April 13th, 1997
Through roaring green flames stabbing at his vision, Tristan stepped out of the marble fireplace into the living room of Northdawn Manor.
"Tristan!" His mother leaped from the armchair opposite him, tossing her book aside. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright? Did something happen?"
"Everything's fine," he murmured, brushing specks of ash from his shoulders and vanishing them as they floated to the carpet with a flick of his wand. "I'm just collecting something from my room and will be on my way again."
"You are going to Gringotts!" Her shout echoed down the silent hallway and she caught up with him on the staircase. "Why did you not tell us you were invited to the reading of Arcturus' will?"
A spark of irritation ignited in his breast. "I must've forgotten. Sorry for not setting a better example on how to communicate in this family." Strolling into his room, Tristan snatched the purse with his tournament winnings from the drawer by his bed and spun on his heel.
His mother lingered in the doorway, a flicker of hurt passing through her wide blue eyes. "I know the reading is set for twelve o'clock because your father was invited too," she murmured, stealing a small step closer. "You could still-"
"I don't have time, Mother." Tristan moved to slip past.
She caught him by the arm. "We are your family, Tristan." Her grip tightened. "Please, just come back home after the reading so we can talk."
He cast a long look at where she clung to him. "Let go of me."
His mother flinched as if stung; the hurt in her eyes sent a lance of pain through Tristan, but he let it drown in that faint murmur of rage stirring beneath his heart.
"Marlene, love?" Footsteps rang out from the hallway. "Are you talking to Dobby?"
'Of course he's here too.' Tristan cursed under his breath. 'Fucking great.'
His father stepped into the room and froze still. "Tristan..." Soft sadness rose in tired green eyes, framed by deep dark circles on pale skin. "You're here."
A thick silence filled his childhood bedroom, separating Tristan from his parents like the ravine of molten black rock gaping open between him and the Musketeers.
"We haven't heard from you in almost two weeks," his father murmured. "You've ignored all our letters..."
"There was nothing in them worth replying to," Tristan muttered, a touch of ice lacing his tone.
His father winced. "Valeria, Galahad, and Aurelia are all in the library together. Perhaps you could-"
"No." Tristan shut the door with a flick of his wand. "Don't drag my siblings into this; the only thing you've done right so far is keeping them out of this mess. Unless you're finally going to tell me the truth, I'll be on my way again."
"Please, don't go. Please!" His mom clutched her husband's robes, shooting him a pleading look. "Tell him, Harry! Just tell him, please. He is our son. I- we cannot keep this up any longer. We have to tell him!"
Tristan's father shook his head, holding her tight as she buckled against his chest. "I can't. Not yet." A wild, desperate gleam burned in his green eyes, bright as the last rays of the dying sun before it slipped below the horizon. "I need- I need more time."
"More time?" D'Artagnan's words trickled from the back of Tristan's mind, tasting like blood on his tongue. "You've been granted too much time already."
All the color drained from his father's face. "I will tell you everything, Tristan. I promise. You don't understand..."
"Of course I don't understand." Tristan fished Draco Malfoy's dark wand from within his robes, balancing it on his finger. "But I'm slowly picking up the clues for what they are."
His parents exchanged a quiet glance. "I thought you and Fleur destroyed the wand... just as you did with Isabella Nott's." Tristan's father's brows drew into a deep frown. "What are you going to do with it?"
Tristan met his father's eyes with a thin smile. "I'll show it to Ollivander after we're done at Gringotts today; let's see what he makes of it." He spun the wand around his fingers in slow, steady circles. "Just admit it, Father; you'd love nothing more than to take it from me, don't you? To keep me stumbling in the dark?"
A muscle twitched in his father's jaw.
Tristan's mother stepped between them. "Stop it, Tristan, please." Tears brimmed in her pleading blue eyes like small shards of ice in the sun. "You have no idea how hard this is for your father."
"For him?" Tristan echoed. "Ask the dead how hard they find it. Ask Dorea, Matthew, Amelia, Arcturus, Melania. Ask Sirius, if he even survives his treatment. Ask the Potters after they're killed next." The rage stirred, ebbing over. "People close to us, people we love, are slaughtered like cattle, and you're cowering in here talking about-"
"Enough."
The word was but whispered, faint and low and soft as settling snow, yet slicing sharp as blank steel. Dark shadows devoured each other in his father's cold green eyes and the temperature in the bedroom dropped, misting their breaths.
The chill clawed deep, biting through Tristan's robes and skin, but it all drowned in that insistent murmur of rage stirring within him like a writhing mass of slim black serpents.
He held his father's eyes, not blinking once, and slipped Draco's wand back into his pocket. "I'm done here anyway."
Tristan wrenched the world back past him, stepping out onto the white marble steps of Gringotts gleaming in the midday sun, and approached a free teller in the atrium. "I'm here for the reading of Arcturus Black's will."
"Wand," the goblin muttered, skimming through columns of accounting.
Tristan placed his wand on the counter.
The goblin picked it up between long slender fingers. "Thirteen and a seventh of an inch. Elderwood. Inflexible. Containing..." He brought the wand closer to his small black eyes and shuddered, pushing it back across to Tristan with a huge scowl and muttering in a harsh tongue. "Follow me, wizard."
He led Tristan through arching, white-tiled corridors into an oval-shaped office. The low chatter died and all eyes from every corner of the room latched onto Tristan.
"What's he doing here?" Walburga Black shrieked at the Goblin. "Only the closest family is meant to attend the reading!"
The goblin strutted out without a word, closing the door behind himself, and Tristan drifted through the prickling stares to the back of the room, keeping one eye on Diana and Brutus Lestrange. 'How is she upset at me for being here but not them?'
The door opened again and an old, sharp-suited goblin carrying a slim briefcase strode inside, followed by Tristan's father.
"I am Director Raknok, overseer of the Black vaults." The goblin sat down behind the wide oak desk and pulled a thin leather-bound ledger from within his briefcase. "You have all been invited to Gringotts today because you are mentioned by name in the will of Arcturus and Melania Black. Gringotts has already confirmed that any asset mentioned in the will is indeed the former Lord and Lady Black's to bequeath." The Raknok's sharp stare roamed over them. "There will be no disputes of any kind; each of you shall receive exactly what you are entitled to, nothing more, nothing less."
Tristan quirked an eyebrow. 'Let's see about that...'
Raknok cleared his throat. "Let us begin. We, Arcturus Orion Black III and Melania Sophia Black née Macmillan do hereby make and declare this will, in a sound and disposing state of mind and with our own free will and consent. To our grand and great-grandchildren, Narcissa, Andromeda, Nymphadora-"
"Just Tonks," Nymphadora muttered under her breath.
Raknok shot her a glare. "To Narcissa, Andromeda, Nymphadora, and Regulus, we shall bequeath ten thousand galleons each, along with the promise of the continuous protection and support of House Black under its new Lord."
'Except for Regulus they all seem rather pleased with that.' Tristan noted.
"To our granddaughter Bellatrix Cassiopeia Lestrange née Black and her children, Diana Bellatrix Lestrange and Brutus Corvus Lestrange, we shall leave one knut each." Raknok raised his voice as the murmurs swelled. "Bellatrix shamed this noble house and almost doomed us, and we would never hold a child accountable for its parents' actions, but from everything which we have heard, Diana and Brutus are just as mad as she was and as rotten as whichever Lestrange fathered them. Our only regret is not being able to witness their faces when these passages are read out."
The goblin glanced up from the ledger into the loaded silence filling the office.
A hint of a grin crept through the numbness onto Tristan's lips. 'Damn, Grandpa Archie, I'm surprised your wife let you write that. I bet you added it in secret.' Bitter regret snatched the humor away and crushed it in a fist of ice. 'I should've protected you two better. Had I been stronger...'
"Fuck this. And fuck all of you." Diana fumed, drawing huge labored breaths, her cheeks flushed red in rage. "Come Brutus!" She seized her brother's wrist. "We are leaving."
Tristan snorted as they stomped past, and Brutus whirled on him, finger itching to the pocket in his robes.
"Do it," Tristan dared him as the murmur swelled, trickling through his veins like ice water. "Give me a reason."
"Let him laugh, Brutus." Diana dragged her brother on, an ugly dark glint smoldering in her bulging gray eyes. "You'll get what's coming for you soon enough, Peverell." She spat at Tristan's feet and glared around the office. "All of you will."
The door slammed shut behind them.
"Let us continue then." Ragnok shuffled his papers. "To our nephew James Charlus Potter, we bequeath vault fifty-three including all its contents. It once belonged to my sister Dorea and I shall see it passed down to her descendants. To our first born-son Orion Cygnus Black and his wife Walburga Ursula Black, as well as our second-born son, Pollux Phineas Black and his wife Druella Irene Black née Rosier, we leave twenty thousand galleons each along with the right to remain living in their quarters at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place for as long as they wish. To my grandson Sirius Orion Black-"
"Sirius couldn't attend," Uncle James cut in, his hazel eyes resting on Tristan, robbed of any twinkle of mischief. "He's still recovering in Saint Mungo's."
"Sirius Black's presence is not required for the will to be executed, wizard," Ragnok drawled. "To my grandson Sirius Orion Black, we shall leave all other vaults and their contents, any assets and properties under our name, including Number Twelve Grimmauld Place as well as the title of Lord Black. Should Sirius be incapable of performing the duties of the acting Lord Black by the time this will is read and should his oldest son be underage still, all the aforementioned vaults, assets, and properties, including the title of Lord Black, shall be deeded for safekeeping to Harry Ignotus Peverell."
The office erupted in outrage.
"This is preposterous!" Walburga cried, glaring at Tristan's father. "You're overturning a millennia of tradition. My son Regulus is next in line; Peverell shouldn't even be here, let alone receive a bequeath of any sort!"
"Silence, witch, or I will have you removed from Gringotts!" Ragnok snapped. "Harry Peverell will hold all vaults, assets, properties, and titles for safekeeping until Sirius Black can carry out his duties or until his son comes of age. Should no male heir protrude in the main line of Black, all vaults, assets, properties, and titles remain with Harry Peverell and, upon his death, will be passed on to his firstborn son, Tristan Ignotus Peverell."
The outrage bolstered and all furious expressions swiveled to Tristan as the murmur rose against him.
"We should not undermine Sirius' inheritance like that." Uncle James approached Raknok's desk. "I know for a fact he wouldn't want any of this."
"It doesn't matter what you know or what you think Sirius Black would want, wizard," the goblin snarled, shuffling his papers together into a neat stack and standing up. "Mr Black is welcome to settle the dispute by stepping forth and claiming the inheritance for himself. Until then, Gringotts has hereby executed the contents of this will."
"We shall not bother with what the goblin says," Walburga muttered, glaring at Tristan's father. "All our vaults and properties are enchanted with blood magic, and no matter how much you wish it, Peverell, neither you nor your son carry a drop of it. You're not on the family tapestry and you will never be Lord Black."
Raknok hissed, baring sharp black teeth. "You dare insult Gringotts by implying we are ignorant of such matters, witch?" He hissed a string of curses in harsh gobbledegook. "Messrs Peverell, step forth."
Tristan followed his father to the desk, feeling the Blacks' hostile stares prickling in the nape of his neck.
Raknok produced a rectangular wooden box from his briefcase. The words Toujours Pur were carved deep into the lid beneath the crest of House Black.
"The keys to all vaults belonging to the Black family are contained in this box, and they can only be opened by the acting Lord Black and his heirs. A few drops will suffice to open it, Mr Peverell-," Raknok plucked a slim silver knife from the drawer, shooting a malevolent glower at Walburga, "-and to silence even the most ignorant of your kind."
Tristan stared at the dark skull crowning the crest, a pickle of unease slithering down his spine. "What happens if you attempt to open it with the wrong blood?"
Raknok offered him a broad, sly grin. "No one was ever foolish enough to attempt it."
"There's no need for you to do it too." Tristan's father stepped forth, offering his hand. "No one in their right mind could deny you're my son."
'Still, how can you be so confident you have the right blood?' Tristan frowned as Raknok pricked his father's finger with the tip of the knife, then squeezed, until droplets of crimson spattered the three ravens in the crest. 'Walburga is right. We're not on the tapestry; we're not family.'
But before his mind's eye, all the names and sketched faces blurred along the slim golden roots of the family tree as they had on his last visit, and a faint suspicion crept in amongst Tristan's thoughts like morning fog through the meadow. 'Or are we?'
The office watched with bated breath, and the lid slid open in a faint click, revealing a handful of simple iron keys.
"There you have it." Raknok closed the box shut with a smug expression and swept it back into his briefcase along with all the documents, strutting out from behind his desk. "Your inheritances will be transferred to your vaults. Good day, everyone."
The door fell shut, locking the office in thick, tense silence.
"I recognize a ploy when I see one." Orion stepped forth. "Your wayward son got my parents killed and my son's face half blown off. Now, all that's left between you and our wealth is my grandson Alphard." He glowered. "You're attempting line theft in broad daylight and the Wizengamot will see it likewise once I address the matter to them."
"You're rambling as usual." Tristan's father rolled his eyes. "But go ahead and waste your inheritance on all the lawyers in the world."
"This isn't over, Peverell. I will not let you kill my grandson next." Orion straightened the collar of his robes and strutted out.
All the Blacks followed him save for Uncle James.
"The last thing that family needed was more discord." He let out a long sigh, running a weary hand through his hair. "I visited Sirius at Saint Mungo's today; the healers say that he'll likely survive, but they don't know when he'll wake up. Can't you just transfer the inheritance to Regulus in the meantime?"
"Why would I do that?" Tristan's father replied. "Arcturus had his reasons to mention me in his will instead of him."
"Are you saying you don't trust Regulus?" James echoed. "Sirius's own brother?!"
His father's expression darkened. "I trust very few people these days."
James scoffed. "Nothing's changed since Hogwarts then, has it? You and Marlene against the world..." His hazel eyes flickered to Tristan. "Well, I suppose you trust your son enough to involve him in whatever this is too..."
Tristan snorted. "I wish he actually did."
James cocked his head. "I'm sure you know plenty of useful things. In fact, why don't you come with me to the Ministry and share some of them?"
"Now is not the time for that, James," Tristan's father murmured. "Tristan needs to get back to Hogwarts."
"Surely our Triwizard International Dueling Champion can skip one more class today." James' voice dripped with sarcasm, then his expression hardened. "You are coming with me for questioning, Tristan. And I'm not asking as your godfather, I'm asking as an Auror Captain."
Tristan frowned. "Questioning on what exactly?"
"Have your pick." James grunted. "The murder of my mother. The murder of Marcus, Margaret, Matthew, and Amelia. The murder of Arcturus and Melania. The assault on Sirius… Should I go on?"
"You really think I did all that?"
"I hope not, but you're the only person who witnessed every single one of them, and as such the Auror Department has some questions for you."
"Don't do this, Prongs," Tristan's father murmured.
"Don't Prongs me!" James snapped. "I gave you a chance after New Year's Eve, Harry, but instead of catching whoever is behind this, you got my aunt and uncle killed, and my best friend's face melted off. Stay out of this and let me do my job." He took a step towards Tristan. "Now, are you going to comply or cause trouble?"
"What happens if I cause trouble?"
"I will stop asking nicely and make you come with me."
Tristan caught those hard hazel eyes; nothing but firm determination shone in them. You will try, yes...' In the corner of his vision, his father gave a subtle shake of his head. 'But Father's right. This isn't worth it.'
"Don't worry, Auror Captain." He raised his empty hands in mock surrender. "I'll come peacefully."
James shot him a suspicious look. "Good. We can use one of Gringotts' fireplaces." He strode out of the office and past the tellers to the fireplace. "Wait for me in the atrium."
"Sure." Without acknowledging his father's nod of goodbye, Tristan grabbed a handful of floo powder and stepped into the coals. "Ministry of Magic." Gringotts vanished in roaring green flames, and he was spat out onto a marble floor, drowning in a hectic bustle of Ministry workers.
Uncle James took him by the shoulder. "This way." He charmed his robes into the scarlet Auror uniform with a flick of his wand and led Tristan through the parting crowd to the elevators, pressing the button for down.
The golden doors slid shut with a ping and they descended in a rattling of chains.
"Level two," the smooth, high female voice announced as the doors rattled open again. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
James strode down a corridor lined with doors and through a cluttered, open area divided by cubicles, dodging swarms of zooming paper airplanes and greeting several of his red-robed colleagues until they reached an office with his name displayed in large golden letters on the door.
"Take a seat." He offered Tristan a plain chair and sat down behind his loaded desk, pushing aside stacks of parchment and the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. "Would you like anything to drink?"
"No, thank you." Tristan cast a look around.
Aunt Lily, Magnolia, and Charlus smiled and waved from within a few wooden photo frames on the walls. Next to them, in an older, smaller one, four boys stood arm in arm and grinning from ear to ear.
'Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew.' Tristan recognized the boys besides Sirius and James. 'Father never talks about them, but they both died in the war.'
"I suggest we start with the first attack." James flicked his wand at a quill, hovering it over an empty scroll. "Tell me what happened at Potter Manor on March 1st, 1996."
'This might take a while.' Tristan took a deep breath and sank back into his chair. "I went to Potter Manor to give back a wand I'd borrowed after mine was destroyed in the Triwizard Tournament," he said, watching the quill write his every word. "When I arrived, Tilly the elf was dead already, and they were holding Dorea and my sister Aurelia hostage."
"Who is they? Do you know them?"
"No, I don't know them." Crossed golden rapiers flashed bright as the sun before his mind's eye. "I only know the names they call themselves; D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis. After the French muggle story The Three Musketeers."
"But those were four names, no? So there's four three musketeers?" James screwed his face up. "Weird muggles. Whatever, scratch that," he told the quill, picking up a small frame from his desk and staring at it. "How did Dorea Potter die?"
'I will never betray my family.' Dorea's dying words seeped through his thoughts, soaked in sorrow. "She died saving my little sister-," Tristan twisted the truth, bitter guilt churning in his stomach. "By distracting them long enough for me to save her."
James tore his gaze up from the frame, setting it back down with great care. "And how did you do that?"
"I-"
A sharp knock rang through the office and the door swung open. Bartemius Crouch barged inside, cloak rustling.
Tristan straightened in his chair. 'What the hell is he doing here?'
Uncle James rose. "How may I help you, Minister?"
"I was told you were interrogating Peverell in your office." Crouch's beady black eyes flickered from Tristan to the parchment on the desk and he snatched it from beneath the quill, skimming it. "Just continue where you left off, Captain."
"Minister, I-"
"I said continue, Captain Potter," Crouch barked, conjuring himself a simple chair. "And I do not like repeating myself."
James let out a sigh and cleared his throat. "How did you save your sister, Tristan?"
"I made a portkey for her."
"Okay. And what happened after-"
"Not so fast, Captain," Crouch cut in. "Your suspect just admitted to the creation and usage of an illegal portkey." He scowled at Tristan. "Who taught you how to do that? Your parents?"
Tristan smothered a flare of annoyance. "I'm not some suspect, Minister, and this is not an interrogation. I'm a witness and I offered to share what I know." He met Crouch's furious expression with a thin smile. "It's been a few years since you were the head of the DMLE so perhaps such details are rather trivial to you. Just like the legality of portkeys in life-threatening circumstances..."
Crouch's eyes blazed with raw hatred. "What happened after you portkeyed your sister away?" he barked.
"My father arrived, the Musketeers lost interest and vanished."
"Then why did our living room look like one of those muggle bombs went off in it?" James scoffed. "Every last window in the east wing was shattered."
Tristan scratched the back of his head. "Perhaps we exchanged a few spells before they fled?"
"Enough of that." Crouch snapped. "Did they say anything to you or your father before they fled? Did they look or sound familiar? Did they say why they killed Dorea Potter?"
Tristan allowed the quill to catch up in its messy scribble. "No to all three, Minister."
Crouch's nostrils flared. "Where were you on March 31st, 1996?"
Tristan blinked, clawing back through his memories. 'That's the day Father and I infiltrated the ICW. The day the inferi attacked our home.' He offered Crouch a helpless shrug. "The date doesn't ring a bell for me, sir."
"For your information, Tristan-," James chimed, "-on March 31st some magical… backlash triggered the Underage Trace in all of Wales and-"
"-and we managed to track said backlash to the area where your family estate must be located," Crouch added with a growl.
'That must've been all those inferi nearly overpowering our wards.' Tristan scratched his chin, deep in mock concentration. "Ah yes, now I do remember-," Crouch and James both leaned closer in their seats, "-I was in the Hogwarts Library studying for the Third Task that day."
The Minister's cheeks turned an ugly shade of pink. "Can someone attest to that?" he spat.
"Of course." Tristan bobbed his head. "I was with my sister Valeria, and Fleur Delacour, and Gabrielle Delacour."
James pinched the bridge of his nose. "So your only witnesses are your sister, your girlfriend, and who I assume to be your girlfriend's sister...?"
"Don't forget Madam Prince," Tristan said. "No one gets inside the library without her knowing."
"At least that much is true," James muttered.
"Next question, Captain!" Crouch growled, slamming his fist on the table. "The New Year's Eve Ball in Germany. What happened there? Why were you attacked?"
"The attack wasn't aimed at us."
"Oh, it wasn't?" Crouch cocked his head, a nasty gleam rising in his dark eyes. "Then why did your future little sibling die that night?"
Tristan shot up from his chair in a flash of searing hatred.
"Sit down, Tristan," James hissed.
With a deep breath, Tristan smothered the bubbling rage to that soft insistent murmur and sat back down. "Only the drinks of the Bones family had been spiked with poison. No one else's."
"And why would they attack the Bones?"
"I don't know, Sir," Tristan admitted with a shrug. "Perhaps because of Amelia's and Matthew's positions in the Ministry? You two are the detectives here, not me."
"Don't play smart with me, boy!" Crouch barked. "We already know you are not the main target; they could've killed you and made it look like an accident in any of the dozen duels you've fought over those two weeks, but they're still targeting families close to you, so we know you Peverells are involved somehow as you always are when there's spineless slaughtering in Britain."
Tristan crossed his arm over his chest and remained silent. "Sorry, was there a question hidden somewhere in your rant, Sir?"
A vein on Crouch's forehead pulsed.
"Eyewitnesses from Stockholm-," James swiftly intervened, "-mentioned three black-robed attackers. What happened to the fourth... Musketeer who attacked with the rest on New Year's Eve? Why was the fourth one not present?"
'Because she's dead and so is another now.' Tristan snuffed a fierce flash of pride. "I don't know why the fourth one wasn't there."
"Any other instances where you've met these... Musketeers?" Crouch demanded. "Outside of the three already mentioned?"
Tristan recalled the two men in the Forbidden Forest and their blank, empty faces. 'No. Those were hired assassins with no heart in the fight.' Draco's fanatic rambling echoed from the back of his skull. 'They were nothing like the Musketeers.' He shook his head. "No other instances, Sir."
"We will see if that's true when you reiterate everything under Veritaserum later."
Tristan dropped his arms. "I already told you I'm a witness, Minister, not a suspect."
"Doesn't matter if you have nothing to hide, does it?" Crouch retorted. "And on the occasion, you will hand over a memory of the three attacks as well."
A knock sounded from the door and it opened. A middle-aged wizard slipped inside, his mane of tawny hair streaked with strands of gray, and his sharp yellow eyes swept across the room behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.
"What is it, Scrimgeour?" Crouch muttered.
"I intended to plan the Hogsmeade shifts for the coming month with Captain Potter," Scrimgeour murmured. "But instead I stumble over whatever this is... Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts, Mr Peverell?"
'Let's hope that's exactly the Rufus Scrimgeour Arcturus secured the position of Head of the DMLE for.' Tristan stood up. "Yes, I really should be on my way and let you plan those shifts, sir."
"Sir down, boy!" Crouch barked. "We're not done here!"
"I thought we were," Tristan replied. "Or rather, I decided we were done the moment you threatened me with Veritaserum and demanded I supply confidential memories of the day Arcturus Black visited me in Stockholm."
Scrimgeour's jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed. "I assure you, Mr Peverell, you will not have to do either of those two. Minister Crouch clearly overstepped and I do apologize on his behalf."
Crouch leaped from his chair, shaking with rage. "I am the-"
"-Minister of Magic, yes, but you are not above the law, Sir," Scrimgeour said. "Perhaps witnesses were treated differently during your administration of this department, but under mine, these things will not happen. Have a good day, Mr Peverell," he added to Tristan. "You are free to go."
"Thank you, sir." Tristan shot James a brief nod and picked his way back past the cubicles to the elevator, breathing out all the tension as the golden doors slid shut. "You were a cranky old arse sometimes, Grandpa Archie, but I can't deny your foresight…"
The elevator came to a rattling halt and he fought through the bustling crowd to one of the fireplaces, casting a glance at his wristwatch. 'Perfect. Still time to stop by Ollivanders.'
"Diagon Alley."
A flash of green swallowed the Ministry's atrium and he stepped out into the Leaky Cauldron, skipping down the cobbles past Madam Malkin's, Flourish and Blotts, and Fortescue to Ollivander's shop.
"Welcome, Mr Peverell." Ollivander's silver mop of hair appeared behind one of the towering shelves piled with countless small, slender wand boxes which sat all around the walls. "How may I be of service to you today?" The ghost of a smile flitted across his pale face. "For centuries, my forefathers have prided themselves upon the fact that no two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. I do hope you will not make me the one to break that tradition."
Tristan closed the door shut behind himself and flipped the sign. "You might have to think of a new advertisement slogan soon, Sir." He fished Draco's dark wand out of his pocket. "Is this one of yours?"
Ollivander brought the wand up under his nose, turning it over and over in his long, thin fingers. "Ten inches of hawthorn wood, a unicorn hair core. Yes, Mr. Peverell," he breathed. "This is indeed one of mine. However..."
"However…?"
Ollivander spun on his heels, sweeping to one of the shelves in the back of the shop, and pulled out a thin box from the top of the stack; beneath its lid, an identical dark wand sat on smooth red velvet.
'The same wand. Just as with Isabella Nott's.' Tristan's mind raced. "How does this keep happening?" he whispered.
"I do not have the faintest clue," Ollivander replied, holding the two wands against each other. "Mhmm, yes. Even priori incantatem, the reverse spell effect, would not apply to them, for they are not brothers, not even twins, but one and the same exact wand." His gaze swept up, sharpening. "How did this wand come into your possession, Mr Peverell?"
"I won it," Tristan admitted.
Ollivander nodded. "I can tell you hold its allegiance. Most fortunately that is, because otherwise, even I could not keep them apart." He brought Draco's wand right beneath his eyes. "How curious..."
"What's curious?"
"The wand is in perfect condition, no scratch marks, no dents. However, I can tell it has seen and performed magic for years, many years." Ollivander's piercing gray eyes bored into Tristan. "More years than your or any of your competitors in Stockholm have been alive for, which means..."
'I must've won it from someone else. Someone like the Musketeers.' Tristan pried Draco's wand out of Ollivander's stiff fingers. "Thank you, Sir. You've helped me a lot."
The ghost of that smile returned, spreading into a full grin, revealing crooked white teeth. "If I truly helped you, Mr. Peverell, then why do you leave with more questions than you arrived with?"