November 13th, 1995
A gloomy sky loomed through the slim lead-edged window panes of the fairly small classroom, spotting the glass with droplets of rain. The desks had been pushed away to the back, leaving a large space in the middle, with only three of them placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of red velvet.
Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks. Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch wearing disgustingly bright magenta robes and winding her peroxide blond curls around a thick finger that ended in a two-inch long, sharp, crimson-painted nail.
'For fuck's sake,' Tristan sighed as he strode through the weathered, wooden doorway. 'Who the hell let bloody Rita Skeeter in the Castle?'
He carefully maneuvered into Skeeter's blind spot and surveyed the room.
Krum and Karkaroff leaned against the wall opposite him, watching him like a set of hawks, the former with his thick, dark brows drawn into a deep scowl, the latter with a nasty sneer, one hand curled into his small, silver goatee, the other on his wand.
Fleur Delacour stood within Madame Maxime's massive shadow. Her platinum-blonde hair was held together in an intricate bun and almost sparkled in the flashes of a camera.
Her large blue eyes followed him through the room, her pale expression didn't betray any emotions, not even when the paunchy man snapped an entire series of photos that left his camera smoking.
'Smile for the camera, darling.'
Tristan drew a large smile in the air with two fingers. Madam Maxime scolded. Delacour's lips twitched ever so slightly before she crossed her arms over her chest.
Bagman suddenly spotted him, got up quickly, and bounded forward.
"Ah, here he is! Champion number three! Welcome to the wand weighing ceremony, Mr. Peverell. The rest of the judges will be here in a moment. They're with our expert upstairs now."
"I see." Tristan nodded.
"There's going to be a little photo shoot as well. I'm sure you've heard of Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing to the woman. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet."
"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Skeeter said, her eyes on Tristan.
"How... fascinating." Tristan flashed her a bright smile. "I'm dying to read it."
"Oh, I like our youngest contender already, he's got fire, doesn't he?" Skeeter licked her colored lips, thick fingers drumming against her crocodile-skin handbag. "I was actually wondering if I could have a little word with Mr. Peverell before we start?" she said to Bagman with her gaze still fixed on Tristan. "He is the Hogwarts' champion, you know… and of course, my readers are so curious to learn more about him and his... secretive upbringing."
"Well-" Batman fidgeted awkwardly with his fingers. "I don't see why not, unless Mr. Peverell has any objection?"
"None," Tristan smiled brightly, his voice dripping in sarcasm. "Let's do it right here so we won't miss the return of the other judges."
"Lovely, lovely, but we don't want to be in here with all this noise, do we? No, no, of course not." Skeeter let out a short burst of shrieking laughter that made his insides twist tightly. "I'm sure I remember seeing something nice and cozy on my way up here. Actually, it was right next to this classroom. Why don't we-"
"-surely you don't mean the broom cupboard, do you?" Tristan raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Ms. Skeeter, the witches I usually seek out in broom cupboards are a lot... uhm... younger than you." He let his eyes roam over her form and wrinkled his nose. "I should add that they're usually a lot prettier as well."
The hint of a snort sounded from where Delacour stood, barely disguised as a cough.
"You-" Skeeter looked as though she had been forced to swallow a cocktail of the worst types of Bertie Botts Beans. "I will-"
The door to the room opened and Professor McGonagall strode in swiftly, followed by Minister Crouch and an old wizard with large, pale eyes.
"Well, there goes your chance for an interview," Tristan shrugged apologetically. "Maybe just take some quick quotes next time?"
He strolled over to the three chairs and took a seat to the left. Delacour sat down in the middle, crossing her legs and flattening out the wrinkles in her blue skirt. Krum joined to the right, scowling as usual.
Up at the velvet-covered table, four of the judges took their seats with only McGonagall still standing.
"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander? He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."
Ollivander stepped into the empty space in the middle of the room, gray eyes large in excitement. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?"
'This will be interesting.' Tristan sharpened his mind. 'You can learn a lot about a witch or wizard by the way they treat their wand.'
Delacour gracefully rose from her chair, her skirt rustling around the thighs of her long legs. She floated to Mr. Ollivander and handed over a slender piece of light brown wood with a decorated, twisted handle, that she snatched from the slim belt around her waist.
"Mhmm." Ollivander turned the wand over in his long, delicate fingers, studying it for almost a full minute.
"Nine-and-a-half inches of inflexible rosewood, a rather uncommon wood to use in a wand but with an even more uncommon core."
Ollivander's head snapped up to Delacour, his gaze flickering to her hair. "Veela hair, I would imagine?"
Delacour remained silent, merely watching him, as he twirled her wand in his fingers with a curious gleam in his eyes.
"This is a beautiful wand, with an extraordinarily strong bond to its wielder, Ms. Delacour." Ollivander ran his fingers along its entire length, apparently checking for scratches or bumps.
'A strong bond allows for a better flow of magic but at the end of the day it's still the power and skill of the wielder that matters the most.' Tristan stored what he'd learned safely to memory. 'Still, I presumed correctly that she's not to be underestimated.'
"Orchideous!"
Bright yellow roses burst from Delacour's wand tip in a flowery fountain and fell to the floor.
'Petite Fleur, you forgot your flowers.' Tristan's mouth tugged into a faint grin as he watched Delacour retrieve her wand and swirl on the spot to stride back to her seat.
"Mr. Krum, if you please."
Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his thick, short dark wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.
'He is Bulgarian.' Tristan mused. 'Five galleons says it was made by Gregorovitch.'
"Hmm," said Ollivander. "Yes, this is definitely a Gregorovitch creation. A fine wand-maker, one of the best there is."
'The very best, according to Father.' Tristan watched patiently as Ollivander lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes. 'Even Mother's wand was made by him, despite her being born in Britain.'
"Yes, hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he asked Krum, who nodded briefly in confirmation before continuing his scowling.
"Rather thicker than one usually sees… quite rigid… ten-and-a-quarter inches…"
'In other words the wand of someone who relies on brute force to overcome an obstacle, certainly not much of a strategist.' Tristan's gaze shifted to Karkoroff, who was stroking his goatee. 'But that's where you're supposed to come into play, isn't it?'
"Avis!"
The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.
"In good working order." Ollivander handed Krum back his wand, his gray eyes immediately flickering to Tristan. "Which only leaves… Mr. Peverell."
'I suppose the cat's out of the bag now.'
Tristan got to his feet and let the length of his pale wand glide into his palm, spinning it between his fingers.
"I've always been so curious..." Ollivander's eyes followed the spinning wood. A strange gleam dwelled up in their foggy depths. "After all, neither you nor your siblings ever visited me in Diagon Alley."
"I'm sure you'll still enjoy seeing this one again," Tristan handed over his wand with a small smile.
'Just be careful, I'm very fond of it...'
Ollivander's curious expression froze shortly after he accepted the wand and ran a finger down its length. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Peverell. So how is it that you wield a wand of mine that I don't remember selling to you?"
All five judges edged forward in their seats with deep frowns. Skeeter looked like her end-of-the-year bonus had been doubled.
"Theft of course!" Karkaroff leered triumphantly. "He should be arrested on the spot!"
"No, not theft," Ollivander whispered, eyes lighting up in realization. "I did sell this wand many decades ago and I received my seven galleons for it. It just wasn't Mr. Peverell I sold it to." His child-like surprise faded as quickly as it rose and he turned pale as a ghost. "But how did you get in possession of this wand?"
"The wand chooses the wizard," Tristan replied cryptically with a small smile. "This one chose me when I was just a toddler after I summoned it straight into my chubby little fists."
"How... remarkable!" Ollivander exhaled. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches of inflexible yew, with a phoenix feather in its core." The wandmaker held it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly. "At least that was the case when I first sold it."
"We had the length slightly adjusted for me," Tristan admitted.
"Naturally, naturally," Ollivander nodded. "How utterly fascinating."
Crouch interrupted Ollivander's musings by audibly clearing his throat. "Mr. Ollivander, as a judge I demand to know who you've originally sold this wand to."
"Serpensortia," Ollivander whispered.
An ebony serpent lurched from the yew wand with its fangs ablaze in a puff of black vapor. It coiled tightly around itself in mid-air before wilting away like smoke in the breeze.
The panel of judges froze. Skeeter leaned forward in her seat, quill at ready, licking her lips in anticipation with wide eyes.
"Mr, Peverell's wand is still in as good a condition as when I first sold it to a young orphan named Tom Riddle," Ollivander handed the wand back to Tristan, his pale fingers trembling slightly. "Mr. Riddle later became known as-"
"Lord Voldemort," McGonagall gasped, clutching her chest.
A heavy silence filled the small classroom, only interrupted by the frantic scribbling of Skeeter's quill.
"This- this is preposterous!" Karkaroff was the first to find his words. "We can't allow him to compete with a wand like that! This wand has-"
"performed great things for his previous owner - terrible, yes, but great." Ollivander fixed the judges with his pale stare. "Wands don't take lives, they don't perform torture, and they don't make others carry out your will. Only a witch or wizard can do that by funneling their intent through a wand."
The five judges sat tightlipped behind their velvet-covered desks, all eyes on Tristan. Crouch eventually cleared his throat, black eyes cold and distant. "I think it's best if we still intervene and-"
"Pardon me, Minister, I forgot to make my final call," Ollivander smoothly fell into his words. "I hereby declare all three wands of the competitors clear for usage in the upcoming tasks." He turned to the three champions with his pale eyes shining like moons. "Three wands, as different as their wielders. May the odds be ever in your favor in what's to come."
'He is bound to the Goblet in his role as the official wand inspector.' Tristan realized after reciting Ollivander's wording, stifling a grin as he caught Crouch's sour expression. 'With him declaring my wand acceptable there's nothing the judges can do now.'
"Well, thank you all," McGonagall said, bridging the awkward silence as she stood up at the judges' table. "You may go down to the Great Hall now, dinner shall be served shortly."
The burly man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.
"Photos, Headmistress, photos!" Bagman cried excitedly.
"Yes, Mr. Bagman-" McGonagall took a deep breath and forced a strained smile on her thin lips, "-how could I forget those..."
"All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?" Bagman suggested.
"Er - yes, let's do those first," Tristan felt Skeeter's eyes on him as they were steered into position. "And then perhaps some individual shots."
'This will take a while,' Tristan sighed as he and Delacour were yet again moved around because Madame Maxime cast them into a shadow.
Eventually, she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group, and the photographer and Skeeter were involved in some silent argument on whether to drag Tristan or Delacour into greater prominence.
During the separate shots of every champion, Tristan was finally granted a short breather and stepped in the back.
A soft, French-accented voice drifted up from behind him. "Smile for the camera, Monsieur Peverell..."
A whiff of vanilla filled his nostrils and silver stepped into the corner of his eye.
"Perhaps you can give me some pointers?" Tristan glanced down into large summer-sky blue eyes. "Isn't this your forte?"
"Whatever gave you that impression?" Delacour's smirk widened a fraction and she stepped even closer. "Victor Krum is the one used to the spotlight. You should ask him."
He laughed, downplaying the hitch in his breath. "I doubt I'd be able to portray the sulking quidditch star nearly as well as he does."
"Non," Delacour whispered, reaching out with a pale finger and trailing it along his jawline. "I do not think so either."
Tristan froze as her fingertip made contact. He sucked in a gulp of air but all he got was a mouthful of sweet vanilla. Delacour's eyes glowed like stars in the night sky; silver-blonde hair cascaded over deep blue irises like shimmering silk.
His pulse began racing. Tristan held his breath and wiped his mind blank.
"You have a very nice smile," her warm breath washed over his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You should show it more often."
She stepped away from him with a triumphant smirk. The hem of her blue skirt danced around her thighs as she floated over to Madam Maxime to have their photos taken together.
'Bloody hell.'
He brought a hand to where he could still feel her lingering touch on his jaw and waited for his heart to settle and his breath to even out.
'You win this one, Delacour, but next time I'll be prepared.'
Tristan dutifully posed for his photos when it was his turn, thankful to finally escape the predatory gleam in Delacour's eyes.
He stormed out of the classroom the moment they were dismissed. The length of the corridor blurred by until he vanished through a set of heavy black curtains into the hidden alcove behind it, shuffling for the Map in his backpack.
He checked the second floor, his gaze traveling to the girl's bathroom.
"I really feel like blowing off some steam after that..."
The taunting smirk on Delacour's rose-pink lips drifted into his inner eye like dandelion seeds in a breeze. A flare of heat raced through his veins and moved south.
"Alright, I'm pretty sure now it's just my hormones going crazy," Tristan cursed. "Maybe I should go for a different sort of... release."
He stifled a small smile and searched the Map for a specific name. "Adelaide did say I should seek her out anytime I feel like it and I've been busy ever since Halloween..."
Tristan checked the dungeons and Hufflepuff common room first and worked his way up each consecutive floor. By the fourth floor, he still hadn't found her and was about to skip to the fifth when a small nametag and unmoving pair of ink footsteps in the hospital wing had his blood run cold.
Galahad Peverell
Tristan slammed shoulder-first through the curtains back into the corridor. The Map was roughly plowed into his backpack as he broke out into a sprint and shrank everything down to fit in his pockets.
Cold panic seized hold of him, prodding his heart into hammering as he took three steps at a time up the Giant Staircase.
He reached the fourth-floor sweating and panting heavily and ran down the empty corridor to the infirmary tower in the last rays of sunlight that spilled through the windows. Tristan came to a slithering halt in front of the large, closed doors to the wing and twisted the handle.
It remained firmly shut and didn't give an inch.
Dark mist spewed from the wand in his sleeve in the hiss of anger that escaped his lips. It shredded the fabric of his uniform, curling around his fingers in a wash of ice and wrenching the handle out of its anchoring.
He kicked the door open and burst inside, stumbling over slippery white tiles. He barely caught his balance and glanced down to the floor in surprise. Spurts of blood formed a trail deeper into the hall.
Tristan swallowed hard, forcing down a ferocious surge of fright. "Galahad?!"
He sprinted past the matron's office and the tall frames of famous healers. "Galahad?!"
"Who is there?" Madam Pomfrey's face, crowned by a hospital cap, peeked out from behind a curtain-wrapped ward, wrinkles of worry marred her face. "Mr. Peverell, I must ask you to-"
A fist of ice clenched in his chest.
"Move!" Tristan ignored her and ripped the curtains apart; its many hooks scattered over the white tiles by the dozen.
Galahad lay motionless in the bed behind Pomfrey, his eyes closed, his white hospital gown speckled with patches of dark crimson.
The world spun. His vision swam as he stumbled closer.
Stray black curls poked up from underneath his brother's heavily bandaged head. Both of Galahad's shoulders were in blood-drenched casts and one knee was lifted upward.
'Who did this?!'
He whirled to Madam Pomfrey's, nails digging so deep into the palms of his fists they drew blood. "What happened to him?! What happened to my brother?!"
"I will answer your questions after I have treated my patient, Mr. Peverell!" the matron retorted hotly.
She bolted around Tristan to his brother with an entire tray of steaming potion vials and placed them on his bedside table.
Shaking from head to toe and with his heart racing, Tristan watched as she administered one after the other. His stomach clenched tight with each low groan that left his brother's pale lips.
"He will make a full recovery," Pomfrey shared when he still hadn't moved an inch after she was done. "But it might take longer if I have to work around an obstacle."
Movement stirred in the corner of his eye. Tristan tore his wand from his tattered sleeve in a flood of black haze and moved protectively in front of his brother's bed.
McGonagall froze wide-eyed in her step, clutching her chest. "What in Morgana's name are you doing here, Peverell?!"
Tristan ignored her too and stepped in front of the witch she had arrived with. "What happened to my brother?!"
Madam Hooch flinched back in freight. "I- he-"
"Speak!" Tristan hissed, his voice bordering parseltongue.
"Your brother had an accident during his scheduled flying lesson with the other first years, Mr. Peverell!" McGonagall stepped in front of her staff, seizing the instructor's trembling hand.
"Bullshit! Galahad learned how to fly before he learned how to walk!" A flare of heat cursed through Tristan's veins in a fiery roar. "He doesn't have fucking accidents!"
"Mr. Peverell, your brother lost control and fell from his broom. He was immediately brought up here by Madam Hooch," McGonagall replied decisively. She eyed Tristan's wand warily, her own hand sneaking down to her waist. "Now I suggest you take a calming draught and-"
The realization struck like lightning. 'They did this...'
"It was them, wasn't it?" Tristan whispered, shoving down an avalanche of anger beneath a shaky gulp of air. "Because they knew I'd be at the Wand Weighing around that time."
'They did this to my brother...'
"Who are 'they'?" McGonagall frowned at him tight-lipped. "Mr. Peverell, who do you mean?"
Her words bounced off of his ears. The yew wand turned hot between his fingertips, humming like a war drum. He glanced over his shoulder at the motionless, bandaged form of his younger brother.
'I failed you, Galahad.' Hot guilt clawed at him with iron fangs, tearing out entire chunks of his twisted insides. 'I failed to protect you and now you got hurt.'
Tristan whirled on the spot and leaped over the torn-down curtains and scattered hooks past the professors.
'But I will never fail you again.'
"Mr. Peverell, where do you think you are going now?!" McGonagall's voice echoed after him. "Mr. Peverell-"
He hurried to the exit, dragging Valeria's bright smile and laughter to the forefront of his mind and thrusting out his arm.
"Expecto Patronum!"
An ethereal raven burst from the tip of his wand and flapped its large wings, throwing its beak back in a shrill crow.
"Find Valeria," Tristan hissed in parseltongue. "Tell her to watch Galahad in the infirmary!"
He sent the Patronus on its way through the tiles with a flick of his wand.
Tristan yanked the doors to the hospital wing open and strode out into the dark corridor; the raging storm in his breast flared bright with each breath. Cold adrenaline flooded his senses and banished any other thoughts but one.
'They will pay for this.'
The dimly-lit corridor he followed led straight back to the Giant Staircase. He twirled his wand between his stiff fingers over and over again in anticipation; black mist leaked from it, coiling tight around his fingers and wrist.
He passed around a corner; a red beam flared in the corner of his eyes.
Tristan whirled around and swatted the stunner aside. He unleashed a storm of curses in the general direction it was shot from, scorching deep gashes into the walls and ceiling as he forced his arm faster.
Pain ripped through his lumbar and flared across his left shoulder.
Tristan staggered backward with a cry. He threw up a sturdy shield with a wince and glanced over his throbbing shoulder. Shadows lurked from behind the sparkling suits of armor he had just passed; glowing wand tips pointed straight at him.
"Take him down! Now!"
Tristan leaped to the side and poured his magic into the forged steel with a roar. The suits sprang to life in an eerie purple gleam and rotated in their stands. They seized the shadows hiding behind them in armored grips and squeezed until screams echoed from the walls.
A flash of yellow tore whispering past his head and charred deep into the dark stone behind him, spitting out chunks and splinters.
"Come here, little Peverell!"
Diana Lestrange screeched as she jumped into Tristan's path, firing bright red curses from her wand in quick succession, violet eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.
"Let's have a dance!"
"I think I'll decline." Tristan swept her sideways against the harsh wall with a sickening crunch. He tore the tapestry of a pumpkin farm down from its hangings and wrapped Diana in it like a mummy, hoping she might suffocate.
Limping and panting he reached the Giant Staircase, clutching his agonizing shoulder and glancing down the plunging depth below.
A foursome of silver-and green-highlighted students stood on the next floor, waiting impatiently for the staircase to arrive. The very moment it connected the two floors, they hurried up the flight of stairs with their wands drawn, firing sizzling curses at him.
"Oh fuck," Tristan gasped and thrust his magic into the unyielding stone to his feet. "How many of you are there?"
He transfigured the series of steps into a steep, flat ramp. His assailants stumbled and slipped past down into a clump of limbs; they hurried over to the other side where the next staircase moved into a favorable position.
"Oh no, you don't." Tristan banished the railing back down at them to block their path, hurling up a cloud of stone splinters and thick dust.
A flash of agony tore through his right leg and a triumphant cry echoed from the corridor behind him as he stumbled face first to the ground. He was up on his feet in an instance, summoning the yew wand back into his palm in a flood of wrenching black mist while he ducked underneath sizzling curses.
Tristan threw up a shield and retreated up the staircase, ignoring the searing pain lancing through his limb with each step he climbed.
Spells burst against his shield in a firework of sparks and the white wall of magic flickered. Sweat trickled down his temples as he held on desperately. The fatigue bit deep, ripping a groan from his lips.
"He cannot escape you now!" Malfoy's voice boomed over the spellfire. "Tire him out and take him to me!"
Tristan abandoned his shield and pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder. Orange curses blasted apart the railings to either side of him, hurling up smoke and debris.
He twisted on his good leg, batting away two more hexes before he poured a torrent of thick black smoke down onto his assailants.
The spellfire faded for loud coughs and shouts of disorder.
"Don't let him escape!" Caspar Crouch screamed.
Tristan made a sharp turn and stumbled up to the next floor as fast as his injured leg would take him. He glanced over his shoulder, already catching the first of his pursuers sprinting out of the smoke into the open.
"Fuck!"
He thrust his wand to either side of him. Whispering tongues of black magic yanked the torches and portraits from their anchorages along the walls. Tristan tossed them down the stairs, pilling them up into a blazing obstacle as wide as the staircase.
A blasting curse seared past his ribs and burst a hole through where the staircase would've attached to the sixth floor and allowed him to escape. Tristan dragged himself up the final flight of stairs to the seventh floor instead, clawing the last dregs of his strength to stagger to his feet and limb into the dark corridor.
The triumphant howling of any pursuers who had already crossed his barrier followed him around the corners.
"Lumos!" Caspar Crouch shouted. "Look, there's blood all over the stone! He can't have gone far, this floor doesn't have any classrooms!"
"Check every corridor with 'homenum revelio' and stay together to sweep the entire area!" Malfoy ordered, his sleek voice euphoric in victory. "And don't let him single you out in the dark!"
Tristan hobbled past the tapestry of an ugly troll, drawing deep ragged breaths and gasping with each step. Trickling warmth soaked into his fingers where he clutched his damp robes and his leg felt like it might give out with any step.
Heavy footsteps echoed closer with each second.
'You bet I'll take as many of you with me as I can.' Tristan pulled himself up on the wall and gripped his wand tightly, hardening his heart for the inevitable.
"And so one last time we meet, Tristan Peverell," a soft voice drifted from above his shoulder.
He gasped and wrenched his torso around in a wince. The pearly figure of Helena Ravenclaw drifted through him in a shudder of wet coldness.
"He- Helena," Tristan gasped, pressing both hands on his weeping wounds. "If- If I survive the next hour or so, consider you- your debt repaid in full."
"So it will be." Her smile was like a summer breeze, gray eyes full of warmth. "And I will finally be free."
She pointed at the very wall he clung to.
"Walk past this exact stretch of wall three times and imagine the room you desire more than anything else," she instructed calmly. "Focus firmly on it, and don't waver in your concentration, Tristan Peverell, not even for a second." Her gaze dropped from his shoulder to his lumbar and she smiled sadly. "Move swiftly, you don't have time to lose..."
He spat a mouthful of blood. "You don't say..."
A desperate yearning gave him the tiniest flicker of strength and he tugged himself forward.
"I- I really hope craw- crawling will do as well," Tristan winced as he followed her directions.
'I need a room where I am safe. I need a room where I am safe. I need a room where I am safe.'
A golden handle and door frame emerged from the empty, blank stretch of wall. Tristan heaved himself up and twisted the handle.
"Farewell, Tristan Peverell."
He crawled over the threshold with one arm, watching Helena's smiling and waving outline flicker before it faded into nothingness. The light of a wand tip and a heavy set of footsteps echoed around the corner.
"There he is! I see him!" Brutus Lestrange growled triumphantly. "Take him!"
Spells struck against the door, some ricocheting into the room. Tristan pushed his weight against it with a deep groan and closed it shut. The furious pounding and angry yells of his assailants were swallowed by thick wood and faded into utter silence.
He slumped back down onto the cold tiles with a quiet sigh. Pain ripped through him in sharp throbs as he wheezed for breath. Crimson crept across the tiles and pooled underneath him drenching his uniform with warmth.
"I might be safe from Malfoy now-" a swell of irony burst in his throat, yet the laughter never made it past his tongue, "-but I'll still die all alone in the dark..."
A great weight hung on his eyelids, drawing them close at the end of each trembling breath out. The faint outline of the flickering chandelier hung high above him and slowly drifted into the dark distance.
"No..." Tristan groped for his wand with a guttural groan, "I was meant... to be great. I can't die like this!"
He pressed the tip of his wand to the profusely weeping wound by his lumbar and clawed deep for some magic.
"Vulnera Sanentur!"
The trickling stream of blood slowly lessened. A sigh of relief almost spilled from his lips when the wound broke open again, drenching his fingers with warmth.
"No..."
A cold blanket of hopelessness wrapped itself tightly around him, applying pressure to his chest until the air was forced from his lungs. His siblings' bright laughter echoed out of a dark tunnel, a glimpse of light flickering at its far end.
'No!' Tristan refused to accept the inescapable. 'This is not how I will go down!'
"And if I can't heal my wounds-" he heaved his wand arm through a torrent of pain, pointing the pale tip straight above him at the ceiling like a candle holder, "-then my body has to do it itself..."
A ring of pulsing purple flames flared from the yew wand, twisting into the countless runic shapes and intricate patterns of glyphs, which had tormented his thoughts during the day and haunted his dreams at night ever since he had discovered them.
He trailed his wand over each wrist, blood dwelling from where it sliced his skin. The last purple ribbon burst in a shower of sparks above him and a searing heat crept from each limb toward his chest, biting deep into his flesh.
'I'm sorry, Dorea...'
Tristan drew in a last trembling breath and let the wave of agony wash over him before darkness yanked him into the abyss.
'But it's either this or certain death…'