Immediately after the announcement of fourth task 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.  The atmosphere in the room was a little more subdued than the Great Hall, but still rather electric, as if the rugs on the floor would cause static.

At the head of the table was the very old, white-haired Garrick Ollivander, a now regular face in proceedings. Tonight he sported a  long red velvet frock-coat with lace at his cuffs, his taste in frock-coats for the occasion of the weighing of wands was becoming part of the tradition. 

"Welcome, champions," he greeted in a rich gravelly voice, eyes with a twinkle much like when he first set his eyes on a future first year ready to select their wand, "Welcome.  Wands out, wands out, let's see them.  Who's first?  Ah..."

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

Atticus smiled to himself in the dimly lit antechamber. So he had been chosen for the final task, along with three of his classmates. Excellent. This would provide him the opportunity to show off his finely honed talents - or at least what he saw as finely honed. Nonetheless he was well studied and was absolutely ready for anything the final task might throw at him. Given the previous tasks Atticus knew whatever the challenge was, it was going to be good.

He looked up when Ollivander spoke and was the first to step forward. He dropped his wand from his sleeve and presented it to Ollivander. "Fourteen inches, hawthorne." He began, placing the wand in the elderly man's hand. "Dragon heartstring core, stained dark and quite inflexible." He added proudly as he was quite fond of the wand that had chosen him. "Oh, and as you see, an intricately spiraled shaft." He quickly added, not wanting to waste the man's time.

"Beautiful craftsmanship, no?"

Magda stood amongst her mostly Oberteil peers, waiting for the wandmaker to finish with a gaggle of Hogwartians. With Aliya at her side, a calmness had settled over the Dane— not that she had not been patient at each of the weighings. It was easy to keep an unemotional exterior. It was what they trained to do, and private Occlumency lessons certainly helped.

Despite the tranquility in her face, balanced by a proud posture, there was a familiar and growing thunder in her heart. The last task had not ended how she had expected it to. To be removed from the task before completing it had been the sorest point of the year for Magdalena, who still occasionally felt a static irritation on her flesh whenever she happened upon a group of indiscreet Americans. Which was often enough. Quadpot culture was not a repressed one— they at least had that going for them.

She had not hesitated to put her name in the Goblet again. To not do it would have been unthinkable. It was not even that her family expected it, it was that she expected more of herself. To be called again was not a small thing. Magdalena did not plan to squander it.

To be called for a third time felt like the beginning of repayment.

Lined up with the band of her peers, the girl offered up her wand following a Hogwarts boy whose Ollivander creation had similar makings. Magda glanced him over for this reason only, before looking back to the wizard who now held her hawthorn wand.

To let someone else hold her wand, to hand over it so willingly, to watch them touch it, was among Magda’s least favorite feelings, a foreign one that never stopped being so. But her face gave no hints that she felt this way. Her eyes instead swept over the wood, unyielding as the day it had found her.

Unlike the boy’s however, it was on the lighter end of the spectrum for hawthorn, with frosty undertones. There were a few raw, slim, dark markings, but its polish was handsome and smooth to the touch, if not glossy or fragile. It was a wintry, graceful thing. At eleven inches, it seemed to suit her medium height.

If there was anything Deborah hated more than her hair and lousy poetry, it was the mere action of handing over your wand to someone else so willingly. It was an extension of her lifeline, no matter how distasteful it sounds. She watched as Atticus handed over his with blinding confidence, and silently cursed herself for being unable to do so even though she knew who the old man was. Being the third in row, she smiled upon being asked to hand hers over - and graciously attended to the questions that followed. She wasn't a Clarencieux for nothing, after all.

"You remember me," she told Mister Ollivander as she was being surveyed. "The girl whom you warned 'not to stray too far' - something along that line." clearing her throat, she calmed her fingers which itched to have it back. "Fifteen inches, padauk wood - phoenix feather core, inflexible. Spiraled shaft with the burned, ancient family motto's markings."

Nodded her head slightly. "It was modified by my grandparents shortly after, adding a few remarkable traits here and there - but overall, it's mine." Magic began to flow to her fingertips, and she willed herself to think lightly of things. It had the tendency to backfire whenever she was high-strung. "It's a little too long for me, I suppose?" she joked, trying to let loose, recalling ever so dimly that it was latter that first managed to pull it off.

It wouldn't do well to be so stiff, wouldn't it?

Nothing like a private crowd to bring out the awkward. The Antechamber could be called many things but 'large' was not one of them, and with twenty champions plus professors plus media reps plus Ollivander himself, there was barely room for the table let alone for everyone to crowd in.

It didn't help that Taryn had added almost a foot to her height since the last time she'd been in a Weighing. She ducked under the dramatic gothic eaves for a few minutes before giving up and sitting on the floor, arms folded and elbows resting on the table. This, thankfully, put a fair bit of wood between Salem and Drumstrang, specifically  Magdalena frickin' Eisenberg, whom Taryn had still not forgiven for hurting the Acromantula in the First Task, nor for their little 'altercation' the week after that. She was looking forward to swiping the Tournament cup right out from under the Dane's stuck-up little nose.

Taryn tapped her wand on the tabletop until her turn came around, then offered it to Ollivander with a casual grin. At a foot-and-a-half, it was easily the longest branch in the room, which wasn't surprising in the least; big hands, big wand, big whoop. Carved of sycamore with the heartstring of a Peruvian Vipertooth, it was not the work of a master but of his apprentice -- a gifted apprentice who listened to the instincts of her materials, but an apprentice nontheless. As such, aside from its length it was quite plain, as well as scratched and slightly chipped from a lifetime of getting used as a rodeo tool. Still, it hummed contentedly in the wandmaker's hand, its spirited materials pleased with their adventurous life.

Taryn met Migs Nagde's eye as she took it back and offered him a grin. If she had anything to say about it, the Salem Quintet would come out of this Task kicking all kinds of foriegn-born ass.

There was an Irish lilt to the young man's voice, or so it seemed, his hearing wasn't what it used to be. He felt obliged to describe the wand to Ollivander, though the wisened old wizard could tell wood from touch and smell alone.

"Mm," Ollivander replied, reserving comment on the work in direct response, "a contradictory wood, blossoms heal, and cut branches that wreak of death." He squinted at Atticus, "it will serve you well with duels, certainly an impressive piece, that takes careful handling." He ran his nimble, wrinkled fingers over the dark stained wood, examining the spiralled, inflexible shaft.

Raising the wand aloft, a burst of blue flames sprung from the tip towards the ceiling, burning out just before it reached, but bathing the room in similar light to the Goblet had illuminated the great hall next door.

"Most impressive, and ready for its champion," he remarked on turning the wand back to its owner, eyes keenly examining the way the young man handled his wand.




"Ah, Miss Eisenberg," his eyes brightened, "Hawthorn again, eleven inches," he paused, listening to the wand, "phoenix feather core[1] - a rare core, but a wand that shows initiative, and very picky. You have won this wand's allegiance, most impressive."

He raised the wand, and water snaked from the tip, spiralling as if it was enclosed in a beautiful, ornate glass straw before evaporating.

"Splendid, this wand is most suitable, and meets my approval." He fixed Magda with a toothy smile.




A Hogwarts student approached, carrying her wand, ready to hand it over, and smiled as she handed it to Ollivander, who couldn't help but mirror it.

"You remember me, the girl whom you warned 'not to stray too far' - something along that line." He nodded, listening to he explain the modifications, which hadn't gone too far, but definitely not his work.

"Yes, one of mine, I remember you well, Miss Clarencieux," his brow furrowed as he tried to remember, "your family favoured Windelbeet's, but you came to me. Quite a long wand, indeed, some would say unseemly for a lady, but I think the wand saw in you that day, that bigger things were to come." He winked.

The wand looked a little long for even Ollivander as he raised it above and cast green light that snaked up and crackled with sparks, like fireworks above their heads. It certainly had a kick to it.

"Very good, very good indeed. This wand meets my approval!" He announced to the rest of the room, and handed it back to Deborah.




There was no mistaking Miss Dickenson as she towered above him.

"We meet again my dear," Ollivander spoke kindly to her, and took her branch of a wand again, running his fingers over it for any differences since the last. "Good old Criers." He uttered, having already discussed her wand before the first task[2].

Whereas last time birds had burst forth from her wand, this time he cast along the length of the table, arm further out than any other due to the sheer length of the wand. A set of beautiful white mice burst forth and ran out together along the table, before fading away before his keen eyes.

"Still as wonderful and unique as before - all in order, beautiful piece." He handed it back to Taryn with both hands.

1.	Magda's Biography
2.	The Weight of a Wand

The walk from the Great Hall seemed much longer to Elysia than ever before. The feeling of elation and pride that filled the Hufflepuff upon hearing her name called dissolved quickly, leaving fear and uncertainty in its wake. Who was she to think she could tackle the perils of the Tetrawizard Tournament? She’d seen the other tasks – all far more dangerous and treacherous than her level of skill. Her hand, raised proudly in the air, fell limply by her side.

A feeling of numbness settled over the witch’s body as she entered the antechamber. Her eyes flitted from one champion to the next, finally resting on the ancient wandmaker in his odd-looking frock. Elysia remembered the man well from the day she received her wand. He was just as mysterious then as he was now, and the feeling did not instil confidence in the young lass.

She listened to the interaction between the man and her fellow champions, though none of the information stuck within her brain. Her thoughts strayed to being mauled by manticores and handicapped by hexes. Elysia’s palms started to sweat and she kept her mouth shut tight for fear that her voice would betray her nerves.

When her turn came, Elysia dutifully handed her wand over to Ollivander. Instead of telling the man about her magical instrument, Elysia simply stood in front of the man with wide eyes.

Finally, it was his turn.  He joined the group of American students in the antechamber and watched, patiently, as everyone's wands were presented to the wizened wandmaker.  He met Taryn's grin with a broad smirk of his own, tapping the hard soles of his boots against the stone floor as his own turn drew near. 

This was going to be exciting!.  After a year of what felt like hearing almost every other Salemite called during the choosing ceremony, Migs had avoided getting his hopes up for this one.  The process had become far too predictable for any real anticipation to build.  His name had been called, though.  With a quick signed there we have it to his great aunt, he'd taken his place amongst the tournament's champions. 

The Ojibwe youth stepped up to the wandmaker after Hughes and, reluctantly, handed the man the wand.  The candles flickering in the sconces reflected brightly off the bright white aspen wherever unadorned wood shone through.  "A Setangya wand, if you're familiar with his work."  Though the Kiowa wandmaker who crafted Mig's wand was a world apart, the magical wandmaker community seemed to be a rather small world.  The fourteen and a half inch wand was pliable, almost springy like the quaking tree from which it had originated and the surface of the wand was adorned with carvings and glyphs as well as an intricate weave pattern burnt by fire. 

Migs was, indeed, curious whether the wandmaker would recognize the core.  Old world magic seemed to prefer the 'wand finding the wizard' approach to wand matchmaking.  Setangya preferred to personalize his work, integrating the client's wand with the spiritual and totem magic the wizard was already familiar with.  This often included materials derived from otherwise perfectly mundane animals and sources - materials that held little power to those who had no spiritual connection to the source.  To one not familiar with the approach, the mustang mane and white buffalo wool that formed two parts of the braided triad core could be easily overlooked or dismissed.  They were certainly easily overshadowed by their thunderbird feather counterpart. 

"She can be a bit edgy in unfamiliar hands," Migs warned.  At least, if the wand protested, the older gentleman wouldn't be caught off guard.  "But, Gimi is a good partner for transfiguration work."  He wasn't the only one inclined to name his wand, was he?

It was unlike Rossi to be as quiet as he was in the antechamber, especially when one considered the volume of female company surrounding him.  Instead of throwing himself around with his confident swagger, the young man was happy to stand idly at the back of the throng of champions, arms folded, head bowed, eyes fixed firmly upon his shoes.  He was not nervous about competing; in fact he relished any opportunity to demonstrate his skills but there was a strong sense of tradition and respectability around the tetra wizard tournament and Paolo did not want to sully it by fraternising with the other champions.

The Gryfindor table had erupted into raucous applause when he had been chosen.  Hogwarts wasn’t doing particularly well in the tournament, perhaps it needed some Rossi.  The duelling prodigy was also happy that his friend and rival, Atticus Roark, had been chosen.  If there was anyone in the school that Paolo would have hand-picked to compete alongside it would have been Atticus, though he was careful not to tell the boy that.  Instead he just gave him a curt, approving nod of the head as he had entered the antechamber and retreated to the back.

The wand weighing was a rather uneventful affair but necessary nonetheless.  For most of the students it was nothing extraordinary, hand over their wand, many of which were bought from the wandmaker before them anyways and then let him fiddle around with it for a moment.  For Rossi it was an entirely different experience, one that he had been dreading ever since he put his name in the goblet.  It had been preying on his mind for the week prior and now that he was here he was content with letting all the other champions go ahead of him. 

Slipping the yew creation out from inside his robes he gazed at it for a moment, willing it to behave itself when handed over to the old man.  Paolo’s eyes shifted to the wand maker and back to the wand, if it did take a disliking to Ollivander it could kill the old man, as frail as he looked. 

As wands of all types were handed back and forth, Rossi noted the man’s uncanny ability to identify every detail about the magical objects, an ability that was bordering on sheer genius.  It filled the boy with a nervousness he had never known before in his life.  Unlike these wands his had once been, could yet still prove to be, an evil object.  The yew exterior, so pleasing to the eye was a well known wood with strong magical properties to wand makers all over the world.  It was however often left unused due to the dark arts that it seemed to enchance.  Paolo was no necromancer but the wand had been exploited for this use before.  It had committed atrocities that were best left unearthed, committed crimes that most dark wizards wouldn’t even dream of.  Of course very few wizards would ever possess a wand as spectacular as Rossi's family heirloom.  The chimera core that resided within the yew was probably worth more than his families apartment.

They had learned in defence class recently that dark magic always left a mark, on the caster, within the wand, upon the landscape, there was no doubt Ollivander would learn its dark secrets the minute it was placed in his wrinkly experienced hands.  “No amount of good deeds can erase dark magic.”  His mother had told him that, a warning from his father, if Paolo ever slipped into darkness, the wand would remember its past and drag him further down a destructive path.  And yet.  Were the wand and he not a perfect match?  From the moment he had owned it, the wand had taken a special attraction to the young Gryfindor and as the years had gone on it was clear that it had known that Rossi's talents would grow into areas in which the wand knew itself excelled.  He was a ferocious duellist, he was a model student when it came to Defence class and even if he did feel the occasional pull of the dark arts, Paolo had always been mature enough to consult his professors with any queries or misgivings that he felt.  As if it could read the young man’s thoughts the handle began to vibrate softly between his fingertips, emitting a warm glow as it did so.  “Behave….”  Paolo muttered, just as the old man beckoned him forwards for the weigh in.

As his eyes locked with Ollivanders, Paolo hastened to look away, looking left and right, chewing on his bottom lip as he did so.  The wand maker smiled but Paolo’s face remained a contortion of nerves, he looked at the outstretched hand for what seemed like minutes before he very slowly began to hand over the wand.  The intensity of the vibrations doubled and by the time the wand was an inch or so from being dropped into Ollivanders palm the wood burn furiously in protest.  A great weight seemed to fill the Gryfindors chest as he relinquished his grip upon the wand, watching it fall as if in slow motion into the old man’s hand.  The warmness left him instantaneously, replaced with a bitter coldness in his wand hand that seemed to permeate up his forearm and into his shoulders before spreading throughout his body.  The wand too appeared to be reacting rather badly to the separation.  Paolo hastened to voice a warning “Be careful sir, it’s not your usual wand.....”

The usually sunny disposition of Aliya Grumman had instantly become stormy with uncertainty and self-doubt the moment her name was called along with her Durmstrang peers. The overthinking Oberteil could not quell the many thoughts and worries that raced through her mind with the knowledge that she would be competing in the final task of the tournament. Even Feytka's reassuring embrace and Magda's presence couldn't seem to quiet her fears that she would fail everyone -- her school, her family, and even herself.

She kept close to Magda as they entered the antechamber for the weighing of the wands. Her friend had been through this before and looked to be a pillar of strength. Aliya did her best to emulate the other girl and her height and dark features were enough to compensate for any lack of confidence on her part. Still, her slender fingers clutched her canary wand so tight that it was a wonder the springy wood had not snapped in two.

One of the Beauxbatons students[1] preceded her and his encounter with the famed wandmaker was rather quick. He flashed her a quirky smile and shrugged before uttering something in his native tongue about his wand being very "unpretty" and that maybe Ollivander would like hers better. Then he wished her luck.

Aliya murmured a quick "Merci" before she slowly approached the elderly man. Though still nervous, Aliya offered him a polite and sunny smile as she offered him her wand. Idly, she wondered what his opinion would be of her Gregorovich wand. The late wandmaker had made all of the Grumman wands once upon a time and Aliya's was one of the newest. It also was distinctly different from any other Grumman wands, a testament to her disposition.

1.	Corey has already had his wand weighed for previous tasks so he can be skipped to prevent redundancy

Behind Miss Dickenson came a Hogwarts girl, a Hufflepuff, a noble house for sure. Unlike her counterparts, she offered no description of her wand, revelling in the opportunity for Ollivander to speak his own mind about it. As such, their eyes met a moment as the wand was handed over.

"Nine and a half inches," he spoke almost immediately, holding it so he could peer down the shaft to check the grain, his fingers stroking the knobbly surface, "chestnut, the wand of the herbologist, the creatures expert, and of gifted fliers." He paused and closed his eyes a moment, "dragon heartstring," he looked back to Elysia, "beware your materialistic tendencies my dear." He gave her a wink and raised her wand, a wind curled round the feet of those assembled, rattling at the portraits on the wall and the furniture.

"Ah, but of course." Ollivander spoke to himself, smiling, "This wand is most suitable, and meets approval." He extended it back to Elysia.




Behind the girl came one of the Salem boys, and he has a most curious wand indeed. The American visitors possessed very unique pieces.

"Goodness," the wandmaker remarked on handling the wand, and felt the tension between his hands on either end. Fourteen and a half inches which had quite a spring in it. He sniffed the wood beneath his long nose, and admired it quietly for what seemed some time to those waiting, but was a matter of seconds in reality.

"A Setangya wand, if you're familiar with his work."

"Quite unlike many I have seen," he informed Migs, nodding "more than one core?" He listened to the wand, "aspen, fourteen and a half inches, excellent for charms and duelling. We shall see."

"She can be a bit edgy in unfamiliar hands, but Gimi is a good partner for transfiguration work."

Ollivander made a quiet 'oh' at this observation, but raised the wand and from the tip burst forth vines and leaves that snaked forth from the tip without any support, reaching for the sconces on the wall, creaking and snapping as they curled towards anything to latch on to. Ollivander's eyes widened at the potency, and then flicked the wand, the vine dissolving into dust.

"This wand meets my approval, thank you," he added to Migs as he handed it back, though he would have wanted to keep hold of it for further examination had it been appropriate.



Mr Rossi followed the Salem champion, and Ollivander noticed that the yew was of some considerable age,
"Be careful sir, it's not your usual wand…" Rossi offered.

"Neither was your fellow champion's, my son." Ollivander retorted, but meant well. A wand was precious to the bearer, and yew was not often a wood of the pure of heart.
"Yew, seven and… seven and three quarters." He listened a moment, "Chimera scale, this wand does not choose a weak owner, so an apt wand for a champion, though this has been passed down the family, am I correct?" He looked to Rossi, but the question was almost rhetorical, Ollivander didn't need an answer to know he was right.

When he raised the wand the table beside  them burst into bright green flames which hungrily engulfed the table. The old wand maker's eyes reflected the light and he raised his head as if to indicate he has suspected correctly. There was a sharp intake of breath from those around him at the sight.

"Finite." he spoke firmly to the wand, and the flames retreated back and disappeared into the floor, the table unharmed.

"This wand meets approval." Ollivander declared to the room, but gave Paolo a steady, critical look as he handed it back.



The Beauxbatons boy who followed was familiar,
"Monsieur Gaubert, we meet again[1]. Kelpie hair, black palm wasn't it, well, we better check it once more." He received it and swung it at a nearby chair and turned it into a barrel with ease and a toothy grin.
"As sound as before. Here you are." He handed it back to Corey with a nod.



Behind him came a slight Durmstrang girl, with a smile, and presented her wand.

"Gregorovich, for certain." Ollivander spoke immediately that his eyes clapped upon it, and his fingertips wrapped around the handle. "Nine inches, canary wood," he listened, fingers rolling over the spiral shaft, "phoenix tail feather, lovely, a picky wand, you have undoubtedly won its allegiance?" He gave a nod and a bright, pure light burst forth from the tip illuminating the room in complete brilliance so bright hands shot to cover eyes.

"Ah yes, perfect." He twisted his wrist and the light burst away into the corners of the antechamber. "Very good indeed, all is well." He handed back the wand with a smile.



Just Gracie (swapped for Theo OOC, both written by Sly) and the wand weighing is complete!

1.	Corey's wand being weighed before

And then it was her.

As the others offered up their wands one by one, Gracie had stood—not idly by, for unlike many of the others she was new at this, and unlike just as many of them (if not more) she had neither met Ollivander – ever – nor ever handed over her wand for so thorough an inspection—but she wasn’t... nervous, per se. Tense, maybe– and really, who wouldn’t be? These things weren’t getting any less dangerous –but not... She wasn’t nervous.

A little, maybe. But excited, mostly.

For as much as she wary about handing over her wand – something she hadn’t done again, after letting her grandfather (her other one) look it over himself and watching his lip curl –the Slytherin found herself curious, too, about what the esteemed wandmaker might say about it—what it’d say about her. It wasn’t a flashy wand, made of some rare wood or an even flashier core, but—it was hers. Even without the experimental magics, the accomplishments achieved behind closed doors, the handful of spells she had invented herself... It was already special, by dint of being perfect for her at all.

Perfect enough, in fact, that it had cleaved itself unto her immediately, so utterly, when she had cast her very first spell with it in that dark, cluttered shop. In the incense-thick room, it felt as though a hand had grabbed hers, with digits not unlike a hinkypunk’s—thin, boney, and grasping, brittle but strong. Alien. And there had been the strange but unmistakable feeling of a snaggletoothed smile...

Even now the memory made her throat go dry.

But that was the past, and this was now; a small, wizened man settled himself in front of her, and she couldn’t help but like the look of him. She wondered, distantly, what a picture they must make—he with his wrinkled, leathery face, the static of white hair, and those old, knowing eyes, and she with her flamboyantly hued hair and the defiant tattoo that refused to be hidden. (Right now, actually; it greeted him now with a curious tentacle of hello.) “Hullo,” she murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners as her lips quirked faintly into a slight, wry grin, one that touched an unruly, turquoise-colored lock. She held out her wand for him to take, holding it by its bent, corkscrew shaft. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

And finally, a pretty witch from Hogwarts with long dark hair. She handed over her wand with some trepidation, which Ollivander understood the emotions behind, a wand was a pet, a child, an extension of one's own being.

"Black ash," he spoke at once, testing the flexibility gently with both hands, "beautiful twisted shaft, not too flexible, prestigious wood for a courageous young woman with power and skill." He turned it in the light, nodding to himself, "apt for transfiguration of course, but yours has a hag hair core, hmm, one for hexes and curses too."

He raised her wand between his dextrous fingertips and from the point of Gracie's wand began to pour smoke, which took shape of a dragon's head that circled the room with a whoosh, weaving between people. Ollivander looked very happy indeed, he was mightily impressed with the power of it, what with hag hair not being the most common of cores.

"Splendid!" He exclaimed, eyes bright and a grin across his wrinkled features. "This wand meets my approval, and so, all twenty have been weighed." He nodded to the Tetrawizard officials in the room.

Minerva glanced around the room, eyes glazing over the wizened wandmaker, the flamboyant flier, and the twenty young faces clad in a myriad of emotions. The young Hughes girl looked as if she were about to cry or vomit, while the Obertiel from Durmstrang looked almost ravenous in their hunger for glory. The wand weighing carried on as it always had, with Ollivander carefully inspecting each and every wand. The process took much longer than normal due to the sheer number of champions.

By the time Slant was finally handed back her wand, the hour had grown quite late. The Hogwarts Headmistress had spent most of the day conversing with Ministry officials and the blasted annoyance that was “Flash” Lockhart. He was every bit as arrogant as his brother – though Minerva sensed that this one might have a couple less holes in his cauldron than the other.

Once Ollivander was finished, Minerva took one last look around the room, then stepped forward. “Congratulations champions!” She forced a smile, “honor, pride, and glory await each and every one of you. The results of this competition are meaningless – simply being chosen as a champion shows that you are the most promising young witches and wizards of your generation,”

She allowed that thought to sink in before continuing, “I’m sure you understand the dangers you face, but know that this task is considerably more perilous than any before. I implore you not to become complacent or overconfident, as they can prove a fatal distraction in this tournament. However, it’s late, and we should not allow dark thoughts to cloud this happy occasion. Though I’m sure you’ll want to celebrate this evening, let me remind you that being well rested can have a dramatic effect of your performance,”

Then, with a flourish of her hands, Minerva started shooing people out of the room, “Now off to bed with you,” she said. It was high time the headmistress had a moment of relaxation.