HP: Panem et Circenses

March 7th, 1996

Soft gray clouds veiled the sky, smothering any warmth the sun may have granted in the late afternoon of March. Marble crypts and pale, crumbling tombstones scattered the dew-soaked meadow behind the manor, marking the spots where generations of Potters had found their final resting place.

'I'm so sorry, Dorea.' Tristan lit a small candle with a flick of his thumb, watching the weak glimmer of black flame. He crouched down and set it by the dozens of others at the foot of the grave.

'I will never forget what you gave your life for.' Warm, wet soil seeped through his fingers like water, piling up on the dark wooden coffin. 'Nor will I forget who took it.'

He stepped over to Charlus' crypt and made room for his younger siblings. His heart twisted in raw agony as he witnessed the tears glistering on Valeria's cheeks, Galahad's puffy red eyes, and the weak sobs that burst from Aurelia's trembling lips.

'They took her from us.' Tristan led his siblings back to their parents, who stood slightly offside the main gathering and stared at the grave in dead silence. A tangled knot of loathing twisted so tight in his stomach he tasted bile. 'But soon they will feel every part of this pain...'

One by one each batch of black-robed guests said their goodbyes. The Greengrasses... the McKinnons... the Prewetts and finally Dorea's friends, including Augusta Longbottom and Headmistress McGonagall. They all retreated into the manor, leaving only the closest relatives behind.

The Potters and Blacks spread around the grave and raised their wands, levitating the remaining soil into the dug-out pit before Uncle James covered it with a thick, white tomb that bore Dorea's name.

"You two take the children home, please," Tristan's father addressed him and his mother, then regarded him with a long look. "Your siblings can already floo back to Hogwarts; you'll join them after we've talked. I'll just need to discuss something with James first."

Tristan's stomach filled with dread. Guilt chewed at him, resting like a great weight on his heart, pulling him down deeper.

"Let me stay here just a tad longer," he blurted. "I - I just need a bit more time to say goodbye."

"Fine," his mother murmured. Tristan could feel her gaze on him. "I'll side-by-side you three then." She kissed his father on the cheek and brushed her fingers down his jaw. "See you at home, love."

Aurelia and she vanished with a faint snap. His father took a deep breath and moved to intercept the group of Potters, exchanging words until Uncle James and Aunt Lily stayed behind.

"Upgrade the wards?" Uncle James suddenly scoffed, his voice gaining in volume and drifting over the meadow. "You should've suggested that a bloody week ago, mate. Or do you expect us to be attacked again so soon?"

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, James. I really am," his father said calmly. "But whilst we mourn, we shouldn't forget-"

"-who's to blame for the person we just buried," James snorted. "Yeah, we really shouldn't."

Tristan's mother reappeared in a faint rustle of her black robes next to him, frowning at the scene. Tristan tapped her shoulder.

'Get them out of here,' he mouthed, silently nudging down to Valeria and Galahad, who were following the conversation with eyes widened in confusion. She nodded and quickly seized Galahad's hand before vanishing again.

"I know you're grieving, James; I am too." His father's frown had deepened considerably. "You know that Dorea was the closest person I ever had to a mother."

"Funny you say that... Mom did always treat you like a son. Dad did too. And look where that ended up getting them." James thrust his finger at their graves, his glasses sliding down his nose. "They're dead, Harry; both of them. Because of you."

"James!" Lily hissed, tugging on her husband's hand. "You can't possibly mean that."

He shook her off and glared down at her. "How can you of all people possibly defend him? The only reason your parents were killed was because of him as well!"

A thick silence stretched over the graveyard, clawing at Tristan's nerves, interrupted only by a faint snap as his mother apparated away with Valeria.

His father took a deep, trembling breath before he spoke again. "There's nobody who regrets that day as much as I do. But I can't change what happened during the war, no matter how desperately I wish to do so."

"I don't care. I won't risk any more members of my family." James' hazel eyes turned cold and his lips thinned. "The healers confirmed something interesting that you failed to mention to us; my mother was tortured before she was killed. Not with the cruciatus, no... Instead, they wrecked her brain to pry information out of her."

His father let out a sigh and stepped closer. "James, I just-"

"No, I wasn't fucking done yet," James snapped. "Anyone with that kind of skill doesn't break into the home of some random auror or a potion mistress." He poked his father hard in the chest. "But you, Harry... you have a history of attracting that kind of attention." His eyes flickered past his shoulder and landed on Tristan, narrowing. "And, as luck would have it, two of your children were at our home that day..."

Tristan bit his tongue to stop himself from blurting out that he was only there to give back the wand. A warm hand held him back and his mother slipped past him to join her husband.

"You're right, James. Your mother died because she was close to us and because we failed to protect her; that will haunt us for the rest of our days," she said, something pleading tugging at her voice. "Just please give us a chance to ensure that it can never happen again."

"You two had too many bloody chances already." James shook his head and stepped back. "I'm not naїve enough to believe that Britain would be the same if you never came here; we needed you for Voldemort and his Death Eaters." Sharp bitterness twisted the man's expression. "Still, sometimes I wonder if my family might be better off if my father never invited you into our home for dinner that night."

"James!" Lily cried in shock.

His mother's shoulders began trembling. "How dare you say that. You have no idea what-"

"Don't," his father held her back by the waist. "It's fine."

"You need to stop endangering my family, Harry." With that James whirled and stomped off back into the manor, leaving his flustered wife behind.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it like that." Lily gnawed at her bottom lip. "He's just... grieving very badly."

"I don't blame him for grieving and speaking his mind," his father sighed. "Just talk to him in a few days, will you? Anyone close to us has to upgrade their wards immediately."

"Of course." Lily nodded. "I should go after him now. But thank you all for coming."

They watched her hurry through the long grass until she vanished. Then his parents turned back to him.

'All of that is my fault.' Guilt twisted his insides into a tight knot. It tugged at him, heavy as lead and almost strangled him. "I'm sorry," Tristan murmured.

"Say your goodbyes to Dorea, son; we will wait for you at home." His father's piercing gaze bored him. "And I will personally drag you out of the Great Hall should you try to sneak back into the Castle without stopping by first."

The dew-soaked grass around them began steaming and their forms wilted from view like morning mist before the sun.

'"Fucking hell." Tristan released a breath he was holding yet the tension refused to fade.

"You can say that again..." A cranky voice snarled from behind him.

Arcturus hobbled down the field from the manor. His old age mercilessly bent his broad back and forced him to steady himself on a wood-carved walking stick every few steps.

'Great.' Tristan grimaced. "How much did you witness?"

"Enough to know that my nephew is still as brash as he was during his teenage years," he crackled and limped further past. "Come along, boy. Your parents didn't sound like they'd appreciate waiting for you."

Tristan followed him to Dorea's grave, cold dread tightening around his heart with every step he took.

"She was always supposed to outlive me." Arcturus murmured, brushing his wrinkled fingers through the deep carvings in the marble, drawing out Dorea's name. "It would've torn my sister's heart to see her family fight each other on the day of her funeral. Your father was like the second son Mother Magic refused to bless her with."

Tristan swallowed thickly. "James wasn't wrong. It's my fault she's not with us anymore."

"How by Merlin's bloody foot warts did you get chosen for the Triwizard Tournament with that kind of reasoning skills?!" Arcturus growled. "Did either you or your father cast the spell on her, boy?"

"No," Tristan admitted.

"Then you didn't kill her, you dunderhead. Now stop wailing and instead tell me who actually did."

Bitter, searing fury clawed at him. Tristan let his wand slide into his palm and wove it through the air. Black wisps of magic twisted into a faceless, hooded silhouette that multiplied twice.

"There were four of them. Arthos... Porthos... Aramis... and D'Artagnan. Named after the Three Musketeers, a French muggle story."

"Ridiculous muggles... Three Musketeers yet there's four members," Arcturus snarled. "What else?"

"They had a crest," Tristan murmured, picturing the crossed rapiers. He ripped out a few long blades of grass and turned them golden, weaving them together. "Like this. It also worked as a portkey."

Arcturus took the conjuration from him and glared at it, eyes flashing the color of steel.

Tristan frowned. "Do you recognize it?"

"No," he growled. "I'm just ensuring that this right here will be the very last memory my age robs me of."

"They were fast and powerful," Tristan shared. "I only fought two of them but I don't how much longer I could've held them off. Their magic somehow... countered mine. It even held against Father's fiendfyre. Nothing's supposed to manage that…"

"That is troublesome," Arcturus hummed and slipped the crest into his robes, then he pulled out his short black wand. "Luckily it will be your problem, not mine."

Tristan blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"My days are numbered, boy, and I'm too old to fight." He drew his wand over his palm, then pressed it onto the tomb until a thin trickle of crimson ran down the marble. "But Death won't have me until my sister is avenged. This I vow on your grave, Dorea. I will do my part to see them suffer."

Hope blossomed through Tristan's chest, wrestling with chewing guilt. "You'll help us?"

"I still have a few favors to call from people in the Wizengamot and on the continent, hell, even high up in the ICW. Those Musketeers will regret the day they stepped on British soil to attack my family."

"If you find them, I'll kill them." Tristan mirrored the old man's motion and let bright red trickle down the marble. "That is my vow for you, Dorea."

"Good," Arcturus nodded grimly. "Now go home to your parents, boy. You're of no use to me if they spank your arse to the point you can't fight anymore."

'He's right. Time to face the music.' Tristan hardened his heart and pocketed his wand. 'Again...'

"You know how to reach me once you find something." He wrenched the world back past him and stumbled from dew-soaked grass onto a polished wooden floorboard.

His parents sat together in the living room before the lit fireplace. His father gently lifted his mother out of his lap and rose to his feet as he entered.

Tristan paused before them and smothered his churning stomach. "You wanted to talk to me?"

His mother snorted. "We tried to speak to you for over a week but you've been hiding at Hogwarts."

A sharp tangle of guilt twisted in his breast. "I- I just needed some time."

"Dorea is dead. Your sister is haunted by nightmares that have her screaming every night." His father's voice traveled barely louder than a whisper yet drowned the hissing flames from the fireplace. "Our family was attacked by some faceless assassins who blame me for stealing from them. Tell me, Tristan. What. Did. I. Steal?"

"I'm really sorry." Tristan's mouth ran dry and he averted his gaze. "But I can't tell you."

"Let's take a wild guess then, shall we?" His father growled. "You have a new wand, don't you? Hey. Look at me when I'm talking to you, son!"

Tristan glanced up and swatted the faint legilimency probe aside. He met his father's gaze, dragging up the vast emptiness until his every thought and emotion was swallowed by the abyss.

"You... promised me not to use it again." Anger spiked through Tristan's veins and rolled off his tongue. The pale length of his wand slipped into his palm, humming with cold fury. "But you won't see anything. I refuse to show you anything this time."

"Stop it, both of you!" His mother stepped in between them and cupped her husband's jaw. "It has to do with his wand; Tristan pretty much admitted as much."

"Fine. Gregorovitch then," his father hummed. "He'll talk to me. Or I'll make him..."

Cold panic stabbed through Tristan's chest.

"No!" He staggered forward and caught his father by the arm. "You mustn't hurt Gregorovitch in any way! Please!"

"And why is that?" His father pried himself free and shot him a flat look. "You have three seconds before I'll be on my way."

"A vow!" Tristan blurted desperately. "I swore an unbreakable vow not to let anyone harm him as a consequence of crafting my wand for me. If you enter his mind by force I'm as good as dead."

"You bloody fool!" His mother hissed, balling her fists. "Do you have any idea how dangerous such a vow is? How could you ever agree to that?"

"I didn't have a choice," Tristan replied heatedly. "It was that or have my wand snapped."

"And what's so special about that wand that you couldn't part without?" His father inquired. "You said Gregorovitch still crafted it for you so you can't have stolen the entire thing. Did you steal the ingredients?"

Tristan bit his bottom lip and spun the wood through his fingers. "As I said, I can't-"

"Damnit, Tristan. Dorea is dead already and some freak group is willing to kill for information on our family," his mother snapped. "Tell us what you stole and who you stole it from, right now!"

The weight of the secret came crashing down on him like a tidal wave, gripping his ribcage like a vice and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

'I can't fucking do this any longer...'

"It's the wood," Tristan admitted shakily and presented his wand. "I stole a piece of elder wood."

"Your wand contains elder?" His father studied the wand in his palm. A strange gleam of fascination sparkled in his eyes for but a second before the cold bitterness banished it. "Where did you steal elder wood from?"

Tristan swallowed the uncomfortable knot in his throat.

"From-," his voice dropped to a whisper. "-from the French Department of Mysteries."

Both his parents blinked. His father wetted his lower lip with a weak chuckle. "You're joking, aren't you? This really isn't the time for cheeky jokes, Tristan."

"I'm not joking," Tristan winced and took a step back. "I broke into the catacombs underneath Paris and stole a three-thousand-year-old piece of elder wood that the French Unspeakables experimented with."

Tristan watched warily as faint traces of dust rose from the wooden floorboard, wrenching around his father's boots. The air in the living room became so thick and hot it almost hurt to breathe.

"Just let me explain why I did it! Gregorovitch said that branch of elder was my only chance for a match." He clutched the wand to his chest. "I was meant to have this wood. This wand and I were meant to-"

The words died in his throat.

"How." His father quenched his fists, forcing the swirling wisps of black haze back into his palms. "Just how... could my son be so bloody stupid as to steal from Unspeakables?!"

"Oh, don't be a hypocrite now." Tristan felt his ire stir. "I took something I needed desperately. How is that any different from you two strolling into the forest to massacre acromantulae for their venom?"

His mother scoffed. "The Forbidden Forest is hardly comparable to the Department of Mysteries of a foreign country! If you were caught, they would've-"

"But I wasn't caught and no one saw me!" Tristan snapped. "I used the Cloak. Death doesn't leave a trace to follow and neither did I."

"But you're wrong!" His father shouted, his chest heaving rapidly. "By leaving no traces you leave a trace straight to us!"

"Wait, what?" Tristan blinked in stupefaction. "That doesn't make any sense."

His father pinched the bridge of his nose and whirled on his heels, pacing up and down the distance between the fireplace and the armchair. "The British Unspeakables know that our family's magic cannot be traced because of an incident in our sixth year."

"Okay... so what?" Tristan squashed a tiny flare of dread. "I was still under the Cloak the entire time. They'll never figure out its ability to pass through any ward. It's unique and regarded as impossible."

His parents exchanged a worried glance and his mother's lips began trembling.

"What?" Tristan frowned. "What are you not telling me?"

His father embraced her tightly, running his hands through her hair and down her back before meeting Tristan's eye. "The entire British Unspeakable and Auror force trapped Voldemort and me during our final duel at Hogwarts..."

'Does that mean...'

Tristan's stomach plunged. "So Mother used the Cloak to get both of you out after you fell... unconscious? You never actually told us what happened to you that day."

A faint sob burst from his mother's lips and her shoulder twitched.

"Now is not the time for that." His father shot him a long look. "What's important is that the British Unspeakables know we have a way to pass through powerful wards undetected."

The feeling of dread grew stronger. Tristan desperately grasped for a faint flicker of hope. "But why would they share that with anyone, especially with a country we've been at war with several times in the last centuries?"

His parents slowly separated and his mother dabbed her eyes.

"We need to assume the worst now. No more risks," his father decided, running a hand through his hair. "Your mother and I will craft emergency portkeys for the three of you as well as a method to communicate through the school's wards. I want you to use the Map to make sure Valeria and Galahad never leave the grounds of the Castle without you."

"I can do that." Tristan nodded. 'Soonish,' he added silently. "What about you? Could they breach the wards of our manor?"

"No," his father shook his head. "Our home is impregnable, especially to any who seek to harm us."

"That's good to hear." Tristan took a calming breath and forced most of the dread back down. He hesitantly spun his wand through his fingers. "I should get back to-"

His father stepped into his path. "I want you to promise me something before you leave, Tristan."

A strong hunch crawled to the forefront of his mind. "Let me guess, you want me to promise not to go looking for them myself?

"I do."

"Fine." Tristan shrugged. "But in return, you'll take me with you when you follow your lead."

His father frowned. "What makes you think I'll have leads to follow?"

"I saw you when they took Dorea from us," Tristan said, a slight shiver crawling down his spine. "If she was as much of a mother to you as she was a grandmother to me, then you won't find any rest until they suffer for what they've done."

"She was like a mother... more than you could imagine," his father murmured, eyes dipping down to Tristan's wand. "I hope that wood was worth it, son."

"I'm- I'm truly sorry. If I could revert the clock, I'd do it in a heartbeat." Tristan wrestled with his guilt and eventually fed it to a flicker of boiling fury. "However, now that I have it, I might as well use it to avenge her."

"I don't like this, Harry." His mother crossed her arms. "I hate seeing any of my children in danger."

"So do I," his father hummed and studied him for a few long moments. "But Tristan needs this chance to prove himself. It's certainly a worthier cause than that bloody tournament."

"Thank you." Tristan squashed the steaming coals with a flick of his wand and grabbed a handful of floo powder before stepping into the fireplace.

"Wait a second," his father called. "You didn't mention your wand's core yet."

"It's one of a kind," Tristan revealed, a small smile creeping through the bitter numbness that had held his expression in a tight grip this past week. "I've finally put the lethifold's ragged cloak to better use."

"Hogwarts, Headmistress' office!" He vanished in roaring green flames and stumbled out at the other end of the connection, brushing ash from his shoulders.

A collection of Headmasters' portraits peered down at him from among the shelves, cabinets, and magical curiosities. Albus Dumbledore studied him curiously with his rapier-sharp blue eyes before clearing his throat. "Minerva, it seems you have a guest."

McGonagall's head snapped up from her desk, her face taut and lined. "Mr. Peverell." She vanished the ash on her carpet with a flick of her wand. "Your siblings passed through almost an hour ago."

"Apologies, ma'am," Tristan said. "I needed a bit more time."

"Very well." Her face softened. "Off you go then."

Tristan slipped down the spiral staircase and moved past the gargoyle, firm determination guiding his steps.

"I need to be prepared for the next time I run into those Musketeers." He paced up and down the blank stretch of wall. "Perhaps the Room can provide some books that explain the magic they used against me."

A golden handle appeared and Tristan yanked the door open.

Sunlight poured through tall twin windows, framed by velvet blue curtains. A large silver blanketed canopy bed sat opposite the windows. Packed bookshelves and stacks of tomes towered from the ivory carpet to where an elegant crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

'What the hell?'

Dozens of tiny, enchanted items ornamented both shelves and stacks by the table to the right where the soft scrap of a feather drifted from.

Tristan's heart fluttered strangely and a faint whisper blurted from his lips. "Fleur?"

"Bonjour Tristan." Fleur tossed a veil of platinum over her shoulder and regarded him, blue eyes calm and cool before she bent back over some parchments. "Ca va?"

He blinked from her to the two silver-haired girls that smiled and laughed in the frame beside the bed. "What- what are you doing up here?"

"I'm studying." Fleur picked up her quill and dipped it into a pot of ink. "It's quieter here than in the library... No glassy-eyed boys try to approach me... No jealous girls whisper behind my back."

Tristan strolled over the soft carpet towards her. "I didn't even know you figured out how to work the room."

"It's not that difficult, non?" She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I kept away from it during the yule break because it held bad memories but eventually, the temptation grew too far." She closed the tome and slid sideways in her chair, glancing up at him coolly. "I spent a lot of time here this week, hoping you'd show up as you promised. But you never came..."

Tristan grimaced, guilt coiling in his gut. "I'm sorry."

She rose from her chair and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt.

"This time you have a good excuse." Her eyes softened and she brushed a speck of ash from his robes, her hand lingering on his chest. "How are you feeling?"

He frowned. "You- you knew?"

"Bien sûr. She was with your family in the stands during both tasks." Fleur's fingers brushed over the hem of his dress shirt and a small sad smile strained her lips. "Your robes gave it away as well."

Tristan's gaze dipped to his black robes.

"I've forgotten about those," he murmured and drew his wand, changing them into his plain uniform with Slytherin green highlights.

Fleur's eyes lingered on his wand, a gleam of curiosity rising in their depths. "You have a new wand. Again."

"The one before was just as a substitute." Tristan spun it between his fingers. "This one is here to stay."

'I'm meant to do something great with it.' He swallowed a writhing tangle of bitterness and let his magic bleed from his wrist in a faint shimmer of heat haze. 'Starting by avenging Dorea.'

"It looks... magnifique." Fleur murmured, her eyes glued to his wand. "May I?"

'That sounds awfully familiar.' Tristan's fingers tightened around the wood as did a knot of apprehension in his breast. "Why?"

"I'd like to listen to the magic in it." Fleur's eyes met his, her smile one of innocence. "Wands hold the echo of our magic. If I focus, I can usually get a faint impression of it."

Tristan smothered a stab of worry and attempted a grin. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

A peal of soft laughter burst from her red lips and her eyes flashed in amusement. "It's a deal then."

She produced a slim piece of rosewood from between her cleavage with a small smirk.

Tristan spluttered. "You keep your wand in there?!"

Her smirk widened a fraction. "There's enough space, non?"

Tristan wrestled the urge to let his gaze dip and held her eye. "Still doesn't seem very practical."

She laughed. "Don't fret. I usually keep it on my belt or in my sleeve like you do." She presented him with her wand. "Alors?"

Tristan picked up her wand, then smothered any last flicker of apprehension and offered her his own in return. "Listen away then. Just be careful, I was told it's very closely bonded to me."

Fleur took it with both hands and pressed it against her chest, scrunching her eyes shut. "Mon dieu. It's so alive," she whispered.

Tristan stepped closer to her. "What is it you feel?"

"It feels like you, like your magic... But it's also flashing... hot and cold." A small shiver swept through her. "It's like dipping my fingers in the river in the deepest winter but then it switches to roaring flames; I think someone whispers from within." A wisp of black smoke seeped from the wood and curled around her fingers. "I can almost hear what they're saying. I'm sure I just need to listen a little harder and-"

"Fleur, that's enough." He pried his fingers between hers.

Fleur's eyes blinked back open and she frowned at her pale, purple-nailed fingers.

"Desole." She handed the wand back to him with a small pout. "You were right... it is quite closely bonded to you."

"I did try to warn you." Tristan stored it back within his sleeve, his eyes lingered on her upturned red lips until she caught him and smirked.

"Now it's your turn." She stepped underneath his chin and placed her fingers above his, gently pushing her wand to his heart. "Tell me what you feel."

Tristan closed his eyes. "I suppose it's... warm. But that's pretty much all I'm getting. No doubt my magic doesn't work like yours."

He managed a faint chuckle, the first in over a week, and brought the rosewood up to his nose to take a quick whiff. "Oh, and it does smell like you."

"Vraiment?" Fleur's soft, musical laughter sent flutters through his stomach and she stepped close enough for her breath to wash down in his neck. "And pray tell me what I smell like?"

Tristan took a deep breath before all the air could vanish.

"Like vanilla." The sound of his voice drowned in the bright blue of her eyes. "Sweet and sharp... I- I think it kind of grew on me."

"I'd hope so."

Fleur's face steadily drew closer as she rose to her tiptoes, then her eyes shut and her lips brushed over his.

Tristan dropped her wand and seized her by the waist and the small of her back, pulling her closer and crushing his lips down to hers.

Her lips curved into a smirk and she opened her mouth. She tasted hot like triumph and sweeter than honey on his tongue. Fleur's fingers tightened in his hair and she pressed herself against him. Every warm, soft curve of hers melted into him perfectly and the heat of her seeped through his robes and deep into his skin.

Tristan lifted her off the carpet when she curled her legs around his waist, stumbling back until he met the bed and sank down with her in his lap. Bright flutters of bliss trickled south through his blood, tightening in little jolts of pleasure with every small moan that escaped her lips until finally the need to breathe became too great.

Tristan gulped for air. A desperate yearning bubbled beneath his breast, right by his heart and hot as flame. "Fleur, I- I need..."

Her blue eyes opened, smoldering with a familiar sparkle of desire while her breasts rose and fell with deep breaths. "What do you need, Tristan."

"You," he whispered, tugging a stray lock of silver behind her ear. "I just need you right now."

"D'accord." She placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips before drawing back to study him. "You can have me right here and now if you want. It'll make you feel better, perhaps it'll make you forget what happened... but only for a little while. Then it'll all come crashing back down."

Tristan cursed under his breath as he listened to the hammering of his heart in his ears and wrestled with the yearning that threatened to spike any second.

Fleur rested her forehead against his. "Or you can wait a bit longer and give yourself time to heal first. We can get to know each other, learn to trust each other." Her fingers caressed his hair. "It's harder that way, but in the end, it'll all be worth it. It'll be perfect."

'Would that really be worth it?' The faint drum of Fleur's heart droned against his chest, almost matching his rhythm. 'There's only one way to find out.'

Tristan smothered his desire and let the heat subside. "I'll wait then. For you. For something perfect."

Fleur sighed contentedly and pulled him into a long kiss. "I knew you would." She snuggled into the crook of his neck and clung to him tight. "It's what makes you so different from all of them..."