HP: Panem et Circenses

November 14th, 1995

Something soft and fluffy brushed his cheek and tickled the tip of his nose. The faint, coppery tang of blood coasted his arid tongue.

"Fucking hell," Tristan coughed and stretched his aching limbs with a grimace.

A dull, slow pulse throbbed somewhere in the back of his skull, and patches of swirling color blurred in his vision. He rubbed his eyes and blinked around.

'Where the hell am I?'

Blank stretches of wall met in four neat corners and surrounded him, holding a low wooden beam-supported ceiling with a golden chandelier at its center.

Tristan clawed through the dense fog in his mind for some memories. 'And what happened to me?'

Bright spellfire and pulsing ribbons of purple magic exploded before his inner eye. A searing heat burned through his veins and hoarse, terribly screams echoed from a dark, distant place.

"I almost died..."

The words rolled off Tristan's tongue in a whisper. A cold shiver ran down his spine, shuddering him from head to toe.

'Only I didn't. I survived…'

He glanced down at his feet. A pattern of runes smattered over the tiles around him, carved into the stone like the wardline around the Goblet of Fire. Only these runes were spattered with dried crimson instead of glowing a faint gold.

'My blood... but does that mean-'

His hands bolted towards his lower back, right to where the curse had torn through his uniform and left it tattered and frayed. A slim, wrinkled trail, roughly the length of his finger, ran over his smooth skin.

'It fully healed,' he jerked in euphoric surprise. "It actually worked!"

Tristan craned his neck over his shoulder, stretching to catch a glimpse at his back side.

"Ugh, I really wish I had a mirror right now..."

A slim, golden-handled mirror appeared silently on the tiles at his feet.

"Uhm... thanks, I guess?"

Tristan crouched and picked it up, cautiously glancing around the room to check if it was still empty. He angled the mirror to his lumbar area and studied it. A faint pink scar ran over his flesh, parallel to the cut in his uniform.

Tristan checked his shoulder next, as well as the gash on his leg, finding the exact same results. He held the mirror in front of his face, marveling at how even the small cuts and scrapes from the hurled-up shards of stone had been fixed.

"How about a final test then?"

He glanced around for his wand and summoned it from the floor into his open palm in flickering tongues of ebony mist.

"Just like last night, only much stronger. That's probably something I should check on later." He watched with a frown as the black mist swirled around his fingers before it sank back into his skin.

'But first...'

Tristan sliced the ball of his thumb until a trickle of crimson dwelled from the shallow cut.

Slim, black threads of magic crept over the wound like cobwebs and tugged the skin back close together. A flicker of heat ran over his thumb and left the skin as pink and smooth as it had been before.

"How very handy." A euphoric bliss spiked through his veins, curling his lips into a small smile. "Valeria will be so pleased she no longer has to patch me back toge-"

His face fell while he wiped his thumb clean on one tattered sleeve.

"Galahad!" Tristan whirled on his heels, leaping to the doorway that suddenly emerged in the blank stone.

Bright sunlight blinded him as he staggered back out into the seventh-floor corridor and hurried past the tapestry of the troll toward the staircase.

A fist of ice closed around his hammering heart. 'If they failed to get to me in that secret room, what's to stop them from going back down to hurt Galahad or Valeria instead?'

Skipping three steps at a time, Tristan rushed down the stairs. Deep, black scorch marks marred the walls and paintings he passed. Most of the frames were still vacated or sat crooked on the stone. Those occupants who dared to return already eyed his descent warily, eyes peeking around whatever obstacles they hid behind.

Tristan paid them no heed and hurried into the fourth floor towards the infirmary. He scampered inside and past Pomfrey's office, heading straight towards the curtain-covered bed his brother had been treated in last night.

He tore the curtains aside; the bed behind it was freshly made but empty.

"What-" Tristan checked the next bed, and the one after that, tearing each set of curtains aside.

None of them revealed the bandaged form of his brother. In his stead, the slumbering faces and bandaged limbs of half of a dozen of his housemates met him from clean white hospital sheets.

'I wonder how you guys ended up here...'

A heavy knot twisted in his stomach and the mirth died on his tongue. "But where the fuck is my brother?!"

"Well... not here evidently," a judgy voice called from the wall to his left. "And I insist you keep your voice down. This is the hospital wing, young man, not the Great Hall."

Tristan hurried over to the portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets, who scrutinized him with pinched lips from her large frame. His eyes dipped lower to the name tag.

Dilys Derwent

Healer at St Mungo's Hospital (1722 - 1741)

Headmistress of Hogwarts (1741 - 1768)

"Why has my brother been moved?" He fought down a cold spike of panic. "Where has he been sent to?"

"They decided, against the advice of the current matron I should add, to treat him elsewhere," the former headmistress scoffed.

"Who the hell are they?" He felt his blood run hot. "What do you mean elsewhere? At Saint Mungo's?"

"No, I can say with certainty that he's not been admitted there but I suppose you will find out shortly," she replied, pursing her lips in distaste. "Now, don't you think you've left them waiting long enough already, young man?"

"Them?" Tristan frowned. "Who is them?"

"Well, everyone of course!" She rolled her eyes. "They're all up in the Headmistress' office right now, deciding what to do with you once you're found. Obviously back in my time, it would've been an easy decision but-"

Tristan darted past her out of the hospital wing and back to the giant staircase.

'Surely she didn't mean my parents, did she?' He fumbled for the Map in his pockets while taking huge leaps up the stairs and reversed the shrinking charm on it. 'As far as I know they haven't been inside the Castle ever since Father-'

His heart suddenly plunged as he unfolded one of the most precious gifts from his parents. Tristan came to a stop, panting heavily and staring at it wide-eyed.

'No...

Black ink quelled from within the parchment and flooded his hands. The slim lines of corridors, corners, and towers trickled to the bottom of the page where the ink spilled out. Every name tag and even the tiny ink footprints accompanying them faded into nothingness as the Map went blank.

'But why?' Tristan gaped at it in utter disbelief, feeling the heavy pang of loss tug at his heart. 'Was it the ritual that ruined it?'

"I'll have to check later."

He flung the Map back into his pockets and stopped in front of the stone-faced gargoyle guarding the entrance to McGonagall's office.

"I was told I'm expected already," he quipped, doing his best to fix the damage to his uniform and make himself look presentable. "If you'd do me the honor?"

The gargoyles moved aside in a scrap of stone and allowed him to pass. Tristan climbed up the spiral staircase, already able to make out several muffled voices from behind the wooden door at its end. He entered after knocking a few times.

Headmistress McGonagall sat behind her wide, neatly organized desk; her lips thin, her face tight. Almost a dozen people in expensive bright robes stood to her left and a lonely couple to her right. Both parties exchanged heated words.

All eyes glanced up the moment the door fell back into its lock. The current occupants went silent, the many portraits broke out in hushed whispers and darted from frame to frame.

"Tristan!"

His mother dashed across the office in a blur of tight blue robes so fast he could swear she had just apparated inside the Hogwarts wards.

"Thank Morgana, you're alright!"

Tristan caught his balance after staggering back from the force of her embrace and glimpsed past swaying golden curls. Relieve spread across his father's stony features in a heavy sigh and some of the tension left his shoulders.

'They've probably been called for Galahad then?' His stomach twisted in unease. 'Has his condition worsened since yesterday?'

"McGonagall has said you vanished after the fight last night. Where have you been?" his mother asked, cupping his cheek with one soft hand while the other curled into his robes and held him tight. "Are you okay? Have you been hurt?"

She began patting him down, frowning at his still slightly frayed uniform.

'I need to know how much they've been told already...'

"I'm fine, Mother. There's no need to worry about me," he gently pried himself out of her hug and glanced down at her. "I assume you two originally came for Galahad, not me? How is he?"

"We've only learned about you half an hour ago, shortly after we sent Galahad back home to Dorea," she whispered with trembling lips. "My heart nearly skipped a beat when I saw him lay-"

"Enough! This isn't some bloody family reunion, Peverell!" Bartemius Crouch's sharp voice cut through the office. "Now that your... spawn is finally here, he will accompany us back to the Ministry! Savage, Dawlish, take him in!"

Two broad-shouldered, red-robed wizards strode forward. Halfway there, they paused and threw a careful glance at his father, wand tips already poking out from within their sleeves.

"I don't think that's a very wise idea, gentlemen," he hummed and calmly walked over to Tristan and his mother, directly crossing their paths. "And I... suggest you address my wife and son with more respect next time you talk to either of them, Minister Crouch."

"You are in no position to suggest anything!" Crouch's eyes began bulging in their sockets. "And you dare-"

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Minister, if you'd please-"

"No! This is now out of your jurisdiction, Headmistress McGonagall, because you evidently failed to control the situation," Crouch barked. "Detention or expulsion won't do this time. The boy is hereby under arrest!"

"Am I now?" Tristan raised an eyebrow in surprise and gently unlinked his arm from his mother's. "Surely I have a right to know on what grounds I'm being... detained?"

"Have your pick then, child," the olive-skin-toned woman next to Crouch snarled, her voice carrying a hint of a Mediterranean accent. "What do you prefer? Vandalism, aggravated assault, or the attempted homicide of the heirs of a dozen esteemed members of our society are all available."

'Once Esmeralda from the House of Borgia… now downgraded to a Malfoy...'

"Sounds to me like I've simply taught my son better than you did if 'a dozen esteemed members of our society' failed their pathetic ambush on him," his mother chuckled cooly.

Tristan barely stifled a snort.

"Will I be sharing a cell with your son then, Lady Malfoy?" he asked innocently, letting his eyes roam over the rest of Crouch's delegation. "In fact, I see quite a few parents of my future cell mates here... what a funny coincidence. Any messages you'd like me to deliver?"

An elderly man with a black raven attached to his dark green robes attempted to pull his wand. Thick strays of gray marred his hair and beard, his brute face resembled a mask of rage. "You little-"

"That is enough, Mr. Peverell, and I will not have any wands drawn in my office, Mr. Lestrange!" McGonagall snapped.

'Corvus Lestrange... Is he so upset that I declined a dance with his granddaughter?'

"My school has already been damaged enough within the last day and I forbid any more violence! Instead, with Mr. Peverell here, he will finally shed some light on what occurred yesterday."

'Oh, will I now?'

The eyes of every occupant and portrait burned into him again, among them his parents who looked equally as expecting as they did concerned.

'As soon as they hear what happened to me, they will no doubt try to fight my battles for me.' A spike of annoyance flared up in him. 'I don't need any of that...'

Tristan sighed. "After visiting my brother in the hospital wing, I planned on heading down to dinner to have a little chat with my dear housemates. They must've had the same idea because imagine my surprise when I already met them halfway."

"A... chat?" McGonagall's lips thinned. "The Giant Staircase looked like a bloody muggle bomb went off in it and you tell me you were having chat?"

"Well, I might be responsible for a... tiny bit of the damage," Tristan admitted sheepishly. "But most of it was not committed by me, so I actually take offense to all the nasty glares and finger-pointing I'm receiving right now..."

"Stop with the ridicule, Mr. Peverell, I know exactly what happened and how heavily you were involved in it!" McGonagall's nostrils flared. "It's not like there was a lack of witnesses. We'd have even more of them if you hadn't destroyed some of the most historic portraits in the entire castle!"

"Have I by chance also hit Sir Cadogan, Ma'am?"

His father's face twitched.

"This is not amusing, Mr. Peverell!" She sent both of them a sharp glare. "What is the reason why things escalated this time?"

"I assume the students down in the hospital wing simply preferred to keep quiet and take some sweet-dreams potions instead of answering your questions?" Tristan asked.

"Their fate is of no concern to you, Mr. Peverell," McGonagall huffed. "I have already taken disciplinary actions against anyone involved, especially after they refused to explain themselves. You can rest assured that you will face-"

"-none of those consequences because you can't just suspend or expel me, Ma'am. I'm representing Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament and for that, I need to be enrolled as a student." Tristan smothered the urge to grin as his gaze swept over the fuming expression of Crouch and his delegation. "And none of us wish to provoke the Goblet of Fire, do we?"

"You think you're such a smart child now, don't you?" Lady Malfoy was almost as proficient as her offspring when it came to snarling. "Being champion won't protect you when you're rotting down in some cell for hurting my son."

"I will remind you of the witness statements from various portraits we've all heard less than an hour ago, Lady Malfoy," his mother's eyes sparkled like shards of ice as she looked down the length of her slim nose at the other witch. "It was your son who led this cowardly attack on mine. Now Mr. Malfoy has been given the perfect opportunity to lick his wounds undisturbed until his return around Christmas."

Lady Malfoy's jewelry-covered fingers twitched and her knuckles whitened.

McGonagall quickly interfered before Malfoy's mother managed to snarl right back. "Be that as it may, other means will be explored to ensure that Mr. Peverell is disciplined appropriately."

"And what measures may those be, Headmistress?" Tristan's father asked.

"Severe ones, that will be discussed with Mr. Peverell's Head of House." She shook her head in disappointment at Tristan. "I thought I had made myself crystal clear when I gave you a final warning during the night of the champions' selection."

"You have, ma'am," Tristan sighed.

"Then how can I give you the benefit of the doubt, when instead of listening to me, you yet again sought a direct confrontation with your peers?" She slapped the top of her table. "And why? All because somehow the ludicrous presumption that someone else might be responsible for your brother's accident found its way into-"

McGonagall paused with a frown and a small choke for breath, the words seemingly dying in her throat.

"What did you just say?" His father's voice traveled across the office in the faintest whisper, yet it filled every last corner.

A strange tingle crept over Tristan's skin and left the hairs on his neck and arms standing straight. Like when Valeria charged her birthday balloon by rubbing it over to the carpet and then brushed his skin with it right after.

"Mr. Pev- Mr. Peverell, I can assure you that-"

"You said my son had an accident during his flying lessons-" his father slowly turned to him, "-but then why..."

Green eyes grew large, turning black as night as they swallowed him. Something foreign brushed against his thoughts, gentle as a feather.

'Out!'

Malfoy's threat echoed from the cold stonewalls of the Slytherin common room; spellfire flashed up bright behind him. Galahad's bandaged head poked out from underneath crimson-spattered hospital sheets and a purple ribbon of magic burst into countless sparks.

'Get out!'

Tristan dragged the blur of images down into an endless abyss until his father's dark outline and the office swam back into his vision.

Anger bubbled inside his stomach, but it didn't compare to the raw, blazing fury he caught in his father's eyes. The air suddenly grew cold around him. The footing of his father's cloak began rustling around his boots in soft whispers and faint hisses.

"-but now I learn that your sons have not only attacked my oldest-" his father slowly turned towards Crouch, black mist curling tight and fast around his clenched fingers, "-but also my youngest?"

Crouch flinched back. "Aurors!"

Wands snapped into the hands of the Minister and his delegation. A thin piece of yew glid smoothly into Tristan's palm, humming in excitement. His mother immediately moved protectively in front of him and drew her own.

The many portraits bolted up in their frames with panicked cries. Those with counterparts at different locations vanished entirely.

"No! I will not have you fighting in here or anywhere at Hogwarts!" McGonagall leaped from her chair and stepped between them, holding out her hands to either side. "This is a school, for Merlin's sake!"

"And yet you've allowed them to attack my children and nearly murder one," his father hissed. A familiar, thin, pale, knotted wand extended from his fingertips in one slow, fluent motion. "My eleven-year-old son..."

"Mr. Peverell, we don't have any evidence for that," the headmistress pleaded desperately. "Madam Hooch and I truly believe your son simply had a very unfortunate accident."

"Hah! Does that sound familiar to you, Peverell?" Crouch spat in malice, a trembling wand poked out from between the two aurors he cowered behind. "My son was only fifteen but that hardly stopped you from murdering him, did it?"

"You're delusional," his mother whispered. Her golden curls slowly swayed down the length of her back in a silent, unnatural breeze. She tried to steer her husband back by the elbow. "Delusional for spreading such utter garbage."

"Delusional for thinking, we'd ever let an attack on our children go unpunished," his father added, remaining firmly in place.

"Please, everybody!" McGonagall tried again. "I insist you lower your wands and-"

"I'll have half the DMLE storm through this fireplace if you as much as light your wand tip at me, Peverell!" Crouch barked like a threatened dog. "And no forbidden, dark family magic will help you face those odds, let alone survive them. This will be your end!"

Laughter burst from his father's lips.

"I've faced Voldemort, Crouch. I've fought him and I've survived him." His voice was robbed of any warmth; cold and harsh like the winds in winter that purged over the lake by Tristan's home. "Half the DMLE doesn't sound too bad to me."

"You cannot take on the entire world. The ICW will chase you down like the rabbit dog you are!" The Minister staggered back, dragging another auror in between him and Tristan's father. "They're all going to come for you!"

"I'd rather they come for me than any of my children." The pale, knotted wand rose in his father's hand. "Numbers don't give you strength, Crouch; Only magic does..."

'Because magic is might...'

The words rose in whispers from the back of Tristan's mind as he stared transfixed at his father's wand, clutching his own tightly. Frostiness clawed through the fabric of his uniform and a harsh, unyielding pressure stole the breath from his lungs.

A hungry, furious buzzing echoed from the walls and the ceiling of the office. The aurors' expression's hardened; their trembling wand tips began glowing faintly.

"Harry." His mother suddenly stepped beside her husband. "Please, love..."

He whirled.

"They've attacked Tristan twice already." Dark, volatile flames danced in the depths of his green eyes. "They've almost killed Galahad."

"I know, love, I know-" she gently cupped his cheek and leaned closer to whisper so that even Tristan barely understood her. "But it's not like back then, it's not just you and me anymore. If we do this, none of our children will ever have the childhood you wanted for them. They- they might even share yours."

"No," he choked. The fire flickered and died like a gushed-out candle. "Never..."

His father swallowed thickly and took a shaky gulp of air. The pale wand slid back up his sleeve as he drew his mother close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Thank Morgana, I'm not the only witch with some common sense here," McGonagall sighed deeply in relief. She drew herself up and gestured at her fireplace. "Minister Crouch, I insist that you and those that have accompanied you leave right now. My final judgment on your sons' actions has been spoken and I will not go back on my word."

The Minster emerged from behind his aurors and straightened his collar.

"This is far from over, McGonagall." He hurried toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder as he shot a final glare across the office. "And I will never forget what the Peverells have done to my family. I will have my justice."

He vanished in roaring green flames.

"The board of governors will hear about this incident," Lady Malfoy declared haughtily before she followed Crouch. "The final word has not yet been spoken."

The office emptied until there was only Tristan, his parents, and McGonagall left.

She cleared her throat, "I must ask you to leave as well, Mrs. and Mr. Peverell. You have my sincerest apology for what happened to your son and I wish him a speedy recovery. He may use this floo connection once he's back in good health."

"Thank you, Headmistress," his mother nodded absently, still drawing small circles across the back of his father's hand while she leaned against his shoulder. "May we please have a few more minutes with our son before we leave?"

McGonagall's face tightened as she considered it. "Ten minutes at most. And you shall not leave the seventh floor, Mrs. Peverell."

"Thank you very much." She tucked her husband's hand more firmly and nodded toward the door. "Come, Tristan."

He followed his parents out of the office and down the spiral staircase past the gargoyle from where they strolled into the seventh-floor corridor.

"I owe you an apology, Tristan." His father rested against the wall with a sigh, holding his mother close to his chest. "I shouldn't have violated your privacy like that. Although I was surprised how easily you defended yourself."

'How much did he see? If he recognized the ritual he would've said so by now, wouldn't he?'

A flare of anger rose within him and pushed the worry away. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "That doesn't make what you did any better."

"You're right, it doesn't. Legilimency is a double-edged sword at best." His father frowned. "I- I just wasn't thinking straight in there after learning what might've happened to Galahad. Legilimency can deal terrible and irreparable damage to the mind if done in situations where you're agitated yourself. What was I thinking…"

'It won't stop me from learning it. I just need to find someone to practice on safely.'

"Are you sure you're not hurt, Tristan?" Worry dwelled in his mother's blue eyes and she reached out to cup his cheek. "The portraits described quite a heavy exchange of spells. I can check if-"

"No need for that." Tristan gave her hand a gentle squeeze and lowered it. "I've already healed myself of some smaller cuts and bruises." He forced his lips into a bright smile. "They had such poor aim that they didn't even catch me with anything serious."

"But how did you escape them?" His father's brows drew together slightly. "You were chased up to this floor, weren't you?"

Tristan's eyes dipped past the tapestry of the troll.

"Yes, but I found somewhere to hide and just waited until they left," he replied cryptically.

'No need to tell them about the room.'

A small smile curved his mother's lips. She glanced up at his father and chuckled softly. "Did you hear that? You owe me a galleon, love."

'Wait what?'

His father scowled for a second before rolling his eyes. "I almost forgot we had that stupid bet."

'They know about the Room.' Tristan forced his face not to betray the torrent of emotions he was feeling. 'But instead of just telling their children, they made bets on whether they'd find it.'

'Or perhaps they bet on which room I'd find first?' He avoided his father's eyes and wiped his mind blank like a canvas. 'It doesn't matter. I won't let it spoil my discovery.'

His mother glanced down her wrist at the small silver watch. "We should leave soon. I'm surprised McGonagall even allowed us to stay this long."

He followed them back until they lingered a few feet away from the gargoyle. "You didn't part on good terms with her?"

Her expression darkened. "Your father and I would've done anything to reach the little sunset we set for ourselves. Professor McGonagall-," she sighed. "McGonagall just didn't understand the necessity of it all. She believed there might've been a different way."

'A less violent one, no doubt.' Purple ribbons of magic burst before his inner eye and the lingering echo of pain tore through his nerves. 'Sometimes there just isn't another way. Sometimes going to extremes is necessary.'

His father placed a hand on his shoulder. "Look after Valeria for us, will you?"

"I will." Tristan swallowed thickly, digging his nails into his palms. "I promise."

'I won't ever fail my siblings again.' Crouch's threat echoed from the back of his mind in nasty whispers. 'They will try again one day. But when they do, I will set an example.'

His mother dashed forward and embraced him warmly, burying her head in the crook of his neck. "And take good care of yourself as well. We're very proud of you, Tristan. Never forget that."

"Will you be back here for the first task?" He asked. "Will you be allowed to watch?"

"A champion's family has front-row seats." His father's smile seemed forced and failed to hide the small wrinkles of worry. "Have they told you anything else about the first task yet?"

"No, and I don't think they will."

He nodded with a grimace. "If you can- I mean if you think there's something going on that might relate to the task, then you should try to figure it out already. Use the two gifts we've left with you."

He quirked an eyebrow in amusement. "Are you... encouraging me to cheat, Father?"

The gargoyle shifted aside in a scrape of stone.

'McGonagall is growing impatient.'

"We're encouraging you to use your head and stay alive," his mother said seriously, taking his father by the hand. "Viktor Krum and that French veela will not hesitate to seize an opportunity and any advantage they have over you puts you in more danger."

'Not a fan of our petite flower, are you?'

"Then I'll just prepare for whatever I might have to face," Tristan vowed, dragging Delacour's summer-sky blue orbs and the perpetual small smirk away from his inner eye. "I won't let them beat me."

'I've come too far for that. This is the chance I've been waiting for and no one will snatch it away from me.'

His parents exchanged yet another small, worried glance before they began ascending the stairs.

"We will see you soon, son." They gave him a final wave. "We love you, Tristan. Take care and don't push yourself too hard."

He watched them disappear behind the corner of the spiral staircase. His fingers absently brushed over his shoulder and down to his lumbar.

"Pushing myself too hard likely won't be an issue anymore." A small smile curved his lips as he headed back to the tapestry. "I hope you enjoy playing with your new galleon, Mother. Because in the meantime-"

'...I'll be testing the limits of this new body... and the limits of the second hidden room I've now found.'