Sometimes it felt like he was still a teenager, trying to find his footing in a war-torn world. You'd thing that having been a teenager in wartime would have provided Tristan with plenty of maturing, but somehow it had only made the whole teenage angst and confusion worse. Oh, he adjusted well enough with the times, and had made his parents and ancestors proud with his high grades and esteemed entrance into the elite Auror corps of the Ministry of Magic, but the fact remained that Tristan Higgs felt disconnected from his life.
He tried a lot of things, from appropriately discreet and private rebellion in the form of adopting the vice of muggle cigarettes and having dalliances with impure girls to going to the current method of crafting a perfect mold to fit inside and thrive in the society in which he was born, but in the end nothing really made him belong anywhere (or even caught his attention, really). He was considered good looking, of prime pedigree and quite talented in the combative magics, so for a while he even threw himself into his studies in both Hogwarts and the Auror academy, ending up being the best of his class at graduation. That was everything he could dream of, right? Everything was at his fingertips! Yet it felt cheap... hollow.
He missed a spark, something that would keep him struggling for once, and when he finally found it in the form of Deep Undercover missions, it was taken from him. Imagine him, the second son of blood purists, was asked by the Minister himself to protect his daughter from arms. He did not understand... from what he could remember, Sarai was not only pretty but fierce as well... ah, better not think about that. The past was the past, and he was over this silly little boyhood crush, right? Right!
What a mess... he would have wanted to continue on his path with high stakes solo missions in enemy territory, but a request from the Minister was as good as an order. Tristan was a Slytherin to the core, and killing his career over a preference of mission made his skin crawl. The answer was easy in the end, but it did not prevent him from getting smashed in firewhiskey the night previous to drown his bitter thoughts over his shattered ambitions. An assignment like that would mean he would have to be a public face from now on, and while he had been groomed for a place in the limelight since birth, Tristan had always been most content in the dark.
Leaning back into his seat by his flat's fireplace, the brunet flicked the empty tumbler to let it land on the thick Persian rug on the hardwood floor before firmly grasping the red bottle. Tonight he would forger, and tomorrow he would do what he had to in order to keep his job, if not his greater ambitions. Pushing the glass opening to his lips, Tristan tipped both the firewiskey and his head back, falling into the torrid arms of drunken oblivion.
Smothering a scowl and a massive hangover the next day, Higgs wondered why he always had to be so stupid when he was upset with something. His head was killing him, his mouth felt horrible despite the multitude of freshening potions and charms he threw its way this morning and he was on his last nerve from the snotty look he got from the filthy little mudblood that dared look down on him just because he schmoozed his way into his spot as the Minister's Assistant. So what if his thought were unkind? Yes, he was proud in his heritage, and right now he did not feel like tolerating the attitude of parvenus!
As he was about to open his mouth and put the filthy little peasant to his proper place at his boots, the soft jingling of his well earned Auror badge reminded Tristan that he could not do as he wanted here, if he wanted to keep his position. It was thus with a heavy heart and a dark glare that he hissed what he had come here for.
“Good afternoon, I have an appointment with the Minister.” seeing the fop about to protest, the glare became a sneer. “That is not a request, lead me to Minister Shacklebolt, he is waiting for me.”
Blissfully, that seemed to do the trick, and soon Tristan was stepping inside the richly appointed Ministerial office. The room was bright and hurt his sensitive eyes, but the brunet bore it as stoically as he could, fighting tooth and nail not to show how hungover he was.
“Good afternoon, Minister. I trust you told... her...?” His sentence, who had started smoothly and confidently enough, had ended in a near squawk as Tristan Higgs spotted Sarai Shacklebolt for the first time in three years.
That was bad... she was even more stunning than he remembered, and from the way his pulse raced and his knees tried to turn to jelly, the brunet had obliviously not been as over his boyhood crush as he had previously assumed he did. Worse still, the whole mess had gotten worse now that she had fully grown into her beauty, and for a moment Tristan could no longer find his voice... or his ability to look anywhere but in Sarai's direction, for that matter.
Shit!