihood, Alex was on a team with Figaro. She wasn't impressed by the idea, because Figaro wasn't the kind of person she wanted to battle Hippogriffs or whatever with, but it could be worse.

She stepped forward with a slightly awkward smile, her wand held out, "Alex Carstairs, of Hogwarts."

Ollivander reached out and gently plucked the wand from her hand, turning it before holding it up to his eyes. "One of mine," he said affectionately, while Alex watched the other champions out of the corner of her eyes.

"Ah yes, Hawthorn with a core of Dragon Heartstring," Ollivander murmured, and Alex felt compelled to finish, "Nine inches, inflexible."

He looked at her sharply, but merely nodded, "Indeed. Powerful, but somewhat volatile. Good for reversing spells, I think, although it will lend itself to other tasks well." Alex merely nodded, and he smiled again, "A wand for someone swift of thought, provided you keep a level head you'll do well." Without further comment, he pointed it at the chair he'd previously transformed, and removed the antlers. A nice way to prove his point, Alex thought.

Alex smiled as she took her wand back, tracing the grooves of the handle as she went to stand next to Figaro. Like it or not, she would probably be working with him. And that meant she had to forget her misgivings about his lack of intelligence, or indeed trustworthiness.

As the number of champions left to have their wands weighed as dwindling down, Mace was not paying the strictest attention. Catching sight of the apparatus of the point system Hogwarts used, hourglasses with House colored gemstones, was making him wonder that if the tournament points were ever manifested this was there a naturally occurring purple stone for Salem. Only then did the shabby shaven man inquire him for his wand.

"What? Oh, here you go. How's the hands?"

"Pardon?"

"The grip...ah, nevermind." And Jak had been so intrigued by that Quibbler article too, she wouldn't like to hear that Ollivander here did not have mummified hands.

"Nine and three-quarter inches, Hawthorn, Dragon Heartstring, Pliable...excuse me, I must test." The wandmaker gave it a wave and a burst of sand grains sprang forth, changing into a sparkling shower that shown like pebble sized glitter. "Good for Transfiguration, unusual for Hawthorn but then it never values predictability..."

"That's something I'm known for, yeah."

"How long have you had this wand?" Ollivander looked at him curiously.

"Whole life, minus eleven years. Mom always liked Hawthorne wands from her school days."

"The wood is attractive in the eastern coast of America, but had you come to my shop I would not have expected this wand for you. Has this wand ever backfired on you?"

"Not really." Mace flexed both his hands as if suddenly thankful for them. "Only managed a winged cappuccino machine." This earned him another curious and confused look. "Muggle thing, not dangerous." As long as you didn't squirt boiling water on yourself.

"If you are skilled in that field it may be enough. But should this wand ever fail you, it would be neither your fault or the wand's."

Well, nothing like a paradoxical omen to make the upcoming task cheery. Not that Mace was bothered by Ollivander's opinion.