December 10th, 1996
The portraits of former headmasters stared down at him from behind McGonagall's wide mahogany desk, serious expressions on grave, aged faces. Tristan's parents stood arm in arm stiff as stone before the crackling fireplace, casting long, eerie flickering shadows through the entire office.
Tristan's mood soured. 'This can only mean one thing...'
"Mother, Father?" Valeria frowned, her eyes dipping to their mother's round belly. "The baby's definitely still in there, so what are you two doing up here?"
McGonagall cleared her throat, small wrinkles creasing her forehead. "Mrs. and Mr. Peverell, I again urge you to reconsider. I think you're acting rushed."
"We appreciated your thoughts on the matter the first time around, Headmistress," their mother said, her cool blue eyes trailing over each of them, and she took a deep breath. "We're leaving together right now, children; Dobby's packing your trunks as we speak."
"What?!" Galahad gawked. "Why?"
"We'll teach you from home for now," she explained. "Each of your professors was kind enough to share their lesson plans for the next term with us, so you won't miss anything."
"I don't care." Valeria folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. "This is my OWL year; I've already told you I'm not leaving."
"The matter is no longer up for debate, daughter. We, your parents, decided what's best for you and you will adhere to us."
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Mrs. Peverell, if you're worried about security at Hogwarts, I assure you, we take our responsibility towards all students absolutely seriously."
"Yet one of your students died only two weeks ago, Professor," their father murmured.
McGonagall swallowed hard. "Colin Creevey's death is most terrible and tragic, and no one in this castle regrets it more than me." She rose from behind her desk. "But it was an accident, Mr. Peverell, and no one can take the blame for it; the entire Great Hall witnessed that."
Their parents exchanged a quiet glance.
"An accident…" Their father's expression darkened. "Last year you told us that our youngest son's crash during flying class was an accident as well; now we learn that he was attacked while playing quidditch again. Parents tend to get concerned when their children keep getting attacked in school, Professor."
'But why do you grow so concerned just now?' Tristan studied the fierce determination in his parents' eyes and the deep, dark bags beneath them. 'Why would you miss sleep over it? And why would you state some other boy's accident before the obvious attack on your own child as your reasons?'
A grim certainty slithered from the back of his mind, taking shape and sending a chill crawling down his spine. 'You wouldn't; not unless you think Colin Creevey's death wasn't an accident after all.'
Harsh knocking rang from the door.
"Minerva!" Umbridge's muffled shouts chimed from outside the office. "Minerva, I demand you let me in immediately!"
"Great; just what we needed." McGonagall let out a long sigh and opened the door with a flick of her wand.
Umbridge blundered over the threshold, her face flushed. "Is this a parents-teacher-conference?" she tittered. "Why was I not informed of this meeting?"
"It's a spontaneous visit." Ice crept into their father's green eyes, deep dark shadows dwelling in their depths. "And you're not on the agenda, Under-Secretary."
Umbridge's flush darkened a shade as she stomped closer. "I am not only a Professor at this institution, but as High Inquisitor-"
The point of her heel caught on a floorboard, sending her stumbling, and she screeched like a banshee as she clutched onto McGonagall's cat-tree for support.
Galahad covered a snort with a cough.
Tristan nudged him in the side with his elbow and glanced over his shoulder, catching the pale tip of a wand poking out from beneath their father's sleeve.
He shot him a wink and received one in return. 'Well played.'
Umbridge straightened herself on clumsy feet and released the pole of the cat-tree like she'd been stung, wiping her hands on her pink cardigan and taking a deep breath. "I said, as High Inquisitor-"
Her heels gave in with an audible crack and she stumbled onto her knees and elbows with a high-pitched yelp.
"The High Inquisitor seems to have more important issues to handle right now." Tristan jibbed.
Valeria stifled a burst of giggles behind her hand.
Umbridge's bulging eyes burnt into her. "Come to my office after this, Ms. Peverell." She smiled, but her voice shook with rage as she dragged herself up on the curtains. "We need to have a chat about your latest essay in my class."
Tristan watched her waddle back, balancing one hand on the wall. 'Valeria won't show up.' A swell of satisfaction mixed with the bitter churn of guilt. 'By the end of this night, my siblings will be back home, and Umbridge will have no more leverage over me.'
The door to the office thudded shut.
"Thank you for handling that, Mr. Peverell."
Their father blinked. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean, Headmistress."
"Of course not, just like your son." McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose with a long sigh. "Is there anything I can do that'll make you reconsider this?"
"Our minds are made up." Their mother stirred Galahad by the shoulder to the fireplace. "Come on, dear. It's time to leave."
'It's better this way.' Tristan convinced himself, burying the churning guilt deep down beneath his stomach. 'With Galahad and Valeria safely at home, I don't need to protect them from Umbridge or the Musketeers; I can finally go on the offense.'
Galahad swallowed hard and stared out the windows across the Hogwarts' grounds. The sun set in a wash of pink and gold behind the hoops along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "What about my friends? My teammates?" A fierce longing shook his voice, hitching his breath. "I haven't said goodbye."
"You can write to them as often as you want and explain the situation." Their mother pulled him into a tight hug, then drew back and pried open his palm, dropping a handful of floo-powder in it and closing his fingers. "Go ahead." She brushed a dark curl behind his ear and pressed her lips to his forehead, blinking back tears. "Your father and I will be right with you. We promise."
Tristan watched his little brother step into the fireplace; floo-powder trickled through his fingers into the flames like wet sand into the sea. "Northdawn Manor."
The fire swallowed him in a brilliant flash.
"Valeria, you're next."
"No." She shook her head and hugged herself tight, her green eyes blazing in fierce defiance. "I already told you I'm not leaving."
"Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is for either of us, young lady."
"How is this difficult for you?!" she cried. "You're the one preventing me from taking my OWLs. You're tearing us away from our friends and school for no reason whatsoever!"
"We told you our reasons; Hogwarts isn't safe for you!" Their mother retorted, her shoulders trembling. "Now come here and-"
"You're afraid, aren't you... Marlene?"
All eyes snapped up to the portrait behind McGonagall's desk.
Albus Dumbledore frowned into his long silver beard, his penetrating gaze flickered between Tristan's parents. "Running away from your problems is a race you'll never win, my dear, for you cannot heal what you refuse to face. Believe me, I have tried myself for years."
'Gellert Grindelwald.' Tristan held Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes. 'Arcturus said they were best friends in their youth. The ICW had to beg Dumbledore to finally face him.'
All the hairs prickled along the nape of his neck and the piece of elder wood in his sleeve burned hot as coals against his skin. 'Dumbledore knows; he's the one I need to ask about the Elder Wand and the Deathly Hallows.'
"We are not running. We do not care for your advice." Their mother crossed the office in three quick strides. "And this conversation is over."
She snatched Valeria by the hand, dragging her to the fireplace.
"Stop! Let me go!" Valeria yanked her arm and dug her heels into the floorboards, but their mother's grip remained iron-tight around her wrist. "You're hurting me!"
McGonagall stepped around her desk. "Mrs. Peverell, please-"
"Stay out of this!" Their mother drew her wand and pressed it underneath Valeria's chin. "Either you get into that fireplace by yourself, or Morgana help me, I will stun you and drag you back home with me."
Valeria trembled in anger, fresh tears trickling down her flushed cheeks. "How can you do this to us?! Haven't you ruined our childhoods enough?"
"All I care about is your well-being, daughter." She ushered Valeria into the fireplace and flung a handful of floo-powder at the crackling coals. "And no matter how much you hate me for it, I'll gladly do it all again knowing you'll be safe."
"Northdawn Manor," Valeria spat, rubbing her wrist.
Her murderous look pierced like a dagger through Tristan's heart as she vanished in roaring green flames.
Every last pair of eyes settled on him in the loaded silence that filled the office.
"Are you going to drag me home next?" Wry humor tugged at the corner of Tristan's mouth. "I'm a bit heavier than Valeria; you'll have to roll up your sleeves for me."
"We know we can't make you leave with us," his father murmured. "But we implore you all the same."
"Mr. Peverell, your son just began with NEWT revisions," McGonagall said. "Out of all your children, he'll suffer the most if he were to leave Hogwarts now."
"You've heard the headmistress, Father." A small smile played on Tristan's lips. "So you know my answer."
"This isn't the time to play the rebellious teenager, Tristan." His mother scowled, cupping his cheeks with ice-cold fingertips, her belly brushing against him as she peered up at him. "Please. Come home with us now. Your siblings..."
"My siblings won't take it well if you allow me to stay here. I know." He pried her fingers off and cupped them in his hands, bringing them to his lips. "But I'm not leaving, Mother, I'm sorry."
The faint light died in her eyes and she stepped away from him, her lips trembling.
"We'll tell Dobby to take your belongings back into your dorm." Tristan's father murmured. "But remember your promise to us, son. Both of your promises."
Tristan nodded. "I'll write to you."
His mother blinked back her tears. "We'll see you for Christmas, then," she whispered, cupping her belly. "Or perhaps earlier."
"Actually... Fleur invited me to spend Christmas with her family in France already and I agreed." Tristan squirmed. 'Apparently, Madame and Monsieur Delacour finally want to get to know me better.'
His parents shared a quiet glance, a little hesitation passing between them.
"But I'll come over the second the little one makes themselves noticeable."
"Fine," his father sighed. "Give Fleur our best." He offered McGonagall a brief nod. "We'll be on our way. Thank you for letting us use the floo, Headmistress."
"I wish it had been for different circumstances." McGonagall studied them, a strange gleam lingering in her light green eyes. "But as parents you have the right to educate your children as you see fit."
"Indeed, we do." Tristan's mother poked his father with her elbow.
"Ah yes, I almost forgot." He drew a slim, red-ribboned envelope from within his coat and sent it floating across the office. "This one's for you, son."
Tristan caught the letter, squinting at the elegant, looped handwriting. "It's German."
He tore the envelope open and skimmed the neat lines to the name signed at the bottom of the thick rich parchment. 'Constanze Eleonore Viktoria von Stolzenberg. Now that's a real tongue-breaker...'
"Why does Great-grandmother Constanze invite us to a New Year's Eve ball?" He frowned. "Doesn't she hate us for not being all proper purebloods?"
"My cousin from the continent mentioned she's not in the best of health," his mother said. "It might be useful to reconnect with some of them, if only for a night."
"At least I can bring a date," Tristan muttered.
His parents shared another glance.
"What?" He blinked. "Am I missing something?"
"Remember how we told you Great-grandmother Constance is a bit... old-fashioned?" his mother asked.
McGonagall busied herself with some scrolls of parchment, her quill scratching quite loud.
"You mean she's bigoted." Tristan smothered a spike of sour heat. "Too bad for her; you'll either see me with Fleur or not at all."
'Chances are she doesn't want to go to some bigoted pureblood ball anyway.' A faint flare of longing rose in his breast, sharp and sweet as Fleur's vanilla perfume. 'But it would be a lot more fun with her and I won't get to see her as often after the yule break.'
"Fine, go ahead and ask Fleur," his father approved. "You can share her answer in your next letter to us. Amongst other things…"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "I sure will."
His mother blew him a kiss. "Take care of yourself, son," she whispered as she followed his father into the fireplace, her tears sparkling in the flames like shards of ice in the sun. "We love you."
They vanished in a roaring flash of green.
McGonagall stopped scribbling and studied him over her round glasses.
"Do I have something on my face, Headmistress?"
She scoffed. "No, Mr. Peverell, I'm merely... surprised to learn you're still involved with Ms. Delacour, given the time it's been and the distance between you two."
"You've inspired us with your grand lectures on international magical cooperation, remember Professor?" Tristan chuckled. "And we're much more than just involved."
Warmth blossomed in his heart like the petals of a flower, blazing as hot as the faintest brush of her lips. 'She's the best thing that ever happened to me; and she's mine as much as I'm hers.'
McGonagall's lips thinned and her brows drew into a scowl. "See yourself out, Peverell." She swept her loose parchments into a neat stack. "Actually, since dinner will start soon, I shall head down as well. There are matters I need to discuss with Filius; coincidentally they concern you as well."
Hurrying down the spiral staircase, Tristan caught up with her by the gargoyle. "They do?"
"Your participation in the international dueling tournament in Stockholm, Mr. Peverell."
"Ah... that." He snorted. "You think Umbridge will give me her blessing to go?"
'Do I even want to participate?' Tristan flirted with the idea. 'I'm no longer leaving Valeria and Galahad alone with Umbridge, and there'll be the world's best duelers.' A faint flash of ambition seized him, whispering through his veins. 'I am meant to beat them, to show them that I'm greater.'
"Dolores is not headmistress yet, Mr. Peverell; I am." McGonagall wrinkled her nose. "And under my watch, Hogwarts will be represented by its most capable student. According to Filius that happens to be you." She took a sharp turn on the third floor. "I'll see you at dinner. Do try not to cause me any more headaches until then, please."
"I'll do my best, ma'am."
'But don't wait up on me; I might run late.'
Tristan lingered on the staircase until she rounded the corner, then fished the invisibility cloak out from beneath his robes, obscuring himself in one fluent motion and heading back up the steps.
"Ballycastle Bats."
The Gargoyle lurched sideways and he climbed the spirals, slipping back inside McGonagall's office and freezing all but the largest portrait behind her desk with a wave of his wand.
"Most impressive."
Tristan allowed himself a small smile as he revealed himself. "You've said so the first time too, Professor."
Albus Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes latched onto the Cloak. "So you've obliviated me. It must've been something important we talked about?"
"The opening of the Chamber of Secrets and the attack on Mrs. Norris. Admittedly, you were quite useful, Sir."
"Ah, yes, it would make sense for you to ask about either; there is a bit of a history involving your parents after all." Dumbledore stroked his long beard with a small sad smile. "Alas, I'm afraid Colin Creevey's terrible fate didn't offer me any clues I wouldn't have shared with you during our first talk already."
"I'm not here to talk about Colin Creevey, Professor." Tristan stepped around the table beneath the portrait and held up the Cloak. "I'm here to learn the truth about this."
Dumbledore's eyes roamed over the woven silver fabric. "How very curious," he hummed, a faint twinkle of excitement flaring to life behind the half-moon spectacles. "Would you mind sharing what you know about it already? Just to get me up to speed."
'I might as well tell him; I can just obliviate him afterward again.'
"This cloak is infallible, unlike any other invisibility cloak there is. I could pass through any ward, even those of the Castle, and poor Minerva would never even know." Tristan hopped onto the headmistress's desk, dangling his feet. "I received it as a gift from my father, and he from his, and back it goes for centuries."
"All the way to Ignotus Peverell," Dumbledore whispered.
"Ignotus?" Tristan startled. "That's-"
"Your middle name, as well as your father's, yes." Dumbledore smiled, the annoying little twinkle brightening in his eyes. "But long before either of you saw the light of the day, your ancestor, Ignotus Peverell, lived and died here in Britain. You'll find his tombstone in Godric's Hollow, should you not believe me; just give it a good scrub to decipher the name on it."
Tristan felt his heartbeat quicken. "How did the Cloak come into Ignotus' possession?"
Dumbledore chortled. "I doubt it was gifted to him by Death if that's what you're asking."
'Damn it.' A surge of disappointment washed the excitement away. "So the story is just that; a fairytale. The three brothers never really existed?"
"I did not say so. In fact, there was a time when three Peverell brothers lived in Britain."
Tristan frowned, his eyes dipping to the neat stack of parchments on McGonagall's desk. 'Three Peverell brothers?'
Below flickering gas lamps, an ancient frayed tome depicting faded family trees flashed before his mind's eye. Names crawled from distant memory, tasting familiar as water on his tongue. "Antioch... Cadmus... and Ignotus. The Three Brothers."
'Arcturus showed me my entire ancestry right before the last school year.' Tristan ran a hand through his hair, tempted to tear on it."I could've figured this all out so much sooner if my parents hadn't refused to share that stupid story with us."
"Frustration, although quite painful at times, is a very positive and essential part of success, my boy," Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling like stars. "You can now count yourself amongst the very few people who linked Beedle the Bard's story with the Peverell family."
Tristan fished out his dark amulet from beneath his shirt. "Along with you and your friend, Gellert Grindelwald, I suppose?"
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed, dying like a candle in the storm. "I was very sorry when I heard your sister was attacked last year because someone mistook your family's crest for Gellert's. I assume that is how you connected the dots?"
Tristan nodded. "How did Grindelwald, and by extension you, learn of the Hallows?"
Dumbledore sighed. "Gellert believed that to master magic, one must first truly understand it, including all its mysteries, and perhaps the most secluded among them, the Deathly Hallows. After his expulsion from Durmstrang, he visited his great-aunt Bathilda Bagshot in Godric's Hollow, hoping to learn more about Ignotus, the third brother, to find the whereabouts of the Cloak of Invisibility."
Tristan brushed his finger over the smooth cool fabric of the Cloak. "Then why wasn't he successful, Professor?"
"The trail dies shortly after a great-granddaughter of Ignotus, Iolanthe, married into the Potter family. There's not been any mention or sight of the Cloak ever since. William, Charlus, and James Potter, the three generations of Potters I had the pleasure to meet, didn't give me any reason to believe that the Cloak had remained in the family."
'Iolanthe Peverell; my parents named Valeria after her. Somehow this is all connected.' A shiver crawled down Tristan's spine. "What about the other two Hallows, Sir? Have you ever learned more about them?"
Dumbledore folded his hands with a soft sigh. "The stone we never found, but after Gellert and I parted ways, a German wandmaker spread a rumor that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand. I merely considered it a clever ploy to attract new business, but Gellert pursued the rumors to-"
"-Mykew Gregorovitch," Tristan murmured, slipping his wand into his palm. "Gregorovitch's obsession with the Elder Wand never died and it all went into the creation of this." He raised the smooth, rune-carved handle and met Dumbledore's piercing stare. "But according to Gregorovitch, my father wields the only other wand ever crafted from elder wood, and to win the wand's allegiance..."
"He would've had to take against my will, for, as you correctly deduced, I was the owner of the Elder Wand after defeating Gellert."
Tristan frowned. "The last time we spoke, you told me you didn't know if my parents killed you, Professor."
"Up until the point I supplied my memories to be preserved in canvas and paint, your parents and I merely fought with words," Dumbledore chortled. "The wand I won from Gellert crumbled to ashes on December 28th, 1975, the night I read a letter from your father, pertaining to his request to enroll at Hogwarts. The next time I saw the Elder Wand, your father wielded it, and to my knowledge that hasn't changed since."
'Crumbled to ashes?' Tristan mulled over the order of events. "Do you have any idea how that's possible, Sir?"
"Aside from a nagging feeling that the Deathly Hallows are meant to be wielded by the family that created them, no, my guess is as good as yours." Dumbledore cocked his head, his blue eyes cutting sharp as knives. "But allow me to ask the following, Tristan Peverell; why the interest in the Hallows in the first place? Do you actually need them?"
Tristan blinked, startled. "The Elder Wand-"
"-is old, and no doubt powerful, but even ignoring the fact that it's currently wielded by one of the most powerful wizards of our time, the Elder Wand will only ever be as powerful as its caster; otherwise, it wouldn't have changed hands so many times." The annoying twinkle crept back into Dumbledore's blue eyes, stronger than ever. "When the Elder Wand disintegrated on this very desk and I was forced to go back to my original companion, I didn't feel any difference in my spell work, nor my dueling. You already have a powerful wand, my boy, which reminds me to apologize on behalf of my former familiar; even during my lifetime Fawkes' objectives have always been rather... eccentric."
"A part of me is thankful, since without him, I would've never found an even better match." Tristan scowled. "But another part wants to throttle that bloody Phoenix and take back more than just a feather." He smothered the annoyance in a long sigh. "Anyway, perhaps the wand won't help me, but the Cloak-"
"-is no doubt the most useful out of all three Hallows, something Beedle rightfully captures in his story," Dumbledore acknowledged with a chuckle. "However, does knowing it is indeed a Deathly Hallow change the way you use the Cloak, aside from it perhaps being even more precious to you?"
"No." Tristan ground his jaw. "What about the stone?"
"Ah yes, the Resurrection Stone. How ironic that the Hallow I sought out more than any other shall be the one I never get to see." Dumbledore nodded, a deep sadness creeping through every last wrinkle on his face. "And perhaps that is for the better; the stone doesn't truly bring back the Dead, no magic can, neither does it bring wisdom nor truth, just endless despair, loneliness, and grief."
"Like Death," Tristan murmured.
"Yes, like Death indeed..."
"But to bring all that, shouldn't it conjure more than a shade, more than a distant echo? Perhaps even something that can be further built upon." Tristan spun his wand between his fingers in a shower of brilliant sparks. "And the same could hold for the other Hallows. Magic is might. Magic has no limits; why should I let the constraints placed upon the Hallows shackle me?"
"And there we have it." Dumbledore's expression darkened. "You hope that by combining the Hallows, you'll be granted an edge of sorts, and I can't help but think you intend to use such an edge against the very forces your parents fear enough to pull your siblings out of Hogwarts."
Tristan allowed himself a few quiet moments. "You're right; I do have a suspicion who's behind these attacks, and I need every edge I can get because the last few times I've encountered them, I barely made it out alive." He forced the words through the thick dry knot in his throat. "Individually, I might have a chance, but there's four of them; their magic counters mine, they know us, they know how we act. They've been a step ahead of me this entire time."
Dumbledore hummed, drumming his fingers on the frame of his portrait. "Use the Cloak to the best of its abilities, my boy, but the pursuit of the other two Hallows is best avoided; their unification won't solve the problems you just described to me. If they best you in magic, find a way to improve. If they outnumber you, seek allies to fight with. And if they set the rules of engagement, take back the reins."
Tristan studied the sharpness in those blue eyes. "Why are you helping me, Professor? You must know I'll obliviate you right after."
Dumbledore smiled, but it was a deep sadness that tugged at the corner of his lips. "I'd like to think that even in death, I can learn from my mistakes instead of repeating them, my boy."
"I'm not like Grindelwald. I'm not like Tom Riddle; I don't wish to rule the world."
"Do not be wise in words, my boy; be wise in deeds." Dumbledore leaned back in his frame and closed his eyes. "It is your deeds I will follow along."
Tristan raised his wand. "Obliviate."
He wove his magic through the canvas like ropes of fine yarn, erasing their conversation sentence for sentence, and flung the Invisibility Cloak back over his shoulder, sneaking out of the office and past the gargoyle.
A great deal of noise spilled from the Great Hall.
Sitting down by the end of the Slytherin table, Tristan helped himself to some mashed potatoes and fried chicken, running back through his conversation with Dumbledore as he munched away.
'No matter his intention, he was right about a few things; I need to become stronger, I need more allies than just Fleur, and I need to take back the reins and finally figure out who the Musketeers really are.'
He spilled down the last forks-fulls of his food with sips of juice, watching the gleam in his reflection's cool blue eyes on the empty golden plate.
'Step by step; starting by taking another look at my parents' notes on ritualistic magic. And if what I need isn't in there, I'll find a different way or make one myself.'
"Hi Tristan."
Tristan glanced back up; Daphne Greengrass strode down the bench toward him, Lily Moon, and Tracey Davies on her heels.
"Have you seen your sister?"
He drained the last of his cup and rose to his feet. "Valeria's not coming."
Daphne's slim copper-blonde eyebrows drew together. "You mean she's sick? Should we get her something?"
Tristan sighed. "No, she isn't sick. My parents pulled her and my brother out of school, because of all this drama with Umbridge and the attacks on them this and last year; they will both be taught from home now."
The three girls stared at him. "You're not joking."
"No, I'm not."
"Then why are you still here?" Tracey demanded.
"Tracey!"
"No, it's a valid question." Tristan shrugged. "I'm still here because I need to finish my NEWTs."
Daphne crossed her arms. "It's our OWL year, too. Valeria just-"
A strange prickle crawled down his spine and Daphne fell silent along with the entire Great Hall.
Tristan turned around, tracking the blank horror in his peers' widened eyes to the twin oak doors.
Justin Finch-Fletchley limped over the threshold into the Great Hall, dragging one twisted leg and trailing a streak of dark red between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw table.
The white dress shirt of his uniform hung in tatters from his shoulder, soaked in blood, and pairs of slim stitches littered his arms and neck like bite marks from countless snakes. He limped to a halt, craning his head this way and that way until his bloodshot eyes found Tristan.
"What do you think you're playing at, Peverell?" His voice came in a distorted rough rasp from a tortured throat. "Look, now I'm nearly headless."
Justin's eerie laughter sent all the hairs prickling across the nape of Tristan's neck, and his smile stretched wide, cutting deep into the corners of his lips, tearing skin and muscle apart as his jaw gaped open like a bottomless black dwell.
A dark shape stirred inside it, slithering and hissing.
A serpent lunged from the jaw in a spray of red, fangs poised at Tristan, and Justin's skull burst like a bubble of soap, showering bits of bone and chunks of crimson flesh over the floor of the Great Hall.
Tristan slipped his wand into his palm and wrenched his wrist, hammering the air into the snake.
It bounced off his magic and reared high, wrenching in mid-air, its maw torn open in a skin-crawling hiss, then disintegrated to fine ashes, raining down onto Justin's headless corpse.