November 23rd, 1995
Faint clouds drifted across the calm, blue sky of a cold November afternoon. Underneath it, the atmosphere in the Great Hall was one of tension and hectic excitement.
Students from all four Houses sat together in large groups, ignoring the loaded dishes on the tables in front of them. Some chatted excitingly or shared wild speculation about the task, others yowled and pointed their fingers at him in glee.
'But again every single eye in the Great Hall is set on me...'
"Did you eat enough?"
A bowl of mashed potatoes was pushed in front of him.
"Yes."
"Did you drink enough?"
A tall jug of pumpkin juice followed right after.
"Yes..."
"Did you-"
"Valeria, just give it some rest, will you?" Tristan sighed slightly irritated and pushed the dishes away. "I'm fine."
"Sorry," she murmured and bit her bottom lip, her face almost as pale as it had been three years ago during her sorting.
"Hey, I've got this." Tristan took a calming breath and reached out to take her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm prepared, trust me."
"I believe you," she whispered. "And I believe in you, Tristan."
A small chuckle rolled from his lips. "Good to know someone does."
The noise around him rose.
McGonagall hurried down the few steps from the staff table. The crowd parted for her and watched intently as she headed straight to where he was seated.
'This is it then...'
"Mr. Peverell, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now... You have to get ready for the first task."
'This is my chance for glory...'
"Thank you, Professor." Tristan snatched up his wand and rose from the bench.
Valeria leaped up as well beside him and hurled herself against him. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him tight.
"Good luck! Stay safe, please," she whispered into his chest. "Don't do anything stupid for the sake of glory."
"I promise." He patted her back a few times before gently prying himself out of her embrace. "Catch some good shots of me from the stands, will you?"
"Prat," Valeria sobbed through a hitched breath.
Tristan turned, feeling his heartbeat slowly picking up pace. "I'm ready now, Professor."
"Good... yes," McGonagall cleared her throat, a strange expression dwelling up in her eyes as they flickered between him and his sister. "Follow me, please."
Hushed sniggers and muffled yowls accompanied them as they left the Great Hall together.
"Now, don't panic," McGonagall looked nearly as anxious as Valeria as she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold afternoon. "Just keep a cool head..."
"Sure."
"We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand..."
"Sounds good."
"The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you..."
"Nothing easier than that."
McGonagall paused and scowled at him. "Are you all right, Mr. Peverell?"
"I'm doing okay, Professor," Tristan shrugged. "I wouldn't have signed up for this if I couldn't deal with the nerves."
Her lips pursed but she continued her stride out over the courtyard. A structure had been hewn out of the ground by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It showed a great resemblance to one of the ancient amphitheaters he'd seen during a trip to Rome with his parents a few years ago.
"I'm still undecided whether your ability to keep a cool head is remarkable or utterly foolish, Mr. Peverell," McGonagall scoffed. "In any case, it fits much better with my former House than yours."
"The Sorting Head actually offered me a choice back then, Ma'am." Tristan studied the size and width of the arena. "I think I made the right choice. Or at least I don't think I'd be here right now if I hadn't chosen the way I did."
'All those obstacles and challenges made me who I am.'
They headed for the large white tent to the right of the arena, which was already surrounded by reporters, teachers, and other spectators.
"Does the first task involve avoiding Rita Skeeter, Ma'am?"
"No, Mr. Peverell." McGonagall finally came to a stop, her lips thin. "You're to go in here with the other champions," she said in a rather shaky voice. "Mr. Bagman will be telling you all the - the procedure." Her eyes flickered down to the Hogwarts crest on his uniform and softened momentarily. "Good luck, Mr. Peverell."
"Thank you, Headmistress." Tristan waited a few seconds until she had left and his breath evened out to some degree before he went inside.
Viktor Krum brooded by one of the tent poles. His head snapped up; the already impressive scowl shifted even deeper and his jaw tightened.
Fleur Delacour leaned against the other pole, perhaps a bit paler than usual, but aside from that no worse for wear. Her eyes lit up playfully and her lips curled into a small smirk as she watched him enter.
Tristan rolled his eyes and strode straight past her. 'I'm really not in the mood for your silly veela mind games right now.'
The exit of the tent parted, allowing him to catch a tiny glimpse at the stands of an arena that began filling with students before Bagman's impressive belly blocked the view.
"You're all here," he boomed, looking like a slightly overblown cartoon figure as he rubbed his hands in excitement. "Perfect."
Mr. Crouch strode in after him, his black cloak rustling around his polished boots. A gangly, spectacled redhead followed right on his heels.
'Looks like Percy Weasley left Hogwarts and went straight for the highest arse to kiss.'
Weasley kept his freckled nose high in the air and ignored him completely. He remained tightly at the Minister's side, holding a small bag.
'Looks like neither did he forget about me and Penelope Clearwater.'
"Stick your hand in the bag to draw out your opponent and the number indicating the order in which you will compete," Mr. Crouch ordered. "Your task will be to subdue whatever creature you draw."
'Subdue?' Tristan eyed the bag warily. 'I don't suppose there'll be nifflers and pixies in there, will they?'
"The champion who subdues their adversary the quickest will receive two clues for the second task," Crouch continued. "One clue will be given to whoever finished second. If you come in last you will receive no clues at all. Finishing the task efficiently and with as little injury as possible will give you the most points. However, do not underestimate the clues you might miss out on by taking the safe route. They will be vital in what is to follow."
His explanation was received in stoic silence, interrupted only by the hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, and joking.
"La-ladies first. Ms. De-Delacour, if you will," Bagman stammered with a slight blush.
Weasley approached Delacour with the bag. The color on his cheeks almost matched his hair, his expression slightly dreamy.
'Someone got caught lacking...'
Weasley received a deprecatory look from the veela as she tossed a veil of platinum over her shoulder and thrust her fingers inside the bag. Her pale face twitched momentarily. Then her fist came out clutching a miniature black cat, with sharp spikes for its mane, glowing golden eyes, and a tag with the number two.
"The North-African Nundu," Bagman whispered excitedly. "The deadliest magical cat known to Wizarding Kind."
A low chuckle slipped from Tristan's lips. "What a... fitting match."
Delacour threw a sharp look at him. Her narrowed eyes were closer to pitch-black than their usual summer sky blue. The Nundu's long, pointed tail broke free from her tight grasp and curled around her wrist. It bared tiny, sharp fangs in a low hiss.
'Why is she mad? Looks like they're bonding already...'
"Mr. Krum, you're next." Bagman beamed.
Krum stomped across and snatched a red creature with bulging eyes from the bag. It crept along the length of his palm, snorting small bursts of fire and stretching its bright crimson wings to reveal a small tag with the number one. Krum's frown deepened into a scowl.
"You'll be the first to compete, Mr. Krum," Bagman whistled appreciatively. "Against the Chinese Fireball."
Tristan winced. 'I don't know how large the real one gets, but I certainly don't envy him for facing a bloody dragon.'
"And now the home team, Mr. Peverell."
Weasley turned and thrust the sack of purple silk at Tristan. Fury hovering behind the thick-rimmed spectacles.
Tristan met his stare with a sharp, cold smile as his hand slowly dipped into the bag. His fingers met something cold as ice. He forced himself not to flinch and grabbed it tightly before retrieving it.
'What the hell is that?'
Tiny black shadows pried themselves free from within his fist. He opened his fingers and stared at the tattered, smoking piece of dark fabric that rose and wrenched around on his open palm in faint hisses and furious whispers.
"A Lethifold," Bagman murmured in awe. "There's less than a dozen left in Europe. This one was particularly difficult to get and they've never been used in a task before, Mr. Peverell."
'Bloody hell.' Tristan watched the shadow plunge a series of tiny fangs into his index finger, sending a chill prickle up his arm and down his spine. 'I think I'd much rather face a dragon or an overgrown cat instead of this abomination.'
A whiff of vanilla filled his nostril and something silver stepped into the corner of his eye. "Who's got the... fitting match now, Tristan?"
He didn't bother to reply. Instead, he swallowed heavily and clawed through his mind for anything he knew about Lethifolds. Words from one of the oldest tomes in the Black library rose from the back of his mind.
'Lethifolds show strong similarities to dementors. They infest places of great evil. Somewhere things occurred that were so terrible, that the poor souls who suffered through them won't pass on and remain on this earth as shadows; slipping around the darkness and feeding on lingering pain and sorrow.'
"How incredibly exciting." Bagman's overly chipper voice shook him from his thoughts and he glanced up to catch the man bouncing on his feet.
"We'll proceed in that order," Crouch declared.
His black eyes lingered on the puff of ebony mist that escaped the clutches of Tristan's hand. When they snapped back up to meet Tristan's expression, something gleeful dwelled in their narrowed depths.
'He seems awfully happy with the drawing.'
"At the sound of the cannon you need only go through the entrance and-,"
A loud boom echoed through the tent as if said cannon had been fired right above it.
"Well, I guess that means you're out of preparation time already, Mr. Krum," Bagman chuckled heartily. "But don't worry, as compensation you'll be allowed to watch the performance of those competitors that come after you."
'A rather poor compensation.' Tristan smothered a small smile. 'With my family watching the task, I can simply ask them to share the memory of the other champions with me in Father's pensieve.'
Krum seemed to agree since he tossed the model of his dragon aside with a scowl. He grabbed his wand and shuffled outside without bothering them with another glance. Bagman, Crouch, and Weasley slipped out through the side of the tent, leaving him behind with Delacour.
Tristan began pacing up and down the length of the tent, clutching the Lethifold and one hand and spinning his wand in the other.
'If Lethifolds are similar to dementors, then perhaps a Patronus charm will work.' His thoughts were racing furiously as he studied the violently thrashing creature in his grasp. 'But a Patronus only repels dementors. My task is to fully subdue it.'
The crowd roared from the arena and the enraged bellow of a dragon echoed through the tent.
"Are you nervous, Tristan?" Mirth echoed in Delacour's soft, high voice. "Regretting what you've signed up for already?"
"I'm not in the mood for games right now, petite Fleur," Tristan rolled his eyes. "You're about to have your feathers plucked like a chubby goose by some overgrown African cat. We'll see who gets the last laugh."
"I don't lose, Tristan." She twirled her slim rosewood wand over her head, showering herself in white, swirling magic.
Her blue uniform discarded its sleeves and tightened into something more athletic. Her slim black shoes flatten by the heel and her long silver hair tied itself into a tight bun on top of her head.
"I never have, and I don't intend to start now."
'Was it really necessary to charm everything that tight?'
Tristan fought the urge to run his eyes down the length of her body. "It'd do you really good to get humbled for once." Her curves began drawing him in and so he stared intently at the ceiling instead.
"It's okay. I don't mind if it's you who sneaks a peek at me, Tristan." Soft sweet laughter filled the tent. "Tell me, do you like it when I tie my hair up?"
"It suits you well." He smothered a small smile. "But I think I prefer it when Adelaide does it for me."
"Yes, I imagine you would," she smirked and floated closer to him on light feet. "Has Adelaide been successful the other night? Did she manage to take your... mind off things?"
'No...'
"Yes." Tristan smiled over the flare of heat cursing through his veins, bright and hot. "Oh yes, she definitely did."
"Liar." Delacour's smirk widened. A strange little gleam appeared in her blue eyes.
By now she had stepped right underneath his chin and winked up at him from underneath impossibly long lashes. Sweet vanilla filled his nostrils and fuddled his senses.
The breath slipped from his lips. His heart lurched and Delacour's eyes, sparkling bright as stars, slowly drifted closer as she rose on her tiptoes.
The cannon thundered.
"That was a lie, Tristan." Her lips brushed over his jaw, smooth and soft as silk, but leaving a burn like boiling water the moment she retreated.
"Good luck." Delacour shot him one last heated look over her shoulder and stalked out.
"Fucking hell." Tristan breathed, liquid heat coursed through his veins in sweet little thrills.
'This sneaky little veela just cost me half of my preparation time.' He thrust the yew wand forward. Purple ribbons of magic began counting the seconds that passed. 'First I'll beat you in this task, then I'll beat you at your little mind games, petite Fleur.'
Tristan leaned against one of the tent's poles with a soft sigh and glanced down at puffs of cool black smoke escaping his fist.
"But for that I need to have a solid plan on how to deal with you..."
He opened his palm. The small, tattered cloak immediately wrenched around his fingers, leaving his skin prickling.
'If you're like a dementor you probably prefer dark, cold, and miserable places. I do know just the fire spell to send you straight back to hell.'
Tristan weighed the option carefully, balancing his wand on his index fingers while the crowd screamed, yelled, and gasped like a single many-headed entity.
'That would certainly work, but I'm not too keen to reveal such a power so early in the tournament when it's not absolutely necessary.'
The cannon boomed and his counter stopped just short of five minutes.
"That was definitely faster than Krum and judging by the applause petite Fleur must have done rather well." He tossed the model aside with a grimace and straightened.
"But it doesn't matter." Tristan tightened the grip on his wand and strode towards the exit. "You're good, Fleur, I'll give you that. Very good even."
Ambition rose in his chest and flared through his veins in hot spikes of adrenaline.
'But I am meant to be great...'
The tent opened into a short, rocky passageway. Tristan followed it until bare rock stretched up to where the stands of the arena rose. Large boulders blocked his vision into some of the corners.
Hundreds and hundreds of faces stared down at him. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Tristan couldn't tell.
He paused and slowly peered around the first boulder. 'Shouldn't there be some abomination straight from hell out here?'
He slowly crept forward with the yew wand held high, blocking out the noises of the crowd until everything he felt was the pounding of his heart and the pleasant hums of the wood between his fingertips.
"Come out, come out wherever you are…"
The world swirled around him and drowned in darkness. Damaged, black-tiled walls rose in front of the stands, the faces of the spectators vanished behind them. The rock underneath his feet smoothened into a splintered dark wooden floorboard and a ceiling of crumbling plaster
blocked out the sun and sky.
Tristan let out a small sigh. 'Of course I can't fight it in the open. That would've made it too easy...'
"Lumos."
Three pulsing orbs of white magic burst from the tip of his wand and hovered around him. The dark corridor ahead of him swallowed the light allowing barely a few meters of vision.
Tristan touched the tip of his wand to the crooked tiles of the walls to his left, meeting staunch resistance.
'Must be some sort of illusion like the ones in my favorite room.' He strode further down the corridor. 'Definitely the work of Unspeakables.'
A feeling of dread radiated from the cracked walls and grew stronger with each step he took until a frigid chill settled at the base of his spine.
'There's something very wrong with this place.'
Pain, despair, and fear bled from the walls. His stomach churned and sweat dotted across his skin. The air around him suddenly turned so thick, Tristan was afraid he might choke if he breathed in too sharply.
Dark mist swirled around his fingers, cold as ice. "I hate this place."
The sharp stench of rotten flesh and blood rose from the wooden floorboard. Shadows moved all around him, fluttering like capes in the wind, teasing him with their stalking dance.
He reached another corner and carefully peered around it.
The sound of cloth being slid across a hard surface echoed from the corridor's black end. The strange noise slithered closer along the walls around him, bringing with it the cold feeling of dread as it drew closer. Soon enough, it was all Tristan could hear; the scraping of fabric, like nails pulling across a chalkboard.
"Expecto Patronum!"
An ethereal raven exploded from his wand and illuminated the corridor for a split second before thick shadows lurched from the darkness like a multi-headed serpent.
Tattered fabric swallowed his Patronus in an angry hiss and tossed Tristan sideways against the wall. Pain flared bright across his back and the taste of copper filled his mouth.
A scream of bloodthirst rang through his ears. He ducked low and dodged the twisting shadow. Its swing shattered the tiles above his head and showered him in sharp splinters and plaster.
'Enough of this.'
Tristan wrenched his wrist around with a roar. A torrent of black magic swept the splinters and dust aside and threw the shadow down the length of the corridor.
He jumped back up to his feet and thrust his wand at the floorboard. Heat licked at the wood until it crackled and burst into flames that bellowed bright.
Tristan peered past the flickering tongues into the dense darkness. "Show yourself already."
A long black, tattered cloak, roughly half an inch thick and as wide as the corridor, reared forward with an angry high screech that had his blood freezing and his toes curling in his boots.
He gagged at the rotten stench radiating from it. "Yep, I would've definitely preferred a dragon over you…"
The Lethifold dashes forward with a terrible scream, nothing more than a black blur with pale claws poking out from underneath a tattered hood. It was gliding straight through the flames, they simply gushed out in faint hisses the moment it narrowed, as if water had been poured over them.
"Oh, fuck."
Tristan stripped the tiles from the walls with long, smooth waves of his wand. He forced his arm faster and hurled them at the approaching Lethifold. Tattered fabric zipped from the Lethifold's cloak and smashed the tiles into debris.
He poured his magic deep into the ceiling above, lacing the crooked plaster with his bubbling intent before he yanked his wand down.
The ceiling split open with a crack. The cloak wrenched forward still and turned into a twisting shadow. Loose stones and tiles rained from the ceiling, yet they passed right through the Lethifold without dealing any visible damage.
"What the hell-" Tristan cursed and stabbed his wand forward like a dagger. A bright, silvery shield spread from one side of the corridor across the other like the web of a spider.
The Lethifold smashed against it with a ringing gong, sending ripples outward. Tristan staggered backward with a wince.
It hurled itself forward into his shield again and again. Thin stripes of dark fabric wrapped themselves tightly around the wall of magic. Eventually, it shattered it in a shower of bright sparks and launched Tristan off his feet. He tumbled through the length of the corridor and landed hard on his back.
"That's it!" He coughed blood and gasped for breath, summoning his wand back into his palm in a flood of black mist. Hatred bubbled from his stomach and consumed his every thought.
'Fuck holding back any longer…'
"Fiendfy-"
Cold fabric snatched at his arms and twined tight around them like serpents before the spell rolled from his lips. Within a second he was effortlessly dragged over splintered wood and lifted off the floor to be pinned against the wall, sharp stone stabbing through his shirt into his back.
Black fabric crawled over his skin from his limbs toward his chest. Tristan trashed and wrenched around, desperately fighting against his binding with his feet dangling in the air.
The Lethifold began to smother Tristan with its shadowy body. His breaths came in short desperate spurts and the taste of decay and death stung in his nostrils. He caught a glimpse of a wide, gaping maw and rotten, jagged teeth underneath its ragged hood.
'Not like this...'
Tristan threw his head back far into his neck, clawed for every last bit of magic in his body, and exhaled.
'I refuse to die!'
Ebony wisps of magic spewed from his mouth and nose, leaked from his eyes and ears, and wrenched into tongues of black mist. They clawed at the Lethifold's silhouette; it screeched in agony as the magic bubbled through it like acid, leaving steaming holes in its tattered cloak.
Tristan tore his wand arm free and dragged the limb up, pointing it straight at the Lethifold's jagged maw. Bubbling hatred cursed through his veins in a hot, burning rush and an endless thirst for destruction screamed in his mind until he let it go with a roar.
"Fiendfyre!"
The blazing head of a serpent, large as Salazar's Basilisk, lurched from his wand with its jaw torn wide open and its fangs spread.
It ripped the Lethifold apart and coiled tight around the upper part while the lower half drifted down in a rustle of fabric. The crimson serpent plunged a set of blazing fangs, long as daggers, deep through the tattered, smoking fabric until it burst brightly into flames and melted into a bubbling tear-like substance that trickled to the floor.
Tristan hurled the beaming expressions, bright smiles, and delighted, careless laughter of his siblings into the screaming fiendfyre until the flames gutted out in soft hisses.
'Should've done that straight from the get-go.'
He leaned against the wall, taking deep ragged breaths. Heat flared up bright anywhere on his body he had been cut or injured. Chirps of stone and splinters of wood were spat out by his skin and rained out of both legs of his trousers.
'I'm definitely taking this one as a souvenir.' He summoned the small patch of steaming cloak that had survived the fiendfyre into his palm and stuffed it into his robes.
"Now then, shouldn't there-"
The black walls around him faded away like smoke in the breeze and the burning wood floorboard of the corridor shifted into dark stone, marred by deep scorch marks. Bright sunlight forced him to squint his eyes together tight, yet it was nothing compared to the noise that suddenly pounded his eardrums and had him flinch back in fright.
The crowd in the stands was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup, completely drowning out Bagman's commentary. Countless eyes stared down at him, wide in admiration, as they cheered him on and on.
'So now they all love me?' The swell of pride in his chest mixed with utter loathe and he had to force his face not to twist into a sneer. 'All because I've put on a show for them and nearly died?'
He slowly spun around on the spot, his gaze falling to the judges' panel where headmistress McGonagall conducted him in the direction of a second tent.
He quickly walked out of the enclosure and forced his breath to even out before meeting Madam Pomfrey at the mouth of a second tent.
"Inside with you quickly, Mr. Peverell!"
"Ma'am, I'm actually-"
"As if a dragon and Nundu weren't dangerous enough they had to include a bloody Lethifold!" She dragged him inside by the arm.
The tent was divided into cubicles; he could make out a broad shadow through the canvas, though it was sitting upright.
"Wait here, Mr. Peverell, I'll be right with you after checking in on Mr. Krum."
Tristan remained standing in the middle of the tent. 'He can't have been injured too badly if he's sitting.'
Fleur Delacour floated out from behind another cubicle. Not so much as a speck of ash or dirt was on her and all but a single stray of silver hair was out of place.
"You're still alive." Her blue eyes had their usual mirth to them as she ran them up and down his body, yet Tristan was certain he also spotted the faintest traces of admiration. "Good, I'm having so much fun with you."
"Looks like you still have all your feathers." Tristan quipped back.
She floated closer to him, her soft sweet laughter rang through his ear. "I told you I don't lose, Tristan."
"Have you won then, petite Fleur?" He swallowed, holding still as she paused underneath his chin and trailed a finger over his shoulder where the fabric had been torn apart. "How many points did you get?"
"41," she whispered and glanced up to meet his gaze, full red lips forming into an adorable pout. "But you… finished quicker than me, Tristan."
Tristan laughed. "This time I'll take it in pride."
Her hands brushed from his shoulder over his chest, her touch soft as a feather but leaving goosebumps in its wake.
"You should." There was a slight hitch in her breath and her blue eyes widened. "The magic you've shown… it was… incroyable."
Tristan cupped her hands in his, ignored their warmth and gently pried them away from his chest.
"The best you can hope for is a draw then." A flare of triumph spiked through his veins. He leaned in and brushed a single stray of silver hair behind her ear to whisper. "And that's just because I've taken a beating for not going all in directly. Next time I won't repeat that mistake, petite Fleur."
"Petite Fleur." Her lips parted in a small gasp and she shivered. "You're going to be so much fun, Tristan. I just know it. You're nothing like the other boys…"
'You're right. I'm nothing like them.'
Sweet, bright thrills cursed through his veins as he fought the urge to kiss those upturned, full red lips. Tristan slowly let his eyes roam down her pale, delicate neck, over the swell of her breasts and to their intertwined fingers.
He retrieved his hands. "Let's have fun after I've collected my points, petite Fleur."
"Oh no, you're going nowhere until I'm finished with you, Mr. Peverell." Pomfrey dashed around Krum's cubicle. "Take off your shirt and let me-"
"I said I'm fine, Madam Pomfrey," Tristan repeated a tat more forcefully and lifted her arm off of him. "I healed most of the scrapes myself already. Just cast your charms and see for yourself."
"Impossible." Pomfrey scoffed and immediately waved her wand all over him, muttering incantations under her breath. "Mr. Perevell, I saw that… thing toss you like a ragged doll, there's no way you-" She paused with a deep frown. "But- I don't- how?"
"Yes, Tristan." Delacour's soft voice drifted over his shoulder and he felt her eyes burn into his back. "How?"
"As I said, it was only some smaller cuts and I healed all of them myself already. I'll be collecting my points now."
He swiftly walked out of the tent.
Five judges sat in an elevated box overlooking the arena. Madam Maxime raised her wand, the grudging admiration visible on her large face, and shot a seven into the air. An eight rose from McGonagall's wand, followed by a nine from Bagman.
'So far so good.'
Karkaroff's face was twisted into a deep scowl, though the eight that left his wand came as a surprise, apparently even for the man himself. He stared at his wand dumbfounded and gritted his teeth.
You should be glad the Goblet merely adjusted your score up to what you really thought my performance deserved instead of punishing you.'
Crouch watched Karkaroff kick his chair back and storm from the judges' panel before raising his wand himself. A seven was shot in the air, though Tristan's eyes didn't deviate from the expression of utter loathing on the minister's face.
He quickly did the math. '39 isn't too bad for the first task and the additional clue more than makes up for the two point difference to petite Fleur.
The ecstatic cheers of the crowd drowned in the background and Tristan smothered a smile.
'It hardly matters whether they love or hate me. I've proven that I'm greater than them.'