October 31st, 1995
"Tristan Peverell!"
He froze at the far end of the Slytherin table, balling both fists tight, fully aware that every single head in the Great Hall had snapped back to gape at him in disbelief.
'I did it.'
A great bliss spiked through him, like muggle fireworks going off in his brain before everything settled in a warm thrill that brought a sincere, bright smile to his lips. Tristan slowly rose from his seat to his full height, taking but a second and a deep breath to truly savor the moment.
'I finally did it!'
There was no applause, no cheering, just absolute silence. Then a mere buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to fill the Hall. Valeria started clapping next to him. The lonely sounds echoed over the House tables before she received sparse support from a selected few Gryffindors.
Tristan glimpsed at the table dressed in red and gold. The loudest among them was his brother, who positively glowed in pride, bouncing up and down on his seat.
There was also a single Hufflepuff with long auburn colored hair, and eventually, some of the Professors up at the staff table joined in and clapped politely a few times.
Silence swallowed his applause much sooner than it had for the other two champions. McGonagall audibly cleared her throat.
"Mr. Peverell, up here if you please!"
Tristan left his spot and strode between the 'claws and 'puffs underneath floating candles and swirling bats. Faces stared up all along the two tables, twisted into deep frowns. Nasty scowls and dark glares were his steady companions along the way down the hall, yet their tightly pinched lips remained shut.
He closed in on Cedric Diggory to the left, puzzlement, disappointment, and unmistakably anger evident in his expression.
'And finally no more stupid grins...'
Tristan couldn't help himself, he slowed ever so slightly and leaned down.
"Tough competition there, mate." He clapped him smartly on the shoulder. "No hurt feelings though, I hope?"
Diggory scowled, knuckles white as porcelain while his fingers dug into the tabletop
Tristan continued and surveyed the faces up at the staff table. Most of the professors looked deeply troubled and exchanged silent glances with their colleagues. Ludo Bagman seemed very surprised, yet somewhat excited as if he expected a giant spectacle to follow. Finally, Minister Crouch looked like he was forced to swallow something utterly bitter. His pale face twisted into such a deep scowl that he threatened to fume any second.
"Congratulations, Mr. Peverell."
McGonagall's posture was stiffer than Tristan had seen in all of his years at the Castle.
A sharp smile curled his lips. "Thank you, Headmistress, it's truly an honor."
"This way, if you will." Her handshake was quick, as was the nod she gave him towards the chamber.
Tristan went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards and with a handsome fire roaring in the fireplace opposite him. The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered and immediately flinched out of their frames, spreading the news throughout the entire Castle.
Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum stood around the fire. The former cut an impressive silhouette against the crackling flames, her hair almost glowing, the latter was hunched-up and brooding whilst leaning against the mantelpiece.
Tristan strode further inside. He completely ignored Krum's scowl and remained by the wall opposite Delacour.
"Vraiment?" She tossed a veil of platinum hair over her shoulder and examined him. "You have been chosen by the Goblet?"
It was the first time he had ever heard her speak. There was only the tiniest edge of a French accent in her soft, almost melodic voice. Summer-sky blue eyes bored deep into him. Something incredibly gentle and soft brushed over his thoughts. His heart fluttered and the breath was stolen from his lips.
'She is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.'
Tristan wiped his mind clean like a blank canvas, drowning the foreign touch in an endless void until the thrill faded away.
'But she's not playing fair...'
He met her eye again. His smile only grew as he watched her triumphant smirk falter. "Have I thrown you off track, Mademoiselle?"
Astonishment spasmed across her ethereal features.
"But you are only sixteen, non?" She recovered rather quickly and her delicate eyebrows drew into a sharp vee. "And you're not even in your final year."
"And you're surprisingly well-informed," Tristan teased. "Have you been making inquiries about me?"
"C'est ridicule," Delacour snorted, glancing down her delicate nose at him like he was some insect she'd prefer to squash underneath her heel. "Don't flatter yourself, Englishman."
Tristan let the length of his pale wand glide into his palm, tossing it back and forth from one hand to the other. "Don't worry, Mademoiselle, it wasn't flattery that made the Goblet call out my name."
She crossed her arms over her chest, the corner of her lip curling ever so slightly into a smirk. "It can't have been modesty either..."
"Something we sha-" Tristan's retort was cut off by the sound of scurrying feet.
Ludo Bagman rushed into the room, positively jittery. A large group of people followed him, consisting of the heads of all three schools, as well as Professor Slughorn, Flitwick, Vance, and the Minister of Magic himself.
The hectic murmurs of the hundreds of students in the Great Hall buzzed through the gap before the doors closed again.
"I expected much better from Hogwarts than to let the son of two known murderers and outlaws represent such an esteemed school." Karkaroff stepped over to his champion from where he sneered contemptuously at Tristan. "Even your peers out there share my sentiment."
Silver sparks burst from the tip of Tristan's wand and showered his boots. He stifled a flare of anger underneath a calming breath and a cold smile. "You seem very agitated already. Why don't we all get comfortable by the fire and roll up our sleeves first?"
Karkaroff's face froze in a mask of outrage.
"Mr. Peverell, that is enough!" McGonagall snapped at him and stepped in between them. She shot Karkaroff a sharp look. "Childish spats won't change the fact that Mr. Peverell was rightfully chosen by the Goblet, Igor."
Karkaroff sneered. "Unless he cheated, of course. It would hardly surprise anyone..."
"That seems very unlikely, even for a student as gifted as Mr. Peverell," Flitwick squeaked. "Allow me to remind you that Minister Crouch had an entire team of Unspeakables inspect the wardline around the Goblet for any irregularities before the feast began. No tampering was found. Mr. Peverell simply met all the conditions to put his name inside."
Tristan could hardly believe what he was hearing.
'I've just received more support from the staff in less than a single minute than I did during my previous five years combined...'
He leaned back against the wall, folding his hands behind his head with a grin.
"Ç'est encore faux." Madame Maxime drew herself up to her full, and considerable impressive height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled as she scrutinized him. "Ze boy still cannot be allowed to compete, Minerva. 'e iz too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Tristan echoed, his eyes traveling down to Delacour, her pursed pink lips, and haughty pout. "Only a minute ago your champion barely acknowledged me as competition because I'm just an ickle sixteen-year-old, so what is it going to be now, Madame?"
"Spoiled British child, da." Viktor Krum's inexhaustible frown deepened over his hawk-like gaze. "Take advice from someone-"
"Yeah, I'm good actually, thanks." Tristan rolled his eyes, balancing his wand on his index finger. "This isn't a quidditch match in case you haven't noticed, Krum..."
'Advice from him will only get my nose broken.'
"Da, but it's competition, yes?" Krum scowled at him. "It's real fight. Not childish dueling circuit."
"Well, I wouldn't know." Tristan cocked his head and held the Bulgarian's gaze, letting the sharp, bright smile return. "I've never been to a dueling circuit..."
Krum's brows faltered.
"Enough, both of you, please! This discussion is fruitless." McGonagall spoke up again. "Mr. Peverell has been chosen as champion and is now obliged to complete. He entered into a binding magical contract knowing the risks, just as your students did, Olympe and Igor."
"Je ne l'accepte pas !" Madame Maxime rested her enormous hand with its many superb opals protectively upon Delacour's shoulder. "What iz to stop 'im from using dark magic against our champions?"
"You tell me," Tristan shrugged. "Shouldn't there be a rule book or something?
A dozen pairs of eyes stared at him.
'I knew I should've done some more research...'
"Uhm..." Tristan frowned. "I take it there isn't a rule book?"
"If I may..." Slughorn cleared his throat, a bean of sweat gleaming on his large forehead. "From tonight on, the magic of any contender is bound to the Goblet, forcing them to compete and to finish the tasks. In return, any and all magic can be wielded during the tasks themselves because forbidding so would create a very dangerous imbalance."
"Well, I suppose that makes things far less complicated," Tristan murmured under his breath. "Fair enough, no rules then. Anything else I need to know?"
McGonagall exchanged a quick glance with her colleagues.
"Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, as champion, you are exempt from mandatory attendance during classes, Mr. Peverell. In addition, you receive unlimited access to the Restricted Section of the library in your preparation for the tasks," she explained. "Of course, the same holds true for Ms. Delacour and Mr. Krum. Any resource Hogwarts has to offer is at your disposal. Perhaps Minister Crouch could take over from here on since we're dabbing into the rules now."
"Very well." The Minister's black gaze roamed over each champion, lingering on Tristan's form with unrepressed disdain.
"The Triwizard Tournament is a competition that tests the daring, skill, and determination of each representative of Europe's major magical schools. As such, the champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks."
'And who will actually check if that rule is upheld?'
Tristan barely concurred a snort.
'Why are the three champions obliged to compete and risk losing their magic for failing to do so while the heads of the schools, who also make up the judges' panel, aren't forced to swear some oath to avoid any biases?'
He turned to Delacour, meeting her haughty expression. Her blue eyes sparkled in the light of the flames like shards of ice in the sun. 'But beating you will taste even sweeter after doing so despite you receiving all the help you could ever need...'
"The first affair you are obliged to attend is the Weighing of the Wands ceremony, traditionally held on November 13th," Crouch continued, "your wand will be assessed by a specialist and deemed suitable to compete with."
'Garrick Ollivander probably. Let's see what he makes of my wand...'
"The first task will take place on November 24th, in front of the other students and the panel of all five judges." Crouch pointed to himself, Bagman, and the three heads. "It has been designed to test your daring so we are not going to tell you what it is about. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in any witch and wizard. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands, unknowing what it is they confront."
'Now that is curious...' Tristan cast another peek at Delacour. A slight frown married her flawless face. At the other side of the room, Krum began scowling even more.
'Whoever goes first will have the advantage.' He absently spun his wand between his fingers. 'The other champions won't be allowed to spectate, because they might copy a tactic, but once you're done they likely won't stop you from studying the competition.'
"The champions will receive information about the second task when the first is over," Ludo Bagman took over for Crouch, a bright beam on his chubby face. "Traditionally, a Yule ball is held between the first and second task, precisely on the night of December 25th. As champions, you are to open the ball with the first dance, for which you'll require a partner obviously. I suggest you polish those dancing shoes and don't forget to practice." He chuckled good-naturedly. "That is, once you've finished the first task, of course."
'A partner, huh?'
Delacour's face had scrunched up in distaste at the mention of the word.
Tristan smothered laughter. 'She looks like the type of girl to do rather well on a dance floor so it must be the part about partners then.'
Delacour's head snapped toward him.
Before his inner eye, her outline suddenly swirled and her pale blue uniform changed into a thin dress of silver that spiraled over marble tiles to slow music.
'She's doing it again.' Tristan blinked the image away and tore himself free from her intense gaze. 'I really need to pull myself together...'
"Yes, thank you, Ludo." Crouch wrinkled his nose and took over again, a touch of impatience in his voice. "But since that will be all for tonight, I shall take my leave back to the Ministry, there are other matters that require my attention."
"Well, I for one wouldn't say no to having a drink before I take my leave," Bagman said brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, much more exciting here than at the office!"
McGonagall seemed to consider it for a long second before giving in. "Oh well, why not... Igor, Olympe, may I interest you in a nightcap?"
"Non." Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Delacour's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. "Merci, but non."
The veil of platinum hair was tossed to the side. Summer-sky blue eyes studied him once more, this time with a gleam of curiosity. Then they took off into the Great Hall in a stir of fast French.
"Viktor, dawai." Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.
"Well, that was exciting." Tristan tugged his wand back into his sleeve and turned. "I wish you all a good night, Professors."
'Time to get out of here and check the Map for Valeria and Galahad.'
"Mr. Peverell!" McGonagall called out just before he reached the door back to the Great Hall.
'Damn it.'
"Yes, Ma'am?"
The headmistress eyed him somewhat warily. "Mr. Peverell, some of your peers have already vividly expressed their... disapproval for the Goblet's decision tonight."
Tristan feigned surprise. "You mean to tell me they're throwing a fit?"
Her lips thinned considerably. "This is a very serious matter, Mr. Peverell, and the staff requires your cooperation to deal with it."
"What would you like me to do, Headmistress?" He shrugged. "Professor Flitwick said himself that the Goblet was not tampered with. If they wanted to be the one that was chosen they should've simply been the better candidate for it."
McGonagall released a long breath. "Be that as it may, in the interest of calming the tempers after tonight, it would do us all good if you were less... confrontational about this tournament. Hogwarts is and will remain an institute of education. Being champion does not give you a free pass to do as you please. There will be no duels, no casting of spells, and certainly, no violence in our corridors, have I made myself clear?"
"Crystal, Professor," Tristan quipped. "Though perhaps you want to consider repeating the same to the rest of the school."
McGonagall's nostrils flared. "Horace, accompany Mr. Peverell back to his common room. And heed my words, child. I will give this warning only once."
She turned on her heel and strode out, followed by the rest of the staff. They left behind only Bagman, who seemed rather conflicted on whether he was invited to follow her or not.
Slughorn nervously fiddled with the top bottoms of his dress shirt "We shall best get going then, Mr. Peverell."
"Yes. Yes indeed."
'Please let Valeria be safe underneath the cloak.' Unease nagged at his thoughts. "Lead the way, Professor."
The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.
"What a night, what a night." Slughorn's breath grew heavier as they descended the stairs. "I will admit that I didn't expect you to be chosen, Mr. Peverell. I wasn't even aware you've entered either. You just didn't seem the type for it... but please don't take this the wrong way."
"Don't worry, sir," Tristan merely chuckled. "Who would you've bet on to be chosen then?"
"Out of my Slytherins probably Mr. Malfoy or Mr. Crouch," Slughorn mused. "Of course, the majority of staff expected it to be either Roger Davies or Cedric Diggory, with how brilliantly both perform academically…"
They reached the dungeons, where Tristan slowed down a bit to allow the professor to catch his breath.
'Any second I waste here is one Valeria might be in danger.' He swallowed heavily, forcing down a swell of concern.
"Academic results can be misleading, sir."
"As were yours up until you've finally decided not to hold back any longer during your OWL exams. Although obviously, you will deny that, won't you?" Slughorn chuckled somewhat nervously. "I do not doubt that you will make for a most interesting show of skill during the tasks."
'But apparently, you can't decide whether to look forward to it or dread it.' The ghost of a smile flinched over Tristan's face before it hardened. "I promise to do my best, professor."
Slughorn nodded, coming to a halt in front of the concealed entrance to the Slytherin common room, his cheeks flushed bright red in exhaustion. "Well, there we are. Have a good night, Mr. Peverell, and congrat-"
'Oh no, you won't.'
"Sir, could I bother you to come inside, for just a second?" Tristan interrupted him swiftly. "There's this spot by the fireplace that requires your immediate attention before no doubt some first-year students will hurt themselves."
Slughorn's eyebrows drew into a deep frown. "Spot by the fireplace, you say?"
"Yes, allow me to show you," Tristan stated the password and waited until the wall gave in. He motioned for the professor to follow inside.
Round, greenish lamps hung from thick chains of the rough stone ceiling and walls, illuminating the long, high underground room. The fire crackling under the elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them cast half a dozen tall, motionless shadows along the walls, all of them facing him, all of them taking a step forward.
'It's not really a surprise party when you expect one, is it?'
Slughorn flinched back. "What- what in Merlin's beard is going on here?" He stumbled and steadied himself on the wall.
Four silhouettes rose from each of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace.
"Good evening, professor." The tallest of them stepped into the light of the fire, revealing his pale face and slicked-back silver blonde hair. "We didn't expect a visit from you tonight."
"I've asked our Head of House to help me with an issue by the fireplace." The humor stifled another sharp twist of worry in Tristan's gut. "You have my apologies, sir, it looks like there's not one but four issues by the fireplace now."
Slughorn finally recovered, scowling first at Tristan and then at Malfoy. "There will be no issues tonight, you hear me boys?! None!" He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his brows and took a deep, trembling breath. "I don't know what kind of welcoming you've prepared for Mr. Peverell here but I will have none of it, Abraxas."
"Sir, this is just a misunderstanding really." Malfoy held up a placating hand and smiled, yes his eyes remained cold as steel. "We merely wanted to talk, from housemates to housemates."
"Good, then talk and clear the air." Slughorn nodded in relief. "Because our headmistress has explicitly expressed how this situation is to be dealt with and what happens to those who disobey her. Do not risk your NEWTs and your entire future in a temporary spat of enviousness now, Abraxas."
A flinch spasmed over Malfoy's face before he inclined his head. "I can assure you none of us will do any of that. We will just talk."
Slughorn's gaze flicked from Malfoy and his cronies to Tristan, lingering on him for a moment.
'Surely he won't believe that and abandon me now, will he?'
"Good. I'll leave you to it then."
Tristan sighed. 'Of course, he will.'
"I will see you all tomorrow at breakfast, for the headmistress' announcement. Good night," Slughorn said over his shoulder before abandoning the common room.
Stone scraped against stone as the concealed entrance shifted back into place. The common room suddenly felt like a cage, trapping Tristan with no chance of escape. The shadows along the walls stepped into the light of the fire, each of them from sixth-year or above, with Valeria nowhere in sight.
"You wanted to talk." Tristan remained with his back to the doorway, silently counting them and weighing his options. "What do you have to say to me?"
'There's ten of them in total. Not really the best odds for me...'
The false smile he had put on for the professor crumbled off Malfoy's face like a cheap façade. "I thought we had an agreement, Peverell. Your part involved staying away from the Goblet."
"Oopsie," Tristan quipped. "Let's settle it in writing next time, shall we?"
Malfoy thrust his finger out, pointing at the circle of his housemates. "There won't be a next time for us. If the tournament will even be held again, it will be in four years. You've taken our one chance from us. From every single one of us."
"I didn't take your chance away," Tristan chuckled. "We all had the same to begin with."
"I'm afraid we don't quite see it that way," Malfoy retorted with a snarl.
"What are you going to do about it?" Tristan quipped. "Run to daddy and-"
"Bind him!" Malfoy roared.
A flash of purple light smashed into his ribs, knocking him back against the sealed-off entrance. Tristan threw himself out of the way of the second spell, wincing as he flicked his wand into his palm.
Thick, dark ropes swirled and lurched at him like furious serpents, snapping for his arms and legs. One of them coiled tight around his shoulder, lashing him to empty brackets that usually held a set of torches.
"Bring him to me in one piece! We've talked long enough tonight!"
Tristan stabbed his wand at the dark robes and burned them in a scalding torrent of hot-white flames that licked at his skin with angry tongues and stirred up a veil of black smoke. He tore himself free and staggered back up to his feet.
Flashes of bright light struck through the thick, black haze all around him. They smashed into the walls behind him like hail into glass, blasting larger chips and sharp shards of stone into his back.
Tristan leveled the smoke with a wave of his wand and drove forward. A storm of spells struck his silvery shield the moment he emerged in the open. He staggered back with each consecutive hit, grimacing in discomfort as he watched his shield flicker as weakly as a candle in the wind.
A flash of blue punched straight through his fading shield, catching him in the thigh and he cried out in pain.
"Got him!" Caspar Crouch threw his head back in wild laughter.
'Enough!'
Tristan wrenched his wrist around with a roar. Crouch and those near him were hurled off their feet and swept into the tall bookshelves like ragged dolls. He yanked the shelves from their anchors in the walls, burying Crouch underneath an avalanche of thick old tomes and dusty wooden framework.
"Attack him together!" Diana Lestrange's howls echoed through the common room like that of a wild banshee. "Now!"
More than half a dozen wand tips lit up like fireflies in the darkness.
"Oh fuck."
Tristan thrust his wand at the floor in the middle of the common. He poured every last drop of his magic into the large stone slabs and ripped them off the mortar like a bandage from skin.
The spells struck in a clap of thunder that shook the entire room to its foundation. His cover detonated in countless sharp fragments of stone, tossing him harshly to the ground.
A hot coppery tang lazed his mouth. Warmth trickled down his forehead and into his eyes. Tristan gasped for air and pushed himself back to his feet, narrowly dodging the second volley of spells.
He swept the rubble back across the room with fast flicks of his wand, launching them at the tall armchairs his housemates covered behind. Tristan wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve and gulped in a few deep breaths.
"Reducto!" A salvage of his curses exploded the round, greenish lamps that hang from the ceiling.
Screams of agony echoed through the common room. Adrenaline raced through his veins in hot spikes and sharp thrills.
'Now it's my turn.'
Tristan thrust his wand at the ceiling and wrapped his magic securely around the thick metal chains hanging from it. His fingers curled into tight fists before he tore the chains down by the dozen. The rusty iron jerked to life and slithered across the floor, coiling around the legs of his foes like vines around a tree trunk.
"Stay away from the chains!"
Malfoy blasted those near him to bits. He and the Lestrange twins bathed the ground in a torrent of flames until the metal glowed and melted away. They regrouped by the fireplace, tossing over a large table to cover behind and hurl spells across the common room from.
"Crucio!" Diana Lestrange giggled madly. "Stand still! Crucio!"
Tristan wove through the bright red curses with the grace of a dancer and returned fire. His curses punched straight through the tabletop in a barrage of splinters. He tossed Cassius Warrington into the unforgiving mantelpiece of the fireplace where he crumbled down and remained unmoving, a trickle of crimson running down the polished stone.
"Tire him out! He can't hold this for much longer!"
Crouch crawled out from underneath the shelves and rejoined the fight again. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead and his dark wand snapped forward in a blur.
'They're not wrong.' Tristan threw up a white wall of magic and covered behind it.
He pointed his wand at his thigh and forehead.
"Vulnera Sanentur."
The pain faded, yet the pounding within his skull and the ache in his limbs remained. Spells struck his shield in a shower of sparks and deep, thundering booms.
'I have to do something.' The fatigue began biting deeper. 'Better now than never...'
Tristan lowered his shield with a slash of his wand and thrust out his arms to either side. A torrent of magic pulsed off him in a blurry ripple of air. It clawed at the ground, the walls, and even at the ceiling of the common room, creeping deep through the stone and settling in the very last of the countless joints and cracks.
"Obey me!" The words escaped Tristan's mouth in a high, cold hiss.
His opponents froze in shock.
A sizzling tongue darted out of the mouth of a previously unmoving statue. The countless serpents carved into the walls, those decorating the fireplace and even the entrances to the dormitories suddenly sprang to life, hissing widely.
"What the fuck!" Brutus and his sister flinched back from the table when its snake-ornamented legs began licking the air with thin tongues.
The reptiles flung from wherever they had been attached to and dropped low. Some were barely the size of a quill, others stretched over two meters in length, with bodies as thick as small trees.
They crawled over the stone tiles like a hissing throng until the area around his housemates looked like a carpet of dark, coiling scales and slim twitching bodies.
Malfoy and his ilk recovered from their shock. Flashes of light struck the snakes, blasting those that were hit into a bloody pastry of entrails and spasming tails.
"Bind them!"
The serpents wriggled up the Lestrange twins' legs and arms. Dark, slithering scales lurched for the wands of Tristan's housemates or bit into their fingers with sharp fangs. Overwhelmed by sheer number, their wands plunged from their grasps and rolled over the stone tiles.
"This is why I was chosen by the Goblet of Fire, Malfoy, and not any of you…"
Tristan waved his wand in an ark and summoned the pieces of wood to his side of the common room, tossing them over his shoulder. Triumph flooded every sense of him, forcing away the pain, ache, and fatigue as he strode towards them.
"Because your family's carefully groomed connections don't matter to it."
The coals in the fireplace crackled and hissed madly the closer he got, flames flaring high and bright. The countless serpents stilled around their victims, each of them bowing its head in submission and tracing him with their slit-pupil eyes and whispering tongues.
"Because the mountains of gold your families hoard deep down underneath Gringotts don't matter to it."
Tristan cleared his path, sweeping aside the rubble with a lazy flick of his wand before thrusting it at Malfoy, the Lestranges, and Crouch, tossing all four of them back into the demolished bookshelves.
"Because the lofty offices and high positions your families hold at the Ministry don't matter to it."
He silenced their whimpers of pain and heaved them up on their knees, their arms locked behind their backs by tightly coiled serpents.
"I was chosen because I am better than you."
Tristan's lips curled in a sharp smile as he thrust his wand up high at the ceiling of the common room.
"Because I am... greater than you."
Magic erupted from him in volatile dark surges and angrily wrenching black mist that coiled tight around his fingers and arms. He remained calmly at the very center of the squall, shining brightly like a pulsing beacon in the storm.
"And I think it's time you learn your place..."