Beyond the tall windows of the headmistress's office, the light of the imminent dawn crept above the white-capped mountain ridges along the horizon, painting the branches of the Forbidden Forest in stripes of pink and orange and gold. Beneath it, the Black Lake lay still and serene, its dark surface veiled by a blanket of soft, fading morning mist.
Tristan drank in all that silent beauty, a strange, hollow distance gaping in his breast. "It's not real," he murmured. "None of it is."
"You are here, my dear boy." Dumbledore's somber voice sounded from above. "You think, you feel, you love and you live as all humans have been before you; that makes it very much real."
'Time you were never meant to have.' D'Artagnan's words seeped through his thoughts, as looming and relentless as the rising sun. 'Children you were never meant to see.'
"But it's all a lie. It was never meant to be this way. Mother and Father should have never met; they should have never had me nor my siblings, and-," Tristan's heart seized and his voice caught on a bitter lump, "-and the girl I love is meant to spend her life with someone else, to carry his children..."
"And yet, through the wonders of magic, your parents did meet each other. They fell in love. They brought you and your siblings into this world," Dumbledore said. "As for Miss Delacour... from everything you have shared with me, she seems very much enamored with you, not with William Weasley. Her feelings for you are just as real as your parents' feelings for each other."
"Under different circumstances, her feelings for Weasley were real too." Tristan's stomach churned in revulsion as the white marquise and bed scattered with rose petals flashed before his mind's eye. "What's to stop it from happening again?"
"Oh to be young and feel love's keen sting." Dumbledore let out a long, soft sigh. "It was not you who prevented Miss Delacour from falling in love with Mr. Weasley. Through her own choices, she came to share her heart with you; why now contemplate what ought to have been when you can simply treasure what you found in her instead, my boy?"
"Easy coming from a portrait."
"I suppose in the end, it is rather easy." Dumbledore glanced past the frames of frozen kittens lining the pink wallpaper, out the window into the rising dawn. "From distant shores, returning to the land he never left..."
"From foreign tides, to face again the foe who fled from Death. Yeah, I know." Tristan ran a tired hand through his hair. "All this time, the answer to it was so obvious; the reason Father never talked about his parents and yet looks so much like Uncle James and Aunt Lily. The reason the wards at Potter Manor and Grimmauld Place recognize me and my siblings. Why Father manipulated the Black family Tapestry when it started acting strange. Why my sister was named after the last Peverell who married into the Potter family... all of it was so obvious all along…"
Dumbledore chuckled into his beard. "If it is any consolation, my boy, I did not recognize the signs for what they were either, despite all the odd circumstances that did not add up; your father's origins of birth, his unusual grasp on magic for his age, or how him and James Potter both owned a Cloak of Invisibility."
"And how do you feel about it now that you know, Sir? Be honest with me."
"How do I feel now?" Shadows rose in those bright blue eyes and that small, sad smile tugged at the corner of Dumbledore's lips; it tugged at Tristan's heart too, a silent weight, soft as settling snow. "Your father believed himself blessed with a unique opportunity, and for that, he saw all means fit. But even with everything we have now revealed, I find that I have no regrets for my actions."
"Why not?"
"Because despite fighting for the same side all along, Harry would have walked down an even darker path had I not intervened the way I did; a path I have already watched two young, gifted wizards walk down before him when I could have prevented it."
"I wonder why Father didn't tell you the truth," Tristan mused. "Obviously, he wanted to protect everyone else, like Mother; it's why she only learned the truth after Croaker revealed it to her, but you didn't need protection, and together, Voldemort would've hardly stood a chance against the two of you. The war might've never broken out..."
Dumbledore stippled his thin fingers and hummed into his beard. "I do have a guess as to why Harry kept the truth from me, and forgive my bluntness, but even my worst guesses tend to turn out to be true."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Alright then. I'm listening."
"I believe your father's distrust in me was rooted in the belief that had I known a child will be born to James and Lily Potter, and had I known that said child will one day defeat Tom for good, then I might have put a premature end to all his endeavors to ensure events take place as they should."
'Countless families were torn apart the first time, Draco.' His father's words trickled through Tristan's thoughts. 'I would do it all again just the same if I had to.'
"And?" He asked. "Would you have stopped him?"
Dumbledore's smile fell. "Your father succeeded; he defeated Tom under great personal sacrifice. But tell me; what if he had failed?"
Tristan shrugged. "Someone else might-"
"But who, Tristan? I was too old to do any more than delay Tom's rise to power, and the James and Lily Potter of our world never gave birth to a baby boy named Harry. Who could have stopped Tom in his stead? You perhaps? Many years later?" Dumbledore shook his head. "While you might be magically capable these days, my boy, I doubt your mother could have hidden your existence from Tom for that long. He would've hunted you because of the threat you would have posed to him one day. And eventually, he would have killed you both." The last hint of that smile wilted like a flower in flame. "How could I justify taking such a risk...?"
Tristan hopped off the desk. "Why contemplate what ought to have been, Professor?" He drew his wand. "Luckily for me, you never got the chance to make a choice."
Dumbledore regarded the tip of the pale elder wand with unwavering calm. "I can imagine what happens next, and I doubt I can change your mind when I could not all those other times we must have talked already, but before you do the inevitable, allow me to give you one more piece of advice, Tristan."
"I'm all ears."
"Go back to your parents and talk to them. Hear their side of the story and give them a chance to explain themselves. Do not forget; your father is the one suffering most from what these Musketeers attempt to do."
Tristan smothered a flare of irritation. "If what Draco Malfoy said is true and they're killing people that shouldn't exist in their world to work some magic and go back, then I'll be suffering quite a bit too should they succeed."
"Yes, you will," Dumbledore whispered. "And throughout our history, when powerful wizards suffered, the innocent suffered with them."
The Musketeers' emblem of crossed golden rapiers flashed as bright and hot as the sun in Tristan's mind's eye. "Only two more people need to suffer for this to end. And I'll make them suffer for everything they did."
"After you talked to your parents, go to France and visit Miss Delacour," Dumbledore murmured. "It is rather obvious that she loves you with all her heart; keeping her secret from you will have hurt her too."
Dry humor burst off Tristan's lips in a low chuckle. "Is that your new strategy now, Professor? Put your faith in Fleur to keep me on the righteous path?"
"There are no plays or schemes here, my boy; I'm just the coloured imprint of an old, long-dead man, who frankly believes Miss Delacour is good for you."
"And I don't believe you, Professor. You played this game for over a century; you're not letting death stop you from playing." He raised his wand. "Obliviate."
Dumbledore closed his eyes, smiling as Tristan washed the memory of their conversation off the canvas like stripes of paint.
He shut the pink curtains flanking the portrait with a flick of his wand. 'But Dumbledore is right about one thing; I need to talk to Father and learn the full story.' Tristan eyed the marble fireplace as he unfroze the kittens in the frames along the walls. 'Too risky, Umbridge might have it monitored by the Ministry.'
Beyond the tall windows, the green canopy of the Forbidden Forest shone almost golden in the hues of the late dawn, drawing in his gaze.
Tristan opened the window; the spring sun bathed his face in warm bright rays and the morning winds tugged at his robes as he groped deep, cocooning himself in a thin layer of magic and disillusioning himself.
'Plan B then...' Tristan stepped off the edge.
And he hovered aloft all the pointed roofs and turrets of Hogwarts, drifting into dawn like fog on the breeze.
'Of course I can still do it.' Shifting his weight, Tristan picked up speed, soaring over the greenhouses and past the smoke spiraling from Hagrid's chimney.
The harsh winds whipped across his face, bringing tears to his eyes, but the sting drowned in the sweet rush of euphoria whispering through his veins, coaxing him on faster and faster.
'Because I was meant to be great.'
Tristan flew along the path leading into Hogsmeade village; a faint veil of wards prickled across his skin like goosebumps.
He lowered himself to the ground and wrenched the world back past him, stepping out onto grey pebbles.
"I said I'm fine, Dobby." Aurelia sat on a log by the shore and watched the sun rise above the lake, hugging her knees to her dark blue jumper. "Now go away, please."
"Dobby must not go away." Dobby shook his head, sending his ears flopping like a bat's wings. "Mistress ordered Dobby to look after the little Mistress and make sure the little Mistress does not fall into the lake."
Aurelia crossed her arms with a huge scowl. "I'm not little, Dobby! I am seven and I swam across the entire lake last summer!" she glowered. "Now leave me alone!"
"Dobby is very sorry, but Dobby must not."
Tristan abandoned his disillusionment charm as he strolled over. "It's alright, Dobby," he called. "I'll look after our little Mistress and make sure she doesn't get wet."
Dobby squirmed, fidgeting with his fingers. "As you wish, Master Tristan, sir." He bowed low and disapparated with a loud crack.
"Why does he listen to you but not to me?!" Aurelia leveled her huge scowl at Tristan. "And I'm not little; I won't get wet!"
"You look pretty little from up here." He spread his arms. "Now, can I get a hug at least?"
Her scowl softened to a delicate pout, and she stomped towards him across the pebbles, wrapping her arms around his waist and clinging on tight.
"Hello, little Lady." Tristan picked her up by the armpits and spun her around, a soft warm glow settled in his heart as she giggled. "How come you're sulking out here all by yourself?"
"I'm not sulking," Aurelia mumbled into his chest. "Everyone else is sulking and being sad and silly. Like Val and Gal. They locked themselves in their rooms again and don't want to play with me, and because Daddy is trying to talk to them, he can't play with me either, and Mommy..."
Tristan smothered a glum suspicion as she fell silent. "What about Mother?" He lowered his sister back to the ground.
Aurelia shuffled her feet. "Mommy's crying all the time," she whispered. "It's worse than when she lost the baby. I asked her to teach me some French earlier, so I could write to Fleur, and she started crying again and went to her room." Aurelia's hold around his waist tightened and she hiccupped. "I only wanted to make her happy and laugh again, but then I made it all worse."
Raw guilt gnawed at Tristan's heart as she started sobbing against him; each warm little tear his little sister spilled into his shirt felt like a rusty cold nail biting deeper through his skin and tearing away at him.
"Shhh, it's okay. You didn't make it worse; I promise." He smothered down Aurelia's golden hair and patted her trembling back. "I'm going to talk to our parents in a bit; they'll be much happier afterward."
'They have no choice but to tell me the truth.' Tristan took a deep breath through the unease and stared across the calm lake. 'And with all the secrets out of the way, we can finally focus on bringing this to an end.'
Inspiration struck him. "You said Valeria and Galahad locked themselves in their rooms?"
Aurelia hiccupped again and nodded into his damp shirt.
"Alright, step back for a second." Tristan drew his wand and gave it a flick. "Accio broom!"
Glass shattered high up in the manor; his Firebolt soared across the shore and slapped into his open palm.
"Ouch." Tristan plucked tiny shards of glass from his skin with a little wince and brushed off the handle. "That's annoying."
"Are you hurt?" Aurelia blurted, smearing her tears away.
"Not yet." He chuckled to himself, watching fresh pink skin stretch across the cuts. "But I will be once Mother finds the broken window." Tristan swung one leg over the broom and crouched low. "Hop on, little Lady."
Aurelia's blue eyes went wide and round as galleons. "You're taking me flying?"
"If you promise to hold on tight."
"You haven't taken me flying in ageees." In a blur of blonde braids, she climbed the broom in front of him, clutching the handle in both hands as she rocked back and forth. "Go, go!"
"One moment." Tristan skidded forwards a tad until he held her securely against his chest. "Alright then. Ready, little passenger?"
"Yes." Aurelia bobbed her head. "Let's go!"
He kicked off the pebbles, rising straight up and spiraling around the manor. Crisp, cool air filled his lungs and Aurelia's bright giggles rang in his ears like music as they swooped across the calm surface of the lake.
"Let's collect our siblings first, shall we?" Tristan spun the broom on its length and soared back to the manor, hovering alongside the turret Valeria's bedroom was in.
"Val!" Aurelia scooted down the handle, banging her small fist against the window. "Val, open up!"
The white curtains were yanked aside and their sister's messy-haired face appeared; she blinked twice, rubbing her eyes, and opened the window. "What in Morgana's name are you two doing?"
"We're flying of course." Tristan grinned and tugged a giggling Aurelia back against his chest to somersault in the air. "Go grab your broom and join us."
Valeria chewed at her bottom lip, then rolled her eyes and sighed. "Fine, I guess." A small smile played on her lips. "Wait a second." She vanished into her bedroom and reappeared with a broom resting on her shoulder, her blonde hair bound in an updo.
"Just don't do anything crazy with our little sister or Mother will give both of us a good spanking," Valeria muttered and kicked off the windowsill. She dived down and looped back up to hover next to them. "So what are we doing?" A faint blush of excitement colored her cheeks. "Are we racing?"
"Next, we collect Galahad." Tristan angled his firebolt and spiraled up the turret across the slate roofs to the other side of the manor. Galahad lay on his bed, throwing a golf ball up against the ceiling and catching it as it dropped.
Tristan maneuvered the broom closer to the window. "Your turn, little Lady."
Aurelia beamed and banged her little fist against the glass. "Galahad!"
Their brother jerked upright and the ball dropped on his forehead. Rubbing the spot with a grimace, he caught sight of them and frowned.
Tristan crooked his finger and pointed at the handle.
Galahad's face fell and he shook his head, mouthing the word locked.
"Father charmed the window shut because Galahad's last few Quidditch drills were a tad too… adventurous," Valeria supplied. "That's why he locked himself in his room in the first place."
"Well, I'm going to un-ground him." Tristan drew his wand and leveled the tip at the handle; his magic seeped through the glass like cool water across ice, wrapping itself around the handle and crushing his father's locking charms beneath iron-clad intent.
'That should do.' He shot Galahad a thumbs up.
Their brother twisted the handle; a huge grin spread across his face as the window opened. "Are we all bolting or what?"
"No, you twit," Valeria snorted. "We're just doing some flying together; go get your broom."
"Pity, but it was worth a shot." Galahad shrugged, disappearing into his bedroom.
"Bring that golf ball you've been playing with," Tristan called after him.
Their brother reappeared with his Firebolt, tossing the ball from left to right as he swung a leg over the handle and drifted out sideways through the window.
"Yeah, yeah we get it... you can show off plenty soon, don't worry." Tristan summoned the golf ball into his palm with a little tug of magic. "Geminio." He tapped it with the tip of his wand.
Nine identical balls popped from the original one, orbiting his hand like tiny moons.
"Valeria-," Tristan spread his fingers and let the batch of balls float to her. "Can you charm these to escape from us?"
"Like a bunch of Golden Snitches." Galahad bobbed his head.
"Whoever catches the most wins!" Aurelia cheered.
"Mhmm... let me give it a try." Valeria drew her wand and closed her eyes, muttering a few incantations under her breath. "This should do it; they won't fly out of bounds and they'll stop escaping once caught."
Aurelia lurched for the ball closest to her. "Mine!"
It dodged her tiny fingers and all ten golf balls soared off in every direction.
"Off you go." Galahad flapped a lazy hand at them and leaned back on his broom, cracking his knuckles. "You'll need the head start."
Tristan took off, giving chase to a ball flying towards the balcony. "Get ready; this one is yours, little lady."
Aurelia leaned forth and stretched out her arm.
Galahad swooped in from above, snatching the ball inches before her face, and corkscrewed back up.
"Hey!" Aurelia cried. "No fair!"
"Tough luck." Tristan laughed and angled his broom toward their mother's garden. "Let's try over here."
A lone golf ball darted past the neat, trimmed green hedges.
He dived down, racing across sprawling flowerbeds of tulips and roses.
Aurelia took a long swipe through the air, missed, and took another. "I got it!" She beamed, raising her fist to flash him a golf ball clutched between her fingers.
"Nice one." Tristan drifted back up high above the manor, circling the perimeter. "See anything else?"
Aurelia stored the caught ball in the pocket of her skirt and skidded a little further down the handle, glancing down her shoulders. "There's two over there!" She thrust her finger at the thicket of willow trees.
Two specks of white hid amidst the swaying green branches Tristan had learned to apparate in two summers ago.
"Those will be tricky to catch with all the trees in the way." He angled the broom down, picking up speed as he swooped across the field. "Ready?"
"Yes!" Aurelia's cheer rang over the howl of the wind.
They dived through the swaying green fronds like waterfalls, dipping low and swooping back up to dodge the arching branches beyond and winding past thick tree trunks like a river bending and twisting through the landscape.
His sister locked her legs around the handle and lay flat on top of it, both arms stretched out, her fingertips twitching inches off each ball.
Tristan leaned in with his full weight, urging the Firebolt just a tad faster through the thicket.
Aurelia's fists closed with a cry of triumph and she jolted back. "I got them!"
He yanked the broom up by the handle, swirling back out through the tree crowns. "Nicely done, little lady."
"That's three already," she cheered, patting her full pocket. "One more and we win."
"Unless Galahad caught five..."
"They're both over there." Aurelia pointed back at the manor.
Galahad and Valeria chased each other around the turrets and slate rooftops, pursuing the same tiny speck of white, watched by a pair of silhouettes standing arm-in-arm at the edge of the balcony.
"Let's go steal it from them now!" Aurelia chirped, rocking on the broom in excitement.
"This one's theirs." Tristan slowed the firebolt to a lazy drift and scooped Aurelia back into his chest. "Who are we rooting for?"
"Val, of course!" his sister cheered. "She didn't steal from us."
"Valeria then." A small fond smile crept onto his lips as he watched his siblings corkscrew and loop around each other in the rising dawn. All the strain and fatigue wearing on his heart like a lead weight melted away in a storm of emotion as warm and bright as the melody of Aurelia's carefree laughter.
'Dumbledore was right.' The storm burst in a hot gush of pure fulfillment like fireworks in his breast. 'All of this is real. How could I ever doubt that?'
But some of that joy wilted, burnt away beneath a fierce twist of desperate determination, fading like the morning mist carpeting the Black Lake as the dawning sun crept above the mountains, shining bright as gold, bright as the emblem of crossed rapiers. 'And how could I ever let someone take this from me?'
Galahad yanked out of a vertical dive, raising his fist in triumph.
Tristan broke the trance and angled the broom down, landing opposite his parents and letting Aurelia dismount; thick, tense silence descended with him upon the balcony like settling snow, stretching longer and longer as he ignored his mother's soft pleading blue eyes and her small wave in greeting.
His father cleared his throat. "Tristan, I think we-"
"Damn it!" Valeria cursed as she touched down on the tiles, her face flushed pink. "I was so close!"
"Not close enough." Galahad hopped off his broom and spun it around his wrist with a smug grin. "That was the last one up there; time to count up, dear siblings."
Aurelia fished the three golf balls out of her pocket and held them up. "We've caught three."
"I've caught two-," Valeria held up hers, glowered at her little brother, "-it could've been four if Gal didn't keep stealing them from straight under my nose."
"Could've... would've..." Galahad shot her a wink. "Use your head start next time." He cackled and fished a total of five golf balls out of his pockets. "Looks like I win."
"Well done." Tristan offered him a proud smile. "Your flying got lots better."
"I've been practicing." Galahad cheer faded a tad as he stared at the broom in his hands. "Not much else to do here. I- I just wish I could play Quidditch again..."
"You will," Tristan murmured, patting him on the back and meeting his father's eye. "Come summer, you'll play again at Hogwarts; just give me a few more weeks to get rid of the fat toad, yeah?"
Galahad snorted and glanced up. "You promise?"
The faint spark of hope in his brother's eyes tugged Tristan's heart like Dumbledore's small, melancholic smile.
"I promise, little brother." He ruffled Galahad's hair. "Now, can you two take the little lady for a spin, please?"
"We'll take her." Valeria took their sister's hand, "-and we'll be extra careful," she added as their mother opened her mouth. "You go have a chat with our parents."
'Time for the truth.' Tristan steeled himself and walked across the balcony. "Mother... Father..."
"Hello, son." His mother shot him a teary, trembling smile. "Thank you for that... I have not seen them so happy since..."
"I didn't come here to catch golf balls."
"No." She nodded. "You came to learn the truth; and we will share it with you."
"Lead the way then," Tristan said, holding his father's eyes and the deep dark shadows twisting in them. "Unless you want to do this out here in the open?"
"We can go to my office," his father murmured, heading back inside the manor and up the flight of stairs to the third floor.
The lock clicked shut behind Tristan as he entered.
Among the many pictures of himself, his parents, and his siblings, dead people waved and smiled from within frames along the walls; Potters and Blacks and McKinnons.
"Perhaps, before we tell you everything, and I do promise we will-," his father took a seat behind his desk and conjured a chair for Tristan's mother, "you could tell us what happened after you-"
"That's not how this is going to go." Tristan tore his eyes away from a photograph of himself and Fleur dancing at the Yule ball. "I've waited two years for this; you can wait a few more minutes." He took a seat. "Now tell me everything, Father, you can start with your name; your real name."
"Alright." His father took a deep breath. "My name is Harry James Potter. I was born on July 31st, 1980."
"Two years after me..." A small shudder swept through Tristan, leaving all the hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. "So it's true, all of it... you're James and Lily's son."
"I was at some point," he murmured. "But I'm not here."
"Why did you come here?"
"I never intended to", Tristan's father whispered. "It was an accident. At the time, I just finished my studies in Switzerland and returned to England to start at the Department of Mysteries. One moment, I was trying to fix a broken time-turner, the next, I found myself thirty years in the past with nothing but the clothes on my back and not even a name to myself."
"Why not go back again then?" Tristan frowned. "Defeating Voldemort can't have been easy the first time around. Why do it all over again?"
"I didn't have the slightest clue on how to go back and I never even thought about it." A soft gleam rose on those bright green eyes, swallowing the dark shadows one by one. "But I knew... I knew that this was a chance to change everything."
"Like saving Mother?"
His father's eyes flickered to her, softening. "At first, I only thought of the family that was robbed from me. But then I met your mother on the Hogwarts Express, and despite her rather harsh rebuff of my advances, I knew from that single encounter alone that I was going to stop whatever happened to her the first time."
A choked little laugh escaped Tristan's mother. "I remember, love." She took his father's hand in hers, raising them to her lips. "I thought you were James playing one of his silly pranks."
'So they really simply fell in love. Just as Dumbledore said.'
"Who are the Musketeers?" Tristan asked. "Start with Isabella Flint."
The shadows rose back up in his father's eyes, soaked in sorrow. "With me here, everything changed. Most of it was for the better, but through some of my actions, some fates changed irrevocably," he whispered. "I never met Isabella Flint before, I didn't even know she existed, and so I didn't believe her Mother, Elladora, when she told me she was pregnant that night."
'Everything the Peverells took from us, we're taking back.' Before the eye of Tristan's mind, Flint smiled a small, cold smile as she choked on crimson. 'All the suffering, all the pain. Starting with what it feels like to lose your unborn baby.'
A little revulsion stirred in Tristan's stomach. 'They killed a mother and her unborn child.' He smothered the rising feeling. 'But it was war; kill or be killed. And Father's not lying; they truly didn't know.'
"What about Draco Malfoy?"
His father exhaled. "My first school rival where I'm from, born to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but with Lucius dead..."
'Narcissa did say they were almost engaged before Arcturus broke things off in hopes for a match with Father...'
"What about the third Musketeer?" Tristan demanded. "You recognized them when I mentioned the Devil's Snare killing Sirius."
"Neville," his father whispered. "Neville Longbottom."
"Longbottom?" he echoed.
"After Lucius' Death, his father Abraxas remarried to sire another heir. At that wedding, Voldemort killed Frank Longbottom."
"And the last one?" Tristan asked. "He's related to us via the Blacks, isn't he? He is a Metamorphmagus like Nymphadora Tonks."
His father nodded. "Teddy." He swallowed hard, his expression dark and sombre and sad. "Teddy Remus Lupin. He was my... my godson."
'Edward Tonks, Nymphadora's father, and Remus Lupin, the werewolf.'
"They should be dead, the Musketeers; all of them should be dead," Tristan muttered. "How are they here?"
"I don't know." His father ran a hand through his hair with a tired sigh. "I swear it on my magic, Tristan, I don't know how they got here. But I can imagine what they're planning."
'With what we've found in the Department of Mysteries, I will see them all again soon.' Draco's dying words seeped into D'Artagnan's whispers. 'Perhaps we won't even need your father's death; yours, Tristan Peverell, might just suffice already.'
"Draco said that they were close to finishing, that he would see his wife and children soon..." Tristan murmured. "If everyone they attacked is someone that died in their world, someone not meant to be here, then perhaps each death powers whatever they're planning, like a sacrifice.
"Whatever this ritual is, it cannot happen." His father said, clasping Tristan's mother's hand. "These worlds cannot coexist, so restoring their world..."
"-means our must vanish." Tristan finished. "I will never let that happen," he swore under his breath, crushing the cold fist of panic seizing his heart in a vice-like grip beneath iron determination. "I will wipe the last two Musketeers away like I promised."
"Last two?" His mother's blonde brows drew together into a frown. "But Fleur-"
"Is not one of them!" he snapped.
His parents exchanged a long look. "We know Fleur is not one of the Musketeers, Tristan, and we are truly sorry for how we treated her," her mother murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, "-but that woman she mentioned..."
"-is dead," Tristan said. "Fleur killed her."
His parents' jaws dropped. "What?"
"Victoire-," her name tasted foul as ash on Tristan's tongue, "-didn't know about the other Musketeers. She was acting by herself when she tried to take Fleur's place in the Triwizard Tournament and go to England." He smothered a flash of Fleur dancing arm-in-arm with Weasley, twirling beneath the great white marquise in her wedding dress. "She probably would've killed me next so her future is secured wherever she came from."
A long silence filled the office.
His father looked grave and solemn. "That explains why your Fleur is so different from the one I knew. I doubt mine would've ever killed her own-"
A foot stomped beneath the table and he fell silent with a grimace.
"Whoever that woman was," Tristan's mother murmured, "-she was not Fleur's daughter. You understand that, Tristan, right?"
He stared at the picture of himself and Fleur dancing and kissing forever at the Triwizard Yule ball; a bittersweet little pain came flooding with all the memories; the feel of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the echo of all those promises whispered in moments of gentle passion.
Gentle fingers brushed along his forearm. "We wrote to you these last few weeks, but when you did not return our letters, we wrote to Fleur, too; she has not returned them either." His mother cupped his cheek. "Tristan, have you talked to her since...?"
"No," he admitted, blinking away the threat of tears. "I... I needed some time to process everything."
"This was one of the many reasons why we struggled to tell you, son." His father whispered. "We have never seen you happier than last summer with Fleur. How could we jeopardize our own child's happiness?"
"No." Tristan swallowed hard. "I'm glad you finally told me the truth." He wiped his cheeks "Now I just need to come to terms with it."
"Nothing has changed, my son, we are still your parents, and Fleur is still the exact same girl you fell in love with." His mother pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Go to France, find her, talk to her. Her secret has been eating away at her just as it did to us."