Hogwarts' soaring towers, imposing turrets and slate roofs stood in a jagged ridge of pitch black against the sun sinking toward the edge of the world on the distant horizon. Rays of gold and pink spilled over the lush green canopy of the Forbidden Forest, across the polished surface of the Black Lake and to the village of Hogsmeade laying still and serene within blossoming flower fields, casting long shadows across the foot of the mountain ridge.
Tristan rested his back against the cool marble of Dumbledore's tomb and drank in sight as the gentle evening breeze drifted across the lake and played through his hair.
"Sunsets." He clasped the locket tight in his fist and wrapped its slim silver chain tight about his knuckles, letting it cut into his skin until it stung. "How many of them have we watched together over the last summer?"
Before the eye of his mind, Fleur's smile shone warm as the waning summer sun; the sting of the metal drowned in eyes blazing bright as the dying rays painting the heavens, and the curve of her lips was as soft a pink as the horizon.
'I miss you.'
Tristan pried his stiff fingers open and stared at the locket within his palm; the dark blue fleur-de-lis sitting at its center sparkled in the sun like the steady waves lapping at the island's shores, but the thin gemstones spreading from its elegant petals were red, red as the roses in Fleur's hair as she danced and smiled in Weasley's arms beneath the great white marquise.
'No.' He let it all go. 'That's not my Fleur.'
The memory drowned in a storm of hot emotion. It crumbled into a flame of pure molten need within his heart. "My Fleur is real. She is right here." Tristan weighed the locket in his palm and flipped the lid. "She's waiting for me."
His reflection stared back at him from the small mirror; its eyes held no warmth, they were hard and cold as icicles in the moonlight. Only shadows churned within the blue, deep and dark and bottomless as dusk.
But in the eye of Tristan's mind, he stared into a different mirror, a taller one framed not in silver but gold, buried deep within the catacombs of Paris, hidden beyond thick doors and locked away from the world.
And in that mirror, a silhouette drawn faint as morning mist joined his reflection.
It was faceless no longer; Tristan recognized those delicate fingers threading through his own. He knew the line of that jaw and the angle of that cheekbone, knew the flower-woven braids of hair tumbling over slim collarbones, knew every last one of those gentle curves as if he'd drawn them by hand onto the mirror's blank surface.
"I show not your face but your heart's desire," Tristan whispered, bitter humor twisting his lips. "She is my heart's desire. She has been ever since she came back for me in the Forbidden Forest." His voice caught on a hot lump of emotion. "My parents were right, Dumbledore was right; all I have to do is stop dreading what might've been and just trust her again."
'But how?'
The warm summer breeze swept across the lake, bending blades of grass along the small island at its whim. It whistled through the branches of the sparse birch trees in some never-ending tune as he watched the shadows climb higher and higher along the Astronomy tower until the last rays of light sunk beyond the world and plunged the castle into darkness.
"I have to see her," Tristan decided, hardening his heart. "I have to hear her say it again." He fed a little magic into the locket. "Fleur Delacour."
Tristan held his breath as the metal warmed in his palm.
His reflection gave way to fairer, unblemished skin, rose-pink lips and warm blue eyes studying him from beneath slim braids of silver-blonde hair.
'Fleur.' Tristan's heart leaped to the tip of his tongue and all the air vanished from his lungs.
"Bonsoir, Tristan," she whispered.
'Not mon Coeur.' His gut twisted. "Fleur, I... I need-" he forced the world through the thick knot of unease past numb lips. "I need to see you."
"D'accord," Fleur murmured. "Meet me by my swing." The mirror went blank, blank and cold as the doubt rising in the eyes of his reflection.
'Did I make her wait for too long? Did she change her mind?'
Tristan flipped the lid shut and hung the locket back around his neck, a sick cold feeling setting in his stomach as he slipped his wand into his palm and disillusioned himself. "I can't hide away from this any longer. It didn't work after our fight last year and it won't work now."
Wrapping his magic about himself, Tristan rose into the warm evening breeze like smoke, drifting across the Black Lake and into the dusk. He wrenched the world back past him behind the veil of the castle's wards and stumbled through waist-high grass.
Cool winds carried over by the sea and laced with salt wrenched at his robes. The sun still clung on to the horizon, spilling its warm rays across the fields to the edge of the cliff.
'She's not here yet.' Tristan strode into the deep shade of the lone oak tree and sat down on Fleur's swing. 'Perhaps she's making me wait on purpose.' He drummed his fingers against his thigh and took a few swings, letting the tip of his boots dive through the blades of grass, but the quiet twisted into impatience with each minute that passed. 'Or perhaps she really changed her mind...'
Fleur stepped from the air in one silent, smooth motion and Tristan skidded to a halt on the swing, his heart seizing in his chest.
Her long hair was woven into slim blonde braids, catching the light of the dying sun, and the sea breeze flattened her light-blue uniform against her, from the swell of her chest to where the hem of her skirt whispered about her bare thighs.
Tristan drank in the sight of her. 'She's so beautiful.' A bitter-sweet little pain twisted in his breast. 'Of course all of this is real. How could it not be?'
"You asked me for time," Fleur murmured, stealing a few slow, measured steps closer into the shade of the oak. "It has been over two weeks..."
Faint dark rings marred the fair skin beneath her bright blue eyes.
'She hasn't been sleeping well either'. Beneath the sharp twist of guilt, a touch of doubt rose from the back of his skull. 'But girls use all sorts of charms to hide them; she wants me to see those signs...'
"I'm sorry." Tristan dragged himself up by the cords of the swing. "I needed some time away from everything..."
"Je sais. And I promised I would give you all the time you need," Fleur said, flatting her arms over her chest. "Have you made up your mind?"
"Almost," Tristan whispered. "I... I had to see you. I have to hear you say it."
Her slim brows drew together. "Say what?"
"What it is that you want from me."
"I told you exactly what I wanted." Fleur crossed the remaining distance in swift steps, standing close, yet just out of reach, and cocked her head, her eyes dark and huge. "Have you forgotten already?"
"No. I remember all of it." Tristan swallowed hard. "But what about-"
"Non." Fleur silenced him with a scalding hot finger to his lips. "No buts. You want to hear me say it again? D'accord, listen carefully; my future is mine to decide. I choose who to share my heart with. I choose who to marry. I choose who gets to father my children. That girl, Victoire, that... putain–" she spat the word, "–opposed all of that. So I killed her, and with her whatever future she represents." Fleur took a deep breath and some of the dark drained from her eyes. "But I told you all of this last time we talked. I made my decision, Tristan; it seems you did not. And I will not beg to change your mind."
Tristan's heart hovered at the tip of his tongue, trembling like a leaf in the storm. "My decision was made the moment you returned for me in the Forbidden Forest," he whispered, reaching out with one hand. "Is yours still the same as it was two weeks ago?"
She moved in a blur of blue and silver, slapping his hand away and hurling herself against him so hard he staggered past the swing into rough bark.
"Oui," Fleur breathed, claiming his lips in a long, soft kiss. "My decision is the same. I chose you, mon Coeur. I will always choose you; not William Weasley, nor anyone else. None of them are you." She pressed herself against him, warm and soft, locking her arms behind his neck. "You are perfect for me, and I am perfect for you. Have we not proven that time and time again?"
"We have." Tristan rested his chin atop her head and breathed in her sweet, sharp vanilla scent, holding her tight against him. "I'm sorry for doubting you. I'm sorry for making you wait so long."
"I am yours, and you are mine; there is nothing to doubt any longer, mon Coeur." Fleur buried her face in his chest. "Open your heart for me, and I will give you the key to mine." She leaned back and stole a swift kiss. "Put a ring on my finger, and I will wear it with pride every day of my life–" catching his eye, she guided one of his hands from the curve of her hip down to her belly, "–put a child in me, and I will carry it into this world."
Tristan swallowed hard as Fleur pressed his palm flat against the soft silk of her uniform. "You really would?"
"Oui," she murmured, holding his eye. "I want to grow old with you, surrounded by our children. As many as we want, mon Coeur."
Tristan saw the truth in the beautiful blue of her irises, bright and full of hope. He saw her vision there, too; small, blue-eyed silver-haired girls and dark-haired boys, chasing each other in the summer sun, hiding behind their mother's legs and giggling without a single care in the world.
"I want all of that, too," he whispered, a soft warm glow settling in his heart. "With you."
"Then let us have it." Fleur pulled his head back down to her lips, clinging to him and tangling tongues with a soft moan. "Let us have all of it."
Tristan reciprocated in kind, but each hard, hungry kiss stroked one last flare of lingering doubt within him.
He cupped her cheek. "Prove it," Tristan whispered into the next kiss.
Fleur drew back with flushed cheeks, her chest heaving in deep breaths, and blinked. "Mon Coeur...?"
"Prove that you're mine." He grazed across her cheek with the edge of his thumb, trailing the smooth curve of those soft, rose-pink lips. "All mine."
Fleur glanced over her shoulder towards the hills and the manor beyond; a bright little gleam rose in her eyes as they flitted back at him. "I have not felt your touch in over two weeks, mon Coeur-," she pressed her thighs together, catching the hem of her skirt between them, and shifting her weight from one bare leg onto the other, "-but out here...?"
"You did it before, remember?" Tristan slipped his thumb through her parted lips and onto her warm tongue. "Last summer... on your knees…"
A little shiver swept through Fleur. Heat smoldered in her eyes as her tongue danced along the underside of his thumb. "Did you enjoy that, mon Coeur?"
"You know I did," Tristan murmured, squeezing her butt as he drew her closer and tucking an escaped blonde braid back behind her ear. "You looked so beautiful wearing it all over your pretty face."
The tiny hairs rose at the nape of Fleur's neck. She bit down on his thumb with neat white teeth, hollowing her cheeks and sucking with a low, soft moan.
Tristan took a deep breath to smother the fire stirring in his veins, dragging clouded thoughts in order. "Go on, petite Fleur." He put gentle pressure on her tongue. "Prove it."
Fleur drew his thumb back out, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of his palm. "I want to do it again, mon Coeur; I want to fulfill all your fantasies." She rose onto her tiptoes to peck the corner of his mouth. "But not here, not right now-," she held his eye, "-because I promised to be better for you."
The last drags of doubt faded like morning mist before the rising sun, washing away the bars of lead weighting down his heart. "You really are perfect for me." Tristan drew her back into his arms, hugging her tight and breathing in her scent. "I love you, Fleur," he whispered into her soft hair. "I love you so much."
"Je t'aime." Fleur melted into his embrace with a long sigh. "Did I pass your final test, mon Coeur?"
"With flying colors." He chuckled as the tension was lifted off his shoulders. "How did you know?"
"I knew because I love you." She glanced up at him through long, dark lashes. "And I once tested you too, remember?"
Dorea's marble tomb loomed in Tristan's thoughts beneath clouds as dark and soft a gray as her eyes.
The smile trickled off his face like cheap paint. "I remember what I vowed that day," he murmured.
Fleur cupped his cheek in her warm hand and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "We will avenge her, mon Coeur." She tilted his head back down to her. "And not just your great-grandmère; everyone else, too. Je te le promets."
"Grandmother," Tristan corrected. "I don't care how many generations stood between us. She loved and raised me like a grandson until she was taken from me by them." He smothered a flare of searing rage. "But you're right; they'll all be avenged soon."
'I'm going to wipe them all away.'
"How?"
"All this time, the Musketeers held the advantage, but that's no longer the case," Tristan said. "We know who they'll target next; we know what they're trying to achieve."
Fleur's slim brows furrowed. "We do?"
"They kill the people not meant to be alive to power some sort of ritual. Father thinks that once enough people are sacrificed, their world will be somehow... reborn from within ours."
"We cannot let that happen." Her fingernails dug through his shirt. "What will be the tipping point?"
D'Artagnan's words flitted through Tristan's thoughts. "The more powerful the witch or wizard, the bigger their weight as a sacrifice," he murmured. "Father's death will be the tipping point."
Fleur tensed in his arms. "Or yours, mon Coeur. The Musketeers said it themselves in Stockholm, remember? They said you are powerful enough that your death might just suffice already."
"No." He shook his head. "I'm not as powerful as-"
"But you are," Fleur breathed, her eyes full of soft pride. "You are the most powerful wizard I have ever met." She rested one of her hands on his heart. "I can feel it."
Tristan pecked the tip of her nose with a grin. "That explains why your inner veela finally singled me out as the only suitable mate to conceive powerful offspring with."
Fleur leveled him with a long, cool stare. "I am serious, Tristan. How did you get here tonight?"
He blinked. "I apparated, why?"
"Because it is almost a thousand miles from here to Hogwarts," she whispered. "In the last one hundred years, only Gellert Grindelwald and Tom Riddle are said to have apparated those distances."
"You're starting to sound like Dumbledore comparing me to those two lunatics." Tristan rolled his eyes. "I don't want some crazy war with the muggles, nor do I crave to rule the world; I just want to do something-" he swallowed the word at the tip of his tongue, "-something meaningful..."
"I see." The faint wrinkles on Fleur's forehead deepened. "Why were you talking to Albus Dumbledore portrait, mon Coeur?"
He shrugged. "I needed all the advice I could get, and, you know, Dumbledore is widely considered to be the most powerful wizard of our time, so..."
"He also tried to kill your parents," she murmured. "Smart and powerful people do not do things out of the goodness of their heart; they have agendas."
Tristan snorted. "Oh, I know his agenda; Dumbledore feels guilty because he didn't stop Grindelwald's or Voldemort's rise to power, and he doesn't want to fail the world a third time." He pressed a kiss to her upturned lips. "I obliviate him every time we talk, so don't worry too much. You ought to be thankful really; Dumbledore told me to meet you and hear you out. Well… him and my parents both did."
A flicker of guilt passed through Fleur's blue eyes. "Your parents have been sending me letters these past weeks, but I have not answered any of them."
"They understand, and they're sorry for how they treated you; well, Father is sorry. Mother still loves you." He chuckled to himself. "You know, I'm still trying to wrap my head around how she became so fond of you; she literally hated Adelaide."
"Do not compare me to that silly little girl..." Fleur flipped all her blonde braids from one shoulder to the other, catching him in the face, and tilted her nose up at him. "Mothers always know what is best for their sons. And I am the best for you, non?"
"You're perfect for me." Tristan pecked the pout on her rose-pink lips with a grin. "Or so we agreed on."
Fleur clutched the hem of his shirt and smiled into their kiss. "I do not want to return to Beauxbatons yet, mon Coeur. Let us go back to the chateaux."
He tensed. "For the evening or for the night?"
"For whatever you feel like, Tristan." She glanced up at him with a small, soft smile. "I just wish to spend time with you again."
Tristan nodded. "Sounds good to me." His stomach agreed with a low growl. "Perhaps we can add some dinner, too?"
"Allons-y, mon Coeur." Fleur laughed and threaded her fingers through his. "Mes parents should have dinner around this time; I am sure they will have something left over for you. Maman always cooks too much in case Gabby or I visit over the weekend."
The world wrenched past him, and the overarching branches of the great oak tree and the surrounding sunset-bathed fields blurred into the Delacour dining room.
Appoline, Philippe, and Monsieur Albon sat at the grand table; their chatter died and they froze.
"Fleur." Appoline put down a plate with a slice of cherry clafoutis and smiled at them. "We did not expect you and Tristan to visit tonight. Is everything alright?"
Fleur's eyes lingering on Monsieur Albon. "Tout va bien, Maman," she murmured and tightened her clasp on Tristan's hand. "Pardon the interruption, we will go to Paris instead."
"Please, don't leave on my behalf, Mademoiselle Delacour; I was just about to head back home anyway." Monsieur Albon dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and rose from his seat. "It's good to see you again, Mister Peverell. Have you – by any chance – had time to consider my offer yet?"
"I have not given it too much thought, to be fair," Tristan lied, feeling Fleur's gaze prickle in the nape of his neck. "But my answer is unlikely to change regardless."
"That is very unfortunate to hear." Monsieur Albon straightened his black waistcoat with an indulgent smile. "Will you at least allow me to make my final argument?"
"I doubt it will change his mind," Fleur muttered.
"Fleur." Appoline chided. "Do not be rude."
Monsieur Albon waved it off. "Ah, but my argument has to do with the location, Mademoiselle Delacour; the Swiss Alps you see, they have a way of–" his smile sharpened as his blue eyes latched back onto Tristan, "–of leaving you breathless."
A cold shiver crawled down his spine. 'He knows. He knows what happened in Switzerland.' Tristan schooled his expression and crushed the fear. "Fine. I'll hear you out one last time."
Philippe cleared his throat. "Perhaps, we should hold this conversation in-"
"The living room, oui." Fleur led Tristan along the table. "But your presence is not required this time, Papa. Follow me, s'il vous plaît, Monsieur Albon."
"Avec plaisir, Mademoiselle."
The ghost of a frown flitted across Philippe's face as they passed him. "That suits me just fine, ma chérie. Your Maman and I will keep enjoying her favorite dessert."
Tristan leaned into Fleur's ear. "Can he apparate out by himself?" he whispered.
Her hand snaked to the wand at her waist and she closed her eyes mid-stride into the living room, muttering under her breath. "Not anymore, non."
Monsieur Albon closed the door behind them and sank into one of the wide armchairs by the fireplace, crossing his legs. "I know what happened in Switzerland, Mister Peverell."
"As much as I appreciate you getting straight to the point – unlike last time–" Tristan settled opposite him, one arm around Fleur's tense shoulders, "–I can't say I've ever been there."
"Let me refresh your memory then: on March 31st, last year, you and your father infiltrated the ICW headquarters in Switzerland and sought out the cottage of Robert Wagner, an ICW employee," Monsieur Albon said, leaning back into his armchair. "I saw the bodies of Wagner and his family; they had been dead for almost two weeks already. As for the... bodies – if one could even call them that – of the two dozen ICW Aurors… those, I'm afraid, have not been dead for nearly as long."
Tristan didn't bat an eyelid. "I still have no idea what you're talking about."
Monsieur Albon folded his hands. "I have proof, Mister Peverell. More than enough proof to open a case against you..."
A flare of rage stirred inside him.
"You know what we are capable of." Fleur cocked her head. "Do you really think it is a good idea to blackmail us?"
"I am not here to blackmail anyone," Monsieur Albon said. "That fact that you, Mister Peverell, and your father overpowered an entire squad of the most well-trained magical task force we have at our disposal is a perfect reflection of exactly why I need you."
"But I don't need you." Tristan slipped his wand into his palm; a trickle of ink-black magic swirled about the cool elder as he spun it through his fingers. "Nor do I need any more complications in my life like the one you're presenting."
Monsieur Albon let out a chuckle. "I was hoping that entering this room despite Mademoiselle Delacour raising the wards was enough demonstration of good faith," he said, inclining his head towards Fleur. "But I will also offer you a vow, Mister Peverell, an Unbreakable Vow that will serve all of us well."
Tristan spun his wand to a stop. "What are your terms?"
"Not only will I swear to destroy all my evidence against you and your father, but I will also do everything in my power to ensure no one else's investigation into what happened in Switzerland last year bears any fruition; afterall, it is rather unlikely that I will remain the only one at the ICW who is able to connect the dots."
Fleur crossed her arms. "And what do you want in return?"
"In return, Mister Peverell swears to work with me for twelve months, starting November this year," Monsieur Albon said. "Once the year is completed, your end of the vow is upheld and you're free to either keep working with me or leave; my vow will be untouched by your decision and stays in effect until the day I die."
Tristan studied those sharp blue eyes but caught no hint of deflection. "Those are rather favorable terms for me. You must be truly desperate."
Monsieur Albon's thin smile slipped. "There is evil in our world, Mister Peverell; with what you're capable of, I am sure you have seen some of it already, but there's plenty more. I will sleep better at night knowing I have someone of your caliber fighting with me. I know you are tempted by what I have to offer –" his eyes flickered to Fleur, "–but your heart is pulling you in a different direction."
"How dare you." Fleur hissed. "You know nothing of Tristan's heart."
"I cannot blame you for how you feel about this ordeal, Mademoiselle Delacour; women do not enjoy seeing the man they love endure danger." Monsieur Albon sighed. "But history shows that wizards of Mister Peverell's caliber cannot hide from the world in some office pushing stacks of paper all day; their power invites challenge regardless of the path they pursue. I can offer him a path that is more... meaningful."
'Meaningful and great.' Tristan felt the soft flare of ambition breathe life into the spark flickering at the center of his breast until it roared and rippled through his veins. It was warm and bright, bright as the awe in the eyes of all those spectators staring down at him from the towering stands of the dueling arena. 'Like I was meant to be.'
He glanced at Fleur sitting stiff as ice beside him, arms locked into a vice. "Fleur." Tristan leaned to her ear, brushing a slim blonde braid aside. "I won't do it if you don't like it. I promise."
She chewed the soft pink flesh of her lower lip, then glanced up at him; her heart hovered in her wide blue eyes, soft and pure, but somewhere within all that beautiful blue lingered just a shadow of fear.
"But you want to do it," Fleur whispered, taking his hand into both of hers and clutching it to her chest. "N'est-ce pas vrai, mon Coeur?"
Tristan gave her a slow nod. "It makes sense; he can keep the ICW off my family and offer me something to do after I graduate." He drew their intertwined fingers to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. "Besides, the vow will only bind me to him for a year."
Fleur studied him for a long moment, her eyes flickering between his and brightening with a little spark. "This is part of who you are, mon Coeur, and I would not love you as much if you were any different." She plugged the slim rosewood wand from the loop at the waist of her skirt. "I will perform and witness the vow."
Monsieur Albon released the long breath he was holding and stood up. "Excellent." He stepped in front of Tristan and thrust out his hand. "This will be the beginning of a great relationship; I can feel it."
'It better be.' Tristan rose and clasped the offered wrist, holding those cool blue eyes. 'Otherwise I'll kill you.'
Fleur smoothed down the front of her skirt as she stood, her knuckles white about her wand. "Do you, Sebastian Albon, swear to destroy any incriminating evidence you have against Tristan Peverell, and to prevent anyone else from investigating him and his family to the best of your ability until the day you die?"
"I do," Monsieur Albon said with a nod.
A ribbon of white flame curved from the tip of the rosewood wand, coiling around their locked wrists like a slim serpent.
Fleur's eyes drifted up to Tristan. "And do you, Tristan Peverell, swear to work with Sebastian Albon for the duration of a year starting in November, and to execute your tasks to the best of your ability?"
"I do," Tristan murmured.
The ribbon sank through their skin, its chill biting deep to the bone, and faded.
"C'est ça." Fleur slipped her wand away. "It is done."
"Très bien." Monsieur Albon retrieved his hand, glancing between them. "I think it's best I be on my way and give the two of you some time alone."
Tristan frowned. "You just swore to throw away over a year's worth of investigation and you're not even curious why we were in Switzerland?"
Monsieur Albon chuckled as he buttoned up his waistcoat. "Mister Peverell, my curiosity in the matter was always limited to whoever defeated an entire squad of the supposedly best wizards and witches the ICW had at its disposal. Whatever... private affair led you to Switzerland, which I assume the attack on the tournament in Stockholm is also connected to, I care little about."
"Do you care whether it was me or my father who defeated your squad?"
Monsieur Albon straightened his collar with a sharp tug. "I think I already know the answer to that."
"Yet you're here talking to me."
"Yes, I am here talking to you, not to your father, because Voldemort pushed your father to the peak of his magical capabilities; it was he who unleashed his full potential, and consequently, with him, some of that potential perished at Hogwarts that fateful day." Monsieur Albon's smile grew thin as a knife's edge. "With you, Tristan, I have a feeling that we've barely witnessed but a hint of what you're truly capable of."