HP: Panem et Circenses

September 6th, 1995

Thick vapors twirled upward to the low ceilings of the dungeons from four large, bubbling cauldrons like a multi-colored veil; their odd smells mixed, making him wrinkle his nose and hold his breath as he passed by.

Tristan edged around the gold-colored one and took a seat in the far back of the classroom, absently flipping through his copy of Advanced Potions Making while his peers arrived in small chatting groups.

It was quite a large class. Most students were from Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff with only the Weasley Twins and Alicia Spinnet from Gryffindor.

"Welcome back to NEWT potions, everyone!" Slughorn's massive outline quivered through the many shimmering vapors. His belly stuck out first, then the rest of his body followed. "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at. You ought to have heard of 'em, and, by the end of this term, I'm sure you'll be brewing some too. Who wants to take a guess?"

"This one is Veritaserum, sir," Roger Davies confidently pointed at the cauldron that looked like it had plain water boiling away inside it. "It's a truth potion."

"Very good, very good, Roger!" Slughorn said happily.

"Now-" he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table.

"It's Polyjuice Potion, sir," Cedric Diggory said from within his tight group of Hufflepuffs.

"Excellent, excellent, Cedric! And surely you also-"

"That's Amortentia, sir, a love potion," Diggory grinned sheepishly, pointing at the one where the steam rose in tight spirals, "and the other one is Felix Felicis, also known as liquid luck," he finished with a lazy wave at the bubbling pot of gold.

"Flawless as usual, my boy," Slughorn beamed: "Take 20 well-earned points for Hufflepuff!"

"Nice one, Ced!" one of Diggory's friends whispered, clapping him smartly on the shoulder.

'I'm surprised so many of his 'Yes-Men' even managed to pass their OWLs in this class.' Tristan rolled his eyes, his thoughts drifting off as Slughorn began expanding on each of the potions and what made their brewing so difficult.

'I bet his entire House is pushing for him to represent Hogwarts in the Tournament.' He absently studied the admittedly handsome Hufflepuff prefect and captain of the quidditch team for a while: 'But he doesn't have what it takes to be a champion...'

"And that-" Slughorn's overly enthusiastic voice brought him back to the classroom, "-is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

He picked up a small, wrapped box and shook its contents.

"Honeydukes finest," he beamed, patting his bulging stomach: "Because who needs luck when you have chocolate, am I right?"

'Those are Mother's favorite, but they're not the reward he usually gives away in this lesson,' Tristan frowned, a nasty thought bubbling up in the back of his mind. 'Did they force him to change it for the Tournament or was there a different reason not to include it, particularly this year?'

"They say chocolate is the way to a witch's heart, Professor," Diggory grinned. "It might actually work better than Felix for some undertakings..."

"Hah!" Slughorn threw his head back. His roaring laughter filled the dungeons until it faded into a good-natured chuckle. "You're too cheeky for your own good, Cedric, too cheeky I say."

He finally managed to control himself, still holding his tummy.

"Now then, turn to page ten of your books, everyone, and give me your best attempt at the Draught of Living Death."

Tristan along with everybody else drew his cauldron closer and began preparing his scale. The noise level dropped and barely anyone spoke. The concentration within the room was almost palpable. Even Diggory had stopped joking around and instead riffled feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion Making.

Tristan chopped his valerian roots and added them to his cauldron. Soon a faint bluish steam spiraled from a surface that turned smooth and black, like currant-colored liquid.

As always with potions, people took notice of his progress. Tristan paid them no mind and bent over the instructions again, twirling the silver dagger between his fingers.

'Sopophorous beans next.'

A certain redhead's voice echoed from the back of his head.

Tristan crushed the beans with the flat side of his silver dagger, releasing juice better than cutting. He scooped it all into the cauldron, grinning triumphantly when his brew turned almost the exact shade of lilac described by the textbook.

'Thanks for the tutoring, Aunt Lily.'

A large shadow fell over his table.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Carry on, carry on, Mr. Peverell," Slughorn said "I'm just doing my usual rounds and you certainly don't look like you need any help."

"Thank you, sir."

The shadow remained right where it was. Tristan glanced up briefly and met Slughorn's gaze: "Was there something else, sir?"

"Actually-" the man clumsily fidgeted with his fingers, "-I was pleasantly surprised with your OWL results, Mr. Peverell, as were many of my colleagues. One almost got the impression you've been holding back in our classes after what you've shown us during the exams, especially the practicals. I dare say such a talent has not been seen in many years..."

'Let me guess, nineteen years?'

"Just some last-minute studying and practice, sir." He plastered a polite, sharp smile on his lips: "I'm certainly glad it paid off."

A flinch spasmed over his professor's face: "I- I see. Well, uhm-" he glanced over his shoulder, spotting one of the Weasley twins. The 'dork had charmed his knife to do the cutting by itself, directing it like a conductor with his wand held like a baton. "Oh, Merlin, not again. Excuse me, Mr. Peverell." He quickly waddled off.

'Looks like I just barely dodged an invitation to the Slug Club there.'

Tristan stirred counter-clockwise seven times and then stirred once clockwise, repeating so until the potion turned the palest pink.

He absently glanced around. Some of his housemates and most of the Ravenclaws had managed a potion that sported a purple surface. Across the classroom, Slughorn was still chewing out the Weasley twins whose potions looked like liquid licorice. As far as he could see only Diggory had made an attempt that came somewhat close to his.

"And time's . . . up!" Slughorn called cheerfully. "Stop stirring, please!"

He strode slowly among the tables, peering into each of the bubbling cauldrons. He made no comment, occasionally giving the potions a stir or a sniff. Tristan received an approving nod but it was at Diggory's table where Slughorn finally paused, utter delight spreading over his face.

"The very close winner!" he cried in the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent, yes it was a very close race between Cedric and Mr. Peverell!"

The entire class turned in their seats. He felt their gleeful stares on him, hungry to see how he'd react to being beaten. The sharp, small smile remained plastered on his face until they turned back around.

"Tradition and convention vs. innovation and creativity," Slughorn dragged on: "Looks like today tradition holds the upper hand."

'Should I have expected any differently?' Tristan snorted and shook his head, busying himself with packing his things while Slughorn went on justifying his decision. 'But it doesn't even matter, does it? This year there are far greater things than beating someone at potions...'

He was among the first to leave the classroom and strode back up to the Great Hall for lunch when his name was shouted from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Peverell! Hey Peverell, wait up!"

Diggory separated from his circle of 'puffs and strolled over to him, a grin plastered over his face and the thick bar of chocolate pocketed in his uniform.

Tristan slowed ever so slightly and allowed him to catch up by the bottom of the staircase. "Yes?"

"Some damn good competition down there, don't you think?" Diggory thrust out his hand: "Nice brewing, mate. No hurt feelings about the outcome, I hope?"

"Of course not." Tristan shook it, forcing a bright smile on his lips and meeting Diggory's level-eyed gaze as they climbed the stairs together: "I hope you enjoy your chocolate. You and whatever witch you'll share it with..."

"I'm just lucky you're leaving some for me." Diggory grinned one more time and slapped him smartly on the shoulder before lingering on the step to meet his friends again.

'What a fucking prat...'

Tristan rolled his eyes and entered the Great Hall, heading straight to the crown of gold he caught seated at the Slytherin table.

"What's got you looking so merry?" Valeria chirped. "Has all the excitement of the Tournament not caught up yet?"

Tristan snorted and helped himself to some pasta and fried chicken.

"Slughorn proclaimed Diggory's potion the best when he knew my brew was more potent."

"You'll need to work on your charm, brother dear," she giggled, her green eyes roaming to the table of the 'puffs: "With Slughorn, it counts almost as much as adding the right ingredients."

He swallowed a mouthful of noodles: "Speaking from experience?"

"Of course," Valeria thrilled, popping a grapefruit in her mouth. "Nothing but Outstandings on my potions report card for the last three years."

"And where is your invitation to the Slug Club?"

"That's still a work in progress," she laughed and sipped on her pumpkin juice before pulling an envelope out of her cleavage. "You have mail by the way."

Tristan picked it up between two fingers at the outermost corner. "Did you have to store it that way?"

"It's nice and secure there," Valeria teased: "It arrived after you already took off for classes this morning, we each got one."

"Well, Mother and Father took their sweet time with it, so let's see what they want." He opened the envelope with a slice of his wand and unfolded the missive.

"Read it out loud."

"Dear son of ours,

Only a few days have passed since you left us, and still, your mother and I miss you already. We hope you've been enjoying your first week back at the Castle and had a good start into your daily life as a NEWT student. As for us, we, that is mostly your father, are delighted to hear about Galahad's sorting. There is a bit of every Founder in each of you. Had the circumstances been only slightly different, then you might not be reading this letter at a table dressed in green but a different color."

"Oh, this is hilarious," Valeria snorted. "You'd definitely be a 'puff with how fiercely loyal you are to the few you trust."

"Shut your beak, little harpy." Tristan rolled his eyes and continued.

"However, there's no reason to beat around the bush and prolong the inevitable. The Triwizard Tournament has been announced in the Daily Prophet and it will be held at Hogwarts, as I'm sure Headmistress McGonagall will have disclosed to you all as well. An age limit has been introduced, one which makes you an eligible contender. We know of your ambition, Tristan. We know of your talents and we know of your thirst to finally prove yourself to the world, but please, not like this. Knowing you in a way only parents know their children, we're certain you've already played with the idea of entering. Your mother and I urge you to reconsider and not let this opportunity blind you. There is no glory in winning a pointless competition that no one will ever talk about after a few years have passed. If there was, then surely even you could name a single champion who won it last time.

"Well, they kind of do have a point there," Valeria admitted, cocking her head.

"This tournament will be nothing but a grand British staging, a desperate attempt at proving to the world that we're still the very beacon of the magical society we were so many decades ago. There is no glory to be found in risking your life to provide a spectacle for a selfish audience. The longer we contemplated it, the heavier our suspicions grew: A tournament like this is the perfect opportunity to make a deliberate attack look like an unfortunate accident during a given task. Do not let the appeal of fleeting glory cloud your sharp judgment. Your time will come inevitably, perhaps sooner than you'd like, just please don't let it be this year in particular. Our thoughts are with you, as always, and we trust you to make the right decision.

With warmest regards, your loving parents."

Irritation bubbled in his stomach like boiling water, threatening to spill over.

"They sound almost as paranoid as you do now, seeing enemies at every corner," Valeria said: "I'm surprised they didn't outright claim the age limit was set just high enough for you to still enter, with how 'heavy their suspicions grew'."

"Bloody hypocrites, both of them!" He crunched the letter in his fist, curling his fingers tight around it. "If their circumstances had been different in their youth, either of them would've jumped at this opportunity to participate!"

'They too strove to be the best at everything they attempted.' Before his inner eye, black lines of ink wrenched into complex patterns of runes. 'And they went so much further in their pursuit than I ever have...'

Valeria regarded him warily, a hint of worry dwelling up in her bright eyes: "What are you going to do now?"

He toyed with a few ideas for a minute yet none of them truly convinced him.

"This is the point where a child would enter their name just to spite its parents." Tristan let the heat in his stomach flare until the letter in his fist began smoldering. "But I'm not a child anymore..."

He dropped it to the table, watching tiny tongues of crimson lick at it and blacken the parchment. "I will enter for no one but myself. And I will prove them wrong. All of them!"

"Can I quote you on that in my reply to them?" Valeria chirped.

Tristan shot her a flat look: "Don't tell them anything yet."

"As you wish," she hummed, popping another slice of grapefruit in her mouth.

Tristan continued his lunch and caught Galahad entering the Great Hall. His brother took a seat at the empty section of the Gryffindor table, helping himself to some food while bending over a book.

Abraxas' words drifted through his mind and a small stifle of anxiety flared up.

"Have you talked to Galahad yet?" he asked Valeria: "Each time I approach him and tell him to join us at the Slytherin table he refuses me."

"Same here," she sighed and turned on the bench to watch her younger brother. "He's only sitting with Charlie and Alfie, or alone if neither of them is there. I don't think his housemates or the other first years include him much."

His gut churned at the thought: "Do you think they bully him?"

"I wouldn't go that far." She shook her head. "But with the tension between Houses, especially Gryffindor and Slytherin, still high, he said it's better if he's not seen in our company too often."

"We're his family," Tristan frowned. 'And family is everything we have...'

"He won't go out of his way to avoid us," Valeria shared. "But perhaps it's better to let things calm down after the eventful Sorting. You know how those 'dorks can be. They'd take it as a personal insult if he snuggled up with his Slytherin siblings during mealtimes instead of sitting with them."

Tristan grimaced. "I still don't like it."

She eyed him curiously: "You seem awfully cautious about him ever since we returned. Does this have to do with whatever happened in the common room right after the beginning of the year feast?"

"No," Tristan denied it and finished his lunch: "That was just the same bunch of idiots from the World Cup gallery trying to stir trouble."

"Fine," Valeria shrugged: "I'll see you later then."

"Later."

He strolled back out of the Great Hall and up the giant staircase to the transfiguration classroom. Inside, most of his peers chatted about the very thing they had all week, their eyes lit up like candles in the night anytime the words were mentioned.

'A chance for glory.'

"Good afternoon, students."

Headmistress McGonagall stepped out of the attached office. Her green robes were as spotless as ever and without a single wrinkle, and her graying hair was held in a proper, tight bun. The chatter died immediately and everyone promptly moved to their seats.

"For those of you surprised to see me down here instead of in my office, know that my love for the art of Transfigurations has not faltered one bit since I was appointed headmistress." She flicked her wand at a piece of chalk that swiftly zipped to the blackboard: "Together we shall find out whether or not I can cope with the additional duties of covering a single class. Rest assured the school and course will be run just as before."

'I suppose she'd have more time than the occasional other headmaster Hogwarts has seen.' Tristan scooped his textbook and some parchment out of his bag. 'I lost count of how many international boards Dumbledore sat on and occupied his time with whilst being headmaster.'

"This year we shall cover Human Transfiguration, the most complex sub-branch of Transfiguration. As you should know from your readings, it's a form of transformation in which one transfigures human body parts or an entire human being into another form," McGonagall began her lecture, writing down array after array of definitions and incantations.

"Today you shall familiarize yourself with the subject by changing the color of your eyebrows." With a flick of her wand, two trays of small mirrors hovered through the benches, dropping an item before each student: "Make sure to take careful aim at your eyebrows, not the eyes themselves. I will not have Madam Pomfrey work overtime in the very first week of term."

All around him, students split up into small groups or pairs. Tristan propped the mirror up against the spine of his textbook and touched the tip of his wand to his left eyebrow.

"Crinus Muto," he whispered.

Bright gold, luminous like Valeria's curls, threaded through the short hairs until they almost sparkled amber in the mirror's reflection. He reversed it and switched sides, easily repeating the transfiguration a few more times with different colors until each of his eyebrows resembled a bright rainbow.

He studied his reflection with an amused smile until sudden inspiration made the impending boredom fade away.

'Let's see what's so special about those eyes then...'

Tristan raised his wand again, his gaze dipping below his two rainbow-color charmed eyebrows. With a small twist of his wrist, he transfigured the blue threads of his iris to a familiar emerald green.

'Doesn't actually look too bad, does it?' He studied the results. 'Now I look just like fath-'

"Mr. Peverell?"

Tristan flinched back.

'Finite!' He poured magic into his wand and prayed that his spell worked before he dared glance up.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Mr. Peverell, have you-" McGonagall shuddered with a small gasp.

'Fuck.'

Her hand briefly dipped to her chest before she blinked repeatedly, staring at him with parted lips. "Pardon me, for a second there I thought- but no, no- it must've been the light or perhaps just the strange contrast..."

"What- oh, I see now-" Tristan glanced at his reflection and flicked his wand at his eyebrows: "There, this should do the trick."

The rainbow subsided, leaving his eyebrows as dark as they had been when he entered the classroom.

"Your grasp on transfiguration is very impressive for your age," McGonagall nodded, still eying him somewhat warily. "More so than Professor Potter's notes on you might have suggested to me initially."

"Thank you, Headmistress." He spun his wand between his fingers: "Perhaps this spell just suits me well."

Her eyes followed his wand and her nostrils flared. "Have you been holding back in my colleagues' classes, Mr. Peverell? Your work, especially anything practical, has always been more than satisfactory, but it doesn't explain what I saw during your OWLs with my own eyes."

"It was a lucky day for me." He flashed her a bright smile. "But now that I had a taste of it, I'm finally starting to apply myself, Professor."

'No more holding back.'

"I'm having a very strange déjà-vu," McGonagall huffed in irritation, lips thinning even further: "You prove to be just as irritating as-"

She fell silent and shook her head.

"Professor?"

"Pardon me." She glanced away for a few seconds before her gaze returned, sharp as ever. "Do continue with your assignment, Mr. Peverell. And also, try to stick to repetition instead of unnecessarily pushing the boundaries."

"Will do, Professor. No more slacking from here on, I promise." Tristan nodded.

Tristan repeated the spell twice more before starting with the homework assignment. When the bell eventually rang he packed up and stood to follow his peers back out in the corridor only to be stopped by his professor just before he was past the door.

"Mr. Peverell, a moment please."

'Just take the points, but please don't let it be detention. I have more important things to do...'

He lingered with a small sigh. "Yes, Headmistress?"

"I meant what I said, Mr. Peverell." She looked at him intently, a frown slipping into her aged features. "You have a talent and it should be nourished. However, I will not tolerate such a blatant disregard of the rules I set in my classroom again, is that clear?"

'So she knew...'

Tristan kept his cool. "Yes, Headmistress."

"Good, don't let it happen again." She nodded sharply. "You may see yourself out now."

Tristan turned on the spot and swiftly vacated the classroom, running straight into a floating, pearly mass of white. He staggered back and shook off the uncomfortable cold tingle running down his spine.

A pair of large eyes regarded him calmly from a beautiful but haughty face. Pouty lips and high cheekbones, framed by waist-length dark hair on either side.

"Pardon me, Milady." Tristan attempted to step around her.

Her floor-length dress robes moved to the side and she blocked him.

She opened her lips: "Tristan Peverell, I wish to speak to you." Her voice sounded almost ethereal.

"Milady?" He raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "How may I help you?"

She ignored his question and studied him for a few moments, slowly floating around him: "Say, why do you call me that, Tristan Peverell?"

"It just fits well, doesn't it?" He shrugged: "And are you not a Lady?"

"Does it matter?" She cocked her head: "It could hardly be my name, could it?"

"I can use your real name if you'd like." The ghost of a smile passed over his face: "But I doubt you prefer that..."

She did not recoil or flinch. Helena Ravenclaw barely reacted at all, aside from her gaze penetrating him even deeper: "So you know. They must have told you..."

"They did, as a bedtime story," he admitted: "To me and all my siblings."

"And you've kept it? Why?" She frowned at him: "Why would you do that?"

"I myself prefer my privacy," Tristan shrugged: "And knowing the reason you were bound to this realm, it seemed unnecessarily cruel to make things even more unbearable for you."

"How unnaturally kind of you." Her lips twitched into the tiniest smile: "You remind me a lot... of them."

"My parents?" Tristan grimaced: "Yeah, you're not the first to say so this week..."

"Only one of your parents." She came to a halt in front of him: "The... other passed these halls a few more years ago..."

"Why- what do you mean? Who else do I remind yo-?"

"I sought you out to repay a debt, Tristan Peverell," she interrupted him unconcerned: "One, that I had hoped the time was finally right for."

He frowned: "I didn't know you owed me any debts."

"Not you in particular, but to your father," she replied: "You're his firstborn son, his blood. A debt repaid to you is a debt repaid to him."

"What did he do for you?" Tristan asked eagerly: "How did he earn this favor?"

She ignored him again: "However, now that I've met you, the debt I have to repay is even larger than I originally assumed. Paying it now will not grant me what I yearn for the most. I must wait before I can finally do so..."

"Would-" Tristan sighed: "Helena, would you mind terribly to stop speaking in bloody riddles for just a minute?"

"Do not fret, Tristan Peverell, I shall not leave you empty-handed today." She smiled, the first sincere smile Tristan had seen on her in over five years: "Your father has freed me from the burden that anchored me to this realm. A debt I will repay when the time is right. But your family has also kept my secret. And that is a debt I will repay right now. Follow me, Tristan Peverell."

She began floating towards the giant staircase.

"Hey, wait!" Tristan hurried after. "Helena!"

She drifted down the steps to the second floor, waving at him to follow before vanishing behind a corner.

"I was among the first students to roam these halls," Helena said when he eventually caught up with her.

Her head turned left and right as if she walked down this corridor for the very first time: "Back then these halls looked so different, however, a few things have remained the same. Now that I'm but a shadow of the young student I once was..."

"What are we even doing here?" Tristan frowned when they entered an abandoned corridor on the second floor. "Can you just stop and tell me, please?"

"He was always kind to me," Helena said absently: "Anytime I felt like my mother's impossible expectations were about to crush me, I talked to him and he lifted my spirits."

"He?" Tristan asked: "Who is he?"

"Salazar, of course."

"Salazar?" Tristan froze, eyes wide: "As in Salazar Slytherin?"

'Of course. She went to school when the Founders still taught here...'

"What better way to repay a debt?" Helena finally slowed and came to a stop right before a bathroom on the second floor, which Valeria had once told him to stay far away from.

'Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom?'

"A secret for a secret, a legacy for a legacy." She eyed the door to the bathroom for a few seconds before she turned back to him: "One of my family's legacies was tainted due to my wrongdoing. Your father destroyed it and freed me from the stain. For that, I shall share our second legacy when the time is right..."

"What?" Tristan's mind began buzzing: "Wait- wait, just bloody wait a minute? Are you saying my father destroyed the diadem? Why would he do that?! He told me it was lost in the forest!"

"Then it is his duty to tell you the truth, not mine," Helena smiled sadly, "but for keeping my secret and all the shame I very well deserve at bay, I shall share with you a legacy that is rightfully yours. Just as Salazar intended it to be shared with his rightful heir."

"I'm not Slytherin's heir." A tight, dense cold twisted his insides: "That was Voldemort. I'm a Peverell."

"And yet you speak his tongue, Tristan Peverell," she laughed softly, mirth dwelling up in her cold, empty eyes: "I don't need to be a Ravenclaw to deduct that you're a descendant of Salazar."

"Haha," Tristan rolled his eyes: "Very funny, hilarious even..."

Helena pointed a pale finger at the door: "In this very room, you shall find Salazar's legacy. How so, I will not tell you. You will have to use the traits that come with your House, those its Founder was most proud of, to solve the puzzle."

"Salazar Slytherin's legacy in a girl's bathroom?!" Tristan shot a long look at the door: "In Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom?! You can't actually be serious right now, can you?"

"That is for you to figure out." Another small smile tugged on her lips: "The first debt is repaid, Tristan Peverell." Her form shivered and faded as she rose towards the ceiling: "We shall see each other again, and only once more, when the time is right..."

"This is a bloody joke." Tristan was left standing in the deserted corridor by himself. "I swear if this is one of Galahad's pranks I'll jinx his arse green and blue."

He sighed and stared at the handle to the bathroom. His curiosity slowly got the better of him.

"Well, I'm already here, so I might as well have a quick look." He twisted the handle and stepped inside: "Let's just hope Myrtle isn't here."

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Tristan had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.

Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.

"This is a girls' bathroom," she cried, eyeing him suspiciously. "You're very handsome, but you're not a girl!"

"I sure hope not," Tristan chuckled, eyes roaming over the dirty old mirrors and the damp floor. "So... this is your bathroom?"

"Indeed it is!"

Myrtle sat down on the tank of the end toilet.

"And now that I finally have it back, I'd like to enjoy it in peace. You might be handsome but I've yet to decide if I'd like you to stay."

"Have it back?" Tristan pulled his wand and started casting a few charms.

He slowly walked along the walls, occasionally tapping the tiles while murmuring under his breath: "How does one even lose a bathroom?"

"When it vanished all of a sudden of course," Myrtle cried: "Leaving me stuck down in that dirty dungeon with those horrible girls!"

'Nothing so far.' Tristan stifled a flare of disappointment: 'Surely I'd be feeling... something if this place was any special.'

"Bathrooms don't just vanish all of the sudden, Myrtle, not even at Hogwarts." Tristan scrunched his face up, examining the dirty floor next: "When is that supposed to have happened?"

"Almost on this day nineteen years ago, but I still remember it as if it was yesterday. It was so horrible!"

'Nineteen years.' Tristan jerked to a halt: 'That was right when my parents studied here and today is not the day I'd blame coincidence for it.'

"Why do you stay in this bathroom, Myrtle?" He turned around towards her: "What's so special about it?"

"You'll have to find your own, this one is mine!" Myrtle stuck out her tongue: "You can visit because you're handsome, but I died in here, so I get to haunt it. That's the rules!"

"Wait what?!" Tristan frowned: "You died in this bathroom?" He stepped closer to her, walking until he was right underneath her stall: "How did you die in the bathroom of a bloody school?"

Myrtle crossed her arms in front of her chest and pointed her nose up: "Maybe I don't feel like telling you?"

He stood on his tiptoes, studying her neck: "You didn't slip and crack your head open, did you?"

"Of course not, I was much more dreadful than that!" she said with relish.

"How did it happen then?" Tristan asked, a sharp thrill racing through his veins: "I promise to come visit you more often if you tell me everything."

"I will hold you to that, handsome boy," Myrtle giggled in delight: "It happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses-"

"I'm sorry, but do you mind hurrying up a bit?" Tristan cringed.

"I'm getting there!" Myrtle scolded him: "Well, as I said, the door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then-"

Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. "I died."

'What?'

"But... how?!" Tristan almost shouted.

"No idea," Myrtle said in hushed tones. "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…"

She looked dreamily at Tristan. "And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glas-"

"Where exactly did you see the eyes, Myrtle?" Tristan interrupted her, his patience running thin.

"Somewhere there." Myrtle pointed vaguely toward the sink in front of her toilet.

He hurried over, his wand at the ready, to examine it. At first glance the sink seemed completely ordinary. He examined every inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below, where he finally saw it.

Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny serpent.

The realization struck him like lightning in the night. "A foreign language you said, Myrtle?"

"Yes," she chirped from over his shoulder: "It sounded like some weird hissing."

"You will have to use the traits that come with your House, those its Founder was most proud of, to solve the puzzle."

"And how many years ago was that you say?" Tristan straightened up, his fingers clenched around his wand almost painfully tight.

"About fifty, give or take," she mused loudly: "Time is such a strange concept for a ghost."

"I see." Tristan nodded, almost dazed.

His eyes found the tiny snake. He pictured it moving over the coppery surface to the rhythm of his frantically pounding heart. Then his lips parted in a hiss.

"Open!"