August 18th, 1995
A lantern-lit trail let deep into the woods. Thousands of people moved around him, their shouts and loud laughter, snatches of singing, cheering, and yodeling filled the area with an atmosphere of feverish excitement that was highly infectious.
"Stay close together everybody," his mother advised, guiding Valeria by the hand and dodging a group of yodeling Irish fans.
'Looks and sounds like they already consumed the occasional shot of fire-whiskey.'
Valeria bounced ahead of him. The tiny green and golden bows interwoven in her long blonde curls bounced from side to side while she chatted and joked loudly with her father and younger brother.
'It's like a Hogwarts match, only one hundred times the scale,' Tristan mused, fumbling for the slim piece of wood in his sleeve when they passed a large group of opposing fans that exchanged heated words. 'Yep, just like a Hogwarts match.'
After walking through the woods for twenty minutes they emerged on the other side, drowned in the dooming shadow of a gigantic stadium.
'Scratch that thought.' He paused next to Galahad, who had his head thrown back to gape at the sheer endless golden walls surrounding the building. 'Way more than one hundred Hogwarts pitches would fit in there.'
"The nearest entrance is that way." His father pointed above the heads of the crowd to a spot already surrounded by a swarm of colorful witches and wizards. "We should get a move and-"
He paused with a frown, exchanging a glance with his wife.
A faint tingle crept over Tristan's skin, as if he stepped through an invisible veil, cold as the depths of the lake by their home in the deepest winter.
"Wards?" he frowned, glancing at his father.
"Just some extra protection for the international event I presume." He raised his head, peeking up into the gray sky: "They've just been erected and do stretch over the entire camp as well."
"Looks like our Ministry is firmly set to use this occasion as a demonstration of strength and security to the magical community," his mother added, shooting a subtle nod at her husband: "These wards are quite powerful, definitely the work of Unspeakables..."
A nasty thought rose in the back of his mind as he followed his family to the nearest entrance: 'I suppose you'd know what their wards feel like, wouldn't you two?'
"Prime seats!" said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. She seemed so busy or stressed that she was not even bothering to glance up or confirm their identity. "Top Box! Straight upstairs and as high as you can go!"
Tristan glanced up the stairs into the stadium, each of them covered by a carpet in rich purple.
'That doesn't look right.' He frowned, letting his wand slide into his palm: 'These stands are several hundred meters in height, yet I can only count a few dozen stairs.'
He followed his parents, trailing the tip of his wand along the railing and pausing momentarily when he caught the faint gleam of a runic circle. Magic pulsed from deep within it in tiny, frequent ripples, stretching and pulling itself back together in an endless loop.
"It's like the undetectable extension charm we applied on our tent, just in reverse." His father appeared next to him, nodding appreciatively: "The space between each stair is manipulated and stretched, so you actually go up much farther than you think with each step you take. To apply it on a scale like this requires runes, so you'll likely stumble over something like this frequently."
"I see," Tristan hummed, pocketing his wand: "Best get going before mother scowls at us like she did at Aurelia for wandering off into the camp by herself."
"You're right, I don't feel like risking her ire tonight." His father chuckled and patted him on the back: "You'll soon see why..."
They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. At last, they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a gallery, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts.
Tristan looked down at over a hundred thousand witches and wizards, all taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. The stadium itself suffused everything with a mysterious golden light.
The field looked smooth as velvet from his lofty position. At either end of it stood three goal hoops, right opposite them, almost at Tristan's eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Magical advertisement flashed in gold writing across it, as though it was written by an invisible giant's hand and then wiped off again.
'That's some impressive charmwork.' He glanced back into the gallery.
About four dozen purple-and-gilt chairs stood in three rows up here, with a small platform behind it where expensively dressed wizards and witches already toasted with thin glasses full of golden liquor.
"Val?" A voice suddenly called out: "You finally made it!"
A red-haired teenager burst from amidst the crowd of adults, her arms spread wide in greeting.
"Maggy!" Valeria cheered and greeted her friend with equal enthusiasm, hugging her tightly before they separated: "How long have you guys been here already?"
"Roughly an hour." A young boy with unruly ebony hair and warm hazel eyes appeared next to the redhead: "The Irish chasers gave an interview for some reporters up here and you know how dad is, he wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Are your parents here as well, Charlus?" Tristan's mother asked.
"They're chatting with Uncle Sirius and Aunt Isolde," Charlus nodded and gestured to the back.
"Thank you. I want all of you on your best behavior whilst we're here." She shot them a sharp look and linked arms with her husband to mingle with the crowd.
With nothing better to do, Tristan decided to remain with his siblings for a moment, studying some of the guests with interest.
"Here, check this out, guys." Charlus walked to him and Galahad, showing them a brass binocular, covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials. "These are omnioculars. When you press this button here you can-"
"-replay a scene over and over again." Galahad nodded eagerly, pulling out his own from within his pockets: "Father bought us some as well. Reckon we can use them to spot the Snitch before Victor Krum can?"
"No chance!" Another boy with shoulder-length dark curls joined them. "Krum's bloody brilliant. Bulgaria will definitely win tonight."
"Krum is a single good player, the Irish have seven." Valeria rolled her eyes, joining them with Aurelia, Magnolia, and a third blonde, gray-eyed girl.
"Hey Tristan." She waved shyly, a small blush blossoming up on her pale cheeks. "How was your summer?"
'And here I thought she might have grown out of it.'
"Hey, Violetta," he sighed, pity dwelling up in his stomach. "Kept myself pretty busy. Lots to do, you know..."
"Busy sneaking out to meet his girlfriend," Galahad chuckled, while Violetta Black's expression fell. "You're lucky Mother doesn-"
A flash of pink zipped through the gallery.
"-ouch!" His brother rubbed his chest furiously.
"Did you say something, baby brother?" Tristan spun his wand between his fingers, showering the wooden floorboard with silver sparks "Perhaps you'd like a rematch from earlier when you thought you could just claim the top bunk?"
"Nah, I think I'm good," his brother swallowed, eying the piece of wood warily.
"I trust you'll find something else to talk about while I get myself a drink then," Tristan smiled, pocketing his wand to walk over to the buffet that emerged in the back of the gallery.
"They really didn't spare any expenses." He nodded appreciatively, his eyes roaming over to the many international delicatessens.
He prepared himself a large plate, finishing it with a moderate piece of cheesecake and a small cherry on top.
"What have we got ourselves here... Looks like they let anyone up nowadays..."
Ice crept down his spine, letting the hairs on his neck stand up straight.
Tristan slowly turned around, feeling the familiar length of his wand pressed into the skin of his forearm.
A trio of young wizards and a single witch stood opposing him, each of them dressed in robes of the finest silk, calculating expressions plastered on their aristocratic faces.
"Good evening, my fellow Housemates." Tristan calmly placed his plate on a table to his right: "If you're looking for a recommendation, I suggest the caviar, although I haven't tried it yet myself."
'Let's see if they're out for trouble.'
"We didn't come for recommendations." The tallest of them stepped forward. His white-blond hair was slicked back elegantly. A haughty look was plastered over his pointed face and thick golden rings sparkled on his fingers: "What do you think you're doing up here, Peverell?"
"I'm about to have some dinner and enjoy the grand spectacle, Malfoy." Tristan cocked his head and slowly licked his lips, flashing them a cold smile: "And I don't really care what comes first..."
A flinch spasmed over the face of the boy to the right. His straw-colored hair was cut short and freckles covered each of his cheeks: "The buffet is only for guests who belong up here. You and your family shouldn't count yourself among those."
"Pecunia non olet, my young, freckled friend." Tristan picked the cherry from his piece of cake and popped it into his mouth: "I can assure you the International Quidditch League cared only about the amounts of Galleons, not the hand that paid them for the seats."
"Are you just going to let him talk to us like that?" The young witch among the group hissed in irritation. Black curls elegantly flowed down her back. Her heavy-lidded eyes found the tall boy next to her. She curled pale fingers into the fabric above his shoulder: "Go bloody do something, Brutus!"
"Yeah, Brutus, listen to your dear sister," Tristan whispered, adjusting his feet slightly while letting the pale length of his wand slide down into his palm. "Maybe she'll even reward you for it. If one were to believe the rumors I've heard about you two, it happens rather frequently..."
'And time for some trouble.'
Brutus Lestrange growled like a threatened dog, thick brows narrowed into a sharp vee while he fumbled for his wand. "Why, you little-"
"-you will not do anything, Brutus, and neither will you, Diana." Malfoy tugged him back by the collar of his robes, a confident, sharp smile plastered over his thin lips and high cheekbones: "Peverell is much braver here than at Hogwarts, knowing his parents are around... but that won't always be the case, will it?"
Tristan couldn't help himself, he chuckled: "How ironic that you mention parentage, Malfoy. How's daddy doing by the way?" He turned to the twins: "What about you, Lestrange? How are Daddy and Uncle doing? If one can even separate the two, that is, I'm not sure what your grandfather told you about them..."
"Kill him!" The witch hissed, her violet eyes almost bulging out of their sockets while she pulled her own wand: "Kill the little shit!"
Tristan raised his wand, cold adrenaline rushing through his veins, only for a thin golden veil of magic to emerge from the wooden floorboard, separating them.
"What is this madness?!"
Two people stepped between them. Tristan's father was one of them, the other was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. His shoes were highly polished, his mustache was trimmed unnaturally straight.
'Bloody great.' Tristan glanced from the ring of spectators around him back to the man: 'Mother will scold me for this...'
"Caspar!" The man turned towards the freckled boy: "Explain yourself, now!"
"It's all Peverell's fault, father." He sneered at Tristan past his father's shoulder: "Peverell refused to share the buffet with us even after we asked him nicely."
"We must have misunderstood each other then," Tristan snorted.
Crouch spun on the spot, his face taut with rage.
"Are you mocking me, boy?" He snapped, his sharp eyes darting between him and his father.
"As my son said, it was just a misunderstanding, Minister Crouch." Tristan's father calmly stepped in between them, meeting the Minister's furious expression without any hint of concern. "I'll take him back to our seats now, I suggest you do the same with your son and his friends."
"See that you bloody do, Peverell!" Crouch spat, trembling from head to toe: "One more incident like that and I'll have your family escorted out of the stadium and your son thrown into a DMLE holding cell for the night for disrupting the peace."
"There won't be any more escalations tonight, I can assure you that, Minister." His father inclined his head and placed a firm hand on Tristan's shoulder: "We'll be spending the night in our tent, certainly not in a holding cell..."
"You- " A vein began pulsing on Crouch's head. "Are you- "
"Minister Crouch, sir-" A witch carefully approached Crouch from the side, swallowing heavily: "The Bulgarian Minister of Magic is here, sir."
Crouch glared at them one last time before huffing and spinning on his heels. He strode back to the stairs, greeting a wizard who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold in a language Tristan assumed to be Bulgarian.
"Was that really necessary, Tristan?" his father sighed, guiding him through the excitingly whispering crowd to their seats.
"In my defense, I didn't start it." Tristan stifled laughter.
"Of course you didn't." He rolled his eyes, gesturing to the left where his siblings were already seated and his mother stood waiting for them, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Who was it?" She merely asked when they arrived, blue eyes sparkling.
"The usual lot... Malfoy, Crouch, and the Lestrange twins," Tristan shrugged, taking the spot next to Valeria, who shifted in her seat, listening to their conversation intently.
His mother still frowned. "I taught you better than to start fights, especially against four opponents at once, Tristan..."
"I didn't fancy my chances either, but I can't let them walk all over me," he replied heatedly, pointing two seats over at his younger brother: "I did what I had to, especially now with Galah- "
"-enough." She silenced him with a sharp look and a shake of her head.
'With Galahad joining Hogwarts next year.'
"Just try not to provoke them again, will you?" his father whispered, handing him the pair of omnioculars they'd bought for him: "You've seen what poor terms we're on with the Minister already. A duel with his only son won't do you any good..."
'Yeah, because of whatever you did to make him hate us in the first place long before I was born...' Tristan bit back his retort and merely nodded, turning his gaze to the pitch.
The remaining guests took their seats soon, including Crouch and his family.
"Everyone ready?" Ludo Bagman rose from the row underneath them, his round face gleaming in the faint golden light of the stadium. "Minister - ready to go?"
"Yes, you may proceed, Ludo," Crouch interrupted his talk with the Bulgarian Minister of Magic for a mere second, shooting him a sharp nod.
Bagman brought the tip of his wand to his own throat. "Sonorus!"
His voice amplified to a roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium easily, booming into every corner of the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators screamed and clapped, waving thousands of tiny flags and adding their discordant national anthems to the racket.
"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce…the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
A group of women jogged out onto the field like cheerleaders from an American muggle movie, only these women were unlike anything Tristan had ever seen before.
Their skin shone luminous, gleaming like the moon even though clouds covered the sky. Platinum hair fanned out behind them even without a breeze to rustle in. It made Tristan want to run his hands through it again and again. Their pink lips looked soft enough to almost taste the sweetness off of them and their eyes sparkled like stars in the lonely night.
A hush fell over the crowd as they began to dance in a blur of swirling silver and pale skin.
His body tensed as he listened to the unnatural music and watched their dance. He slowly shifted forward in his seat. Something tugged at his mind, soft and gentle, edging him on to do something great, something impressive. The tug grew stronger, suspiciously so.
'No. Enough of this!'
Tristan squinted his eyes shut and buried the ridiculous idea underneath a layer of ice, as thick as North Dawn lake during the deepest winter.
"You okay there, son?" His father asked with a chuckle, gently pulling Galahad, who had risen from his seat and waddled to the railing, back by the hem of his T-shirt.
"What-" Tristan squinted his eyes again, pointedly looking away from the pitch, "what magic is this?"
"Very old and powerful one," his father grinned while holding Galahad tight: "It's called teenage hormones."
"Don't listen to your father," his mother huffed, staring down at the platinum-haired women and pursing her lips in distaste: "They're called veela and are said to originate from ancient Mesopotamia, long before Rome rose to power. Being not fully human, they have a special magic, called the allure. It's like a strong compulsion charm that makes weak-willed wizards, and apparently a few witches-" she wrinkled her nose, "-want to impress them."
His father leaned into a whisper: "Your mother forgot to mention that they're also incredibly beautiful."
'They definitely are. I've never seen women that beautiful.'
The veela's dance stilled, the noise of the crowd swelled as the Irish National Mascot zoomed into the stadium like a green-and-golden comet. Leprechauns followed in its golden trail, letting sparkling galleons rain down on the crowd in the stands.
After the introduction of each player, the Quidditch World Cup final commenced in a blur of motion. Tristan mimicked his siblings and snatched his omnioculars out of his lap, following Viktor Krum who looked much thinner than on the many posters he'd seen in the camp. The Bulgarian's large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows made him look more like an overgrown bird of prey.
With the release of the Snitch, Krum swiveled and plummeted out of sight. Instead, Tristan followed the green and golden blurs, which turned into a trio of Irish chasers. Soon one of them scored, earning the Irish a massive roar from their thousands of fans in the crowd.
"What?" Aurelia cried looking wildly around through her Omnioculars. "But Levski's still got the Quaffle!"
"Time doesn't work like that, baby sister," Tristan chuckled, adjusting her omnioculars to show the game at normal speed. "Just because you see things slowed down doesn't mean the rest of us do as well."
After a few more goals and some rough play from both sides, the referee suddenly decided that the Bulgarian cheerleaders were much more exciting than the ongoing world cup.
"It's a shame not all men have your mental strength, son." Tristan's mother shot Hassan Mostafa a pitiful look.
The man had landed right in front of the dancing veela and began flexing his muscles while moving to the rhythm of the music.
"Relatively few are able to fully snap themself out of it," Tristan mused, catching the glassy-eyed looks the majority of wizards in the stands were shooting at the dancing veela: "How come Dad and I are mostly unaffected?"
"Knowledge of the mind arts plays a large part, it helps you recognize the foreign intrusion and repel it more effectively," his mother explained patiently, wrinkling her nose when Mostafa had to be kicked by a mediwizard so the match could finally resume. "You've been taught from an early age. I'd be a bit disappointed if you fully succumbed to it."
"And obviously I'm not affected by them because no woman in the world, veela or not, could ever come close to my wife's beauty," his father chuckled, tilting his mother's face up by her chin and kissing her until the pout vanished from her lips.
"I think they're just cheating by charming the referee." Valeria wore a similar expression as her mother: "He will obviously be biased now."
'I think if anyone's biased it's the opinion of Peverell women on veela.' Tristan stifled a grin, turning his attention back to the match, which was rather difficult since the mascots of each team had begun a brawl of themselves down on the pitch.
The gentle foreign tug made him glance back down at the veela a few more times. Tristan forced himself to avert his gaze right before he felt like he might succumb to it, taking deep breaths and pushing the weird thrill back down immediately. He finally managed to focus on each of the Seekers again, letting the noise of the crowd and the swirling flashes of silver fade into the background.
'That will make things even worse.' Tristan cringed when Krum failed to dodge a Bludger and was hit full in the face.
The crowd shared his sentiment, its deafening groan rippled up over the stands like a giant wave. However, despite the broken nose and the copious amounts of blood Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle. Perhaps because he was dealing with his own problems since one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.
Tristan watched curiously as tiny white feathers sprouted along their arms, blue and gray eyes widened, some of them turning pitch-black. Their faces and cheeks sharpened in curved beaks. 'Mother was correct about that part. They're definitely not completely human.'
Blue flames appeared in the hands of some of the veela and a heated brawl broke out between the two mascots of each team. The crowd hardly cared because just that moment the two Seekers entered into a steep dive, racing toward the ground of the pitch, they were neck and neck.
"He's seen the Snitch!" Galahad shouted. "Both of them! Look at them go!"
Tristan followed the crowd in rising from their seats. The eyes of each of his family members were firmly locked on the duet. For a split second he was sure that both players were going to crash but then one managed to pull out of his dive.
"It's over!" Galahad cheered: "He's got it!"
A massive roar rose from the crowd like the bang of a canon. Viktor Krum hovered high above the stadium. The twitching wings of the snitch were firmly within the grasp of his right arm that he thrust above his head.
'Perhaps the frown is just a permanent feature.'
"But Bulgaria still loses!" Valeria chirped, pointing at the scoreboard.
'That would explain it too, I suppose.'
"What a game," his father chuckled, placing the omnioculars back into his lap: "Who would've thought it might end this way."
"Certainly not some odds I'd bet on," Tristan mused: "But apparently someone else did." He pointed a few rows down.
The Weasley twins had literally jumped up from their seats the moment the game ended. Now they expectantly held open their hands in front of a very nervous-looking Ludo Bagman.
"Time to head back to the tents." His mother gracefully rose and pulled Aurelia by the hand.
They staggered down the steep, purple-carpeted stairs, allowing Tristan once more to marvel at the spatial manipulation.
Caught up in the crowd of green and gold that flooded out of the stadium, they soon found themselves back at the edge of the woods. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path.
"Reckon Father is just annoyed by the Leprechauns or what's gotten him in such a sour mood?" Valeria frowned, dodging another swarm of creatures that shot over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns.
"No idea." Tristan watched as his father stepped closer to his youngest, his shoulders tenser than they had been a few minutes ago, his head always turning to check their surroundings.
'Perhaps Mother caught him staring at the veela for too long?'
Despite none of them feeling like sleeping yet, their parents insisted everyone go to bed after sharing a final warm chocolate.
Tristan shifted under the warm covers. Some handy charms reduced the obnoxious noises around them, letting only the occasional bang of a firework slip through.
Galahad's soft snoring eventually evened out. Soon sleep tugged at him relentlessly, drawing him away into the darkness and the land of dreams.
"Tristan!"
Something shook at his shoulder and he jolted upright, taking a gasping breath. Green eyes stared at him from a grim, hard face.
"Tristan, we need to leave!" his father whispered: "We need to leave now!"
Loud noises and a frightened scream tore through the thin walls of their tent from the outside.
Cold adrenaline surged through him and he threw the covers aside, heaving himself off the mattress: "What's going-"
"-no time for explaining." His father crouched back down from the bunk bed, shaking Galahad until his brother jolted upright as well. "Get dressed and take only your wands. Move, now!"
Tristan fumbled for his wand underneath his pillow and changed his pajamas into simple shorts and a T-shirt, repeating the same for his brother.
His mother and sisters were already waiting in the living room. Their pale faces peered out into the camp through a thin slit at the entrance of the tent.
"Stay with your mother and me at all times, don't run off unless we say so!" His father stepped outside, his wand held at the ready.
Screams echoed from somewhere close by. Crimson flames clawed high into the night sky. Black smoke coiled over burning tents somewhere near the center of the camp. It drifted over them on a strong breeze, thick and sour enough to choke Tristan's breath and make him wince.
'What the fuck is going on?'
His father led the route from the tent back toward the woods, fighting his way with his wand held high through the tight, torrent of panicked people that bumped into them.
A group of shouting Irish fans, still wearing their green and golden costumes ran into their sides, separating him from his family and Galahad whose hand he had held tight.
"Tristan!" His brother's and father's yells were eventually drowned out by the shouts and screams.
"Fuck," he cursed, trying to rise to his full height.
People bumped into him from all sides. The last glimpses of green trees faded away as the smoke and crowd thickened all around him, shoving him into the very direction they had just vacated.
Bright flashes of light threw eerie shadows against the veil of smoke and onto the nearby tents. The fire started spreading. A thin bead of sweat collected on his forehead. Ash swirled out of the sky like snow, clinging to his moist skin. The dull echo of explosions rang over the roar of the flames, robbing him of his orientation.
He fought himself a path away from the crowd, ignoring the thick, strong tang of smoke that filled his mouth. A coiling mass of dark smoke veiled the rest of the camp, but at least here there was no one bumping into him anymore.
'But where the fuck am I?'
The screams had faded away almost completely by now. In their stead, loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward him from somewhere on his right.
Tristan twirled his wand over his head and disillusioned himself before sneaking along the burning tents. His footsteps left deep prints in the thick, soft, warm gray ashes that carpeted the ground. He followed the sound of laughter to its source.
A small cluster of people garbed in dark robes emerged from amid the center of the burning camp. Fury coiled tight in his stomach as he watched them come closer. The light of the flames was reflected in the white and silver masks they covered their faces with.
'Death Eaters... But why after all these years?'
His fingers flexed around his wand, he could almost feel it warm and hum in anticipation as he flanked the group. The adrenaline spiked when he stepped out from behind his cover, ready to ambush them, his wand raised to strike first.
'I can do this.' He clawed the anxiety back in, shoving it down beneath a shaky gulp of air. 'This is what father trained me for.'
Suddenly the shape of a lonely figure coiled itself together, like smoke on the wind. It stepped right into the Death Eaters' path.
"What the fuck!?" They came to an abrupt hold, their laughter dying in their throats.
The flames all around Tristan gutted out with silent hisses. The thin, long wand in their hand seemed familiar, the way they held themselves was familiar.
'And their magic is familiar...'
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Ice jolted through Tristan's veins as he recognized his father's voice.
"I'm looking for my son. Perhaps you've seen him. I'm told he looks just like me, only with his mother's eyes..."
"Peverell!" One of the Death Eaters shouted in recognition and staggered forward.
A flash of light zipped through the camp. Black flames clawed from his father's wand with angry screams, shredding his sleeve to tatters and swallowing the spells in whips of dark smoke.
"I take that as a no then."
A scream tore through the night when the Death Eater's arms were yanked upwards and ripped out of their sockets by the shoulder. Blood spurted from each ragged stump, spattering the silver masks of his closest comrades.
The world froze. Tristan watched completely transfixed as his father dove forward, moving in between the bright flashes of light like a leaf in the breeze. He struck rarely, but each time he did so, there was one less opponent.
A stray spell ricocheted mid-air, gracing his father's cheek deep enough for crimson droplets to dwell from its depths and trickle down his chin. As quickly as the cut had been opened, the skin crept back together on its own, without his father moving a single finger.
'How is this possible?' His father moved his arm even faster in a blur of tattered black robes.
A Death Eater's head burst like a balloon, spattering the carpet of white ash with chunks of grayish brain and bits of pale bone. A fist-sized hole was blown through another opponent. The man screamed, clutching his stomach to keep the blueish-purple entrails from sprawling out as he dropped to his knees.
One of the three remaining Death Eaters thrust his wand out with a desperate cry. "Avada Kedavra!"
Tristan still stood frozen, but his father had been ready. Ash rose from the ground, freezing over like the surface of a lake and exploding in a shower of bright sparks as the spell struck it.
He banished the crumbs back at them, engaging the one to the right while the one to the left cried out and shielded his eyes.
Tristan watched as the man ripped the mask off of his face to rub his eyes, revealing short dark hair underneath it. He raised his wand a second time, its tip glowing an eerie green once more, mouth opening wide.
'NO!' Tristan finally broke the trance and staggered forward, acting on years of instinct.
He slashed his wand down, forcing every drop of his magic through the wood. A silver ribbon flashed through the night. It parted the thick smoke, cutting off the man's wrist from where it plunged into the ash with a low thud.
The man screamed in agony and tumbled to his knees. He clutched the severed, crimson-spurting limb with his other hand, slowly shifting around on his knees to face Tristan.
Raw fury blazed in his chocolate brown eyes. His good arm fumbled for something on the ground and then moved upwards in a blur. A dark wand was held between blood-smeared fingers, the tip glowing green.
Tristan struck first. His spell caught the man in the chest, blowing a galleon-seized hole straight through his ribcage and tossing him into the smoking remains of a nearby tent.
"What..." Tristan croaked, dropping to his knees and panting heavily.
He attempted to heave himself back up, without success, his eyes fixed on the unmoving form of his opponent.
'I killed someone…'
He stared down at his trembling fingers, painfully cramped around the length of his wand. Then he noticed the scene him and his father had caused, eyes roaming over bloodied, disformed corpses and the torn, bleeding limbs.
Nausea struck him out of nowhere and he doubled over, hurling his stomach onto the ground. A bitter taste flooded his mouth, charring his throat.
"It's okay, son, it's okay." A pair of strong arms heaved him back up.
"I killed someone, dad," Tristan muttered, dizziness invading his mind brutally. "I killed someone because he wanted to kill me first..."
"You'll be fine, I promise." His father's voice drifted into the distance. "Let's get you back home, son."
The darkness grew heavier, swallowing him in its endless depths.
"It's all going to be fine..."