The dungeons held the heavy scent of crushed roots, simmering elixirs and damp stone. Torchlight flickered over workstations lined with bubbling cauldrons spewing thick fumes to the low, dark arched stone ceiling, and students bustled to and from the ingredient cabinets in the back of the class.
Tristan skimmed the instructions for his Strengthening Solution, flipping to the next page of Advanced Potion-Making.
'Add three measures of powdered griffin bone.'
He weighed some powdered griffin bone on his small silver scale with due diligence and tipped it into the swirling purple liquid. The potion absorbed it with a faint hiss, its fume shifting lighter.
'That looks about right.' Tristan gave it a few slow stirs, keeping his eyes on the mixture until it reached the telltale shimmer described in the book. He perused the next instruction. 'Add one measure of salamander scales and one of Mugwort, and mix them together in counterclockwise stirs of seven.'
Tristan sprinkled a handful of scales and Mugwort into the cauldron, watching the fine dust sink and lighten the brew to a bright pink as he stirred the wooden ladle in slow, smooth counter-clockwise rotations; the potion settled into a slow simmer and a thick scent of charred herbs rose with the steam.
A muffled snicker broke his focus.
In the back of the dungeon, the Weasley twins hunched over their cauldron, their robes dusted with a fine layer of various powders. George stirred a huge wooden ladle in lazy, careless circles with both hands, chuckling to himself, and Fred tossed one ingredient after the next into the cauldron, one eye on the charmed quill scribbling across a scroll of parchment on their desk.
Their potion – a thick dark tar – frothed and bubbled, drawing wary glances from the rest of the class.
'That looks like it might go off any second.' Tristan scooped up his ingredients in one arm and moved his cauldron to a workstation further away from the twins.
Slughorn's chair groaned as he heaved himself upright and put aside a box of crystallized fruit. "Messrs. Weasley!" the potions master cried, waddling through the dungeons. "Are you two abusing the school's resources for one of your pranks again?"
Fred nudged the quill and parchment into his bag. "That's a groundless accusation, Professor." He poured a generous amount of dragon blood into the bubbling brew, his grin brightening. "We are merely experimenting with some ingredients to... uhm improve the original recipe. But don't you worry, sir. All glory shall be shared between the three of us; you taught us after all."
"You don't say," Slughorn muttered, dry as dust, and peered into their cauldron. "I hope that color is a trick of the light, Mr. Weasley."
"It is, Professor," George said, straight-faced as he stirred. "Terrible lighting down here in the dungeons, really. No wonder the Slytherins are always in a foul mood any time we visit them."
Slughorn sighed. "This is meant to be a Strengthening Solution, not—Merlin knows what abomination you've two concocted." He prodded the cauldron with his wand, sniffed at the thick dark fumes, and recoiled. "Oh Merlin, tell me you didn't use—"
"We probably did," Fred grinned.
"Go, take it off the heat!" Slughorn cried, waving his free hand. "Quick, before you intoxicate the lot of us!"
The twins grabbed their cauldron and heaved it off the fire as the class snickered.
Tristan turned back to his potion and lowered the flame beneath the cauldron with a flick of his wand, consulting the instructions in his book as the faint steam rose and dissipated. 'Once the surface has stilled, cut up a foot's length of ironwood sprigs into thin slices no wider than an eighth of an inch and add them one at a time.'
He took the small yew-handled knife. 'This is where I'll deviate, too.' Tristan pressed the sprigs beneath the flat of his blade, grinding them into a fine pulp and collecting the juices in the groove of his cutting board. 'I only need the juice; no need to waste time chopping them up.'
A broad shadow fell over his desk as he poured the extract into the cauldron and the dark residue sank, swirling into its depths.
"Oh ho! Now, that is a trick I have seen before a handful of times," Slughorn waddled around the workstation. "I'd always wondered whether it was Lily or your father who originally came up with it. Perhaps they derived it together?" His belly shook as he chuckled. "They did get along quite well once the ice was broken."
"It was probably Lily," Tristan murmured, extinguishing the flame with a flick of his wand. "No disrespect to you, Professor, but my father harbors little love for potions."
"Ah, I know, I know." Slughorn waved off his apology. "While a talented brewer indeed, Harry always showed a far greater knack for... different fields of magic." His smile slipped a fraction. "Much like you, actually, m'boy; you are fantastic evidence for the hypothesis that magical affinities and abilities are passed down through blood."
"My siblings and I speak Parseltongue, Professor," Tristan said. "Shouldn't that make us living proof?"
Slughorn threw his head back and chortled. "Yes, although I'd always wondered how exactly Slytherin's gift..." The hint of a shadow rose in Slughorn's light green eyes and he shook his head. "Anyway, that's not the magical mystery I wish to discuss with you today."
Tristan perked up. "News from your contact in the Department, sir?"
Slughorn placed a finger on his lips and offered him an exaggerated wink. "Continue the excellent work and stay a moment after class, will you, m'boy?" He tottered back to his desk.
"Yes, Professor." Tristan corked a vial of his strengthening solution and tidied up the workstation, leaning back in his chair and watching the rest of the class bustle about the dungeon to finish their potions on time.
'Slughorn finally pulls through.' A soft satisfaction swelled in his breast soothing the restlessness stirring and swirling beneath his heart as he spun his wand through his fingers. 'First, I'll secure that internship and figure out what the Musketeers have done in the Department of Mysteries. Then, I'll wipe them all away like I promised.'
The bell chimed.
"That's it, everyone, time's up!" Slughorn called. "Please hand in a sample for me to grade. That goes for you too, Messrs. Weasley. I hope you left enough for me to grade and didn't already drink your abomination, or worse, boxed it all up to sell it as a get-out-of-exams pass to some poor first-year."
The class snickered. Fred swaggered to the front and added a slim vial of thick black liquid to the cluster of corked pink potions on Slughorn's desk.
Slughorn spared the brew a flat look. "Are you positive you want me to grade this, Mr. Weasley?"
"We're not too fussed about one assignment, sir," George said. "It'll hardly carry any weight after we both ace our potion NEWTs next week."
Slughorn's mustache twitched. "No doubt you will. Off you go then, everyone. Enjoy your evening, and good luck with your examinations!"
Tristan took his time packing away his things as the class filed out, laughing and chattering.
Slughorn shut the door behind Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Jones with a flick of his wand and summoned a dark, wax-sealed glass bottle and two goblets from his office. "Ah, just what I need after a long day of teaching." He melted back into his fluffy armchair with a soft sigh. "Some oak-matured mead for you too, Tristan?"
Shouldering his bag, Tristan approached the desk and took a seat. "Depends on what we're celebrating, sir?"
Slughorn chuckled. "Astute as ever, m'boy." He poured them two generous cups. "You are correct to assume that I have heard back from my contact within the Unspeakables. They want to get a better impression of what you seek from an internship with them."
"They didn't outright refuse me, so that's good news then." Tristan accepted one cup, offering a bright smile in return as he inhaled the rich scent of mead wafting in between them. "Thank you, Professor. For your endeavors."
Slughorn shrugged off the gratitude. "Nonsense, m'boy, it's my responsibility as your Head of House to help you secure the best possible start of a career." A faint gleam rose in his pale green eyes as he raised his glass for a toast and took a long sip, licking his lips. "I suggest you let me facilitate a meeting the day of your graduation; you'll have a clear head once you're done with all your NEWT examinations."
"Sounds good." Tristan nodded and took a few sips, savoring the sweetness of the mead on his tongue. 'That's much later than I'd hope, but at least we're finally making progress again.'
Slughorn eyed him over the brink of his cup. "You don't seem as excited as I'd expected about the prospect of working in the Department, m'boy. You haven't had a sudden... change of heart due to a certain Mademoiselle from across the channel, have you?"
'No, my heart hasn't changed, and neither has Fleur's.' A warm glow spread through Tristan's breast, soft and gentle as her embrace, lifting his spirit. 'The opposite, really; Fleur agreed to let me do something meaningful.'
The potions master's plump fingers blurred before his face. "Tristan?"
He blinked. "I am very excited, sir, I just don't want to get my hopes up too early," Tristan said. "They agreed to meet me because they're curious, not to decide on a starting date."
"Well, a meeting is more than any other graduate has been granted since your parents and Lily left this school." Slughorn refilled his goblet and swirled it in his hand. "I'm sure the Unspeakables recognize your potential, m'boy; it's not every day a Triwizard winner and dueling champion comes knocking at their door, and if your NEWT results will be anything close to your OWLs, you won't have to hide those either."
Tristan inclined his head and raised his cup. "As Fred Weasley put it so eloquently; all glory shall be shared; you taught me after all."
"Hah!" Slughorn tipped his head back and barked in laughter, chins wobbling. "You're a cheeky lad, m'boy." He chuckled and hid a burp behind a cough, turning a little pink in the face. "I can't take credit for all of it, of course, but if none of your accomplishments convince them, you can always charm them until they give in; worked wonders with me."
"I thought you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart, sir? Surely there'd be no need to charm you then?"
Slughorn's grin slipped an inch. "Well, yes, I did mean what I said of course, but still... manus manum lavat, one hand washes the other, as the Romans used to say."
'Why are you really helping me?' Tristan caught those pale green eyes and brushed his thoughts, faint and subtle and soft as settling snow.
Beyond those shadows swirling in Slughorn's irises churned a bitter guilt and a touch of dread lingered. 'You want to do better by me than you did with Tom and my father. The former you helped too much but couldn't capitalize on it; the latter you helped too little and now have no leverage...'
Slughorn swallowed and glanced at his watch. "Would you look at the time! You best get going if you still want to catch a bite in the Great Hall, m'boy."
"You're right, Professor," Tristan murmured and rose from his chair. "Thank you for the drink; I'm sure I'll find a way to return your kindness one day."
"Yes... yes, naturally." Slughorn bobbed his head, refilling his drink again. "Good luck with your examination, m'boy."
Tristan made his way up through the dungeons, following the noise to the Great Hall and slipping past the giant twin oak doors.
"The Shield Charm protects its caster from incoming spells by conjuring a magical barrier," Professor Flitwick chirped from the platform raised at the center of the hall, swarmed by a sea of students from all years. "Albeit being a purely defensive tool, unlike the spell deflection technique, it can still be used to great effect in dueling. A quick demonstration will..."
'Too late for dinner; dueling club's here already.' Tristan spun on his heel. 'To the kitchens then.'
"Mr. Peverell!" Flitwick's called. "Mr. Peverell, wait!"
'Damn it.' Tristan cursed under his breath and glanced over his shoulder; the Great Hall stared back at him with wide, curious eyes, hushed in silence.
"I require some assistance demonstrating the Shield Charm, Mr. Peverell," Flitwick called from the platform. "I doubt there's anyone more qualified than you, given your recent achievements..."
'There's plenty keener than me.' Tristan let out a long breath. "I don't really have time for this, sir; I'm sitting my NEWTs next week."
"No worries." The charms master waved him closer. "It'll barely take a few minutes if we hurry."
'Fine.' Tristan walked through the murmurs of his peers and hushed whispers from younger students toward the platform, climbing the set of narrow steps. "What do you need me to do, sir?"
"Conjure your strongest shield, please. I shall probe it with a few simple spells, nothing as serious as you've-" Flitwick cleared his throat. "Nothing harmful at all. If you would go to the other side, please."
Tristan strode along the podium, tracked by curious and awed faces, and slipped his wand into his palm. Reaching for his magic, he drew a sharp semicircle before his chest.
A veil of white sprang up before him, pulsing with power. Its brilliant light gleamed in the polished wood of the platform and the smooth stones of the Great Hall's walls, brighter than all the candles floating overhead.
The crowd fell dead silent and stared.
"Now, you didn't hear Mr. Peverell say an incantation because experienced duelists prefer to cast their spells silently, but what you see here is a well-cast Protego," Flitwick explained, drawing his short wand. "Ready, Mr. Peverell?"
Tristan gave a brief nod. "Yes, sir."
Flitwick's wand snapped up, firing a flurry of schoolyard hexes. They splashed against Tristan's shield in washes of color and fizzled out like sparks of a bonfire.
The charms master lowered his arm. "As you can all see, a properly cast Shield Charm can repel all simple spells. With enough power and skill, as I am certain Mr. Peverell possesses, it can even withstand almost all magic but the three Unforgivables. May I cast a few stronger curses, Mr. Peverell?"
"Do your worst."
Flitwick drew himself up and raised his wand.
The doors to the Great Hall burst open, its oak panels slamming against the stone walls.
Uncle James marched inside, wand in hand, sporting tight crimson robes and flanked by two tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired twins in matching uniforms. McGonagall scurried after them, trailed by Umbridge struggling to keep their pace in her heels.
"James, be reasonable, please," McGonagall pleaded, catching up at the foot of the platform. "There is no need to make such a scene."
"Minerva-" Umbridge panted, out of breath and flushed pink, but with a broad smirk plastered across her squat face, "-let Captain Potter perform his sworn duty."
'Sworn duty?' Tristan lowered his shield and slipped his wand back up his sleeve, watching Flitwick climb down from the platform. 'What's going on here?'
"What is the meaning of all this, Minerva?" the charms master asked.
McGonagall shot a stern look at James.
"Sorry for interrupting, Filius, but I'm afraid the dueling club's canceled for tonight," James said, his hard hazel eyes flickering from Tristan to Flitwick and back. "Please get the students out of here."
The Great Hall didn't move an inch and watched with bated breath.
Umbridge touched the tip of her shirt, thick wand to her neck and cleared her throat. "Hem, hem. You've heard Captain Potter, children-" her sugar-laced voice boomed from every corner, "-back to your common rooms or there will be detention." That broad smirk latched onto Tristan like a leech as he approached the steps. "Oh no, Mr. Peverell, you are staying up there."
The body of students broke out in hectic whispers as they squeezed out, pointing fingers and craning their necks to stare at Tristan. Flitwick shut the doors behind them and plunged the Great Hall into thick, tense silence.
"Evening, James," Tristan murmured, a grim suspicion crawling down his spine. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"This isn't a social visit," James muttered. "Step off the stage, please; we're going to the Ministry."
Tristan frowned. "Are you at least going to tell me why?"
James' jaw twitched. "For questioning on the murder of Sirius, Alphard, and Violetta Black."
A stunned silence filled the Great Hall, stretching.
'He knows it was me at Saint Mungo's.' Tristan smothered a slim trickle of trepidation. "I don't know what's got you so upset right now, James, but I'm sure we can talk about it here."
"Upset?" James echoed, brimming with rage. "An hour ago, I cut down Isolde from the rope she'd taken her own life with. In the note she was clutching in her dead fist, it said a life without her husband and children wasn't worth living any longer. I'm done bloody talking. Get down here, now, and hand over your wand!"
'Isolde is dead too. Another person sacrificed for the Musketeers' world.' A thick tangle of sour frustration and bitter guilt churned in Tristan's stomach as he slipped the smooth length of cool elder into his palm. "I've been through so much with this wand it almost feels like a part of me," he murmured, watching the dark runes carved into the wood chase themselves around the handle. "I'm sure you understand I'd rather not hand it over..."
One of the red-haired Aurors let out an impatient groan. "Merlin's sake, Potter, the kid hasn't even sat his damn NEWTs yet. Get up there and take his bloody wand already or I'm going to do it myself."
Some of that frustration loosened, simmering into a slim flare of anger rising in Tristan's heart. "I don't know who you are, but I'd suggest you don't try that."
The Auror exchanged a puzzled look with his twin, then barked in laughter. "My wife actually mentioned you a few times, Peverell; international Triwizard dueling champion or whatever, big deal. Listen, lad, this won't turn out like one of your fancy competitions, alright."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Your wife...?
"Narcissa."
"Ah, you must be Gideon Prewett then," Tristan murmured, his lips twitching. "Narcissa patched me up after I had a little accident last summer. In return, I'll go easy on you."
Gideon chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, you're a cocky little prick, aren't you?"
Tristan crooked his finger at him. "Come up here and get to know me. If you manage to take my wand, I'll be a good boy and do as I'm told. If not, we're dealing with this here at Hogwarts. Deal?"
"You know what?" Gideon shrugged and took a step forward. "You're on, Peverell."
James seized him by the shoulder, glowering at Tristan. "Don't let him bait you," he whispered under his breath. "We stick to the plan and take him to the Ministry."
Gideon snorted. "You do that right after I've taken that bloody wand." He strode past, climbing up the platform. "This brat clearly needs a lesson Hogwarts hasn't taught him yet."
A soft, little thrill of excitement whispered through Tristan's veins, sharpening his scenes. "Do I have your word that we'll talk things out here at Hogwarts if I win?"
"Aye, lad, you've got my word." Gideon grinned. "Now let's see if you can back up that big mouth of yours." His wand snapped up. "Expelliarmus!"
The elder wand slipped from Tristan's grip.
He thrust out his hand, tugging with every drop of magic. The wand zipped back halfway down the stage and slapped into Tristan's open palm, veiled in whispering swirls of ink black vapor.
The grin trickled off Gideon's face like cheap paint. "What the actual fuck...?"
Tristan swept his wand up. Black mist burst from his wrists, a shrieking, pitch-black storm of jagged hooks that shredded his sleeves to tatters and howled across the platform.
Gideon's eyes widened and he leaped aside, firing a flurry of bright orange curses.
Tristan let the first two sizzle past his cheek and wrenched his arm around, crushing the following ones in the storm.
A bright silver barrier sprang up before Gideon.
The mist struck it like a swarm of furious serpents, creeping across like ice spreading down a windowpane. It sank razor-sharp nails and claws into the shield, yanking for the crimson robes beyond.
"Fuck!" Panic rose in Gideon's eyes and he grabbed his trembling wand with both hands. "What the fuck is that magic?!"
"It's mine," Tristan murmured, reaching deeper still, groping past the frustration and anger to the raw hatred barred beneath his heart.
And within that sea of churning hatred, the light died in Dorea's soft gray eyes as the killing curse struck her, and his mother cradled a small, bloodied bundle to her chest, her screams of despair slicing Tristan's heart to ribbons.
He wrung his wrist and closed his fist, tight and taut as the devil's snare coiled around Sirius' neck.
Gideon's shield shattered like glass, knocking him to his knees.
Tristan clawed his magic back in a whispering, swirling rush of ebony. "Expelliarmus." He caught the wand in his left hand, sweet satisfaction tugging at his lips.
Gideon hurled a mouthful of crimson and flopped onto his face.
"Gid!" Fabian stormed the stage and kneeled next to his wheezing brother, glaring at Tristan and slipping his wand into his palm. "What the fuck did you curse him with?"
"That wasn't a curse." Tristan met the fury in those narrowed blue eyes with a thin, cold smile. "I held back for his wife's sake." He spun his wand through the cool haze of black magic. "I won't hold back with you."
A loud bang shook the Great Hall.
"Enough – this is a bloody school, for Merlin's sake!" McGonagall snapped. "Fabian, take your brother upstairs to Poppy. Mr. Peverell, get down here; you and James will talk in the antechamber so we can finally get this brutish hogwash over with."
"But Minerva-" Umbridge puffed out her chest, her smirk widening. "Peverell just attacked an Auror acting in his legal capacity for the Ministry of Magic," she breathed. "We must not let this go unpunished."
Tristan caught her mouse-brown eyes as he leaped off the platform. 'You're annoying.' He smashed their thoughts together, hammering through, grinding that ugly gleam in her smirk to shreds.
Umbridge staggered and winced, clutching her nose; red trickled through her fat, trembling fingers, dripping onto her pink cardigan and stilettos.
McGonagall scrutinized her with a frown. "You seem to have yet another one of your episodes, Dolores. I am sure Poppy can give you something for it once she's taken a look at Gideon." She snapped her fingers at James and Tristan. "You two, off to the antechamber. Now."
James ground his teeth, muscles twitching along his jaw. "Fine." He turned sharp on his heel. "Follow me."
Tristan offered a tight-lipped McGonagall a brief nod and strode past Fabian levitating his brother off the stage. He entered the small antechamber after James, a strange sense of déjà-vu falling upon him. 'This is where I talked to Fleur for the first time.'
James locked the door with a flick of his wand and froze every portrait along the walls, pacing back and forth and cursing under his breath. "You're damn lucky Gideon was foolish enough to fall for your bait."
"You could've told him I have some experience." Tristan leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, fighting a small smile. "Instead, I took him back to school."
James whirled. "Where did you even learn that kind of magic?" His frown deepened. "In Stockholm? Or did Harry teach you?"
'Neither.' Purple runes burst before the eye of his mind and liquid fire poured through his veins in searing stabs of agony. 'I got that through all the rituals.'
"I've told you it's my magic, a part of me. It can't be learned."
James' expression darkened. "In over fifteen years as an Auror, I've never seen anything like it," he muttered.
"Are we here to chat about my magic?"
"No," James muttered. "Where were you the day Sirius was murdered?"
"In France, at Fleur's parents' estate."
"I know the Delacour Beltane Ball was the night before that," James said. "Umbridge has all fireplaces monitored."
"You're working with her now?"
"She told me the one in Slughorn's office wasn't used again until the evening after the Ball, which is when you were first seen again having dinner in the Great Hall, too."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Yes... because I slept in that day and spent it in France with Fleur."
"Can anyone besides your veela girlfriend attest to that?"
A flicker of heat licked at Tristan. "Her name is Fleur."
"Not that day, it wasn't," James returned. "You and Fleur infiltrated Saint Mungo's in disguise. I know it wasn't Regulus and his wife because they were with me and Lily at the time."
Tristan shot him a long look. "You really think I'd sneak into Saint Mungo's to murder my own godfather and his children?"
"I don't know what you're capable of, Tristan, but the truth is you have a motive; with Sirius' death, all of the Black family inheritance will eventually pass to you."
"Wow, so now it's just Father left in the way." Tristan scoffed. "Should I go kill him next?"
"I saw a memory of what happened at Saint Mungo's," James said. "You didn't use that strange black spell, but I can still count the number of wizards capable of wandless magic on one hand."
Tristan sighed. "I didn't kill Sirius, James."
"I know you didn't kill him; some other visitor was seen bringing in the Devil's Snare." James studied him with sharp hazel eyes. "But you still sneaked in to meet another patient, probably the one that was found dead but none cared about that day." His frown deepened. "According to his file, he was an Unspeakable when your parents and Lily did their internship."
"This is ridiculous," Tristan snorted. "I have no idea who you're talking about."
James' eyes flashed. "You think it's ridiculous that my mother, my aunt, my uncle, and now Sirius and his entire family were murdered?!"
"I lost Dorea too, and Arcturus and Melania, and Sirius. I lost my unborn baby sister." Tristan smothered the churning guilt. "What's ridiculous is that we're in here bickering about it instead of putting an end to the people who are responsible for it."
An angry red flush crept up James' cheek. "You think I'm not trying to do that?" he snapped. "It's you and your family who still refuse to work with me. You're hiding in your manor behind your bloody wards while the rest of us are getting slaughtered one by one like fucking sheep!"
'This isn't going anywhere.' Tristan swallowed the fire in his retort and took a deep breath. 'I need to get him off my case and on my side.'
"Look, James, I don't agree with what my parents are doing; that's why I'm still here at Hogwarts and not hiding at home," he said. "And I'll work with you; not with the Ministry, only with you, because I have a plan to stop this."
James took a step back, eying him full of suspicion. "What plan?"
"What do all the Musketeer's victims have in common so far?"
"They're close to your family, mine, or the Blacks."
"Exactly. We can use that to get them out in the open again; we can set them a trap they can't resist."
"No. Never!" James growled. "I won't use my family as fucking bait for you!"
Tristan swallowed his frustration. "Of course we can't use them as bait," he divulged. "If we put our families on a pedestal the Musketeer will only grow suspicious of it." An idea struck like lightning. "But an event that our families were all going to attend regardless, like my graduation and your daughter's OWL award ceremony in two weeks..."
James' eyes widened. "Magnolia," he whispered, swallowing hard. "No. No, Tristan, I cannot risk her for this."
"Are you going to forbid her to attend and lock her away like my parents are doing to Galahad and Valeria?" Tristan challenged. "Magnolia was going to attend anyway, and you knew she was at risk already; the only thing that's changed is that now, we can use it to our advantage. This is a chance to finally end this once and for all."
James turned, breathing hard as he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. "Will your parents be there too?"
"One of them might; the other will probably stay at home with my siblings," he admitted.
James grimaced at his feet. "I'd rather Harry and Marlene were both there." His eyes flickered back up to meet Tristan's. "If you've encountered these Musketeers several times already and always fought them to a stalemate... We'll probably need their help; there's four of them left still."
'No, there isn't.' Tristan stifled a flash of pride. 'I've already killed half of them; there's only two more left.'
"We can always invite a few more wands without raising suspicion," he suggested. "Regulus, Gideon and Fabian... anyone with close ties to our families that would accept an invitation to your daughter's ceremony regardless."
"I don't know about this, Tristan." James ran a hand through his unruly hair and let out a sigh. "It sounds like it could go horribly wrong."
"Don't decide now," Tristan murmured. "Take a few days and think about it; if you have a better idea on how to stop the killing, I'm all ears. But until then, I'm going to follow through with my plan."