The atmosphere in the Great Hall was extremely strange.
On one side was a crowd of people bursting with laughter, lively and rowdy. On the other side stood Harry and his two friends, their faces dark as iron, frozen in place.
It was as if an invisible wall had forcibly split the entire Great Hall into two completely different worlds.
From Harry's perspective, the situation was without a doubt humiliating.
The level of embarrassment was probably like this, during kindergarten nap time, wetting the bed, having the teacher hold up the mattress in front of all the children to show the stain, and finally being chased to the bathroom to change pants amid roars of laughter.
Don't think children don't remember.
That kind of experience can leave a lifelong psychological shadow.
And so, Harry made a very natural decision.
He turned his head and bolted from the Great Hall.
The retreating figures of Harry and his friends, burdened with cauldrons and all kinds of potion-making tools, fell into Link's line of sight.
He mused silently for a moment, then withdrew his gaze.
Judging from the badges pinned on John and the others' chests, the rumors about stepping on Harry while lifting up Link had clearly been circulating in Hogwarts for some time now.
The mental torment Harry had endured during this period must have been immense.
By logic, since Link had previously agreed to help Harry, now should be the time for him to step up and explain things a bit.
But in reality, Link had no desire to do so at all.
Because it was completely meaningless.
People generally only believe what they want to believe.
Similarly, when recounting events, they unconsciously twist parts of the truth, shaping the story into the result most favorable to themselves.
That's how rumors spread, step by step.
So even if Link explained for Harry, John and the others probably still wouldn't believe him.
Perhaps afterward new rumors would even arise, claiming Link was kind and humble, deliberately lying to cover for Harry Potter.
Besides, the one who most should step up to clarify for Harry ought to be Dumbledore.
Since that old man hadn't lifted a finger, Link felt no need to open his mouth either.
Refilling his coffee cup, Link took a big sip.
"Link, stop drinking, come with me."
Cedric had somehow squeezed his way through the crowd, speaking to Link urgently.
"What is it?"
"Mr. Bagman and Professor Sprout asked me to come notify you," Cedric spread his hands. "It should be some photo-op publicity thing. I saw them preparing large magic cameras."
"But… Charms class is about to start."
Link wasn't too willing.
He truly had no interest in these kinds of marketing or publicity events.
And though becoming a Hogwarts Champion exempted him from final exams, he still had to take the O.W.L. exams.
Not long ago he had already missed half a month of classes from being hospitalized. He really didn't want to fall further behind.
But Cedric, somehow reading his thoughts, said helplessly, "Mr. Bagman already spoke with Professor Flitwick. And it won't take long, just a little while, it won't delay much. Come on."
With things said to this point, Link didn't refuse further.
After bidding Emily goodbye, he followed Cedric through maze-like corridors and stairways, eventually arriving outside a classroom.
"This time they probably want to publish your stories in the Daily Prophet! I'm planning to cut out that part of the article and paste it on our Hufflepuff honor wall. What do you think?"
"No! Absolutely not! That would be too humiliating! And since when did we Hufflepuffs have an honor wall?"
"Actually, we've had one for a while. It's just always been completely empty, so even if people saw it they'd only think it was an ordinary wall. Anyway, not talking about that now, good luck!"
As if to avoid giving Link any chance to refuse further, Cedric darted away after speaking.
Seeing this, Link wanted to speak but stopped, then finally sighed and pushed the door open.
It was a relatively small classroom, cleared out inside, with leftover desks arranged into a scene resembling a school health check-up.
Bagman and several wizards holding cameras and notebooks sat properly at the neatly arranged desks, looking very much like doctors waiting to examine students.
"Oh! Our champion! Link, you're the first one here!"
Ludo Bagman was still just as enthusiastic. He strode forward a few steps, grasped Link's hand, and said, "Don't be nervous, though the occasion may seem grand, it's merely a little wand-checking ceremony for you champions."
"Wand checking?"
Link said flatly, his expression a little weary.
He didn't understand how Bagman could possibly think he was nervous. He felt completely normal right now.
"It's just to check whether your wands are functioning properly, a routine measure for the Triwizard Tournament," Bagman leaned close, speaking softly.
"You know, your wand is the single most important tool for the competition ahead. We must ensure no one has tampered with them."
"Of course, the expert inspecting your wands is Ollivander, you know, the old man who sells wands in Diagon Alley. He's one of our Hogwarts people, so… you get it, right?"
As he said this, Bagman winked exaggeratedly at Link, then returned to normal volume, "The expert and the other champions will be here soon, so we can rest a bit first. Oh, by the way, let me introduce you, this is Rita Skeeter, she's a reporter and columnist, currently..."
"Ah, I know her."
Link cut him off coolly, turning his gaze toward the middle-aged witch in a magenta robe nearby.
She had elaborately styled but slightly stiff golden curls. Her makeup and clothing matched Link's impression of a typical witch, jewelry and luxurious fabrics, but the color and outfit coordination was bizarre.
If one had to describe it, it looked like a girl secretly raiding her mother's cosmetics, jewelry, and clothes, clumsily throwing them together.
This woman was also an old acquaintance of Link's.
Back when he and Emily were attacking Fudge, they often sought Rita Skeeter to write smear pieces.
She was just like many unscrupulous online media writers from Link's past world, willing to twist facts however disgusting, for the sake of clicks and money, and highly skilled at writing them.
A very useful tool person.
That was Link's evaluation of Rita Skeeter.
"Mr. Flamel, meeting you is truly an honor! You're even more handsome than in those Daily Prophet photos!"
Rita Skeeter hurriedly stood up, speaking with an affected, fluttering voice. "Honestly, I'm really curious about you. Before we begin formally, would you allow me a private interview?"
"No problem!" Bagman answered for him. "As long as Link is willing."
"No need for interviews," Link said coldly. "I think you already know how you should write about me, don't you?"
As he spoke, he twisted the signet ring of the Flamel family crest on his right index finger.
That small motion frightened Rita Skeeter badly.
She bowed and nodded frantically like a wind-up doll, swearing she would write a glowing article full of flowers and praises for Link.
Her exaggerated language and gestures were so overdone that even some of the staff carrying cameras couldn't bear to watch.
Yet despite that, no one present thought her actions improper or shameful.
After all, standing before them was Link Flamel, the sole heir of the Flamel family.
In the past, fabricating scandalous stories about famous figures like Dumbledore or Fudge could indeed earn plenty of attention and money. But such tricks had no effect on a half-dark family like the Flamels.
The Flamel family, really would kill people.
Link ignored the others' thoughts and simply found a seat, sipping coffee absentmindedly. He had even carried his coffee cup over with him just now.
They waited nearly half an hour before Dumbledore, Krum, and the other champions and judges arrived.
After nodding greetings to Link, Dumbledore and the others began chatting among themselves.
Fleur skipped over to Link, peeked into his cup, then smiled brightly, "How is it? The coffee beans I gave you taste pretty good, right?"
Link nodded perfunctorily.
His coffee-drinking habit did have a lot to do with Fleur.
When she visited him in the infirmary, she had brought along a whole sack of coffee beans as a gift, supposedly stolen from Madam Maxime, very high-grade stuff.
"Well then, let's begin."
Once the last champion, Harry, trudged dejectedly into the classroom, Dumbledore finally announced,
"Then I'll trouble you, Mr. Ollivander."
The last remaining wandmaker in Britain, owner of Ollivanders in Diagon Alley, Ollivander himself, smiled gently, nodded, and stepped into the center of the classroom.
"Miss Delacour, you first, shall we?"
Reluctantly, Fleur left Link's side and handed her wand to Ollivander.
It spun swiftly between his five fingers, like someone twirling a pen.
At the same time, the tip sprayed out pink and golden sparks.
"Very good. Nine and a half inches, flexible, maple wood, core is… heavens…"
"A Veela hair," Fleur supplied. "It was my grandmother's."
At those words, Karkaroff clicked his tongue in disdain.
Rita Skeeter and the other staff also looked at Fleur with eyes full of disgust.
For traditional pure-blood supremacists, wizards with mixed blood from magical beings were the lowest of the low, even beneath Muggles.
Those stares stabbed into Fleur like thorns, making her shiver slightly.
She forced her body to stay steady, though her eyes involuntarily drifted toward Link.
But Link showed not the slightest shock or contempt.
He had already known Fleur was part Veela long before he came to this world, and she herself had told him again during the summer.
Seeing his calm reaction, Fleur suddenly stopped trembling.
She withdrew her gaze and looked confidently at Ollivander.
"A rather unusual combination," Ollivander murmured, stroking the wand.
"This wand probably can only be wielded by you. After all, wands made with Veela hair are much too sensitive and temperamental. Ah! Don't misunderstand, I'm not calling you temperamental. In any case…"
He whispered softly, "Orchideous!"
A bouquet of fresh flowers instantly sprouted from the tip.
"It's in fine condition."
Ollivander handed the wand and flowers back to Fleur.
Next came Krum.
But when Ollivander accepted Krum's wand, his expression turned sour and displeased.
"Mm. A Gregorovitch product, unmistakable. His style is always this rough and wild."
Shaking his head, Ollivander said impatiently, "Hornbeam wood, dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter inches, clumsy and oversized. Hmph. It's fine, take it back quickly."
Krum, holding his wand again, looked a bit lost.
He didn't understand much English, but from Ollivander's tone it seemed like something was wrong with his wand.
In the end, Karkaroff hurried forward to lead him back, muttering all the way as if offering comfort.
"Next, Mr. Flamel."
Link pushed aside Fleur, who kept trying to lean near him, and produced two wands, handing them to Ollivander.
This surprised the onlookers.
Karkaroff and Maxime even stirred uneasily, as if wanting to protest to Dumbledore.
After all, normal wizards only had one wand, and Link having two clearly gave him a small advantage in the tournament.
"Ha! Now these are real wands!"
Ollivander lifted the two wands proudly, gesturing toward Krum and Fleur.
"One is larch, dragon nerve, ten and a quarter inches long, my grandfather's masterpiece! Besides normal casting power, it carries the rare gift of granting courage to its wielder! Super rare, even I can't make them anymore!"
He gave Link's original larch wand a shake, and golden-red light immediately flashed along its length.
"And the other is my own work! Ebony, phoenix feather, exactly thirteen inches! The best choice for offensive spells and transfiguration!"
"Such wands usually choose those brimming with courage, who can ignore external pressure and hold fast to their convictions! But its maintenance seems… not quite right…"
Frowning, Ollivander stroked the ebony wand, then cast several small charms with it in succession. His eyes suddenly widened in shock.
"Its surface has become smoother and more rounded, while the overall aura feels far darker… I dare say in the past few years you must have used this wand to unleash countless high-level curses with powerful corrosive properties! Otherwise, there's no way this wand could possibly, "
"Ahem!!"
Bagman's violent coughing cut Ollivander off.
Startled, Ollivander looked at him. Seeing Bagman furiously signaling with his face, Ollivander suddenly realized his mistake. His own face turned deathly pale.
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