January 4th, 1997
The frozen surface of the lake gleamed in the rising winter sun like a blanket of diamonds, stabbing at Tristan's eye in little flashes of white as he jogged along its shores.
'Just a little further.'
His breath misted and his lungs stung with each gasp of frozen air, but Tristan ignored the bite of fatigue and forced his legs into step after step until gravel crunched beneath his heel and he slumped onto the stairs leading up to the manor's entrance.
Cold sweat ran down his forehead and his heart raced, pounding in his chest. "Tempus," he panted.
Two slim ribbons of gray magic twisted into the letters five and three.
'Barely two minutes quicker than yesterday.' Bitter disappointment left a taste foul as ash on his tongue. 'I need to improve faster.'
Tristan heaved himself upright with a groan and trotted inside, dragging his aching feet up the staircase and down the silent hallway to his bedroom.
Sunlight streamed through a slim gap in the curtains onto his empty bed and bunched blankets. A soft tune drifted from the attached bathroom over gurgling pipes.
Tristan peeked inside; a matching set of red underwear and lace bra sat by the sink and a fluffy bathrobe rested on the rack. Beyond the fogged shower glass, a slim shadow rinsed out their long hair.
'Fleur...' Tristan swallowed hard, crushing a searing flare of yearning, and turned on his heel, but the floorboard creaked beneath his step and the soft tune paused.
"Tristan?" The slim shadow fell still. "Is that you?"
"Sorry," he murmured. "I'll wait outside until you finish."
"Non." Slim fingers pressed against the glass. "Join me, mon Coeur?"
Tristan watched the condensation creep back across the palm of her handprint as she withdrew her hand; the fatigue inched through his aching limbs and the longing flared, hot and sharp, tugging at his heart with searing hooks.
He discarded his boots and shrugged off his sweat-drenched clothes, slipping into the shower and closing the door shut behind him. Scalding hot water sprayed onto his head and chest, cladding him in heat.
Fleur's shape bled through the dense fog; beads of water glistened on her long lashes and slim brows, trickling down the valley between her bare full breasts and over her smooth stomach to the soft curve of her hips.
Tristan tugged his eyes back up, crushing the whisper of heat in his veins. 'You don't deserve it.'
"Bonjour, mon Coeur." She took his hands and drew him under the showerhead. "How was your run?"
The sting of his sore muscles melted away in the warmth of the water and a soft sigh slipped from his lips. "Better than yesterday."
'But still not good enough.'
"Bon." Fleur plucked a blue washcloth and a slim, white bottle out of the shower alcove, popping it open. "I'll join you again tomorrow." She poured a generous amount onto the cloth. "Now let me take care of you; you're all tense and you smell."
A wash of vanilla caught his nose as she brushed the cloth over his shoulders and chest in slow, steady circles.
Tristan breathed in the familiar sharp sweetness. "Now I'll probably smell like you for a week."
"What's wrong with that?" A small smile flitted over Fleur's lips as she moved along his arms with gentle scrubs, letting the water rinse away the bubbles. "You're mine, as I am yours. Turn around, mon Coeur."
Tristan faced the shower door and she washed his neck and back, loosening the strain in his sore muscles. He let his chin slump to his chest and his eyelids slid shut, breathing out all the tension. "Thank you, Fleur."
Her warm arms slid around his torso, hugging him from behind. "I'm here for you, mon Coeur." She rested her head against his shoulder. "You know that, non?"
Tristan ignored the feel of her soft breasts and the buds of her stiff nipples grazing his skin. "Of course I do."
Fleur slipped around him and lifted his chin with one finger, peering up at him with big blue eyes. Her wet hair fell over her shoulders and cleavage like a cascade of gleaming silver. "But...?"
Tristan shot a pointed look down her front. "But you can be very distracting at times, Fleur, and I don't-"
"-deserve anyone's comfort and so you keep me at bay?" Her irises darkened a hue. "You think I'm some shallow girl that'll spread her legs to make you forget the pain?"
"No, of course not." A hot knot of guilt churned in his stomach. "I just-"
Fleur placed a finger over his lips. "I know your reasons, but they're not good reasons. You can be very stupid sometimes, mon Coeur."
Tristan sucked in a deep breath and drew her tight against his chest. "I'll do better," he promised, resting his forehead against hers and brushing their noses together. "I promise. I'll do better for you."
Before his mind's eye, his blonde-haired baby sister beamed and giggled in a twist of raw ragged pain. 'I'll do better for her.'
Fleur cupped his cheek. "You're already good enough for me, Tristan."
"No, I'm not," he whispered. "I failed. I let her die."
"You're a great wizard, mon Coeur, but you're not a seer; you could not have predicted their attack."
"Great..."
The word stung like bitter regret. "If I were great, I would've stopped them long before that poison worked away on my mother. I would've wiped them all away."
'Like Father should've been able to. He killed Dumbledore, he killed Voldemort; he is meant to be the greatest wizard alive.'
Tristan watched the stream of water swirl through the plughole in the corner of the shower, spiraling away into the dark like the dying spark of happiness in his mother's eyes as her lips parted in a scream.
'But if he can't do it, then I will. I will make them bleed for what they did.'
Gentle fingers lifted his chin. "Will you tell me what Flint showed you?"
"I saw you," Tristan breathed. "Dancing with Weasley in a dress white as snow, smiling at him, laughing with him-," a twist of fear snatched the air from his lungs, "-kissing him."
Black bled into Fleur's bright blue eyes and the droplets of water on her pale skin steamed. "You know that will never come true."
"I don't think the memory was one she had witnessed herself," he whispered. "But then how could it feel so real?"
'Even the greatest occlumens can't create that sort of memory from nothing.' Tristan's stomach sank. 'The mind arts don't work like that, which means...'
Fleur took his face in her hands. "Flint showed you what she knew would throw you off enough to stop looking elsewhere." She pulled him into a long, soft kiss beneath the scalding water, her fingers fisting in his air. "I am yours, mon Coeur; I showed you the key to my heart. All you have to do is keep it safe."
"And stop anyone from taking it," Tristan murmured, suffocating a flash of Weasley's roguish grin, lit by the flames of the Beltane Fire. "I'm done having people I care about taken away."
She studied him with an unreadable expression. "What are you going to do?"
"I'll become stronger," Tristan vowed, staring over Fleur's slim shoulder at the dying contour of her handprint on the shower glass. 'I'll become... greater.'
A glimmer of worry crept into Fleur's blue eyes. "Your rituals..."
"Not just those." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I need more practice too. Like fighting new opponents who wield different magicks."
"The dueling tournament in Stockholm," she hummed.
"Exactly." Tristan nodded. "All I need is for Hogwarts to reopen so I can compete as its champion."
Fleur rinsed the last few bubbles from his chest and stomach, and set the shampoo bottle and cloth back into the alcove. "You're all clean and fragrant now, mon Coeur." She turned the water off and took his hand. "Let's dry up and get you something to eat; you must be hungry after your run."
Wry humor broke through the ceiling of numbness, tugging at his lips. "Are we back to feasting me like you did last summer?"
"It had some pleasant side effects." Her gaze traveled up and down his body as she slipped into her white bathrobe and tightened the slim belt around her waist. "Non?"
"I can't argue with that." Tristan grabbed another towel from the rack and patted himself dry, collecting her red underwear from the sink as he followed her back into his bedroom. "You forgot something, petite Fleur."
A flicker of guilt passed through Fleur's eyes. "I meant for you to see those, mon Coeur. I miss sharing your bed every night without sharing the rest as well." She took her underwear and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But I also meant what I said; I'll wait for you. And until then, I'll be by your side and help however I can."
"It's not that I don't want you, Fleur," Tristan whispered. "But with everything that's on my mind right now, I don't think I'd-" a stab of shame snatched the words away, "-I just don't want to disappoint you."
"You could never, mon Coeur." Fleur silenced him with a kiss. "But I still understand; je t'aime. Now, go get dressed so we can have some breakfast."
Tristan dragged on some pants, a shirt, and his shoes, watching Fleur tame her long wet hair into an elegant updo with nimble fingers while getting dressed.
A grave stillness held the manor in its grasp, neither laughter nor chatter drifted from the rooms downstairs.
"Fleur, Tristan." His father perked up as they entered the kitchen. "Have a seat, you two; we only just started." He bustled over to the stove. "Does anyone else want more pancakes or bacon?"
Tristan's siblings shook their heads, staring down at their plates with vacant expressions as they picked on their half-eaten breakfast.
Tristan's heart sank. 'Look at us.' Little flashes of Valeria's mischievous teasing, Galahad's exaggerated quidditch tales, and Aurelia's delightful giggles echoed from the back of his skull, bathed in his mother's soft warm smile. 'Look at what they took from us.'
"Syrup topping for my son and whipped cream for the pretty French girl." Tristan's father served them two towers of pancakes. "Here you go. You can have some freshly pressed orange juice once- "
Dobby appeared with a loud pop, a loaded tray in his arms. "Dobby is very sorry, Sir-," unshed tears sparkling in his huge eyes, "-but Mistress told Dobby she wasn't hungry again."
The smile slipped off his father's face, trickling away like rain down a glass pane.
"It's okay, Dobby," Tristan murmured. "Could you put the tray in the fridge for now and prepare some more orange juice, please?"
Dobby sniffed and bobbed his head, sending his large ears flopping. "Right away, Master Tristan, Sir."
"Daddy." Aurelia placed down her fork. "Can we see Mommy today, please?" she pleaded. "You said she won't be sick for long."
Tristan's father dragged the smile back in place. "Mommy still needs some time to recover, sweetheart, but don't you worry, she'll be back with us soon."
Aurelia's brows furred and her lip trembled. "But..."
Fleur reached out and tugged Aurelia's golden curls behind her ear. "How about I show you how to braid your hair the way I wore it the other day?"
"The princess' braid?" Aurelia perked up. "Can you charm it silver too, so I look like you?"
Tristan's father chuckled. "You're a bit young for that, little lady, and I don't think your mother- " he caught the rest of the words, the gleam of light fading from his eyes. "Braiding will have to do for now. Valeria, would you like to join them?"
Valeria stared at him. "No, dad, I don't want to braid my bloody hair." She pushed her chair back in a harsh scrap of wood on stone and stomped out of the kitchen. "I just want everything to go back to the way it was!"
Aurelia flinched from the slam of the door, tears dwelling in her large green eyes, and Tristan's heart sank as her lips quivered.
"It's okay, she didn't mean to upset you." Galahad rose from his seat with slumped shoulders and led their little sister into the living room, their footsteps dwindling into still silence.
A deep tired sigh escaped his father's lips, and he closed his eyes, running a hand through his messy hair.
Tristan felt a swell of pity surge within his chest. "I'll take Galahad for some flying after breakfast while Fleur keeps Aurelia busy."
"Thank you, Tristan." His father breathed, casting a fugitive glance at his wristwatch. "I need to get going, but I'll be back within the hour."
Tristan frowned. "Where are you heading to?"
His father rose from his seat, summoning his coat from the hallway. "I've set up a meeting at Grimmauld Place with the Potter and Blacks."
Tristan rose as well. "Fleur and I will join."
"But-"
"Dobby will keep an eye on them," Tristan cut him off. "And as you've said; we'll be back within the hour, no?"
"Fine. Let's go." His father vanished in a whisper of his cloak.
Tristan shared a glance with Fleur and snaked his fingers through hers, forcing the world back past him and stepping into Grimmauld Place's gas lantern-lit hallway.
Catching a glimpse of the vast Family Tapestry, they followed muffled voices to the drawing-room; the Potters and Blacks sat along the wide mahogany table, serious expressions on grave faces. Tristan offered them a nod in greeting and settled by the windowsill, drawing Fleur back against his chest.
"Thank you, everyone, for coming." His father cleared his throat, resting his arms on the back of his chair. "There's something I need to discuss with all of you."
"How's Marlene, Harry?" Aunt Lily asked, wide green eyes full of worry. "Why didn't she attend her brother's funeral with the rest of you?"
"Marlene's doing better already."
'Liar.' Tristan smothered a flare of anger. 'Mother hasn't eaten in days.'
"You should let me check up on her again, Harry," Narcissa implored. "A stillborn baby is the most terrible experience for any mother, but we have to make sure she heals-"
"Marlene is stronger than any woman I know." Tristan's father forced the words through gritted teeth. "We're all very grateful for everyone's condolences, the many letters, and your offers to visit, but right now we just need a little more time for ourselves, to heal as a family."
He drew an envelope out of the pocket of his robes; the Hogwarts crest stood in bright red from its wax seal. "As parents with children attending Hogwarts, you'll have received this letter here too, have you not?"
Apart from Melania and Arcturus, they all bobbed their heads.
His father turned around and met Tristan's gaze, holding up the letter between his thumb and forefinger.
'Are they reopening the school or extending the break?' Tristan tugged with a little drag of magic and summoned the letter into his palm, unfolding it in front of Fleur's chest and peering over her shoulder.
Dear parents of magical Britain,
As the new Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and on behalf of the Board of Governors, I address you on account of the schools' closure before last year's yule.
Your righteous concerns for your children's safety have been heard and were met with appropriate responses, including a comprehensive review of the school's premises and an elimination of any potential threats to the future generations of our country.
For additional safety, the Hogsmeade Visits, the nightly curfews, and various Educational Decrees have been reworked to ensure the emotional and physical well-being of all students. These corrections will be enforced by the staff, our Prefects as well as a team of experienced Aurors from the Ministry of Magic.
With those measures now in place, I welcome all students back to the start of the new term on January 10th.
Yours sincerely,
Dolores Jane Umbridge
(Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry)
"As you've all read, Headmistress McGonagall was sacked in favor of Dolores Umbridge, who now enforces her absurd Educational Decrees under the pretense of students' safety," Tristan's father said.
'This is bad.' Tristan shared a glance with Fleur, then reread the letter; McGonagall's words bled through his thoughts. 'If she's no longer Headmistress, will I even be allowed to participate in the dueling tournament?'
"Having some Aurors look after our children during Hogsmeade visits doesn't sound like the worst idea, Harry," Uncle Sirius chimed in. "James and I, along with many colleagues whom we trust, have been approached and we all agreed to the extra patrols."
"Aurors won't help here."
"And why is that?" Uncle James scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you finally going to tell us who those freaks that killed my mother are?"
"James!" Aunt Lily gasped. "How can you say that after-"
"No, it's fine, Lily." Tristan's father held up his hand. "James is right; the group who killed Dorea are very much the same who plagued Hogwarts last year and who attacked us on New Year's Eve in Germany."
Tristan perked up and Fleur twitched in his arms, her fingers growing warm in his. 'Is Father going to tell them?'
"Who are they?" Grandmother Melania asked.
"And what do they want?" Uncle Sirius added.
"How do you know them?" Uncle James demanded.
Tristan's father let out a long breath. "Look, I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what exactly they want."
Tristan clenched his jaw. 'Of course he won't tell anyone.'
"That's bullshit, Harry," James snapped. "You and Marlene are keeping secrets from the rest of us again, just like you did during the war. Those bastards killed my mother, they killed Matthew's and Amelia's entire family, and given that you called us here, I bet some of us are their next target, aren't we?"
Stark silence descended over the drawing room. Tristan watched his father as the rest of the room waited with bated breath.
His father stared out the window into the tryst gray clouds looming above London. "I think this group consists of people from my past, before I went to Hogwarts," he whispered, dark cold shadows swirling in his green eyes. "They feel wronged by me, so now they're targeting my family and anyone close to me, which is why I need to protect you."
The long eerie silence stretched on until Aunt Lily squirmed. "What do you suggest we do, Harry?"
"Marlene and I are not sending our children, except Tristan, back to Hogwarts, and I implore you to do the same." Tristan's father turned back around. "Home-school them for a month, at most two. That's enough time for me to find this group."
Silent glances were exchanged between the couples and across the table.
"Two months," Uncle James said. "After that, I will share everything you just told us with my department, which means you and your son will be called in for questioning." His gaze softened as he stood. "I'm sorry for your loss, Harry, I truly am, but if we want to avoid any more dead family members, we need to work together from now on."
Tristan's father's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you, James."
James shot a brief nod into the round and led Aunt Lily back out into the hallway. One by one the other guests rose, offering Tristan's father their condolences as they left.
Arcturus closed the door shut after Melania. "I invested some gold and revived my contacts in the German Ministry; apart from the bodies of the McKinnons, no clues were found at Schloss Stolzenstein, neither of your family's involvement nor of theirs."
"I didn't expect anything to be found." Tristan's father sighed. "These Musketeers are not a bunch of amateurs like the Death Eaters were."
"Where do we look next, Peverell?" Arcturus's eyes flashed like blank steel. "I want to find these four cowards and skin them alive for what they did to my sister."
"Three," Tristan murmured.
His father and Arcturus glanced up. "What did you say, boy?"
"There's three Musketeers." A swell of sweet satisfaction spread into a small smile on Tristan's lips. "The fourth is dead."
His father leaped from his chair. "Damn it, Tristan, why are you only telling us now?!"
"Should I have mentioned it to Uncle James and Sirius, the two Aurors?"
"How did they die?" Arcturus barked.
Tristan pictured the spray of crimson as he ripped Flint's skull and spine from her body.
"Unpleasantly," Fleur replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
"And who were they?" His father stared at them, pacing up and down the room in quick frantic strides and running a hand through his wild dark hair. "What did they say to you?"
"She said her name didn't matter; what matters was her purpose." Fleur cocked her head, spilling silver tresses down her shoulder. "But she revealed herself as the older sister of Markus Flint."
His father skidded to a halt, brows drawn into a deep vee and lips parted.
Arcturus cackled. "The Flints died in 1978 when a fire broke out in their manor. Only Markus Flint survived because he was with his grandparents at the time, who then raised him. There is no other Flint; whoever that witch was, she lied to you, girl."
Tristan raised an eyebrow at his father. "Did she?"
The remaining color drained from his father's face. "What did you learn, Tristan?"
"Nothing," he lied, squashing the memory of Fleur dancing with Weasley in her wedding dress beneath the great white marquee. "Flint was too good of an occlumens."
"What about her body?" Arcturus asked. "Why didn't my contacts in the German Ministry mention one?"
"We apparated Flint out and took care of the body after we killed her," Fleur murmured, leaning back against Tristan's chest. "There's no trace leading back to us."
Arcturus slapped the tabletop. "Hah, I didn't think you had it in you, blondie." He pointed at Tristan, breaking into harsh tearing coughs. "But I still think you should ditch him; that brat doesn't deserve beauty, let alone beauty and brains."
Tristan rolled his eyes, but Fleur tilted her chin up, snaking his arms tighter around her slim waist. "There's much more to me than meets the eye, Monsieur Black."
"Oh, I don't doubt it." Arcturus rasped, clutching his throat. "You'll have to excuse me, I need to rest." He grabbed his walking stick with a shaky hand and limped out, closing the door behind him.
Dark green eyes bored into them from across the room. "I'm very disappointed in you, Tristan."
"Shouldn't you be thanking us instead?"
His father shook his head with a long sigh. "This is why I tried to keep you out of it; I never wanted you to get that involved, let alone take a life."
"And yet here we are." Tristan shrugged. "Now, since we've been honest with you, do you want to return the favor?"
His father stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there has to be a reason that, apart from Melania and Arcturus, every adult in attendance today was among the names that blurred on the Blacks' Family Tapestry before you manipulated it last year." Tristan allowed himself a thin smile as he caught the unease blossoming in his father's eyes. "Uncle James was right about who's being targeted. The only question I have is why; what do those names have in common?"
"Please, Tristan," his father whispered. "Just leave it be. Let me handle this."
The space between them gaped open; thick, silent, and still, and the words tumbled off Tristan's tongue before he could catch them. "Perhaps if you had killed a Musketeer, I'd trust you to be capable of it."
His father flinched, a raw pain twisting his face into a rough grimace, and with a whisper of his cloak, he disapparated.
Fleur turned in his arms, peering up at him through her dark lashes.
"I know." Guilt gnawed at Tristan. "I- I didn't mean to say that."
"It was cruel, mon Coeur." She cupped his cheek, interlacing the fingers of her other hand with his. "You should apologize to your father later, but before that..." the drawing-room blurred into a familiar clearing, a ruined blackened stone tower rising from its center, "-there's something we should do."
Maggots feasted on a decaying corpse, its reek sent Tristan's stomach wringing. "Let's get rid of that like we told Arcturus."
"Qui, but I also came for this." Fleur flicked her wand from her waist, summoning splinters of dark wood from the mud.
'Flint's wand. I really wish I hadn't broken it.' Tristan studied the countless tiny splinters. "Do you want me to…?"
"Non, mon Coeur, you might be more powerful," Fleur's lips curved into a proud smirk, "but you're better at taking things apart than putting them back together. Laisse moi faire."
She spun her wand in a slow circle, soaking the splinters in a dim silver glow; they rearranged themselves, swirling and melting together like wax into a long slim shape.
Fleur plucked the dark wand from the air. "Voilà."
Tristan raised a dubious eyebrow. "It looks the same, but-"
"-you won't be able to cast any magic through it," Fleur hummed. "Luckily, that doesn't matter to the person we show it to."
"Ollivander," Tristan murmured.
"Exactement. I love you very much, mon Coeur, but I'm not breaking into your Ministry again." She loosened her updo, shaking out her long hair. "Not that their silly device would even recognize this wand, now it can't cast any magic."
"I doubt Ollivander will help us, but since we're out of options..." Tristan raised his wand and let that slim flare of hatred coil around his heart like a cold, dark serpent, bathing Flint's rotting corpse in searing fiendfyre.
Fleur's warm fingers found his, and Ekrizdis' clearing snapped into the wide cobblestone road of Diagon Alley and a thrumming crowd of wizards and witches bustling back and forth the many shops.
Behind the store window, Ollivander's thin silver-haired figure crouched over a plain desk before towering shelves stacked with hundreds and hundreds of slim wand boxes.
"Tristan Peverell,-" his pale eyes swept over them as they entered, "-and Fleur Delacour; what a pleasant surprise."
"We've found a wand, Monsieur Ollivander," Fleur murmured. "We thought you might recognize it as one of yours."
"I also recognize a call for help when I see one, Ms. Delacour," Ollivander's voice dropped low and thin as paper. "And my help has its price."
Tristan shared a glance with Fleur, a sickening sense of déjà vu swapping through him, leaving the hairs on his skin prickling. 'No. Ollivander doesn't seem like the type to ask for that…'
"Name it."
"You wield a new wand, Mr. Peverell, a wand unlike any other from what I've heard," Ollivander whispered, drifting out from behind the desk in quiet steps. "I'd like to see it... to feel it."
A shiver of unease crawled down Tristan's spine. 'My unbreakable vow prevents me from revealing anything that might endanger Gregorovitch.'
"Fear not, as a wandmaker myself, I would never dare harm another's craft; I merely wish to admire it."
Tristan slipped the peace of ebony into his palm and held it out. "Be careful; it's very closely bonded to me."
"So I've heard." Ollivander plucked it from his grip with long fingers, bringing it under his nose. "It is true then, Mykew finally accomplished what wandmakers all around the world failed at for centuries; a true wand of elder." His huge eyes sharpened as his fingers skimmed along the smooth pale length. "A powerful wood, this one more so than any other I've seen, but the key to the wand's success lies equally in its core."
'Imagine something equally as volatile, something that churns and ravishes just as much as the elder.' Tristan held his tongue as Gregorovitch's words seeped through him.
"How ingenious; the cloak of a Lethifold." Ollivander smiled in a show of crooked yellow teeth. "It must've been the one you subdued in the first task, Mr. Peverell, only that could yield a strong enough bond. Out of the two of us, Mykew always was the unorthodox one, willing to push the boundaries, whereas I preferred the conventional methods." His unsettling gaze flickered to Tristan and back to the wand, then he held it out. "Thank you for letting me study such a remarkable piece of art. Your bond speaks volumes of the many great things you'll do with this wand."
Tristan stifled a sigh of relief, slipping it back up his sleeve, as Fleur produced Flint's wand. "Can you tell us if this is one of yours, Monsieur?"
Ollivander held it close to his pale gray eyes, rolling it between knobble-long knuckled fingers and flexing it. "Ebony and dragon heartstring," he whispered. "Twelve-and-a-quarter inches. Unyielding." He stared at Fleur. "Why, Ms. Delacour, do you have a wand crafted by me yet never sold?"
Tristan's heart picked up a pace. "So it is one of yours?"
"As I have told you during the weighing, Mr. Peverell-" Ollivander placed the wand on the counter and wandered to the shelves, climbing up the ladder and fishing one slim box from within countless, "-I remember every wand I've ever crafted and sold."
Removing the lid, he revealed a slim dark length of wood, its handle and carvings identical to the one on the counter.
"No two Ollivander wands are the same," he whispered, raising each in one hand. "Yet here you bring me one."
Tristan's thoughts raced to the soaring drum of his heart. "Do you have any idea how that might be possible?"
"Not the slightest." The ghost of a smile passed across Ollivander's face. "And luckily it's not my riddle to solve, but yours."