December 31st, 1996
Tristan tugged at the collar of his white dress-shirt and brushed down the long sleeves of his formal dark robes, flattening out the last stubborn wrinkles.
"Mon Coeur," Fleur's soft voice drifted from across the room. "Can you help me?"
"Sure." He peeked around her walk-in closet.
Fleur stood between the tall mirrors. Two thin straps of wine-red silk clung to her shoulders and parted down her bare back, tightening over her hips as though welded to her curves like a second skin. She twirled around once and Tristan's breath caught as the gown's slim slit down the side of her leg rippled open, revealing pale smooth skin from her thigh to her black heel.
Fleur watched him in the mirror's reflection, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "Tie me up, s'il te plait?"
He swallowed hard and stepped behind her, raising the slim zipper from the bare small of her back up the curve of her spine to her shoulder blades.
She turned around and cocked her head, one silver-blonde curl escaping the confines of her elegant updo. "What do you think?"
'What do I think?'
Tristan stared at her; her smile shone warm and soft as the summer sun and her blue eyes sparkled like pearl earrings, flashing like the golden jewelry on her neck and arms.
His heart lurched, bursting in his breast in a storm of hot emotion. "What I always think when I see you," Tristan whispered, tugging the slim silver-blonde curl back behind her ear. "That you're the most beautiful girl I'll ever see."
"Bon." Fleur rose onto her toes and cupped his jaw, her sharp, sweet scent sending a swarm of butterflies fluttering through his stomach as she caught his lips in a soft kiss. "Since you've helped me in, it's only fair you'll help me out of this dress by the end of the night too, mon Coeur." She floated past him and collected her wand. "If you get lucky, that is."
Tristan watched her slip the length of rosewood down her décolleté. "I must be the most fortunate wizard in the world with how often I got lucky these past few nights..."
A soft laugh spilled from her lips. "Don't push it, mon Coeur. You don't want to be all excited when meeting more of your family, non?"
"We can both get to know them; I've never met any of them besides my cousins before." He summoned Grandmother Constanze's envelope from Fleur's desk into his open palm. "Are you ready?"
Fleur checked her reflection and offered him a nod, linking arms and snaking her warm fingers through his. "On y va."
Tristan raised the letter between them. "Sylvester," he murmured.
The bedroom lurched sideways in a whirl of colors, spitting them out in a grand foyer. Rich tapestries depicting scenes of hunting stood between lofty shelves bending from the weight of thick tomes, and gleaming suits of armor paraded either side along a red carpet.
A blue-robed wizard drew himself up where the carpet met an elegant tall door and cleared his throat. "Guten Abend, Herr...?"
"Tristan Peverell." Tristan switched to German and presented the envelope. "This is my date for the evening, Fleur Delacour."
The wizard's eyes flickered from Fleur's face to their linked arms and back up. "Welcome to Schloss Stolzenstein." Skimming his long scroll of parchment, he drew a pair of tiny checks next to their names. "This way please," the grand doors opened with a tap of his wand, "-the Stolzenberg family wishes you a splendid new year."
"Thank you." Tristan dipped his head and led Fleur past.
Black-and-white-mosaicked tiles spread like a giant chess board through a marbled-columned ballroom the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall. An orchestra sat high up in the gallery below blue and green and orange glass panes, and two neat lines of couples in colorful dress robes twirled to a slow waltz beneath the low-hanging golden chandeliers.
Tristan glanced up at the double-headed golden eagle covering the ceiling from wingtip to wingtip. Rubies flashed in its four eyes like burning coals, watching them as they drifted along the red carpet to the tables of aperitifs, offering passing guests polite inclines of their heads.
"Mother used to tell us our grandmother's family consider themselves royalty in magical Germany," he murmured, taking in the abundance of fancy beverages. "I always thought she exaggerated."
"It seems she didn't." Fleur perused the many bottles, settling on an elegant long-necked demijohn of elven-vine; a small wrinkle creased her forehead as she studied the emblem in the wax-sealing. "Although, all that glitters is not gold, mon Coeur..." Her narrowed eyes roamed along the decorations.
Tristan filled two glasses for them, handing one to her. "It's okay, petite Fleur-" he clinked glasses, "-you're just jealous my family owns a real castle and not some chateau in the countryside, aren't you?"
"I do not get jealous," she huffed and tilted her nose up at him, taking a small sip. "Besides-" Fleur licked her lips, "-you've never even met this side of your family, so it's quite the stretch to talk about your castle already, non?"
"Perhaps you're right." He chuckled, tracking an ancient witch approaching them, supported by a young blonde man. "But here comes my chance to move up the line of inheritance, so let's hope I'm a lucky wizard tonight again."
The witch muttered something in sharp German and flapped her hand at her escort; the young man bowed and retreated, letting her limp closer by herself.
"Tristan, mein Junge," she croaked and spread her arm wide, threats of gold shimmering in her velvet green gown. "After so many years, I finally get to meet the one grandson I've read and heard the most about."
"Good things only I hope." Tristan forced himself to offer her a small bow. "Thank you for the invitation, great-grandmother Constanze." He gestured around. "Of the few balls I've been to, this one is by far the most grand."
"Ah, this is nothing." Constanze cackled and shuffled closer. "Now let me take a better look at you." She reached out with one pale skeletal hand, thick golden rings clinging to wrinkled skin, and patted Tristan's shoulder and arm.
A cool shiver crawled down his spine, a knot of repugnance wriggling in his belly, and Fleur twitched beside him, her fingers growing hot in his.
"Oh, how tall and strong you've grown," Constanze whispered. Beneath a crown of gray-blonde hair, her sharp blue eyes pierced Tristan like daggers. "And would you look at that-" she leaned in closer, fingertips brushing up his jaw, "-you even got my eyes."
Tristan took a small step out of her reach. "The rest of me must look horribly unfamiliar still, just as my date will." He looped an arm around Fleur's waist and drew her closer. "This is Fleur, my girlfriend."
Fleur inclined her head by an inch, but the heat of her bare skin soaked through Tristan's dress robes like an open fireplace.
A brief shadow flitted through Constanze's cool eyes. "Ah yes, the veela girl, no?" she murmured. "Fleur Isabelle Delacour..."
Constanze's lips curled in a faint snarl and Tristan felt a flare of anger rise in his breast, but Fleur gave his hand a small squeeze and tilted her chin up, one slim blonde eyebrow raised. "You know of me, Madame?"
"Of course." Constanze measured her with a weighted look from head to toe. "I knew the moment I saw those photographs of you dancing with my grandson that this was more than some silly fling," she let out a burst of raspy giggles, revealing two rows of neat, bleached teeth. "It was just the same with me and your great-grandfather, Tristan, blessed be his memory."
"Really?" Tristan blinked but held his tongue. 'I bet the two of you were an inspiring love match...'
"Yes, and it's so good to finally meet you at last," Constanze croaked, studying him with a gleam of hunger in her piercing blue eyes. "There's much I wish to discuss and learn about you. I've heard you have a talent for dueling, yes?"
"What stopped you from acting out on your interest earlier?" Fleur asked.
Constanze's jaw twitched, but her eyes remained glued on him. "I didn't have the opportunity," she murmured. "I've tried many times, but your parents are very protective of you."
"Oh, are they?" A touch of ice slipped into Tristan's voice. "Obviously, I wasn't there myself, but perhaps they didn't appreciate you expressing your revulsion for their relationship at my grandparents' funeral..."
A hoarse cackle escaped Constanze's lips. "Ah, a sharp mind and tongue; how I wish more of my grandchildren shared your qualities, Tristan." She rolled her eyes with a sigh. "The past is the past; neither of us can change what's been said. But these recent years taught me the importance of family, so-" Constanze snapped her fingers at the young blonde man, "-Fleur, why don't you have a dance with Richard here while my grandson and I-"
"Whatever you've planned, unfortunately, it'll have to wait, Großmutter," Tristan's mother's voice cut through the hum of the waltz. "Because I haven't seen my son and his lovely girlfriend since Christmas and I wish to make up for lost time."
Tristan smothered a sigh as he caught his parents drift through the crowd.
"Ah, mein Marlenchen..." Constanze's eyes flickered to the huge belly bulging beneath light blue robes. "I'm so glad you could make it despite... well-"
"Thank you, Großmutter, I'm sure we'll find more time to chat later."
Constanze clenched her jaw. "Yes. Do find me after you've caught up with your mother, Tristan; there's much for us to discuss." She snapped her fingers at Richard. "Let's go, boy!"
They watched her limp off into the crowd of guests, muttering at Richard in harsh German.
"Well, now you've finally met your great-grandmother, Tristan." His mother sighed and leaned against his father's shoulder, resting one hand on her belly. "Look at you two." A small soft smile graced her lips. "You look so stunning in that dress, Fleur. All I can wear these days are loose, ugly robes because someone put a baby in me again."
Fleur's lips quivered, but a little worry niggled at Tristan. "Should you really be traveling in this condition, Mother? And who's looking after Valeria, Galahad, and Aurelia right now?"
"Condition? I'm pregnant, not injured," she scowled. "Although my feet do hurt quite a lot from how fat and heavy I am."
"You look more beautiful than ever, love." Tristan's father chuckled. "Arcturus and Melania came over to watch the children and Dobby's watching them too; the worst that'll happen is a row over who gets the largest piece of cake now your mother isn't home."
"Shut up, Harry." His mother bumped him in the side with her elbow, then grimaced and frowned at her belly. "Urgh."
"What's wrong?"
"The baby's getting really impatient," she muttered. "I can feel her kicking all the time now."
"Her?" Tristan echoed.
"I think it'll be another little girl." His mother's frown softened into a smile, warm and soft as the summer sun breaking through a carpet of clouds, and she took his father's hand in hers, drawing slow circles over her belly with it. "I can feel the baby's magic. It feels just like when I carried your sisters."
Soft giggles drifted from the back of Tristan's skull in countless little flashes of Valeria's mischievous grin and Aurelia's beaming smile; Fleur leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair soft and silken against his cheek and her sweet perfume stirring in his nose.
"Another little blonde princess to dote over." Tristan swallowed hard, but the hot knot of emotion melted into a small warm puddle in his stomach. "Looks like we'll finally be outnumbered, Father."
His father pressed a kiss to his wife's forehead. "I don't mind too much," he whispered and circled his arms around her midriff, drawing her back against his chest, his green eyes shining with all the light and warmth in the world. "All of you are perfect and so much more than I ever dared hope for."
Fleur gave Tristan's fingers a gentle squeeze. "Let's give your parents a moment to themselves, mon Coeur," she whispered and led him to the dance floor, guiding one of his hands to the small of her back and intertwining their fingers on his other.
Tristan steered her into the first couple of steps. The cheerful waltz of music drowned in the sound of his heart in his ears; all the other couples and the festive decorations faded away like morning mist in the rising sun. He stared into Fleur's bright blue eyes, feeling the heat of her skin against his as she twirled beneath his arm in ripples of her wine-red dress and song after song passed.
"Are you still enjoying yourself?" Fleur cocked her head, the stray blonde curl escaping her up-do and tumbling over her bare shoulder. "Or is there any girl here you'd rather dance with right now?"
Tristan grinned. "It's been over a year since you've first asked me that question."
She brought both arms up and around his neck, flashing him a coy little smirk. "A lot has changed since then, non?"
'Everything. You've changed everything.'
Tristan held her eye and brought his hands to her hips, drawing her close until the swell of her breasts grazed his torso. "My answer hasn't."
"Bon," Fleur murmured and rested her head against his shoulder, her warm steady breath tickling his neck as she swayed in his arms to the tune of the waltz.
Over the top of her hair, Tristan met the stares of a handful of other guests; Appoline's words echoed from the back of his skull. "I think I've finally figured it out, you know..."
Fleur leaned back and tracked his gaze, a small wrinkle creasing between her slim brows. "What do you mean?"
"These days, they stare because you're the most beautiful girl they'll ever see, but not because of your allure," Tristan murmured. "I know it's as powerful as ever, even I felt it with Avery, but you've got much better control now, don't you?"
Fleur's feet paused, pulling him to a stop, and Tristan's heart pounded in his breast. "Am I the reason for that?"
She offered him a trembling nod, her hot fingertips digging into the fabric of his robes.
"And what does that mean?"
Fleur's chest heaved and sank with deep breaths as she studied him in silence and the seconds trickled by like sand through an hourglass. Tristan tried to glimpse an answer, but her summer-sky blue eyes only bared her heart, a fragile, hesitant little glimmer flickering weak as a candle in the darkest midnight.
"Maman's control improved when she met Papa," she whispered. "As did ma grandmere's. And it's the same with any other veela I've met." Her gaze dropped. "Désolé, Tristan, it's not fair to-"
Tristan leaned in and caught her lips in a soft long kiss, snaking one hand into her hair. The tip of her tongue left a taste sweet and strong as elven wine as it tangled with his. "I love you, Fleur."
"Je t'aime." Fleur breathed, crushing her mouth against his, clinging to him, pouring all of herself into their kiss. "Je t'aime, mon Coeur."
She stayed in his arms, swaying to the gentle tune of the waltz, until the last song was played and the couples dispersed.
"Let's grab something to eat," Tristan suggested, escorting her off the dancefloor.
His parents waved them over to a table in the far back, sitting with Uncle Matthew, Aunt Amelia, and Tristan's cousins.
"Cousin Tristan," Marcus greeted them with a wide grin, pushing back two chairs. "We've saved you and the pretty girl you've not introduced us to some seats."
"No wonder he doesn't introduce her to a mutt like you." The copper-blonde girl next to him poked him with her elbow and extended her hand. "Lovely to meet you, Fleur. I'm Margaret and I apologize in advance for anything my older, yet somehow less mature brother says tonight."
Fleur shook the offered hand with a small smile. "Merci, Margaret."
"I really like your dress by the way." A little envy lingered in Margaret's eyes as they flickered up and down Fleur's wine-red dress, but her voice dripped with excitement. "I also liked the one you wore to Professor Slughorn's dinner. And the one you wore the yule ball of course. It seems you only have nice dresses. Haha…"
"Talking about the yule ball," Marcus covered a snort with a cough. "What exactly happened after you two left early and-"
"Marcus, why don't you shut up and eat your vegetables so you grow big and strong, mhm?" Tristan suggested, pushing his plate closer with the tip of his finger.
"Will do, cousin Tristan." Marcus saluted him and dug in. "Will do."
Tristan rolled his eyes and squeezed Fleur's finger beneath the table, mouthing a silent apology. He chose a light soup to start with, sharing some small appetizers with her.
"We saw Großmutter Constanze lay siege to you earlier, Tristan," Uncle Matthew hummed. "You should be careful with whatever she wants to discuss with you, Tristan. She's a shrewd old lady, always has been."
"So far it's just been pointless flattery." he shrugged. "Although she did mention dueling briefly."
Tristan's parents exchanged a quiet glance.
He raised an eyebrow at them. "Something you want to share?"
"I think we know the reason for Großmutter's hospitality and sudden… open-mindedness." His mother took a few small sips from her glass of juice. "She's dying."
Cousin Marcus sputtered onto his plate, earning himself a scowl from Aunt Amelia as she vanished bits of vegetable with a flick of her wand. "Why would she be open-minded about that?"
"Because she's currently undergoing treatment in a magical hospital down in Switzerland."
Marcus wrinkled his brows, but things fell in order in Tristan's head. "And let me guess," he chuckled. "It's a very expensive treatment?"
A small smile played around his father's lips. "Yes, indeed."
"So what?" Marcus gestured around at the lavish decorations, shooting his father a challenging look. "Great-grandma's side of the family is loaded; you've always said so, dad."
"Most of this is fake," Fleur hummed, clinging the tines of her fork against her plate. "I've worked at Gringotts long enough to recognize goblin-forged silver and this isn't it, neither are the decorations real gold; they're fakes too, cleverly obscured by duplication charms and other concealments."
"What about the wine?" Tristan quipped.
Fleur tilted her nose at him, her lower lip creeping out. "I don't need my magic to tell bad wine from good; I am French after all."
Tristan pecked her on the lips with a small smile, ignoring his cousin's whistling and cheers.
"Gringotts doesn't fund her treatment anymore because she defaulted on some outstanding debt," Tristan's father said. "Most of her assets have been passed on to Marlene's uncles when Constanze's husband died, so she can't sell anything like this castle either."
"In other words, this ball is a fundraiser." Tristan chuckled. "And I suppose mentioning my interest in dueling might lead to a scenario where Great-grandmother introduces me to the right people and in return I share the price-money with her."
"But you'll still duel right?" Cousin Marcus stared at him, the marvel in his eyes shining bright as candles. "We watched you practice in the dueling club; wouldn't it be great if you participated in some international tournament and won titles?"
'Great…' A low murmur of ambition rose in Tristan's chest. 'Like I was as meant to be.'
He felt his parents and Fleur's gaze on him. "Maybe," Tristan lied. "I haven't given it too much thought yet."
Metal tinged on glass, cutting through the hum of conversation until it stilled. Great-grandmother Constanze limped onto the empty dance floor, clinging to Richard's arm, and a batch of tiny house-elves bustled from table to table, handing out slim glasses of champagne and juice.
"It warms my old heart to see how much of my family, distant and near, chose to attend tonight," Constanze croaked. "I do hope food and entertainment have been to everyone's liking so far. Fear not, together with the main course, the grand spectacle of the night, the fireworks, still awaits-," she raised her glass with a small, thin smile, "-but before that, I would like to raise a toast to this new year; a year of family."
The guests rose like a tidal wave, thrusting their glasses into the air.
"To family," Tristan chorused, giving Fleur's fingers a gentle squeeze as he downed the champagne; its fruitiness clung to his tongue and its warmth soaked through him, pooling in his belly.
A faint prickle sprang up in his throat, scraping and itching like a stuck fishbone, and a strange tightness knotted in his chest, squeezing his ribcage like a fierce embrace.
"What the-" Tristan staggered into the table; his cousins and Uncle Matthew smacked to the floor, their glasses smashing on the tiles, coughing and clutching their throats.
'Poison.' A fist of panic clamped around Tristan's heart and he whirled on Constanze; gray-blonde hair shrank back into her skull, darkening to turquoise as her face sharpened. Blue eyes shifted gray as blank steel and the tip of a dark wand rose from a black sleeve, pointing at Tristan's heart.
"Bombarda maxima."
The spell ricocheted off of a bright white shield and shattered the orchestra above, jostling the castle in its foundations. Tristan's head reeled with the deafening noise, white specks flashing before his eyes.
A ragged pain ripped through his throat and breast like shards of glass. The screams of the guests mixed with Aunt Amelia's desperate cries, and from some distant place, his mother and Fleur shouted Tristan's name, their wide eyes drowning in a darkening world.
Cold despair crushed the breath from his lungs.
'No.' Tristan raised his arm and tugged with his magic. 'I refuse to die.'
The saltshaker slapped into his palm. Hot fingers snatched it from him, yanking his jaw open and pouring a sour burning bitterness down his throat.
Tristan's gut surged, bubbling like a cauldron, but with each hurl of bitter acrid sputtering from his lips, the world swam back into focus a little more.
'I'm healing.' He smothered the throbbing pain and scrambled to his knees, slipping through red-streaked vomit, taking hoarse gasps for breath as the raw sting in his throat faded. 'Thank Merlin I did those rituals.'
"Tristan." Scalding hot fingers cupped his jaw in a whiff of sharp vanilla. "Can you hear me?"
Tristan spat a mouthful of metallic retch, wiped his lips, and glanced up. "Yeah. I'm-"
Uncle Matthew's empty red eyes stared back at him from blood-soaked tiles, white foam dribbling from his swollen, burst lips. Next to him, Aunt Amelia coddled her children's heads, sobbing and rocking back and forth, wiping away the trails of crimson leaking from their noses and ears as they lay still and silent in her lap.
"You can't help them anymore, Tristan," Fleur breathed.
'I know. They're dead.'
The pain drowned in white-hot fury; ebony mist exploded from Tristan's sleeve, twisting around the length of his wand like a swarm of hissing serpents, and he leaped to his feet.
'They're all dead.'
In the center of the ballroom, four figures stood stout as a rock in the surf of fleeing, screaming guests; emblems of crossed golden rapiers burned bright as the sun on plain black robes.
With the last guest escaping the hall, the Musketeers thrust up their wands in unison and a torrent of magic crushed Tristan like an avalanche of thick snow, pinning him in place.
His father turned around behind his bright white shield. "Wards." A little relief eased the hard lines in his face as he caught sight of Tristan, but his green eyes burned like fiendfyre.
"They're much stronger than before," Tristan's mother murmured, hugging her belly with one hand. "Tristan's portkey won't work against them, and it can only take two of us anyway."
His father's eyes dipped to her belly, brows creased. "Are you alright, love? Is the baby-"
"Fleur and I will weaken the wards enough for the portkey to work," she cut him off with a wince. "Just give us some time."
"You've been given too much time already, Marlene McKinnon." The middle-left Musketeer tugged their hood back. A small bitter smile crooked beneath a mob of turquoise hair. "You're not getting out of here."
Tristan shook off the last lingers of the poison, letting it drown in the cold surge of hatred whispering through his veins. "Neither are you," he murmured. "Every last one of you will die tonight."
"We'll see about that." The right-most Musketeer raised their wand at Fleur. "Take her out first."
Tristan stepped in front of Fleur and batted back a trio of stunning curses with flicks of his wrist; they struck the tall marble columns in a spray of debris, scorching quaffle-sized craters. Next to him, his father's magic flared as he began casting, a faint ripple of cold, blurring the air like heat haze, but prickling like goosebumps along Tristan's skin.
Adding his own curses into the storm of color, Tristan forced his arm faster to the pound of his heart. The thrill in his veins sweetened and thickened, but all his effort fizzled out against a bright golden shield like droplets of water on a hot stove.
"Any idea how to get through that?"
Tristan's father thrust his pale wand at the ceiling, tightened his grasp, and yanked.
With a great shudder, the giant two-headed eagle flapped its golden wings, showering them in dust and alabaster. Red rubies flashed in its four eyes and it lurched with a furious screech, smashing into the golden shield and shattering it like a bubble of soap, tossing the Musketeers across the tiles.
'That might work.'
The Musketeers scrambled back up; golden fog spewed from their wands, scattering the two-headed eagle into a swirl of amber motes.
'Or not...'
"Porthos, Athos, Aramis," the turquoise-haired Musketeer called, brushing dust off his robes. "Focus your efforts on the son, then stop Fleur Delacour from weakening our wards. I will keep Harry... Peverell busy."
Three wands snapped up.
'Fuck.' Tristan redirected and swatted back spells as fast as he managed, his wand blurring through the air. He targeted the Musketeer to the far right, burying them in a volley of piercing curses, but they conjured a barrier of white magic and his curses burst in bright ripples of color.
"Porthos, Aramis," Athos distorted metallic voice cut through the noise of spells. "You two attack, I'll shield."
They advanced through the hall step by step, shoulder by shoulder, but casting as one. Tristan set fire to the great red carpet, twisting it around them like a river's bends, but they squashed the flames and raised their wands.
"Avada kedavra."
He rolled to the side, feeling death's breath whisper past his cheek, and wrapped his magic around the champagne glasses on the surrounding table, sweeping them up together and crushing them into a shroud of glistering shards.
"Avada kedavra."
Tristan hurled the shards into the path of the next green beam like a fistful of powdered snow, swatting back the fine splinters of glass with a slash of his wand.
Porthos and Aramis summoned the silver cutlery spilled across the ballroom, turning their tips gleaming white-hot, and melting them together into short thin spikes.
Tristan cast his own shield, wincing as the hail of metal struck and thundered in his ears like church bells. "How far along are we, Fleur?" He glanced over his shoulder.
Fleur and his mother chanted in some foreign language, eyes closed and brows furred as they spun their wands in little tugs and twists. "Soon," Fleur murmured. "We're almost through."
"Do try to hurry, yes?" Tristan groaned, eying his flickering shield. "Father, I could really use some help here."
Cherry-red flames spewed from the tip of his father's pale wand, licking at the floor in a rush of furious whispers. The fiendfyre coiled together into the scales of a Basilisk, burning bright as the sun; it rose to the ceiling and reared, trailing a steaming, shimmering pool of molten stone beneath its coils with countless fangs blazing in its gaping maw.
The Basilisk lunged, but washed off the golden fog spewing from D'Artagnan's wand like rain off a window, and the tidal wave of crimson heat poured back at Tristan, its tongues of flames hissing and snatching for him.
Tristan was yanked back and someone stepped around him, parting the flames to either side.
"Amelia Susan Bones," D'Artagnan murmured, lowering his wand by an inch, his hair shifting from turquoise to a matching dark red. "You're not meant to die tonight, but if you stand in our way, you will."
"My name is McKinnon." Aunt Amelia raised her wand, her voice trembling. "You killed my husband-," she cast a glance over her shoulder, her eyes brimming with raw pain and tears trickling down her cheeks, "-and my children."
D'Artagnan smiled that small sad smile. "Neither name nor children were ever yours to be."
Aunt Amelia let out a hoarse scream. "Avada kedavra."
Golden fog swallowed the flash of green, then lunged for her in a shining spiral.
"No!" Tristan's father curled a lasso around her waist and yanked her back, but bright ribbons of shimmering gold snatched her from the air, shredding through Aunt Amelia like a column of razors and scattering chunks of her corpse across the tiles.
A high-pitched ring chimed through the ballroom and the suffocating pressure of the wards sapped.
"Get the anti-portkey wards back up," D'Artagnan called, firing a string of poisonous yellow spells from his wand. "And don't let them escape."
Tristan's father conjured a bright white shield and they retreated to Fleur and his mother.
"Two of us need to leave now," she gasped. "Before they restore the-" his mother writhed in pain and clutched her belly, staring at the gush of red trickling down her heels to the floor.
'Oh fuck.' Tristan tore off his amulet and pressed into his father's chest. "Get her out of here. Now."
He shook his head. "I will not leave you behind."
"Mother is about to have the bloody baby!" Tristan retorted. "She needs you; Fleur and I will join right after."
His father watched the approaching Musketeers over his shoulder, grinding his jaw, then stared at Tristan with burning green eyes. "Remember your promise to me, Tristan." He dropped his shield and took hold of his wife's waist, bringing the amulet to his lips. "Home."
They vanished in a swirl of colors, spells smashing into the spot where they had stood.
D'Artagnan let out a long breath through his nose. "That was a mistake." He raised his wand, his gray eyes sharp as blank steel. "Your father and mother might've stood a chance, but you two don't."
"Things have changed since we last met," Tristan said as Fleur joined his side, tendrils of her magic bathing her wine-red dress in a soft silver halo. "I will make you suffer for what you did to my family."
"You cannot stop us, Tristan Peverell." D'Artagnan smiled that crooked, bitter smile, his turquoise hair darkening to black and his eyes shifting blue as glaciers. "You can twist your magic further than any other and stain your soul, but you still won't know true sacrifice. Not like we do."
"Why don't you have a taste of my magic?" Tristan pictured the slim dark serpent striking from Aurelia's jaw with its fangs poised. Before his mind's eye, his cousins' and uncle's wide-eyed lifeless, crimson-stained bodies bleed into his siblings.
Magic whispered and gurgled beneath his skin, thick and dark and hot as tar; it seeped from his wrists in stray wisps, swirling along his arms up to his shoulders, and faint steam twirled from the joints and cracks in the tiles beneath his boots.
'Die!'
Tristan slashed his wand and let it all go; ebony mist tore the sleeves of his dress-shirt to tatters in a flood of screaming cold hatred, ringing in his ears like his little sister's blood-gurgling laughter as the serpent struck from her gaping maw.
The Musketeers edged together and thrust out their wands, pouring golden steam into a thick fog, but the slim tendrils of silver magic blossoming from Fleur like petals of a flower scattered the fog into empty air.
Tristan dragged up every last drop of power and the ebony mist swelled like a barrage of wrenching darkness. Hooked claws and razor-sharp lances shredded through tables and furniture, cracking the great tiles beneath it like dry twigs.
It swallowed Aramis whole, yanking them face-first to the floor and wrenching at their limbs, spattering blood over the emblem of crossed golden rapiers as they screamed.
"Get Aramis and retreat!" D'Artagnan growled, sweat pouring down his forehead as he pushed back Tristan's magic.
Porthos thrust his wand at the ceiling; the unyielding pressure of the wards vanished and Athos kneeled behind Aramis, helping them to their feet.
'No you don't.' Tristan raised his palm and tugged with his magic, dragging Aramis across the checkered tiles in a smear of red. 'You're not escaping.' Grabbing hold of their shoulder and snatching Fleur's wrist, he wrenched the world back past him to the first image that came to mind, dodging a pale wooden pole sticking from a mount of mud.
In the moonlit clearing, the crumbling ruins of Ekrizdis' tower rose into the midnight silence.
Fleur thrust her arm into the air, tightening a web of wards above their heads. "They can't apparate or portkey away." She ran her wand over Aramis' groaning form. "I can't feel any sort of tracker on them either."
"Good." Tristan tossed Aramis into the mud and snapped their thin dark wand, grinding the splinters beneath his boot. "Let's see who we've got here." He stripped the enchantments of their black hood one by one, yanking it back.
Calm brown eyes rested above high cheekbones and beneath long braided dark hair.
'A witch.' Tristan frowned. "Who are you?"
"Don't you remember?" She coughed a mouthful of blood. "Who we are isn't important, Peverell. What matters is our purpose."
"She could be related to that English boy I killed," Fleur murmured, her eyes huge and dark. "Marcus Flint..."
The barest of flinches spasmed across her face.
"Marcus' older sister perhaps. But you're supposed to have never been born," Tristan murmured, his thoughts racing. "At least your Metamorphmagus friend said so when you set that trap for us at the Flints' mansion." He wiped his mind blank and caught her eyes. "Let's see what you know, shall we?"
The world drowned in darkness, soft laughter rising from its endless depths. "Have a look then, Peverell, but don't say I didn't warn you."
One skewed floor after another of a crooked, red-roofed wooden building rose above a great white marquee spreading across an orchard. Fleur spun in Weasley's arm in the soft dusk, all in white, laughing, and trailing the coiled braid of her hair like a halo.
Her fingers slid to Weasley's shoulders, curling into his clothes as he pulled her into him and kissed her.
'No!' The sharp edge of a knife twisted beneath Tristan's ribs and he tore their thoughts apart, gasping for breath.
Fleur's dark blue eyes hovered a finger's length from his. "What did you see, mon Coeur?"
'Something that'll never come true.'
"The future." Flint let out a burst of gurgling laughter. "If it's any comfort, you'll be dead by the time it takes place."
Tristan glared at her, feeling the weight of Fleur's frown on him. "You're lying," he whispered through gritted teeth.
"Take another look then."
"I will." He slammed their thoughts together, feeding her little flashes of Aurelia's blood-shot empty eyes and her terrified screams, flooding the deep dark dwell she offered him with cold hatred. "You might be very good occlumens, but I've been hoping for a challenge like this for a long time."
A small smile played on his lips as Flint gasped, blood trickling from her nose. "In five minutes, no mind-healer on earth will be able to save what's left of your sanity. You better show me what I want to see."
She spat a mouthful of blood, flapping her dark robes to the side with a wince; glistening entrails gaped from a galleon-sized hole in her stomach. "In five minutes, I will be dead regardless."
Tristan shared a glance with Fleur, but she shook her head. "She doesn't want to be saved. Even if we bring her to a healer, her magic will refuse treatment. I can feel it."
"For someone with a purpose you're awfully keen on dying." Bitter frustration bubbled up in Tristan and he whirled on Flint. "Why are you doing this?! Is it just revenge you want?"
"Just revenge? Your family took everything from me, Peverell."
"We killed you brother long after your first attack on us."
Flint laughed. "The Marcus you killed was my brother, but I wasn't his sister."
"You're insane," Tristan whispered. "And you'll lose. You're already dying. I'll kill your three friends next. And then I'll slaughter anyone who's ever helped you. You will not win."
"But we are already winning." Her lips twisted into a sneer. "Perhaps my death will even trigger it."
"Trigger what?" Fleur asked.
Flint smiled a small cold smile. "Everything the Peverells took from us, we're taking back. All the suffering, all the pain. Starting with what it feels like to lose your unborn baby."
Tristan's blood ran cold, all the hairs prickling in the nape of his neck. "That poison-"
"We knew your twisted magic might protect you, but never the baby..." Flint gurgled, blood dribbling from her lips. "Like I've told you, Peverell-" a triumphant grin spread across her face, "-we're already winning."
Dark spots swirled before his eyes; Tristan wrapped his magic around Flint's head and twisted his wrist, ripping her skull and spine away from her body and tossing them into the mud.
"No." He clawed for breath, his head spinning. "No, it can't be-"
Fleur's hot fingers found his, and the world lurched sideways, spitting them out into the entrance hall of Northdawn Manor.
Tristan sprinted up the stairs to his parent's bedroom, stabs of panic ripping and tearing at his gut, and busted through the door.
His father sat on the wide four-poster bed, holding his mother's hand, his face white as ash as he stared at the blood-stained sheets and towels bunched over the blanket.
The rise and fall of his mother's chest in steady even breaths ignited a little spark of hope in Tristan's racing heart. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and looked around. "Where's-"
The door to the bathroom creaked open. Narcissa stepped through it and her gray eyes found his, dark as rain clouds, tearing the slim sliver of hope from Tristan's heart and crushing it in an icy fist.
The room began spinning.
'No. It cannot be.'
His mother stirred, her eyelids fluttered open, and a small, tired smile spread across her lips. "Give her to me." She blinked up at Narcissa, extending both arms. "Give me my baby girl."
"I'm sorry, Marlene." Narcissa choked into her hand, shoulders trembling. "She - she didn't make it. I'm so terribly sorry."
All the light died in his mother's wide eyes, snuffed out like a candle in the midnight silence, and her face fell as she stared through Narcissa out into the emptiness.
The windows shattered and the manor trembled; Tristan smacked to his knees, clutching his ears, but his mother's piercing scream ripped through his skull and heart, sharp as a knife's edge, crushing the breath from his lungs as the world went dark.