V7.2
The Weighing of the Wands
It was too early when the bugle sounded its normal morning call. My head was heavy, my hair a mess, my lips puffy from breathing through my mouth all night. With the nausea, I thought that someone had spiked the punch at the "Oh, Another Chance to Party, Party" for me going to "The Weighing of the Wands." It wasn't just a thought, someone had definitely spiked the punch. It wouldn't be the first time.
I looked around to make sure that I was in my own bed and, when I realized that I was, I stood up and went to check my hair. Seeing that it was completely unmanageable, I went to take a shower. It woke me up perfectly. If I had liked coffee, I would have drunk it, but I hated the stuff and more alcohol would have made it worse.
I noticed that my eyes were bloodshot. That wouldn't be a good thing to have in a picture, so I used a spell to clear my eyes along with a spell that instantly dried my hair. I pulled a piece of it into a braid, then put the rest of the thick chocolate hair into a bun, wrapping the braid around it.
I brushed my teeth, put on a little bit of eyeliner, mascara, and blush, and plucked a few hairs from my eyebrows that had grown in over the last few days. The only jewelry I wore was the small silver promise ring on my left hand and my Army class ring on my right hand, so I slid them both on. I knew that my legs were shaved, I didn't have any unwanted facial hair, and my face was clear of pimples, so I dressed in a clean Class A uniform and quickly left the barracks.
The General had given me special orders that, as long as I ate healthily, I could stop training and focus on the Tournament and my studies. I knew that I would love to do that, but because I did have such a problem with weight, it would completely kill the scale if I stopped exercising. Unfortunately missing morning practice was mandatory because I had to go to something called "The Weighing of the Wands."
I quickly made my way up to the classroom where Lisa had said the "photo-shoot" would be. It was small, with most of the desks pushed to the back. A few of them were in front of the blackboard with six seats behind them.
I was the first Champion in the room. Ludo Bagman was in there along with a blonde witch that I recognized as a reporter of some kind.
Clearing my voice felt wrong, so I stepped up to the table where they were sitting. "Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"
"My dear, Rene?" Bagman demanded, his eyes bulging as he stood up. "I haven't seen you in years, what happened to your hair, it's—"
"Sir!" I exclaimed, holding up my hands in front of me. He was flushed and excited while I just felt freaked out and depressed. "Rene is my mother. My name is Leigh Ann, the American Academy Champion."
A large smile lit up on his face, and he bounded forwards, taking my hand in his and shaking my arm so much that I thought it would fall off. "Well met, well met, Leigh Ann! You look so much like your mother, it's unbelievable!"
"Why, hello," the reporter who had been standing there said, eyeing me up and down while sucking on the end of a quill. "I don't believe we've met. Rita Skeeter, reporter." She gave me the creeps, from her tacky jeweled glasses to the alligator handbag, the two-inch long red nails, and the seventy's blonde curl. She didn't give off the "trust me" vibe.
"Second Lieutenant Leigh Anna Marie Nelson." I held out my hand and shook hers. Her hand was cold and clammy, her fingers very long and bony.
"And you said that your mother was Rene…?"
I felt a dread coming over me and it wasn't from her clammy fingers. That tone of voice said 'I'm going to use you for your mother.' That tone of voice said 'Why aren't you her?' "Yes ma'am."
"Please, call me Rita," she said, picking my chin up with one red fingernail. I felt the need to frown; I wasn't used to being poked and prodded. "As in Rene Nelson, nee Reynolds, the Quidditch star?"
I blushed and nodded, pulling my chin away from her. "Y-yes." No! I wanted to shout, but I knew that it wouldn't keep her from digging anything up.
"Well, well…you do have your mother's looks…" She walked around me, trailing one bony hand along my shoulders, "...though I don't believe that she had quite your figure."
I instantly flushed from my head to my toes, wanting to rip her eyes out. I followed her snarky green eyes with my own narrowed ones. "No, she didn't, Ma'am."
"It's Rita, dear," she said, a slight bit sharper than before.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I've been taught to treat my elders with respect," I said coolly, quickly turning my gaze from her enraged face to Ludo. Score one for Leigh Ann. "So, what is a wand weighin' ceremony?"
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, squeezing me. "Well, my dear friend's daughter, we, the judges, will take your wands and make sure that nothing is wrong with them. They're the most important tool you have in the upcoming tasks!"
"Do you want me to sit, or leave for a little bit until the other Champions arrive?" I asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable under his big arm. It was awkward being the only one there. I was taught that early was on time, on time was late, and late was left, so I'd shown up fifteen minutes early, like normal. "I mean, I can leave faster than a jack rabbit in spring, it's no problem—"
"No, no, nonsense," he said, pulling up a chair in front of his desk and sitting me in it before sitting across from me. "I want to hear more about your mother. Tell me, has she played Quidditch since she had your little sister?"
At that moment, I heard the door open and from the corner of my eye I saw Viktor walking in. Rita instantly jumped on him like a hawk but he was only half-answering her questions, looking at me instead.
"Leigh, old girl, are you alright?" Ludo asked, waving a hand in front of my face.
"Huh? Oh, yeah…uh, no, Sir, she hasn't played."
"I remember when Rene had figured out she was pregnant with Jason…and yet she still wouldn't get off of the broom! She played the 1973 World Cup at eight months pregnant! She was cracking!" It was hard not to tune him out. It was hard to keep the smile on my face and not make it look like a grimace. "Best Chaser we've ever had…your Muggle father was having kittens, thinking she would fall! So her married name is Nelson now, eh? Surprised she didn't keep Reynolds."
I blushed, seeing 'the look' from Viktor. He looked very confused and intrigued. "Your mother made Reynoold's Ricochet?" he asked, pushing past Rita. I'd forgotten how dark his eyes were, and how penetrating. It was hard to talk to him, hard to see the devotion his eyes held for my mother. Not for me. Always for her.
"Yes, Mr. Krum," I said stiffly, making sure my beret was straight on my head. I looked back to see that Fleur and Cedric had just walked in along with a scraggly man who held a smoking camera. "My mother is Rene Reynolds. I don't flaunt it around much so I'd appreciate it if you kept your voice down."
"Vhy noot?" Viktor asked, moving closer to me with an exaggerated whisper. Rita had a quill out by her side with some paper.
I raised my eyebrows at him first, then Rita. "It's personal," I said to both of them. "My personal life is just that—mine. And I'd like to keep it that way."
She blushed scarlet. "Well then, I see how you will be! But don't worry, Miss Nelson, I will get a story out of you." She then quickly walked away. That was when Harry came in—I felt bad for him because he was going to be Rita's next victim.
"Blimey, is your mother really Rene Reynolds?" Cedric asked, suddenly upstaging Viktor. I was glad for the respite but hated that Cedric was also so in love with my mother. "I used to re-watch old matches of hers! My dad even has her picture and autograph! Now that I think about it, you do look a little similar…"
I smiled tiredly, watching as Viktor went to the other side of the room and leaned broodingly against a wall. "I'm glad you like my mother."
"Do you play?" he asked, and Fleur looked a little angry at me. Oh, well, I didn't care, not after what she had said about one of us not even supposed to be here. It wasn't written specifically that there could only be three schools in the tournament. I belong her as much as she does.
"No," I said pointedly, and suddenly Dumbledore came in to offer me another respite. He started seating us so that we could be brought forward for the ceremony.
"Ah, Champions…Leigh Ann, you here…ah, yes, Miss Delacour, you here…Mr. Krum, Mr. Diggory, in the back, and Harry…" He paused, looking around. Behind him the headmasters and judges had all piled in. "Where is Harry?"
"I think Rita Skeeter attacked him," I said, looking to the closet where I was sure they were. "He's probably getting the third degree right now." Fleur and I were sitting in chairs, our legs crossed at the ankles while the men stood behind us. Viktor, of course, was the one behind me and heat was radiating off of him like a furnace. His fingers danced on the back of my chair and brushed against my shoulders.
I'd never met a man who made me so uncomfortable and so interested at the same time. That was probably the reason I kept trying to get away from him! He was one of those guys that I could just let my guard down, and... Calm down, Leigh Ann. I sighed and twisted my promise ring around my left hand. Nothing's happened, and nothing is going to happen.
I watched as Dumbledore quickly walked over to the door and opened it. Rita had been caught red-handed. They talked for a moment, walking over soon after. Harry, looking glad to be away from Rita, hurried over. I patted the seat next to me, smiling to him.
"Oh, dear…" came Rita's voice, and I looked to see her at my side. "You look like a boy with your hair pulled up like that. Why don't we…?" She tore off my beret, undoing my bun, making my hair fall all the way down my back. The braid that had been wrapped around the bun practically slapped me in the face.
"Hey!" I snapped, snatching back my beret from her. "My hair will stay up, thank you very much!"
"Ma'am, Miss Skeeter," the General said politely, a cold glint in his ice blue eyes, "I do believe that the appearance of our Champions is up to them."
"Of course, of course…" When I started to put my hair back up she slapped my hand away.
Seeing that I wouldn't be able to put it back up, I used a silent spell from my wand to add a little moisture and get rid of the frizz. The General didn't look happy but I gave him an apologetic look and he nodded seriously, wordlessly telling me that it was alright just that once.
Because it was already wavy, no way becoming straight, I pulled a brush out of my pack and started bitterly pulling it through my thick hair, mumbling obscene things at her under my breath. It was a pain in the ass to keep my hair down because of how long and thick it was. I didn't want to cut it because I loved it but at the same time I almost never wore it completely down.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore asked, taking his place at the Judge's Table next to Karkaroff, Maxime, Bagman, Crouch, and the General. A small, pale-eyed wizard was standing next to the window. I hadn't noticed him before but I did know who he was. You had to have lived in a cave your whole life to not know who he was. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition for the tournament."
"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first please?" he asked, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room. She got up and gracefully swept over to him, handing him her wand. "Hmm…" He twirled it between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and bold sparks. "Yes…nine and a half inches…inflexible…rosewood…and containing…dear me…"
"An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmuzzer's."
I knew it. I didn't have anything against people who had magical creatures in their family lines but it definitely gave them an unfair advantage to, say, magic.
"Yes, yes, I've never used Veela hair myself, however, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands, however, to each his own, and if this suits you…" Obviously it suits her. She's just as temperamental! He ran his fingers up and down it, searching for scratches or bumps; then he mumbled something and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip. "Very well, very well, it's in fine working order." He handed it back. "Mr. Diggory, up, up!"
Diggory smiled back to the Veela and gave his wand to the wandmaker.
"Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" He started talking about how fine the unicorn he'd gotten the hair for the core was. Something about goring him with its horn. "Twelve and a quarter inches…ash…pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition. You treat it regularly?"
"Polished it last night," Cedric said with a grin. If I'd had a dirty mind, that could have been taken the wrong way. Still I had to keep a chuckle back in the form of a cough because my friends did have dirty minds and they were slowly corrupting me.
"Mr. Krum, if you please," the old man said, and Viktor walked towards Mr. Ollivander with purpose, taking out his wand and thrusting it into the man's hand.
"Hmm…this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I…however…" He examined it minutely, turning it over in his hands. "Yes…hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" I was rather surprised at that combination. Dragon heartstring-cored wands tended to be one of the strongest. It tended to lean the user towards the Dark Arts and was loyal to its owner. "Rather thicker than one usually sees….quite rigid…ten and a quarter inches…Avis!"
The wand let off a blast like a gun but it didn't startle me like it did Fleur, who jumped half way out of her seat. There was no bullet, which was what I had been expecting. Instead it produced a few twittering birds which then flew out the window.
"Good. Now, you, Miss Nelson."
I stood up, throwing my thick curtain of hair behind my back. It landed almost on my butt. I hated having it down. It made me feel like I was sweaty all over, dirty, even though it was clean. But I walked over to the man anyway. His eyes flashed as he laid eyes on me and on my wand. "My, my…you do look like your mother…"
I flushed. None of you have even seen my father, so you wouldn't know. "Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"Now, lets see here…I know about your mother's wand, dear, but I don't remember your father…"
"No-Maj, sir. Or Muggle, I guess you Brits say."
"Ah. Alright, then, let's see… A left head fang of a Runespoor…powdered, of course...unusual in a wand, if I'm not mistaken. Not many wand makers use them. They come in threes. You have the left head, the planner…I do believe that your mother had the middle head, the dreamer…and your grandmother, the right head, the critic?"
I nodded, awestruck as he turned the light brown, particularly straight wand in his hands. Only my family knows that. "How did you—?"
"Things like Runespoor fangs run through a family, and come in threes. Ah… fifteen inches, pliable and swishy, excellent for transfiguration and complex spells… Made of holly! Excellent quality, I'm sad not to have made it for you."
"My grandmother made it," I said sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. She'd made her fortune making wands with my grandfather, who'd passed a few years back. She'd retired from making wands and instead just claimed the money her stores made. She'd made wands for all of her grandchildren when the time had come, though, even the half-bloods. And all of the wands she made chose us somehow. About the only thing that woman ever gave me.
"Jolly good. Now…" He said some kind of incantation that made a firework explode in the air. "Splendid, splendid!" He then gently sat it back down in my hands, patting my shoulder. "Tell your mother I said hello."
"I will, thank you, sir," I said, turning and walking and sitting back in my seat. Of course. It always comes back to my family.
"And, now, that leaves…" We all looked to Harry. "Mr. Potter." Harry got to his feet and walked past the judge's table, handing over his wand. Why was he nervous? It was just a wand weighing. "Aaaah yes. Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember…" Ollivander spent much more time on Harry's wand but eventually made it spout a fountain of wine, announcing that it was in perfect condition and handing it back to Harry.
"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, standing up. "You may all go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker to just go down to dinner, as they are about to end—"
Harry instantly jumped up, ready to leave, but the man with the black, smoking camera shot out of his seat and cleared his throat.
"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" Bagman cried excitedly. "All the judges and Champions, what do you think, Rita?"
"Err—yes, lets do those first," she said, her hawk eyes still upon Harry. "And then perhaps some individual shots."
The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime was so tall that the photographer couldn't get her into the shot, or she cast a shadow on everyone else. Finally she sat down in a chair, everyone else standing around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to make it curlier. The photographer kept insisting that Fleur be in the front, me beside but behind her, but Rita kept pushing me back and bringing Harry to the front.
And then, I noticed that Viktor was standing in the back of the group, scowling. Why isn't he chumming it up? He's the Quidditch star, he knows how to do a photo shoot! Right?
Rita wanted individual photos of each Champion; I put my hair up for that one. "Well," Rita said scathingly, "if you want to look square-jawed, I guess I can't help you…"
Look who's talking! I shouted in my head, looking to the General for guidance. He looked just as insulted as I did and didn't offer me any advice for what I should do. Smile, no smile? He didn't have anything to mouth to me. I decided with a gentle lip-only smile, sent just to my Dad. I hoped that, wherever he was, maybe he could see a copy… He's a No-Maj, you idiot. Unless someone magical is in his battalion, you're out of luck. And that's a wild shot. It was hard to find professors at our institution because so few wizards joined the military full time after graduation.
Sighing, I picked up my books, managing to hear a conversation between Rita and Viktor as I was walking out the door. "No. No eenterview."
"Vhy—" Rita cleared her throat. "Why not? You are Viktor Krum, Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team who just caught the Snitch at the World Cup! Tell me, how are you feeling about that?"
"Right now, I vish to be Viktor Krum, the Durmstrang student and Champion. Nothing more. Now, if you do not mind, I need to get to deener." He turned, then, his face set in a scowl, and walked past me. I'd never heard him speak that much and with such good English. Has he been practicing?
I then felt like a big wad of crap for the way I had treated him. At least, that's what I told myself as I followed behind him like one of the females who normally stalked the man. It wasn't because he smelled good, or the fact that his face had seemed very upset. Nope. I was just being a good Christian woman.
"V…Krum," I said, taking four long strides to catch up to him. For some reason, I couldn't find my voice. I had to clear my throat and take a deep breath before words would form. "D-did you…mean what you said back there?"
His dark brown eyes caught in mine, and I forgot to speak for a moment. "Da." He kept walking. I was trying keep up with his long, angry strides when he seemed to realize the issues I was having walking next to him. He slowed and asked, "How is heep?"
It took me a second to comprehend the change of subject. "Uh…it's fine, I guess. No better than it usually is."
"I apoologeeze. My fault." He said it with such sincerity that I couldn't help but believe him. That, and I couldn't help but melt into those big, chocolate eyes.
"You didn't hurt me," I said softly, looking away before I made a fool of myself and did something I shouldn't have.
He was quiet. I had to look up at him to see that he looked angry. His jaw was tight and he was staring straight ahead. He didn't believe me.
"I know, we were running. But I could have been running like that with anybody and my hip still would have hurt. Even if you did fall on me." We walked for a moment longer but then I put my hand on his arm and stopped us both in the middle of the deserted hallway. "If…I tell you something, will you promise not to use it against me?"
"I vould not," he said, sounding a little insulted.
I blushed deeply at the look he gave me—then again, he could have looked at me any way past Sunday and I would've blush scarlet "Alright, then…well, the injury is really old. Remember when I told you that I fell off of my broomstick when I was young?" He nodded seriously, not taking his eyes off of mine; it was disconcerting. "Well, it ended up hurting some tendon in there, or some bone, and it hasn't grown right since. Now, any time I do anythin' strenuous, I'm in pain. So it wasn't your landing on top of me that hurt me. It was my own fault."
For a moment, there was a long silence. He broke it with soft words. "Your veakness, you told."
Words caught in my throat. I shook my head, trying not to laugh at my own stupidity. "Yeah, I know."
"You trust me?" I obviously didn't see the smug look that flashed across his face, or I would have slapped him, or been angry, or something other than just standing there like an idiot.
I touched my tongue to my back teeth, like I normally did when I thought. "I don't know. I've been hurt before. I don't give my trust willingingly like you give out your cloak."
His brows furrowed in a mix of confusion and anger. "You, only...bah!" He couldn't seem to find the words in English. He muttered something angrily in Bulgarian that I in no way understood.
I rolled my eyes, not believing it. He didn't have a tell, but there was no way that I was the first girl he'd "given" his cloak to. "Look…I need to get to dinner. I'll see you…sometime."
Good Lord…why can't I just leave well enough alone? He would have never spoken to me if I hadn't opened my big mouth. I shook my head, cursing myself for my stupidity. He was just like all of the other assholes I had met in the past, flaunting their fame and money around as if it weren't expendable—well, you know what, it was. Fame could fall like the drop of a hat.
All of those girls following him around all the time, and him trying to run…the modest words…I didn't believe a word of it.
I couldn't do it. If I did, I'd let my guard down. And then it could happen again. I would be hurt and left alone. And I couldn't stand that.
Sometimes Leigh Ann's naïveté makes her very hard-headed. Its kind of like her self-defense mechanism. She doesn't want to be hurt by this guy whom she's extremely attracted to, but she knows that he's a "player." She' only worked with professional Quidditch players for how long, having the famous "Rene Reynolds" as her mother? Very long, let me tell you.
