HP: Panem et Circenses

September 6th, 1996

'A wand, a cloak, a stone.' Tristan cupped his parents' dark amulet, tracing his family's sigil with the edge of his thumb. 'A story about the pitfalls of arrogance, or Death's gifts?'

In the corner of his eye, a paper aircraft took off and soared over the heads of his peers, dodging their slaps and circling the sunlit classroom once.

"A sickle for anyone who strikes it without magic!" one Weasley twin laughed, steering the plane with his wand through the rows of jumping and cheering students. "Two sickles if you catch it."

The airplane burst into flames and crumbled to a small pile of ashes on the teacher's desk.

"Good afternoon, class." A high, girlish voice carried across the classroom.

All eyes snapped to the front; Umbridge strode out of her office, dressed in her pink cardigan, wand in hand, and a broad smile plastered on her face.

The students flopped back into their seats, some muttering a greeting in return.

"Tut, tut, that won't do." She vanished the ashes off her desk. "Let's try that again. Good afternoon, class."

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chorused back.

"Much better. Wands away and quills out, please."

Tristan slipped his amulet back to Fleur's locket beneath his shirt and combed through his bag for ink and parchment.

"Welcome to your new class, Wizarding Decorum." Umbridge jabbed her short, thick wand at a piece of chalk; it zipped to the blackboard, drawing bright white letters to the scratch of their quills.

"Today is your first of a series of weekly lessons, each scheduled to guide adolescent witches and wizards into becoming responsible, well-behaved, and contributing members of our society once their education is completed."

Tristan raised an eyebrow at the copied words. 'Well, that sounds promising...'

"Have you all purchased a copy of A Return To Tradition by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge."

"Very good," Umbridge simpered and attached her wand to her belt. "For today, please turn to page five and begin reading the first chapter."

A hand shot in the air in the first row.

"Do you have a question, Miss...?"

"Angelina Johnson. Is attendance mandatory for this class, Professor?" the Gryffindor asked. "I wasn't told I'd be attending extra lessons when I picked my NEWT schedule last term, so I'm not sure I can fit them in."

Nods and murmurs of agreement washed over the rows.

"I can assure you that my class is of utmost importance, Miss Johnson." Umbridge's broad smile sharpened a fraction. "As such, attendance has been deemed compulsory by the Educational Department of the Ministry of Magic."

Johnson frowned. "But-"

"Your Head of House will help you reschedule any conflicts in your timetable." Umbridge cut her off, staring them all down like a fat toad eyeing a cluster of juicy flies. "For now, I'm asking you to turn to page five in your book and begin reading the first chapter."

'Not one for back-talking, huh?' Tristan lowered his head like the rest of his peers and flipped through the pages of his book. 'I need to know more about why she's here. Someone else has to provoke her a tad further...'

In the corner of his eye, he caught another raised hand at the front.

Umbridge heels clicked closer over the stone tiles. "Does your question concern the first chapter, Mr. Weasley?"

The twins exchanged a glance. "No, not really."

"No?" Her voice carried the merest suggestion of a laugh. "Well, since we're reading the chapter right now, you can simply wait until the end of the lesson."

"We're wondering what we're actually going to do and learn in here?" One twin frowned down at his copy of A Return To Tradition. "So far it sounds like we're just going to read this for two hours each week, so what's the point of holding a class?"

Umbridge flashed them a row of small teeth, smiling like she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. "The point, Mr. Weasley, was devised by a panel of highly experienced wizards and witches." She adjusted her pink cardigan. "If you had paid close attention during the welcome feast, you'd know that this school, and thereby your education, suffers from a remarkably evident slip of standards."

"Says who?" one Gryffindor challenged. "We beat the other schools just last year."

'Only a matter of time before someone brought that up.' Tristan smothered a small smile and hid his face behind his book as mutters of agreement rippled through the classroom and one Weasley Twin whistled a cheer. 'That'll get her going...'

"Quiet, please." Umbridge said in her softest, most girlish voice. "And raise your hand if you wish to speak, Miss..."

"Alicia Spinnet."

"Well, Miss Spinnet, the Triwizard Tournament hardly makes for an accurate representation of academic proficiency," Umbridge tittered, the penetrating noise of her heels ringing closer down the aisle between the benches. "If this class were to partake in a standardized test alongside Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute, your average grade would be significantly lower."

A shadow fell over Tristan's table and a host of stares prickled on his skin.

"Not that such a level of cooperation may be reached anytime soon, given the horrendous acts that occurred before the summer, don't you agree, Mr. Peverell?"

Tristan lowered his book and peeked past Umbridge's bright broad smile, raising an eyebrow at the gleeful sneers on Roger Davies' and Cedric Diggory's faces. "Did I miss something?"

Umbridge stemmed her fists on his table and leaned in, a thick, sweet stench rolling over him. "I asked if you have anything of value to add, Mr. Peverell?"

Tristan blinked. "Sorry, Professor, I'm afraid I was too engulfed in the first chapter already."

Her bulging eyes narrowed as the class snickered behind her back; the Weasley Twins shot him matching freckled grins and a thumbs up.

Umbridge took a quiet breath through her nose and fixed her smile back on her face. "In that case, I will take five house points from Slytherin, Mr. Peverell," she simpered. "You should pay better attention when your professor is explaining something to you."

"Of course, Ma'am." Tristan swallowed his snort. 'Five lousy points in exchange for knowing you're here to irk me seems like a fair trade.'

Umbridge turned on her heels and stalked back to her desk. "As I was saying before Mr. Peverell caused this interruption, the Ministry of Magic intends to fight back against the growing and dangerous culture of unaccountability spreading here at Hogwarts." Diggory and Davies glanced over their shoulders at that, snarling at Tristan. "You will learn more about how this will be achieved by returning to the first chapter. There will be no need to talk."

The class let out a collective sigh and dropped their heads.

Tristan reopened his book. 'There has to be something of use somewhere in these pages.' He picked up where he had left, wrestling with his wavering concentration and fighting through the dull meaningless flood of words like it was another lecture from Professor Binns.

His peers fared no better under Umbridge's sharp watch, fiddling with their quills, hollow eyes skimming the same pages and paragraphs again and again as the minutes slipped by in silence.

"I have a question about the chapter, Professor." Vanessa Boot's hand shot in the air one row ahead of Tristan.

Umbridge's small toad eyes lingered on her for a few seconds. "Yes, Miss Boot?"

'She only asks the half-bloods and muggleborns for their names.' Tristan snorted into his book. 'That'll make her very popular by the end of the week...'

"On page twenty-one, Slinkhard encourages teaching only the theoretical elements of magic to underage witches and wizards," the headgirl read off the page, then glanced up. "To what extent will that be implemented, Ma'am?"

'Seriously?' Tristan flipped through the chapter, skimming over the page Boot had opened. 'They don't want us to practice magic?'

Umbridge's slack mouth stretched into a sweet smile. "Professor Slinkhard's recommendations will be implemented to the extent the Ministry of Magic feels necessary to ensure the safety of all students, Miss Boot."

"And what about the practical portions of our OWL and NEWT exams, Professor?" the headgirl asked. "Will those be adjusted accordingly?"

"I don't see why they should, my dear." Umbridge's high, sugar-coated voice grated on Tristan's nerves. "As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform selected spells under carefully controlled, risk-free examination conditions."

"Without ever practicing them in class before?" Johnson challenged. "We'll have to learn the spells all on our own now?"

"Learn the spells on your own?" Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "No, Miss Johnson, there will certainly be none of that at Hogwarts any longer."

"What?!" Lee Jordan gaped at her. "Why ever not?"

"Don't be naive, Mr..."

"Lee Jordan."

"Well, Mr. Jordan, why do you think so many of your peers were injured during the last few years in violent conflicts within these halls?" Umbridge's gleeful bulging eyes lingered on Tristan. "Students with a dangerous apathy for authority and dubious morals mustn't be allowed free reign to practice dark magic, or even go as far as to use innocent children as test subjects."

"Like Peverell did to Viktor Krum," Davies whispered to Diggory loud enough for everyone to hear.

'And here we go again...' Tristan rolled his eyes.

"Please raise your hand next time you wish to share anything with the class, Mr. Davies." Umbridge offered the Ravenclaw an indulgent smile. "But yes, you're quite right of course."

"No, he's not," the Weasley Twins scoffed. "Peverell only defended his little sister after Krum assaulted her. We saw everyth-"

"Hand, Mr. Weasley!" Umbridge sang.

The Twins thrust identical fists in the air.

Umbridge ignored them. "Please understand that the Ministry of Magic only has your best interest in mind, especially since young wizards and witches such as yourself are particularly impressionable by the environment they're raised in." She folded her thick, stubby golden-ringed fingers. "The self-practice of spells is not only dangerous but often lures practitioners into forbidden magicks as rotten as those many of you were forced to witness yourself last year."

Johnson raised her arm.

"Yes, Miss Johnson."

"What spells exactly are you referring to, Ma'am?" She glanced back over her shoulder at Tristan. "Even Professor Vance said that the fiery snake Peverell used in the first task was just some old family spell."

"Don't be fooled, Miss Johnson, the term old family spells is merely an excuse to hide the simple truth from the public." Umbridge let out a little titter. "We all know that dark magic twists the minds of those who practice it, but last year, you saw how anyone exposed to such vileness from birth can lash out against their fellow citizens."

A little bitterness stirred inside Tristan. 'From birth, huh?' Blood surged to his head and his heart thumped in his ears.

'Umbridge has a talent for riling people up. Don't let her win.' He recalled Aunt Amelia's words and took a deep breath behind the book's cover. 'I won't give her what she wants.'

"Are you still with us, Mr. Peverell?" A high, sweet voice pierced his ears. "I remember asking you to pay better attention in my class."

Tristan collected himself and peeked up. "I'm really trying, Ma'am, but it's hard not to lose yourself in this excellent book."

Another round of stifled snickers passed through the classroom.

Umbridge's smirk wilted and her bulging eyes narrowed. "That will be ten more points taken from Slytherin for your nasty manners, Mr. Peverell." She let out a spiteful little laugh. "I'm aware your parents might tolerate that kind of cheek, but I do not."

Tristan inclined his head. "Understood, Professor."

"Good. Very good, Mr. Peverell." She turned back to the class. "You will soon learn from Professor Slinkhard that tampering with dark magic is only one of many factors that twists the minds of young wizards and witches and leads them astray."

"Professor Umbridge." Roger Davies waved his hand; next to him, Diggory shook with silent laughter. "Please, Professor, what other factors are there?"

"An excellent question, Mr. Davies." Umbridge's smile stretched to unreached lengths. "There's also the individual's upbringing, the morals they're taught, and of course, the company they choose. Someone spending considerate time with the likes of primitive halfbreeds will always struggle to integrate back into wizarding society. That includes dangerous subhuman creatures like vampires, werewolves, giants, and veela..."

All pairs of eyes flickered to Tristan in the thick, loaded silence that swelled in the emptiness gaping open between him and Umbridge's twisted broad smile.

Rage churned in his breast like the eye of a storm; it trickled through his veins, bright and hot, rearing back to strike like a serpent.

Tristan clawed his fury back in and breathed it all out through his nose. 'You will die for that.' He balled his fists beneath the table and crushed the swirl of cold black magic around his fingers. A sharp thin smile tugged at his lips as he imagined the pain he'd make her suffer. 'I will kill you myself for that...'

The bell rang and his peers jolted up.

"For homework, you will finish reading chapters one and two and hand in a two-feet long summary." Umbridge's high-pitched voice called after them. "I'm very much looking forward to having you all next week again."

Tristan swept his stuff into his bag and rushed out of the room, joining the buzzing throng of laughing students on their way to dinner.

'That's how it'll be next week, and the weeks after, until I give Umbridge the reaction she wants. Unless…' A cold sick feeling twisted his guts. 'Valeria's smart enough to keep cool, but what about Galahad? I can only protect him by giving Umbridge what she wants first...'

The worry chewed away at him like a fat maggot and his hand wandered to his breast, cupping the small outline of the locket and pouring a bit of his magic into the metal. 'I really wish I could talk to you...'

The locket grew hot beneath his shirt.

'Fleur!'

Tristan took a sharp turn down the abandoned east wing of the second floor and dashed into Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom, swaying over slippery white tiles. He slammed against a stall as he fumbled the locket out from beneath his shirt and flipped the lid open.

"Ca va, mon Coeur." Summer sky-blue eyes welcomed him, a curious little gleam dwelling in their endless warm depths. "You called me?"

The longing flared in his breast as he stared at her, hot as flame and sharp as a knife's edge, sending Tristan's heart flapping and launching a swirl of butterflies through his stomach.

Fleur smirked. "Did I take your breath away again, mon Coeur?"

Tristan sagged back against the stall and slid down to the floor. "I - I'm sorry, I just had to see you." He let all the tension melt into the warm curve of her red lips and the faint flutter of silver strands framing her face. "And talk to you..."

Fleur's eyes softened. "Je sais, I miss you too," she whispered. "But you look frustrated..."

He sighed. "There's this new professor, Dolores Umbridge, she works for the Minister and attended my father's trial."

"What about her?"

"She's awful." The rage stirred and an ugly bile rose on Tristan's tongue. "She's just jabbering on and on about how I used dark magic in the tournament and paints me as some unpredictable sociopath who might attack children at any point. She slanders my parents as well, she even..."

Fleur's slim brows drew together. "She even what, mon Coeur?"

Tristan swallowed. "She knows about us. And she's said some horrible things about you... about veela."

Fleur tilted her chin up and wrinkled her nose. "And you think I care what some shallow British putain thinks about me and my kind?" she huffed. "I can channel more magic into my little finger than she's ever felt in her entire life. She's not important to me."

"I know, but I still hate how she talks about you." Tristan exhaled his frustration. "I can control myself just fine around her, but there was something inside me, stirring beneath the surface." He paused, allowing himself a brief taste of cold fury. "I really wanted to hurt her, to tear her apart right there in that very classroom..."

A little heat smoldered in Fleur's summer sky-blue eyes. "I understand you, mon Coeur," she bit her bottom lip, white teeth grating over full red lips, "I am yours, and you are mine. Anyone who tries to come between us deserves as much, non?"

Tristan tugged his eyes away from her lips. "You know I will never let that happen," he murmured, a little guilt niggling in his stomach. "But I'm still worried about my siblings. Galahad… he's not like Valeria and I… he won't stand a chance if Umbridge decides to go after him."

"We have much more dangerous enemies out there, mon Coeur," Fleur said, her eyes darkening a shade. "The moment this shallow woman becomes more than a nuance, you should just get rid of her, so we can focus on what actually matters, non?"

'The Musketeers.' Crossed rapiers burned bright as the sun before his mind's inner eye; a second sigil slithered from the back of his skull, dark and ominous. 'And the Deathly Hallows…' Tristan wrestled with the soft tug of temptation. 'But I better ask Fleur about those the next time I see her person.'

"Mon Coeur, are you still with me?"

He snapped himself out of his daze. "You're right." A flash of fierce certainty seized him. "Umbridge has overstepped once already. She'll get what's coming for her if she does it again."

'I'll make sure of it myself.'

"Bon," Fleur hummed, her lips curving back into a faint smirk. "Usually when you're this distracted, I'd love to take your mind off things and make you stop sulking, mon Coeur, but sadly I'm a little too far away for anything fun..."

Tristan laughed. "Poor me. I'll just have to find a different distraction for the evening." Inspiration struck him. "Which shouldn't be too difficult since tonight's the first meeting of the dueling club."

"Dueling club?" Fleur raised a slim blonde eyebrow. "The one where Daphne Greengrass is captain?"

Tristan snorted. "I can't decide whether I'm more impressed that you remember her name or her position."

She tilted her nose up at him, tossing an elegant braid of platinum over her shoulder. "T'es ridicule."

"Aww, it's okay, petite Fleur, you know I enjoy the jealous side of my beautiful and brilliant veela girlfriend." Tristan blew her kiss. "I just wish I was as good as you at bringing it out more often."

Fleur's pout curved into a small proud smirk. "I have no idea what you mean, mon Coeur..."

"Really?" Tristan scratched his chin in feigned surprise. "Then Gabby must've lied to me when she told me Weasley never visited your father the day after my birthday. I mean, surely you wouldn't just make that up, would you?"

"Of course the little harpy lied to you, it's all she ever does." Fleur met his eye and cocked her head, a bold little gleam creeping into her eyes. "Besides, everything that happened that day only made your present all the more special, non?"

'Make me yours, mon Coeur...'

The memory of their fierce breathless passion flashed through his thoughts, the silken softness of her curves beneath him, the echo of her moans lingering in his ears.

Tristan smothered a tempting trickle of heat and shook his head with a low chuckle. "Well, let's just say your present made me forget all about how unhealthy the entire endeavor probably was."

Fleur laughed as warm and bright as the summer sun. "I promise to make it all up to you again next time we see each other."

Faint voices echoed from behind her.

Her smile shrank a fraction. "I need to go, mon Coeur. Je suis désolée." She kissed her fingertips and touched them to the mirror, her heart shining in her blue eyes. "Je t'aime, Tristan."

He pressed his fingers into the cold glass. "I love you, Fleur," he whispered, his knuckles whitening as her face fogged and wavered. 'I love you so much.'

Tristan stared into the mirror's smooth blank surface; his heart wrenched, and the longing rose to smother him, squeezing his lungs and robbing him of his breath.

He rested his head back against the cool bathroom tiles. "Why does it always have to hurt to miss her?!" Tristan sucked in a huge gulp of air and closed his eyes, clutching Fleur's locket to his breast to savor the last warmth. 'But I'll see her soon, and until then, I'll just need to distract myself.'

His stomach growled.

"Some food might help."

He picked his way out of Myrtle's Bathroom to the Giant Staircase, leaping down three steps at a time.

"Urgh, right…"

Instead of countless floating candles, huge torches flickered along the walls and the four house tables had been moved in favor of a raised platform that stretched from one side of the Great Hall to the other.

A couple dozen students from all years mingled in small groups below the platform, Tristan's sister and her friend Daphne amongst them.

"Hey, big brother," Valeria chirped as he approached. "How's my lovely veela sister-in-law?"

A shadow flickered through Daphne's light green eyes and she stiffened.

Tristan snorted. "How did you know I talked to Fleur?"

"There's only so few things that could make you miss dinner," Valeria giggled. "Are you here to stay or sneaking off to the kitchens?"

He surveyed the gathered crowd; curious glances were cast his way by some of the younger years in a rush of heated whispers. Davies and Diggory, along with a few upper years from all houses, sneered at him.

"I think my stomach can manage another hour," Tristan hummed. "And this might be the sort of distraction I was looking for."

Professor Flitwick shuffled through the waiting students and climbed up the platform, touching the tip of his wand to his throat.

"Good evening, everyone," he squeaked, beaming down at them. "To our old members from last year, welcome back. To everyone else, welcome to the Hogwarts Dueling Club, I'm overjoyed to see so many new faces here tonight!"

"So how does this work?" Tristan whispered as Flitwick bubbled on in excitement.

"Usually Professor Flitwick asks for a volunteer to demonstrate a new technique. After that, we do some practice drills in pairs or quartets," Daphne explained. "But it looks like tonight he planned something different since there's only one main platform."

'As long as there's some action soon, I don't mind...'

"And that's quite enough chit-chat for now," Flitwick whipped on his heels. "To give you a taste of what to expect, I planned a little demonstration, and for that, I'm asking our new captain of the Dueling Club, Roger Davies, to join me up on the stage if you please."

"Of course he's Captain." Tristan let out a sigh.

Davies received a round of applause; his grinning housemates cheered and slapped him on the back as he passed them with a smirk and climbed the platform.

"Excellent, excellent," Flitwick clapped his hands together. "However, professional dueling is a lot more similar to chess than a mere brawl; it's about moves and counter moves, anticipation and response. Those who rely on one single strategy will quickly find themselves overwhelmed by a clever opponent. Dueling is as much of a mental sport as it is a physical one."

'The sport of professional dueling...' Tristan tasted the words on his tongue, wry humor bubbling up. 'In my world, duels don't end with a retrieved wand and a handshake in sportsmanship. You either win or die.'

"...and to show you that with the right attitude and a few aces up your sleeve, anyone can subdue a more experienced opponent, I'm asking someone who's here for the first time tonight to volunteer."

Nervous whispers buzzed from the newcomers and they squirmed closer together as if Flitwick might catch them with a lasso and drag them up the platform at any point.

"Come on now, don't be shy," Flitwick chortled. "I guarantee you that Roger here won't harm a single hair on your head."

"I volunteer." Tristan stepped forward.

All eyes snapped toward him and a thick, loaded silence settled in the Great Hall; the torches along the walls crackled as loud as war drums, casting eerie dancing shadows over frozen faces and gaping mouths.

Flitwick's smile faltered. "I- well..." he cleared his throat and surveyed the group of newcomers, the faint sparkle of excitement fading in his eyes. "Alright, Mr. Peverell, step up here, please."

Tristan shed off his black outer robes and dropped them in his sister's arms, ignoring her pointed look. The crowd shrank back in low whispers and allowed him to climb the steps up the platform.

Roger Davies sneered, his knuckles clenching around his wand and a muscle twitching along his jaw.

'Time for some payback.' Tristan shot him a wink and approached the professor.

Deep shadows swirled in Flitwick's eyes. "Have you ever dueled officially or been to a dueling circuit, Mr. Peverell?"

"Can't say I have."

"Hear that?" Davies' friends sniggered. "Piece of cake for you, Roger!"

"No worries, that's- that's totally fine." The charms master attempted an encouraging smile. "In short, this is purely an exhibition match, no spells that deal any serious harm are permitted. The duel ends the second your opponent yields or loses their wand. Have I made myself clear, gentlemen?"

"Crystal, Professor."

Davies' mates still made a great deal of noise. "Give him hell, Roger!" Diggory cheered.

"Please take position, both of you." Flitwick retreated down the steps. "You may start on my signal."

Wide eyes full of admiration and deep glowers followed Tristan to the other side of the platform; the whispers and chatter died as he turned around and let the smooth length of elder slide into his palm.

"If you have one more thing to share with the class, Mr. Davies, then you should raise your hand now..."

Raw fury flashed across Davies' face and Flitwick's wand went off with a bang.

Tristan ducked beneath a bright red curse and spun on his heel, twisting out of the path of two glimmering orange ones. His opponent closed the distance with a low growl, slashing his wand again and again to the cheers of his mates.

'Alive.' Bright sizzling beams missed Tristan by inches, the wind of them whispering past his face. He swerved and weaved through the storm, letting the trickle of adrenaline in his veins sweeten until he could taste it on his tongue. 'I feel alive.'

"Fight back, coward!" Davies hissed, stabbing his wand like a dagger and pouring sizzling flames down the length of the platform.

'Fine.' Tristan slashed his wand; his magic lunged like a serpent, snuffing out the hungry tongues of fire at his feet. He swatted the next spell back with a flick of his wrist; it spattered against Davies' shield in a bright shower of sparks, sending him stumbling.

Cedric Diggory dropped his raised fists and fell silent, the ugly smirk wiped from his face.

A low murmur ran through the crowd.

"Did you see that?!"

"He knows how to redirect spells!"

Their eyes widened, brightening like the dawn as they whispered among themselves.

'Did you like that?' Tristan let his gaze roam over them, soft satisfaction swelling in his breast as he spun the pale elder wood in his fingers in a flood of black mist. 'Do you like witnessing something great?'

Davies heaved himself up with a low groan and brandished his wand a great deal.

Tristan melted the swarm of furious golden hornets into frizzling droplets of gold. He took one step forward, then another, offering his opponent a cold thin smile as he slapped back every last spell like he was flipping away ants with his finger.

A gleam of panic crept into Davies's eyes and he flinched behind a bright silvery shield.

'My turn.'

The pale elder wand blurred as Tristan forced his arm faster through the motions; his schoolyard jinxes tore galleon-seized rippling holes through his opponent's shield, leaving Davies sputtering and gasping for breath with each hit until he was sprawled against the brick wall, surrounded by steaming scorch marks.

The memory of Davies' hands on the small of Fleur's bare back as they danced the night of the Yule Ball flashed through Tristan's thoughts, along with his haunting sneer.

"I went along with it and fucked her a few times before I grew tired of her silly games."

A fist of ice closed around Tristan's heart; the crowd flinched back shrieking as dark haze bled from his wrists, pointing at his sleeves with wide eyes.

He thrust his fury into the air, shrouding his magic over Davies like a spider trapping its prey, then slashed the elder wand back down and pinned his opponent against the wall.

"Mr. Peverell!" Flitwick squeaked. "That is enough!"

'No.' Tristan curled his fingers and tugged. 'He's not where he belongs yet.'

Davies slammed to his knees with a cry, his arms wrenched behind his back, and the wand was ripped from his grasp. Tristan tossed the piece of wood down the platform at Diggory and released the iron-grip of his magic, letting Davies plunge face-first onto the platform, the thud echoing through the Great Hall's tense silence.

"Now it's enough, Professor."

Flitwick hurried in front of his sobbing student, a deep shadow of disappointment in his black eyes. "That was unnecessary force, Mr. Peverell. I'll be expecting you next week, and the weeks after that."

"Why?" Tristan thrusted his wand at the wimping Ravenclaw to his feet. "I only followed your instructions; I stopped when he yielded."

The charms master fixed him with a dark look. "It's your choice of magic that concerns me." He conjured a white stretcher and levitated Davies onto it, hovering him down the platform to his housemates. "Take Mr. Davies to the Hospital Wing, please-" turning back to Tristan, he added, "as for you, Mr. Peverell, for detention, you will attend these weekly meetings and learn proper dueling etiquette as well as the permissible spells."

"I'd rather you make me write lines, Professor," Tristan scoffed. "If he was the best the Dueling Club has to offer, then I'm afraid it's not the club for me."

Flitwick drew himself up. "I'm forcing you to learn new things, Mr. Peverell, because if you show me that you can control yourself during the match, I'll let you represent our school in the international championships in Stockholm this year." A challenging gleam rose in his black eyes. "You might have talent, but perhaps you'll still wish I had made you write lines instead, when you're facing off against the greatest duelists of your generation."

A spark of ambition ignited in Tristan's breast, spreading through his blood in searing whispers. 'The greatest duelists of my generation?'

The yearning burned bright as fiendfyre, consuming him from within. 'I am great too… I was meant to be…'

"Your proposal sounds agreeable, Professor."