HP: Panem et Circenses

May 13th, 1996

Droplets of warm rain soaked into his hair and trickled down his forehead. Ash and mud clung to him like a second skin and the thick reek of scorched air stung in his nose.

Tristan slid along the hedge to the ground, wincing as the fatigue crept deep through his limbs and chewed at his sore muscles.

"Why did it have to come to this, Fleur?" He scooped his arms around her midriff and cradled her slim body closer, leaning back against the hedge with a long sigh. "Everything was going so well between us." His gut wrenched like someone twisted a knife in it. "But now... now everything might be ruined."

The Triwizard cup sparkled underneath a thin layer of white ash by the opposite hedge.

Tristan scowled at it. "I would've handed over that piece of scrap metal in a heartbeat to avoid the mess we're now in." He curled his fingers, summoning the trophy to their feet.

"You were here first, petite Fleur; you could've just taken the damn thing if you weren't so bloody proud." He brushed her long silver-blonde tresses from her face with his finger, breathing in her sweet perfume and swallowing a hot lump of emotion. "But I suppose if you were any different I would've never grown so fond of you to begin with."

His fingers brushed through something damp; crimson sparkled at their tips.

'She's hurt.' Tristan stumbled to his feet with a low groan and flexed his limbs.

"Let's get you to Madam Pomfrey." His gaze dipped from her neck down her collarbone, catching the curve of pale skin and something lacy blue through her tattered uniform. "Preferably not like this though. You'd probably set fire to me again if I allowed three magical schools to see you in just your bra."

He ran the tip of his wand over her, fixing up the tatters as best as he managed. 'And I'd prefer they didn't see you like this either.'

Tristan turned back to the cup. It flicked in pale golden light, blurring the air around it every few seconds.

"That looks a bit weird." He probed the trophy with the tip of his wand, letting his magic wash through it.

Specks of bright color swirled together into a maelstrom, bridging gaps like a rainbow curving and twisting over a dancefloor.

"A portkey," Tristan murmured. 'I suppose it makes sense and serves as irrefutable truth as to who reached the cup first.'

He probed a tad deeper; loose cords splintered from the essence, blackened and withered away like smoke.

'That's not supposed to happen.' Tristan frowned. 'It must've been damaged during our duel. I can't even tell where it was supposed to send me.' He knitted the escaping threads back together and poured an image of the Hogwarts' quidditch stands into the swirling vortex. "Portus."

Tristan slipped Fleur's wand back through her belt and picked her up bridal-style, brushing her hair off her face as he cradled her to his chest.

"Hold on tight for a second, Fleur." He closed his fingers around the slim stem of the cup; the hedges wrenched past in a violent hook around his naval.

Tristan's feet slammed onto sturdy ground and a torrent of sound boomed in his ears, so loud he flinched and almost dropped Fleur. He blinked through a dizzying blur of colors, forcing down a rush of nausea.

The crowd in the stands ascended like a tidal wave. "IT'S PEVERELL!" They roared his name and that of his school, thrusting their fists in the night sky, and stomping their feet wildly.

"Now they all celebrate me." Tristan watched them flooding down the field toward him like a swarm of bees, a fantastic gleam of awe in their eyes.

A strange distance loomed between him and them.

"Because I won," he whispered and glanced down at Fleur's pale face. The soft weight of her in his arms snatched the euphoria from him. 'But then why doesn't it feel like winning?'

A tight-robed figure swept into his view, joined by a dozen others. "Please! Calm yourself, everyone!" Even when amplified, McGonagall's voice drowned in the noise of the crowd as the professors attempted to keep them at bay.

Half-familiar faces pierced through their defense and something golden hurled itself into his side with a high squeal, babbling words too fast to comprehend. Valeria and his mother appeared as well, engulfing him in hugs so fierce he wobbled back, blonde hair obscuring his vision.

Tristan winced, nestling Fleur tightly against his chest and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Ma fille!" A French-accented voice boomed through the noise.

Tristan blinked his eyes open. Phillippe Delacour, followed by Apolline and Madame Maxime, fought his way past the professors, his face ash-white. "What did you do to my daughter?!"

Gabby darted past her parents, silver hair billowing, and skidded to a halt before him. She closed her eyes as she ran her fingers down Fleur's cheek. "Her magic is weak, like a flickering candle battling the storm." Her head snapped up at him, gray eyes darkening to charcoal. "What did you do, Tristan?"

Tristan sought the matron amidst the staff, his stomach churning as he swallowed thickly. "She exhausted herself." The half-truth tasted foul as ash in his mouth. "I think she lost some blood as well."

McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey broke from the ring of professors. "Follow us back to the Castle, Mr. Peverell." She pointed her wand at Fleur. "We can levitate Ms. Dela-"

"No!" Tristan blurted and tightened his hold on her, a coil of fierce yearning rising in his breast. "I will carry her." He swayed forward through Madame Maxime's huge shadow, avoiding hard eyes and razor-thin lips. "I need... I just need to do it."

'It's only right...'

"I'll go with Tristan. You take the children back home." He heard his father whisper to his mother as he wobbled past them towards the hoops and the track leading up to the castle.

A red-robed delegation stepped into his path.

"Igor, what is the meaning of this?!" McGonagall demanded hotly. "Let us pass - Ms. Delacour needs immediate medical attention!"

"I don't care!" Karkaroff barked at the front of a grim-looking Durmstrangs. "Where is Viktor?" He thrust a finger at Tristan, his face a mask of anger. "What did you do to him, Peverell?!"

Searing irritation flashed through Tristan, numbing the ache in his limbs. "Get out of my way and search for him in the maze," he muttered. "I bet he just got lost."

Karkaroff drew his wand. "Why, you little-"

He dropped the wood with a scream.

A ripple of frost crept over the grass, freezing the blades in its wake and leaving the hairs on Tristan's skin prickling.

His father slowly stepped around him in front of the sea of red uniforms, black cloak billowing around his ankles and his pale, long wand drawn. "You heard my son. Move, Karkaroff." His voice traveled barely above a whisper. "Or I'll move you..."

Karkaroff's eyes shone with raw hatred as he clutched his bleeding limp. "Whatever happened to Viktor, every Peverell will suffer ten times," he spat, then rushed off toward the maze with the Durmstrang students on his heels.

'Another enemy.' Tristan shot his father a short, thankful nod. 'I'll worry about him later.'

He steadied Fleur's head and began climbing the countless stairs up to the courtyard, ignoring the burn in his muscles and throb of his limbs.

Tapestries, portraits, and gray corridors shifted into smooth white walls and ceiling, blinding his vision, and a pungent sterile scent prickled in his nose. "Over here, Mr. Peverell." Madam Pomfrey ushered him to the nearest bed, drawing back the blinds.

Tristan carefully lowered Fleur onto the white sheets, adjusting the pillow for her head and brushing her hair off her face as her family swarmed the bed around her.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, slipping his fingers through hers and ignoring the stares from her parents. "Will she be okay?"

The matron ran her short wand from Fleur's forehead over her chest and down to her stomach, humming under her breath. "She's indeed lost some blood and she almost completely exhausted herself, but she should be fine after a day's rest."

Sighs of relief and a ripple of sagged shoulders ran through Fleur's family. Tristan crushed down his worries and squeezed her hand softly. 'You'll be just fine, Fleur. And so will we...'

"What happened in the maze?" Philippe demanded as Madam Pomfrey prepared a tray of steaming potions. "I seriously doubt you just found my daughter like that."

'There's no point in lying.' Tristan ignored the gnaw of worry and glanced up, meeting half a dozen expectant expressions. "I didn't see Fleur until the end. She was waiting for me by the cup at the center of the maze."

Apolline's blonde brows drew together. "So she won then, non? Since she got there first?"

Tristan sighed. "She would've won if she touched the cup," he murmured. "It would've taken her straight to the stands."

"I don't understand." Phillippe frowned at him. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Because Fleur didn't consider it a victory yet," Gabby whispered, her stormy gray eyes flickering from the still form of her sister up to him.

"Exactly." Tristan swallowed heavily, but the unease continued stirring in his stomach. "She didn't feel she deserved it until she had truly beaten me, so she challenged me to a duel. Things got out of hand too quickly. I-" Fleur's determined summer-sky blue eyes flashed through his thoughts, snatching the right words from his tongue, "-I just knew if I let this continue there was a chance one of us won't survive... So I finished it... and stunned her."

A heavy silence settled in the infirmary; even Madam Pomfrey had stopped administering potions past Fleur's lips.

Phillippe shared a glance with Madam Maxime, then scoffed.

"You claim to have beaten my daughter in a duel?" he ridiculed. "Fleur has won every dueling tournament for her age in all of France. She's beaten me ever since she turned fourteen."

"How curious..." Tristan's father chimed in. "My son and I duel as well but he's never beaten me before." A small sharp smile crept onto his lips. "Does that suggest anything about our children's or perhaps our own skill with a wand, Monsieur Delacour?"

A hinge of pink crept up Phillippe's pale cheek. "I don't know what you're implying, Monsieur Peverell, but-"

"Oh, I'm not implying anything here." His father held up his hands. "I'm merely suggesting you let Tristan finish his side of the events. It would be rather embarrassing if he lied only for your daughter to wake up and set things straight."

"Right." Tristan caught his tongue. "Well, there's not much more to it really. I knew Fleur had been injured so I took us back via portkey. You've all seen the rest yourself."

"Merci beaucoup, Tristan," Apolline whispered, bending over the bed to squeeze his hand on top of Fleur's and offering him a soft smile. "Merci for bringing back ma fille. You could've just left her in that horrible maze after she challenged you."

"It was the least I could do."

'And I could've never left Fleur behind. Never.' Tristan cupped Fleur's hand into both of his as he leaned back against the headrest, tiredness crushing down on him like a wave. 'Not after she came back for me.'

The doors to the hospital wing were thrown open; several heels clicked, ringing louder as they approached. Minister Crouch strode around the corner, jaw twitching as his eyes roamed over the scene.

'Somehow he doesn't look too happy that his countryman won the Triwizard Tournament.' Tristan counted the red-robed wizards that marched behind him. 'And it shouldn't take half a dozen aurors to carry my prize fund either…'

Ludo Bagman, Rita Skeeter, and her cameraman hustled to catch up with the first group.

McGonagall scowled at the invaders. "I hope there is a very good reason for storming our infirmary, Minister?"

"Indeed, there is, Minerva," Crouch snapped. "Viktor Krum's body was just discovered in the maze."

A low murmur passed through those present and a few pairs of eyes flickered to Tristan. He kept his features straight. 'Well… that was inevitable...'

A blinding flash of white washed through the hospital wing.

"How dare you!?" Madam Pomfrey cried in outrage. "This is a hospital wing!"

McGonagall flicked her wand; a jet of steam hissed out of the camera and the reporter dropped it with a cry.

Crouch vanished the splash of molten plastic from his polished black boots with a scowl. "Igor Karkaroff is beside himself, as are Mr. Krum's parents and the international reporters. This is a disaster for my administration, Minerva." His black eyes narrowed on Tristan. "The magical world is watching and demanding answers as to how this could happen. I'd like to ask the other champions a few questions, starting with Mr. Peverell since he seems awake and fine."

"Ask away then, Minister," Tristan said. "But I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm staying right here."

"Fine." Crouch gritted his teeth. "Did you and Mr. Krum cross paths at any point in the maze?"

Tristan shook his head. "No, Sir."

"Are you certain, Peverell?" The Minister scowled. "You were seen talking to Mr. Krum just before the start of the task and we're fully aware of the... history between the two of you."

"Well, I'm telling you I haven't seen him," Tristan repeated.

"And just 'ow did Mr. Krum die, Minister Crouch?" Madame Maxime inquired solemnly.

Crouch's glare remained on Tristan as he forced the words past his lips. "He likely suffocated."

"Suffocated?" Tristan blinked. "From..."

A nerve twitched in Crouch's temple. "Presumably a Devil's Snare."

"Well, I'll count myself fortunate then that I haven't encountered those either," Tristan murmured. "Perhaps you ought to ask William Weasley why he thought it was wise to put them in the maze, Minister."

Crouch balled his fists. "We... deeply appreciate your suggestion, Peverell." His gaze flickered to Phillippe. "I will question your daughter as well once she wakes up, Monsieur Delacour."

With a flick of his wand, Phillippe summoned the camera Skeeter's camera man was trying to fix behind her back.

"I don't know what you were hoping to achieve by bringing reporters and aurors up here, Minister, but you will only talk to my daughter in my presence." He crushed the camera beneath his boots and sent the remains skidding over to Crouch's feet. "It's best you leave now. Fleur needs her rest."

"One second, Minister," Tristan called out as Crouch spun on his heels and made to rush off. "The cup makes for a nice trophy on my shelf, but I believe you have something else for me?" He expectantly held out one hand, keeping the other interlaced with Fleur's.

Crouch visibly composed himself, drawing a deep breath, then he shot a sharp nod to Bagman.

"Congratulations, Mr. Peverell." Bagman trotted toward the bed, fumbling a large purse out of his robes and handing it over. "Your winnings for coming first. One thousand galleons."

Tristan weighed it in his palm with a small grin. "Thank you, Sir."

The Minister's nostrils flared and he whirled, rushing off with his delegation on his heels.

McGonagall stepped toward Madame Maxime. "We should return down to the maze as well, Olympe," she suggested. "Ms. Delacour is in the best care up here and if what Minister Crouch said is true, then we'd better deal with Karkaroff and the reporters now to limit the nonsense Rita Skeeter will undoubtedly share."

The enormous woman straightened with a nod. "D'accord, Minerva." The two headmistresses strode off together.

Tristan's father let out a small sigh as the doors to the infirmary closed shut. "Was it really necessary to antagonize the Minister, Tristan?"

Tristan chuckled. "You're just upset I won't have a humbling summer working some muggle job." He tossed him the large purse. "Take whatever I owe you."

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. "Mr. Peverell..." She shot a pointed look to the edge of the bed he was occupying. "Mr. Delacour was right in assessments; my patient needs some rest now to let the potions work."

"I'm not leaving her," Tristan blurted, tightening his grasp on Fleur's hand. "I- I have to stay. Please."

Phillippe's eyes narrowed. "Non. That is-"

"-acceptable." Apolline placed her hand on her husband's arm and squeezed, then turned back to the matron. "Thank you for taking care of our daughter, Madame Pomfrey."

Pomfrey sighed. "Very well. Mr. Peverell may stay." She tapped their interlocked fingers with her wand. "But I must take a look at some of Ms. Delacour's injuries and change her uniform into a sterile hospital gown. For that, you'll have to let go of her hand and wait behind the blinds."

Gabby giggled. "Is that really necessary?"

Apolline shot her daughter a warning glare. "Gabrielle."

"What?" Mischief sparkled in Gabby's eyes. "I'm sure there'd be little Tristan hasn't seen before."

Heat crept into Tristan's cheeks and he scrambled from the edge of the bed. "That's fine. Of course. I'll just- uh-" he averted his eyes from the Delacours and ambled over to his father. "I'll just talk to my father really quickly..."

"Incroyable, Gabrielle." Apolline took her daughter's hand and dragged her away, chastising her in rapid French. "Behave yourself or you'll stay back when we visit your sister in the morning!"

"No! I'll be good," Gabby squealed, dramatically pressing her fingers across her mouth. "Je promets."

Phillippe let out a sigh, then bent to kiss Fleur's forehead. "Rest well, ma fille." He shot Tristan a brief nod. "I suppose I will see you in the morning."

"I'll be here," Tristan assured.

"D'accord," Philippe murmured and strode off, catching up with his wife and daughter by the entrance to the infirmary.

Tristan's father waited for the heavy winged doors to fall shut. "Looks like he's slowly warming up to you."

Tristan dodged the blinds Pomfrey pulled shut before his nose. "Compared to the night of their Beltane ball, he definitely is. You have no idea how bad that was."

"Oh, trust me... I can imagine," his father hummed, leading him down the corridor to Pomfrey's office. "I didn't exactly have an easy time with your mother's parents either. And it only worsened once I admitted to not being a pureblood."

The exhaustion came crashing back down on Tristan and he leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "All my grandparents were magical," he said. "That technically makes me a pureblood, though I doubt Philippe gives a shit about it."

His father glanced at the portrait hanging behind him. "I'm sure he'll come around eventually. You've got Fleur's sister and perhaps even her mother on your side already." He pulled his pale wand, muttering something under his breath. "However, there's something else we should discuss besides your blossoming relationship."

Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the frozen painting of some former headmistress in healer robes. "I wish I could say you have my full attention but after tonight..."

His father's green eyes bored into him. "I need you to tell me if anything strange happened in the maze. Did you have a hunch at any point that something might be off?"

'Does he suspect I'm behind Krum's death?' Tristan clouded his thoughts, dragging the abyss to the forefront of his mind. "I don't think so, no."

"What about your obstacles? Anything suspicious?"

"There was a boggart," Tristan scowled at the memory. "Then one of Hagrid's Skrewts and a pair of dementors."

"Dementors?" His father frowned.

"Yeah." Tristan nodded. "I should've expected them after Crouch said the obstacles were chosen to match our disadvantages." His lips quirked. "But I've finally managed the spell you've taught me so they didn't bother me too much..."

"Well done. I'm very proud of you." His father smiled briefly. "But was there anything else?"

Tristan snorted. "Probably a few of Weasley's traps and wards, but little was left of them." At his father's questioning eyebrow he clarified. "I grew tired of stumbling past hedges so I burned my way straight through them with fiendfyre. That ought to have destroyed most wards and scared off whatever else was lingering in there."

"Ah. It also explains some of the smoke we've seen." A flash of humor passed over his father's face. "I wish I had known-," he shook his head with a sigh, "-never mind that. What about when you reached the center?"

Tristan's mood darkened. "Well, I already told you about my duel with Fleur. After I stunned her I rested for a bit before fixing up the portkey and-"

"Fixing up?" his father interrupted sharply, seizing both his shoulder and looking at him intently. "What do you mean, fixing up?"

"It must've gotten damaged during our duel," Tristan explained with a frown. "I couldn't even tell where it was meant to send me with how the magic twisted and stirred in it."

His father's face whitened and he let go of him.

"What?" Tristan asked in puzzlement. "What's wrong?"

"Portkeys are extremely sensitive to magic, Tristan. If they're hit by a spell, they either still work fine, or the magic within is corrupted beyond repair, in which case you won't feel anything."

A nasty thought rose from the back of his skull. "Then what was it I fixed in the maze?"

His father clenched his jaw and remained silent, a dark shadow flashing in his eyes.

The realization struck like a lightning bolt. "A trap," Tristan whispered. "That portkey was a bloody trap and would've sent me to Merlin knows where!"

"Or nowhere at all," his father muttered. "You'd be stuck in some realm of spatial manipulation with no way to escape..."

Tristan's blood froze. 'Was it the Musketeers?' A crimson-stained golden crest of crossed rapiers loomed before his mind's eye.

'No. They'd want to ask me about Father before killing me.' Tristan suppressed a brief shudder. 'And they'd want him to witness how much I suffer. This isn't their style.'

He took a deep breath and clawed the unease back down. "Who? Who tried to trap me?! You must know something! That's why you've asked if I caught anything suspicious in the first place."

His father regarded him for a few moments.

"I'm not sure myself," he said. "But earlier in the stands, Crouch's son, the Malfoy boy, and the Lestrange twins were a tad too obvious about being seen with lots of important people."

'So they'd have a solid alibi.' Abraxas Malfoy's triumphant smirk and Crouch's cruel laughter as they chased him through the seventh-floor corridor echoed through his thoughts.

Raw, boiling fury bubbled from Tristan's stomach. 'Fleur would've almost touched that cup.' He dug his nails into his palm until the pain brought clarity. 'I might've never seen her again because of their fucking schemes.'

A hand came resting on his shoulder. "Don't do anything rash, son. We don't know for certain yet."

Tristan took a deep breath. "I won't." His eyes flickered to Pomfrey, who had reappeared from behind the blinds of Fleur's bed. 'But once I know for certain, I will make them pay.'

His father tracked his line of sight. "Go be with Fleur and get some rest yourself. You more than deserve it." An encouraging smile played on his lips. "I'm sure it'll all work out between you two."

'It has to.' Tristan nodded and walked back over, slipping past the blinds. 'I can't lose her.'

Fleur slept underneath the covers, the blood wiped off her face and the ash-smeared, tattered uniform swapped for a clean, white hospital gown.

'She's so beautiful.' Tristan slumped onto the chair and sat by her side, slipping his fingers underneath the covers to search for her hand. 'I can't lose her over this bloody cup. There's no one like her.'

He leaned back with a tired sigh, admiring how her long silver hair sprawled down her chest, rising and falling in time with the peaceful, slow rhythm of her breath, until his eyelids grew too heavy.

Something twitched between his fingers and Tristan jolted upright, wincing as a sharp pain laced through his stiff neck.

The faint pink light of breaking dawn shone through the tall window. Fleur stirred underneath the covers, shifting onto her side and blowing a stray silver curl off her nose.

'She's awake.' Tristan's mouth turned dry as ash and the beat of his heart thundered in his ears. 'Fuck. What do I even say?'

Fleur's fingers twitched in his again and a tiny pout crept onto her lips; then she blinked, staring up at him through a veil of disheveled silver hair.

Her blue eyes widened, flashing dark, and she withdrew her hand like she was stung.

"Fleur." Tristan's heart seized beneath his ribs.

Tiny feathers prickled underneath the pale skin of her neck and heat haze twirled up from where her knuckles were clutched tight around the blanket.

Tristan edged back to give her some space. "It's just me, Fleur," he whispered, unease knotting in his gut. "It's just me."

Fleur's ragged breath gradually evened, as she blinked repeatedly. "Pardon," she murmured, the darkness draining from her eyes like water seeping through sand.

Nervousness trembling in his stomach like an earthquake. "It's okay," Tristan said, "How- how are you feeling?"

"Sore. Tired." She avoided his gaze and tucked the blanket close around her. "Weak. Pathetic…"

His heart sank. "Fleur, I-,"

"You beat me," she whispered, staring at a point by the edge of the bed as her voice began hitching. "And... and you did it so effortlessly."

"No! That couldn't be further from the truth, Fleur," Tristan opposed. "You're the most skilled person I've ever dueled except for my father." A string of wry humor tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, my mother would probably give you a good run for your gold as well."

'And so would the Musketeers.' Tristan's gut clenched tight in guilt, snatching the humor away, like a cherry plugged from its branches. 'But I can't share that with you now.'

Fleur swallowed thickly, her lips quivering. "I came first all my life." She closed her eyes, sparkling tears threatening to spill from her long lashes. "And I wanted to win so badly."

Tristan tentatively reached out and squeezed her hand. "We both know that you still won this tournament, Fleur." He brushed back her hair as the first tears dropped onto her lap. "You scored the most points in the first task. You would've scored the most points in the second task as well if you didn't stay back for me. It was you who reached the cup first last night."

She huffed bitterly and wiped the tears away, staring out the window into the breaking dawn. "Perhaps I should've touched it then." A gleam of hunger crept into her eyes. "But then I would've never known whether I'd truly beat you. The doubt would've eaten me up every day."

'If you touched it, I would've lost you.' Tristan's insides knotted painfully, flashing cold as ice. "I think you staying away from that cup was about the only damn thing that went well last night."

"Vraiment?" She turned back to him. "What are you not telling me now?" Her slim brows drew together into a shallow vee. "Let me guess, it's yet another secret?"

'If you want me to be a part of your life then you'll have to let me in eventually.' Fleur's words whispered through his thoughts as he studied the flickering glint of trust in her eyes. 'I have to trust her. If I don't, I will lose her.'

"The cup was a portkey." Tristan clawed down a hot tangle of unease. "Are you familiar with how they work?"

"Bien sur," Fleur scoffed, tilting her chin in the air. "I created my first portkey when I was fifteen."

"Then you'll know how sensitive they are to magic."

"It's rather simple, non?" she hummed. "A well-enchanted portkey will handle any flaring residual magic it is exposed to even when kept around magicals. Only when directly struck by a spell, does the magic within it disintegrate and one has to re-enchant it from scratch."

"Exactly," Tristan murmured. "Yet neither scenario had taken place when I studied the cup after our duel. It still worked like a portkey should; I felt its purpose to manipulate space and take me away." He paused and clawed for the right words. "But there was no structure to it, no steady flow, just loose strands of magic that twisted around, withering away if they split too far from the core."

"Bizarre." Fleur's frown grew deeper. "Something like that could trap you in a perpetual state of travel or rip you apart. Peut-être-" her eyes narrowed, then flashed ink black and her shin sharpened. "Oui. It was a trap for you, non?" Tiny white feathers fluttered along her arms. "A trap that would've killed me had I touched it."

Guilt clenched tight in Tristan's gut. "I'm sorry, Fleur. I never intended for you to get dragged into any of this."

She reverted her changes and scoffed. "I'm not angry with you. I'm angry they set a trap presuming you'd reach the cup before me." She drew a deep breath. "Do you know who it was?"

Tristan shifted in his chair. "No. Not for certain."

"You will tell me once you do." She placed a hot finger on his lips when he parted them in protest, blue eyes burning with familiar determination. "And I will go with you when you hunt them down for what they attempted."

'She still wants to be by my side. Even after everything that happened.' A warm glow radiated from his heart, suffocating the tiny twinge of worry. "Okay," Tristan whispered.

"Bon." Fleur's expression softened and she stifled a yawn. "I should probably get some more sleep now. I'm still very tired."

"I'll stay here. Or leave," Tristan offered. "Whatever you'd like."

"Stay. S'il te plait," Fleur whispered. "But not in that chair. You'll get a crick in your neck."

Tristan massaged the stiff spot and chuckled. "It's probably too late for that already."

Fleur rolled onto her side, freeing up one the side of the bed. "I'd like you to hold me-" she glanced back at him over her shoulder, something vulnerable sparkling in her eyes, "-if you still want to."

Tristan's heart lurched. He wriggled out of his boots and slipped under the warm sheets.

Fleur nestled back against him with a small content sigh. "Je suis désolé, Tristan. I came so close to ruining everything between us... So close to losing the one person that is different."

He circled his arms around her and drew her against his chest, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. "I understand why you had to." He ran his fingers through her long tresses, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. "And I'm still here. I'm still holding you, just like I did last night, and just like I will for as long as you let me."

Fleur took his hand and rested it above her heart. "Merci, Tristan," her breath slowed and her voice grew fainter than a whisper. "This feels so nice. Je l'aime."