HP: Panem et Circenses

March 1st, 1996

Muffled exchanges of whispers and the occasional snappish retort from Madam Pince drifted through gaps in the towering shelves, harboring centuries of knowledge in the old tomes that lined up on them.

Tristan drummed his fingers impatiently on the large, unfolded piece of parchment spread over the table in front of him; his other hand itched to the pocket in his robes every so often.

"Will you stop it, already?" Valeria hissed in irritation and slapped his hand. "No wonder Gregorovitch forbade you from checking in on him every day; it's impossible to get any work done when you're around."

"Sorry," Tristan murmured.

Valeria placed down her quill and held out her hand. "Give me the bloody galleon you've exchanged. I know you have it in your pocket."

"No, I don't."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "It's been over four months since you ruined the Map and you finally have some time to fix it. That galleon is distracting you, so let me have it for a few hours; I'll tell you should it turn hot."

"Fine," Tristan grimaced and reluctantly fished it out of his pockets, twirling it through his fingers. "Are you sure you will feel-"

Valeria snatched it from his grasp and slipped it into her bra. "Yes, now stop worrying and get some work done."

He sighed and picked up his quill, turning back to the incomplete map of the Castle.

'The individual floors are all mapped out.' Tristan trailed his finger to the giant staircase and the chaos of name tags and ink footprints that appeared and reappeared. 'It's the spots where floors merge and where you switch floors that still cause problems.'

He began sketching a few sequences of runes on a spare sheet of parchment, occasionally flipping through one of the large tomes he borrowed to check his work.

Valeria suddenly glanced up from her essay over his shoulder. "Oh great... here comes your next distraction."

"Why?" Tristan spun in his chair.

Two platinum-haired girls in Beauxbatons blue uniforms lingered by the end of the aisle.

"Fleur." His heart spasmed and he clapped his mouth shut before anything else slipped out.

The smaller of the two glanced up. A delighted grin stretched from one cheek to the other and Gabrielle poked her sister in the side. Fleur caught his gaze and her eyes softened a tad, offering him a smile that sent his stomach plunging.

"They better not come over," Valeria murmured under her breath. "I really need to finish this essay for Flitwick."

Tristan leveled her with a flat look. "It'd finally give you the chance to thank her. But I think you're lucky. Fleur doesn't seem the type of person to-"

Gabrielle began whispering words Tristan was too far away to understand and she tugged on Fleur's hand, who shook her head vehemently and looked mortified. Eventually, Gabrielle just shrugged and leapt forward on her own, grinning when Fleur dashed after her.

"Tristan... why are they coming here?" Valeria sighed.

Tristan frowned and hastily swept the Map into his bag. "I - I'm not too sure myself, actually..."

Gabrielle stopped right in front of their table, bouncing on her heels. "Bonjour." She waved her hand. "Do you still have some space?"

Tristan startled momentarily before shifting on the bench. "Uhm - sure. Valeria and I can-"

"Merci beaucoup, this is parfaits already." Gabrielle's gray eyes sparkled mischievously and she joined Valeria on the opposite bench.

"Gabby..."

Fleur's tone carried a razor-sharp edge as she found herself left with no choice but to join Tristan. She gracefully slipped onto the bench and flattened out the wrinkles in her skirt; sweet, sharp vanilla stirred in Tristan's nostrils and he felt his heart begin pounding quicker.

"Qui, pardon moi. Introductions are in order," Gabrielle chirped and turned to Valeria, plastering both cheeks with kisses, much to the perplexity of the other girl. "I'm Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur's sister, but everyone calls me Gabby."

She turned to Tristan and leaned over the table only to be stopped by her sister's hand on her chest. "No, Gabby!"

Gabrielle pouted and offered her hand instead. "And of course, you must be Tristan. Fleur has told me sooo much-"

She squeaked and her other hand vanished underneath the table. Across from her, Fleur shot her a glare.

Tristan snorted. "Yeah, I'm Tristan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Gabby." He shook Gabrielle's hand. "And this is my younger sister, Valeria."

Valeria straightened and swept her golden braid over her shoulder. "I didn't come around to thank you yet, Ms. Delacour." She offered her hand to Fleur. "You have my gratitude for aiding my brother, and by extension me, in the second task."

Fleur regarded the other girl's hand for a second before shaking it with a small smile. "Call me Fleur, please." She glanced at him. "I only did for Tristan what he'd do for me."

Warmth spread through Tristan, settling in a warm glow above his heart.

Opposite him Gabrielle sighed and clutched her chest. "Awe, c'est tellement romantique. You two should've made up much earlier, perhaps even with a proper kiss!"

A slight red tinge crept up Fleur's pale cheeks and Tristan felt the heat rise on his own. Fleur's leg twitched and the sound of a stomp thudded underneath their table.

Gabrielle giggled. "This time you missed me, Fleur."

A faint ripple of heat radiated from Fleur and her irises darkened. "One more word and I will charm your stupid beak shut, little harpy."

Tristan chuckled and gave himself a nudge. He slipped his fingers through hers underneath the table and squeezed them lightly. "Has Fleur told you about the first time we met in the Hogwarts Library yet, Gabby?"

"Non, she hasn't," Gabrielle chirped, beaming wide. "Tell me what happened, s'il te plaît!"

"I caught her as she tried to stalk me, thinking I learned something about the first task. Fleur got so upset that she sabotaged my chances with the girl I was seeing at that time."

Gabrielle snickered. "My sister has always been a jealous goose when she didn't get what she wanted."

Fleur rolled her eyes. "That's not what happened at all. Tristan visited the library to research veela so I gave him some pointers on the most... useful books."

A flutter of heat whispered through his veins and a half familiar nude drawing danced through his thoughts, swirling into an image of Fleur as she smiled up at him from underneath a tangle of sheets.

Fleur's red lips curved into a smirk and she placed their intertwined fingers on his thigh, brushing her thumb up and down the back of his hand. "When the silly ginger girl interrupted our study time I simply left them alone."

"Of course, my bad." Tristan smothered the sweet thrill with a casual shrug. "Perhaps my mind was just all over the place that day."

Fleur's fingers twitched.

"Well, you definitely did my brother a favor," Valeria scoffed. "Adelaide Goldstein was not the right witch for him."

"Exactement." Gabrielle bobbed her head, sending silver hair swirling. "Fleur and Tristan looked sooo much better dancing together. I kept an edition of the French and the English papers from that day. Fleur gets all feathery when I show them to her. Well, up until a week ago she did…"

Laughter bubbled from his lips despite Fleur's fingers growing dangerously hot between his. "Say, Gabby, how come you're still able to visit your sister here in Britain? Don't you have classes at Beauxbatons?"

Gabrielle grinned. "I received special permission from Madame Maxime to stay for a month after the task."

"Something I deeply regret convincing her of now," Fleur muttered.

"Nuhu," Gabrielle waggled her fingers. "You love having me here. Perhaps I should ask Madame for another month. I'd probably still keep the first spot of my year and break all the records you've set."

Fleur turned her nose up and huffed. "You wish, little harpy."

Tristan chuckled. "Valeria is into academics as well. She's contending for the number one spot of her class every year with one other girl."

"Vraiment? They gave you the wrong colors then." Gabrielle's eyes flickered over Valeria's uniform. "Fleur told me the ones in blue and bronze are academically inclined."

"The 'claws are just bloody nerds," Tristan snorted. "They seek knowledge for knowledge's sake and to boast around with it."

"What my brother means is that Slytherins tend to value knowledge differently," Valeria said. "Take him for example. He's academically lazy and only applied himself for his OWLs but he still knows more about magic than-"

She paused with a frown and her fingers dipped underneath her décolleté to fish out a familiar coin. The breath slipped from Tristan's lips and he curled his fingers and summoned the galleon across the table into his open palm.

"Incroyable! Did you see that, Fleur? It was wandless."

Gabby's exclamation drowned as the blood rushed to his head.

'It's warm...'

Tristan leaped to his feet, exposing their intertwined fingers. "I- I gotta go right now."

Fleur glanced up. Her irises darkened a fraction and her slim brows drew together in confusion.

"I'm really sorry." A fierce, desperate need clawed its way up his dry throat and his heart seized beneath his ribs. He wrestled down the hot tang of emotion and squeezed her hand before withdrawing. "I promise I'll make it up to you later."

Tristan bolted out of the Library, ignoring Madam Pince's outraged rebuke, and leaped down the stairs to the secret passageway on the third floor. Dark, wet walls threw back his labored breath and when he reached the wardline of the Castle he took but a second to focus on his destination before wrenching the world back past him, apparating thrice until he staggered over Gregorovitch's lawn.

"I'm coming, I'm coming already!" The wandmaker's growls sounded over the hammering of fists on wood and the door was yanked open. "By Merlin, boy, it's not like that wand is running off somewhere by itself."

"So it's finished." Tristan's heart began to pound furiously and his blood raced, singing through his veins. "I need to see it." He rushed past Gregorovitch into the back of the house.

Sharp wooden aroma drifted up his nose, mixing with the tang of oil and polish. The wide workbench had been largely shed of chirps, spanes, and tools to make room for a velvet red duvet. A thin, pale piece of wood rested at its center, illuminated by the dim light of the oil lamps hanging from the low ceiling of the workshop.

Tristan's feet carried him closer, his ragged breath hitched and he swallowed thickly. "It's- it's beautiful."

The workshop dimmed around him as if the wand was sucking up all the light.

"Well, I'd expect so." Gregorovitch shoved himself in front of him, a decisive pride swelling in his voice. "I've thinned it out considerably but kept the original design and I..."

The wandmaker's voice drowned in the distance and Tristan's fingers twitched. "May I?"

"Have some bloody patience, boy, I wasn't done explaining," Gregorovitch growled, running his leather-covered index finger along the length of the wand and grazing the countless miniature carvings that rotated in and around the three branches like serpents.

"The branches were so tightly intergrown that it was impossible to pry them apart without damaging the wood and its magical properties. I had to liquefy parts of the Lethifold's cloak in a vial of your blood and pour the mixture into these runes again and again until the wood was practically fused with the core instead of simply containing it."

Tristan swallowed a hot lump in his throat. "What's this?" He pointed at the wand's darker handle, which stood in stark contrast to its shaft. Shadows danced over the wood, bleeding small black wisps of faint heat haze.

"After smoothening out the knots in the wood, the remainder of the cloak was cut into threads that I spun into a garn and used for the handle," Gregorovitch explained. "I've only felt its texture through my gloves but it should be quite comfortable to grip firmly now."

"Good." Tristan vaguely caught himself nodding, wrestling with a smoldering urge to yank it. He felt his eyes glued to the wood like it held all the answers in the world. "Were- were there any complications with it?"

Gregorovitch scoffed. "Merlin, yes, it was a real struggle but that was to be expected when one dabbles with wand techniques and materials that have never been used before." He picked up the wand and balanced it on his finger, a fanatic, bright gleam shining in his brown eyes. "Thirteen and a seventh of an inch of inflexible elder, containing the cloak of a Lethifold." He slowly offered it to Tristan, almost like it physically hurt him to part from it. "Go ahead and give it a try, boy."

'Finally!'

The fierce longing bubbled and spilled over like an avalanche. Tristan raised his right hand and curled his fingers, summoning the wand into his palm.

Dark haze burst from the wood, flashing hot and cold between the tips of his fingers, and curled up his wrist to claw deep through his skin. Dust and chirps rose from the floor of the workshops, rustling around his angles with faint whispers as the oil lamps began flickering, sending shadows dancing over the walls and ceiling.

Hot triumph flared brightly and Tristan took a deep, trembling breath to taste its cool rush.

"So?" Gregorovitch watched him like a hawk, his dark eyes rivaled the size of galleons and held a fanatic gleam. "How does it feel, boy?"

"Alive," Tristan murmured, spinning the wand through his fingers. The heat haze slowly settled back, as did his heart, yet the sweet thrill remained. "It feels... alive."

'And I feel invincible...'

"Hah, it's a match then!" Gregorovitch cheered, slapping the table with his palm. "I knew I could make it work!"

"You did it," Tristan whispered, clutching the wand tight to his heart. "It's perfect."

"Hold on, boy, let me show you something I added."

Tristan frowned, his gaze dipping from his new wand down to the hand that was held out expectantly.

Gregorovitch rolled his eyes. "You'll have it back in a second, boy. I just need to show you something."

"Fine." Tristan reluctantly handed over the wand, stifling a hollow pang at the loss of contact.

Gregorovitch took a step back and fisted both hands at each end of the wood, bending it at its center.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" Boiling fury burst in Tristan's chest and Charlus' wand flicked into his palm, pointing at the man's heart. "Give me back my wand or I-"

"Lower yours or I'll snap this one like a bloody twig." Gregorovitch's knuckles whitened as he strained the wand even further "Don't test me, boy."

"This wand is your legacy to the wizarding world!" Tristan hissed. "Are you out of your fucking mind!?"

"No," Gregorovitch chuckled grimly. "In fact, I am rather fond of my mind and body, which is why this part right here, no matter how ugly, is necessary."

"Is it gold you want?" Tristan stifled the churning storm in his breast underneath a shaky gulp of air. "You can have your weight in gold if you give me back my wand."

"I don't want gold - I just want my life and sanity." Gregorovitch expression hardened. "I've seen how far your parents went for their calling and you are no different from them. This wood was stolen from the bloody French Unspeakables and I'm the only person who knows the culprit, which means I'm a security risk..."

'No more risks...'

"I stole it, you manufactured it." Tristan ignored the tiny voice calling him a liar. "We're both committed by the secret we share."

"You'd wipe my mind until I'm a stuttering mess or ensure I take your secret to the grave," Gregorovitch growled. "I don't particularly like either outcome."

"Fine." Tristan clenched his jaw. "What is it you want then?"

"An unbreakable vow." The wandmaker demanded, applying further pressure on the wood. "One that ensures my physical and mental well-being."

Tristan considered it for a second; his nerves twitched as if he was the one bearing the strain and not his wand. "Fine. You can have your vow. Just stop bloody bending it."

He tugged Charlus' wand away. 'Vows are tricky, but usually one can avoid triggering a clause by interpreting it a certain way...'

Gregorovitch reached forward and clasped his right hand with his own, pointing the elder wand down at their wrists.

"Will you, Tristan Peverell, swear to not let anyone, including yourself, harm me in any way as a consequence of crafting this wand for you?"

'Fuck, that was worded very cleverly.' Apprehension gnawed at Tristan. 'Now I can't touch him myself. I won't even be able to share my wand's components let alone who made it with anyone if I think it might endanger him.'

He buried the flicker of unease. "I will."

A tendril of white magic flared from the tip of the elder wand to encircle their hands. A cold chill crept down Tristan's spine as the magic tightened on him like a noose. He closed his eyes, feeling their magic weave together like threads from a severed rope.

"That's sufficient." Gregorovitch released his hand with a wide grin. "You can have your wand now that I have my reassurance."

Tristan summoned it from the old man's loose grasp; some of the boiling anger drained from his veins the moment he clutched it to his breast. "You're a mad old bastard."

"I'm just not taking my chances with you Peverell lot," Gregorovitch murmured, gesturing for Tristan to follow him out of the workshop. "Now we can both go our separate ways and will never have to see each other again."

"My sister Aurelia will need a wand in a few years so your wrinkled arse will get dragged out of retirement one way or another," Tristan snorted. "There's no way we'll settle for Ollivanders."

"I suppose that is acceptable," the wandmaker muttered and opened the door to his lawn. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, boy."

Tristan scowled at the offered hand but shook it nevertheless. "The... pleasure is mine." He let go and shot the man an earnest nod. "And thank you."

"Wand of elder, never prosper," Gregorovitch whispered, eyes flickering to his battered sign on the lawn. "Our world is about to witness something that hasn't been seen for almost two thousand years. Whether for better or worse remains in your power only, Tristan Peverell."

"Don't worry, I'll do something important with it... something great." Tristan strode over the lawn and through the ward line. 'Like I was meant to...'

He wrenched at the world apparating twice until he stumbled along the edge of towering white cliffs. Cool, salty air filled his lungs in a deep breath.

"And now back to Hogwarts." A flicker of longing swelled in Tristan's breast as he watched the crash of waves against rock, spray sparkling in the sunlight like familiar platinum hair. "And back to Fleur."

"Actually-" he paused in his step and dabbed his sleeve, "I might as well give Charlus' wand back to Dorea first. I owe her a personal visit for letting me borrow it."

Tristan pictured the grand foyer at Potter Manor, then spun on his heels with a faint snap. The world blurred into a lofty marble fireplace, golden chandeliers, and thick velvet red curtains.

He wobbled and glanced down. "Dorea, I have your-"

Red trickled through the wreckage of an armchair, pooling over splintered and scorched wooden floorboards.

'Blood…'

Panic hitched its fist around Tristan's pounding heart, tearing the breath from his lips as he flicked the splinters aside with a wave of his wand.

Tilly's frail form lay motionless within the wreckage, her large brown eyes open and empty. A trio of deep, gaping cuts ran from the elf's collarbone to her waist. Bone gleamed beneath bright blood and bluish-purple entrails sprawled from her stomach.

'Dorea!' Tristan hurdled over the destruction and thrust out his wand, pushing every drop of magic into the spell. "Homenum revelio."

Red outlines flickered by the dining room in the back of the manor and his wand buzzed half a dozen times. Tristan disillusioned himself and crept through the hallways past imposing portraits of former lords and ladies from the Potter family, all of which lingered frozen in their frames.

A heavily distorted, metallic rasp sounded from behind the next corner. "Tell us what you know, Dorea Potter, and your suffering shall cease."

Tristan carefully peeked around the door frame.

A wide mahogany table stretched along the length of the room underneath crystal chandeliers. A foursome of black-robed silhouettes paced by far the end of it; shadows swirled underneath their deep hoods, warping their faces and an emblem of two crossed rapiers gleamed on their chests.

"I... was born... a Black," Dorea wheezed, fighting the binds that held her to a chair. A thin trickle of blood leaked from her nose and ears, dripping onto the wood. "You cowards won't get anything out of me."

"Very well. Let us see if the girl defends her mind as well as you do. Aramis, go ahead."

'Girl?' A fist of ice clenched in Tristan's chest and he edged further around the corner. 'What girl?'

"Finite." Another black-robed figure pointed their wand at Aurelia. "Tell us about your family, girl. About your parents... about the manor you live in."

"No! Let me go!" Aurelia cried and thrashed wildly, kicking her legs and smashing her tiny fists into her captivator's chest. "Let me go!"

A scream tore through Tristan's breast, threatening to spill from his lips. 'How dare they?!'

He bit his tongue and curled his fingers into fists, his nails digging so deep they drew blood from his palms.

'I need to get them out of here. Aurelia first, then Dorea.' He tore his amulet from around his neck and touched it with the tip of his wand. "Portus."

"Silencio!" Aurelia's wails stopped and they sat her down on the table, keeping her at an arm's length.

"This is your last chance, Dorea Potter." The cloaked person pointed their wand back at Dorea who was trembling in her binds. "Tell us everything you know about the Peverells or watch as we shatter the girl's mind."

"Go... to hell," Dorea spat a mouthful of blood. "I will never... betray my... family."

The foursome exchanged a glance underneath their hoods. "Family?"

Tristan leaped around the corner. "Accio!"

Aurelia's lithe form zipped through the dining room into his arms. Her wide, teary green eyes vanished in a blur of colors as he thrust his amulet into her hands.

A foursome of spells smashed into the walls around him and showered him in splinters. White alabaster and specks of dust clung to his robes, outlining his form. Tristan abandoned his disillusionment charm and stepped into the dining room, swatting aside a duo of curses like it were flies.

"You just threatened my little sister." Black mist shredded his sleeve and curled around his wrist into a cloud of thin, razor-edged tendrils. "You will all die for that."

"Stupor." Dorea's horrified face sagged down to her chest. Four deep hoods slowly turned to him, long cloaks rustling as they formed a line in front of Dorea.

"Tristan Ignotus Peverell," one distorted metallic voice rasped.

"He is their son, Aramis," another whispered. "And he is underage. That's how he got through our wards."

"He is the oldest son, Athos," the third added and thrust up their wand. A torrent of white magic burst and ripped through the ceiling, flaring with thin tendrils of bright colors that send spasms through the crystal chandelier. "But he won't get through this ward."

"Aramis, Athos... are you guys the fucking Three Musketeers?" Tristan scoffed.

"Who we are isn't important. What matters is our purpose." The fourth let a long black wand slide from their sleeve and flipped a speck of dust from the crossed rapiers on their chest. "The oldest son in exchange for the youngest daughter... It's like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon…"

'Enough of this.' Tristan swept the chairs aside with a wave of his wand.

"I do have a gift for you," Smooth elder churned hot and cold between the tips of his fingers, humming with raw, furious whispers. "But it's not a galleon..."

His magic lunged with a high screech, lashing out in countless dark lances, ripping through silver dishes along the table like they were paper, and shredding four incoming beams of magic with razor-sharp, curved teeth.

"D'Artagnan, with me," one of them rasped. They moved together in unison, like a blur of black cloaks, and thrust out their wands. "All for One and One for All."

Golden light spilled from the tips of their wands and fused into a dense fog, scattering his magic like morning mist before the sun.

Tristan reared back and threw up a shield, pouring magic into it until the dome flickered like a veil of platinum. The golden fog washed over the table and smashed against his shield, reverberating with a bloodcurdling ring that left the hairs on his neck and arms standing.

'Fuck.' Tristan staggered a few feet back before he gained footing. 'What the hell is that?'

"Surprised?" The left Musketeers whispered, sending spells hissing from their wand. "Did you think you're the only one dabbling with magic our world has all but forgotten about?"

"No, Porthos." D'Artagnan cocked their head. "That's not surprise. That's fear." The two Musketeers strode in front of their peers and bowed mockingly. "Let us show him that it's not misplaced."

A flurry of bright orange curses arced toward Tristan over the long mahogany table. He flicked them aside from the tip of his wand, sending them to hiss and spatter across the floor.

Stray curses splintered and shattered the chairs and shelves to either side. One struck the chandeliers and fragments of crystal rained down between them, cascading in a glittering sprawl across the center of the room.

The wand in his palm roared in fury, sending a sharp, sweet thrill cursing through Tristan's veins. He forced his arm faster, matching their pace, and deflected hexes in a blur of tattered sleeves. A cold ball of loathing settled beneath his ribs and swelled, clawing at his heart. "Avada Kedavra."

Shards of crystal zipped from the broken chandelier and intercepted his spell, exploding upon impact. Tristan shielded his eyes, feeling the tiny cuts creep back together on the back of his palm.

"How very unforgivable of you." The Musketeers briefly turned their hooded heads toward each other. "We know those too..."

"Crucio!"

Tristan wrapped his magic around the row of armchairs, ripping out balls of white plush and reweaving them into a thin net that blocked the sickly red unforgivables.

"Clever," they acknowledged in their rough metallic voice. "But not clever en-"

A low rumble rippled through the manor and the world swirled into dizziness. Tristan screamed and clutched his ears as the wards shattered with a screech of steel over the glass.

He scrambled back up to his feet and clutched his wand. Flicks of white magic rained from the ceiling of the dining room, swirling gently like dandelion seeds blown into the breeze.

"Porthos, what was that?" One of the Musketeers rasped.

A strange tingle crept down Tristan's spine. Amidst them, a silhouette curled together like smoke in the wind. His long black cloak rustled like the pines of the Forbidden Forest and a thick band of gold gleamed on his ring finger.

"Father," Tristan took a shaky gulp of air, sweet relief filling his straining lungs. 'You guys are so fucking dead now.'

"At last... the Pater Familias arrived." The Musketeers edged closer together, brushing shards of crystal from their hoods with flicks of their wands. "Your children put up quite a fight, Harry Ignotus Peverell."

Magic bled from his father in wisps of black shadows, saturating the air around him so thickly Tristan could taste it on his tongue.

"I've dealt with cowards who hid their faces before… it didn't help them," his father whispered as he strode forward. Heat haze flared and splintered the mahogany table along its length to clear his path. "I will rip every sane thought from your heads to find out who you are, just as you intended to do with my daughter."

"Who we are isn't important. What matters is our purpose." Pathos repeated in their metallic voice and retreated behind the other three, turning to Dorea. "Renervate!"

Dorea's eyes snapped open and she thrashed against her bindings.

"All for One and One for All." The remaining Musketeers moved together, their wand tips touching and glowing a faint gold.

His father lurched.

Crimson flames erupted from his wand in a furious scream of smoldering heat that washed over Tristan's face. He erected a shield and watched in awe as the flames coiled together and bulged to the size of a Basilisk as tall as the ceiling, then smashed a pair of blazing fangs deep through the golden fog that spewed from the Musketeers' wands.

"You stole something important from us," the fourth shouted over the hisses of flames, covering behind the trembling wands of their companions. "So now we return the favor." Their wand snapped up. "Avada Kedavra!"

Emerald light washed through the dining room and Dorea slumped forward in her chair. Her gray eyes remained wide open, only now they were dull and empty.

Horror coiled in Tristan's gut and prickled down his spine. He sagged down along the wall and his shield flickered into nothingness.

"No!" His father roared. Black mist burst from his sleeve in an ear-splitting shriek. It sprayed specks of dark cloth into the air and shattered through the windows and walls like they were wet paper. His magic screamed and clawed at everything within reach, shaking the manor like an earthquake, splintering the shelves, and wardrobes along the walls.

The Musketeers clutched their trembling wands as their golden shield thinned and retrieved until their backs met the wall.

"Time to go!"

Each brought a hand to the crossed rapiers on their chests and vanished in a whirl of dark cloaks.

His father jabbed his wand with a deafening roar, snuffing out the trashing crimson flames and letting the black mist coil back around his wrist, then he spun around.

His face was a grim mask of pain. Dark shadows danced in his eyes as they flickered low to the wand in Tristan's palm. They snapped back up, now blazing with fury in the very color of the curse that took Dorea's life.

"What did you do, Tristan?" He whispered. "What did you steal?"