There was a scuffling of feet and small commotion as the pot-makers manoeuvred behind their pots. Each was perched atop a small plinth, and Albus circled the courtyard taking a quick glance at each one. The sun reflected off the pots showing a variety of colours. Some had a mosaic pattern, others were smooth, but all were expertly carved and unblemished. Many of the ceramics had murals depicting the legendary scenes. There was his father, Harry, slaying a dragon, defeating the dark wizards, foretelling his prophecy, and riding a thestrel. Albus, in truth, cared little for the quality of the handicraft, the artistry of the work, or the deference to the old stories. He had now adjudged over a hundred of these contests and was underwhelmed by the whole affair. Only his commitment to tradition prevented him from cancelling the farce for good. He spent a couple of minutes pretending to deliberate and then randomly picked a black pot.