February 21st, 1996
Fragments of pale wood lay scattered across a mosaic-patterned table; the frayed threads of a golden feather poking out from within the largest piece.
Tristan reached out and brushed his fingertips over them. They felt robbed of any warmth, not even the distant echo of his magic lingered in the cold, dead yew.
'Why?' Grief yanked at his heart, heavy as lead. 'Just why?'
"I'm really sorry, Tristan." His father's grave expression met him from across the table.
Tristan swallowed the thick lump in his throat and aligned the pieces of yew like he'd solve a puzzle. "Fix it, dad. Please."
His father's face fell. "Tristan... when a wand is damaged like that-"
"-please," he implored. "Just- just bloody try it."
A pale, knotted wand slipped into his father's palm and he pointed it at the scatter of fragments, taking a deep breath.
"Reparo."
A ripple of magic left the hairs on Tristan's arms and neck standing straight. Desperate longing swelled in his breast as he caught the splinters jerking, spasming, and even mending back together into larger pieces.
His hopes crumbled like cheap alabaster the second a faint sizzling sounded from within the wood and the threads of phoenix feather ground to ashes.
'It didn't work.'
Tristan's stomach knotted itself tightly and liquid heat prickled in his eyes.
'I shouldn't have even hoped...'
"It's okay." A warm weight leaned against his side and embraced him, whispering soothing words that fell on deaf ears as a hand brushed down his back.
"Not it's not," Tristan muttered into soft, lavender-smelling fabric. "I don't care what history that wand had, it was perfect for me. I'll never find anything like it."
"I thought just the same when I was your age, yet here I am with a much more suitable companion." His mother brushed his hair aside with soft fingers and kissed his forehead. "Very few wands are for eternity. This isn't the end of the world, dear."
"Why?" He gently pried himself out of her embrace and glanced from her to his father. "I just don't understand why..."
"I think it was Fawkes, Albus Dumbledore's familiar," his father murmured, tracing the tip of his wand through the small pile of ash amidst the wooden splinters. "I haven't seen him in 17 years, nor have I ever seen any other phoenixes, but it felt strangely familiar to him."
"Dumbledore's phoenix? Why would he-" Tristan fell silent with a frown, eyes flickering down. "He gave the feather..."
His father nodded grimly. "This one and one more. There's a brother wand of yours still at Ollivander's unless it has been sold by now."
"Ollivander never mentioned a brother wand during the Weighing," Tristan whispered, feeling his heart pounding slightly faster. 'No, don't start hoping now.' He crushed the rising yearning back down and took a shaky gulp of air. "But why would Fawkes destroy a wand containing his own feather?"
"We honestly don't know," his mother sighed. "The only pointer we have is that he's done it now instead of earlier."
"Did perhaps anything out of the ordinary happen during the second task?" his father asked. "Something related to your wand?"
'I used the killing curse for the first time.' A flash of emerald light washed over blood-drenched pinecones. 'But I've taken a life at the World Cup before, so it can't be that.'
Tristan dragged the dark, endless abyss to the forefront of his mind and clouded his thoughts before meeting his father's eye.
"Yeah, plenty happened," he snorted. "But I'm not the one who needs to explain."
His father's brows drew together and he exchanged a long look with his mother, sighing when she shot him a small nod.
"When your mother and I were your age, we were truly desperate. Voldemort loomed on the horizon, threatening to rip every one of our dreams away from us."
Tristan blinked. "What does that have to do with the Forbidden Forest?"
"You'll understand soon," his mother picked up from there. "Back then, we didn't stand a chance against Voldemort; we knew we needed to become much stronger in order to defeat him." She grasped his father's hand and squeezed it across the table. "So we studied branches of magic some might consider more... questionable, basically anything that gave us an edge."
Tristan didn't bother to hide his snort. "How about magic that allows you to dance around mere minutes after giving birth?"
"Very good, Tristan." Her lips quivered and she chuckled softly. "My body heals faster from injuries and exhaustion thanks to a ritual we underwent together. Venom was one of the key ingredients; the more potent and difficult to obtain, the greater its effects."
"And you chose Acromantula venom?" Tristan sighed. "And that's why Aragog's missing half his face and is pissed off at you two?"
"Close, but not quite." She cocked her head. "Aragog used to have a... mate, who was even larger than him. I wanted her venom."
"So you strolled into the Forbidden Forest and killed her for it. Just because you could..."
"They're monsters, Tristan." His father's eyes hardened. "Aragog's children would kill any first-year who lost themselves in the forest. They don't deserve your pity."
"Oh, believe me, I don't pity them." Phantom pain exploded over his backside and Tristan balled his fists. "Aragog ordered Valeria and me to be eaten alive."
His mother's face twitched into a grimace. "Will you tell us what happened? We will answer any other questions you might have in return."
'That sounds like a fair deal...' He smothered a small smile.
"I was the first to find the hostages. A dozen centauri guarded them in their territory of the forest." Tristan purposefully left out the ominous warning. "When I wanted to leave with Valeria, Aragog attacked with his entire colony and massacred the centauri, then rounded up on me."
His mother shifted on her chair and grabbed her husband's hand tighter. "How did you get out?" she whispered.
"I fought them off alone until one caught me in the back with its pincer; it all went downhill from there," The despair of watching Fleur's sister vanish behind the edge of the pit tugged at his thoughts. "I won't lie. For a moment, I- I really thought I was going to die there."
"Don't even say something stupid like that. You're not allowed to die!" His mother's eyes flashed like the sun on a glacier. "What happened then?"
"She came," Tristan whispered, pleasant heat fluttering through his breast. "Fleur came back for me..."
"Fleur Delacour?" She echoed incredulously. "She saved you and Valeria?"
"She cast the unyielding shield charm and fixed up my injuries well enough that I could fight again," Tristan admitted, a hint of shame prickling on his cheeks. "Together we created a distraction and escaped with both our sisters."
"Well that's an interesting twist in your story," his father grinned widely. "I don't envy you for what must be going on in that head and heart of yours right now, son."
His mother elbowed him in the rips and shot him a sharp look. "I can't believe this..." She looked like she was forced to swallow the worst type of Bertie Bott's Beans. "Of all people, she saved both my children."
"Alright, this is getting ridiculous." Tristan rolled his eyes. "And since you promised to answer my questions, I want to know what your deal is with her or with Veela in general."
She remained silent with pursed lips, arms crossed over her chest in a pout that rivaled her two daughters.
"Veela are a very... sensitive topic for your mother," his father chuckled, dodging her swatting hand. "Call it a trauma that has its origins in a joke Sirius made during my stag night. Apparently, there was an... establishment in Knockturn-"
"That's enough," she hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. "Not another word, Harry Ignotus Peverell."
"All three names, you're in trouble," Tristan whistled.
She whirled on him, finger raised. "The same goes for you, young man."
"I'm the wrong person to have a couple's squabble with, Mother." Tristan held his hands up in surrender, pointing one at his father. "That's the one you exchanged vows and rings with."
"Funny you mention rings," his father hummed, absently playing with his gold wedding band. "What happened to the one you were given for the task?"
"Stage fright, I suppose. It just suddenly stopped working." Tristan feigned a mask of innocence, picturing the abyss before his inner eye. "How far did you guys see?"
"The projections stopped working for all three of you close to ten minutes into the task."
'All three?' A nasty thought bubbled from the back of his head. 'Had Krum's and Fleur's been shut off so mine doesn't raise too much suspicion?' He pretended to be amused. "I bet the spectators were very irritated by that."
"As were we," his father murmured. "For once we were rather glad and impressed with a Ministry innovation."
"I don't think you would've liked for everyone to witness my chit chat with Aragog and his colony," Tristan hummed. "Which reminds me... You've said you did that ritual together and Mother took acromantula venom. So what did you use?"
"An even deadlier one." The ghost of a smile passed his father's face. "How about you humor us and take a wild guess?" He drew out the 's' towards the end.
The solution struck like lightning and Tristan felt his eyes widen. 'The Basilisk hid in the Chamber...'
"Ahh, very good." His father nodded appreciatively. "Any... secrets you'd like to share with us, Tristan? A hidden place you've stumbled upon by accident perhaps?"
"None of that." Tristan held his gaze, clouding his thoughts while a chill prickle ran down his spine. "I stopped playing hide and seek a while ago."
"What about the place you've been practicing Fiendfyre at?" The smile remained on his father's lips but drained from his eyes. "Or the one you used for your ritual?"
Ice jolted through his veins. "I didn't-"
His father held up a hand. "It's okay. How far have you gotten through our notes yet?" He chuckled faintly when he caught Tristan's convulsed expression. "Come on now, did you really think we hadn't noticed, son?"
"Takes one to know one," Tristan muttered. "What will you do now? Tell me that this branch of magic is not to be messed with even though you did it yourself? Try to reverse the effects?"
"Careful, Tristan," his mother's tone was sharp as a knife's edge. "We didn't sacrifice everything we could for glory in some childish tournament. We did it to see the light of another day."
'So did I!' Irritation churned inside him like boiling water. "The tournament wasn't the primary reason I underwent one either." Tristan whirled on his father, meeting cold green eyes. "Go ahead. Am I lying?"
A faint probe fluttered past his thoughts like the wings of a butterfly, tagging his brother's beaming smile and Valeria's soft, sweet laughter along with it.
"You speak the truth," he murmured. "How curious..."
"I'll give you back your original notes, I've made copies anyway, and those I won't part from," Tristan said calmly. "I wouldn't have survived long enough for Fleur to save me if I hadn't dabbled with that magic. That'd be two of your children dead."
"Then we're going to show some trust in you, just as you asked us to." His father nodded. "In return you can show us that you are responsible with this knowledge and know when to stop."
"Deal. Glad that's settled then." Tristan stood and attempted a smile, though a glance at the splintered remains of his wand snatched it from his lips. "I should get going. There are a few things I need to sort out before returning to school."
"We understand." His father tossed him a slim piece of dark wood. "Take this for the time being."
Tristan caught the wand and twirled it between his fingers. "Whose is it?"
"Dorea brought it over earlier today when you were still sleeping," his mother explained. "It belonged to her husband, Charlus."
"Tell her I appreciate it," Tristan nodded thankfully, "and that I'll take good care of it."
He pictured Diagon Alley and twisted the world past him with a soft snap.
White marble steps rose to Gringotts Wizarding Bank and laced-up blue umbrellas stood scattered in front of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Tristan picked his way down the cobblestones past Madam Malkin's and stepped into Ollivander's.
"Mr. Peverell." Ollivander appeared from behind a teetering stack of wand boxes. "At last a member of your family seeks out my humble establishment."
"I was hoping you could help me with an issue, Mr. Ollivander." Tristan edged out of the man's path as he swept around behind his desk.
"All of wizarding Britain knows about your latest misfortune, Mr. Peverell. I myself have witnessed it." Ollivander's wide, pale eyes shone like moons through the gloom of the shop. "Is there anything left of my creation?"
Tristan swallowed heavily. "Just splinters and ash. I didn't bother bringing them."
"Understandable," Ollivander sighed. "It is a terrible thing to witness the destruction of something you yourself have created. The moment this wand found its original partner might just be the last that'll ever fade from my memory... It was truly remarkable." His pale eyes misted. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. A powerful wand, very powerful."
'Yes it was.' Tristan swallowed a sharp stab of sorrow.
"Do you have an idea why the phoenix destroyed it?" he asked.
"Perhaps it disapproved of the way his feather was used," Ollivander shrugged. "How could we mortals hope to fathom what goes on in a phoenix' mind?"
"I've heard that my wand had a brother," Tristan probed carefully. "Could that one be a fit for me?"
"I wonder how you've learned as much. Only Albus Dumbledore knew that his familiar gave two feathers." A strange gleam dwelled dup in Ollivander's gray eyes. "Come along, Mr. Peverell. Let us find out together if it'll be a match."
Tristan followed him into the back of the shop, where the shelves were the dustiest. The wandmaker climbed up a ladder and pulled a cobweb-covered wandbox from high up.
"An unusual combination." Ollivander climbed back down and pulled off the lid with long fingers. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Go give it a try."
'Please be a fit.' Tristan's heart pounded ferociously as he reached out and grasped it. 'I need you to be a fit.'
No flame ignited in his body; no shower of sparks burst from the tip of the holly wand, which merely rolled like cold, dead wood between the tip of his fingers.
Utter disappointment crushed Tristan like ants under a muggle's heel.
"A pity," Ollivander whispered, his eyes losing the gleam of excitement.
"Let me- let me try a different one," Tristan pleaded, tossing the holly wand back into its box. "There are more than a thousand wands in here. Surely one of them will work."
"If you wish." The wandmaker bowed slightly, swiftly snatching two further boxes from the shelves. "Though I doubt you will find-"
"-this one." Tristan ignored him and seized the next best wand, bringing it swishing down through the dusty air with no effect whatsoever.
"Next one, please!"
A long tape measure danced from his wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head while a quill scribbled down his dimensions. The pile of wands he had tried mounted higher and higher on the spindly chair, yet none of them stirred the tiniest bit of familiar warmth in his breast.
Tristan growled in frustration and thrust out his hand. "Next!"
"That was the last one that could've been a fit for you, Mr. Peverell," Ollivander murmured tiredly. "It is as I expected; wizards with... unusual magic such as yours need unusual wands to tame it."
'Unusual or unnatural?'
Tristan smothered his anger beneath a shaky gulp of air. "Couldn't you just... I don't know... craft one that has each of the ingredients fitted to me individually? I assure you, gold is not an issue here."
The wandmaker chuckled faintly. "Ollivanders cater to the masses, Mr. Peverell, using a set of selected materials, including unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, and yet, none are built individually for a customer."
He stepped closer until his gray eyes were inches away, glowing in fanatic curiosity. "I can sense the storm inside you, young Peverell... so much thirst, anger, and desperation, swirling and screaming in a dark cloud of ambition. How could any of the cores I just listed ever hope to tame that? You need something unheard of... something that I can't provide."
"If you can't help me I'll find someone else." Tristan whirled and picked his way back to the front of the store. 'No matter how long it takes.'
"Let us not pretend I would've been your first choice if it hadn't been for that brother wand you mysteriously learned about, Mr. Peverell." Ollivander opened the door for him. "I'm looking forward to seeing if Mykew can help you. Goodbye."
The door was shut in his face and the sign that read 'OPEN' flipped.
"Fuck this." Tristan forced the world past in a swirl of seething emotions and stumbled into his bedroom.
He paced back and forth, his breath coming short. "Gregorovitch next, he'll be able to help me. He must be able to help me."
Tristan wrenched at the world, emerging by the edge of towering white cliffs. Seagulls screeched over the crash of waves upon rock, drifting on the breezes above a violent gray sea.
He glanced across the channel toward the distant mark of land. 'Twice more.'
A soft snap echoed over a dirt road, cutting through a deep, silent forest. 'One more time.'
Dirt blurred into cobblestones. The buildings on either side of him looked like gingerbread houses with high, timbered gables. The one in front of him looked no different if it weren't for the sign that suddenly rose from its lawn, showing thick golden letters in gothic font.
Gregorovitch Zauberstäbe
Tristan took a few moments to gather his breath, then straightened and stepped over the lawn to knock on the door. Noise sounded from within the house and someone picked his way to the front over creaking floorboards to rattle at the door from within.
"Tristan Peverell." Pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard peaked through the small gap; sharp brown eyes roamed over him up and down. "Ich habe dich früher erwartet."
"Good morning, Mr. Gregorovitch," Tristan switched to German as well. "May I come in?"
"Of course." The wand maker opened the door further and led him inside. "Straight to the workshop then."
Tristan followed him through a dimly lit corridor past shut doors. "You said you expected me earlier?"
"News travels quickly in the Wizarding World." Gregorovitch snatched a piece of parchment from his workbench and blew the wooden chips off before tossing it to Tristan.
The front page captured the reunion with his parents; the dark pines of the Forbidden Forest loomed in the back. A red and golden flash blurred through the photograph and something feathery ripped his wand from his grasp.
"Was there anything savable?" Gregorovitch murmured.
"No." Tristan placed the paper aside. "Nothing."
"A pity. It was not my original creation but twisting it to be a fit for you still ranks high on my list of fond memories."
A hint of a smile crept through the numbness onto Tristan's face. "Your competition said something similar."
"That explains why you're late," Gregorovitch growled.
"The phoenix that supplied my wand's feather gave another." Tristan shrugged. "I thought it was worth a shot to check out this brother wand."
The old man rummaged through a mess of tools. "Understandable, but my pride is still hurt."
"I'm here now, am I not? Can you help me?"
"I might, though don't get your hopes up yet, boy." Gregorovitch handed him a small silver knife and a vial. "You know the procedure."
'He has to be able to help.' Tristan pricked his finger, ignoring his churning stomach and counting seven thick droplets of crimson falling into the vial before handing it back. 'If he can't help, I'm out of options.'
"Blood holds the key to a wizard or witch's magic and therefore their compatibility to certain woods and cores. My respect for Garrick Ollivander runs deep, but unlike him, I use alchemy to determine a perfect fit instead of just a suitable one." Gregorovitch poured one droplet of blood each onto small silver scales, tapping them with his wand every so often and adding strangely fuming substances to them. "Now, let's see if-"
Tristan's blood vaporized on one of the scales with an angry hiss, shattering it to shards.
"I'll bill you that one, boy." Gregorovitch scowled at him and swept the shards to the floor. "Why does the magic running in your family have to cause me issues every single time..."
Tristan frowned. "It doesn't like being studied?"
"That is an understatement," he snorted, rummaging through a cupboard for a new scale. "This method still worked fine six years ago but what had been a strong breeze back then turned into a volatile storm now."
'Ollivander said pretty much the same.' Tristan's frown deepened. 'Is all of this linked to those rituals?'
"Interesting..." Gregorovitch studied his blood through a magnifying glass, poking the scale with the tip of his wand and then removing branches of wood from the top of the shelves. "I was able to somewhat limit the type of wood that might suit you, though the spectrum is significantly wider than it was for your siblings."
Tristan stepped closer and let his eyes roam over the different branches.
"Go ahead, give it a try."
He placed his palm on the first; the piece of wood felt no warmer than his own skin. 'Holly. Oak. Ash. Hawthorn. Ebony. Yew...' One by one he passed over each of them, ignoring how Gregorovitch's frown deepened.
'Elder...' Tristan frowned, finally arriving at the last branch, which rivaled the yew one in paleness yet had none of its smooth lines. 'I've never heard of wands made of elder.'
The tiniest spark of warmth flashed through the tips of his finger as he made contact, gone the second he tried to concentrate on it.
"There was something," Tristan whirled on the wandmaker, pulse quickening. "But it was faint, very faint."
"I expected as much," Gregorovitch sighed. "Still, a weak association even before the core has been added, won't make for a good wand afterward."
"None of the other wood sparked anything in me," Tristan replied irritatedly. "It has to be elder, even if it's not this particular branch."
"This one is the oldest piece of elder I've got, boy," Gregorovitch huffed. "My great-grandfather cut it in an attempt to create what no wandmaker managed for centuries."
"If age holds the secret then we'll simply find something older." Tristan decided, determination whispering through as he flexed his knuckles. "Can you tell me of any other accounts?"
Gregorovitch stared at him and blinked. "You don't know, do you?"
"What don't I know?"
"If you haven't been told yet, then it isn't my place to fill you in." The wandmaker shook his head and picked up the branch of elder. "There are only two accounts of elder wood that are even older than what I have here. For the first to work in a wand, it'll have to be taken against its current owner's will, something I promise you aren't capable of. The other one will be almost as difficult to obtain, although if I had to choose between both, I'd pick it every time over the first."
'Why does every wandmaker speak in fucking riddles?'
"Very well," Tristan sighed. "Tell me about this other account then, the doable one."
"Many years ago, decades even, a French colleague of mine told me about a certain piece of elder. The French Ministry found it in a burial site that Gaulish druids used for sacrificial magic some two, perhaps three millennia ago." Gregorovitch rummaged through a stack of parchments with bizarre drawings, tugging one out and blowing the dust off of it. "This is the one."
Tristan stared down at the drawing of an oddly carved or grown stick. Three pale wooden branches intertwined tightly in each into each other, like the serpents curling around the pillars in Slytherin's Chamber.
"There's magic in the wood," Gregorovitch whispered hoarsely. "Magic so old, they still try to fully understand it and experiment with it."
"They?" Tristan burned the image to memory before tearing his eyes away and glancing down at the old wand maker. "Who are they and where exactly are they keeping it?"
Gregorovitch grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "According to rumors, it's hidden deep in the catacombs beneath Paris, in the French Department of Mysteries."
'Fuck.' Tristan balled his fists with a grimace, feeling his eyes drawn back to the drawing. 'But if that's where I need to go, then I'll do it.'
He smothered the torrent of hot emotions swirling through his breasts with a shaky gulp of air. "I'll need some time... a few days perhaps. But when I return," he stabbed the drawing with his index finger, "it will be with this piece of elder."
Gregorovitch held his eye. "I believe you, young Peverell, and I already pity those who chose to stand in your way." He gestured to the exit of the workshop. "You best get going. Wandless champions don't win Triwizard Tournaments."
'Too right they don't…'
Tristan strode back over creaking floorboards and out onto the lawn of the house.
"I'll find that piece of elder, no matter what it takes, and once the wood is secured, we can think about cores to go with it."
"It won't take anything ordinary, my boy." Gregorovitch lingered in the doorway. "Not with wizards like you."
"Then we'll use something extraordinary, something great," Tristan vowed, hot ambition pumping through his veins.
'I was meant to be great after all. Then perhaps it was all meant to be this way...'
"For a new scale and your time, Mr. Gregorovitch." He tossed the wand maker a galleon before wrenching the world back past him, repeating so twice until he stumbled into the living room of North Dawn Manor.
Black spots danced in his vision and he stepped his chin on the dining table. "Fuck."
"You're back." His mother rose from his father's lap in the squishy armchair by the fireplace. "Did you-"
"No," Tristan grimaced, massaging the pain out of his chin. "Neither Ollivander nor Gregorovitch could help me on the spot. But I haven't given up yet."
"Is there anything we can do?" his father asked.
"No, this is something-"
'If you haven't been told then, it isn't my place to fill you in.' Gregorovitch's words echoed from the back of his skull in cold, smooth whispers. 'It'll have to be taken against its current owner's will, something I promise you aren't capable of.'
"Actually, there is." Tristan fixed his father with a long look. "You could tell me what your wand was made of?"
The fingers positioned on his mother's lap twitched and his brows drew together ever so slightly. His father calmly let the pale length of wood slide into his palm, holding Tristan's eye.
"It's an old family wand," he admitted, running his fingertips over the knots. "The wood is elder and it has the hair of a thestral at its core."
'I knew it.' Fierce longing clawed its way up his throat and the faint urge to take the wand seized him. Tristan smothered the compelling flutter and cleared his throat. "What a curious combination for a wand."
"I intended to tell you more about it soon," his father murmured, shoving the wand back up his sleeve. "But for now it's not something you have to worry about..." his lips curled into the ghost of a smile and he shared a knowing look with Tristan's mother, who merely rolled her eyes. "You have a bigger challenge ahead of you."
'That I do. The French Department of Mysteries.' Tristan's stomach churned with anxiety. "Right, I still need to get my wand situation sorted out. I'll stop by the Blacks' on my way back to Hogwarts and-"
"-actually, when I mentioned an issue, I wasn't just talking about your wand." The faint smile broke into an outright grin on his father's lips. "Shouldn't there be a certain French witch that you ought to talk to?"
"Fleur." Tristan's stomach knotted tightly. "I'm still not sure if she used her allure to get me to reveal my clues."
"Allure or not, she came back to you when she didn't have to, Tristan," his father said, cradling his wife back against his chest. "The least you should do is listen to what she has to say, then tell her your side of the story."
"I will," Tristan replied solemnly, a grin threatening to curl his lips. 'Oh Merlin, there will probably be fire. Lots of fire…'
"Give our love to your siblings," his mother said. "We look forward to having you all back with us for the Easter break."
'To the Blacks' Library first, then back to Hogwarts and Fleur.' Fierce determination took over and Tristan wrenched the world past him. 'Let's see if one of our guests from Beauxbatons knows anything about the French Department of Mysteries.'