HP: Panem et Circenses

April 1st, 1997

The stands of the arena brimmed with bright excitement and cheerful anticipation. Their mood rippled up and down the rows like waves washing along the beach, echoing back from the dark obsidian in bursts of laughter and cheers and shouts.

'Soon.' Tristan spun his wand through his fingers, watching Jarl Olafson bustling back and forth between the other officials. The disquiet gnawed away at him like a rat, sinking sharp hungry little teeth into his heart. 'Soon this will all be over...'

"Bunch of obnoxious loud brats," Arcturus growled. "Hey, boy!" He prodded Tristan in the ribs with his cane. "How much longer until you finally duel again?"

Melania scoffed and steered the wooden stick away with two fingers. "Seriously, Arcturus? Do show some patience, dear. The matches for third place and the finals for the lower two age brackets have been held already. All that's left is the match for third place in Tristan's bracket before we will see him duel again."

"Perhaps even sooner," Tristan murmured, twirling his wand between his fingers, again and again.

"And why is that?" Melania asked.

Fleur pointed with one lithe arm across the stands to where the Hogwarts delegation was gathered. "Cedric Diggory is not among them, and accordingly, Lothar von Richthofen will be placed third."

Sirius let out a disgruntled huff. "I'm not surprised the Diggory boy forfeited after yesterday..."

Feeling his godfather's eyes on him, Tristan sighed. "Alright then, Sirius." He let his wand spin to a stop. "Just spit it out already and let's get this over with."

Sirius fixed him with a deep frown. "I know Amos Diggory from work, but he was also a Hufflepuff a couple of years above us back at Hogwarts," he said. "Diggory was always a decent chap and I respected him, even when he docked plenty of House points from us as Prefect and later Headboy. I refuse to believe that he'd ever raise a son who deserved the sort of treatment you showed him yesterday."

"We had our reasons for what we did, Sirius," Fleur murmured, slipping her fingers through Tristan's and resting her head on his shoulder. "Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree..."

"You don't say," Sirius scoffed, now frowning at them both. "It's true that your father was ruthless when he was your age, yes, because it was war and he needed to be, but even back then, I've never seen Harry humiliate a defeated opponent like you did Diggory."

"No one is forcing you to watch my duels, Sirius," Tristan muttered. "If you don't like what you see, you can always leave."

Sirius looked like he'd been struck. "What happened to you, Tristan? I hardly recognize you."

'Because I'm no longer who I used to be. I was weak and alone, but now I am not.' He gave Fleur's fingers a gentle squeeze, catching that fierce determined gleam in her bright blue eyes. "When everything in your life changes, you tend to change with it."

'Or suffer the consequences.'

Melania cleared her throat. "Time flies indeed, you're already in your last year at Hogwarts. How are your NEWT preparations going for you two? Do they even do things like that at Beauxbatons, Fleur?"

"Non, we sit our exams after-"

"I think I'll check in on my niece for a moment." Sirius rose from his seat and fought his way through the packed benches to the Hogwarts delegation, tapping Daphne on the shoulder.

"I was not aware they are related?" Fleur murmured in Tristan's ear.

"Sirius married her father's sister, they have two children a bit younger than us." A little pang knifed through his heart at the sight of Daphne and Sirius' delighted laughter and chatter. "Do you think I was too-"

"Non, mon Coeur, you did the right thing." She silenced him with a kiss. "Do you remember what would have happened to me had Diggory succeeded yesterday?"

Wagner's and his friends' lecherous stares at Fleur in her tattered nightdress played before his mind's eye. "Of course I do…"

"Exactement. So he deserved everything he got, non?" Fleur whispered, nestling in his arms. "Your godfather just needs some time to understand that you are not some helpless little boy anymore. Give him that time."

Tristan breathed out some of the tension into the warmth of her embrace. "Maybe you're right."

She kissed him again, smirking against his lips. "Of course I am, mon Coeur."

A smooth length of wood waggled between them, nudging them apart. "Do me a favor and keep your bloody hands to yourself while I'm around, aye?"

"Seriously, Arcturus?" Melania tutted, retrieving the cane from in between them. "Can't you see they just shared a special moment together?"

"My eyes are fine and they've seen them share far too many special moments already," Arcturus barked. "Anyway, my biased Auror of a grandson is currently occupied elsewhere, so instead of shoving your fingers under your pretty girlfriend's skirt, you can finally tell me how close we are to catching those bastards who murdered my sister."

Tristan's mood plummeted. "Nothing's happened since New Year's Eve. Neither at Hogwarts nor here."

'Perhaps my death will even trigger it.' Flint's remark bled through his thoughts. 'Everything the Peverells took from us, we're taking back.'

"I think they're laying low and preparing something." Tristan said. 'Something that needs a trigger still.'

Arcturus' expression darkened. "Whatever they're planning, it better not have anything to do with the break-in into our Department of Mysteries earlier this month."

Fleur's hand twitched in his and they exchanged a swift glance. "How did you come to learn about that?"

"I might be old and gray and senile, Frenchie, but I'm not dead yet."

'With the sort of magic they might find down there...' A flutter of nerves trembled in the pit of Tristan's stomach. "Did they steal anything important?"

"If so, the Unspeakables only told Minister Crouch. The only reason I know of the break-in in the first place is because I sponsored Rufus Scrimgeour's campaign to become your Uncle's successor; he owes me more than just gold now."

Melania pursed her lips at her husband. "Tell me you did not, Arcturus!"

"Oh, I sure did, Matthew McKinnon was dead either way." He shrugged. "I made the best out of the situation by ensuring the future Head Auror was indebted to us. And talking about the Auror Department-" Arcturus fixed Tristan with a sharp look, "-your father was able to extend the deadline my nephew James gave him until the end of April, but by May first, all the children will return to Hogwarts regardless, and the Ministry will shove its bureaucratic nose into our business."

"So one more month to find them," Tristan murmured. 'And to kill them.'

Jarl Olafson apparated onto the circuit with a soft snap and the stands roared to life, buzzing like a furious beehive. "Ladies and Gentlemen, dear guests from all over Europe and the entire world. May I have your attention please!"

The chatter ceased and the stands fell silent.

"Unable to continue due to his injuries, Cedric Diggory from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has forfeited, and as a result, Lothar von Richthofen from Durmstrang Institute will take the third place in the Eighteen-and-Under-Bracket." Olafson allowed for the polite applause to pass and continued. "As such, the moment you have all been waiting for is finally here! In our grand finale, Tristan Peverell from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will face off against Richard Wagner from Durmstrang Institute!"

'Finally.' Tristan rose from his seat, taking in a deep breath of salt-laced air; excitement surged within him, snapping taut in a coil of fierce decisive hunger as he stared across the platform at the red-uniformed Durmstrang delegation.

Warm fingers cupped his jaw. "Mon Coeur..."

"I won't lose," he vowed, drawing Fleur close by the small of her back and catching her lips in a long, soft kiss. "I promise."

"Je sais, you will be great for us," she whispered, clutching him close, fingers curled into his shirt. "But he will show you things that will hurt you, mon Coeur. Just remember that I am all yours. Now and forever. Nothing you see will change that."

"I know," Tristan murmured, kissing her on the forehead and slipping out of her embrace. "There's only you."

Thunderous applause, cheers, and shrill boos accompanied him down the rows and over the short stretch of rock connecting the stands with the platform.

Wagner waited for him, watching his every step like a hawk, his arms behind his back and his jaw locked in a hard, firm line.

"I want a nice clean fight and you will stop when I tell you so!" Olafson's amplified voice boomed through the noise of the crowd. "Are you ready?"

Tristan drew his wand from his sleeve in a flood of dark mist, tasting and listening to the cool rush of his magic; all the noise and chatter from the stands drowned in that surge of sharp adrenaline, whispering through his veins and honing his senses.

"Begin!"

Wagner flicked his wand, but instead of a spell, a shiver of magic fell around them both.

"You're a spoilsport, Peverell, a cunning one, I give you that, but still." He tossed his wand from one hand to the other and back, studying him with sharp blue eyes. "Sleeping with an emergency Portkey around your neck... I really did not expect that."

'A privacy charm.' Tristan caught the baffled expressions of the crowd as they strained their ears with deep frowns. "With Richthofen's wards up, neither Fleur nor I had as much fun as you did."

Wagner smirked, his scar stretching across his cheek in a flash of white teeth. "Oh, let me tell you, she had plenty of fun the first time around."

The rage stirred, a hungry, furious murmur just beneath his heart. "I don't care. She was perfect back then and she is perfect now, nothing you say will ever change that." A little satisfaction blossomed in his chest. "And perhaps I should thank you for it all; without you screwing up, she might've never become mine."

"You still think she is perfect?" Wagner's sneer came with all its cold, harsh cruelty. "Alright then, let me show you how perfect she was for me that night." His wand snapped up. "Legilimens!"

The deep dark in Wagner's gray eyes swelled like the tide until it swallowed Tristan whole.

And from the void, Fleur's bright blue eyes shone with a nervous, excited gleam, her cheeks flushed pink in the flames of the campfire. She accepted his hand with a shy nod, following him through dense pine trees, down the dark corridor of a familiar log cabin, and into a plain room.

'No. No. No.' Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. 'I don't want to see that.'

"You will watch it all, Peverell." Wagner's voice came in the faintest whisper from the back of his mind as Fleur rose onto her tiptoes, brushing her lips across his in a familiar sweet fragrance of sharp vanilla. "You will watch, and you will enjoy it. Like I did."

'No, I won't.' Tristan's heart twisted as she toyed the thin straps of her dress down her slim shoulders, standing bare and bold in the pale moonlight, wearing nothing but her pure, innocent beauty and a soft, nervous smile.

A stranger's hands settled on her hips, stirring her to the edge of the bed. Tristan wrenched at the scene, but it blurred into a vision of Fleur clad in white, dancing in Weasley's arms, and dragging him after her onto a bed scattered with white rose petals, parting her legs for him like one of their blossoms.

The agony burst in Tristan's breast like a pinecone in sizzling coals, scorching the breath from his lungs, and his heart seized as he watched, numb and frozen to the spot.

But through all the pain, Wagner's outline swam back into focus as the memory ended, a faint flinch spasming across the smug grin on his scarred face.

'That hurt you too, didn't it?' Tristan closed his eyes and fed the sight of Fleur moaning and gasping beneath him into the void, letting it all go. ' Legilimency is a double-edged sword.'

And instead of a bed scattered with rose petals, he lay on cold bare stone in the Chamber of Secrets, screaming until his throat tore as purple runes flared to life around him. But he dragged himself through torrents of white-hot pain, hauling one aching leg up the stairs and down the corridors of Hogwarts, chased by Malfoy, Crouch, and the Lestrange twins' wild triumphant cackle.

Cruel despair rose within him like the ebb of acromantula swarming him and Valeria in the deepest dark of the Forbidden Forest, a flood of furious clicking. Their gleaming pincers snapped and tore at him like the killing curse ripping Dorea from the world again and again and again in flashes of emerald light, leaving her gray eyes wide and blank and open.

But now those eyes stared back at him from within Wagner's face, drenched in sweat.

"Nein! Stop!" He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, yanking at their connection, but Tristan held firm, sinking his teeth further in, gnawing deeper and deeper like a rat with every flash of memory.

'Yes. You wanted to feel my despair.' He poured every ounce of pain, every memory of suffering and grief before their touched thoughts, burying Wagner in the avalanche, and smiled as the horror rose. 'Now have it all.'

Searing fury burned in Fleur's midnight black eyes as they fought amidst towering hedges for a cup of shining silver. And in the tall grass all around them, long, thin mottled gray fingers broke the surface like maggots; Ekrizdis' children glared from hollow empty withered sockets, screaming as the flames devoured them.

"Was is das?!" Wagner clutched his temples, nails digging into his skull. "Nein. Nein. Nein!"

'That's what I've endured. All of it. And I will endure it all again.' Tristan pictured the serpent striking from Aurelia's gaping yaw, swallowing him in a searing snap. 'But I doubt you can...'

His mother's dreadful cries of loss and heartache ripped through his gut like jagged claws as Narcissa lowered the small crimson-drenched bundle into her lap, spilling tears all over her blood-soaked white robes.

And together with all the windows shattering inside North Dawn Manor, something else snapped in the dark, a flickering candlewick crushed between fingertips.

Blood vessels popped in Wagner's blue irises and he toppled onto his face, his wand bouncing across the obsidian; Tristan thrust out a hand and tugged with his magic, summoning it into his palm.

The privacy charm faded, but the stark, tense silence remained, holding the fjord in a grip of iron, still and thick as snow save for Wagner's rambling whispers and the soft splash of the waves beneath them.

"Unbelievable!" Jarl Olafson shouted. "I do not think we have ever seen anything like this before; a grand finale won with just a single spell cast! Ladies and gentlemen, the champion of the 1997 Eighteen-and-Under Dueling Tournament is Tristan Peverell from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Tristan let his hands fall to his sides, chasing ragged gulps of air, and wiped the sweat from his brows. Across from him, Wagner wrapped his arms around his knees, twitching and squirming; thin trickles of blood leaked from his eyes, ears and nostrils.

'I told you you'd pay for what you did.' A smoldering, fierce pride drowned the fatigue, lifting his heart like Fleur's embrace. 'Let's see if you'll recover from this.' Tristan took a deep breath through the swell of satisfaction and glanced up.

In a ripple of frenetic whispers, the stands stared back at him; awe and fear shone in their eyes, bright as the crest of crossed golden rapiers against the Musketeers' plain black robes.

The arena erupted in noise.

A team of healers rushed the platform, surrounding Wagner's twitching form, and Jarl Olafson stepped from the air with a soft snap. "You have won, Mr. Peverell. Please remain here on the platform for the award ceremony. If there is anyone you would like to share this moment with, you may call upon them."

"There is only one," Tristan whispered, seeking for her amidst the crowd; she stood out from the tangle of nameless faces like a delicate blooming flower sprouting from plain concrete. "Only her."

Fleur drifted across the obsidian, clad in a coat of blue and crown of platinum, a small proud smile gracing her lips. "Bravo, mon Coeur." She brushed her lips across his jaw, her eyes flickering to where Wagner was levitated onto a stretcher. "What did you do to him?"

Tristan recalled that snuffed-out candle and the endless darkness following it. "I took his gift away."

"Bien," Fleur hummed. "It is the least he deserves." She leaned her head on his shoulder and threaded her warm fingers through his. "Now it is finally over, mon Coeur."

Jarl Olafson approached them, holding a small silver trophy and bulging purse in his hands. "Tristan Peverell, I hereby award you the prize money of nine hundred and ninety-nine galleons."

"Where's the missing one?" Tristan snorted, weighing the purse in his palm and slipping it into his pocket. "In the trophy?"

"I am afraid not." Olafson handed over the trophy, the ghost of a half-familiar smile tugging at his lips. "I do have another gift for you, but it's not a galleon…"

Tristan's blood ran cold; he dropped the trophy and flicked his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

Olafson apparated away and the flash of green shattered the slim stretch of rock connecting the platform to the stands. The viewers cried out and leapt from their seats, breaking into disarray.

A ripple of potent magic fell over the circuit, layer upon layer of ironclad wards, pinning the world in place, and the officials stationed all over the arena toppled like dominos.

"It's them." Tristan swallowed hard, crushing a stab of panic. "Fleur..."

She thrust her arm into the sky and twisted on her heel. "Fianto perdi." A brilliant beam of white burst from the tip of her wand, striking the dome of gold above their heads and sending little cracks of magic running down its edge like veins snaking through a leaf.

"How long until the wards are down?"

"I need some time, mon Coeur." Fleur murmured, her slim brows furrowed in deep concentration. "But I will not fail."

Tristan surveyed the panicking crowd. "Once the wards are down, we kill all but one Musketeer and apparate them back to the manor." Amidst the mayhem of screaming, fleeing, and apparating spectators, Olafson transfigured his official's uniform into plain black robes. His blonde hair brightened to turquoise, and his gray eyes flashed like blank steel in the setting sun as he charmed a crest of gold to his chest. "Preferably the metamorphmagus."

With a soft snap, D'Artagnan vanished and reappeared in the rows above Arcturus and Melania, his wand snapping up and glowing an eerie green at the tip.

'No!' Tristan's heart froze.

Uncle Sirius apparated in front of his grandparents and raised a wall of black obsidian.

The killing curses struck, shattering the barrier, and he banished the debris back at D'Artagnan, who transfigured them into gleaming spikes, hurling them forth.

Tristan leaped towards them, but two hooded figures stepped from the air into his path, matching crests of golden rapiers gleaming on plain black robes.

"We were hoping the Potters would visit you, Tristan Peverell; their death is far longer overdue," the shorter one on the left said in a deep, distorted voice. "But this trap was set for you two above all others. Three members of the Black Family will only sweeten the deal."

Their wands flashed up.

"All I see are three dead Musketeers." Tristan batted their spells back in a storm of orange and red and gold, slipping his own into the mix. "Keep focusing on the wards, Fleur." He called over his shoulder, forcing his arm faster through the wand motions and blurring them together. "I'll hold these two off and kill them."

Porthos and Athos touched their wands together. "You will need her to hold us off, let alone kill us." Golden haze poured from the tips, fusing into a dense fog and swallowing his spells like sunlight sinking in the depths of the ocean.

'No, I won't.' Tristan pictured his little baby sister smiling her huge empty-toothed grin, forever out of reach as she grasped for him with small stubby fingers. 'Not if there's just two of you.'

The pain bit deep like termites boring through a tree trunk; he let himself drown in it, drawing upon the dwell of hatred that bubbled up within him, and let the rage trickle through his veins like ice water.

Black mist exploded from his wrist, scattering scraps of his sleeve into the air. He dragged his magic together into a dense shroud of crooked claws and ragged lances, keeping the golden fog at bay.

Porthos and Athos advanced step by step, driving him back, and Tristan grit his teeth, glancing over his shoulder. "How much longer, Fleur?"

"Soon." Fleur's knuckles whitened around the rosewood as she spun it in little twists and tugs. "I need to weaken them a little more, then you can strike."

'Hurry up, please.' He wiped the sweat from his forehead, peeking over the trembling shaft of his wand and the mist of his magic at the stands. 'We're running out of time.'

"Out of my way, boy!" Acturus barked and shoved Sirius aside, firing a string of pale violet curses from his walking aid. "Are you the bastard who killed my sister?!"

D'Artagnan swatted the spells aside like flies. "Dorea Potter had been given time she was never meant to have, and grandchildren she was never meant to see." He apparated behind them, a small sad smile tugging at his lips as he raised his wand. "So have you and your wife."

Snares of shimmering gold snatched Melania from the ground like a fish caught in a net, shredding through her in brilliant ribbons of amber light.

"No!" Arcturus let out a hoarse cry. "Mia!" He charged with a growl, but the ribbons caught him too, slicing through him like razors and scattering chunks of his corpse over the obsidian.

Sirius slipped in the puddle of gleaming blueish-purple entrails and toppled to the ground, his wand rolling down the benches.

"Sirius Orion Black." D'Artagnan summoned the wand and reduced it to ashes, letting them seep through his fingers. "Your time has not quite come yet, but what difference do a few months make to the twelve years you've been granted already?" He closed his eyes and swept forth the shimmering beads of amber into a swirling vortex.

Ice crushed the breath from Tristan's lungs. 'No!'

The world swam. Porthos and Athos smacked to their knees in a ripple of ebony magic.

The mist twisting about his wand oozed back into the elder; crimson flames exploded from the tip in their stead, a searing rush of sizzling tongues and hungry whispers, drenched in every last drop of power.

Tristan forged the fiendfyre into Salazar's basilisk; the obsidian cracked and melted into a pool of bubbling black stone beneath its blazing coils, and it reared a massive head, its gaping maw armed with thousands of gleaming fiery fangs.

He slashed his wand. 'Die!'

Porthos and Athos disapparated as it lunged with a furious scream.

The basilisk struck the dome of gold, shattering the wards with an ear-piercing screech, and seared through the stands separating Sirius and D'Artagnan, burning through black rock like acid through metal until it plunged into the sea.

Sirius' screams rang through the great fountain of sizzling white steam.

Tristan seized Fleur's wrist and spun the world past him.

His godfather whimpered on the ground in smoking, tattered robes; raw flesh and melted skin clung to one side of his face, from his scorched hairline over an empty eye socket to a blackened cheekbone, baring white teeth and weeping crystal-clear fluid.

Fleur crouched beside Sirius and snuffed out the little tongues of golden flame eating down his neck. "He needs a healer soon, mon Coeur, otherwise he will die."

"No, he cannot die.' A low murmur of rage stirred through the fear, coiling about Tristan's heart like a serpent. 'But I am not leaving without one of them.' He waved his wand.

The dense vapor wilted like morning fog to the dawn, revealing a pair of sharp gray eyes.

D'Artagnan studied the ravine of molten obsidian gaping open between them. "No single witch or wizard should ever wield such power. Perhaps we won't even need your father's death; yours, Tristan Peverell, might just suffice already."

"Suffice for what!?" Fleur snapped as Porthos and Athos apparated either side of him.

With a sad smile, D'Artagnan's eyes and hair shifted to match hers. "Everything that was robbed from us, we shall take back, and when Harry suffers all our pain and despair, we shall be free again."

A fist of ice closed about Tristan's heart. "I will set you free right now, for everything you did to my family."

"You are spent, child." Porthos pointed his wand from the steaming fjord gaping open between them to Sirius. "Not even the Dark Lord could've wielded such power without tiring. And every second you remain here fighting us is one your dear godfather inches closer toward death's cold embrace."

'He's right.' Tristan felt the fatigue drive its numbing teeth deep through his aching muscles to bone. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting Fleur's fierce defiant glower. "Take Sirius and go."

Her irises bled black as ink. "I will never-"

Tristan caught her eyes, wincing from the stab of discomfort. " Remember?"

Fleur clenched her jaw, wrangling with herself, but she seized Sirius' hand in a feathered grip and vanished with a snap.

"Voldemort's power truly comes with all his arrogance," Athos murmured, raising their wand to their companions'. "You will not survive until she is back with help."

Tristan allowed himself a small smile as the golden fog closed in on him over the ravine. "Look who's arrogant now?"

Fleur faded into view behind the Musketeers, her wand raised and her open palm full of bright blue flames. "Avada kedavra," she hissed.

They whirled on their heels, swallowing the flash of green in golden fog and batting aside the bright flashes of azure.

"You two deal with Tristan Peverell," D'Artagnan called. "I will kill Fleur Delacour."

'No, you won't.' Tristan apparated across the ravine, clutching for D'Artagnan's arm, but he ducked the swing by a hair's breadth and Tristan's fingers caught in Porthos' robes instead.

"Fleur, now!" Picturing North Dawn Manor, he wrenched the world back past him and stepped from molten obsidian onto the tiles of the balcony, hurling Porthos against the railing with all his strength.

Porthos slid to the ground with a groan, and Tristan summoned their dark wand into his hand as Fleur stepped out beside him.

"Are you alright?" He looked her up and down.

"Je vais bien." A fierce pride flashed through her eyes and she pecked his cheek, breathing hard. "Sirius is with your parents; your maman called her healer friend." Fleur glared down her nose at Porthos. "We caught one of them, mon Coeur. One that is not about to die on us..."

"Yes." Tristan exhaled, a small smile fluttering across his lips. 'Finally.'

Porthos heaved themselves off the tiles with a little wince, rubbing their chest. "Damn blood wards."

Fleur cocked her head. "It should be a lot more uncomfortable for him, non? It was not for me the first time, but that was for a different reason."

Tristan crouched down, razing the enchantments off Porthos' dark hood with a flick of his wand. "Only someone closely related to me by blood would barely feel the wards."

He yanked the hood back.

Beneath sleek white-blonde hair, the cold gray eyes of a wizard no older than his father stared up at him from a pale, sharp, pointed face.

"A Malfoy!?" Tristan blurted. "How is this possible? Abraxas' father was killed by Voldemort and his half-brother was killed by my father."

"He must also share blood with you, mon Coeur," Fleur murmured.

'Is he someone who shouldn't exist? Like Marcus Flint's sister?' Unease fluttered in the pit of his stomach. "Who are you?" Tristan demanded, staring into his pale eyes.

Malfoy snarled. "Don't bother with legilimency; you will learn nothing from me, Peverell." His tongue rolled back to his molars and he bit down hard.

'Oh no you don't.' Tristan thrust out his hand, forcing Malfoy's lips apart, and wrung his wrist. "What do we have here, huh?"

Something slapped into his palm in a spurt of blood.

Fleur opened his fist and plugged a tiny vial from the shards of broken tooth, holding it in the fading light of the sunset. "Poison," she murmured.

"Looks like they got scared after what we did to Aramis."

"I will keep this." She slipped the vial into her pocket. "It might help us figure out who they are."

"It might." Tristan pointed his wand between Malfoy's cold gray eyes. "But let's see what he knows first. Legili-"

A soft snap echoed over the balcony.

"Tristan, what-" his father fell silent and stared past them with wide green eyes, frozen still as stone. All the blood drained from his face. "Draco?" he whispered.

"Hello, Harry." Malfoy spat out a mouthful of crimson. "Long time no see."

"Why?" Tristan's father breathed, a deep frown creasing his brow. "Why are you doing this, Draco?"

Draco's eyes flashed. "How dare you." He balled his fists. "How dare you even ask that question after everything you did."

"What is he talking about?!" Tristan demanded, shaking his father by the shoulder. "Who is this man? And how do you know each other?"

His father remained tight-lipped and pale as snow.

"Fine." Tristan seized Draco by the collar of his robes, propelling him against the railing. "Who the fuck are you? What is it my father took from you?"

"He took... everything." The fury in Draco's eyes drowned in sorrow as he slumped back to the ground. "I was with them, and then suddenly I was gone, torn away, but I could still see them. I watched my son crumble into a pile of golden ashes, swept away by the breeze. I watched my wife cradle her belly, choking and drowning from the blood in her lungs as our baby was ripped from her." Tears streamed down Draco's face to his crimson-smeared lips. "You didn't just take me from them, Harry, you killed them too."

Deep dark shadows swirled in his father's eyes. "Countless families were torn apart the first time around, Draco. I am sorry that it was yours this time, and I know your pain and loss-," the shadows froze like frost creeping down glass, "-but I would do it all again just the same if I had to."

Draco wiped his cheeks and took a deep breath. "You won't get a chance again, Harry. We were granted a chance, and it doesn't matter what happens to me here; with what we've found in the Department of Mysteries, I will see them all again soon; Tori... Scorpius… and our little baby girl."

"What is it you have planned?!" Tristan crouched down in front of Draco. "How are you going to see them again?"

"I will be with them soon in the future." Draco stared through him, smiling. "A future you were never meant to see. Because you were never-"

"Stop it, Draco!" Tristan's father snapped.

"No, let him talk!"

Draco scoffed, glancing between them. "So you truly haven't told them, have you?" He shook his head with a low chuckle. "Your own family, Harry... Well, I suppose Dorea Potter knew too, she admitted as much when we killed her, but now it's just your wife who knows, isn't it?"

"Who knows what?!"

"I said stop it, Draco."

"Why, what's wrong with the truth, Harry?" Draco's lips twisted into a familiar bitter sneer, white teeth gleaming in a sheen of blood. " Scared, Po-"

With a snap of his neck, Draco's head dropped to his chest, his gray eyes wide and dull and empty.