The muffled tune of cheerful music along with the occasional clatter of cutlery and chime of pleasant conversation rang from behind the stout wooden door of Professor Slughorn's office.
Tristan raised his fist, knocked three times, and took a small step back to wait.
A chair grated over stone and the door scraped open, revealing Slughorn's massive belly and the line of neat buttons struggling to hold his dark green waistcoat together.
"Tristan!?" Astonishment spread from his many chins up to his bald head. "What are you doing here, m'boy?"
"I'm done with NEWT preparations so I'm finally all out of excuses." Tristan offered him a well-practiced, rogue grin. "Besides, this should be right about the time dessert is served, no?"
"Ha!" Slughorn threw his head back in roaring laughter. "That cheek of you, just like your parents. Come inside, m'boy, come inside!" He ushered Tristan through and closed the door. "You're right of course, we were indeed just in the middle of enjoying the brand-new flavors Florean sent me for sampling."
"That's Fortescue, I assume?"
"To me he's been Florean ever since I taught him." Slughorn chortled as he led them further in. "You picked a good night to finally rejoin my little dinners, too; the Headmistress left for some function at the Ministry, so we can be a tad more lenient with the curfew, not that I normally encourage rule-breaking. Just settle down anywhere and I'll fetch you a few scoops."
"Thank you, sir."
A dozen familiar, upper-year students sitting along the expansive velvet-covered table in the middle of the office glanced up from their generous ice cream cones as they entered.
"Good evening, all." Tristan dipped his head, ignoring Roger Davies and Cedric Diggory's scowls, and rounded the table. "Mind if I join you?"
Daphne shook her strawberry-blonde head. "Not at all." She squirmed closer toward Magnolia Potter, allowing Tristan to grab an empty chair and settle down in the gap between her and a sulking Marcus Belby.
'Tough luck, mate.' Tristan shot him a grin.
"Here you go, Tristan, m'boy." Slughorn flicked his wand, levitating a brimful of dark red ice cream from the tray of apéritives and lowering it before Tristan's face. "Now, where were we?"
"We were talking about my Uncle Tiberius, sir," Cormac McLaggen drawled. "And my recent nogtail hunting trip in Norfolk with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour, remember, Professor?"
Slughorn nodded and swallowed a mouthful of ice cream. "Ah yes, of course I remember now!" He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "But I imagine Rufus tags along less often now with his recent promotion, no?"
'Just some self-important drivel.'
Tristan listened with half an ear, digging around in his ice cream and trying a spoonful. 'Mhmm. Cherry.'
The rich cold flavor lingered on his tongue even after he swallowed, and a small smile spread over his lips. 'How ironic...'
Slughorn chortled. "You look like you're quite enjoying that ice cream, Tristan, m'boy?" A sly gleam rose in his light green eyes. "Or are you perhaps thinking about a certain Mademoiselle who I remember has a sweet tooth for cherry, too...?"
Daphne twitched on her seat.
"Astute as ever, Professor," Tristan murmured, tasting another spoonful.
'I wish you were here with me, petite Fleur.' A touch of longing warmed his heart. 'You'd make listening to McLaggen and Slughorn bearable. I'd even let you steal my ice cream like you did my cherries last time.'
"Don't you worry, m'boy." Slughorn winked. "With all your recent winnings, I'm sure you can buy Miss Delacour all the ice cream she could ever wish for."
Tristan smothered a flare of annoyance and glanced up, watching the galleon drop in the expressions of the other students at the mention of Fleur's name. "My winnings probably won't last a single year if you persuade Fortescue to stock up his inventory of this cherry flavor, sir."
"Hoho! Perhaps bribing me with crystalized pineapple will be less expensive then." Slughorn's belly shook from his chuckles, straining the buttons. "But talking about your winnings, m'boy, I think it is high time for a toast." With a flick of his wand, he refilled everyone's glasses with clear elven wine and ushered them all to stand. "To Daphne and Tristan. Our school's first participation in the International Eighteen-And-Under Dueling Tournament yielded not just one, but two champions!"
Tristan inclined his head. "And both from House Slytherin, Sir."
"From my House, indeed." Slughorn brimmed with pride, his bald head gleaming bright as a crystal ball. "Cheers!"
Most students raised their glass and toasted; barely half of them drank. Tristan let his gaze roam along the familiar expressions of bitter loathing on Diggory's and Davies' faces but frowned when he noticed Alphard Black's glass was left untouched too.
'You too?'
He caught Alphard's eye, but the boy glanced away.
'He probably thinks it's my fault his father's in St. Mungo's.' A hot flash of anger flared through the pity weighing heavy on his heart. 'And because of Orion's mad rambling, he now thinks I'm stealing his inheritance too.'
"What a great spectacle it must've been." Slughorn folded his hands over his belly and leaned back into his armchair with a long sigh. "Sure, sure, I was always a potioneer first and foremost, but when you live as long as I do and see as much as I have seen, you pick up a thing or two on dueling along the way. I wish I could've attended to see such an amazing event for myself..."
In the silence that followed, one by one, every last pair of eyes flickered to Alphard Black, who was staring deep into his empty bowl of ice cream.
"Oh." Slughorn flushed, tugging at his tight collar. "I mean... pardon me, Alphard, m'boy, perhaps that was a tad insensitive, yes." He cleared his throat. "How is your father by the way? On the road to a swift recovery at St. Mungo's I hope?"
Alphard shook his head without glancing up. "The healers say his wounds were caused by dark magic, so they are cursed. They... they say nothing short of phoenix tears can heal him now."
Tristan smothered a wince from the sharp stab of pity piercing his gut. 'My fiendfyre caused those wounds.'
Before the eye of his mind, darkness gaped in Uncle Sirius' empty eye socket, weeping crystal clear fluid across the raw, scorched flesh of his cheekbone. 'But if I hadn't used that D'Artagnan would've surely killed him.'
"Mhm yes, phoenix tears are indeed capable of reviving a person from any injury, even at the brink of death," Slughorn stated. "Did you know, for example, that they're the only known antidote for Basilisk venom? Not even unicorn blood is capable of healing such injuries. Not that I would ever advise drinking unicorn blood; oh no, a cursed life awaits those who do, no matter if they slew the unicorn themselves or not."
The thick, stark silence prevailed, hovering above the table like fog in early dawn.
"Anyway." Slughorn cleared his throat again. "What I was trying to say is don't give up hope yet, Alphard. They might be very rare, but phoenixes have been spotted surprisingly often this century. Why, my late friend Albus, I mean Albus Dumbledore of course, the former headmaster, had such a companion himself for many years. It was a rather playful, devilish creature. He called it something starting with an F... Fikes maybe? No - Fulks...?"
"Fawkes." Tristan supplied, tracing the faint outline of his wand in his sleeve. 'I'm still unsure if I should hate that bloody bird for destroying my old wand or thank him for forcing me to look for a new one.'
"Yes, Fawkes, that's it!" Slughorn slapped his knee with a cheer. "How did you-" The cheer froze and he cleared his throat. "Ah yes, you encountered Fawkes last year in the Triwizard Tournament, didn't you, m'boy? Good Merlin, I really seem to stumble from one faux pas to the next tonight, no?"
"It's alright, Sir," Tristan murmured, ignoring the gleeful smirks Davies and Diggory shot at him from across the table.
"Yes, well." Slughorn let out a nervous chuckle. "Perhaps a change in topic is more appropriate, no? Daphne, my dear, we already know what Tristan will spend some of his winnings on, but what about you? Any plans yet?"
Daphne parted her long strawberry-blonde hair to either side and straightened in her chair. "My sister has a sweet tooth, too, so I hope Tori doesn't learn about Fortescue's new flavor anytime soon."
Slughorn's booming laughter drowned in a spiraling world.
'Did she say Tori?' Tristan stared at Daphne.
Words seeped from the back of his mind, rising like a crimson tide until they hovered at the tip of his tongue, tasting and shining bright as the blood trickling from Draco Malfoy's nostrils as he stared up at them, his gray eyes full of raw, bitter sorrow.
'I will see them all again soon; Tori... Scorpius… and our little baby girl.'
Tristan pulled himself together and nudged Daphne's arm. "Psst. Your sister... What's her name again?"
Daphne leaned in closer, her slim brows drawn into a faint frown. "Her name is Astoria," she whispered. "Why do you ask?"
"You called her Tori just now, didn't you?"
"Yes," she gave a slow nod, her frown deepening. "That's her nickname. Although she usually only lets her family and closest friends call her that."
"And she's younger than you?"
"She just turned fourteen." Daphne cocked her head. "Why are you asking me all the questions about my sister, Tristan?"
"No particular reason." Tristan turned back, running a hand through his hair.
'Her family...'
His head spun, racing with tangled thoughts, but through the web of frustrating confusion, a strange suspicion rose from the back of his skull.
'A future you were never meant to see.' Isabella Nott whispered in his ear as Fleur danced in Weasley's arms beneath the great white marquise. 'Neither husband nor children were ever yours to have.' D'Artagnan raised his wand; first at Amelia spilling tears over the dead children in her lap, then at Dorea. 'Time she was never meant to have. Grandchildren she was never meant to see.'
"It doesn't make sense. None of it does," Tristan muttered to himself, drawing huge breaths. "I need-" his hand crept to his breast, seizing the locket over his shirt and feeding a little magic into it. 'I need you. Please, Fleur...'
The cool metal pulsed and flashed warm against his skin.
Tristan leaped up, his chair scraping back. "Excuse me, please."
"Tristan, m'boy, what's gotten into you?"
Ignoring Slughorn's bewildered shouts, he rushed out of the office and fumbled the locket from beneath his dress shirt, flipping the lid open as he locked himself in the nearest abandoned classroom with half a dozen charms.
From the smooth, cold silver surface of the mirror, a pair of bright blue eyes stared up at him from beneath slim braids of blonde hair. "Bonsoir, mon Coeur." A small smile graced Fleur's delicate, rose-pink lips. "Ça va?"
He attempted to speak but all the words remained stuck and the sight of her snatched the breath from his lungs, sending his heart somersaulting in his chest.
Tristan closed his mouth and took a moment until it had all settled. "I'm sorry for calling, I know you're very busy with studying, I just-"
"Ce n'est pas grave, mon Coeur," she murmured. "I would have called you either way tonight; we have not talked since you went to Gringotts for the reading."
"I'll tell you all about that in a bit," he said with a dry chuckle. "But there's something else first; I just came from one of Slughorn's little dinner parties."
"Vraiment?" Her lip twitched. "And since when do you enjoy mingling with wizarding Britain's high society?"
"I really don't." Tristan snorted. "But Slughorn is the most well-connected person I know; if I butter him up enough, he might recommend me to one of his contacts in the Department of Mysteries for an internship after I graduate this summer."
Fleur hummed, tugging a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear with her little finger. "It will be much easier to find out what the Musketeers stole once you enter and leave as you please."
"Exactly." He nodded. "And in the meantime, by attending his parties, I'll stay up-to-date on whatever's happening in our Ministry. But anyway, I was sitting next to Daphne tonight..."
Fleur's eyes darkened a hue and her lower lip crept out a tad.
"You're so adorable when you're jealous." Tristan grinned. "Listen, Daphne's younger sister is called Astoria, but her family calls her Tori."
"Tori," Fleur whispered the name as if tasting it on her tongue, a faint wrinkle creasing her forehead. "Draco Malfoy mentioned that name right before your father killed him, non?"
"Yes, he did." A spike of excitement crept into his voice. "Along with the name Scorpius, and some little baby girl. This... Tori, she must've been the mother of his children. His wife."
"Peut-être," Fleur conceded, yet that faint wrinkle deepened. "But unless she was raped, Daphne Greengrass's little sister can hardly be old enough to have a child herself, let alone two, so where are you going with this, mon Coeur?"
"I'm not sure," Tristan murmured. "But this can't be a coincidence; I've literally never heard the nickname Tori before in all my entire life. This must be somehow connected to the Musketeers, don't you think?"
Something cool flitted through the depths of Fleur's bright blue eyes. "I think you are starting to see connections where there are none, mon Coeur. This does not fit into anything else we know about the Musketeers."
'But it has to be connected.' Tristan bit his lip to smother that nagging feeling, running a hand through his hair. 'I don't believe in coincidences anymore. Not when they pertain to the Musketeers.'
"Let us focus on the few leads we actually have, mon Coeur," Fleur murmured. "Like the poison we took from Draco Malfoy. Maman finished analyzing it."
He perked up, a little hope blossoming in his heart. "And?"
"The basis for it is Atropa belladonna, the Deadly Nightshade, only it has been modified by magical means," she said. "Maman is the most knowledgeable person I know of when it comes to magical plants and she has never seen anything like it, let alone replicate it. Someone very talented in Herbology grew that plant and created the poison."
A wave of cold frustration snuffed out the flame of excitement. "Just another riddle then..."
"As of now, oui," Fleur hummed. "But what about you, mon Coeur? Did you learn anything about the wand at Ollivanders?"
"Yes and no." Tristan sighed. "It was the same as last time when we showed him Nott's wand; Ollivander pulled a picture-perfect copy from his own shelf, except his wand didn't have any traces of casting magic yet because it's never been sold."
"Mhmm."Fleur bit her bottom lip, twisted it beneath her white teeth. Her blue eyes shifted back and forth between him for several long moments. "What do you think it means, mon Coeur?"
"I'm not sure." He sighed. "Honestly, I'm not sure of anything anymore. But I know all these clues, every single person the Musketeers killed so far... they're all connected somehow; they just have to be. It's why my parents refuse to answer my questions about them; they don't want to reveal anything by accident." Tristan caught her eye. "But what do you think?"
Fleur brushed her hair back behind her ear again. "The waters are still too muddy to see; it does not make much sense to me yet," she murmured. "But since you mentioned your parents... how did it go at Gringotts?"
"Well-," dry humor tugged at his lips, "the good news is I can probably sustain your sugar addiction for much longer now..."
"Vraiment?" Fleur frowned. "Arcturus made you his heir?"
"No, he made Father his heir in case Sirius can't perform his duty," Tristan said. "And if Sirius' male line dies, the title stays with us permanently and eventually drops down to me as first-born son. Looks like your secret ploy to marry into a British old-money and steal our fortune may finally come to fruition."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Your family is much older than the Blacks, mon Coeur."
"But probably not as rich."
"Not until now-," Fleur let out a soft laugh, "-which is why I doubt the Blacks were very happy about you being named heir."
"Oh yeah, Walburga and Orion were fuming." Tristan snorted. "They straight up accused Father of line theft and me of setting up Sirius's death. They even threatened to go to the Wizengamot."
"But Sirius is recovering, non?" She shrugged. "So it will all settle down soon."
"Perhaps not that soon. Or ever." Tristan's mood dropped. "According to the healers, Sirius's burns are cursed and nothing short of phoenix tears can heal him, but given how rare phoenixes are..."
Fleur quirked an eyebrow. "They are not quite as rare at Hogwarts, mon Coeur..."
He recalled that flash of searing golden heat and the sharp black talons ripping the yew wand from his grasp.
"There's Dumbledore's phoenix, yes," Tristan murmured. "But I don't think anyone's seen Fawkes since last year."
"Perhaps Dumbledore himself knows how to catch it," Fleur suggested. "You have been talking to his portrait plenty of times already, non?"
"I have," he admitted. "And Slughorn did say Umbridge was out of the Castle tonight, so this might be a good opportunity. If Sirius recovers soon, the Blacks will lay low again and stop causing extra trouble for me and my family."
"Go talk to Dumbledore then," Fleur murmured. "And call me after to tell me how it went."
"I will," Tristan promised, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "I've caught a smoking hot bird before, surely I can do it again."
A soft peal of laughter burst from Fleur's lips. "If anything I caught you, mon Coeur. Bonne chance finding some girl that is as perfect for you as I am..."
"I already know I won't," Tristan whispered, his tongue caught on a fistful of hot emotion. "You're one of a kind."
"That was a very cheesy answer." Fleur tilted her nose up at him with a small smirk. "It was barely good enough to accompany me to my parents' Beltane Ball next month."
"This must be the veela way of asking me to be your date."
"You can be so much more than just my date for the night if you play your cards right, Tristan." Her smirk softened into a warm smile, gentle as summer rain. "Now go to Dumbledore and be very careful." She blew him a kiss, her heart shining in her wide blue eyes. "Je t'aime, mon Coeur. Je t'aime plus que tout."
"I love you too," Tristan whispered as her face swam with shadows and the mirror went blank. 'I love you so much.'
He stared into the cold blue eyes of his reflection; the longing tugged him, searing hot as the memory of her bare skin flushed against his, sweet and sharp as the vanilla of her perfume stirring in his nose when he buried his face in her long hair.
"Once I've killed the last two Musketeers, there'll only be you," Tristan vowed as he closed the amulet, pressing his lips to the gemstone on the lid, and dropped the amulet back beneath his shirt. "There'll only be us."
'Time to catch a phoenix.' In one smooth motion, he drew the Invisibility Cloak from within his pockets and slipped back out into the silent corridor, tracking up the Giant Staircase to Umbridge's office and dismantling the handful of childish locking charms on her door.
Kittens of all colors snoozed in round frames and the portraits of former headmasters snored behind pink curtains.
Tristan froze all save one with a long wave of his wand and knocked on Dumbledore's frame with one knuckle. "I'm going to open the curtains if you don't mind, Professor?"
"I do not mind at all." Dumbledore chuckled, blinking open first one, then the other bright blue eye as Tristan drew the curtains aside. "But thank you very much for the warning, young man."
Tristan lowered the hood of his Cloak.
"Ah, Tristan Peverell." The headmaster's gaze lingered on the cloak, then sharpened as it dipped to him. "As much as I appreciate an unannounced late-night visit, I doubt our new headmistress shares my sentiment."
"You made that same joke the first time we talked, and every single time since then, Professor."
"Did I really?" Dumbledore chortled into his long silver beard. "If only I could remember any of such previous conversations, I would, of course, switch the joke up for you."
"This right here-," Tristan ran his fingers over the silken smooth fabric of his cloak, "-is the third Deathly Hallow, passed down all the way from Ignotus Peverell to me." He caught Dumbledore's eye. "You told me about your quest for the Hallows when you were younger, together with your friend Gellert Grindelwald. Is that proof enough that we talked before?"
"It is." The smile slipped off Dumbledore's lips. "And since my past selves have undoubtedly asked it before unsuccessfully, I shall spare you the question as to why you keep obliviating me."
"Thank you, sir," Tristan muttered, hopping onto Umbridge's table. "That's actually a first."
"How may I help you tonight then, Tristan?"
"Your phoenix, Fawkes. I need to know how to find it, Professor."
Dumbledore steepled his thin fingers. "And why is that?"
"My godfather was hurt badly, partly because of something I did," Tristan admitted. "According to the healers, his only chance of survival are phoenix tears now."
"Your godfather is James Potter I assume?"
"No, Sirius Black."
"Interesting," Dumbledore hummed, stroking his longer silver beard. "From my observation, James and your father were a tad closer back at Hogwarts, and I know your father even spent the holidays with the Potters until your parents bought a home for themselves."
"Mother chose my godparents, but that hardly matters now," Tristan said. "Sirius doesn't deserve to die, so are you going to help me or not, sir?"
Dumbledore studied him for several long moments. "From everything I've witnessed, the first time anyone's seen Fawkes since my death was last year when he broke your wand, so it is rather safe to say that he hasn't bonded with anyone else, at least not in Britain. Phoenixes are creatures of hope and passion; your best bet to encounter him is to visit a place of great sentimental value to him and call out for him." His eyes flickered to the window. "One of those places might even be close by if I dare suggest so..."
Tristan followed Dumbledore's gaze to the small island standing from the black water of the lake. "Your grave, Professor?"
"My grave, indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "But I must warn you not to get your hopes up, my boy. Fawkes was very elusive in my lifetime, and I doubt that has changed now."
"I don't have any other leads, so I might as well give it a try," Tristan hopped off Umbridge's desk and raised his wand. "Thank you, Professor."
Dumbledore regarded the tip of the elder wand with a small smile. "Is that truly necessary this time around, my boy? What I shared with you I would have shared with anyone else that visited me tonight and asked the way you did. And as for the Hallows; they are finally united by the family that created them. I have no intention of changing that or letting anyone else ruin their lives in senseless pursuit."
Tristan contemplated that, spinning the wand through his fingers. "Even if you're honest, Professor, unlike you, someone long dead, I have nothing to gain yet everything to lose from trusting you. Why should I risk that when the next time I visit you, I can simply tell you about my cloak again, and in yet another naive attempt to guide me back onto the path of righteousness, you will help me again; just as you did tonight, and every night that came before it."
"I have no doubt that I will help you again. It is my duty, not just as a teacher." Dumbledore's smile turned ever so slightly sad, and he closed his eyes with a content sigh. "Until next time then, Tristan Peverell."
"Good night, sir. Obliviate."
Tristan let his magic seep through the canvas like water through sand; he ripped out the memory of their conversation and tugged the hood of the Invisibility Cloak back down, unfreezing all the portraits and kittens as he slipped out of the office and down the spiral staircase past the gargoyle.
Soft moonlight spilled through the windows into the silent, abandoned corridors, gleaming on the suits of armor and bathing the courtyard in cold, clear light. A cool, gentle breeze played in his hair as he strolled past the greenhouses and Hagrid's pumpkin patch toward the shores of the Black Lake.
Eying the small island rising from the dark surface, Tristan shifted on his heel.
The world hung still as stone.
"Damn it," he cursed. "I'm still within the wards. I can't apparate."
Tristan glimpsed the distant quidditch stands over his shoulder. 'I could take one of the spare brooms, but that's quite a walk...'
A flare of soft ambition rose in his chest, tangled with wild desire, burning brighter and brighter, coaxed with each long breath he drew.
"No," Tristan whispered into the midnight silence, watching the grass around his boots quiver to the drum of his heart. "I don't want to walk. I don't need a broom."
Slipping his wand into his palm, Tristan drew upon every last drop of magic, picturing it bleeding from his skin like thick black tar, wrapping it around himself and carrying him aloft.
And he rose into the night, floating weightless on the breeze, ascending like the smoke spiraling from Hogwarts's chimneys.
'Of course I can do it.' A fierce flash of pride seized him. 'I was meant to be great.'
Tristan leaned his weight forward and drifted across the shore.
The winds tugged at his robes and stung in his eyes as he picked up speed, but the rush of triumph whispering through his veins only sweetened.
He glanced down in the waves rippling in the dim moonlight; his reflection stared back up at him, its loud euphoric laughter echoed across the lake into the dark.
Angling towards the small island, Tristan lowered himself to the ground, drawing his magic back in as his feet touched the grass.
Dumbledore's marble tomb stood out between sparse trees; a pyramid of white topped with a rectangular slap as thick as it was wide.
'He said I should just try calling him.'
"Fawkes."
A flash of red and gold rippled across the island and a wave of warmth settled through Tristan in a faint shiver.
Fawkes perched on top of the tomb, cocking his head and fixing Tristan with two beady, dark eyes.
'It actually worked.'He smothered a small smile and a cool rush of relief, stepping closer. "Dumbledore told me how to find you. I need your help." Tristan conjured a slim crystal veil, holding it out. "One of your tears for a friend who'll die otherwise."
Fawkes let out a low hiss and buried his feathered head under his wing; one beady eye still fixed on Tristan.
"Come on, Fawkes, you really owe me for breaking my wand." Tristan took a few more careful steps and waggled the vial under Fawkes's beak. "One tear is all I need. Just one, please."
Fawkes shattered the vial with a snap of his beak, its shards biting into Tristan's fingers.
A twist of hot anger seared through him as he watched the blood dwell from the shallow cuts.
"Fine," Tristan plucked out the shards one at a time and slashed his wand.
A loud crack tore across the island.
Fawkes vanished in a flash of red as Dumbledore's tomb split open along a deep rift grinding through the marble.
"If you won't cry for me, perhaps you'll cry for him." Tristan brushed the chunks aside with a wave of his hand.
A skeleton lay within the tomb, dressed in lavender robes and with a pair of half-moon glasses resting over its empty, hollow eye sockets.
Fawkes reappeared in a flash of red at the edge of the tomb, peering inside. He threw his head back, raising his beak and letting out a low mournful note in a soft, sad trill.
"Is that enough to make you cry?"
Fawkes's head snapped back around, his beady eyes narrowing.
"Is that a yes?"
He vanished, reappearing before Tristan in a flare of blinding red fire with a furious screech and a hectic flap of wings.
Sharp talons clawed at Tristan's arms, chest, and face, tearing through his robes and slicing deep into his skin like burning razor blades in flashes of white-hot agony.
Tristan cried out, shielding his face with one hand as he slashed his wand in desperation; roaring tongues of crimson flames swallowed Fawkes in a searing snap and the assault ceased.
He lowered his arm a few inches, blinking through lances of pain and the trickle of warm, damp blood stinging in his vision.
Fawkes screeched on the ground in a small pile of ashes, all his feathers scorched; raw, wrinkled, and flightless.
Fury boiled in Tristan's blood, screaming in hatred with each deep cut that crept close.
"First you destroy my wand, then you refuse to give me a single tear to save my godfather." He lifted Fawkes off the ground with a flick of his wand, dropping him onto Dumbledore's skeleton. "And now you attack me…"
Tristan unleashed all the raw fury in a torrent of fiendfyre, watching Fawkes burst into flame and be reborn in the molten puddle of Dumbledore's skeleton, again and again, and again.
"Perhaps you cannot die, but the fiendfyre will consume you for as long as you're reborn." He fused the chunks of marble back into one smooth lid and closed the tomb shut over the screaming flames. "Let this be your grave too."