February 23rd, 1996
Wooden chips and splinters littered the wide workbench, piling in small mounds between a scatter of carving knives, emery paper, rough files, and rusty tongs.
Amidst the chaos, the pale, intertwined branch of elder was locked in a vice. Gregorovitch held his sketch next to it, comparing the two with a strange gleam in his eyes that brightened by the second.
Tristan drummed his fingers impatiently. "So...?"
"It's marvelous," the wandmaker breathed and grabbed a magnifying glass. "Simply marvelous."
"I'm glad you find it interesting but this better be the point where you tell me it's also well suited for a wand," Tristan grimaced, massaging his aching ribs and rotating his shoulder. "Because I brawled two bloody trolls and did some rather... questionable things so we could get our hands on it."
"Indeed, breaking into the French Department of Mysteries can't have been an easy feat," Gregorovitch murmured, glancing up and offering him a yellow-toothed grin. "Rest assured that your efforts weren't in vain. There's magic in this wood... more than I've ever seen in another." He ran his fingertips down the countless tiny runes. "Every drop of sweat, blood, and tears you've shed for it will only strengthen your bond. I'd expect someone like you to be familiar with obscure magic like that."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "We've got the wood. What about a core?"
"That's the tricky part," Gregorovitch hummed, "Although it doesn't necessarily have to be."
"What do you mean?"
"For centuries wand makers tried to make wands out of elder," Gregorovitch explained. "All of us failed because it's just too complex of a wood. Wand of elder, never prosper…"
"But not all attempts failed." A pale, knotted wand drifted to the forefront of Tristan's mind. "Someone succeeded... I know of a wand made of elder myself."
"So do I." Faint longing swelled in Gregorovitch expression. "Your father's wand is the exception to more than one rule but that is a story for another time." He stroked the pale branch almost lovingly. "Elder is volatile, it's unpredictable. It doesn't bow to foreign influences and it doesn't like being subdued. Magic doesn't just flow through it; rather it churns in an angry storm, leveraged by the age of the wood."
'Of course.' Tristan smothered a flare of irritation. 'Why can't I ever have anything easy?'
"So we have extremely volatile wood," he sighed. "Can't we counter it by adding a core that exhibits the opposite traits? Like something calming and stable?"
"You think I haven't tried that?" Gregorovitch chuckled hoarsely. "Unicorn hair... dittany stalks... porlock mane hair... bowtruckle trunk; I've tested them all, countless times, yet none of them could hope to tame elder wood."
"So what do we do?" Tristan felt his ire stir. "I didn't steal some of the most valuable wood on the planet so you can study it in a vice and touch it inappropriately."
"Insolent little brat," Gregorovitch scoffed. "Isn't it obvious? Since no core can tame or subdue elder we have to find a core that matches it in volatility."
Tristan blinked. "How the hell would that balance the wand?"
"Imagine something equally as volatile, something that churns and ravishes just as much as the elder." The wand maker's voice picked up in excitement and the gleam in his eyes turned fanatic. "Two such forces within a single wand, constantly at battle and keeping each other at bay. Neither yields, neither gives but a fraction of an inch, and in exactly that stalemate, we find the equilibrium to make the wand work."
The idea flooded through Tristan like waves over a beach.
"Two equal forces... like two polarized magnets," he whispered.
"Huh?" Gregorovitch's bushy brows drew together in a frown. "What the hell is a magnet, boy?"
"Just some muggle invention, never mind," Tristan muttered. "But I see what you mean now."
"Good thing you do," Gregorovitch snorted. "Because the tricky part will be to find a magical substance that is equally as volatile." He blew dust and wooden chips from a stack of parchment. "We need something that is wild and ravenous in nature, dangerous even. Something that-"
Inspiration struck Tristan like lightning in the night sky and he felt his jaw slag. "I- I think I might have something just like that..."
"What?" Gregorovitch whirled around, his eyes wide as galleons. "What do you mean you think? What is it? Spit it out already!"
'Could it really work?' The thought bounced through the inside of Tristan's skull like a rubber ball and a strange, hot tingle crept through his veins. 'It has to. I couldn't begin to imagine anything else...'
"Boy?" Gregorovitch waved a hand in front of his face, staring at him incredulously. "Did those trolls beat the ability to speak out of you?"
"I'm going to go get it." Tristan felt firm determination take the reins of his body, guiding his steps out of the workshop. "Give me a few minutes and start getting the wood into shape already," he called over his shoulder, feeling the drum of his heart in his ears. "I'll be right back."
He hurried over the lawn to the edge of the ward line and wrenched at the world, reappearing in the shade of massive pine trees, then underneath the scream of seagulls, and finally inside his bedroom at North Dawn Manor with three consecutive faint snaps.
Tristan yanked open the lowest drawer of his wardrobe and took out the jagged piece of fabric at its bottom, flinching slightly at its cool touch. Vapor shivered above the loose ebony threads like summer heat haze, bleeding tiny wisps of dark smoke. He flexed his fingers around the piece of lethifold cloak and pressed it to his heart, letting his magic sweep through it.
Ragged, sharp tendrils stabbed and clawed back at him in a churning storm of magic. Muffled, angry screams and ravenous roars echoed from deep within the fabric, ripping through his skin and flesh at his very heart and soul with razor-sharp, invisible claws.
"What a vile piece," Tristan muttered, tearing the fabric away from his breast. "But luckily something vile is exactly what I need now."
He touched it with the tip of his wand, wrapping it in a thin protective layer of magic before storing it in his robes.
"And now for a small incentive to ensure that Gregorovitch gives it his very best." Tristan plugged his reserve stash of galleons out of the drawer by his bedside table and started counting. "Ten... twenty... thirty..." He lifted the purse upside down and shook it. "Oh, come on, that's it? Where the hell did all my galleons go?"
A lonely knut tumbled out of the purse onto the carpet. Tristan glared at it in annoyance.
"Fine. I'll need a small loan from Mother and Father then." He sighed and hurried out of the bedroom. "Let's see if they're home."
Muffled voices and the faint giggles of his mother drifted from the kitchen. "This reminds me so much of when we were younger..."
Tristan frowned. "Sounds like they're home." He strode through the door, freezing right in his step.
His mother was sitting on the tabletop. Her hands were in his father's hair, her ankles locked around his waist, and their lips attached in a heated kiss.
"Ah!" Tristan gagged, shielding his eyes. "What the hell, guys!"
They flinched apart.
"Tristan!?" His mother flushed pink. "What in Circe's name are you doing here?! You should be in school!"
"And you shouldn't be making me another sibling, let alone on our kitchen table," Tristan groaned and stared up at the ceiling. "What if poor Aurelia stumbled in on you while playing hide and seek with Dobby."
His father cleared his throat, looking somewhat amused and embarrassed at the same time. "Aurelia is with Dorea today... we thought we had the manor to ourselves."
"Well obviously not!" Tristan pointedly kept his eyes shielded. "I almost made it to adulthood without walking in on you and now you had to ruin it."
"Ironic that you're being such a prude all of the sudden," his mother huffed, slipping the strap of her blue robes back over her pale, slim shoulder. "How do you think you got here? You think some stork delivered you in a basket?"
"Tops being conceived on the bloody kitchen table," Tristan muttered under his breath.
His father chuckled. "Alright, you can stop the ridiculous act now. It's not like either of us were naked."
"Not sure if I should risk it; what I saw already disturbed me for life," Tristan dared a peek through a small gap between his fingers.
"Eww, what kind of role-play did I walk in on?" He lowered both hands with a frown. "Your robes are filthy and soiled with blood and you were really about to do... that." He stepped further into the room and took a whiff. "Also, why do you smell like burned fur and flesh?"
"Nothing for you to worry about, young man." His mother flushed and flourished her wand; ash and dried blood vanished from their clothes and skin.
"Had a little stroll through the forest before coming here?" Tristan watched his father plug a thick black hair from her golden head and the realization dawned on him. "The Forbidden Forest perhaps?"
Their expressions hardened and they exchanged a quick glance.
"Don't worry, I don't particularly mind." Tristan held up his hands and shrugged. "Hagrid will probably be the only one that misses an entire colony of Acromantulae."
"It had to be done, they were a risk to our family," his father murmured, green eyes turning hard and cold. "Dead men tell no tales and neither do dead spiders. Their grudges are less worrisome as well."
"Fair enough," Tristan said, "But I still would've preferred not to witness the beginning of some genocide-celebration-sex on our kitchen table..."
"Careful now, son." His mother waggled her finger at him, her voice sharp as a razor. "Don't think you're too old for me to spank you."
"Yeah, no spanking please," Tristan smothered laughter. "I actually came to ask for some gold."
"Gold?" She raised a slim eyebrow. "Gold for what?"
"A new wand," he chose his words carefully. "Gregorovitch finally found something that might work for me."
"That's great to hear." his father smiled and held out his hand. A jingling purse zipped into his open palm and he started counting thick, round coins. "What's the combination? And how much gold do you need?"
"I'd rather not say until I'm sure it actually works well together." Tristan fidgeted somewhat anxiously with his fingers as he fished for an amount. "And I - uhm - I need around... three hundred galleons."
"Three hundred?!" They frowned at him. "Mykew charged us 20 galleons for Valeria's and Galahad's wands and only ten for yours."
"This one required the very best materials and a tad more effort. I just want him to do his very best, you know," Tristan said swiftly. "Besides, I should have enough gold in my trust vault at Gringotts to pay you back."
"You better, or else you'll pick up a summer job with the muggles." His father tossed him the purse with a sly grin. "Now then, why don't you stay for dinner and tell us how your efforts of charming a certain French girl are going?"
"Yeah, I'd rather not; today has been disturbing enough already," Tristan snorted as he stored the purse in his robes. "I'll be off again." He shot them a small wave. "And please try to make it to your bedroom next time, will you?"
He forced the world and his parent's laughing expressions back past him, stumbling from the harsh rocks of a cliff over a snowy dirt road back to Gregorovitch's lawn.
"Open up old man."
Tristan pounded against the door until the wandmaker yanked it open, bushy brows drawn into a deep scowl.
"Why are you such an irritating boy," Gregorovitch muttered. "I half hoped you'd drown apparating back to Britain."
"No you didn't," Tristan grinned, slipping past him into the hallway and to the workshop in the back of the house.
Chirps of pale wood littered the bench around the vice-locked piece of elder. It had already been trimmed down considerably to the point where the three individual branches not only intertwined but almost looked like they grew straight into each other.
"It's beautiful," Tristan whispered, nodding approvingly. "Looks a lot more like a wand already."
"It's not a wand until it has a core," Gregorovitch murmured, gripping some emery paper and smoothing out what ought to become the shaft. "So let's hear what mad idea of a core infested your troll-pounded brain."
Tristan tore his eyes away from the elder and revealed the piece of dark fabric, his heart picking up the pace. "This one."
Gregorovitch abandoned his work and his frown deepened. "Is- is that what I think it is?"
Tristan offered it. "Go ahead and convince yourself."
The wandmaker tentatively reached out, fingers brushing over the tattered, loose threads. They steamed with heat haze, black wisps bleeding away in faint, angry hisses.
"In drei Teufels Namen," he cursed and flinched back, flexing his fingers. "It feels... wrong. Like we're not supposed to have it."
"Its owner did part of it voluntarily." Tristan smothered a flutter of nerves with a low chuckle. "Do you think it will work as a core?"
'It has to.' Hot desperation whispered through him. 'Otherwise, I might actually be out of options.'
Gregorovitch merely hummed, absently rubbing the white stubble on his jaw. Eventually, his lips crooked into an almost feral grin, revealing what was left of his yellowed teeth. "I think this will be our best shot."
Tristan exhaled a long breath. "Good." He fished the purse of galleons from underneath his robes. "I've brought you both materials you need and this-" he tossed the purse onto the workbench with a heavy thud, "- this is to ensure that I'm leaving your shop with the best wand you've ever crafted."
Gregorovitch weighed the purse in his palm.
"I didn't need a reminder that Peverells shit gold," he snorted, slipping his fingers into rough leather gloves and taking the piece of lethifold cloak. "This will be the last wand I'll ever craft and I'll put my all into it."
Tristan blinked. "You plan on retiring?"
"I'm an old man who has chased the same dream for over a century. With the creation of this wand, it will finally be fulfilled." The same strange gleam crept back in Gregorovitch's eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper. "A wand of elder... the second of its kind, powerful enough to rival the first. That will be my legacy to the wizarding world."
'Too bad, I could've saved myself some galleons then.' Tristan smothered a snort and moved aside. "Well, don't let me be in the way of your legacy. Do your thing, wandmaker."
"I will need some time; a few days perhaps," Gregorovitch murmured, turning his attention back to the branch of elder. "Something like this can't be rushed."
"Fine." He fought down his impatience with a calming breath. "I'll be visiting daily in case you need me."
"Oh joy, I'm so looking forward to it," the wandmaker muttered. "Leave some of your blood here already. It's been shed acquiring both of these elements and will play a vital role in balancing them out."
Tristan opened his palm, summoning one of the empty vials from the shelves. He trailed his wand over his wrist and let a crimson stream trickle until the glass was filled.
"Anything else?"
"No," Gregorovitch muttered. "Now be gone already and let me get to work."
Tristan tore his eyes away from the pale piece of elder and dark fabric, snuffing the churning yearning that swelled in his breast. "Until tomorrow then." He forced his limbs into motion and stepped outside, swiftly apparating back to Britain.
The snow-covered turrets, towers, galleries, and sharp rooftops of the Castle rose from the dark surface of the Black Lake, clinging to the rocky cliffs it was built on and rivaling the wild Scottish mountains in height. With its roof cleared of any snow, only the Beauxbatons carriage stood prominently from the white landscape.
"Fleur," Tristan whispered. Wry humor tugged at his thoughts and he grimaced. "My wand is in the making now. Looks like I'm finally out of reasons to prolong the inevitable."
A small flock of owls broke from within the nearby owlery to take off into the looming sunset. Tristan watched them until their wings vanished behind the mountain ridge.
"Time to face the music."
He gave himself a push and trudged through the snow to the top of the gray, dreary tower. Hoots and screeches of owls greeted him as he opened the battered old door and entered a room of thick, wooden beams and worn perches.
Dodging sour bird droppings and dry must, he walked to the nearest free owl and conjured a small slip of parchment, edging careful writing onto it with the tip of his wand.
"This is for Fleur Delacour," Tristan murmured as he rolled up the slip and tied it to the owl's leg. "She's in the Beauxbatons Carriage so just try to find her window and pester her until she opens." A sly grin tugged at his lips. "Careful, she might get all birdy on you."
The owl merely hooted and fluffed its feathers up before it took off through the window.
"And now we wait."
Tristan strolled back outside and sat down on the steps, staring up past the roof of the owlery into the looming sunset. Its peacefulness did little to soothe the storm churning in his gut, nor the odd yearning bubbling up in his chest.
'What do I even do if she's not coming...' He tossed his wand from one hand to the other as the minutes passed by and the sun sank lower. 'We can't leave things as they are right now.'
"This is quite a nice spot."
His heart lurched and Tristan darted up to his feet.
The air blurred and shivered a few steps below him; Fleur Delacour faded into view like leaves blown by the breeze in autumn. Her long platinum hair sprawled out from underneath a blue beret that matched her coat and the barest hint of pink colored her pale cheeks.
'And she's looking perfect as always.' Tristan's stomach knotted itself, then coiled into a tight, hot ball as he tracked her ascend up the steps. 'That doesn't make this any easier.'
"You came..." he eventually caught his tongue. "Thank you."
"Bien sûr," Fleur murmured, pausing just a few steps out of his reach and glancing back down into the valley. "You sent me a note, non?"
"Yeah, I did," Tristan swallowed the lump in his throat. "I thought we might talk after... well, after everything that happened."
She finally turned around after a few long moments had passed; her cool blue eyes bored into him. "Talk then."
'She came, so she must be wanting to talk to me too.' His pulse raced and his heart hammered against his ribs. 'Now I just need to find out what truly happened that morning without upsetting her too much.'
"I owe you-" Tristan caught himself. "I want to thank you. For coming back." He wrestled with the tangle in his chest, shoving it down before it strangled him. "Without you, Valeria and I wouldn't have made it out of that forest."
"C'est vrai," Fleur merely replied, her eyes flickering between his left and right one while she adjusted her beret. "The spiders. Why did they interfere with your task?"
Tristan smothered a grimace and considered his option. 'I need to be honest with her. She doesn't deserve another lie. Not after what she did for me.'
"The biggest one that led them is called Aragog," he revealed. "My parents met him in their youth but they didn't exactly become pals. The second task offered him and his children the perfect opportunity for revenge."
His gaze flickered over her head to the distant pine trees. 'Holding a grudge against the Peverells didn't go well for him.'
"Vraiment?" Fleur cocked her head, a silver lock slipping out from underneath her beret as she glanced down at the wand he still held in his hand. "Magical creatures don't seem to like you very much, non?"
Surprisingly, the familiar tug of loss he'd expected never rose.
"Yeah, one could say so." Tristan tugged the wand away into his sleeve.
"Why didn't you tell the judges what truly happened?" Fleur glanced over her shoulder to the forest. "Your Ministry is still investigating the disappearance of a dozen centauri. Madam Maxime interrogates me almost every day and neither Krum nor Karkaroff came forth yet either."
"What could it possibly change now?" Tristan shrugged, meeting her eye again. "It's the Goblet's rules we play by, not the judges'. Our scores were given; the die cast."
"Oui." Fleur's red lips crooked into a bitter smirk. "And I'm still in first place while you're sharing the second one with Viktor Krum. Tell me, how does that make you feel, Tristan?"
'A test?' He met her smirk with one of his own. 'I'll give you one too.'
"I'm a bit disappointed, I won't lie. But the tournament isn't over yet, petite Fleur. There's no guarantee you'll finish first this time."
The smirk vanished. Shadows flickered through Fleur's eyes, darkening them like clouds before the sun.
Tristan's heart plunged to his stomach as he watched her shoulders tense. 'Fuck.'
"We talked." Ice slipped into her voice. "I will return to the Carriage."
"Fleur, wait!" He stumbled down the step and caught her by the arm. "Please."
She paused and glared down at where he held her. Searing heat flared bright and steam twirled from her blue coat.
"Sorry," Tristan winced and retrieved his hand; bright red boils swelled up on his skin before smoothening back into pink flesh. "Just - please - don't go yet."
"Pourquoi?!" she snapped and balled her fists, stomping the step back up. "There's nothing else to say between us."
"You know that's not true, Fleur," Tristan blurted over the hammering of his heart. "You kissed me back in the forest."
"Don't read anything into it," she hissed and stalked at him, poking him hard in the chest. "I didn't want to die and you needed to stop being a pathetic, whiny, little boy."
Her words pierced his heart like shards of ice.
"I don't want to believe that," Tristan whispered. "You don't give away kisses to just anyone. You said so yourself to me, remember?"
"How dare you?!" Her eyes flashed dark and she slapped him hard, pain flaring across his cheek and stinging in his eye. "How dare you?!"
Tristan rubbed his cheek and offered her a weak smile. "Hitting me won't change that Fleur Delacour cared more about me than she did about winning."
She leaped forward with an angry screech. Azure flames seared at his eye and a wave of heat washed over his face, melting the snow around them with angry hisses.
'I knew there'd be fire.'
Tristan shielded his eyes and flicked his wand into his palm, wrapping the air in a protective dome around him yet the anticipated impact never came. He blinked his eyes back open in surprise.
Fleur's furious face hovered barely a finger's length from his. Tiny white feathers poked out from underneath her skin and heat haze shivered in her open palms, sending steam twirling upward.
"I should burn you to crisps," she whispered, her chest heaving and falling to the rhythm of her ragged breath. "But I won't give you the impression you're important enough for that."
Tristan lowered his shield and sent a small avalanche of steaming snow down the steps with a frustrated groan.
"I don't want to bloody fight you, Fleur, and trust me, you don't want that either." Something pleading crept into his voice. "Can't you see that we need to talk this out together?"
Blue flames burst into life on her palms and danced around her fingers
"There is no 'we' and no 'together'!" Her chin sharpened. "You made sure of that when you called me a whore after I shared myself with you!"
Tristan wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.
"I- I thought you were using your allure on me," he swallowed heavily, resisting the urge to run back up the steps. "You even admitted as much, didn't you?"
"Yes!" The first thick tear of anger dripped from her long eyelashes and trickled down her pale cheek.
"But not to fucking charm you, it doesn't even work on you!" she cried. "I was just teasing like I did for weeks."
Her red lips quivered and she balled both fists, snuffing out the blue flames in soft hisses. She spun around in a swirl of platinum hair and averted her gaze, rubbing her cheeks with her sleeves.
'At least there's no more fire.' Tristan took a shaky gulp of air. 'That's good.'
"What was I supposed to think then, Fleur?" he whispered with a hammering heart. "I didn't know any better. I just felt it at that moment."
Fleur whirled back on him with a glare.
"You should've trusted me!" she hissed, balling both fists. "Especially after sharing a night like that. Instead, you jumped straight to conclusions and accused me of everything they've accused my kind of for centuries!"
"I'm sorry, I really am." Tristan wrestled the urge to reach out and take her in his arms. "If I could take it all back, I-"
"But you can't!" She snapped. "I should've known you weren't different from the rest of them. Perhaps I should've never-"
Coldness closed around his heart, gripping it tight like a vice and crushing the faintest flicker of hope.
"-never come back for me?" Tristan forced the words past numb lips. "Go ahead. Say it to my face, Fleur, and I promise to never bother you again."
Blue sparks burst from her fingers like fireworks. Fleur clenched and unclenched her jaw, biting her trembling lower lip hard while her eyes darted between his. Eventually, she stomped on her heel with an irritated groan and turned her back on him.
'She can't say it.' Hope blossomed in Tristan's heart in a swooping rush of relief. 'Because she cares.'
He clutched for words before they could vanish on his lips, or get stuck in his throat. "I messed up that morning... I can see that now. But neither of us is free of blame."
"You've hurt me!" She hissed. "So much!"
"I know." Tristan waited until Fleur's shoulders stopped trembling, then he reached out, slowly threading his fingers through her steaming ones.
Fleur jerked and whirled back around with a glare but she didn't fight him. Her fingers tightened around his and grew hot to the point of pain while she stared up at him with midnight-black eyes.
"I'm sorry for it." Tristan smothered searing pain and a whiff of burned flesh and ran his thumb soothingly over the back of her palm. "Do you believe me?"
"Je ne veux pas," she scoffed, seeking out his other hand and gripping it tight. "I should hate you. And I nearly convinced myself of it!"
Tristan gently pried his fingers loose. Pink skin crept back over them and he circled an arm around her waist.
"But you don't hate me." He gently drew her in until her head rested against his chest. "You came back for me."
"Oui. I did." she whispered into the crook of his neck.
The heat of her burnt against him like summer sunlight and sweet vanilla stirred up from her hair to his nose. He brushed a lock of silver aside and leaned down to her ear. "Why?"
Fleur glanced up. "I only came back because it was you." The darkness slowly drained from her irises like seawater through sand. "What would you have done if it were me?"
'What would I have done?'
Tristan's heart flopped about in his chest and his hand wandered to the small of her back.
"I would never take a risk like that for anyone but my family." He swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling dry as dust. Her full red lips drew him in and hot temptation fluttered through his breast. "But for you, I would've done it in a heartbeat and that really scares me."
Fleur's rapid, warm breath picked up and washed in a goosebump over his neck. One of her fingers crept up to the back of his head and into his hair.
"Moi aussi," she murmured. Her eyes dipped to his lips, smoldering with a faint spark of desire.
Tristan closed his eyes and gave in to the searing temptation, leaning down to crush his lips against hers. A warm finger stopped his lips and he opened his eyes, startled.
"Desole, Tristan," Fleur murmured.
"No, I'm sorry." Tristan frowned. "I- I just don't understand..."
"This isn't some fairytale." Fleur brushed her finger over his lower lip and down his jaw before she drew out of his embrace. "Hero and princess don't simply share a make-up kiss and live happily ever after."
"Well, that's a real shame." He smothered a hollow pang at the loss of her warmth underneath wry humor. "That kiss would've been like a childhood dream coming true. We even had a sunset and castle in the background."
A peal of soft laughter burst from Fleur's quivering lips and a familiar sparkle of mirth dwelled up in her eyes.
"Voilà." She rose to her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his jaw. "For your childhood dream."
"Merci beaucoup." Tristan swallowed a hot tangle emotion and brought his fingertips up to the spot her lips had touched. "For coming and hearing me out."
"I'm glad I did." Her small smile sent flutters through his stomach. "You gave me lots to think about."
"I'll be there when you're ready to talk again," he vowed. "When you came back for me in the forest, I promised myself I'd be different for you, Fleur. I'll promise it again now."
'And we'll be great together.' A fierce yearning rose beneath his ribs, hot as flame and sharp as razors 'Like we were meant to be...'
"Don't just promise it; show me that you're different, Tristan," Fleur whispered with a soft smile. Then she twirled her rosewood wand over her blue beret and faded from view. "Because only then can I show you that I am different as well."