Immediately after the feast and announcement of Champions...

The antechamber was a small dark room with columns, rich rugs and dark portraits on the walls.  In the center of the room was a table, and around it space for the score of people involved in this quiet ritual.  At the head of the table was the very old, white-haired Garrick Ollivander, in a long purple frock-coat with lace at his cuffs. 

"Welcome, champions," he greeted in a rich gravelly voice.  "Welcome.  Wands out, wands out, let's see them.  Who's first?  Ah..."

He breathed as the first champion stepped forward.  "Have I see you before...?"

Damien was busy smoothing out his black jacket, making sure his tie was in place; was he really going to be a champion? Compete in a tournament? Was this really happening?

He barely noticed that Mr. Ollivander had welcomed them, as Damien was busy questioning the meaning of life. (Or his in particular.) But he stepped forward, drawing his well used wand out of his pocket and extending it, somewhat warily, to the man in front of him. He didn't trust people with his wand, his beloved nine and a half inches of Holly, the Unicorn Tail Hair core inside. He was attached to it, and Damien just didn't like other people touching his stuff.

"Sorry sir, I don't believe so; I'm from Boston, Massachusetts. Purchased my wand in Salem when I was young," he said politely, handing over his wand.

Deaglan McDonough followed the group of Champions and officials into the antechamber and stood off to the side.  As the new Gryffindor Head of House he was, of course, quite pleased to see one of their house amongst the chosen Champions.  He offered the young man a proud grin and nod before turning to watch the proceedings. 

The old man watched as one of the Salem students stepped forward and offered his wand to Mr. Ollivander. 

Wandcrafting being the small, finicky craft it was, wandmakers tended to know each other.  They rarely saw each other as competitors, as rival potioneers might - the craft was far too personal for that.  Individual wandmakers niches rarely crossed each other.  They knew each other quite well.   

Ollivander sent a knowing wink to old McDonough when the American lad handed over an American wand.  They made good wands in Salem, they did, but tended to have some unusual properties from English wands.

The old wandsmith took the wand in his hands, holding it flat on his two open palms.  "Hmmm...yes..."  All his focus shifted away from the boy and if he recognized him to the lovingly crafted magical implement sitting in his hands.

"This is a very loyal wand.  Holly, very nicely spindled...very loyal..."

Ollivander could tell as soon as he took the wand by the handle.  The wand seemed to tense.  Resist at being wielded by a stranger. 

"Intensely loyal..." he mused, but with a flourish he whipped the wand around his head and cast a bright red and orange firework up into the ceiling.  He knew it'd need a big spell for the wand to cooperate with him.

When the sparks settled, Ollivander was smiling.  "Yes, in perfect working order, Mr. Reynolds.  Will serve you well."  And he gently handed it back.

Mason stepped forward with his wand in his hand, holding it out for Ollivander to examine. He and his wand were two of a kind, the wand matched his growing strength as the year moved forward, he was becoming more attached than ever to it, and his wand read his feelings and compensated for his fear factor and lack of courage on many occasions. The Black Laurel Shaft had been recently cleaned, good thing too.

Hopefully his wand wouldn't reveal how truly scared he was to stand in the antechamber of the Great Hall and be a Champion for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in a battle that could very well mean the ending of his pathetic existence.

"Hello, dear boy.  Our lad from Hogwarts..." Ollivander mused at the mousy young man who presented his wand.  Nearly everyone handed their wand over to him with a bit of reluctance, even if they weren't aware.  Even as young as these students, they'd already been witches and wizards long enough to have become attached and the sight of their wand in another's hands already very alien.

"Black laurel! Interesting! I haven't worked in black laurel in quite sometime.  Must say it's nice to see one of them...And so well cared for."  He winked at the boy.

"What's your name, lad? Mason Hawkins? Yes, Mr. Hawkins, this one is a treasure."  He turned the thin wand over in its hands mumbling a little about the core, about its properties.  It was a good clean, cooperative wand for a boy of much the same description.

Suddenly, "Avis!"  a flutter of small white and grey birds erupted from Mason's wand and chittered and chattered until someone opened the door and let them out into the Great Hall.

"Nothing out of the ordinary.  This wand receives my approval." 

Mason smiled shyly as Ollivander took his wand. He was glad that his wand wood was something unique, probably the most unique thing about it. Sonny nodded, smiling a bit wider as white and grey birds erupted from the tip of the wand. He was glad he'd molded his wand to work so well. Now, he just wanted it back in his hands. He hated the feeling of his wand being held by someone else.

Mase let out a quiet sigh as Ollivander approved of his wand and handed it back to him. Mason took it graciously and tucked it back into his pocket, stepping back into the line of champions.

Sheepishly, Kayla stepped forth next. The reason for her expression quickly became apparently when she held out not one but two wands - hers and Annie's. But Annie's first, as was only fair.

"Sorry," she said, looking apologetically to both Ollivander and the other staff standing around. "One of the other champions had, um, something really pressing come up." Like an urgent appointment with the closest porcelain throne, it had seemed like. Poor thing. "This one is hers." She gestured with her other hand. "And this one is mine. American-made. Not sure about Annie's."

I apologize for the delay; it was entirely my oversight! Thank you for the nudge, Sunny.

It was a witch wearing a Salem uniform bearing two wands.  Ollivander looked a little aghast, his aged face showing what he thought of the impropriety.  He did something he hadn't done before and looked to the Headmasters and Headmistresses in the room with him, for some kind of clue or questioning about what what going on.  But then this Champion from Salem explained sufficiently and Ollivander reached out, all to happy to maintain things as they should be.  One wand per witch or wizard at a time, thank you.

He wrapped his fingers around a longish wand, clean, and looking to be willow.  "One of mine," he murmured relieved, having rescued an old friend from an awkward position.  "There, there..."

"Willow, 10 inches - no nearly 11 inches.  Nice, long wand.  Good for a straight-forward sort of person."  It was odd not to have that person present.  He looked again at Minerva McGonagall with a small frown.  He'd rather the bearer was here, rather than this wand be passed from person to person like a used newspaper.

He took it into a casting grip and immediately felt the familiar tingle of a, "Unicorn tail hair.  From Talintorel - wonderful creature.  Quite a mighty kick he had."    Ollivander then cast a very simple spell for a simple wand to shine:

"Wingardium Leviosa!"  The entire table lifted causing those gathered near to step back.  The simple wand did well and Ollivander found no fault in it.

"Suitable for competition.  Straight as an arrow."

He made a point to set it carefully on a doily on the table, rather than hand it back to the American student. 

Annie had been nearly, but not quite, eleven years old when she'd received her first (and so far only wand). She'd been visiting in Wiltshire with her mother and her brother Christopher, staying in the guest house off of her mother's childhood home. Annie had missed her nanny, and she'd missed the ocean even more, but they were only in the country for a little under two weeks, so she managed to cope. Her mother's time was split between work duties and socializing, so it had been something of a shock when she finally seemed to remember she'd brought Annie along for the trip. Her mother insisted that she have a wand from Ollivander's, because her mother liked to insist on things – probably because, when Eseld Prewett Enright insisted on things, they tended to get done.

She remembered the day fondly. She'd woken up, only to be informed by one of the house elves on the property that she needed to dress to go into town. She didn't even know she was getting her wand until her mother dragged her by the wrist into the wand shop. Mummy had done all of the talking, of course, but when it came time to test out wands, it had been all Annie. She'd been nervous, she remembered – as nervous as she'd been during her last three gymkhanas combined. She hadn't flicked the wands hard enough when she was testing them out, and she'd had to be coached. Mummy'd made a remark that suggested she was acting daft on purpose, pretending she'd never seen a wand before. She'd almost thrown up then, too. Eventually, though, there had been a wand that seemed to compensate for her timidity. It had worked with her. Mummy thought she should try a few more – said she'd always regretted going with the first one that seemed to click when she was young. She said it seemed too plain. At the end of the day, however, it had been Annie's plain wand that had gone back to the guest house with them, and back to Maine after that. It had already gotten attached.

She hadn't been without it for very long since, and she felt the loss now. She'd given up her dinner while praying to the porcelain god in the bathroom on the ground floor, and it wasn't until she'd gotten that task over with that the gravity of what she'd done became apparent. She'd reached for her wand three times – not just on her way back to the antechamber, but on her way out of the stall, and had been so overcome by the fact that it wasn't there that she'd gone right back to dry heaving until her heartbeat dropped down to an acceptable speed. Finding it missing was just like getting caught without clothes on. She felt naked. Finally logic kicked in and, rather than keeping herself from her wand any longer, she scurried from the bathroom all the way to the wand weighing, her face flushed, her eyes red. She was the biggest disaster the world had ever seen. She looked a mess, but she hadn't paused long enough to glance at a mirror, and she hadn't thought to care. When she finally reached the room she entered it timidly, but, as quiet as she was, every eye seemed to turn to her as soon as she passed through the threshold. Meanwhile, her own eyes fell immediately to her wand, sitting on a table. She could feel her heart plummet into her stomach at a million miles per hour, and she had to swallow hard to keep from gagging again.

“I'm sorry,” she managed, addressing the room, her timorous voice cracking badly, “I was, um... I was sick.” She took a few halting steps toward the table where her wand sat and, unthinking, reached out her hand for it. She froze, however, her hand outstretched, and looked around. Was that... was that okay? Could she... take it? Her body was going into withdrawal without it, but she didn't want to break protocol again. Her frantic gaze finally settled on the wandmaker (the one of the two who was familiar to her, anyway), and her eyes asked the silent question – is it okay?' If anyone's wand was going to get disqualified, it would be Annie's. That seemed to be the way of things.

The way of things sucked.

Phillip curled his nicotine stained fingers around the handle of the wood, trying as hard as possible to ignore the implications of why exactly he was here. 'Got a right cob on. Yer setting yerself to die young, ye minging fool' his brain kindly provided in the background and Phillip all but scarpered off, away from the room, away from the wand business, but most of all away from the bloody Tournament that most certainly scar him for life. One way or another. He entertained himself with watching the Salem girlie that seemed, for all Phillip could associate, like a ladged tiny hyperactive mouse. Pretty, but a nervous wreck.

Phillip never saw his wand as a wand, but took it more as a given of the magical world and attributed his muggle knowledge of fantasy and video games and comics. 'Yer a wizard. Wizards use sticks tha' are s'pposedly magical. Swish the stick, Kinsey.' He wasn't some spanner, ney, he was just too normal—too muggle. Which is why, up to this day, he still preferred to use his wand only if the situation truly demanded it. He didn't make much use of it outside of class, because he didn't see the purpose of doing something with magic if ye might as well use yer God given limbs or brain to do it. On the other hand, he kept forgetting 'bout the li'l stick. Seven years strong into his magical world epiphany, and the only things Phillip could make sense of were Potions and Herbology, and he never even stopped to wonder just why had he taken to them. He just did, blamed it on a natural affinity or something. And both subject seemed more grounded in reality, his reality.

"Ee ar ye, sir" he asked, toothy grin on his kite, definitely not panicking or praying his wand would fail whatever this bloody weighing thing was about. "Bang on day, innit" he asked as he handed his wand, which was stupid, really, because it was below zero outside and cloudy at that. But, well, let no one say Phillip wasn't a conversationalist.

It wasn't long at all before the owner of the orphaned wand appeared looking frantic and ill.  She reached for her wand with a stuttering motion and Ollivander impatiently waved her on, to hurry up and retreive it so the balance of wand to witch in this crazy mixed up world could finally be righted.

"There." 

And now he was free to examine the wand of Miss Kayla Austin.  But what was this?  Ollivander's deeply lined face sank and twisted into a nasty frown. A tall boy with bleach blonde hair and an unintelligible accent was holding out his wand to him.  Everything about this boy reeked of entitlement, unpleasentness, and being contrary for the sake of being contrary.  Ollivander wondered what the Goblet must have been thinking? Now, that's all from a first impression, but Ollivander liked to think he was good with first impressions.

He held his hand up to stop the boy's progress.  "Wait," he said dryly and very pointedly shifted his gaze to the wand he was presently concerned with.

"Miss Austin.  Of America.  Thank you. Aaaah...."

He turned the wand over in his hands, let it slip and find it's balance on his fingers.  "Cherry.  Unicorn Tail Hair.  This one was crafted for a nature-lover -" he stopped himself and looked at her for some confirmation.  He couldn't tell the maker, but it didn't matter for it was fine work.  "Good swishiness.  I can imagine Charms come quite readily to this one..."

Then, "Orchideous!"  Ollivander whipped the wand into action and in a sparkling plume a pile of lilies, dandelions, and baby's breath, leapt forth and landed in a pile on the table.

"Good!"  And done was done.  He handed the wand back with a smile.

Then, with a dark sort of glare, he turned back to Kinsey and held out his hand.

Amara, please PM this account or Niobe's with a little information about your wand so that Ollivander may appear knowledgable.  ^^