HP: Panem et Circenses

March 31st, 1997

"Tristan."

Something shook at his arm and he jerked upright in a cold rush of adrenaline.

"Tristan, get up!"

A swirling black mass hung in the air, a thick and sour tang choking Tristan's breath and stinging in his eyes like saltwater.

'Fire.'

He rolled off the bed and bounced to his feet, snatching his wand from beneath the pillow and stumbling into his pants as he shoved his mouth into the crook of his elbow.

"Fleur!" Madame Maxime's shouts rang with the thundering pounds of her fists from the corridor outside. "Ouvrez, Fleur! Open up!"

"Madame! Nous sommes ici!" Clad in her short, white nightdress, Fleur slashed her wand at the door again and again, but the thick smoke kept pouring into the room through the hinges and the thin gap beneath the door.

"I cannot get through, Tristan!" she coughed, covering her mouth. "My magic... it does not work, and Madame cannot hear us!"

"Richthofen." Cold panic surged through Tristan and he yanked the sheets off the bed, cramming them into the gap. "They've warded us in. Our wands are useless."

Sweat poured from his forehead and his lungs burned with each choked breath. He shoved his wand into the pocket of his pants and glanced about the room.

"The window!"

Wrapping his hand in last night's shirt, Tristan struck the glass, throwing all his weight into each punch and ignoring the flashes of pain, until it shattered.

"Quick." He brushed away bits of glass from the frame and plucked small shards out of his bleeding knuckles, crouching below the window. "You go first."

Fleur shoved her wand down her décolleté and set one slim bare foot into his cupped hands, flinging herself up and through the frame; the thin nightdress tore along her waist and thigh as the silk caught in one of the shards.

Tristan hauled himself up after her, wriggling his shoulders through, and plunging head-first into the grass.

He coughed and gasped for fresh air, lying flat on his back and staring up into the thick swirl of deep black smoke pouring from all the windows and the roof of the Beauxbatons cabin into the first light of dawn. Panicked shouts and cries rang through the campsite.

He groped through the grass for Fleur's hand. "Fleur?"

"Oui, je vais bien." Her fingers found his, hot as flame, and she squeezed. "But this was no accident, mon Coeur; they tried to kill us."

"I know." Cold rage twisted in his breast. 'And they'll pay for it.'

Footsteps stomped toward them. "Peverell, are you alright?" a familiar voice called.

"Yeah." Tristan heaved himself upright and unwrapped the blood-stained shirt from his knuckles, fresh pink skin stretching across the gashes beneath it, spitting out more tiny shards. "We're fine."

"Thank Merlin, I thought you two were roasted alive in there." Cedric Diggory crouched beside him. "Professor Flitwick and all the others are waiting along the shore where it's safe from the smoke. Here, take this."

Tristan stared at the horned Viking helmet standing from the rough bronze coin in his open palm, then frowned up at Diggory. "Why are you handing me your coin, Diggory?"

The concern crumbled off Diggory's face like a mask of cheap plaster. "Safe travels."

Something tugged at Tristan navel; he thrust out his hand, summoning Fleur into his chest as a storm of color swallowed the campside.

The portkey spat him out on harsh ground. Fleur landed on top of him, her shoulder digging into his stomach and driving the breath from his lungs.

'Out!' Wrapping his arms around her waist, Tristan wrung at his magic, picturing somewhere far away and safe. 'We have to get out!'

The world hung still as stone around him.

"Don't bother, Peverell." Richard Wagner called from close by. "Anti-apparition wards, and good luck making any Portkeys without your wands."

Through a cascade of her blonde hair, Fleur's eyes found his, brimming with dread as she pushed herself off his chest. Tristan hauled himself upright on his bare feet, glancing about.

Beyond the gleaming coals of a firepit, a familiar rock rose from a small clearing of dense pine trees. Almost two dozen witches and wizards formed a ring around him and Fleur.

"Just so you know, it didn't take any convincing or gold to get Cedric Diggory to help us," Wagner said, stepping from the circle. "That's right, Peverell… your own countryman, your classmate jumped at the chance to betray you."

"Classic Hufflepuff move," Tristan muttered, recognizing Alexander, Aila, Dilara, Richthofen, Aurora, and every other opponent Fleur and he had faced in the last ten days. "So what's all this then? The losers' bracket?"

"Look at him still jesting," Richthofen spat on the ground. "You'll have your fun soon enough, Peverell."

"You are a coward." Fleur straightened on bare feet and tossed her hair over her shoulder, glowing like a candle in the early dawn, standing tall and proud and defiant. "Lower your ward and we shall have our fun right now."

Some of the guys cackled and whistled; Tristan's stomach churned as their eyes latched onto the glimpses of bare pale skin through the soiled tatters of Fleur's nightdress.

"I know, she looks good, doesn't she?" Wagner smirked. "A shame that only Peverell and I ever got to enjoy all of her."

Fleur folded her arms across her chest, glaring with huge dark eyes, and little feathers prickled along her skin as Wagner's mates cheered their approval.

"We should rectify that." He flicked his wand at Fleur. "Diffindo."

Tristan tugged her behind himself; the cutting hex sliced from his collarbone to his hip, sharp as a razorblade, and blood trickled from the gash.

"The brave knight in shining armor… I'm surprised you're her type, she never seemed like a damsel to me." Wagner's eyes roamed down Tristan's bare chest, watching the cut creep back close. "Perhaps she's only dating you for your looks, Peverell..."

The ring of wizards and witches cackled, and a cold ball of hatred settled in Tristan's stomach. "What do you want from us?"

Wagner blinked. "I thought that was rather obvious, no?"

"Revenge then?" Tristan's fingers tightened around the bronze coin in his palm. "You can have it, as does anyone else who wants to try their luck again. Tell Richthofen to take down his ward, and let's settle this like it's been done in this place for thousands of years; one against one."

"But why should we do that, Peverell?" Wagner cocked his head. "We already have you two exactly where we want to; surrounded and defenseless at our mercy."

"You are naive if you think you will get away with this, Richard," Fleur snapped, stepping back around Tristan. "My family-"

"-will mourn their eldest daughter after no one managed to get to her in time when the Beauxbatons cabin caught fire." Wagner laughed. "Don't be modest now, Fleur; your talent for enchantments is well-known. Even your headmistress could not break your locking charms..."

Fleur squirmed and Wagner licked his lips with a feral grin. "We don't have much time left until the professors break through your wards into your room, and we still need to put your burned bodies back in bed, but luckily, Fleur, what I'm about to do to you will make Peverell suffer just as much. Call it… efficiency."

Tristan's heart seized and his skin crawled; before his mind's eye Fleur squirmed and fought and screamed as the shadow lowered himself on top of her, pinning both her arms over her head.

That cold ball of hatred rose, spreading in his breast in a flare of rage, bright and hot as hell. His magic bubbled and churned, cool black mist swirling around his wrists in furious whispers.

"Let's get to it then." Wagner shrugged off his cloak. "In case you've forgotten, Peverell, this is the point where you say: you'll have to go through me first. Which is something I've been very much looking forward to for some time now."

A stab of panic snatched the breath from Tristan's lungs.

Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Fleur's wide blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Fleur." Beneath all the searing fury, soft despair rose like a wave within him, and raw guilt chewed at his gut with cold, blunt teeth. "I'm sorry I failed you."

A lone tear trickled down Fleur's fair cheek. She closed her eyes, cupping his jaw in both hands, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "You did not fail me. Je t'aime, mon Coeur." Fleur's fingers fisted around the slim cord about his neck, and she drew back from him, her eyes flashing bright as the spring sun on the fjord. "Je t'aimerai toujours..."

'My parents' amulet.' Hope blossomed through Tristan's heart, a swooping rush of relief pouring from that cool stone against his breast. 'We might get through the wards with it.'

"Ready, Peverell?"

"Almost." Tristan hugged Fleur tight to his chest, spinning them around. "Here, catch!" He tossed the bronze coin to Wagner and raised the amulet to his lips. "Home."

"Nein!" Wagner's furious scream and the two dozen lit wand tips trained at Tristan's heart drowned in a whirl of pitch-black.

The world spun around him, seized in a dizzying swirl, squeezing his ribcage through a brutal vice and clawing at his magic with jagged hooks until he smacked into cold stone.

A great weight crushed the air from his lungs. "I think-" Tristan gasped through sharp bites of pain, "-I think I need to stop calling you petite, Fleur."

Fleur let out a peal of soft laughter, bright and clear and full of relief. "That is not me, mon Coeur." She rolled off him. "Your parents' Portkey feeds on your magic, remember?"

"It really worked then?" He took a few more shallow breaths and blinked through the little dark spots dancing in his vision; above him, the pale blur that was Fleur's face sharpened, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. "Well, at least I didn't fall into a coma this time."

"There were no anti-portkey wards to tear through." Fleur cradled his head into her lap with a muffled sob, brushing her fingers through his hair. "We made it, mon Coeur."

A soft snap echoed over the balcony.

"Tristan, Fleur?!"

Tristan lifted the curtain of Fleur's blonde hair; his parents gaped down at him, dressed in pajamas.

"Hey, Mother... Father..." He offered them a little wave. "Morning to you."

"What in Merlin's name are you two doing here?!" his father blurted.

"And why by Morgana's saggy tits-," Tristan's mother's sharp blue eyes latched onto the smoke-stained tatters of Fleur's short nightdress and the dried blood on Tristan's bare chest, "-are you both half naked?!"

Fleur covered herself with one arm, a little pink rising on her cheeks, and drew her rosewood wand from her cleavage, giving it a swift flick; the gashes in her nightdress knitted themselves back together, the skirt lengthened over her knees, and a plain white shirt sailed from the air onto Tristan's head, slipping over his eyes.

His mother tapped her foot, hands on her hips. "Well, I am waiting..."

Tristan scrambled into the shirt. "It's a bit of a long story, see." He accepted his father's helping hand, letting himself be heaved off the tiles. "And we're in a bit of a hurry to get back to Stockholm, so-"

"Nonsense, I know the first duels won't start until late morning, son. Take him downstairs, Harry. Fleur, you will come with me first because I can't let you return like that." She measured Fleur from head to toe with a sharp look. "You're only about an inch taller than me and I like to pretend I have not gained any weight since I was your age and pumped out four babies-"

"-you really haven't, love."

"-so any of my dresses should fit you fine. Perhaps you want to take a quick shower in our bathroom, too."

"Oui." Fleur nodded with a small, thankful smile. "Merci beaucoup, Marlene."

Tristan watched them leave, feeling the weight of his father's gaze on him.

"I suggest we go by foot too," he murmured, leading Tristan off the balcony and through the manor down into the kitchen. "Your magic should rest after using that Portkey. Perhaps Dobby-"

The elf appeared with a loud pop, swaying, and tugged an oversized white nightcap off his head. "Master Harry, called for Dobby?" His huge green eyes found Tristan. "Master Tristan be back from his tourney in Stockyholm already, Sir?"

"Our son spontaneously stopped by for breakfast," Tristan's father said. "Would you please prepare some, Dobby?"

Dobby bobbed his head, sending his ears flopping up and down like a bat's wings. "Dobby will prepare all of Master Tristan's favorite breakfast dishes!"

"Some of them will do." Tristan chuckled. "Oh, and perhaps some of Fleur's as well?"

"Dobby will prepare breakfast for Master Tristan's Fleur as well." Dobby hurried to the stove, bustling back and forth along the counter, gathering ingredients and kitchen utensils.

Tristan's father lowered himself into a chair by the long table, shoving another chair out opposite him with his foot. "Since your mother is probably already interrogating Fleur right now, how about I get your side of the story so we can compare versions later?"

Tristan flopped into the seat with a sigh, running a hand through his untidy hair. "Fleur and I got ourselves into a bit of a sticky situation with some of the... sore losers in the tournament, and there was pretty much no way out but via your Portkey."

His father let out a long breath and his shoulders sagged. "Not the Musketeers then?"

"No. I made a promise to you and Mother, didn't I?"

"You did," he murmured, turning over Tristan's knuckles and studying the dried blood. "So they did this to you and Fleur?"

"No, not this bit," Tristan said, brushing off the blood with some spit. "I caught some glass shards breaking through the window after they set fire to our room. One of them portkeyed us into the forest nearby and then this runes-prodigy locked us in his ward, which basically made our wands useless. Luckily Fleur remembered the Portkey, so we ditched before anything happened."

The rage stirred in his heart, cold and sharp as icicles. 'Before they raped her...'

Dobby served the first plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and fried bacon, and Tristan dug in, his mouth watering.

"You called them sore losers just now," his father mused. "How did you beat the one who created that ward before then?"

"I put my wand away," he swallowed a mouthful of toast, "-and summoned him straight into my fist."

"Nice job." Tristan's father chuckled. "What about the rest of your duels? Everything going alright so far?"

"I haven't lost any of them yet," Tristan confessed with no small amount of pride. "Today is the semi-final."

"Have you dueled Fleur yet?"

"No." He glanced toward the door leading back into the hallway and lowered his voice. "Fleur won all her duels too, but she got herself disqualified on purpose to ensure we wouldn't have to face each other again."

"Disqualified herself on purpose?" Tristan's father's eyebrows drew together. "She must've hurt her opponent quite a bit for that to happen..."

"Yes." Wagner's cruel grin from less than an hour ago as he pointed his wand at Fleur flashed before the eye of Tristan's mind. "But it was someone who deserved it."

His father watched him eat with a small frown. "And this person held a grudge deep enough to gather some friends, set fire to your room, and trap you two in the forest." His green eyes froze over with ice, dark shadows swirling through their depths. "They weren't just going to rough you up a little, were they?"

Tristan held his tongue, swallowing bites of toast until his plate mirrored his list of excuses.

"Who are these people, Tristan?"

"It doesn't matter who they are," he said, securing two of Dobby's small, fresh croissants for himself. "They won't catch us by surprise a second time and after tomorrow, I won't see any of them again."

Tristan's mother swept into the kitchen, trailed by Fleur wearing one of his mother's dark blue dresses, her cheeks scrubbed pink and all her damp blonde hair spilling down her shoulders. She slipped into the seat beside Tristan, stealing a croissant off his plate with a small smirk and nibbling at one end.

His mother sat down opposite them and held out her hand. "Let me see your amulet, Tristan."

He handed it over, taking sips of coffee as she fished a slim crystal vial from within her magenta robes and spilled a few drops of crimson onto it.

The blood fizzled out in faint hisses and wisps of magic as black as the stone.

Fleur studied everything behind her whipped cream-topped mug of hot chocolate, a curious gleam in her bright blue eyes. Tristan's mother pulled out a second vial and repeated the process.

"Wow..." Tristan cocked his head. "Just how much of my blood do you have stored away?"

"Enough." His mother chanted a string of foreign words under her breath and touched the tip of her wand to his family's crest engraved into the amulet. "Your magic changed during your coma last summer, so we had to take some fresh blood anyway."

"And while you were at it, you squeezed me out like a lemon when I should've been healing. Got it…"

"Don't be dramatic, son, we did not sabotage your recovery." She handed back the Portkey. "How are you feeling this time?"

"Much better." Tristan tied it back around his neck and slipped it below his shirt. "It's still a bit tiring and uncomfortable to use, but that's probably because I took some baggage with me again."

Fleur let out a little huff and pointed her nose up at him, stealing the last croissant from his plate.

Tristan's mother hummed, exchanging a quiet glance with his father. "Fleur told me what happened and why you used it. And while I am very glad that you two are unharmed, your approach to this tournament was foolish and immature." She leveled them both with a long, stern look. "You can best an opponent without embarrassing them in front of the entire dueling world, son, just like you can take revenge at more opportune moments, Fleur."

"We did not participate to make friends," Fleur murmured. "We came for ourselves-" she slipped her fingers through Tristan's, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "-and for each other."

"That is very romantic and all, but now you have made enemies; very powerful ones, who will not simply forget this ignominy."

"Good," Tristan said, smothering a flare of hatred as it stirred back up. "Let them remember it."

His father shook his head with a tired sigh. "We felt very similar back when we were your age. We fought and fought and fought, until one day, we almost lost each other. We do not regret what we did, but the enemies we made back then still haunt us to this day. Our greatest wish was for our children to not repeat our mistakes and be better than that."

"We will be better." Tristan squeezed Fleur's hand and stared out of the window into the sun rising above the smooth surface of the lake. 'We will be great, like I was meant to be...'

He downed the last of his juice and pushed his chair back, drawing his wand from his pants. "But now we really need to get back and finish the tournament. Accio."

A pair of trainers zipped from the hallway into his open palm. Tristan crouched to put them on, tying the laces together, and transfigured his pants and shirt into his athletic, dark dueling wear.

"Good luck, son," his mother murmured. "We are sorry for not visiting and cheering you on, but your siblings..."

"It's fine, really. Don't worry about me and just give them my best, yes?" He offered Fleur his hand, holding her gaze. "Are you ready?"

She nodded and threaded her fingers through his, a fierce spark of determination blazing in her blue eyes. "Let us go back, mon Coeur."

Tristan's parents shared a small smile. "We love you so much," his mother blew them a kiss with a trembling hand. "Take good care of each other, please."

Tristan wrenched the kitchen back past him, stepping out between loaded breakfast tables; the clatter of cutlery died around them, and eyes latched onto them from every corner of the campsite in a swelling ripple of murmurs and hushed whispers.

"Fleur!" Madame Maxime rushed through the gaping students in long strides, sending all her opal necklaces swaying like swings in the wind. "Fleur, très chère, où étiez-vous?!"

"Tristan and I left last night to visit some family, Madame." Fleur frowned. "Pourquoi? What happened?"

Madame Maxime ushered them to the Beauxbaton cabin and its blackened rooftop with firm hands on their backs.

"Regardez, mon enfant! Our cabin caught fire early this morning while your room was locked." She clutched her chest. "Mon dieu, vous m'avez donné une crise cardiaque, Fleur."

"Tout va bien, Madame," Fleur replied. "Je vais bien."

"Monsieur Flitwick and I managed to get in eventually," Madame Maxime said. "We took all your belongings to my chamber. None are burned-," she wrinkled her nose, "-but you will need to wash them to get rid of the horrible stench."

"Merci beaucoup, Madame. Tristan and I will collect them after his duel."

Madame Maxime's eyes flitted from Fleur to Tristan and back, darkening a hue. "Pick up your belongings by yourself tonight, s'il te plaît, Fleur. Nous devons avoirune conversation."

"D'accord," Fleur murmured, seizing Tristan's wrist. "Au revoir, Madame."

The campsite blurred into the rising stands of the dueling circuit; Fleur slipped onto a bench, drawing him with her and leaning against his shoulder.

Tristan rested his head on top of hers, smiling at her damp blonde hair tickling his chin and spilling like spun silver down his arm onto their threaded fingers. He took a deep calming breath laced with sweet sharp vanilla. "If the cabin still stood and nothing in our room caught fire, then Richthofen must've taken down the ward right after we escaped."

"There was little point in keeping it up," Fleur murmured. "The longer Madame Maxime and Professor Flitwick spent breaking through my ward, the more likely they are to notice Richthofen's. That would have made him a suspect for the arson."

"I suppose that's true," Tristan hummed.

The stands filled around them as the sun crept higher and higher, and the benches crammed with contenders, their visiting friends and family, and other spectators.

"Heads up, pup!" a familiar voice chimed behind him.

Tristan craned his neck; Uncle Sirius swaggered down the steps, grinning from ear to ear, trailed by Arcturus and Melania.

"Sirius?!" Tristan blurted, standing up. "What are you doing here?"

"Cheering for my ickle godson, of course." Sirius engulfed him in a bear hug. "My, have you grown big. What are they feeding you on the wrong side of the channel?"

"It cannot be the croissants." Fleur laughed. "Bonjour, Sirius, comment allez-vous?"

"Je vais bien, merci." Sirius drew back, locking her up and down. "And you're looking as lovely as ever, Fleur. That dress however…"

She cocked her head with a small smirk. "What about it?"

"Not that it doesn't fit you-," he drew somevague hourglass into the air with both hands, "-no, it definitely does, but I can't quite shake the feeling that I've seen this exact dress on a different blonde-"

"Get back here, you mutt, or I'll tell your wife all about you flirting with a girl barely of age," Arcturus barked, limping down one step at a time on his walking stick.

"Please, Grandfather, Mother Magic blessed me with a keen eye for beauty; I was merely following her call of duty."

"I'm sure you were." Melania rolled her eyes and helped Arcturus down the last step to their bench. "How have you two been?" She hugged first Fleur and then Tristan.

"Good," Tristan murmured, a tad stunned. "Just... surprised to see you, really."

"I've actually never been to one of these tournaments and with my ickle godson contending, I thought why not and took some time off work." Uncle Sirius plummed into the seat next to Tristan and rubbed his hands together. "So, when do things start? Everyone seems to be here already, no?"

Jarl Olafson appeared on the platform in a whirl of his purple robes.

A small spark of excitement ignited in Tristan's breast. "Looks like you arrived just in time."

"Welcome everybody!" Olafson's magnified voice boomed across the Fjord and echoed back from the rows. "Welcome to the semifinals! For our first duel, we have what the muggles would call a derby; Tristan Peverell faces Cedric Diggory, both representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

A small smile tugged at Tristan's lips in a spread of sweet, thin satisfaction. He found Diggory amidst the Hogwarts delegation; panic rose like a wave in those light gray eyes.

"Thanks to this shallow little boy, Richard and his friends almost raped me. They would have taken me every which way right in front of you, mon Coeur," Fleur whispered, brushing her warm lips across his in a hard long kiss. "You know what I expect of you now."

"I do," Tristan murmured and descended the steps to the excited whispers and stares of the crowd. 'I owe him more than just a betrayal.'

Waiting on the small stretch of obsidian connecting the stands with the platform, he stopped Diggory with a hand to the shoulder as he crossed.

"Let me pass." Diggory attempted to brush him off.

Tristan's grip remained iron tight. "I might've let you down easily before, for Hogwarts' sake and all that. But after this morning, I'm afraid I finally harbor some hurt feelings..."

He removed his hand; Diggory swallowed hard, rushing past and taking position at the opposite end of the circuit.

"Ready?" Olafson asked.

Sweet adrenaline seeped through Tristan's veins, settling in a soft little thrill that fluttered to the beat of his heart. He spun the smooth piece of elder wood around his fingers in slow circles, watching Diggory's trembling wand tip hover before wide gray eyes..

"Begin!"

Diggory cast a hectic flurry of bright yellow spells; Tristan leaned his head to the side and let them sizzle past his cheek, taking one small, measured step after the next.

Diggory cursed and apparated to the furthest corner of the platform, but Tristan wrenched the world back past with him, stepping out five meters in front of him and batting aside curses until he was close enough to see the sheen of perspiration on Diggory's forehead.

"Fight back!" Diggory growled as he staggered back, brandishing his wand a great deal.

"Why?" Tristan murmured. "I already see your fear, Cedric. Another step and I'll smell it."

"Fuck you, Peverell." Diggory thrust his wand at the obsidian beneath his feet, raising a pack of huge black dogs from the stone and sending them forth barking and baring their fangs.

Tristan wrapped his magic around each of them. They squirmed and whimpered in mid-air, tails tucked between their legs. Clenching his fist, he crushed the magic from within the transfigurations, one after the other, and flung the limp dogs off the platform to either side of him.

"All bark..." Tristan flicked his wand, slamming Diggory to his knees and bending his spine backward. "Let's see if you can bite, Cedric."

He twisted his wrist like a doorknob and Diggory's jaw gaped open, splitting wider and wider. The corners of his mouth tore like thin, cheap fabric, spilling blood down his neck until his jaw bone popped out of its socket with an audible crack.

A bright barrier of silver light sprang up before Tristan, pushing him back a couple of steps. He caught his footing, and the grip of his magic faltered.

"Winner, Tristan Peverell!"

Diggory pummeled onto his back, coughing and choking on his blood, and a small smile curled at Tristan's lips at sight in a rush of sweet satisfaction. 'Safe travels, Diggory.'

He slipped his wand up his sleeve and turned on his heel.

All the stands stared down at him; their eyes shone full of awe and apprehension, bright and brilliant as Hogwarts' thousands of windows, turrets, and towers against the dark night sky the first time he crossed the Black Lake.

Fleur greeted him with a small proud smile and chaste kiss. "Bravo, mon Coeur. Well done."

"That seemed rather personal," Arcturus muttered, measuring Tristan with sharp steel gray eyes. "What did the Diggory boy do to deserve it?"

"He betrayed me."

"Betrayed you?" A small frown creased among the other wrinkles between Melania's brows. "Where did you learn to… duel like that, Tristan? Did your father teach you?"

"A little bit," he admitted. "Most of it I taught myself or picked up here and there."

Sirius scoffed. "I'm an Auror, kiddo, I know a thing or two about dueling and I fought against dark wizards for most of my life. What you just did to Diggory is not something you pick up here and there."

"Criminals," Fleur murmured.

"Excuse me?" Sirius blurted.

"You are an Auror, non? So you chase criminals, just like mon papa did when he was an Auror," she corrected. "You do not fight dark wizards, if you insist on calling them so."

A little color rose on Sirius' cheeks. "Alright, for your information, blondie, I fought against the Death Eaters, too." He leveled Tristan with a disappointed look. "I also watched Voldemort fight, and what I just saw from you, the way you use your magic for cruel humiliation, reminded me a little too much of him for my liking."

"There is more to our magic than disarming and stunning charms; magic is might," the words rolled off his tongue. "Voldemort knew so because he was a great wizard."

"A great wizard?" Sirius echoed, his voice full of disbelief. "Tristan, he was a-"

"-monster, yes, that too." He watched that small, proud gleam smolder into something fierce and hungry in Fleur's bright blue eyes. "But he was a great wizard all the same."

'And so will I be.'