HP: Panem et Circenses

August 20th, 1995

Bright swirls of gleaming silver danced over a green pitch in perfect unison, collecting in its middle into a whirlwind that smoothed out into a single velvety patch.

A face emerged from the depths of the pitch, breaking through its silver surface like a diver. Long platinum blonde hair framed it to either side. Large eyes, gray as the storm, regarded him calmly.

The neatly trimmed green blades of grass suddenly withered and burned to ashes. Thick black smoke stirred up like a wall. The face wrenched and twisted, platinum hair turned dark and shortened. Gray eyes turned brown and hard, blazing with cold fury. Crimson trickled down its cheekbones, dripping onto busted lips that were torn apart in a silent scream.

A flash of emerald green illuminated the face.

Tristan flinched upright with a gasp.

Dark wooden beams ran parallel along the ceiling. Warm white blankets were wrapped tightly around him and a squishy pillow stabilized his neck.

'Just a dream...'

Tristan closed his eyes, drawing a few more ragged breaths until his frantically beating heart calmed and the throb in his head and ears faded into nothingness. He heaved himself up, leaning against the backrest of his bed to glance around.

Natural light spilled in through a small gap in the curtains. A velvet green carpet stretched over the polished wooden floorboard to the large mahogany wardrobe that stood opposite him. Next to it was a desk with schoolwork and several shelves. Each was filled to the brink with books, most of them betraying the years they'd seen on their crumbling leathery spines.

'I'm home,' Tristan sighed, exhaling deeply. 'Father must've taken me back home.'

Images of what happened after the World Cup flooded his mind brutally. Burning tents, angry flames clawing at the night sky, silver masks, bright spells, and dead empty eyes mixed into a raging storm.

'I killed someone.' The realization struck him like lightning in the night. He felt the bitterness rise in his stomach and swallowed it, attempting to force everything that had churned up back down at least for a few more moments.

'He would've killed me first if I hadn't. He tried it and he's performed the spells before on Father...'

His heartbeat quickened again as his mind conjured an image of a nameless face, furious chocolate-brown eyes, and short dark hair. The man toppled over, a gaping hole in his chest and a pool of crimson spreading underneath him, drenching the ashes in dark red.

'He deserved it,' a small voice piped up from somewhere in the back of his mind, sounding cold and distant. 'You merely defended yourself.'

"But I didn't have to be there in the first place!" Tristan swallowed heavily: "I followed the laughter because I wanted to find them, I left my cover because I wanted to strike them!"

'If you hadn't been there, they might have succeeded in killing your father,' the voice replied smugly.

"Not bloody likely," Tristan snorted, heaving himself to the edge of the bed: "He would've definitely seen the spell coming."

'I've never seen anyone fight like that before.' His father's graceful movements and the frantic blur of his pale, thin wand flashed through his memories. "He looked almost... almost invincible."

'Maybe because he is.'

Before Tristan's inner eye, his father's pale skin, cut open by a bright flash, crept back together on its own. New pink tissue spread over it like tightly woven fabric.

'There's only one branch of magic that might be capable of something like that.' He staggered to his feet, steadying himself on his bedpost for a moment: 'But I couldn't even begin to speculate where he might've learned it... certainly not in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts.'

The loud rumble of his stomach interrupted his train of thought.

"Some food first then," he decided and snatched his wand from the bedside table, fingers running over a freshly polished surface: "And if my parents are up, I can ask them how long I was out for and what happened after."

He changed into some everyday clothes, left his room, and strolled through the abandoned hallway toward the staircase. Voices from the balcony drifted up to him through an open window on the second floor.

He stepped out into the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes and spotting his parents sitting by the railing along with an elderly witch. Her long, thick black hair was marred with streaks of gray and held in a tight bun that reminded him of Headmistress McGonagall.

"Tristan!" His mother placed down her cup of tea and stood up abruptly. Relief shone in her bright blue eyes as she hurried over to him, hugging him tightly: "I'm glad you're finally awake!"

"How long was I out for?" He glanced past her crown of golden hair at his father and their guest, who had both risen as well.

'And why would there be a reason to worry?'

"You've slept for quite some time, son." His father gestured to the empty chair beside him: "It's been two days since the World Cup."

'Two days?' He frowned, gently prying himself out of his mother's embrace to walk over to the table: "Why wouldn't you wake me up? I wasn't injured or anything, was I?"

He sat down, eyeing them expectantly.

"No, not physically, but we decided to let you rest regardless," his father explained and gestured to the witch next to him: "Dorea here thought it for the best and none of us are foolish enough to question her expertise in healing."

"Hello, my dear." Dorea Potter placed down a piece of cake and her fork and smiled kindly, gray eyes full of warmth, despite the few wrinkles she had accumulated over the last years: "I gave you something for a calm sleep after your father told me you fell unconscious. How are you feeling?"

'But why did I even fall unconscious?' Tristan clawed through his mind for a memory he might have missed: "I'm a bit sore." He rotated his shoulder: "And my brain still feels a bit mushy, like a thick fog."

"That is to be expected," she nodded, exchanging a small glance with his parents: "It might take some time for all the memories to resurface and-"

"-I remember everything already," Tristan interrupted her quietly, averting his gaze. "I know exactly what happened..."

A hint of worry dwelled up in his mother's eyes: "Son, you don't have to-"

"-it- it was just intuitive, you know..." Tristan swallowed heavily, "He- he had his wand pointed at me and I saw how the tip lit up green. I just-"

"Shh- it's okay, Tristan." His mother gently cupped his cheek, the warmth of her hand soaked into his skin: "You did exactly the right thing. Had you acted any differently, you might have-" she choked, her lips and fingers trembling, "I- I don't even want to say it..."

"We're not angry with you, Tristan." His father edged closer to her on his chair and looped an arm around his wife's waist to pull her in: "But neither are we proud of what happened. If anything, we're disappointed in ourselves because we vowed to provide you, and all of our children, with a different childhood than our own."

Tristan nodded absently, taking a few calming breaths. "So what exactly happened?"

"The moment we got separated from you, your mother and I split up," his father explained, his expression darkening: "She took your siblings into the forest and out of the wards from where they portkeyed back home. I went back to the camp to look for you."

"Are they all fine?" Tristan asked.

"Aurelia needed a light calming draught but nothing happened to us." His mother nodded: "They're at Potter Manor right now, with James and Lily."

"And what about me?"

"I took you back home and called for Dorea, just to make sure you were fine," his father shared: "She administered the potion to you, and then you merely needed some rest, so we let you sleep for more than a day. Not that any of us could've woken you up..." he added with a chuckle: "Trust me, Aurelia has tried it several times."

'And the Death Eaters?'

"Why were they even there at the World Cup?" The question slipped off his tongue: "What did they want after all these years? What happened to me after I- I..." He fell silent.

"Creating chaos and spreading terror is something Death Eaters did for fun during the war, Tristan," Dorea spoke up, her pale fingers curling around her necklace. She lifted it up to press it against her lips before she continued. "The night of the World Cup was an opportunity for them. A chance to show the entire magical world that their movement hadn't completely died the day your father killed Voldemort."

"I suppose they had a few drinks and couldn't resist a nice little reunion right under the Ministry's eyes, just to spite the countless security measures that had been in place?" Tristan snorted disgustedly.

His father nodded. "Something like that."

"Well, it didn't go too well for them, did it?" He shot his father a long look: "Did any of them..."

"No." He slowly shook his head: "I finished what we started."

'We...' Some of the bitterness rose again, tearing at his consciousness with sharp claws. 'But it's better this way. Dead men tell no tales...'

He forced it all back down mercilessly.

"And what about the Ministry?" Tristan asked, his eyes dipping down to what he assumed to be the latest edition of the Daily Prophet.

"Here." His father nudged the paper over to him: "With no bodies to be found, and only certain people from high society reported missing, a full-fledged investigation has already been launched by the DMLE."

'An investigation?'

Tristan somewhat nervously skimmed through the many headlines, reading the first couple of sentences of the following articles: "It says here that a few witnesses have already come forward, reporting the sight of dark-robed and masked individuals." He swallowed a stab of anxiety: "If the people missing have ever been connected with Death Eater activities during the war, then surely the Ministry will draw the connection."

His mother shot him a long look: "What connection, son?"

He ground his jaw in annoyance: "Pureblooded members of our society also disappeared all of the sudden during the war. Many of them had been rumored to hold connections with the Death Eaters, all of them were conservative hardliners, but still, they'd never been convicted of anything before their disappearance."

"Tristan, we-"

"Travers, Rosier, Gibbon-" Tristan began counting one finger after the other, his voice rising in volume. "Higgs, Flint, Urquhart, Bletchley, McNair, and not to forget, fucking Crouch, our Minister of Magic! All of these families hate me at Hogwarts because they link their relatives' death to you!" He slapped the top of the table with his open palm, making Dorea flinch back ever so slightly and drop her fork: "And these are just the families that assume it! Everyone knows how many other lines you nearly eradicated: Lestrange, Malfoy, Wilkins, and who knows how many more! I-"

"Enough." His father spoke the word hardly louder than a whisper and yet it shut Tristan up. "Do not forget yourself, son."

A strange tingle crept up his spine, foreign pressure exerted on his lungs.

"Love." His mother quickly snatched her husband's hand, running her thumb over the back of it soothingly until the pressure faded from Tristan's chest and even Dorea released the long breath she was holding in.

His mother turned to Tristan, her expression more serious than he ever remembered: "What your father and I did is easy to judge from the outside perspective, but back then, during the war, it was necessary. What you need to understand, my son, is that everything we did, every piece of magic we cast, every dream we chased, was to ensure our own survival and that of our family. If we hadn't gone to the extremes we did, our world would be very different right now and I can assure you that none of us would be here to judge whether it was justified."

"I- I get that." Tristan swallowed heavily: "But is it fair that I carry that same burden? That I am judged for things that happened when I wasn't even born?"

"Of course it's not fair," his father said, his expression softening: "And we knew that when we decided to send you to Hogwarts anyway. What we did do, however, is teach you the necessary tools and skills to stand your ground. And we're very relieved that you chose to employ them when it was most necessary."

'So you knew this might happen one day...'

Tristan averted his gaze, staring back down at the newspaper and the burning tents that covered the front page. "Do- do we even know who it was?"

"Yes," his father sighed: "His name was Frederic Parkinson."

'A cousin of Pansy Parkinson, or perhaps an uncle.' Tristan remained silent, merely nodding. 'At least I've got a name now, not that it mattered.'

"In the weeks after Voldemort's fall, he was found not guilty of any crimes. He made use of the same pretense so many others had; the Imperius Curse." His mother added, placing a hand on his shoulder: "The only influence he might've been under during the night you fought him, is fire whiskey. Frederic Parkinson chose his fate, my son. He doesn't deserve your empathy."

"I don't pity him." Tristan hardened his heart, forcing the image of hatred-filled brown eyes away from the forefront of his mind. He let his gaze roam over the railings of the balcony and to the smooth surface of the lake. "I know I'd make the same decision again."

'It's still them vs. us. It always has been, only the stakes are much higher now.'

"Hopefully you won't ever be in a position like that again." His father nodded supportively before pushing his chair back: "Let's get back inside, we'll start preparing dinner soon and I know you must be famished after sleeping for over a day."

Tristan managed a weak grin. "I'm surprised my stomach has kept quiet for so long." He collected Dorea's empty teacup for her and placed it back on the tray, absently reaching for her fork next. "I actually debated whether to first go down in the kitchen and-"

"-damn it!" He flinched back, dropping the silver fork back down on the table.

"What happened?" His father asked in amusement.

"Should've paid some attention," Tristan grumbled, bringing his thumb to his lips and sucking off the tiny dwell of crimson.

'If only I healed as quickly as Father.'

The memory from that night flashed through his mind again, this time it was accompanied by inspiration.

"Wait! Allow me, Dorea." He quickly walked over and offered the elder witch his arm, helping her out of her chair.

"Such a gentleman," she laughed softly, affectionately patting his cheek: "I see that talks of you having found a certain young lady might be correct after all."

Tristan flashed her a smile, pausing his step to remain on the balcony and allow his parents to enter the manor first. "Whatever Valeria has told, it's probably a lie."

"Don't be shy, my boy. If you ever wish to understand how a woman's mind works, and you don't feel like asking your mother, you can always come to me."

"Careful, I'll hold you to that," Tristan joked. "But there's actually something else you might be able to help me with."

"Is that so?" Dorea glanced up at him, one eyebrow curled.

"I have a question about healing." He carefully probed, stirring her back into the manor: "As in the magical field, but also more... literally."

"I'll do my best to help you then."

"I was wondering if you knew of any magical species that have accelerated healing abilities?" Tristan said: "Obviously we all know about phoenix tears, but are there any creatures that can heal themselves at an accelerated rate?"

Dorea nodded, the gleam of knowledge dwelling up in her gray eyes: "The caladrius is a mystical, pure-white bird of healing found in certain marshlands. It's able to heal from external and internal damages, like a broken wing or leg, within mere minutes."

"I think I've read about it. They almost went extinct during the Middle Ages because wizarding kind was obsessed with finding out how to replicate its features, capturing and killing hundreds of them." Tristan nodded, some excitement slipping in his voice: "What about magical half-breeds? Is anything known about them?"

Again Dorea proved knowledgeable: "Vampires are said to heal quickly if one even managed to injure one in the first place. The same holds for werewolves. During their transformation, the curse that has been inflicted upon them accelerates the healing of even the most grievous wounds."

'Time to take a leap of faith.'

"And what about wizarding kind?" Tristan attempted to keep the yearning in his voice and expression to a bare minimum: "Are there any documentations of witches and wizards who showed similar natural traits? And if not natural then perhaps via other means?"

Dorea paused in her step and glanced up at him.

'Fuck.'

Her expression fell. Sadness crept into her gray eyes, her entire face had aged a decade in mere seconds. "Please don't, Tristan," she whispered, her voice hitching: "Please, don't go down that path..."

He frowned: "I- I don't know what you mean?"

"Listen to me very carefully, Tristan." Her slim fingers curled around his wrist, holding on tight: "Everything your parents just said, I wholeheartedly agree with. If they had done things only slightly differently, then Voldemort would've been victorious and none of us would be alive to cast judgment upon them. Terrible means were necessary to defeat a terrible evil."

"What did they do?" The false calmness fell off like a mask. An itch crept over his skin, desperate to be scratched: "How exactly did they beat him?"

"I cannot tell you and support you in this, my dear." She shook her head in sadness: "Perhaps you'll find out on your own, so I will beg and repeat the same warning my husband and I gave your father when he was exactly your age." Her whispers turned into a desperate plea: "Some magicks are not to be dabbled in, they are to be left untouched. You are not your father, and neither are you in the desperate position he was in. So please, Tristan, listen to me when I tell you that some powers, no matter how tempting, are not worth the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" he echoed, the word tasting foul as ash on his tongue while his thoughts went racing: 'Rituals then... obscure and forbidden blood magic...'

Dorea released her iron-tight grip on him and stood, kissing him on the cheek as she did so. "Please heed my warning, my child."

She pulled away, leaving him standing in the hallway while she slowly descended the stairs.

Tristan hurried back up and inside his room, pacing the short distance between his bed and the window again and again.

"Rituals then..."

Silver knives, vials of blood, and intrinsic patterns of carved runes swirled through his mind.

"This explains everything."

He flicked his wand into his hand, trailing the tip along the blue vein on his pale forearm. "In sixteen years I've not once witnessed my parents having as much as a simple, common cold."

Another memory dug itself to the forefront of his mind. His mother laughed and danced carelessly. She had walked around the manor less than an hour after giving birth to Aurelia, cradling her newborn baby to her breast while Dorea shot her looks of absolute disbelief.

"How did I never grow suspicious of this earlier?" Tristan shook his head. "It was so obvious the entire time."

He forced himself to sit down, hoping it might calm the volatile storm that was his thoughts. Blank scrap paper was sprawled all over the corner of his desk. He tore off a small patch, pressing it into a tiny ball and levitating it wandlessly over his open palm, going a bit higher each time.

The distraction failed rather poorly.

'It hardly mattered what kind of magic they used to win. It's just as Mother said, if they hadn't done so, I wouldn't even be here to judge them.'

He seized the paper and crunched it tightly into his palm until heat licked at his skin and faint smoke twirled up from his fist.

'I just wish I knew what exactly they did. Most of it seems rather useful and if you can artificially enhance your healing abilities, what else is there to manipulate as well? The possibilities might be endless...'

"Some magicks are not to be dabbled in." Dorea's warning echoed through his skull.

He snorted and stood up. 'For that, I'd first need to know how it's done anyways.'

Attempting to clear his head he sought out the bathroom and stepped underneath the shower. The warm water rid him of anything the cleaning charms, which had no doubt been applied to him while he was out, failed to vanish.

"Young Master Tristan, sir?" Dobby knocked on his door while he was getting dressed in some clean clothes: "Master and Mistress be sending Dobby to let you know dinner is ready to be served, sir."

"Thanks, Dobby." He pictured the dark floorboard of the dining room and forced the world past him, appearing by the sink with a soft snap.

His mother flinched back, scolding at him and waggled the spatula his way threateningly.

"Just because you now know how to apparate doesn't mean you have to use it every time." She scrutinized him from head to toe with pursed lips: "Taking the stairs would've done you well actually."

He slipped into his chair with a grin: "Are you saying I'm getting fat?"

"No, of course not, but you didn't get a lot of activity over the last few days." She rolled her eyes: "Sit down everybody, let's eat together."

Dinner was slightly less turbulent thanks to his siblings' absence. Tristan's parents and Dorea chatted cordially, all three careful to stay clear of the World Cup.

'I suppose talking about my school year is fine as long as they don't bring up Adelaide again.'

After dessert was served by Dobby, they soon settled into the more comfortable chairs in the living room. Against his expectation, Dorea did not bring up their interaction at all as the hours flew by. Not even a frown or a cautious glance was sent his way, even when she said her goodbyes and flooed back to Potter Manor.

The sun was setting over the lake when Tristan eventually made it back up to his room for the night. He stripped out of his clothes and crawled underneath freshly changed sheets.

Sleep did not come easy that evening. His mind insisted on staying away. The body that had rested for so long itched to move and yearned for activity.

'That's what I get for sleeping through almost two days.' Tristan cursed as he shifted from left to right.

He stared up at the ceiling. A single scene was replayed in his head, again and again. A weeping wound closed with no spell. Pink skin stretched over it like an ever growing carpet.

"Bloody stop it already!" He flipped his pillow onto the cool side. "Just think about something else!"

He cast a dozen cooling charms on the room and forced his eyes shut. When he woke up a second time in the middle of the night, he kicked away the covers and leaped to his feet.

"This is pointless." He snatched his wand from his night side table: "I won't find any rest until I have some answers."

'But where to start?'

"Well, there's no way Mother would allow knowledge like that to linger in our library, that's for sure."

Tristan hissed under his breath, flicking at the drawers of his nightstand. What was two split into a third. He pulled the new one open, scooping out smooth gray fabric from its depths and throwing it around his shoulders with the hood pulled over his head.

'It's been a few years since I had a need for this at home,' he chuckled as he edged to his door.

The dim light of the moon shone through large windows, illuminating the empty hallway. Tristan cast no shadow and made no sound as he sneaked to the staircase, dodging the step that squeaked to make his way up to the third floor and his destination.

'If I find any information on what exactly my parents did to themselves to beat Voldemort, it will be in here.'

He paused before his father's office. A place he had been in often, but never alone. Faint golden runes glowed on the door handle.

'Wards...' Tristan touched the tip of his wand to it: 'But what will they do? What is your purpose?'

Magic swirled and twisted in a tight circle, the intent buzzing off of it in small ripples.

'To alert, to inform, but nothing to stop the actual entry.' He retrieved his wand and shifted on his feet, the nerves finally catching up with him. 'I'd rather not have to explain what I'm doing in his office in the earliest hours of the morning.'

His fingers absently curled into the cool fabric of the invisibility cloak.

'Father promised that no wards can stop the wearer of this Cloak. Hogwarts' and any others' have failed already.' He took a deep breath, feeling his heart pound frantically within his ribcage: 'Let's see how Father's wards hold up to it then.'

He reached out and twisted the handle. It gave in. Tristan quickly slipped through the gap in the doorway, closing it shut behind him.

A wide desk and tall chair stood by the window, opposite a marble fireplace. People waved at him from within large frames by the wall. His eyes roamed over the smiling faces of the Potters, Blacks, and McKinnons, to the high shelves filled with books and scrolls of parchment.

'Best start somewhere.'

Tristan edged over to the desk, skimming over the last correspondence and picking up a letter with the broken Gringotts seal.

'I knew Mother's family was wealthy, but this must've come from Father's side.' He barely stifled an appreciative whistle when he spotted the final column of numerals. 'How did we accumulate that much?'

Shaking his head he placed the letter aside and continued his search, crouching down to open the drawers underneath the heavy desk.

Several neatly stacked folders met his eye. Further correspondence with Gringotts was in some of them. Ignored summons from the Ministry, the DMLE, and also the Minister of Magic in another. Even international magical personalities and foreign researchers trying to reach out to his father had been archived and preserved.

'As interesting as these are, they're not what I came looking for.' Tristan shook his head and stood back up, letting his eyes roam through the office once more. 'There has to be a smarter way to approach this.'

A picture of him and his siblings at the edge of the desk caught his eye. Valeria sat on his shoulders, clinging to his neck. Her blonde curls floated in the breeze as Tristan swirled on the spot, holding her calves in place. A much smaller Galahad and toddler-sized Aurelia giggled in delight, clapping their hands wildly to edge them on to go faster.

"Everything we did, every magic we cast, every dream we chased, was to ensure our own survival and that of our family."

'It's worth a try, isn't it?'

Tristan picked up the photograph and studied the frame. It seemed ordinary at first glance.

Little by little, he carefully separated the picture from the frame, frowning when a small, folded piece of parchment suddenly fell out with it.

'Very sneaky, Father.'

His breath hitched, his heart pounded frantically, and his fingers trembled madly as he unfolded it, only to stare at a completely blank page.

'Well, that would've been way too easy.'

He sighed, face scrunched up in a deep frown.

'Finding it is one thing, but they also didn't want just anyone to be able to read it.' He placed the paper on the table and pulled his wand, touching the tip to its center: 'A little clue perhaps?'

A hot yearning, a burning need rose from the yellowed parchment. Distorted whispers asked for a price, something precious, something invaluable.

"There is only one thing the Peverells value above anything else." He brought his wand to his thumb, slicing the skin until dark crimson dwelled from within the cut.

'This is better worth it, I don't heal like whatever ancestor of mine came up with this ridiculous protection...'

He eyed the single droplet falling onto the parchment. It turned pitch-black like ink upon impact.

'This is a good sign, isn't it?'

Trails of ebony spread along the folded lines of the parchment. The paper grew in size, spreading over the wooden desk until it was the width of an ordinary roll of parchment but still barely a foot in length.

"Huh." He picked it up with a frown, eyes roaming to the top as he unscrolled it. "Interesting."

Swirling black dots coiled together into letters and runes, like individual ants forming a thin trail.

None of the sentences were fully written out. They seemed to be notes of sorts, scribbled in haste, crossed through, reworked, and sometimes extended on in the columns between. He saw long incantations, runic patterns, the most complicated arithmancy, and precise calculations.

'What the bloody hell is this?' Tristan searched for a point of reference, something that helped him orientate himself and bring order and sense into the chaos he had stumbled over.

The moment his eyes dipped lower, the scribbling adjusted. Letters seemingly fell over the edge at the top while new ones appeared at the bottom.

A single series of words caught his attention. They were highlighted in the middle of the scroll, underlined, and even framed and circled several times.

"For the success of any ritual, it's the sacrifice that matters the most."