Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Hermione awoke, her bed was as cold as it always was.

The familiarity of it cut through to her bones. 

Her fingers stretched, seeking any warmth around her, but there was nothing there. It was just her in her little borrowed bed in the Burrow.

Her eyes cracked open, slowly adjusting to the light seeping in from the only window atop the wall. Ginny was curled into herself across the room, a blanket cocooned around her small body. The furrow between her brows that had been a constant feature in recent weeks was smooth now. She looked at peace, the sunlight hitting her face in a way that made her glow. Hermione found the warmth briefly, felt it seize her chest before it winked away. 

At the foot of Ginny’s bed, when he should have been at the foot of Hermione’s, was Crookshanks. The half-kneazle that nobody wanted; her constant companion. He had eyes and ears for Hermione, Ginny’s bed, and the rodents that made home in the old walls of the house they all occupied.

Pulling on a pair of trousers and a Weasley sweater, and stashing her wand in her pocket, Hermione grabbed her beaded bag and began to make her way out of the room. With a glance back at Ginny’s bed, she confirmed both sleepers were still peacefully out, Crookshanks having stretched to his full length parallel to Ginny’s body. She closed the door behind her to a quiet click.

The Burrow resided in District 12, and typically, it was littered with men and women, grimy and battered. But today, the unpaved roads were empty. The day of the reaping was a national holiday. Choosing which children to send to their death—a national holiday.

The Weasley home sat at the edge of Little Hangleton, one of the four major areas of the District and also the poorest. It wasn’t that the Weasleys themselves were poor, but it was that real estate was a luxury, one few could be picky about. You took what you could get, where you could get it.

Hermione passed a handful of gates before she reached the Meadow. If working and building shelter in Little Hangleton was difficult, finding food was even harder. The Meadow existed just beyond the warded fence of Little Hangleton, and beyond that existed the woods. The fence was meant to enclose all of District 12 in, though the Death Eaters claimed it was for protection from the predators –packs of Acromantulas, Hippogriffs, and Werewolves- that resided in the woods. In theory, the wards on the fence were supposed to be on 24 hours a day, but in reality, they rarely were.

Hermione took a moment to listen for the quiet hum that meant the wards were alive. Like always, she was rewarded with only silence. She approached the weak spot in the fence, the one that was closest to home, and crawled underneath it, quickly slipping towards the trees for cover as soon as she wriggled through.

Beyond the fence, magic was weak, if not completely irrelevant. Though the leniency of the wards would technically encourage free roamers and escapees, the fear of being without magic acted as the biggest deterrent to the willing.

As a means of survival, Hermione had adapted to muggle weaponry, her favourite being the bow and arrow. Once she was behind the safe cover of the trees in the woods, she pulled out from where it was hidden within a hollow log, safely stowed away since her last trip out.

Inside the woods, she could roam freely. There were no real paths to follow, but plenty of food to find if you knew how. Even though trespassing the fence into the woods was illegal, people took the risk if they had weapons like Hermione, though few did. Her bow had been a gift from her parents, specifically her dad, who had spent days meticulously crafting it just for her. He could have made many galleons selling it on the black market, but if the Death Eaters ever found out he would have been publicly executed for empowering rebellion. Most Death Eaters turned a blind eye to the few people who hunted like Hermione because they were just as eager for fresh meat as the next person, but arming someone would never have been permitted.

“District Twelve,” Hermione muttered to herself, “Where you can starve to death in safety*.” She glanced over her shoulder, an instinct she didn’t even have to think about at this point. Even out in the middle of nowhere, the fear that someone might have overheard her was always there.

When Hermione was younger, she worried her mother with the things she used to say about District 12 and the people that ruled the country. The Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and everyone who lived in Pure Capitol – she spared offence for none of them. As she got older, she understood that having a big mouth would only lead to more trouble. She didn’t talk about it much with anyone, but she sometimes wondered if it had anything to do with her parent's death.

She had long ago learned how to hold her tongue and wear a perfected mask of indifference. Occlumency helped too, which she was a natural at, to restrict anyone from reading her thoughts. Hermione had created a routine for herself that kept her and the few people she had left safe – she kept her head down in school and made polite small talk in public, but nothing more.

In the woods, the only person with whom she could be herself awaited her. Ron. She could feel the muscles in her face relax, her pace quickening as she climbed a hill toward their usual meeting place. It was shrouded by a Boom Berry bush to protect it from unwanted eyes.

“Hey ‘Mione,” he greeted. He had never called Hermione by her full name. As long as she could remember, even before she came to live with his family, it was always Mione.

“Look what I caught,” he said with his signature grin plastered on his face, as he pulled out a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it. Hermione laughed. It was real bakery bread, unlike the sad excuse for it they made from their rations. Hermione took it in her hand and inhaled the fresh fragrance. It made her mouth salivate and her knees slightly weak.

“It’s still warm,” she said. “What did it cost you?”

“A niffler. I think the old lady was feeling sentimental this morning,” Ron said with a shrug. “She even wished me luck.”

“I almost forgot... Happy Hunger Games!” he said, projecting his voice in a Pure Capitol accent. He plucked a few Boom Berries from the bushes surrounding them. “And, may the odds“ —he tossed a berry up and eyed it to catch with his open mouth. Hermione swiped the berry with her hand and plopped it into her own mouth with a smile— "be ever in your favour!” she finished with similar vigour.

She watched as he pulled out a knife and carefully sliced the bread. Ron was practically her brother. He looked nothing like her with his ginger hair and pale freckled skin, but his green eyes resembled her mother’s so much it was unnerving. Hermione obviously didn’t resemble any of the Weasleys, with her brown hair and caramel eyes. If she looked out of place, it’s because she was. Ron spread the bread slices with some makeshift jam, made from the same berries he was tossing in his mouth, and carefully placed a leaf of wild mint on each slice. They settled into the nook of a rock as they ate.

It was a beautiful day, the kind when you feel the season tipping the cusp between spring and summer. The sky was blue and there was a soft breeze blowing past Hermione’s hair that warmed her neck. The bread was wonderful, as was the jam, the flavour bursting in her mouth. It was a perfect day, and if it really were a holiday, she and Ron would spend the afternoon roaming the woods and exploring the caves. But instead, they would be standing in the District square in a few hours waiting for their names to be called out.

“We could do it, you know,” Ron mumbled.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Leave the District. Run off and live in the woods. You and I could make it Mione,” he said, almost more to himself than to her.

It wasn’t the first time Ron had suggested the idea. 

“If there weren’t so many of us,” he added quickly with a chuckle.

There truly were lots of them. Hermione didn’t have any siblings herself but Ron was one of seven, eight if you counted Hermione as an honorary Weasley. He was officially the second youngest, a few years ahead of Ginny. His three older brothers, Bill, Charlie, and Percy, all had kids of their own now. And they would have to throw Molly and Arthur in too if they left because they wouldn’t be able to live without their children. Even with Ron and Hermione hunting almost every day, there were still many nights when the occupants of the Burrow would go to sleep with growling stomachs.

“I never want to have kids,” she whispered.

“I might want to. If I didn’t live here,” he said, flashing an expectant look at her that went unnoticed.

“But you do.”

He sighed. “Forget it.”

The conversation didn’t feel right. Leave? They couldn’t leave. As much as the whole Weasley clan had become Hermione’s family, she was especially close to Ginny. She had always dreamt of having a little sister when she was growing up, and now she had one. If they couldn’t leave, why even bother entertaining the idea? And even if they could, what did children have to do with it? Hermione had never felt anything romantic towards Ron, though she suspected that wasn’t the case for him. They had met when she was only eleven years old and his family had come to her parent’s shop, but it had taken a long time for them to even become friends.

“What do you want to do?” Hermione finally asked, breaking the tight silence that had settled between them. “We can hunt, or fish, or even gather.”

“Let’s go down to the lake to fish. We can get something nice for tonight,” he said, the previous tense moment seemingly forgotten by him.

Tonight, after the reaping. Tonight, when everybody was supposed to celebrate. And most people truly would, at the relief that their children weren’t picked and were spared for at least another year. But most were not all. Two families would have to try and figure out how they would live through the painful weeks to come, weeks that would most likely be their children’s last.

They made out fairly well with their hunting. By the early afternoon, they had caught numerous fish and had gathered a whole bag of greens, along with multiple handfuls of wild strawberries.

On their way home from the woods, they stopped by Knockturn Alley, the black market where they traded their goods. Most businesses closed on the day of the reaping, but the black market was always bustling. They easily traded some of the fish for more bread and some salt. 

When they finished at the market, they made their way to the mayor’s house to sell some of the strawberries as he was one of few in the District that could afford the price. He answered the door himself. One would have expected him to be a snob, being the mayor and all, but he was usually alright. A large burly man with a long white beard, a very stereotypical-looking wizard. In another life, he probably wore long robes and a pointy hat. In this life though, he was dressed in linen pants and a grey button-down shirt. They rarely talked with him when making a sale, which seemed to suit them more than it suited him. He was a natural conversationalist, and with today being what it was, much too peachy for Hermione’s liking.

“Hello, Ms.Granger.” His tone was warm. “And Mr.Weasley.”

“Mayor Dumbledore.” Hermione nodded, avoiding any ceremonial greeting.

He spotted the strawberries in Ron’s hands and started to rummage through his pockets for the galleons he owed them.

“Happy Hunger Games,” he said, flashing a toothy grin. Hermione and Ron forced strained smiles onto their faces. “How many entries this year for you both? Five? Six?” 

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Fifty-two, sir."

“Sixty-four for me,” Ron added, just as tense.

Mayor Dumbledore had the nerve to look surprised. Hermione’s eyes landed on a small pin that adorned the breast pocket of his shirt. It looked goblin-made, no doubt of real gold. It could probably feed a family for a year.

“Quite a few entries for both of you."

This was said as a flippant, passing, comment, as if he didn't understand the reality of his own words. He pulled some money from his pocket and handed it to Hermione. “Well, good luck to you both.” He let a smile pass his lips before he stepped back and closed the door.

Hermione and Ron walked towards the Burrow in utter silence, neither knowing what to say after that exchange. The irony that the Mayor didn’t recognize how unfair the reaping system was didn’t go unnoticed by either of them. He didn’t have children, and he also wasn’t what you would call poor. One would think though, that after years of sending other people’s children to their deaths as sacrifices, he would at least have the decency to know how the system operated.

Every resident became eligible for reaping the very day they turned eleven. In the first year, their name got added once. When they turned twelve, twice. It increased every year that way until they were eighteen, which was the final year of eligibility. In that year, their name got entered eight times, for a total of 36 entries. That was the case for every resident of every District in Regnum.

Of course, there was a catch. If you were poor, you could choose to add your name in exchange for a partem. Each partem was worth a year's supply of grain for one person. You could also volunteer to do it for as many family members as you had per year. Hermione, having been slightly more privileged when her parents were around, had to exchange partem for them only a few times. Ron, being from a larger family, took the brunt when his last older brother passed the age of eligibility. He took partem for him and for his parents and one year for Ginny. Since joining the Weasley household, Hermione had offered to take them for Ginny since Molly had welcomed her in. It was her way of saying thank you, and sacrificing for the sake of the greater good in one of the few scarce ways she could– the Weasley’s youngest daughter, Hermione’s surrogate sister, had just a few entries to her name so far. They planned to keep it that way.

There was a reason why in Mayor Dumbledore’s case, if he ever had his own children, they would have a very slim chance of having their names drawn compared to those who lived in Little Hangleton. It wasn’t impossible. But it was definitely slim. He was wealthy, not just by District standards, but by all standards. He would have never had to take partem. Certainly not his children either.

The partem was a sore subject for Hermione. Deep in the woods, Ron had to listen to her rant about how they were just a tool used to cause misery in the District many times. It was something she became more aware of when she came to live in the Burrow and was fuelled every time she had to take partem for herself and Ginny. And especially so when the reaping loomed near.

Ron and Hermione dropped off their catches in the kitchen of the Burrow and went their separate ways. Despite how small the house was, there was a separate wing for the boys and the girls. Hermione rarely saw Ron at home because of it.

“See you in the square,” Hermione said flatly.

“Wear something pretty.” A ghost of something passed across his face before he turned to head into his own part of the house.

Hermione spotted Molly as she headed up the stairs. She was in a dress that her mother used to wear to the potion shop. She passed off what remained of her parents' clothing to the Weasleys when she got there. As she entered their shared quarters, she spotted Ginny in Hermione’s own reaping outfit from a few years ago. It didn’t fit quite right, but Molly seemed to have charmed it to stay in place.

A tub of warm water awaited Hermione in the bathroom. She scrubbed the dirt off from the woods, and the water was still warm enough to wash her hair. A dress was laid out for her when she emerged back into her room. She knew it was Molly’s as she didn’t have much of her own fancy clothes left. It was a beautiful periwinkle blue.

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked. It had been years since Molly had taken her in and it still felt odd to accept such outward favours from her.

“Of course,” Molly said. “Let’s put your hair up, too.” Hermione reluctantly let her braid her unruly hair and it didn’t go unnoticed when Molly snuck in a few beauty charms to it. Hermione could hardly recognize herself in the splintered mirror on the wall.

When Ginny came up to her, her hand immediately went to Hermione's hair. “You look so pretty,” she whispered.

“And different,” Hermione said. She pulled Ginny in for a hug because she knew the next few hours would be some of the worst of her life. It wasn’t Ginny’s first reaping, but it didn’t really get any easier. The first few years were always the most daunting. She was safe as one could get at her age, but she knew the reality that Ron and Hermione faced. Between the two of them, they probably had the most entries for their respective genders in the entire District.

The Weasley family, and Hermione by extension, looked to protect Ginny in any way they could. The reaping was one of the few things they held no power over. Hermione noticed the blouse Ginny was wearing had pulled out of her skirt. “Tuck your dragon’s tail in, Gin,” she said through a smile.

“Maybe I want to be a dragon,” she retorted back.

Hermione was reminded of the story she’d told Ginny for many years. She too would want to be a dragon. Slay the monsters and the demons and ride off into the sunset.

“You are,” Hermione said patiently. “But within. Don’t play all your cards by showing your tail.”

Ginny laughed and did as she was told.

At a quarter past one, the whole Weasley clan with Hermione in tow, headed for the square. Even though Molly and Arthur weren’t eligible for the reaping, attendance was mandatory. It didn’t matter if you were old or sick or nearly dying. Death Eaters came around once the ceremony started to check if you were there. If not, you were imprisoned.

People filled the square silently. All those that were eligible for the reaping were pulled into marked areas that were broken up by age and gender in the center of the square. Family members gathered around it behind a marked perimeter. There were also those who didn't have anything at stake, no loved ones or friends with eligible children, so they took bets.

The better the gambler, the worse the man, Hermione thought to herself.

As the start of the reaping ceremony loomed nearer, the space in the square continued to fill. Though it was a large area, it wasn’t nearly enough to hold all the District 12 residents. There were over ten thousand of them in total. Once space ran out, people were redirected to streets surrounding the square where Pure Capitol had set up large television screens. A nice luxury for the residents of the District that most often starved to death. The ceremony was always broadcast around the country.

Hermione stood amongst twenty students from her school, all the same age as her. They had been divided between boys and girls. The energy in the space was tense, with people unsure if they should ignore their fellow eligibles or comfort them. Most people chose to do nothing, simply exchanging tense nods when they made eye contact and focusing their attention to the stage before the town hall building. It had been set with three chairs, a flashy podium, and two fiery goblets that Hermione knew were filled with slips of paper. She stared at the goblets with the names of girls. Fifty-three of those slips had her name on them.

On the stage, two out of the three chairs were already filled. One by Mayor Dumbledore, who had changed out of his linen garb from earlier and was seated in a crisp blue suit and skinny tie with his legs stretched before him – like a sore thumb amongst his impoverished people. Next to him sat Rita Skeeter, the escort for District 12, who had arrived fresh from Pure Capitol dressed in a velvet green blazer and pencil skirt, her hair a stark white colour and lips a bright red.

As the clock struck two, the Mayor stepped to the podium and began to read his speech- a rinse and repeat of the year before and every year before that. He spoke of the history of Regnum and how the country had risen on the grounds of what was formerly Great Britain. He detailed the first wizarding war and the natural disasters that followed that nearly decimated the lands. The result of all of that was the creation of Regnum, with its Capitol full of purebloods and wealthy and the thirteen districts. What followed was the second wizarding war, known as the Battle of Hogwarts, which grew from an uprising of the Thirteenth District: Hogwarts. The rebellion spread to all Districts across the country and all were ultimately defeated by Pure Capitol. The Thirteenth District was decimated and today was no more. The current magical laws guaranteed that there would be peace within the Districts and between them, and that no uprising would be possible again. As a lingering reminder of the Battle of Hogwarts and all that came with it that should never be repeated, existed the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games were simple. As punishment for the rebellion, each District had to enlist one boy and one girl, referred to as tributes, to represent them. Every District had its own set of two fiery goblets, and those acted as impartial selectors for the tributes. The goblets were magical sentient artifacts that had the discretion to choose who was most worthy to represent their District. The selected tributes would then be imprisoned in an outdoor arena and would be forced to fight to their death until there was one tribute left standing – that tribute would be the winner. Magic meant that the outdoor arena could be anything from a frozen tundra, to an infested swamp, to a cursed cave.

Nothing was off-limits.

Hermione swallowed the rising bile in her throat as she thought about the underlying message to the Mayor's words. The Hunger Games forced children to pay repentance for the actions of adults that were no longer alive. It was just another way for the regime to control every resident in every District. It was their way of saying— you wronged us, now watch your children kill each other. It made Hermione sick. It enraged her. It brewed enough anger within her that she nearly felt the Unforgivables at the tips of her fingers. It was all their way of saying that if there were another rebellion, nobody would survive. They wouldn’t hesitate to decimate every last person like they did District 13.

To make matters even more humiliating, the day of the reaping and the entirety of the Hunger Games were expected to be treated as a celebration, a mere sporting event rather than a constructed massacre. 

The Mayor's voice cut through Hermione’s thoughts. “It’s time for atonement and for thanks,” he said.

Then he read the list of “all” of the victors that District 12 had ever had. In over forty-five years, there had been exactly one: Alastor Moody, otherwise known as Mad-Eye by the children who feared him, and Moody by everyone else. He was a middle-aged man, pudgy and tall with a magical glass eye – something he was well known for, especially because it came as a result of an injury he took while in the Games. Hermione had never interacted with him before but knew exactly who he was.

As the Mayor read out his name, he staggered up onto the stage muttering something unintelligible under his nose. He reached for the flask at his hip and took a deep swig, his one functioning eye rolling to the back of his head and his glass eye staring straight ahead. He belched loudly and stumbled back into the empty chair meant for him with a loud cackle.

The Mayor, knowing that they were being televised across the country, looked distressed. District 12 would be the laughingstock of every District, so he scrambled to introduce Rita Skeeter.

Upbeat as ever, Rita Skeeter galloped to the podium and greeted everyone with her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!”

She rambled about the honour of her being there, the honour the tributes would face if they were picked, and the honour that would bestow the District if they were the winners. Laced within every one of her words was the message that she would rather represent any District but this one – she preferred to escort winners, which other Districts had plenty of.

Amongst the crowd, Hermione spotted Ron looking at her sternly. Hermione started to think about Ron and how many slips of paper were in the goblet with his name and how the odds were not in his favour. At least not compared to the other boys in the District. As his face darkened and he broke his gaze to turn away, she thought that maybe he was thinking the same thing about her.

As the time for the drawing neared, Rita Skeeter shrieked, “Ladies first!” and crossed the podium to the goblet with the girls’ names. She stuck out her hand in anticipation towards the goblet and waited for it to spit out the name it had chosen, time feeling like it was standing still as she did. The blue flames surrounding the goblet turned red as it shot out a name, the slip of paper flying into the air before landing swiftly in Rita Skeeter’s hands. Her fingers slowly unwrapped it, stretching the moment as if for her own twisted pleasure. It felt as though the whole crowd drew a collective breath. Hermione felt nauseous, and was desperately thinking please not me, please not me, please don’t be me.

Rita Skeeter crossed back to the podium and smoothed the slip of paper before her. She cleared her throat before reading out the name sharply.

"Ginevra Weasley!”

Chapter Text

The moment after Ginny’s name was read out, everything blurred. Hermione tried to remember how to breathe, how to blink, how to think and process the words that were just spoken, but she couldn’t. She felt arms come around her and realized that she was falling, the boy standing next to her having caught her before she hit the ground.

This could not be happening. There must have been some sort of mistake. Magic was wrong sometimes, right? It had to be a bad dream, a nightmare, and everyone would just snap out of it in a few moments.

Hermione waited. She pinched herself. She didn’t snap out of it.

Ginny was a name of thousands. Thousands. Hermione herself had five times the slips that Ginny had in the goblet. They had done everything within their control to avoid her name being drawn. All the partem taken in her place, the odds were supposed to be in her favour.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard a strangled sob, presumably from Molly.

“Ginny!” roared Ron’s voice, broken and anguished. Hermione's eyes snapped to movement near the front of the crowd as Ginny made her way towards the stage, stunned, her arms in clenched fists by her side. Her skin was white like a sheet, lips trembling, stone-faced. As she passed through a crack in the crowd, Hermione noticed her shirt stuck out of her skirt. The very shirt she had told her to tuck in before they left. It was that very detail, her dragon tail, that brought Hermione back to her senses.

“Ginny!” she cried out, her throat tight and voice hoarse. “Ginny, wait!” she called again.

As Ginny was moments from stepping up the stairs to the stage, Hermione grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her back.

“I volunteer!” she panted. “I volunteer as tribute!”

There was a collective gasp amongst the crowd, followed by considerable confusion on the stage. Volunteers were unusual for the Hunger Games so the protocol was questionable at best. Only a girl could volunteer in place of another girl and vice versa for the boys. In Districts where potential tributes trained for the Games from the moment they could walk, volunteering was a more common practice. In District 12, where being a tribute meant a one-way ticket to a shallow grave, volunteers were scarce.

“That’s wonderful,” said Rita Skeeter, a greedy smile snaking onto her face. But then she looked down at Hermione and her eyebrows furrowed, uncertainty lacing her expression. “I believe we need to..."-she paused, turning towards the collective on the stage, and then back to the crowd again- "call out the male winner before you, um...” 

“If the girl wants to volunteer now, I don’t believe it makes much of a difference,” spoke the mayor. Hermione was certain he recognized her, for only that morning she and Ron had sold him strawberries. But his eyes were blank as they trailed down her frame. “Let her come forward.”

Ginny screamed out behind Hermione, grasping at her arms to stop her from going. “You can’t Hermione, no!”

“Ginny, let me go,” she muttered, more harshly than intended. It was all she could do to stop herself from crying. She knew if the cameras caught her weakness, she would be seen as an easy target. Someone who was frail. She didn’t want anyone to have that leverage over her.

“Let- go-”

Hermione felt Ginny’s hands release from her back. She turned to see Ron pulling her away, still thrashing in his arms. He locked eyes with Hermione and exchanged a look of understanding with her, his eyes saying everything he couldn’t voice at that moment.

I would be in your place if I could be.

Thank you.

His lip trembled and she could see him fighting to keep his face steady, forcing impassivity. He pulled Ginny further into the crowd until they disappeared amongst the other villagers. Hermione looked down at her hands, her feet already one step up the stairs, and swallowed tightly. Without a second longer delay, she climbed up to the stage.

“Brava!” prattled Rita Skeeter, infused with excitement yet again. “Such spirit!”

Hermione was certain the woman was thrilled for some action, some drama that she could tie her name to, from a District that always disappointed her.

“What’s your name?”

She couldn't meet the woman's eyes. Everything around her was hazy. “Hermione," she cleared her throat. "Granger.”

“I can bet my Jimmy Choo’s that was your little sister, wasn’t it? Can’t have her stealing all the glory!”

Hermione didn’t know what Jimmy Choo’s were. But blood sister or not, it was all just semantics.

Rita Skeeter waited, the silence sinking in. But as her question went unanswered, she stuck her chin out with a scoff. “Let’s give a big round of applause for our newest tribute, everybody.”

But her words were just met with more silence. 

Hermione's gaze trailed slowly from Rita Skeeter out into the crowd, at the vast expanse of people looking up at her.

Nobody clapped. Not even the swindlers who bet on the reaping. They all just stared at her, mouths agape.

Their stillness spoke volumes.

What could have been considered a sign of disrespect, Hermione interpreted as a statement. 

We do not agree.

We do not condone this.

We will not celebrate. 

It was the boldest opposition they could make that wouldn’t get them all killed.

She rolled her shoulder back, hands clasped before her, and met the eyes of as many different people as she could.

Drowned in the silence, she felt a shift amongst the crowd. At first, it looked like nothing, no more than a trickle of gooseflesh settling at the base of her neck. But then, out in the distance, a lone arm raised high above the heads. Then another joined it, and another, until the crowd was a sea of arms. Everyone touched their three middle fingers to their lips slowly and then held them out in a salute. A salute to Hermione. An old tradition and gesture of deference. It meant thank you, it meant we respect you, it meant a passing along of strength for a difficult journey ahead.

It was a goodbye to someone you admired.

Hermione had to bite her tongue to stop hot tears from breaking past her lash line. Fortunately for her, Moody chose that moment to stagger from his chair to congratulate her.

“Look at this one! The bravest witch!” he hollered, throwing an arm around her shoulders. He smelt of liquor and stale sweat. “I like her! A bright young witch!” He turned to the camera and wagged his finger at it. “More than you!” he shouted, for a moment sounding almost sober. “More than all of you!”

He seemed to be addressing the audience more than anything, but then again, Hermione wondered if he meant it to the Pure Capitol.

He intended to continue but just as he opened his mouth, he tumbled off the side of the stage and plummeted to the ground, quickly falling unconscious. Every camera panned to him. Hermione released her breath, strengthened the hold on her clasped hands, and looked out into the distance, not trusting herself to meet the eyes of anyone in the crowd. 

She spotted the hill where she had met Ron at just that morning. At that very moment, she yearned to live out the words he spoke, to run off from the District and live in the woods.

While Moody was stretchered off, Rita Skeeter attempted to get the reaping started again.

“It’s time to choose the boy tribute!” she exclaimed, her voice rising multiple octaves louder than necessary.

She crossed the stage to the goblet with boy names and as she did with the girls, stuck her hand out towards it to wait for the slip of paper. The blue flames stretched up to the edges and whipped about. They started to rise beyond the edge, higher and taller, until they engulfed the goblet almost entirely. Suddenly, the flames flashed red and erupted multiple feet into the air. Rita Skeeter jumped backwards, both from the heat and the shock. But just as quickly as the flames flashed red and high, they crashed down to the base of the goblet and extinguished themselves. A single plume of smoke began to rise from inside but there was otherwise no movement.

No magic.

As if it had gone dormant.

The Mayor’s jaw fell. “I don’t understand.” He looked to Rita for an explanation but she was equally dumbfounded.

“This cannot be,” she said.

The earpiece in her ear flared to life, her eyes widening as she listened to it. She nodded animatedly and cleared her throat moments later before speaking.

“It appears the goblet has made a decision,” she announced. “There will be no boy tribute.”

This invigorated the crowd, whispers spreading amongst the masses. 

No boy tribute?

Hermione had never heard of such a thing. She knew the goblet was sentient and had the power to judge entries, but to select none at all? It seemed impossible. 

“It has deemed the female volunteer a worthy action,” Rita Skeeter continued, in a voice unlike her own as if simply repeating what she was told through her earpiece. “It believes that the one tribute is enough for District 12.”

Silence plagued the square.

“Here, I would normally ask for male volunteers,” she said. “But that would go against the decision of the goblet, so I cannot.” The look of perplex had yet to leave her face.

As if on cue, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the Mayor cleared his throat and began to read the long decree that always followed the selection of tributes. But Hermione wasn’t listening.

She didn’t know whether this meant the odds were in her favour or not. It was instinct to reason that they weren't, that she had undoubtedly just punched her ticket to an untimely end. But a small sliver of hope clawed its way through her mind; a look on the bright side.

There was now one less tribute to try and kill.

Somewhere beyond her senses, she registered the mayor finishing the decree and shaking her hand. As the anthem of Regnum began to play, she could only think- Twenty-Three of us.

May the odds be ever in my favour.

Chapter Text

When the anthem ended, Hermione was taken into custody. They forewent the shackles but she felt just as much a prisoner. She was marched to the front of the Ministry building surrounded by Death Eaters. She wondered if tributes had tried to escape in the past.

Once inside the building, they directed her to a small room and left her on her own. It was the most luxurious place she had ever seen and been in. The carpets were a dark, lush green, the couches deep and velvet to the touch. She sat and ran her fingers over the velvet, reciting childhood spells and magical trivia to keep herself calm. She knew that she had to stay strong into the next hour when she would be given a chance to bid farewell to her loved ones. There would be cameras everywhere she went. She knew she couldn’t cry.

Ginny entered the room first. Her eyes were swollen red, fresh tears still lingering on her lash line. She didn’t say anything initially, instead just approached Hermione and wrapped her arms around her centre in a desperate hug. “Please don’t go,” she wept into her dress. Hermione rubbed her hands up and down her back, knowing that her own tears would betray her if she spoke.

Molly followed in shortly after with Arthur and they both sat on either side of Hermione. They thanked her, they wept, they consoled each other, and they whispered words of encouragement to her. We believe in you. You’re strong. Be brave.

To Hermione, these words felt empty. Not because of who said them, but because of what they said. When they whispered these things in her ear, she knew they were thinking about their own fortune, their own relief, that it was none of them that had to go. None of their own blood children. It was just Hermione. They could afford to sacrifice her.

As the Death Eaters approached the room, she broke from their embrace and went to Ginny, wishing to savour the last few moments of time she had left with her. “Gin, promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she said.

Ginny looked up at her from the chair she had sunk into and bit her lip, a feeble attempt at slowing the tears.

“I promise Hermione, I’ll be okay,” she said, clasping Hermione’s hand in hers. “But you have to promise me, too. Maybe you can win this.”

Hermione knew that Ginny didn’t actually believe that. Nobody did. She could be brave and she could be smart and she could be strong, but her skills wouldn’t be enough against her competition. Other wealthier Districts trained for the Games from childhood. The boys would be taller and faster, the girls sharper and crueller. Of course, there would be some tributes like her, easy targets to weed out at the beginning, but some would not be all.

“I’ll try,” Hermione whispered back, only half believing but knowing she couldn’t give up on herself so easily. She knew that she would put up a good fight. She knew that she wouldn’t be the weakest. She knew that even when she went down, she wouldn’t go easily. “I promise Gin, I’ll try.”

As she spoke out her promise, the Death Eater at the door signalled that time was up. Everyone enveloped her in another round of hugs and take care’s and be strong’s. Ginny grabbed her hand and intertwined the fingers through her own until a Death Eater dragged her out. Hermione watched as the door slammed, locks sliding into place on the other side.

Moments later, the door opened again and another person entered. It was Ron. Though she felt nothing romantic towards him, when he opened his arms, she didn’t hesitate to be wrapped up by them. Everything about him was familiar: his smell, his height, the way he moved. It was a sense of comfort that she needed at that moment.

He didn’t release her as he dropped his head to her ear and spoke quietly. “Mione, you didn’t have to do this.”

Her chest tightened. “I did,” she mumbled solemnly.

“You saved our family. I don’t know if I could ever repay you.” Hermione knew that he would likely never get the opportunity to, as her chances of stepping foot in District 12 again were slim. This, of course, was left unsaid.

He took a deep, strengthening breath before whispering again. “I need you to listen to me,” he said. “First thing you do, is find a bow. You’ll have your wand so it can mimic slicing, so don’t even bother looking for a knife. Get a bow and arrow. That’s your best chance.”

“They don’t always have bows,” she whispered back. She remembered the year when all that was given were grenades. It was a bloodbath that no wand, nor bow and arrow, could stop.

“Then make one,” he muttered sternly. “You know how. A weak bow is better than no bow.”

Hermione pulled away to look at him but didn’t release his embrace. “I can’t assume there will even be wood.” She remembered the year the tributes were dropped in a desert, nothing but sand for miles. More than half of them died of heatstroke, because there was no shade, or from dehydration, because there was no water.

“There’s always some wood,” he replied. “Since the year almost all of them died from the cold. There’s not very much entertainment in stuff like that.”

“That’s true,” she said. Hermione hadn’t forgotten that year either. It was even worse than the desert. She remembered watching the tributes freeze to death on TV throughout the night. They were knee-deep in snow with no wood for fire. None of the warming charms held long enough to avoid hypothermia. That year, not a single tribute killed another. They all died from the elements. The Pure Capitol deemed it to be anti-climactic, and from that point on had provided wood.

Ron swallowed hard, starting to lose the composure of his emotions, but trying to keep it together for Hermione’s sake. “You’re the best hunter I know,” he croaked out.

“It’s not the same,” she said. “They’re people, not animals. They think, and they’ll be armed.”

“So will you. You know how to kill.”

“Not people.”

“It’s not really much different when you don’t need it to be."

The unpleasant thing was that Hermione agreed. If she could forget they were people, if she could just look at them as animals, as a necessary kill for her own preservation, it would help. The same way she looked at the kills when she hunted for food.

They were abruptly interrupted by the Death Eaters, who were back too soon. They grabbed Ron and pulled him away towards the exit. “Take care of everyone!” she cried out, clinging desperately to his hand.

“You take care of yourself! Don’t worry about us,“ he yelled back, as a Death Eater finally broke their grasp and pushed Ron out the door before slamming it behind him.

Hermione’s heart rattled in her chest. Before she could calm her breathing, the door opened again.

Her next guest was unexpected. Mayor Dumbledore walked in and moved straight toward Hermione. He didn't look sad or evasive, but he also didn’t look happy. He led her to the chair furthest from the Death Eaters by the door and sat her down. There was an urgency to his hushed tone that she didn’t discern. “They let you wear one thing from your District in the arena. It should symbolize your home. Will you wear this?” He held out a pin to her that she recognized from earlier. It had been attached to his breast pocket when she and Ron saw him in the morning. She hadn’t paid much attention to the details of it before, but now noticed that it looked like a bird.

“This is your pin,” she said.

He nodded. “It is, but I’d like you to have it.”

When Hermione didn’t protest, he continued. “I’ll put it on your dress.” He reached over and affixed the gold bird to the front. “Give me your word that you’ll wear it in the arena, Hermione.”

“Okay.”

Before Hermione could say anything more, the Mayor had gotten to his feet and left the room. He was her last visitor.

From the room, she was taken into a car and driven to the train station. She applauded herself for not crying because the station was filled with reporters. They looked like insects to her with the large lenses of their cameras pointed at her face. She reached within herself and pulled forward her Occlumency walls, wiping her face clean of any emotion. She spotted her reflection on a television in the station and felt satisfied that outwardly, she almost appeared bored.

As she stepped through the doorway of the train, the door closed swiftly behind her. It immediately started to move. The speed made Hermione’s stomach twist. She had never been on a train before. The preferred, and really the only, transportation method in District 12 was walking. She had overheard that this train travelled at 300 miles per hour. She would reach Pre Capitol in less than a day.

The train was somehow fancier than the room in the Ministry building. She was given her own chamber with a bedroom, a sitting area, a bookshelf, and a private bathroom. There was both hot and cold running water in the bath, a luxury she never had in the Burrow.

The drawers were filled with clothes, in beautiful rich fabrics, that magically sized to her body. Rita Skeeter had told her that all of the clothing was hers to pick and choose from. Hermione peeled off her dress and stepped into the shower. She was told to be ready for dinner in an hour.

When she emerged, she remembered the pin given to her by Mayor Dumbledore. She sat down to examine it in more detail. The gold bird had fiery wings and seemed to be soaring in flight. It was positioned within a triangle, and within that lay a circular ring that had a line running through the center of it. Only the tips of the bird’s wings touched the ring. Hermione didn’t recognize the meaning of the shapes but she did recognize the bird. It was a phoenix.

Phoenixes were large magical birds that could regenerate themselves. They would age, burst into flames when they died, and then rise from their own ashes. They signified endurance, and strength in new beginnings. The idea that they would be reborn from the ashes of a flame was a symbol of journeying through adversity.

More than that, she knew they were a symbol of the Battle of Hogwarts. The President’s regime was masterful at propaganda and concealing information, but the knowledge of the Phoenix was something they could never bury. District 13, which had started the rebellion that led to the Battle, had used phoenixes to help their cause. The birds were large and strong and could carry heavy weight, transport messages, and Apparate. They could sing beautiful melodies that provided support and comfort. Most importantly though, they could heal.

As she processed the full meaning of the pin, she smiled to herself. Wearing it would be a slap in the face to the Pure Capitol.

Hermione had never seen a living phoenix, but she knew at least one had lived in the woods where she tracked. They had a unique ability to replicate human sounds when they sang. Sometimes when she hunted, she whistled a melody her mother used to sing to her as a child and though she couldn’t see it, she could always hear the rustling of feathers before a harmony joined her in the song. Whenever she felt alone in the woods, or frightened, the beautiful melody would ring out seemingly from within the lush trees and spread through the grounds of the forest, like a comforting blanket.

She fastened the pin to the fabric of her shirt. She had chosen a dark green tunic. With the phoenix against that colour, she could almost envision it flying through the woods.

A knock at her door alarmed her to Rita Skeeter’s presence. The woman had come to collect her for dinner. She followed her through the narrow hallways and into a dining room that looked much too big for a train. She assumed an extension charm was at play. Rita pointed to a chair and gestured for Hermione to take a seat.

“Moody went down for a nap”, she said matter-of-factly. Hermione didn’t know what to say to that so she nodded and turned her eyes to the table. At that point, the dinner courses started to arrive. Rich pumpkin soup unlike anything she had ever tasted before, a salad so fresh and crisp it didn’t even feel real, followed by potatoes, grilled vegetables, and a decadent steak. She had never had food like it before in her life. As she stuffed herself, she thought about how it wouldn’t hurt to put on a few pounds before the Games began.

When the meal was over, Hermione turned her attention to the television that was suspended in the corner of the room. The broadcast was showing recaps of the reapings from all Districts. She knew they staggered these broadcasts because nobody who lived in the Districts could actually watch live. Only residents of Pure Capitol could.

She watched, one by one, as each reaping took place. The names were drawn from the goblets as they were in District 12 to varying degrees of crowd excitement. She studied the faces of the children because most were younger than even her. The faces of those she would be tasked with killing. A few of them stood out. There was a boy from District 7 that jumped out to volunteer with a scar on his forehead. He was her age but his face looked weighed by years of anger and resentment. A girl with purple hair from District 8 strolled up to the stage when her name was called and popped a gum bubble when her mayor shook her hand. In District 11, an ethereal-looking blond girl, small and bright-eyed, looked out longingly into the crowd for encouragement when her name was called. A mocha-skinned boy yelled out that he would volunteer for her. The District escort had sternly shushed him. His name was drawn from the boys’ goblet moments later and when he joined the girl on stage, they smiled at each other and held hands.

When they showed District twelve, Hermione watched herself run forward to volunteer. The desperation in her voice was palpable. She watched as Ginny grabbed at her arms and as Ron pulled her away. The commentators of the program paused uncomfortably when they showed the footage of the crowd saluting her. They made quips about Moody when he stumbled off the stage. When the anthem began, the program ended.

As she turned away from the television, a new scene suddenly appeared. It showed a large rectangular room, far greater than anything she had ever seen. At the front of the room was a grand chair, raised above eye level. In it sat the president, President Riddle. Surrounding it were curved rows upon curved rows of seats all facing towards him and each filled with a person. A loud knocking sound broke through the murmurs of the crowd.

“We will have order in the chambers!” a projected voice spoke. The discussion in the room only grew louder.

The speaker banged the gavel on the table again. “Order!” The crowd continued to ignore him.

“Silencio!” The crowd fell silent.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Rita Skeeter rise to her feet and approach the television.

“Lucius Malfoy, present yourself,” sniped President Riddle from his chair.

A middle-aged man rose from amongst the crowd and drifted to the front of the room. He had long hair, so blonde it looked almost white, that fell to his shoulders and framed his pale and pointed face. The president waved his wand and seemed to unsilence the standing man with a non-verbal spell.

“Do you know why you stand before the chamber today?”

The man in question bowed his head. “I do, President Riddle,” he stammered out. He lifted his head and met the gaze of the President before quickly adding, “My Lord, I do.”

“So then you understand why I cannot have you go unpunished for your incompetencies.”

The man named Lucius nodded his head in acknowledgment.

President Riddle raised his eyes sharply and addressed the crowd. “Mister Malfoy stands before you today because he believed it was wise to question the manner of how we operate our annual Hunger Games, and in doing so, questioned my judgment. It is his belief that children should not be entered into the Games. In fact, he shared with great conviction that sacrificing children does not maintain order amongst the Districts as we intend.” He paused, assumingly for greater effect, but the already silent crowd had little reaction.

“Oh dear,” Rita Skeeter’s voice cut through the scene playing out on screen. Hermione quickly flipped her eyes back to it, not wanting to miss any moment of what was sure to be an unpleasant development. It was like a fiery crash she couldn’t look away from.

President Riddle’s voice rang out through the room again. “Lucius, your words have disappointed me, they have disgraced our establishment, and you have brought shame to your family. Are you ashamed of your actions?”

The man’s eyes were planted to the ground. He nodded solemnly. “I am, My Lord.”

“Then I shall see fit that I prove your beliefs otherwise.”

The President paused and twirled his wand in his hands. His silence commanded attention and indignation. Hermione felt her heart hammer in her chest, thanking her fortunes that she wasn’t on the receiving end of his wrath.

“Your son, Lucius, is he here?”

Lucius raised his chin to look at the President, his pupils blown wide and face shading red. “He is.”

A vicious smirk graced the President’s face. “Excellent,” he growled. “I do regret having to do this Lucius, but let it serve as an example to all those in the room and across the country. Poor actions have grave consequences.”

Comprehension seemed to dawn on Lucius Malfoy and he balked. “Please, please don’t!”

If the President heard his pleas, he made no motion to show it. “Today, one of our Districts selected only one tribute.”

Hermione rubbed her sweating palms on her pants, knowing that whatever was to come would not be pleasant.

“I expect you all understand the value and importance of the Hunger Games to our state,” he continued. “If the circumstances were different, I may have accepted only twenty-three tributes.”

“My Lord, please! Please!” Lucius Malfoy begged. “I will do anything!”

The President shot him a venomous look and promptly silenced him without a word.

“It is in my partisan opinion, that we amend that outcome.” He smiled brazenly before adding, “and so I propose we add an additional male tribute.”

The look of Lucius Malfoy silently collapsing in a silent scream tore at Hermione. She didn’t know who this man was or what he had done in his life, but she felt his anguish as if it was her own.

The President looked out into the crowd, searching, before his eyes locked in on his target. A young man rose from his seat. President Riddle nodded his head at him and smiled proudly. He moved to unsilence the crowd, but not before announcing smugly, “Draco Lucius Malfoy, may the odds be ever in your favour.”

On that note, the crowd erupted while President Riddle made a quick escape from the room.

“My oh my, what a travesty. A young man with his upbringing doesn’t belong in the games,” Rita muttered to herself. Hermione’s anger flared but she couldn’t find it in herself to take her eyes off the screen.

The camera panned to the boy in question, who looked to be around Hermione’s age. He was the spitting image of his father, but younger and considerably more handsome. He stood with his chin raised defiantly, his jaw clenched and his empty gaze staring out into the distance. Hermione recognized the tell-tale signs of an Occlumency wall in place. From head to toe he was dressed in black, a stark contrast to the bright colours of the Pure Capitol residents around him. As the chatter built in the room, he didn’t flinch or show any sign of awareness for it.

As the camera began a slow zoom into him, he flipped his eyes directly to it. Silver penetrated through the lens as he stared into its depth, unblinking. Hermione couldn't fight the goosebumps that peppered down her spine. It was impossible to perform Legilimency without being in the actual presence of a person, but his stare felt like he was trying to pry into the mind of every person watching him. 

The camera continued its slow zoom until the only thing within the screen was his face. For a moment, everything stilled. The ghost of a mischievous smirk pulled at his lips before everything cut to black.

The 24th tribute.

Chapter Text

Moody entered the dining room moments after the broadcast ended with a red face and puffy cheeks. He reached for the flask at his hip and took a deep gulp before falling into the seat next to Hermione.

He began tearing into the leftovers from dinner. He ate ravenously, digging into the food with his hands, wiping his fingers on the tablecloth, and belching loudly. He knocked back glasses of what looked like orange juice that he inconspicuously kept thinning out with the spirit from his flask. From what Hermione had seen of him in the District, he would quickly become incoherent at his current pace.

She confronted the thought that she despised him. It was no wonder that there had never been any other winners from the District besides him. If he was the person that was in charge of mentoring tributes, there was little chance for their success.

She was sure there had been some extraordinary tributes though, some that might have even had a real shot, but their ultimate failure could likely be attributed directly to Moody’s incompetence. A big part of success in the arena was sponsorship, and she was sure that the rich people who chose to back the tributes, whether as bets, for bragging rights, or in rare cases even compassion, would seldom want to deal with someone as classless as him.

“Are you planning to give me any advice?” she probed.

“Yeah, I have some advice for you,” he said with a mouth full of food. “Stay alive.”

“That’s not very funny,” Rita scolded. “How about you wrap up with the drinks and answer the girl, Moody.”

Hermione was startled by Rita’s tone. It seemed the woman might have actually had an ounce of good in her.

Moody rose to his feet and stared her down. He towered over her and muttered, “This is my business, with my tribute. Stay out of it, Skeeter.”

When he turned back to grasp his drink, Hermione pushed it off the table, sending liquid and glass shards everywhere. He glared and grabbed for her wrist sharply. In the same moment, she drove a knife into the table, hitting the spot right between his fingers which lightly grazed his skin. She braced herself to deflect his anger, but he crossed his arms and sat back to assess her.

“I see I’ve got myself a fighter this year,” he snarled.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and scowled at him.

“Know your way around anything other than a knife?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“Have any aim?”

She didn’t dare break eye contact with him, lest he detect any weakness. This was her moment to show him that she was tough, tougher than he took her for, tougher than anyone took her for. She had promised Ginny – she would put up a fight.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Excitement flared within Hermione in response to his challenge. She thrived off doubt. She flourished when nobody thought she could. She rose to her feet and yanked an unused steak knife from a nearby place setting, gripping the handle and begging her palms not to sweat. She eyed a part of the wall with alternating panels, and figured if she were doing this, she would go all in.

She turned her focus to that spot, pulled her arm back, and flung the knife forward. Rita shrieked as it lodged itself into the wall, upright and in the center of the sliver between the two panels, just as she had planned.

Moody looked unimpressed but nodded slowly. He circled Hermione and appraised her, checking her muscles and probing at her face while he muttered under his breath.

“You’re not hopeless,” he scoffed. “Once the stylists get their hands on you, you’ll be presentable enough.”

Hermione knew the Games weren’t a beauty contest, but she had watched enough previous contests to know that when a tribute was good-looking, they were more likely to get sponsorships. She nodded in acknowledgment.

“How about we come to an agreement? You don’t disturb my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you.”

Not much of a deal, Hermione thought to herself. But what choice did she have? He was her only option for a trainer.

“Fine.”

“Wonderful.” He plopped himself back into his chair and forked at the salad on his plate. Hermione sat down, albeit reluctantly, and hoped that he would say something more.

He chewed for several moments before breaking the silence. “When we arrive at the Capitol train station tomorrow, there will be a press conference with the other tributes. There will be cameras. I don’t think I have to tell you not to make a fool of yourself in front of them.”

Hermione snorted out a laugh.

“Care to share what’s so funny, girl?”

She recalled that just that afternoon, he had done exactly that - made a fool of himself, and the rest of District 12. The irony of his advice was not lost on her.

“Nothing. Don’t make a fool of myself - got it,” she quipped.

Moody eyed her but continued. “Keep your head down until you get to the stage. The last thing you want to do is faint from the flashes. You’ll be introduced and then we’ll be on our way.”

Hermione played with his words in her head, but they weren’t enough.

“Is that it? What about in the Cornucopia? What’s the best strategy –“

“Hold your horses,” he spat. “One thing at a time. After the press conference, you’ll meet your stylists. Don’t resist what they do to you because it’ll be no use. You have no say.”

“But–”

“No buts. Don’t resist.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood to leave, the door swinging shut behind him.

When Hermione got back to her room, she felt the train pause. She opened the window, letting the soft breeze blow through her hair, and saw that they had stopped to refuel. In the distance, she could see mountains and wondered if they were the same ones as those that divided the furthest Districts from the Pure Capitol. She didn’t have much geographic prowess for anything beyond her own District, but she knew the mountains were significant. They were vast and spanned miles long, acting as a natural protective barrier around the Pure Capitol. From where she stood now, they looked small and inconspicuous on the horizon.

When the train started to move again, she closed the window. For a while, she just stood and stared out of it. As the landscape flashed by, she could see lights in the distance. Was it a District? Maybe District 7? Or maybe District 2? She didn’t know. She just stood and stared, thinking about the people in whatever District it was that were in the safety of their homes and settling in for bed.

She wondered what was happening in the Burrow. How was Ginny doing? Had Ron left his room? Did Molly cook the fish they caught that morning? Did anyone even eat it if she did? She wondered if they watched the recap of the reaping event on their little muggle television. Did they think of her? She hoped they did.

Though the Burrow had been her home in the years she’d lived there, she missed her parents. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl into her mother’s arms and be coddled.

The drawers in her room held a number of different nightgowns, but Hermione just stripped off her shirt and pants and climbed into bed. The sheets were made of silk and felt like melted butter on her skin. If you’re going to cry, do it now, she told herself. In the morning, any evidence could just be washed off in the shower. But the tears didn’t come. She felt too overwhelmed, too exhausted, and most of all too numb. She let the train rock her to sleep to the thought of birds, the woods, and freedom.

She awoke hours later to knocking on her door and light seeping in through the drapes of the window. Rita Skeeter’s voice vibrated from the other side of the door. “Up you go! Today is a big, big day!”

When Hermione didn’t answer, Rita knocked again.

“I’m up!” she yelled. Her statement was met with silence and quickly followed by the trailing sound of heels descending down the hallway and away from her room.

Hermione rose to her feet and entered the bathroom for a shower. She decided to wear the same outfit as the day before because it was still clean. Tracing the phoenix pin still on the shirt with her finger, she thought of the woods, about what she would do to be able to step foot in them again.

Her typically unruly hair was still held up by the charms Molly did for the reaping. The top parts of it were swept away from her face in two French plaits on either side of her head. The loose curls on the bottom still felt soft to the touch. She ran her fingers through them lightly and left everything else as it was.

As she entered the dining room car, Rita handed her a cup of something dark brown. It didn’t smell like tea so she assumed it was coffee. The Weasleys could never afford coffee but she recognized the smell from weekends in her home while she was growing up. Her father loved coffee. The moment she sat down at the dining table, she was served an enormous plate of food piled high with eggs, ham, and potatoes. A plate of fresh fruits sat on the table as well and looked to be under a chilling charm. There was a basket of bread rolls that could have fed the Weasleys for an entire week. Next to her plate stood a glass of pumpkin juice. She stuffed down as much food as her body could handle.

The light in the compartment suddenly went out and she realized that they had entered a tunnel. They drove in darkness for several moments before the room flooded with light again. Hermione’s heart dropped. Through the windows, she could see the landscape of something she had only ever seen on television – Pure Capitol, the ruling city of Regnum.

She used to wonder if the cameras lied about its magnificence but seeing it with her own eyes confirmed the opposite – they somehow didn’t capture its vibrance enough. Skyscrapers glistened high above the sky like diamonds, polished cars passed her vision with their windows rolled down, and all the colours seemed artificial. There were bright pinks, oranges, vibrant blues, and deep greens scattered all throughout the city like a kaleidoscope. She was rendered speechless.

When the train rolled to a slow stop, Hermione followed Rita and then Moody out of the main doors. The moment she stepped past the threshold and onto the platform, she was blinded by the flashing lights of camera shutters all around her. She put her head down, remembering Moody’s scarce advice, and followed her escorts to the platform where all the tributes would be gathering.

With District 12 being the furthest from Pure Capitol, Hermione was the last tribute to arrive. On a small makeshift stage, the other tributes were already lined up in order by their District number – one empty space at the end of the line remained for her. She recognized most of the faces from the reaping recap the night before.

As she took her spot in the line, a burly man approached the podium on the stage. When his voice rang out, amplified by a Sonorus charm, Hermione took a moment to pull forward her Occlumency walls. She looked out towards the crowd, easily hundreds in attendance, and noticed people pointing at different tributes. Some were waving at them, while others smiled and the odd person even winked. 

She recalled her thoughts from the night before. Moody would do her no favours in getting sponsorships. What if the people in the crowd waving at her were wealthy? Would it hurt her to smile or wave back if it meant a soft spot for sponsorships later? Probably not.

When the speaker turned his attention to introduce the tributes, she formulated a plan. She was at the end of the line so she had time to observe. As each tribute's name was called out, they stepped forward and either bowed their heads or waved out once to the crowd.

When it was finally her turn, she plastered a charming smile on her face and stepped forward. The moment she did, a young boy sitting on the shoulders of his father blew a kiss to her. She made a motion to catch it with her hand and pocket it with a delighted wink to the boy. She watched the moment replay back on the broadcast screen. Laughter erupted amongst the crowd and the young boy clapped his hands in glee. She bowed her head and took a step back.

This might be easier than she thought.

As the conference came to an end, the tributes began to skirt off the stage with their escorts in different directions, looking to avoid any unnecessary opportunities for mingling or scouting. Hermione quickly got disoriented in the crowd of bodies and lost sense of what direction Rita and Moody had gone. She thought she had seen them go left, but as she stood in the center of the crowd around her, she realized she had no concept of what was left and what was right.

She slowly backed away, hoping to reach the step she had stood on during the speech to try and get some leverage over the commotion. She moved until she collided with a firm wall. A wall that shouldn't have been there. She jumped, whirling with a startle, and found herself face to face not with a wall but with a person.

White blonde hair and deep grey irises. 

The son of the man named Lucius Malfoy.

Draco. The tribute from Pure Capitol. 

As she collided with him, his gaze immediately bore into her, no trace of emotion behind his heavy stare. Hermione stepped back, an apology ready at the tip of her tongue, but when he flicked his gaze down to the pin on her chest she didn't let it sound. She blinked, watched his eyes widen, and when she blinked again they had they flicked back up to her with a single raised brow.

And the tribute in her should have seen it coming but when she felt a stern push at her Occlumency wall, she still found herself gasp at the intrusion.

She knew the feeling - Legilimency. 

He was trying to perform it on her. Right here. Right now. 

Moving bodies shifted all around her, her breath caught in her throat, but Hermione didn't budge.

He had the nerve to look at her smugly as his push receded. He practically stepped into her as he made to move out of her way. 

“Nice pin,” he breathed over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Chapter Text

In the whirlwind following the press conference, Hermione was tugged from one side to another, first by Moody who criticized her for doing something he didn't approve and then by Rita who praised her for blowing the kiss, saying that it would fare well with potential sponsors.

Through the commotion, her mind kept replaying the comment made by the Pure Capitol Tribute.

Nice pin, the Malfoy boy had said.

She tried to wrap her brain around those two words until she developed a headache, but was no closer to understanding what he meant.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed that she was being ushered through a long dark hallway, fitted with grimy sconces on either side. She came to her senses just as Moody pushed her through a large black door and slammed it shut behind her. She found herself standing before two men she didn’t recognize.

“You are Herm-own-ninny,” one of them said, a tall buff man with tattoos across his arms.

“Hermione."

“See, I told you it wasn’t Herm-own-ninny,” the other one laughed.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The tattooed man stuck his hand out to her proudly. “My name is Viktor.”

She placed her palm in his it and was taken aback by how large it was around hers. The other man quickly offered her his hand as well.

“I’m Cedric. We’re your style team. Well, most of it.” He flashed her an easy grin.

Hermione quickly swallowed through the lump that formed in her throat. Moody had warned her that she would have no say in what the stylists did. She had envisioned snobby Pure Capitol folk that stuck their noses in the air to her or ones who looked at her like she was scum. The two men before her had done nothing of that sort. They didn’t even look half-bad, and definitely not as high and mighty as she had imagined.

“What will you be doing to me?” she asked hesitantly.

Cedric stood half-leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and popped a gum bubble as he looked her up and down. He stopped when he got to the bare legs beneath her shorts and winced. “Dear, when was the last time you shaved?”

She felt the blush spread across her cheeks and neck. “Never.”

“Then we’ve got a lot of work to do,” he announced, pushing himself off from the wall and crossing the room to grab his bag. Viktor quickly followed suit and pulled out a bag of his own.

With their bags in tow, they both approached Hermione and got to work. She spent the next hour gritting her teeth and wiping tears from her eyes as they yanked strips of fabric from her legs. They could have done it the magical way but they assured her that she should trust them. That they knew what they were doing and she would have nothing to worry about come her time in the arena. A particularly bad strip tear had Hermione yelping as the hair was pulled out roughly.

“Sorry!” Viktor exclaimed. “You’re just so hairy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and gripped the table, already preparing for the next strip.

Cedric buried a smirk and pulled his face close to her ear. “Don’t mind him, he just likes bare.”

Hermione’s eyes widened at the brazen statement. Cedric however looked guiltless. He motioned to himself, flashing her a cheeky grin, and said, “I mean, wouldn’t you? Look at me.”

She saw Viktor throw him a look that was more than a little friendly, but she had little time to dwell on it before Cedric was pulling the next strip.

“Good news, that was the last one.”

Hermione took a deep breath and counted to ten to calm herself, unsure if she could have suffered any more of the man handling. The skin on her legs felt positively raw.

In the hour she had spent in the room, she had yet to meet her lead stylist. She assumed he or she had no interest in seeing her until the obvious problems were taken care of. After the gruelling hair removal, they scrubbed her down with a fluffy loofah and soap that smelled like apples and cinnamon. They removed years’ worth of dirt and what felt like numerous layers of the skin itself. They shaped her nails, pulled out rogue eyebrow hairs, and moisturized her from top to bottom like a newborn baby.

She had kept her promise to Moody and hadn’t let a single objection leave her mouth.

“You’re doing really well Hermione,” Cedric said. “We get a lot of whiners and you’re anything but.”

They had changed her into a robe and stood back to assess her. “You look wonderful,” praised Viktor in his thick accent. “Like a new woman.”

She forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you. I usually don’t have much reason to look nice”—she hesitated, tugging at her lip—“where I’m from.”

Cedric looked affronted. “Oh of course, we don’t fault you for that.” He didn’t let her dwell on the comment and followed with a quick change of subject. “Looks like you’re ready for Fleur!”

“When she is done with you, you will be marvellous,” Viktor grinned. And with that, the two of them darted out of the room.

As she stood on her own, waiting, Hermione realized that even if she wanted to, she didn’t have it in her to hate them. They may have been odd, maybe just even different, and she wasn’t sure if they were actually lovers or just teasing her, but none of that mattered at all. What did matter though, was that it felt like they genuinely wanted to help her. She felt it deep inside, an inkling that she couldn't fight. And it was nice. 

On the pedestal they left her on, she passed her eyes over the room, taking in details she had missed before. It was dark, almost ominous, painted in a navy blue from floor to ceiling. At the center hung a large chandelier that she was sure was the most extravagant thing she’d ever seen in her life.

Without Viktor and Cedric’s presence, the room felt cold and uninviting. She dreaded having to strip from her robe, something she assumed she would have to do when her stylist arrived. She ran her fingers through her hair, a part of her they hadn’t done anything to, and thought back to Molly’s careful fingers weaving through the plaits and the charms she’d left that still stuck.

She suddenly remembered that she had left the periwinkle dress Molly had lent to her on the floor of the train car, never thinking to hold on to the only piece she had remaining of the Burrow. Her second home. Now she wished she had.

The door to the room swung open and a strikingly beautiful woman walked in. With Viktor and Cedric at her heels, Hermione presumed she was looking at Fleur. The young woman had short blonde hair that cut off bluntly at her shoulders, half of which was pulled back from her face. The lines of her cheeks and jaw were sharp but feminine. When she pulled her lips back to smile, a light glow emanated from her face.

“Hello,” she said in an accent that wasn’t immediately familiar to Hermione. “I am Fleur.”

“Hi Fleur, my name is—"

“I know who you are,” she said matter-of-factly, rummaging through the bag she had with her. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

She paused, looked at Hermione with her arms wrapped around her core, and flipped her gaze to Viktor and Cedric. “Out with you, boys. Give us some space.” They nodded at her in quick succession and filed out of the room.

Hermione motioned her hand towards the knot at her robe and Fleur nodded, taking it as her instruction to strip. As the robe dropped to the floor behind her, Fleur walked around her naked body. Hermione fought her instincts to cover herself and cower behind something, but Fleur’s gaze was not predatory or judgemental. She simply observed her.

“I like your hair,” she hummed. “Did you tressé it yourself?”

By the look on Hermione’s face, Fleur realized that she didn’t understand her jargon. “Braid—did you braid it?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I had help.”

“It is trés chic. And very classic. It suits your face nicely.” Her tone was warm, once again diminishing Hermione’s unpleasant expectations of the people she would be working with.

“Are you new?” Hermione asked. Most of the District stylists were consistent, familiar faces that were easily recognizable after years of watching the games. She had never seen Fleur before.

Fleur twirled her finger around a bright feather attached to her ear. “I am. This is my first Hunger Games.”

“So they stuck you with District 12?”

“I asked for it,” she said but without further explanation. “You can put your robe back on.”

Hermione did as she was told and followed Fleur into the adjacent sitting room. Two red couches were facing each other around a small wooden table. The room was in surprisingly stark contrast to the one she had gotten her makeover in. Though the walls were similarly dark, one wall was made entirely of glass, providing an extravagant view of Pure Capitol from above. The dark hallway and previous room had made it feel like the building was underground – this vantage poing clearly showed otherwise. Light filtered in brightly and brought a warmth she had yet to feel in the city.

Fleur motioned to one of the couches for Hermione and then sat on the one facing it. She rang a small bell on the table and plates of food appeared in front of them instantly. Hermione longed to be able to conjure food this easily at the Burrow. She wished everyone in every District was able to. But she knew food couldn’t be created from nothing. This summoning luxury didn’t work when the food was non-existent in a nearby place. It was a luxury she presumed no District had like Pure Capitol did.

Her plate was piled high with glistening meat on a bone, fluffy mashed potatoes, and crisp green beans. She didn’t know what the meat was but it looked delicious. Thinking about the Weasleys and her neighbours in District 12, though, made her hesitate. She moved her fork around the food and realized she didn't have much of an appetite. She should have, after how the day had gone so far, but she didn’t. She just had a painful knot in her stomach.

She wondered what it would be like to live in a place like Pure Capitol while knowing people in the Districts starved. She didn’t know if the situation in the other Districts was as dire as it was in 12, but she assumed it was similar. What did people in Pure Capitol do with their days if they didn’t have to hunt or do physical labour? Did they just sit around and wait for their yearly shipment of tributes to arrive to die for their entertainment?

Hermione looked up and saw Fleur’s eyes trained on her. Her food also remained untouched. “You must believe I’m despicable,” she said.

Hermione was taken aback by the forward statement. Had Fleur read her mind? She of course wasn’t wrong. She did think that. Not just about the woman sitting in front of her, but of everyone from Pure Capitol. She couldn’t fathom living a life of wealth while others suffered, and having the means to help but doing nothing about it.

But she also knew she was in precarious territory. What Fleur thought Hermione might feel, was one thing. Confirming any of those thoughts was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

“I do find it rather difficult to process this level of consumption and opulence,” she replied diplomatically. Not a lie, but also not the full truth.

Fleur cast her eyes down to the table and nodded solemnly, but didn’t respond.

“How about we discuss your costume for the opening ceremony?”

More opulence, more flash, more ostentatiousness. Send the tributes to their death, but do it in style. Hermione remained silent, so Fleur continued. “Since you don’t have a fellow tribute, we don’t have to design a complementary costume. It can be all about you.”

A single thought passed through her mind.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

If she was going to go down with a fight, she could at least do it with dignity.

“Do I have a choice in what I wear?”

“Of course you do. You might not have had a choice in a lot of what you’ve been asked to do, but you do have a choice in what you wear,” Fleur affirmed with a half-smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes. “I can design something and surprise you, or you can tell me what you envision for yourself.”

Hermione thought through her options, as limited as they may have been, and considered what she could suggest. She didn’t have much knowledge of what looked good or what was stylish, but she did know what she wanted to say with her outfit. She also knew what was important to her going into the games: her own strength and resiliency. She wanted whatever she wore to speak to that, to show the other tributes and all those watching across the country that she was a threat. Because if she made others believe it, maybe she could come to believe it too. 

“I’d like something that portrays me as a strong competitor."

She tugged at the strands of her hair, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"Nobody expects me to put up a fight being from District 12."

She thought of all the tributes that would be more prepared than her, who had trained for this fight from birth. She knew she was no match for them. But she also knew what she was capable of—and she was certain it was far more than others would believe.

"I don't know if I can do it but I want anyone who doubts me to see me and second guess themselves. And"—she sighed, knowing it was wishful thinking— "if I'm lucky, have them eat their words. ” 

Fleur’s eyes lit up. “I think I can do that.”

A few hours later, Hermione was dressed in her costume. Fleur had created a dress, much like the colour of the walls in the room, that was velvet to the touch in the bodice and flared out into multiple layers of mesh at the skirt. It was floor-length and unjustly beautiful, with a slit down the middle that exposed one of Hermione’s legs. It sat off her shoulder, sized perfectly thanks to magic, and was somehow delicate and soft while also strikingly powerful.

Fleur appraised her creation proudly, circling Hermione and making minor alterations as she went. Finally, she stepped back behind her and met her eyes in the mirror reflection.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Hermione was near speechless but didn’t want her silence to come across as rude. “It’s beautiful, Fleur. I feel beautiful.”

Fleur’s face beamed with a smile. “It’s not done yet.”

“Oh?”

Instead of answering, Fleur directed her wand to the front of Hermione’s dress to show her. She muttered a long incantation under her breath and moved her wand in a motion that Hermione didn’t recognize.

Before her eyes, sparkles appeared as wide and bright as starlight, materializing on the skirt beneath the mesh. The details were woven in intricate patterns, seemingly assembling themselves, and shined in shades of gold and silver. She thought she faintly recognized the patterns but was too entranced by the magic to decipher their meaning.

Finally, Fleur stepped away and examined the part of the skirt she had enchanted. “Perfect.”

Hermione passed her hands over the mesh, feeling the details of the new additions. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just a few runes,” Fleur responded. “Do you recognize them?”

At the mention of Runes, Hermione realized that she did. She had never learned Ancient Runes in school, but she had taken the liberty of teaching herself as much as she could from a book she found in the attic of her parent's home. She was no expert, but she recognized the symbols and knew their inherent meanings.

“I do,” she whispered. “I don’t know them in detail, but I’ve seen them before.”

She toyed with the material in her hands and tried to recollect the knowledge from deep within her mind. She landed on one that looked particularly familiar. “This is Uruz.”

Fleur smiled and Hermione took it as her sign to continue. “It represents strength, courage, and pragmatic knowledge. It’s the symbol of young warriors.”

“That’s correct. You asked for something strong, so I hoped the understated reference, which only a handful of people will understand, would be your style.” She paused before asking hesitantly, “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Hermione beamed. And she really meant it.

Fleur took the compliment in stride before pulling up a piece of the skirt with her fingers and bringing Hermione’s attention to another pattern.

“This is the rune for Algiz,” she said. “It symbolizes courage in the face of fear and amidst the unknown.” She paused briefly before adding quietly, “It’s for protection.”

With a wary glance, she met Hermione’s eyes and blinked slowly, hoping she understood the unspoken sentiment.

Hermione did. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, unable to do anything more than nod at Fleur in a show of appreciation. She may have thought that Pure Capitol residents were despicable and selfish, and in certain cases downright vile people, but she couldn’t find it in her to dislike Fleur. There was something to her that Hermione couldn’t fully understand. As if there was another layer, a deeper meaning, to the things she said and did.

Fleur quickly brought her attention to one more pattern. “And this is Kenaz, a source of light and warmth amongst the darkness.”

Hermione wasn’t very familiar with that particular rune.

“The quest for truth is like a purifying fire. It will set you free.”

A deeper meaning, another layer. As Fleur’s words swam in her mind, she bent down to adjust the heels on Hermione’s feet.

Moments later, the door to the room swung open. Viktor and Cedric appeared in the doorframe with their jaws dropped.

“Herm-own-ninny, you look—Wow.”

Cedric shot him a look for the obvious mispronunciation but seemed like he understood where the fault came from. He too looked at her dumbly before proclaiming, “What he said. Wow.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the praise and looked to Fleur who observed the dress fondly.

Or maybe she observed her.

Cedric pulled Fleur in for a sideways hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Way to go, Fleur, what a first showing.” She smiled at him warmly and swiped the back of her palm under her eyes, before settling her features and straightening her back.

“I believe it’s time to go.”

Hermione’s stylist team ushered her out of the room as she replayed Fleur’s words in her head.

A source of light amongst the darkness.

She wondered if the irony of the statement was intentional as she passed through the dark and grimy hallways but assumed it was just a mere coincidence. The Pure Capitol was supposed to be light, it was colour, it was brilliance.

At least in a literal sense.

She got whisked down an elevator to what seemed like the very bottom floor of the building they were in. The opening ceremonies were about to begin.

As they exited the elevator, she saw pairs of tributes being loaded up onto what looked like thestral-drawn carriages, as she could see them being pulled but couldn’t see by what. She had been spared witnessing her parents' death, so the thestrals were thankfully still invisible. She figured if she survived the Games, they no longer would be.

Viktor offered Hermione his hand as an empty carriage approached her. She flashed him a smile she hoped didn’t betray how nervous she felt and pushed herself up the height of the steps. She adjusted her body at the front, making sure the part of her dress with the runes was visible through the glass wall around the carriage.

As Fleur had said, few would understand the meaning. Ancient Runes were exactly that—ancient. Not many bothered themselves with things that were so old and seemingly irrelevant. But that very fact made her warm inside. The thought that she was making a statement to and about herself that only a few people would understand. It felt special.

As the opening music began to play through Pure Capitol, and the doors in front of the line of carriages slid open to reveal the crowd, her carriage slowly moved into the queue.

Hers should have been the last one in the line, but she heard another one pull up behind her. She turned, caught off guard because there was no District after 12, and was met with the sight of the same boy from that morning’s press conference—the blonde-haired tribute from Pure Capitol.

She saw him hop into his carriage unimpeded, heavy robes billowing behind him but no stylist or escort around, and plop himself down on the seat at the back of the carriage. He looked haggard and like he would rather be anywhere else.

Join the club, she thought to herself. We’d all rather be somewhere other than on our way to impending death.

It seemed like he hadn’t seen her and she hoped to keep it that way.

Before her carriage was out of eyesight, she looked back at her stylists. Cedric blew her a kiss, Viktor flashed her a thumbs-up, and Fleur gave her a small smile. She waved to them and turned her attention to the path ahead.

The ride through the city was supposed to take around fifteen minutes and would end in the City Center. From there, they would be introduced by the President, stand for the anthem of Regnum, and then be escorted into the training building. That would be their home, and effectively their prison, until the Games began in one week.

As Hermione waited in the queue of carriages, she watched the other entrances ahead of her. The tributes from District 1, a vicious-looking girl with a blunt black bob and a blonde boy a foot taller than her, wore matching bejewelled tunics. She knew that District made jewelry for Pure Capitol, and the crowd's roar at their entrance showed that they were clear favourites. The next few districts passed in a blur. She spotted the scar-headed boy from District 7 dressed as a lumberjack with his female counterpart, and the girl from District 8 linked arms with her paired tribute, a goofy-looking boy who seemed like he had just recently grown into his body and didn’t know what to do with his long limbs.

As the number of carriages in front of hers diminished one by one, anxiety crept into Hermione’s gut. On impulse, she flashed her gaze to the carriage behind her. She didn’t know why she did it, but something about the man in the carriage felt familiar. Almost comforting, after the moment with him this morning, amidst all the other unknowns around her. She regretted looking his way the moment she did.

He had been sitting slumped in the carriage but chose that moment to lift his head, and met her eyes head-on. An all-knowing expression crept onto his face and he rose to his feet, strutting to the front of his own carriage. He leaned forward with both his arms on the glass wall and looked at her quizzically.

Art credit: chestercompany

She should have expected it after that morning, but she didn’t think he would be so brazen, so outwardly shameless, a second time. But she felt the deliberate push against her Occlumency wall almost instantly.

Only a fool who knew Occlumency would keep themselves exposed, and she was no fool. He thought he could catch her off guard, but she was a hunter. She didn’t get caught off guard. She was the one that did the catching. She rolled her eyes at his weak attempt and turned away from him, forcing her mind not to think about what he was trying to accomplish with Legilimency.

What could he, someone she didn’t know of before the previous night, and frankly still didn’t know, possibly want from her? A boy from Pure Capitol of all places.

Warning bells rang out in Hermione’s head.

This man is planning to kill you.

He probably just liked to play with his food before he did.

Suddenly, it was her turn in the queue and her carriage passed the threshold of the doors, flying out into the crowded streets. Her entrance was met with cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!”. Every head turned her way as the runes on her dress illuminated into blinding bright stars amongst the setting sun of the early evening. At the magic, the crowd cheered even louder. She caught sight of herself on the broadcast screens and got chills, unbelieving that she looked as mystical as she did.

Hermione stood and waved, remembering that she was showing for sponsors. She lifted her chin high, pulling her most charming smile to her face. As she gained confidence, she blew back kisses, and the crowd went nuts after her moment in the morning with the little boy. They threw flowers, they shaped their hands into hearts toward her and shouted her given name. Nobody could take their eyes off of her and the dress she was in and she couldn’t help thinking that Fleur added the surprise on purpose to give her an advantage. She wanted to make her unforgettable.

Everybody would know who she was. Hermione Granger. A young warrior.

She felt a high, unlike anything she’d ever felt before, adrenaline pumping through her body, and it gave rise to a flicker of something within her that felt very much like hope. Surely some sponsors would want to take her on? Maybe she could actually do this.

Her carriage arrived in the City Center mere moments before the one behind her did. She didn’t dare look back at its occupant. The thirteen carriages filled the Center and the building of every window that surrounded it was packed with people. The music ended on a high note as President Riddle stepped forward the balcony above the grounds.

He was tall, dark-haired, and alluringly handsome. Hermione remembered him from the broadcast she watched the night before and couldn’t help the unease that settled in her stomach. He looked, and at that moment sounded, like an agreeable man, extending pleasantries and well wishes to all the tributes. But she felt like she had seen a more sinister part of him, one that she presumed he didn’t display too often to the masses.

As his speech continued, she watched herself get broadcast once on the display screen, then again, and then another time. Each time, in the corner of the screen she could see the malfoy boy staring her way as if trying to catch her attention.

She decided she wanted to try something, a little something out of the pages of his book.

She eased her Occlumency wall back and held her breath, waiting to see if he would try and test her again. She realized he had only done it before when they looked at each other, never yet like this. She wasn’t a natural at Legilimency like she was at Occlumency, but she knew enough to get around. A quick test of his walls showed her he had no defences up; whether by choice or by chance, didn’t matter much to her.

As the camera turned to her again, she chose that moment to pounce and project into his mind.

What do you want?

She caught it on the screen, the way he jolted to the voice inside his head.

She snickered. It had worked.

It took him mere moments to gather his composure before she felt him enter her mind.

I didn’t know they taught Ancient Runes in the Districts.

She could sense the snark bleeding through his words. Of all things, that’s what he wanted to say to her? 

First the pin, now the runes. Who are you, Hermione Granger?

Hermione knew that with Legilimency, the voice she heard was a mere projection of the real thing, but it still felt like he was hissing his words into the back of her neck.

She hesitated a moment too long because when she went to enter his mind again and tell him it was none of his business, his walls were up.

She turned her head towards where she last saw him, but he had resumed his place on the seat of his carriage and was prominently faced away from her now. As the President’s speech concluded, the carriages did a final loop of the City Centre and paraded into the training grounds.

The moment the doors shut behind the carriages, she was engulfed by her stylist team, who babbled out praise and compliments. As she glanced around, she noticed all the other tributes were talking with their partner, their stylist, or their escort and trainer. She caught sight of Malfoy jumping down from his carriage with nobody to greet him.

She watched as he walked towards the training ground entry point and undressed his robe. It looked expensive, as all Pure Capitol things did. He dropped it unceremoniously to the floor behind him and waved his wand before the robe burst into flames.

He continued moving towards the entrance without a glance back as his robe sent a plume of magical smoke into the air. When his figure disappeared into the tunnel, the flames settled almost instantly.

When the smoke cleared, Hermione found herself transfixed, staring at the heap of ash his garb had left behind.

Unsinged, a single orange feather lay atop it. 

Chapter Text

The training grounds held a tower that housed all the tributes and their teams. The lobby was vast and spacious, with a soaring ceiling five times the height of the tallest building back in District 12. Each District was assigned a floor, and the levels wrapped around the lobby continuously until coming to an end at what Hermione counted to be the thirteenth floor.

When she entered the elevator, she only had to press her District number. Not only were the elevators fast, but they were made entirely of glass. She could do little else but watch in awe as the people on the ground floor shrank before her eyes as she rode to her floor.

Rita escorted her from the moment she arrived back in her carriage, and Hermione concluded that the woman would likely be overseeing her right into the Games arena when the time for that came.

In a way, she didn’t mind. She hadn’t seen Moody since he shoved her into the room with her stylists and assumed she wouldn’t be seeing him any time soon. With the pace of his drinking, he had likely passed out in an inconspicuous place.

On the other hand, Rita had been pulling out all the stops. It was as if she had never had a tribute to be excited about before. She had complimented Hermione’s dress, praised her for conducting herself during the ceremony, and raved about the crowd's reaction. She had made it seem like she knew everyone who was anyone in Pure Capitol and had committed to talking Hermione up at any opportunity that presented itself, trying to win her sponsors.

As they rode up to their floor, Rita confessed, “I, of course, don’t know what your training strategy is since Moody won’t tell me, but I’ve done my best to work with what I’ve got.”

Hermione nodded. She, too, didn’t know what her strategy was.

“I’ve focused on how composed you are to have come from a savage District like 12. Some people have their reservations, of course,” she prattled on. “But I just tell them that even coal can turn into diamonds without magic if you pressure it hard enough!”

Hermione chose to ignore the comment about savagery. She could easily argue the same thing about the people in Pure Capitol.

But if any of the people she spoke to bought the story, then she wouldn’t be worse off because of it.

Maybe one of the deep pockets would even sponsor her.

“Unfortunately, as you know, only Moody can seal the deals for you,” she said grimly. “But don’t you worry! I’ll hold him at wand point if I have to!”

She lowered her voice to a volume meant for only Hermione to hear. “No unforgivables, of course, but I know a few spells that are just as unpleasant.” She winked at Hermione as the doors opened on their floor and departed to her wing.

Hermione’s room was larger than the entire Burrow. It was lavish, even more so than the train car, and had buttons next to every appliance, plug, and switch. The shower had a dozen settings for temperature and pressure, and the soap dispensers could combine a concoction of every conceivable scent. As she stepped into the shower, she chose one that closely resembled the smell that Viktor and Cedric had used on her skin.

When she exited, her feet sunk into the plush bath mat, and she was dried instantly by a clever charm embedded within the bathroom walls.

She hung the dress Fleur had created for her in the closet and chose a more subdued outfit – Khaki pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. She remembered the phoenix pin that she had transferred from her shirt, to the pocket of her robes, to the lining of her bra during the styling and pulled it out.

Looking at it, something about Malfoy's comment again made her feel uneasy – what about this pin was so special for him to point it out? Depending on the circles you frequented, Phoenix birds may have been slightly controversial, but speaking about them wasn’t outlawed. You weren’t deemed a rebel just for mentioning one, or adorning one on your clothes, so what gave? She traced her fingers along the shapes beneath the golden bird but came to no conclusion.

A knock on the door broke her train of thought. Rita had come to collect her for dinner. Hermione pocketed the pin, opting to keep it out of sight for now, and made her way to the door.

When she and Rita entered their designated dining area, Viktor, Cedric, and Fleur were already seated on a couch in the corner of the room. Hermione was all the more glad to see them there when Rita mentioned that Moody would be joining them for dinner too.

She knew that dinners at this point would be less about the food and more about strategy. At least, she hoped. Her styling team had already proven their value to her, so she wanted them to be part of the discussion either way.

A server approached them and wordlessly offered wine. Hermione thought to decline but quickly changed her mind. She had never drunk wine before. The server poured the yellowed liquid into her glass, and she fought to suppress a cough at her first taste.

Moody walked into the room as the first plate of food appeared. It looked like Cedric and Viktor had had their way with him too, because he looked clean and impeccably well-groomed. She wondered if he had heeded the advice he gave her and had kept his mouth shut about what the stylists did to him.

It was hard to believe he would have.

Fleur made small talk with Moody while Rita laughed obnoxiously at something either Cedric or Viktor had said. If Hermione hadn’t known better, it would have looked like Rita was flirting with them. She smiled to herself at the thought and concentrated on her meal.

What the woman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

The courses of food came one after another, all delivered by quiet servers who kept the plates full and the glasses filled. Hermione nursed her wine when her head started to feel muddled, switching to water every other sip to try and gain back some semblance of clarity.

It was unfathomable how Moody went about his days in a constant state of fogginess. She figured alcohol had less effect when you used it like an IV.

She tried to focus on the conversations around her, which had quickly turned boisterous and animated, before a young girl came through with a white cake and set it down gently on the table. As Hermione turned towards the girl to ask what kind it was, she stopped, her mouth dropping wide in awe.

It was a peculiar feeling to recognize a face but not quite place from where. The girl had long black hair that went past her shoulders and a set of blunt bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were dark brown, her skin porcelain, and her entire demeanour projected innocence.

Hermione felt her insides twist at the odd sensation. When the girl noticed her staring, the kind smile on her face disappeared. She shook her head at the look in Hermione’s eyes and quickly backed away before scurrying out of the room.

When Hermione looked back towards the table, everyone was watching her with furrowed brows.

“Granger, what are you on?” snapped Moody.

“I think I recognize her.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rita said. “You can’t possibly know a squib.”

Her words made no sense. “A squib?”

“Someone who committed a crime,” Moody eyed her suspiciously. “They get their magic taken away and are silenced. She’s most likely a traitor or a rebel. Unlikely you would know who she was.”

“And even if you did recognize her,” Rita cut in, wringing her hands on the napkin in front of her. "You don’t address squibs unless you have an order for them.” She paused before adding, more to herself than anyone in the room. “There’s no way you would have known her.”

Hermione nodded, hoping it would ease the tense interrogation. But she knew that Rita was wrong. She did know her. Moody’s mention of the word rebel had dawned recognition on her. She didn’t care to admit her revelation out loud, though.

“You’re probably right. I don’t know her,” she said.

The mood at the table eased instantly, and they all dug into the cake.

But Hermione’s thoughts didn’t rest. The girl couldn’t have been much older than she was. A pit settled in her stomach as the pieces came together in her mind.

When they’d eaten all the cake, they moved to the sitting area to watch a replay of the opening ceremony. She noticed a few of the other tributes she had missed during the day and had to admit that she wasn’t the only one who had made a good impression.

Rita proclaimed loudly that nobody even held a candle to Hermione’s entrance, but Hermione could tell that was a far-fetched statement. Yes, she had looked good, excellent in fact. But other Districts seemed to pull out everything they had. She stood out on the mere fact that she was alone, like a sore thumb amongst 11 other District pairs.

But, of course, she was not the only lone wolf. She didn’t count Pure Capitol in her mental tally of Districts but figured at this point she should. They had a tribute, and he seemed to think he had her figured out.

She watched as his entrance got the least air time, cutting to him for mere moments before panning out to show the rest of the parade. Though he had been standing at the front railing of his carriage when Hermione last looked at him, he had seated himself sometime after and had remained seated for the duration of the showing.

He didn’t smile or wave. He simply sat and looked out into the distance. He had an air of boredom to him, almost as if he was being inconvenienced— like he had bigger and better things waiting for him after the parade ended.

“That one looks like a real piece of work,” Moody muttered as the camera panned to the Pure Capitol carriage again.

Rita scoffed at him and stuck her chin out. “Pure Capitol has never had a tribute, Moody,” she said, taking the time to enunciate his name with spite. “Give the boy a break.”

Moody waved her off and pretended like he didn’t hear her. “I do commend him though. Sitting on your ass is a nice touch of fuck you.”

At his words, Hermione balked. She hadn’t considered that angle. She had looked at his actions as careless, even somewhat stupid, but then remembered how the other Districts looked and figured Moody might be on to something.

The other tributes all stood triumphantly, engaged with the crowd as if they regarded the Games the way the Pure Capitol regime wanted— as a celebration. Malfoy hadn’t done anything of that sort. He had presented himself as someone who looked like he didn’t care, a prominent but unwilling figure in the send-off parade.

His sitting, staring off into the distance, might as well have been a middle finger to everyone responsible for putting on the Games.

As the recap ended, Moody’s voice cut in as he addressed Hermione. “Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Be ready at breakfast and we’ll talk strategy for how you should play it.”

She nodded. She would have much preferred to talk strategy today so she could think about it before bed, but he looked like he had already become inebriated.

“Go get some sleep. The grown-ups need to talk.”

Based on his tone, an abrupt and non-negotiable dismissal. 

She rose to her feet with a nod, barely a wave to the others, and walked out into the hallway, turning towards her wing of the floor. As she approached her room, she spotted a sign further down the hall that pointed to another door. The symbol on it was that of stairs. She wondered if they reached the roof, and her feet were already carrying her to them before she could give it a second thought.

Only two flights divided her floor from the door that led outside. As she stepped out into the open space, she was met with a cool breeze and the sight of Pure Capitol at nighttime.

It was strikingly beautiful. The city's lights twinkled like stars, reminding her of her dress from the ceremony, and she was awestruck at how much life seemed to be emanating from below. There were people in the windows of the buildings all around her, some on their own, some gathered in small groups, cooking or watching television. She walked to the railing at the edge of the roof and looked down. There were residents walking dogs, honking cars that stopped to pick up passengers, and voices filtering up to her from the street.

As she looked out onto the city, which more and more resembled fireflies in the dark, a solemn thought passed through her mind. She wondered why the roof was even accessible. She could imagine any year there could be tributes desperate enough to end it before their time in the Games even began.

She picked up a rock and tossed it over the edge. It zapped as it hit an invisible barrier and bounced back onto the roof. She tried again from a different spot to the same result. She walked around the perimeter tossing the rock over and over again and each time it landed back at her feet. What may have looked like the possibility of freedom, was simply a cruel illusion.

She wished she had someone with her that she could talk to. Really talk to. Ron would probably have been her first choice given the circumstances, but she was no fool to think that she would ever see him again.

However, he would know what to say, he would know what to do, and he would know how to ease Hermione’s worry, even if with temporary words of encouragement.

Her feet took her to a secluded part of the roof with a small garden that wasn’t maintained, with rough weeds and wild plants sticking out in different directions.

They reminded her of the forest. The forest reminded her of Ron. But just as quickly as her mind landed there, he morphed into the face of the girl she saw at dinner.

Seeing her reminded Hermione why she was there. Not to play dress up and eat decadent food. She was there to kill, and if the odds went against her, be killed, while the city cheered on her assassin.

She wondered if she was being watched at that moment. If cameras were hidden somewhere on the roof that were taping her every move. She figured they probably were.

Hermione wasn’t a guest there— she was a prisoner. She was always being watched. She sat down at the edge of the flower bed and let her thoughts take her to the girl from earlier.

She remembered the day much clearer now that she had let herself finally dwell on the details. It was a year ago, maybe even two. She and Ron had been hunting. They had been hidden in the trees, waiting for an animal to cross their path, humming melodies to each other, when all the birds suddenly stopped singing.

All except one. The same bird that sang back to her, the one that felt her nerves and could ease her tensions with a simple melody. That time, its song was a warning call.

The next part of the memory was the hardest to relive. Through the bush that she and Ron were hidden behind, they saw her. She was in tattered clothes, running as if her life depended on it, further and further into the pits of the woods. From their vantage point, she remembered thinking those parts of the forest were too deep and too far from the fence to be safe. She and Ron had never dared to venture out that far. But it didn’t look like the girl was running with the intention of ever returning.

The men on brooms had appeared out of nowhere. One moment the sky was clear and devoid of anything but a few straggling clouds, and the next moment, the girl was trapped. The seconds after that were nothing but flashes in her recollection. The girl’s scream. Her body falling over, petrified. Her rope-bound form being magically lifted from the ground high into the air towards her captors. And then they were gone. The sound of birds rang out amongst the trees as if nothing had happened.

All-consuming guilt flushed through Hermione as a sob escaped her throat. She and Ron had stood by. They had done nothing. If they had moved quickly enough, maybe they could have concealed her or helped her escape. But they had stayed hidden behind the bush and just watched.

Hermione wanted to believe that they remained unseen, but that was untrue. After the lone bird sang out, but only seconds before the men on brooms appeared, the girl had locked eyes with her. She looked like she wanted to call out for help.

The scream Hermione had heard— had it been her last? Knowing what she knew now, she presumed it was.

Where had the girl come from? She certainly didn’t recognize her from District 12, but she also didn’t look like she was poor enough to be from any neighbouring Districts either. What had she been running from? Where was she running to? There wasn’t anything beyond the barrier of the District 12 forest. Just wilderness. At one point, the 13th District did exist somewhere, but not anymore. The smouldering remains of it were shown on television often.

There was nothing to run to if you wanted to escape.

As the busy hum of the city gradually fell to a hush, she rose to her feet to make her way back to her room. She would wake the next day to her first training session and needed all the rest she could get. Prisoner or not.

Stepping back into the stairwell, she narrowly missed the ripple of space behind her before the door clicked closed and she was out of sight.

When Hermione opened the door to her room, the same girl was collecting the towel she had left on the bathroom floor. She thought about what Rita had said earlier—

You don’t address squibs unless you have an order for them.

Hermione wanted to apologize. For dinner mostly, but she also knew the apology would run much deeper. Seeing the girl filled her with shame. She felt responsible for her silencing and her loss of magic.

The girl looked at her briefly, expression unreadable, before she turned and quickly left the room.

Hermione kicked off her shoes and climbed into the bed still in her clothes. Every part of her hoped the girl didn’t remember her. But she knew life didn’t work that way. She couldn’t imagine herself forgetting the face of someone who was once her last hope.

She pulled the covers over her head and willed herself to fall asleep. But every time she closed her eyes, she could see the girl's face. When it wasn’t her face, she could hear her scream.

The last thought she had before sleep consumed her was if the girl would be watching the Games, cheering on Hermione to die.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s dreams that night were nothing short of nightmares. The face of the black-haired girl, petrified and lifeless, morphed into visions of the Burrow in a war zone, which mutated into scenes from previous Hunger Games littered with darkness, gore, and death. She bolted up from bed, heart racing and body sweating, and took drawn-out breaths to regain her bearings. She opted out of trying to get any more sleep.

The slowly rising sun had started to filter through the window in her room and she could see a layer of misty fog settled low amongst the buildings. The city looked haunted but eerily beautiful.

She dragged herself out of bed to take a shower. After a few days of milking Molly’s beauty charms, she figured it was time to wash her hair. Half asleep and still dazed from her abrupt awakening, she aimlessly punched the buttons in the bathroom wall and was showered with various jet streams and soaps she didn’t intend to mix. She stepped out to a steamy room, overwhelmed with the scent of strawberries and mint, and quickly dried her body off before lotioning from head to toe as Cedric had shown her how to do.

Without Molly’s charm work, she didn’t have much choice of what to do with her hair, so she did the only thing she knew how. She braided. Sticking to the French theme of her hair from the reaping, this time an intentional nod to where she presumed Fleur was from, she plaited two long braids on either side of her head. It would keep the hair out of her face and it was simple—no charms or magic required.

Stepping back into her room, she noticed an outfit had been laid out for her. It was dark and looked expensive, made of a rich velvety fabric. It was a glaring contrast to anything she herself had ever worn or had seen people in Pure Capitol wear.

As she slipped the navy trousers on, they adjusted to her body magically. She pulled the top over her head, which also tightened to her body, and fumbled with a vest holster—a useful accessory for training day.

Tying her combat boots up her shins, she realized that she felt in her element for the first time since before the reaping. Aside from the fabrics and cuts on her body, this could have been just another day in the District for her getting ready in the morning to hunt in the woods. She allowed herself a split second to indulge in the fantasy, and the thought helped ease her nerves before it slipped away.

Instead of attaching the phoenix pin to her bodice, she pocketed it, wanting to observe the day's circumstances before wearing it in front of the other tributes. One of them had already noticed it. She didn’t need them all drawing their attention to her because of it too.

Moody hadn’t told her an exact time to meet for breakfast, but since Rita hadn’t come to get her, she assumed it was still too early. But her nightmares had worked up an appetite, so she made her way to the dining room in hopes of finding something to eat.

When she arrived, the dining area itself was empty, but there was a large serving table set off to the side with dishes piled high with food. A squib was on hand to serve but she grabbed her own plate and started to fill it with eggs and bacon and freshly baked biscuits. After going through the table once, she returned for more, adding cut melon, sliced strawberries, and dollops of yogurt.

As she ate in silence, her mind wandered to the Burrow. She thought about what the Weasleys were doing. Did they feel the emptiness in their home with her gone? It had been only two days, but she wished she knew how Ginny was faring. Did Ron miss her? She wondered what they thought of her opening ceremony showing yesterday. Did it give them hope, or just add to the dread they felt knowing she was one of twenty-four tributes, and there would only be one lone survivor?

She was digging into her fruits when Moody strolled in without a second glance at her, Rita following mere moments after. She chirped a good morning to Hermione, filled her plate with food, and joined at the table.

With their presence there, Hermione’s nerves began to fray. She knew that in a few hours she would be on the training grounds. She’d have multiple days where she would have to practice amongst the other tributes before going up to showcase in front of the Games-makers. She had yet to have a good interaction with the one tribute she had spoken to, so the thought of interacting with the others threatened to bring her food back up.

When Moody had finished several helpings of food, most of which were strictly bacon, he pushed back his plate and sighed. Reaching for the flask at his pocket, he took a deep swig before throwing his elbows on the table and turning to Hermione.

“Time to talk strategy.”

She exchanged a look with Rita, whose eyes lit up at Moody’s statement, and pulled her hands clasped before her.

“Okay, let’s talk.”

Moody flashed her an annoyed expression as if expecting more from her response, but quickly pulled it back. She figured she wasn’t the only one in the room who knew Occlumency.

“You can start by giving me an idea of what you know.”

“Besides my way with knives,” she smiled, hoping to plant that memory back in his mind. “I can hunt. Bow and arrow is my go-to.”

“And are you any good?”

“Yes. Even better than I am at throwing knives.”

She and Ron had been putting food on the Weasley table for years. Half of the District, if not more, survived on the game they hunted. She’d had years of practice, and at this point, could hit any animal without piercing through the meat. If she would answer his question again, she would simply say: I’m not just good, I’m great.

Rita beamed. Hermione could see the greedy look in her eyes, reaffirming her earlier suspicion that the woman thought she finally had a worthy competitor. Someone who might not embarrass her.

But seeing her expression planted a seed of doubt in Hermione’s mind, which quickly blossomed.

She thought back to the conversation with Ron when he came to send her off. What if there was no bow and arrow? She wasn’t a one-trick pony, but after bow hunting, and her flashy but somewhat inconsistent way with knives, the rest of her abilities took a fairly quick dive. She didn’t know hand combat, she could never lift her heavier kills, and she wasn’t particularly nimble. If there were no bow and arrow, her likelihood of survival would plummet tenfold.

If Moody saw the look of doubt cloud her expression, he did not mention it.

“There’s no guarantee there will be even one bow and arrow in the arena but focus on it in your showcase to the Games-makers. If you think that’s your top skill, prove it to them. Until then, stay away from archery. Don’t play all your cards in front of the other tributes.”

She nodded solemnly, her mind still sinking.

Rita’s voice broke through her self-pity reverie. “In case there’s no bow and arrow, Sponsors will help you! I have good enough intel to think that people will be lining up to send you things!”

Moody rolled his eyes at her and continued. “Do you know how to trap animals? Or set snares?”

That was always Ron’s specialty because she wasn’t very good, but she did technically know how. Whether the snares would work or trap the intended target, was an entirely different conversation.

“I know the basics,” she mumbled.

“Good. That’s good. Never underestimate the power of a snare for food.”

She didn’t have any books with her to review from but hoped she would be able to find some memory of Ron showing her how he set them in the depths of her mental library.

“The training grounds will be set up with different stations. Unlike the Games arena, the grounds have a strict no-magic policy. The Games-makers assume that everyone knows their way around magic. They want to see what you can do without it.”

Considering that all the tributes were wizards, Hermione was always surprised by how much muggle skills were actually used in the Games. Though they blocked the use of unforgivables in all tribute wands, and you would get penalized for using overtly dark spells, there really weren’t any strict rules against magic otherwise. But the tributes that knew their way around muggle hunting, muggle shelter building, and muggle cooking tended to always have an advantage over those that didn’t.

The goal of the Games-makers was to design arenas that were challenging to survive, so they were often littered with areas where magic was powerless. She had watched tributes in previous Games get lost, try to build protection for themselves from predators with the use of their wand, and realize that they were unable to. The ones that didn’t know how to build the muggle way were usually dead by the morning.

“When the training begins, go to the group sessions, learn some menial new skills like how to tie a knot, and be done with it. Scope out your competitors, and nothing more. Save your useful skills for the showcase. Are we clear?”

Clear as day, as mud, as everything and nothing. She hated this so much.

“Yes, all clear.”

“You can go. Rita will get you at 10 for training.”

At his dismissal, Hermione stalked off to her room. She sat on her bed and tried to think of something useful to do for the next hour so that she could distract herself from wallowing. She sank into her Occlumency and started to sift through her mental catalogue of folders and organize. She pulled out each box slowly and refiled it, leaving some memories where they were and pushing others further out of reach. She strengthened the foundation of her bookshelves first with one reinforcement, followed by another for good measure. When she felt content enough with how everything looked and felt, she pulled herself back out.

Practicing Occlumency had always helped Hermione block out her nerves, but the moment she heard the knock on her door, indicating it was 10, the anxiety all but consumed her. When she greeted Rita, the pit in her stomach felt like a gaping hole. She wanted to crawl into it and just disappear.

The training area was at the lowest level of the building, several floors underground. The doors from the elevator opened up directly into a large gymnasium, already set up with different stations, obstacle courses, and weapons. Though she was still a few minutes early, she was the last of the group to arrive.

She scanned the room and noticed that all the other tributes were gathered in a tense circle. They each had their name pinned to their chest and their district number pinned to their shirt sleeve.

As she joined the circle, the head trainer, a stocky man named Dawlish, stepped up and began to explain the schedule for the day. Everyone would have free reign to travel the room as they saw fit. There were stations focused on different skills, some on survival, others on combat fighting, and a few on standard fitness. Dawlish stressed that there was no tolerance for engaging in any exercises with tributes from other Districts. If anyone wanted to practice with a partner, there were enough trained assistants on hand.

When he began to read a list of all the stations available, Hermione couldn’t help but observe her fellow tributes. Seeing them assembled on an even playing field, with no costumes or gimmicks, made her heart sink. They were so much larger than she was. The boys being taller and fitter was something she could have assumed, but the number of girls who easily rivalled them was what made her feel the most uneasy.

The tributes with the most advantage were those from the wealthy Districts, many of whom had likely trained for the Games since they were children. Though training was technically forbidden, it was a hard thing to accuse someone of and prove. But the difference in their demeanour, their body shape, and the air of confidence around them was a dead giveaway.

Those from Districts 1, 2, and 4 all had that same look to them. In Districts like 12, they were referred to as “Career Tributes”, or simply “Careers”. The sentiment was obvious—being a tribute was something they were bred for, and almost every year the winner came from one of those three Districts.

Any advantage, any hope, Hermione may have felt after her strong showing at the opening ceremony quickly dissipated. There was no advantage. Not when she was surrounded by tributes who weighed 50, some almost 100 pounds, more than her. Not when the arrogance and brutality seeped from their pores like a warning. And especially not when they headed straight for the most dangerous-looking weapons in the gym as soon as Dawlish finished his instructions.

As all the other tributes made their way to the remaining stations, Hermione waited and watched. She quickly noticed the Careers showing off, trying to one-up each other and intimidate the others.

Hermione heard Moody’s voice in her head—learn some menial new skills like how to tie a knot, and be done with it, so she crossed the grounds to the rope station. The trainer looked pleased to have a student. When she mentioned she was familiar with snares, he showed her an excellent trap that could leave a competitor dangling by the foot from the branch of a tree.

After an hour, when she felt like she’d mastered everything there was to know about that snare, she looked out to review what other options she had.

The Careers had moved on to the station with spears. She recognized a boy who had joined them as the one from District 7—a volunteer like her. She watched as each of the Careers came forward and sent their spear towards a dummy from a 10-yard distance. Each of them hit their target, some on its arm, others on its leg, and one got their spear stuck in the side of its head, but none on the bullseye drawn over the dummy’s heart.

The boy from District 7 came forward, pushed his glasses up his face, and let his spear fly. It landed through the dummy's heart. When he turned, brushing locks of dark hair out of his face, Hermione spotted the tag on his chest.

His name was Harry.

Watching the tributes throw spears made her want to grab the bow and arrow and do what she was good at. She wanted to fling knives, she wanted to hit targets, she wanted to do something meaningful and worthwhile. But instead, replaying Moody’s advice in her head again, she directed her steps to the camouflage station.

When she got there, two additional tributes joined her. She recognized them too. The blonde girl from District 11 and her partner who Hermione remembered had tried to volunteer for her. She noted their names on their tags—Luna and Blaise. Luna giggled as the trainer used her arm as an example of how to apply the patterns of camouflage. Blaise watched her with a warm smile on his face.

As she spread a combination of brown and green paint on her own arm, Hermione wondered what it might feel like to prepare for the Games with someone you cared about. She didn’t even want to think about ending up here with the likes of Ron and knowing she would have to try and kill him, or vice versa.

She presumed it was much worse than being on your own like her. This, she could do. She almost regretted reading the other tribute’s names. It would be so much easier not to know. She had only finished spreading paint on her arm, when she noticed both Luna and Blaise covered nearly head to toe, almost fully camouflaged along a practice wall. Something about it made her smile before she moved to another station.

For the rest of the day, she rotated from station to station, avoiding the ones with archery and knife throwing, and instead spent time starting fires, building shelters, and doing menial hand-to-hand combat.

Lunch was served in a dining room with all twenty-four tributes together. Food was arranged on carts, and everyone served themselves just as she had done at breakfast. The Careers gathered at one table and looked over the room as if everyone else was beneath them. The other tributes sat with their District pair, while Hermione sat alone. She spotted Draco Malfoy come into the room after everyone was already seated, eye the one spot available at her table, grab a biscuit, and leave. After lunch, she resumed work at the stations with little excitement.

When the training day ended she retired to her room spent, and more than a little frustrated. After her shower, she lay in bed tossing and turning, thinking about how she hated Moody’s instructions the longer they swam in her mind. She wanted to try her hand at archery more than anything. She wanted to get a feel for the bow and close her eyes to picture herself using it in a dire situation. Anything to ease the anxiety of having to point an arrow at another person when the Games started. Anything to prepare herself for the feeling of letting it go. As she slowly drifted into slumber, she vowed to do things her way in the morning.

Hermione awoke mere hours later when the sun had yet to start rising. There were just a handful of lights on in the buildings that she could see from her window.

The city was quiet.

She hoped the training grounds were too.

Slipping out of bed, she dressed quickly, a fresh outfit closely resembling the one from the previous day already laid out for her. Instead of pocketing her phoenix pin, she attached it over her heart.

Only moments after she’d stepped out of her room, she heard the chattering of guards down the hall. She quickly jumped behind a nook and had the sense to disillusion herself. The charm took effect only seconds before two Death Eaters turned the corner her way. She was surprised they didn’t notice the sound of her heart stammering in her chest.

Once the guards had passed, she scurried towards the elevator, not daring to make herself visible until she was certain it was safe. She rode in the elevator in silence, with no people to observe in the lobby, and wondered how much trouble she could get in for what she was going to do. They technically hadn’t said that the training grounds were inaccessible in off-hours. And if she knew anything, it was to always take advantage of technicalities.

It was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. She hoped that would remain true here as well. 

Before stepping out of the elevator, she positioned her wand to cast Homenum Revelio over the vast space. She waited for the spell to confirm that she was the only one there before she lifted her disillusionment charm and made a beeline for the archery station.

As she neared, she picked up a bow and examined it in her hands. The craftsmanship was excellent—her bow back in the District was nowhere close to the level of this one. The feeling of the arrow in her palm made her heart race with excitement. It had taken so much restraint not to even look at this station the day before, it was as if an ache deep in her bones finally settled at the mere touch of her favourite weapon.

Eyeing the target from where she stood, she estimated she was about 5 yards away. She positioned her body, lined up her arrow, and let it go with the flick of her pointer finger.

She hit it dead center.

After retrieving the arrow, she moved back to the 10-yard line and shot it again, and again it landed right down the middle. She retrieved and shot it over and over again, moving back 5 yards at a time until she was nearly forty yards away from the target. There was something so enjoyable about shooting this way. A large empty space, silence all around, and just her and the arrow.

She aligned herself to the target once more, while taking her time to adjust her positioning from the greater distance. Hermione paused briefly, taking a deep breath in, and released the arrow on the exhale. It soared through the air and in a few short seconds landed on the target.

A bullseye.

“Nice shot.”

The unexpected voice nearly stopped her heart. She sprang back from her spot, grabbing her wand, and whipped her body toward where the sound had come from.

There was a lone figure leaning against a wall, ankles crossed at his feet, and arms folded over his chest. A bright set of white hair stood in contrast to the dark grey paint behind him. At her notice, he pushed off and poised himself in her direction, taking long and purposeful strides toward her.

She pretended not to see him well enough to recognize who he was, but she did.

His eyes remained glued to her face as he walked. She wanted to look away but something in her told her not to. If he were trying to get under her skin and make her uncomfortable, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing it.

As he approached, he stuck his right hand out and motioned for the bow. She glared at him from beneath her brows, stuffing her wand back into its holster, and shoved the bow into his chest. He smiled.

Hermione stepped away, letting him take her spot in line with the target. He Accio’d the arrow that was still stuck from her shot, and it landed swiftly in his hand. He fumbled with the instrument for only a moment before setting himself up and letting the arrow fly. His shot was harder and flew faster than hers, but she could tell immediately that it wasn't as accurate. It landed on the dummy with a sharp puncture but was positioned halfway down its right arm, nowhere near the bullseye.

He tossed the bow to the side with a shrug. “Archery isn’t my thing.”

He murmured another Accio before she heard the swoosh of something small flying his way. Slowing the motion of the objects as they approached him, they hovered near his elbow. She didn’t recognize what they were but he was already explaining before she could even open her mouth.

“Shuriken,” he said. “They’re throwing stars.”

She stared at the stars, weapons she herself had no knowledge of, and tried to make sense of their characteristics. They were small, not much larger than the inside of a palm, and had four razor-sharp points to them.

He grabbed each star in quick succession and flung them towards the same dummy. They landed, one, two, three, like gunshots, straight into the dummy’s heart. A perfect triple bullseye.

She watched him, wide-eyed, wondering what in the world he was doing. If this was the skill he was hiding from the rest of the tributes, why was he divulging it to her? He could have taken the advantage of seeing her with the bow and arrow and left it at that. But instead, it seemed like he was trying to level out the playing field.

He turned to her, expression blank, but she could see the excitement lingering in his eyes. “Can I call you Granger?”

Typically, she wouldn’t have minded, but this situation was anything but typical. “My name is Hermione.”

He nodded. “I’m going to call you Granger.”

Though he waited, seemingly for some sort of reply from her, she deliberately chose not to respond. If she hadn’t been staring at him, trying to read his face, she would have missed the quick flip of his eyes to her pin. Again. But as quickly as his gaze deviated, it was back on her face. It didn’t look like he had wanted to get caught, but she had seen everything.

He dropped his eyes to the ground and turned away from her, positioning himself towards the elevator. But Hermione’s curiosity got the best of her and so she called out to him.

“Malfoy,” she paused, waiting for him to turn his head. He stopped walking but remained with his back to her. “My question from earlier still stands. What do you want from me?”

He turned and stifled a laugh. “Me? Nothing. I don’t want anything from anyone.”

She opened her mouth to retort back when she heard his voice again.

“Nox.”

The lights in the gymnasium went out instantly. Underground, with no windows, everything around her was pitch black. She had heard that people could go crazy from total isolation in the darkness. As her eyes started to play tricks on her, depicting colourful shapes in the space around her that she knew weren’t there, she understood why.

Her fingers instinctively reached for her wand before she felt a steady grip on her wrist restricting her and the foreboding presence of a body pressed into her back. The smell of Draco Malfoy invaded her senses at such close proximity. It was musky and herbal and the realization that she appreciated the scent, especially considering the circumstances she found herself in, filled her with dread.

Unlike in the opening ceremony, when his voice felt like an illusion ghosting across the nape of her neck, this was the real deal. She heard his deep breathing and felt it brush against her skin, disturbing the flyaway hairs around her face. Hermione tugged on her arms but his hold on her wrists only tightened. She quietly begged Merlin and God and any other greater deity not to let her die a gruesome death at the hands of this man.

Not this way. Not now. 

In a voice so low she strained to hear it, he whispered, “You might be the torch, Granger, but some of us have already learned how to see in the dark.”

From the point his breath made contact with her ear, goosebumps flushed down her body.

The moment the last word left his mouth, she yanked her wrist from his grip and jolted towards her wand. His presence behind her quickly retreated. As she turned in the direction she had last felt him in, she could hear his movement through the darkness. Her lips had just begun to form around a Lumos when the lights came back on in a blinding flash.

Hermione spun around the room, disoriented, and quickly realized she was the only one left in it.

Chapter Text

The second day of the training sessions passed in an eerily similar fashion to the first. Hermione made her rounds at the same stations, keeping her head down and not drawing more attention to herself than necessary. After the early morning archery session, she had sated her need and was able to keep her eyes off of it, solely focused on the station she was at.

As she sat cross-legged, processing the intricacies of how to build a fire without a match or a lighter, she couldn’t take her mind off of what had happened in the room just a few hours earlier. When she returned to bed after her trip to try and muster out a few hours of sleep, she was reeling.

She had settled on one conclusion—the only other tribute alone here like her, Draco Malfoy, was an enigma to her. He had scared her senseless, and for what reason? His words had done nothing to sate her curiosity about his interest in her, and she was outrightly frustrated. All he left her with was more questions.

Though a part of her was furious with him, mostly for how he had manhandled her, another much bigger part couldn’t help but want to solve whatever puzzle he was forming. She had shared only a handful of words with him, and though she would have hoped those interactions would have brought her more clarity, they did only the opposite.

As much as she tried to remind herself of her earlier revelation—his man is planning to kill you—her craving for answers kept that worry at bay. The whole morning he had avoided the stations she was at, and after several attempts of trying but failing to catch his eye, she doubled down on her training and let the mystery surrounding him float away.

At least for the time being.

The Games-makers arrived in the afternoon of that second day as everyone was settling into their stations after lunch. About a dozen of them strolled into the gymnasium unannounced, wearing heavy black robes, and promptly made their way to an elevated viewing balcony. She watched her fellow tributes, most obviously the Careers, perk up at the sight.

All the tributes knew what was at stake—a good showcase score from the Games-makers could completely change the tide of the sponsorships they got in the arena. It could literally be the difference between life and death.

The pesky part of her brain, the one she tried to shut down constantly, argued with her again about the merits of listening to Moody’s advice. She was no stranger to the effect he had on her likelihood of getting sponsorships, and she had already come to her own conclusion that she would likely have to take matters into her own hands if she wanted to make any progress.

That was why, when she spotted a few of the Games-makers come down the ground floor and start wandering amongst the tributes, notepads in hand, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to make a statement.

As she wrapped up her work at the shelter building station, she noticed that the spear-throwing trainer was without a tribute. Spear throwing was no bow and arrow, but because she still felt it was best to keep that particular skill under wraps, she made her way to what was her next best option.

When Hermione felt the Games-makers on the grounds were occupied with other tributes, she took a few practice shots. Again, no bow and arrow, but her accuracy was not far off. When she was ready to be observed, she scoped out the best moment to start throwing.

Every time she thought she had the attention of one of the Games-makers, she would wind up to throw. By the time the spear landed on the dummy, never quite on the bullseye but alarmingly close, they would have already moved on to observing someone else. That happened multiple times until her patience ran thin and she threw the spear with a newfound fury she hadn’t utilized before.

She had already started to walk away from the station when the sound of the spear puncturing the dummy filled the room. When she looked up, it had hit the bullseye directly over its makeshift heart.

She ran her eyes over the tributes and Games-makers at the other stations and nobody seemed to have seen her shot. Her eyes travelled further up the gymnasium wall until they connected with one of the Games-makers still up on the balcony. The tattoo on his left forearm was a quick giveaway for who he was— the Head Games-maker.

Out of all the people in the room, he was the only one who was looking at her. By the slightest quirk of his brow, most of which was hidden behind a dark mop of hair, she quickly gathered that he had seen everything. But as soon as she spotted him fixated on her, he turned away and began a conversation with a woman alongside him in the balcony.

When Hermione got back to the District 12 floor, Moody and Rita grilled her about the events of the day. What stations she was at, what she had learned, how the other tributes were shaping up, and who of the Games-makers had watched her.

She kept her answers vague and left out the information about her time at the spear-throwing station. She didn’t need nor want Moody to have a drunken tantrum. She especially didn’t want him to hear that the Head Games-maker had noticed her. If Malfoy was an enigma, the comings and goings of the Head were a matter of national security. She would rather not admit out loud that he had seen her do something that caught his attention.

When she finally escaped to her room after dinner, she got herself ready for bed in a daze. The events of the previous days had finally piled so high that she felt herself get lost in the workings of her mind, sensing the dam of her Occlumency walls finally break.

The first place her mind went to was the upcoming showcase. As much as she had circled the stations and tried to listen to the trainers, she knew that wasn’t what the showcase would be about. Moody had done nothing to ease her nerves or give her any sort of viable direction. All he had said at dinner was to take notes on the other tributes, their strengths, and possible weaknesses, and then make no mistakes with her own showing.

She knew she would have a choice in what weapon to use and there was no doubt that her only choice would be the bow and arrow. But she also wondered if other tributes would have the same approach. Nobody had stood out to her as a proficient archer, but she presumed that like her, any one of them could be keeping the skill under wraps.

How many people would go for the same weapon as her? She was no fool to know that she would be compared to every last one of them, but she was even more likely to be judged harshly against someone who showcased the same skill.

Her reeling mind went back and forth—was there a point in playing down her skills? Some of her said no, because scores and sponsorships were on the line. But another more methodical part of her brain, the one that had finally taken Moody’s suggestion as fact, reasoned that laying her best stuff on the line would paint a greater target on her back.

She knew there was no right choice. As soon as she would pick up the bow and arrow, that alone would divulge that it was her strongest weapon, so it wouldn’t matter after that point whether she had the best showcase of her life or held herself back.

Her mind then shifted to thoughts of the other tributes. She would have twenty-three people she would need to keep track of and study. But would it be enough? Would their two-minute showcases tell her who to avoid and with what weapons? Or would it simply not matter when the majority of tributes died during the run for weapons at the start of the Games?

No amount of studying could save you then.

She felt the burden of all her worry weigh down on her and came to the sombre conclusion that a good night’s sleep would be far out of reach that night.

Thinking about the other tributes meant that she couldn’t stop her mind from drifting to the mystery that was Draco Malfoy. As she had surmised earlier in the day, the man left her with nothing but questions.

Was he purposefully trying to scare her? Was he doing it to any other tribute but her? If not, why?

Why, why, why?

Why her? Why not anyone else?

Just, why?

She suspected that if he wasn’t trying to goad her, then he might actually want an ally. Maybe he was targeting her because she was the lone representative of a District like him. Maybe there was a deeper reason that she didn’t even know about. Was it tied to the pin in some way?

Her finger stroked along the shapes of it in her hand. A circle, a triangle, a line, and the phoenix. Shapes that meant nothing to her, and a bird that meant almost too much.

A small golden pin, pushing a wealthy resident from Pure Capitol to target her seemed ridiculous, but maybe there was more to it.

Her mind drifted endlessly from the showcase to the faces of the tributes, to the confusing blonde boy. The last thought she had before she finally nodded off to sleep was about torches, fire, and how to cast a light in the darkness.

As she rose from bed the following morning, she willed her fingers not to shake as she dressed. For reasons that escaped her, the one thing that didn’t bring her any worry or confusion was what to do with her pin. She knew it was a gamble to wear it, but something in her gut told her it was the right thing to do. She attached it to her chest to proudly stare out at anyone who looked her way.

Before lunch, all the tributes made their rounds to different stations but Hermione quickly noticed that almost everyone was avoiding the flashy ones. She presumed, like her, they were trying to keep their top skills under wraps until they had no more choice but to reveal them. Not that it would be easy to gather much in the two minutes each tribute had to showcase, but whatever they practiced and then presented to the Games-makers would go a long way in hinting at what weapons they would go after in the arena.

When lunch concluded, a lone Games-maker met them in the dining area to walk them to the gymnasium and explain the proceedings of the rest of the afternoon. They would each go up before a group of ten Games-makers, all of whom would be stationed on the same balcony as the day before. The tributes were all shown to a lower but much larger balcony that was to seat them until the afternoon concluded where they would watch over every other showcase.

They were seated in order of how they would be going up to present, starting with Draco, who represented Pure Capitol, and who she wasn’t surprised would go first. If there was any sort of preferential treatment before sending people to their death, she assumed this was it.

He would be followed by the girl from District 1 who had a blunt bob named Pansy, and her District 1 male counterpart Cassius. The Districts would go in order that way until they reached Hermione, who would be the last to showcase.

After each tribute presented, they would return to the same viewing balcony to watch the rest of the group. The Games-makers would have five minutes to deliberate and assign tentative scoring before they shared the final results on the evening television broadcast.

Hermione watched Draco get up first and stroll out onto the showcase floor. Along with scoping out the tributes, Hermione made it a point to watch over the Games-makers for any reactions or tells. As he walked to his spot, she spotted the Head boring holes into his back with a venomous glare. If she would have known better, she might have even thought it looked personal.

When he reached for the throwing stars, her suspicions that he had leaked his top skill to her the day before was confirmed. She still had no clue why, but at least she knew he wasn’t bluffing.

She quickly realized that whatever he had displayed in front of her was just scraping the surface of what he could actually do. After a handful of simple throws toward the dummy, all of which landed on the bullseye, he started to make throws that she never even imagined were possible.

He threw the stars from behind his back, he threw two simultaneously from each hand, and he whipped them sideways and underhanded. Finally, as his allotted time was coming to a close, he grabbed four stars and positioned them in his left hand, slotting them into the spaces between each finger until his fist resembled a claw. An overhand throw had the stars sailing toward the dummy, and somehow, they all landed in different positions. One across the neck of the dummy, one directly into what would be its frontal lobe, another over its gut, and the final one landed swiftly in the target drawn over the dummy’s heart.

She knew in any other circumstance, the whole room would have gasped, but it wasn't the case here. But, the utter silence that met the end of his showing was an equally credible reaction.

The Head Games-maker, who had eyed him unhappily as he walked out, looked almost relieved for a moment, before turning to his fellow Games-makers and commencing their discussion. Once it looked like all the Games-makers were deep in conversation, Draco blew a strand of hair out of his eyes and turned to head back towards the balcony. Like the previous morning, Hermione willed to catch his eye, but he remained focused on his steps until he plopped down at his designated seat.

The rest of the tributes followed him in quick succession. Both tributes from District 1 threw spears, hitting their targets flawlessly, but avoiding any flashy throws. District 2 and 4, the remaining Career Districts, split their showings between weights and hand combat with a trainer. District 3 experimented, though quite unsuccessfully, with boomerangs and nunchucks. District 5 and 6 were much the same as the ones that preceded it, except for the girl from 6 named Astoria who displayed her shelter-making skills. Hermione felt it was an odd choice, but wondered if the girl may have actually been on to something.

What exactly she wasn’t sure, but it seemed too odd to be unintentional.

She was most curious about what the boy from District 7, Harry, would do. He chose to showcase with the spear as well, and similar to Draco, quickly escalated from a handful of simple throws to doing things she didn’t even think were humanly possible. He threw two at the same time, from behind his back, before finally getting a trainer to blindfold and spin him around. He immediately found his bearings and whipped his spear in the direction of the dummy. Though it wasn’t as accurate of a shot as what he did while seeing, the fact that he was even able to hit the dummy astounded her.

She noted that he was one to watch out for.

The rest of the tributes, to Hermione’s utter frustration, started to blend together. The only thing she did notice was that nobody else had showcased with a bow and arrow. By the 10th District, it was getting obvious that the Games-makers were starting to get distracted. When Luna and Blaise from District 11 came up and put forward a rather flashy showing with knives, they were barely given the decency of a glance their way.

As Hermione’s turn approached, she felt as though she was in trouble. The Games-makers had been there too long and had sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. She herself had started to waver, but coupled with the wine they had actively been drinking since Draco came up, she was certain they all just wanted to go home.

She knew there wasn’t anything she could do. As the five-minute discussion period following Blaise’s showcase closed, she got to her feet and strode to the archery station. She put as much purpose and confidence into her steps as she could muster, but couldn’t fight the fleeting feeling of disappointment.

When she wrapped her hand around the bow, it felt just as good as it did when she shot it the previous day. It was as if it was made for her hands. The bow's wood was smooth, the feathers on the arrows were flawless, and the string was sharp and tight. It was everything she wanted in a weapon, and she felt the confidence flush through her body like fire.

In the center of the gymnasium, she took her initial position facing the dummy. She felt comfortable enough to start with a further shot, so she walked to the 50-yard line. She had her quiver set next to her, stocked with arrows, and the moment her two-minute countdown started, she began to shoot.

Hermione’s first shot sailed in the air as if in slow-motion, and easily punctured the bullseye. She followed it with a second and third that hit the same perfect spot in quick succession. She looked up to the Games-Makers balcony and not a single one was looking her way.

Her anger flared, punctuated by the fact that she knew her skills were worthy enough to watch and worthy enough to score well.

90 seconds remaining.

She ran her eyes through the gymnasium and spotted the boxing sandbag. Warnings flared in her mind, in Moody’s stern voice, but she buried them.

To hell with it.

She positioned her arrow and shot toward the bag. It severed the rope holding the bag up, just as she planned, and it dropped to the floor. The bag split open, spilling its contents everywhere.

She glanced up to the Games-makers again and there was still nothing. They were distracted by the pig roast that had just arrived at their serving table.

The frustration in her only grew. She felt her magic coursing through her body as if willing her to do something spectacular. Her eyes landed briefly on the balcony with the other tributes and she noticed that a handful of them looked smugly pleased. They too could see that the Games-makers weren’t paying attention to her.

60 seconds remaining.

She willed her mind to focus back on the task at hand. All hope was not lost yet.

She positioned her aim to the moving target, a shifting set of ceramic plates gliding along a rope from one side to another, at different speeds and distances from her. She prepped her arrows and began. One by one, the plates fell to the ground, sending broken shards in all directions and punctuating each successful shot. Her shooting was excellent.

But a hopeful glance from the corner of her eye to the Games-makers balcony filled her with dread. A few of them were looking her way and nodding, but that was it. A few out of ten.

She was furious.

30 seconds remaining.

Her heart started to race at the brutal realization that she had blown it. Her Occlumency walls were on the verge of shattering, overwhelmed by her worry to depths she had no capacity for handling.

She froze. Standing in the middle of the gymnasium, the sound of laughter from the Games-maker’s balcony her only anchor to reality.

Hermione didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where to shoot. It was over.

As she positioned her arrow, defeated, and relegated herself to just shooting back at the dummy target she started with, she felt a burn coat her fingers. At first, she thought it was her own anxiety rearing its ugly head in unfamiliar ways, and so she tried to ignore it while lining herself up to the target. But the burn only intensified. The tips of her fingers along the arrow felt like they were on fire and suddenly it was too much to bear and she pulled her hand back in pain.

The arrow dropped to the floor.

This is a nightmare. Please wake up. This has to be a nightmare.

She picked the arrow up as quickly as she could, hoping to salvage whatever was left of her dignity. But when her hand wrapped around the shaft, something was off.

What had previously been a smooth surface now felt ragged and raw on her palm. She held the arrow back and inspected it, passing her eyes over it swiftly before she spotted the cause.

In rough inscription, hand-writing she didn’t recognize, was the word PIG scrawled into the arrow shaft.

15

14

13

Pig?

She was certain the word wasn’t there when she had started shooting. It couldn’t have been.

She looked over the balcony of tributes, hoping to find some sort of explanation, or confirmation that nobody else had noticed what had happened, but all she saw on the tributes’ faces was greed. In their minds, she was one man down.

And then her eyes landed on Draco. He was watching her; a look of disappointment flashing in his eyes momentarily, before a mask settled back into place. Too quick and too brief for anyone but her to notice, he shook his head once before flipping his gaze to the Games-maker’s balcony.

10

9

8

Almost instantly, his eyes were back on her. With a slight furrow in his brow, he looked back at the Games-maker’s balcony again. She still wasn’t following, but then, like a crashing wave, it hit her. She looked back down to the inscription on her arrow.

The pig.

She blinked, heart hammering in her chest, and knew exactly what she had to do. 

Moody will kill me.

Without a second thought, she pulled her final arrow from her quiver and positioned it on the balcony.

5

4

She let the arrow fly, shouts ringing out as the Games-makers stumbled back in panic.

3

2

Her heart was going to beat out of her chest.

1

A loud gasp filled the gymnasium as her arrow pierced the apple in the pig’s mouth and pinned it to the wall behind it. Every Games-makers’ head turned to her in disbelief.

On shaking legs, Hermione bowed, turning swiftly on her heels, and ran straight towards the elevator doors.

Chapter Text

The moments between Hermione’s final bow to the Games-makers and her collapse into bed passed in a blur. She didn’t know how she got to the elevator, she didn’t know how she had gotten to the right floor, and she didn’t know how she found her room. All she knew was that the moment the bolt on the door locked into place, the bed practically consumed her. The tears burst out of her like a broken dam and quickly turned into suffocating sobs that burned her throat and ripped through her chest.

She didn’t know why she had done it. It was a mistake, an error, a blunder, everything had just gone so wrong. But Hermione Granger didn’t have lapses in judgment. Everything she did was intentional, it was meticulous, and it had a purpose.

She of course had never been in a situation such as the one she had found herself in the last few days—preparing to fight for her life. So, she had made a mistake.

A costly mistake.

Her frustration had boiled so high, she was so consumed by her fear of failure, so focused on making a good impression, and it had all come crashing down before her eyes. She had made a mistake and now she would have to live with its consequences.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t regret it. She knew her actions had ruined everything. If she had ever had any sort of chance, it had crumbled to dust before her eyes. But her choice was about so much more than her future in the games. She could be arrested, she could be executed, she could be silenced and have her magic stripped for life, having to serve the Pure Capitol elitists until her last day. It was worse than execution in her mind.

How could she prove to the Games-makers that she wasn’t out to harm them? She hadn’t meant to scare anyone or make them think she was shooting at them. That she was just shooting at the apple in the pig’s mouth. She wanted them to pay attention, to give her the time of day, and to earn their respect.

If she wanted to shoot at them, they’d all be dead with her aim.

Draco Malfoy.

This was all Draco’s fault. He had played her. All the little comments, his demeanour, it had all gotten under her skin and he had rightfully played her. Her showcase had already left much to be desired. She had already been drowning. He had just tied a brick to her leg and allowed her to sink even further.

If I survive this, he’ll be the first person I put an arrow through.

She should have stayed. She should have stayed and apologized and tried to explain herself. Not that she had much of an explanation to share. ‘A momentary lapse of judgment' wasn’t a very strong argument. But she should have said something. Stalking out of there without a word, without even a glance back, was all she had to do to hit the nail in her own coffin.

The sound of Rita knocking on her door interrupted Hermione’s thoughts. She shouted for her to go away. Moments later, the knocking turned to banging and Moody’s muffled voice rang out through her room. She couldn't understand what he said but she yelled the same thing to him as she did to Rita and he eventually left too. She laid in bed, heaving, blanket wrapped around her like a safety net, and observed the comings and goings of Pure Capitol from her window.

As she waited for the Death Eaters to come for her, she recited arithmancy in her head.

An hour passed, and then another before evening had fallen and still nobody had come to get her. She started to breathe a little bit easier.

Maybe they had decided that District 12 still needed a tribute. Or maybe they would punish her publicly, not wanting to miss an opportunity for a photo op. They surely couldn’t have anyone defy the methods of the Game without using it as another piece of propaganda against the people.

She was sure the first thing they would do was give her a showcase score so low that nobody would dare sponsor her. Even if they didn’t arrest her, even if they didn’t publicly shame and punish her, they would set her up to fail so spectacularly that nobody could help her; nobody would even want to help her.

The scores were meant to give the Games audience, mostly wealthy Pure Capitol residents, a baseline for who to bet on. Since viewers didn’t have access to the training grounds, it was the Games-makers’ way of giving a grade to each tribute that would allow viewers to pick favourites, plan sponsorships, and most importantly, build excitement before the Games began.

Scores were assigned from one to ten and were based on the votes of each of the ten Games-makers. If a Games-maker deemed a tribute's skills worthy enough to put their name behind, they would vote for them. They could vote for as many or as few tributes as they wanted.

Hermione had hoped for something in the middle, maybe a 4 or a 5. Not so high that her life would be in more danger, but also not so low that she wouldn’t get sponsorships. But with her showing, she was certain she would get the lowest score out of the group of 24. The last winner who finished with the lowest score had been marked a measly 2, and it was none other than her own mentor, Moody. If she were to face the same fate as him, her chances of survival would be practically non-existent.

When Rita knocked on her door again, this time calling her for dinner, Hermione briefly wondered if it was a trap. When her stomach grumbled, she decided she might as well check. She couldn’t hide in her room forever, and since the scores would be televised that evening, she would have to face the music eventually either way.

After washing her face and changing her clothes, she arrived in the dining area with Rita to join a table full of people. Moody was already seated, and he was joined by Fleur, Cedric, and Viktor. A part of Hermione wished her stylists hadn’t been there. They were rooting for her, and she knew the afternoon's results would gravely disappoint them. The good work that Fleur had put into her opening ceremony look would be for nothing.

She picked at the bread set before her and tried not to cry.

At first, the table broke off into meaningless chatter. Hermione wasn’t sure if they already knew what had happened or were giving her a chance to confess why she locked herself in her room, but she didn’t take the ignoration for granted. She tried to follow the flow of conversation but quickly got lost in the back and forth. The day had turned her brain to mush.

As the main course started to arrive, Moody finally broke. “I’ve had enough small talk. How bad was it?”

Tell the truth? Lie? Truth? Lie? Maybe embellished truth? No, definitely lie.

Everything was okay – lie, lie, lie.

“Alright,” Hermione muttered. She could feel the flush coating her neck. She was a terrible liar.

Everyone at the table kept their face straight, everyone except for Moody. She could see the anger flash in his eyes, his mouth quickly turning into a vicious sneer.

“How—bad—were—you?” he hissed.

There truly was no use in lying.

I made a mistake, and now I live with the consequences.

“I shot well,” she gulped. “I nailed the dummy, cut the rope of a boxing bag, and hit all the moving targets.”

She wondered if an omission of fact would be counted as a lie. It probably would to Moody.

“You threw a tantrum because you hit all your targets?” he probed further, angry and irritated.

“No.” She paused. There was no nice way to say this. “I threw a tantrum because I shot the last arrow at the Games-maker’s balcony.”

Rita was in the middle of a gulp of water, which she projectile spat all over the table. Moody dropped his glass. Everyone else froze.

“You did, what?” Rita shrieked.

Hermione sighed. Her suspicions were correct. This was bad.

“I shot an arrow, my final arrow, at their balcony. Not at them, just in their direction.”

Moody’s face betrayed nothing. He looked like he wanted to strangle Hermione, while simultaneously patting her on the back for her anarchy.

“Why?”

“I lost my head," the words spilled from her. "They were more focused on their pig roast than my showcase and the frustration got to me. I shot the apple that was in the mouth of the stupid pig’s mouth.”

She decided to forgo mentioning that it technically wasn’t her idea. She didn’t know if saying it was another tribute's, something she wasn’t even sure he actually did or she imagined, would make matters better or worse. She decided to keep it to herself for now.

Moody suddenly burst out laughing, a loud thunderous roar that started in his belly and projected out as he threw his head back. Rita looked appalled. A small smile pulled at one side of Fleur's lips before she put her head down. And Cedric and Viktor hastily whispered something to each other before joining Fleur in the silence, eyes at their laps.

“Brilliant,” Moody muttered through his laughter. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Rita glared at him before diverting his train of thought. The shock and horror settled into the lines of her face.

“What did they say?” she asked carefully. Moody continued to laugh, tears now rolling down his face.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “I walked out as soon as the arrow hit.”

Rita gasped. “You didn’t even wait to get dismissed?”

Moody began to laugh even harder, banging his fist on the table and knocking cutlery to the floor.

Something about his reaction settled Hermione’s worry. Maybe for no good reason, but the fact that he wasn’t mad somehow made her feel okay.

“No. I dismissed myself.”

Moody caught her eye then and she couldn't help but smile. Who thought she would find an ally in him about this? When he finally settled himself, he reached over the table and grabbed a bread roll.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, smearing butter on the bread.

“Will they arrest me?” Hermione probed.

“Be too hard to replace you at this point.”

“Will I get punished?”

“Probably not,” he shrugged, reaching his knife into the dish with butter and picking up another dollop. “They won’t reveal what happened on the training grounds. That’s all top secret.”

She nodded. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe Moody’s reaction was the same the Games-makers had after she stormed out.

She could only hope.

“They will make your life in the arena hell, though.”

And that was the shoe she expected to drop. It wasn’t a surprise, but the confirmation stung just as much.

“I figured they would do that anyway,” Fleur muttered. Moody flashed her a disapproving look and she sank into herself.

He picked up a glass of wine and turned to Hermione with a chuckle. “What did their faces look like?”

The corners of her mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. Somehow, despite the weight of her worry and the realization her fears of getting punished in the arena would likely come true, she felt better.

Besides, Fleur was right. How much more could they punish her than they already planned to? The entirety of the Hunger Games was punishment as it was. She inwardly laughed to herself at the fact that Moody had actually managed to cheer her up.

“They were startled. The looks on their faces were something you had to be there for,” she said cockily. “One man fell into a pitcher of pumpkin juice.”

Moody burst into another roll of laughter, and this time was joined by everyone but Rita. But Hermione could see her suppress a smile before she suddenly cleared her throat and announced, “That serves them right! They should have been paying attention to you. District 12, or District 1—it doesn’t matter.” She paused, eyes darting around as if making sure the coast was clear before she continued, “I don’t believe it’s right that they ignored you.”

Although Moody’s laughter put her at ease, hearing Rita’s assertion helped diffuse her tension even further. Rita was Pure Capitol. She had been appalled, but she had set that aside for what was just, and though she knew Hermione may not have been right, the Games-makers hadn’t been either.

Still, Hermione’s main worry persisted. “I’ll get a bad score,” she whispered.

Moody rolled his eyes. “Scores don’t matter. Some people hide their best skills on purpose. Think of it as an ad-hoc strategy.”

Hermione grinned at him before she felt her stomach rumble. She had refrained from eating because the afternoon’s events had left her without an appetite. Now, she realized how starved she really was. She dove into her food and ate like it was the last meal of her life. The relief she felt was palpable—she could handle some hardship in the arena. At least, she hoped she could. What mattered most was that she wouldn’t be arrested, or turned into a squib.

Once the dinner courses came to a close, the group of five made their way to the sitting area in the room. Hermione had watched the showcase score broadcast many times before, but it felt different waiting for numbers when it was her they would be scoring. The broadcast showed each tribute’s photo, followed by their score below it. The final rankings would be displayed at the end.

Draco’s score was up first.

He scored—She did a double-take, then a triple.

A 3.

He had scored a 3.

She had watched all the tribute showcases, and he was one of the best, if not the best.

“Well, that’s interesting,” muttered Moody.

“It’s not interesting, it’s impossible,” she said, completely dumbfounded.

She spent no time thinking about why she was so quick to defend him. He had played her, likely taking her showcase from bad to worse, but Hermione was no fool. She could put aside her anger with him and be reasonable. That score was not reasonable. She knew he was skilled at a difficult weapon, he was accurate, and he was just good.

She wondered who he might have angered, and how. She couldn’t think of any other explanation but that.

Draco’s score flipped to the Career Districts 1, 2, and 4, all of whom scored between 6’s and 8’s. As they were announced, his only felt more wrong. He didn’t shoot at any Games-maker, did he? Maybe unlike her, he had actually hit one. But when? And how? And why?

The rest of the tribute scores flashed in quick succession. Most were average, mid-level scores. That was until the picture of Harry, the boy from District 7, appeared on the screen. He scored a 9, the highest of the bunch. Hermione had remembered her thought during his showcase—a tribute to watch for. She had been right.

Her score would be last. She felt her heart hammering louder and faster in her chest with each passing tribute. As her face flashed onto the screen, she felt her nails digging into her palms, expecting the worst. Maybe even as bad as Draco's.

A seven flashed onto the screen.

Seven?

"Seven!" Moody yelled out. 

She had scored a 7!

Rita let out an ear-splitting squeal. Viktor and Cedric engrossed Hermione in a crushing hug. She felt like she was floating.

“Is it a mistake?” she blurted out.

“If the Capitol’s boy score wasn’t a mistake, doubt this one is," Moody surmised.

“But, how?”

“I guess they liked your temper dear,” Rita said. “They wanted someone with some fire!”

Fleur grinned mischievously. “Wait until you see your interview dress.”

Hermione was too excited, too relieved, to worry about what Fleur meant. The stress of the day, all her crying and worry, had worn her down. The last screen on the broadcast was the final ranking. After Harry, who had finished first, and a handful of Careers, Hermione ranked 6th. Not even bad, but good. Considering how she thought the day went, great. Another wave of excitement passed through the space.

Once the group had settled down, she made a quick escape to her room. When she collapsed in bed, this time under much better circumstances, she drifted off to sleep quickly. The last thing she saw was the number 7 flash behind her eyelids, and the face of Malfoy’s all-knowing smirk.

When Hermione awoke hours later, it was still dark outside. Though she tried to fall back asleep, she couldn’t. Eventually, she sat up in bed and pulled the duvet up to her chest. The sun had started to rise and she settled in to watch it from her window as it peaked over the mountains in the distance.

Sitting in silence, so used to waking up and seeing the Burrow around her, she wondered again what the Weasleys were doing. It was Sunday, and she and Ron always hunted together on Sundays. Mornings were for her and Ginny. They would wake up early together and make pancakes for the family. The early mornings, cooking, hunting, laughing—it was her favourite day of the week.

It had barely been five days since she had seen them all but the ache she felt in her heart weighed heavily on her. Losing her parents, her blood family, felt like the end of her life. Losing the only people she knew as her family now, was almost as bad.

Her thoughts drifted back to that dreaded day, the one in late October, that she seldom let herself think about. It was a defence mechanism. A way to protect herself from the pain etched deep within her heart. That day had been the worst of her life. Worse than the Games, much worse than her own fate now.

She would trade anything in the world for it to have never happened.

She could still recall the putrid smell of burning wood. It was late afternoon and school had just been let out. Though she could have apparated, she usually preferred to walk. It was an unusually warm fall afternoon. She had decided to walk. She still regretted it.

The smell of smoke didn’t alarm her at first. Her walk passed by several bakeries and it wasn’t uncommon for a batch or two of bread to burn and fill the streets with stench. But the closer she got to her home, the more the smell bothered her. It didn’t really smell like bread. And out in the distance, the black smoke didn’t quite look like the kind of smoke after a burnt loaf in a bakery.

Her gut immediately knew something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but she could feel it in her bones. It was an eerie sense of unsettlement as if her magical core was flailing. She didn’t remember when her feet went from a stroll, to a brisk walk, to a sprint, but suddenly she was flying through the woven dirt road.

She could have apparated.

She should have apparated.

But she didn’t. She ran. And she was too late.

Her gut knew. Her magical core knew. The moment she smelt the smoke, she knew. She stood in front of her house, with her parents inside, and everything was on fire.

A sob ripped through her throat and she started to scream for help. She went through every spell she could think of. Every variation of the extinguishing charm, she conjured buckets of sand, she tried everything. But the fire burned. Contained only to her house, it burned until the walls turned to ash.

At some point, she had collapsed along the wall of another house on the street. At some point, people stopped trying to put it out.

She gave up, they gave up, and her parents were dead.

People came and went, consoling her, offering their condolences, but she was numb. The Weasleys arrived at some point but she didn’t see or hear anything they said. Ginny sat down next to her without a word and held her hand. Hermione cried for hours, but Ginny held her through it all. They stayed together until day turned to evening, and evening turned to night. Somebody brought them tea, and later, a blanket.

Her parents’ death was ruled an accident. A tragic magical accident, but nonetheless an accident. Nobody listened to her when she declared it was fiendfyre. They claimed it was impossible.

“Fiendfyre is illegal,” they had said.

“Fiendfyre is uncontrollable,” they had said.

“Fiendfyre isn’t an accident,” she had said.

Ginny was barely 13 at the time, but she was so far beyond her years even then. She did everything Hermione could have asked her. Molly was too pushy, Ron too distant, but Ginny did everything right. She held her hand when closing her eyes led to terrible nightmares. When she awoke in the middle of the night, Ginny was always there with a glass of water and a hug. She never did too much or too little. She gave her the sense of security she craved.

Ginny was her lifeline.

It took months to crawl out of the deep hole she found herself in. Hermione mourned and grieved, and eventually, she started to heal. But the pain never went away. After a while, each day just got a little bit easier. The weight of it never wavered, she just learned how to carry it. She grew stronger, and though she never did and never would get over it, she learned how to live despite it.

Ginny was by her side the whole time.

What felt like hours later, when Hermione heard Rita’s knocking on the door, tears still streaked her cheeks. The sun had long ago risen and filled her room with blinding white light. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her palm and rose to take a shower.

In the shower, she sunk into her Occlumency. Today would be her one day of coaching before the interviews the following day. The day after that, the Games would begin. She organized her thoughts, reinforced her walls, and meditated.

Thinking about her parents always made her feel weak. But thinking of Ginny didn’t. When Hermione needed her, she was her strength. Now, she was strong on her own.

As she dressed for the day, pinning the phoenix pin proudly to her chest, she remembered her promise to Ginny. And Hermione wasn’t one to break promises.

Maybe she couldn’t win this, but damn her if she didn’t try.

Chapter Text

When Hermione made her way down to the dining room, Moody and Rita were already there, heads down, mid-conversation. She was more hungry than curious, so she loaded her plate with breakfast food before joining them at the table.

She ate quietly, neither of them prompting any update before her impatience got the best of her. She took a large gulp of pumpkin juice before she cleared her throat and spoke.

“What’s the plan for today?”

“You’ll spend time with both of us,” Moody said. “Rita will focus on presentation, and I’ll focus on content.”

Hermione nodded. 

“You can start with me!” Rita beamed.

Hermione didn’t have time to finish the rest of her plate before Rita was whisking her off to a quiet room on their District floor that she hadn’t noticed before.

They started the lesson with walking. Trivial to Hermione, but Rita was headstrong in that it was crucial.

“Don’t want to be making a fool of yourself in heels, do you?” she had said.

Hermione had reluctantly put on the floor-length gown the woman had handed to her, one that looked like it was fresh out of her own outrageous closet, and clasped the straps on a pair of gaudy-looking heels. She hoped she wouldn’t be wearing them for the actual interview, but Rita nonetheless instructed her to walk.

The shoes were abysmal. She had been fine to wear heels during the opening ceremony when she knew that all she had to do was stand. But these? Horrible.

Her ankles wobbled as she stepped, the point of the heel getting caught in the dress train and making her stumble. Rita circled her in her own pair of heels, eerily similar to those on Hermione’s feet, but with fluid grace and ease. She screeched directions and suggestions, trying anything, anything, to help Hermione’s walk look presentable before she slumped into her chair defeated.

“Take them off,” she sighed. “I’ll tell Fleur to put you in something more forgiving.”

The moment Hermione ripped the shoes off her feet, she felt like a new woman. Flats she could do, even modest heels she could muster out a half-decent walk in, but heels of this kind were not made for all women. Definitely not for her.

Rita told her to keep the dress on and switched her focus to posture. That however quickly turned into another problem. With no heels, the dress kept getting tangled in Hermione’s legs before she finally hitched it up to her knees. Rita swooped down on her like a hawk.

“Not above the ankle!” she shrieked, grabbing her hand and smoothing the dress back down to the floor.

Rita didn’t like Hermione’s posture when she stood, and she didn’t like her posture when she sat. She didn’t really like anything. The quips on posture swiftly turned to comments on her hand gestures, her eye contact, which Rita called “aggressive”, and her facial expressions.

“Would it kill you to smile?” Rita muttered.

“I’m getting sent off to death,” Hermione retorted. “Would you smile?”

That had shut her up on the topic before she shifted gears and moved on to other banal things. Hours later, Hermione was plagued by a tension headache and everything hurt. Her expectations weren’t particularly high of what Rita could teach her, but she didn’t expect to feel worse about herself after the lesson. And she did—she felt much worse.

“Just remember, Hermione, you want the audience to like you.”

“And you don’t think they will?”

Rita looked at her from under furrowed brows. “You’re likable when you want to be. Try to make it look like you want to be there.”

“But I don’t.”

“Well, pretend!” she snapped, finally losing her patience.

Hermione glared at her before she decided she no longer needed nor wanted to share her presence. Even if time wasn’t up, she’d had enough.

She stood and hiked the dress up to her thighs. One of Rita’s eyes twitched at the sight, and Hermione smiled. She pushed out her chair and stomped out of the room, not sparing a second glance back at the woman.

When she arrived in the dining room for lunch, dress still on and barefooted, Moody was already waiting for her. He seemed to be in a better mood than usual, and she hoped that her session with him would be an improvement from Rita.

After lunch, they moved to the sitting area. He directed her to one couch and sat opposite her on another. For a while, he just looked at her and frowned.

“What?” she finally asked.

“I’m thinking,” he said. “You’re a difficult one to present.”

Hermione’s brows lifted at the statement. This was not off to a good start.

“You’ve got a high showcase score, Fleur worked wonders with you at the opening ceremony, but you’ve also got a bit of an attitude.”

He hummed to himself, clearly intent on sticking it to her with a point.

“You’ve got people intrigued, but stumped. Nobody knows who you are. How you present yourself at the interview will determine what you can get for sponsorships.”

Hermione nodded. He was making sense, oddly. She had watched the interviews all her life, and she knew there was truth to his words. The way a tribute appealed to the crowd could gain their favour, just as easily as it could turn people off. Every step of this process was a game. Do too much, and people dislike you; too little, and it could be much of the same.

In her case, she was headstrong, cognitive, and fierce. But too much of each meant she came across as intimidating and unlikeable.

“How should I approach it?”

“Well, that’s the problem,” he scoffed. “When you open your mouth, you come across quite hostile.”

Hostile? I’ll show you hostile! she yelled in her mind.

But she didn’t. Because showing him would prove him right, so she just nodded.

“Where is the girl from the opening ceremony? The one who looked happy to be here?”

Not this again. What was it with these people?

“I don’t have a reason to be cheery,” she hissed.

He scowled at her. “The possibility of sponsorship isn’t enough for you? Pretend I’m the audience. Woo me.”

“Fine!”

Moody pretended to interview her, but she got off to a poor start and it only went downhill from there. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t woo him. She was too aware of her anger and frustration with the whole thing that she couldn’t answer any of his questions properly. Hermione was angry at him, at Rita, at the whole notion of the Hunger Games.

Angry, bitter, and sad.

Why did she need to impress people she hated? People that frankly hated her too. Regardless of their willingness to sponsor her or not, people who would rather see her die a gruesome death than be victorious.

Why did she have to pander to their whims like a fool under an Imperius?

But she didn’t probe why, because she knew what Moody’s answer would be. Sponsorships.

To hell with sponsorships, then. She had survived long enough in the woods without any fool’s help, and she could do it in the arena too.

She didn’t want their dirty help.

She didn’t want anything from them.

The longer that Moody posed questions at her, the angrier she got. She felt the fury build within her until she was spitting every answer back at him.

“Alright,” he said. “Not only are you being hostile, but you also haven’t answered anything properly. I still don’t know anything about your life.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“But they do!”

“I don’t care!” she screamed. “I. Don’t. Care! I owe them nothing! They’re sending me off to my death and they want to know about my life? Why? To make themselves feel better? To pity me?” Her breaths escaped her in ragged pants. “They don’t deserve to know anything about me and my life! It’s the only thing I have left that’s my own.”

Moody pulled out his flask and threw it back, a show of his impatience and displeasure.

“Then make something up. Like you, I also don’t care,” he barked cruelly.

“I’m not a good liar.”

“That’s not my problem. Learn. You’re about as charming as a blast-ended skrewt.”

The tone of his voice stung. Even he seemed to notice and softened it before continuing.

“Just try to be humble.”

“Right.”

The next few hours with him were painful. He gave her suggestions on making herself seem more vulnerable, something he said the audience would have a soft spot for. He told her to talk about her clothing, compliment the people she worked with, and rave about the Pure Capitol city. But both of them came to the realization that she could do no such thing. As she had said, she was a bad liar. She couldn’t gush, but she also couldn’t play cocky, or sexy, or funny, or smart. She couldn’t do any of it.

When whatever liquor was in Moody’s flask finally ran dry, he threw himself back into his chair and waved her away.

“I give up. Just answer the questions you’re asked and try not to curse anyone.”

That night, Hermione had dinner alone in her room. She ordered every ridiculous thing she could pronounce from the takeaway menu and indulged in it until she felt sick. She was angry at Moody, at the Hunger Games, at every man and woman that lived in Pure Capitol—everyone. She hated them all.

She smashed plates on the floor and flung glass cups at the wall. When the squib with long black hair came to collect her dishes, Hermione yelled at her.

“Leave it alone! Just, leave!”

Hermione hated this girl too. She still didn’t know her name but how she looked at Hermione, like she was the most reprehensible person to walk the earth, made her utterly sick. She must have felt like she was getting justice, seeing a person who didn’t help her now look helpless. She was certain the girl was counting down the days until she saw Hermione’s face on the television screen being announced as one of the fallen.

She stumbled to the bathroom and vomited the contents of her dinner.

The front door opened, closed, and then opened again moments later. The girl entered the bathroom with a damp cloth in her hand. Hermione sat collapsed over the toilet, spit still dripping down her chin. She felt disgusting, she felt vile, she felt like maybe, just maybe, she would have been better off punished.

She should have just shot one of the Games-makers. Maybe they would have arrested her. Maybe they would have taken away her magic and stripped her of her voice, and while they were at it, her memories too. Maybe they would have executed her. Anything they did to her so that she wouldn’t have to go through this, the Games, she would have opened with welcoming arms.

The girl crouched down in front of Hermione and wiped her chin. Then she folded the dirty part of the cloth inwards and placed it on her forehead.

Hermione started to sob. She looked down at her hands and trailed her eyes along freshly bloodied cuts on her palms from the shattered dishes. The girl held the cloth to her forehead and started to rub her back. Hermione's tears turned from anger to despair.

“I should have tried to save you*,” she blubbered. “I should have tried.”

The girl shook her head. For a moment, Hermione just stared at her. The girl met her eyes and looked to be on the verge of tears herself. She tapped her finger to her lips and then shook her head again.

What was she trying to say? The thought that she couldn’t express anything out loud brought another wave of tears over Hermione. She had allowed this to happen to her.

The girl placed three fingers under Hermione’s chin and tilted it up. The gentleness of her tender hand was almost too much to bear. She pushed an errant curl out of Hermione’s face and tucked it behind her ear. Their faces were close, only inches apart, and it felt much too intimate for someone that should have despised her.

“I made a mistake,” Hermione whispered.

The girl frowned and shook her head again, pulling her hands back and placing them in front of her. She opened one hand, palm facing up, and met Hermione’s eyes expectantly. With the fingers of her other hand, she brushed them along the length of her palm once, and then a second time. A single tear rolled down her cheek before she rose to her feet and exited the bathroom.

It took a moment for Hermione to gather herself. She didn’t have it in her to process the weight and meaning of the girl’s actions. When she heard shuffling in the living area, she rose to her feet and followed the sound. For the next hour, they cleaned the mess in the room, picking up broken plates and shards of glass. Hermione tried to do it with magic but the girl had motioned for the wand to be put away.

When the mess had been disposed of, the girl had pointed to the bed. She pulled back the covers and gestured for Hermione to crawl in. Under the covers, the girl tucked the duvet in around her.

Hermione wanted to ask the girl to stay.

She wanted her protection, something she so badly wished she could have given her. But the moment her eyes closed, she fell into a deep slumber. She hoped the girl did stay, even if for a little while.

When she roused in the morning, the girl was gone. Instead, her space was filled with commotion and moving bodies, the likes of Fleur, Cedric, and Viktor bustling about and preparing their tools for the day. She gathered that they would be getting her ready in her room.

The outcome of the previous day weighed heavily on her. She was filled with regret, shame, and pain. But there was also a tugging at her heart that she could isolate, and it felt very much like a string holding her up from falling into the depths of darkness. She pulled her Occlumency walls up as high as they could go and got out of bed.

They worked on her look until the late afternoon, following much of the same ritual they took her through for the opening ceremony. Though she could feel it, she couldn’t see it. Fleur had asked Hermione if she wanted to be surprised. Without a second thought, she had said yes. So that was where she found herself—blindfolded and thoroughly moisturized.

Finally, she felt Fleur’s hands rest on her shoulders. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Hermione said, steeling her voice not to betray her nerves.

She felt the sensation of light-handed magic hover over her head before the weight of the blindfold disappeared. She still kept her eyes shut.

“Okay, open,” Fleur whispered. Hermione could hear the smile in her voice.

It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when she spotted herself in the mirror, she was awestruck.

She was dressed in a strapless gown that embraced every curve, trailing down the length of her body to the floor. She didn’t even know she was shaped that way, but it hugged her in all the right places. It was simple and elegant, with a twinge of sex appeal in a ravishing red colour. If she had to wager, she'd say it was an intentional sign of rebellion against the conservative Pure Capitol residents.

Over the fitted part of her dress, lay a flowing overskirt that trailed behind her in a train. It was adorned with a mixture of red, yellow, and orange feathers, like that of an elegant phoenix wing. It was the most beautiful piece of work Hermione had ever laid her eyes on. She didn’t just look beautiful, but she felt radiant. Like a torch, a withering flame, and even more so like the breath of fire from the mouth of a dragon.

She ran her fingers over the feathers, briefly wondering if Fleur had etched deeper meaning into this dress too. But the obvious nod to phoenix wings was meaning enough.

Fleur had been standing off to the side, her hands clasped before her, watching Hermione explore the dress. Hermione’s eyes passed over the room and she noticed that Cedric and Viktor looked at her adoringly. They were all awaiting her verdict.

“Fleur,” she whispered. “I love it.”

Fleur smiled softly at the praise.

“Thank you,” Hermione added. “Thank you for making me look so beautiful.”

Cedric and Viktor enveloped Hermione in a hug and whispered naughty praise in her ears that made her giggle. She narrowly missed Fleur’s response.

“You already were.”

The rest of their time together passed quickly. Cedric and Viktor settled in to put the finishing touches on the rest of her look, while Fleur stepped out of the room. They braided her hair into an updo, letting a few soft ringlets fall to frame her face, covered her arms in gold dust that shimmered when the light hit, and painted her eyes in a dark and smoky shadow.

When they slid a pair of strappy sandals to her feet, she was relieved to find they were inches lower than the pair Rita had put her in. They were also a lot more comfortable, something she quickly realized as she did her final trapeze through the room to test the dress and her own coordination.

When Fleur appeared again, she quickly dismissed Cedric and Viktor. She moved around Hermione, appraising her look one final time for any mishaps before she settled in front of her.

“Are you nervous?” she asked gently.

Yes. A million times yes.

“As nervous as I’ve ever been,” Hermione admitted. She realized at that moment that she had come to trust Fleur. Not just with the way she looked, but with everything. “Moody tore me down. And as great as I look in this dress, I don’t think people will like me very much. At least, he thought that. And I worry that he’s right.”

Fleur’s eyes widened, before she shook her head, an evident dismissal of the statement.

“Moody is wrong,” she said. “Just be yourself.”

Hermione snorted out a laugh. “That was his whole problem. Me.”

Fleur waved the comment away and turned to collect her belongings from the room. Hermione stood on the podium before the mirror and watched her. She made her way around a large desk littered with remnants of their styling tools, and quietly packed them away.

Hermione had noticed an aversion to magic by the stylists but had never mentioned it. Their workspace painted a very clear picture though. They did things the muggle way if they could help it. Finally, Fleur cleared her throat.

“I’ll be in the booth with the other District stylists. Find me when you’re asked a question and answer as you would to a friend back home.”

That Hermione could do. But should she?

“I don’t have very many nice things to say,” she said with a guiltless half-smile.

Fleur smiled back, all-knowingly. “I know. Just say what you feel.”

Hermione nodded. She could imagine she was sitting in the forest with Ron, talking his ear off as she liked to do. Frankly, she could deal with the fallout from Moody later. She would barely have a day before the start of the Games, and his opinion of her at that point would be the least of her worries.

It was a plan. Maybe not a very good one, but at least it meant she didn’t have to lie or pretend to be someone she wasn’t.

An abrupt knock on the door was their signal that it was time to go. Fleur motioned for Hermione to lead the way, but as Hermione’s hand wrapped around the doorknob, Fleur stopped her hand. She pulled her head to Hermione’s ear and whispered, “When your interview ends, take your time to leave the stage. Spread the skirt of your dress behind you like a cape with both your hands.”

Hermione reached for her skirt instinctively but Fleur grabbed her wrists. “No, not now,” she said. “At the end of the interview.”

At Hermione’s twisted expression, she gave her a warm smile. “Just trust me. You’ll know what to do.” And with that, she pushed her through the door without another word.

They met Moody and Rita, who had already been joined by Cedric and Viktor, at the elevator. Hermione avoided Moody but graciously accepted Rita’s compliments. The ill feelings she had for the woman quickly dissipated in light of the afternoon she spent with Moody, so she didn’t plan to show the same hostility towards her as she did to him.

When the elevator arrived at the intended floor, the group filtered out to join the rest of the interviewees. A glare, a hug, and three kisses on the cheek later, and she was alone amongst the rest of the tributes.

Similar to the showcase, Hermione would be up last. She would have to sit backstage and watch as each tribute before her made a good impression and question her own with every passing interview. As she settled into her seat off the side of the stage, she would have a clear view of each interview but be hidden from the crowd until it was her turn to go up.

Gilderoy Lockhart, the long-term interviewer of the Games, graced the stage to rambunctious applause. Every person in Regnum knew who he was, as the man wasn’t shy about his accomplishments—writer, actor, model, teacher, he claimed to do it all.

He was a fan favourite, especially around women, but Hermione had never gotten the appeal. He was dressed in a putrid ensemble, a single tone of purple for his shirt, trousers, shoes, and robe, and atop his head sat a bolero hat in the same shade. He looked like the knight bus that passed through Districts every month.

As he welcomed the crowd with his opening monologue, Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of him. On top of the outrageous outfit, which she had already come to learn was a Pure Capitol staple, he did himself no favours with his hair and makeup. His face had been painted a ghastly white, and his hair dyed a toxic yellow. Not blonde, but yellow. Hermione would compete in the games ten times over before she left any room looking like he did.

After a few jokes to warm up the crowd, he settled into his seat and got down to business. Before he announced the first tribute, he paused briefly, as if intending to cast a moment of silence, but seconds later he welcomed the first tribute to join him.

From the other side of the stage appeared Draco. He hopped up the few steps behind the curtain before strutting out to greet Gilderoy. He was dressed in an all-black ensemble from head to toe, a black turtleneck and fitted black trousers, with an unclasped flowing robe that looked eerily similar to the one he wore at the opening ceremony. He shook Gilderoy’s hand firmly, a charming smile plastered on his face, before he settled into the seat across from him.

They went through the typical greetings and formalities before a stage light shined down at Draco. And that was when Hermione saw it.

His robe.

What seemed like a typical wizard’s robe, evidently wasn’t. As the light reflected off of him, she could see that there was a pattern in it, either woven or embroidered, that covered its entirety.

What startled her most was that she recognized the pattern. It was a single symbol, repeating over and over again, from the base of where it met his neck, and down the entire length. It took mere moments for her to make sense of what the symbol was.

A rune.

And unlike some of those that Fleur adorned to her dress, she could easily discern this one. It was Nauthiz.

Or as she knew it: need-fire. The symbol of resistance, necessity, and constraint.

The equivalent of crossing fingers for protection and luck.

One of the symbols she had considered for herself.

He had made it known that he had noticed the runes on her dress at the opening ceremony, but was this a coincidence or intentional?

As the stage light adjusted, the symbol blurred into obscurity within the deep black of his robe. It was there one moment and gone the next. Her ears tuned back into the interview.

“Pure Capitol tributes are uncommon, I’m sure you know,” Gilderoy quipped.

Draco nodded earnestly. “I do. I believe I’m the first.” He didn’t sound angry or sad, which surprised her. Just honest. Maybe that was what he was going for.

“And how did you feel when you realized that you would have to compete in the Games?” Gilderoy asked, genuine curiosity lacing his tone.

Though briefly, Draco hesitated. He clasped then unclasped his hands, before he reached for a ring on his index and twirled it around the finger in thought. His eyes scanned the length of the crowd, looking, searching for something, before his gaze promptly locked in on hers.

His eyes were like a train barreling down a steep slope. They slammed into her with purpose and rage, so startling Hermione couldn’t bear to look away. An eerie but familiar feeling crawled up her neck and she remembered the first moment she ever saw him, staring this way from the broadcast of a television screen.

She could see his chest rising and falling, matching the rapid breaths that were leaving her. Even from where she sat she could see his pupils blown wide, jaw tight, before he unclenched it and turned back to Gilderoy.

“I suppose you could say”—he paused and looked out over the crowd before his mouth tightened earnestly—“that it lit a fire within me.”

Chapter Text

Every tribute after Malfoy passed in a blur before Hermione heard her name being called up to stage. When she stepped out past the curtain and spotted the crowd of thousands, the muscles around her throat tightened. Ears flushed red, she focused on the steps from where she was to where she needed to be.

1 – 2– right – left – almost – there.

Moments later her hand was in Gilderoy’s outstretched palm and he was kissing the top of it.

May the odds be ever in my favour.

She stole a second to take in her surroundings. The limited view from backstage did the scene before her no justice. Evening dusk had settled over the city but the City Circle was bright and in typical Pure Capitol spirit, colourful. Before the stage was a small standing crowd of around a hundred people and behind them a mob of cameras pointing in different directions. Beyond that were rows upon rows of seats, each filled with a person that seemed to span for miles.

Hermione’s heart stammered in her chest. It was the largest crowd she had ever been in front of. Every fear and worry in her mind sparked, sending gooseflesh racing down her spine. Past the crowd, high in the elevated balconies, were prestigious guests and the styling crews. She spotted Fleur and breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

I can do this.

She sat down opposite Gilderoy and met his eyes. He was smiling at her oddly, the same way you do when trying to figure someone out who asked a perplexing question. She matched it back to him with ease.

“Hermione Granger,” he sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Welcome to Pure Capitol.”

“Thank you.”

He looked out to the crowd expectantly and flashed someone a cheeky wink. If Gilderoy was anything, he was a crowd-pleaser.

“Tell us,” he prattled. “What’s been your favourite part about the city?”

That question, the same one that Moody had tried to rehearse, immediately stumped her. It was the one that she couldn’t answer, because how could she say, nothing. How could she politely explain to a host, a crowd of people, and the entire nation watching her on television, that she loathed everything about their rotten city?

Her mouth went dry. She opened it, then closed it, then opened it again, willing any sound to come out.

Just say something.

She looked out to the crowd, almost desperately, and spotted Fleur again.

“The pumpkin juice,” she blurted out. “I like the pumpkin juice.”

Gilderoy threw his head back and laughed. It was the only thing she could think of that was honest.

“Pure Capitol’s finest,” he said, forcing down a grin. “I drink it by the gallons.” The crowd roared into laughter.

“Now, Hermione, your dress in the opening ceremony blew everyone away.” He turned to the standing crowd before the stage and urged them to agree. “It did, didn’t it?” A few people started to applaud, and a rambunctious cheer broke through the otherwise quiet crowd.

“Yes, yes it did.” Gilderoy smiled as if the cheering person had spoken up on cue. “Tell me more about that dress.”

Unlike the question about Pure Capitol, for which there were only a handful of positive answers, this she could do. Talking up Fleur would be easy.

“I loved it,” she affirmed. “My stylist Fleur designed the dress and it was a great representation of me.”

Gilderoy nodded at her every word, maintaining persistent but comfortable eye contact, almost as if he was encouraging her on.

“And what did it represent?”

Her mind flashed between options – to tell, or not to tell? The runes were special to her, and she almost didn’t want to ruin the exclusivity of their meaning. But Moody’s voice broke through.

Act humble.

Don’t be hostile.

Smile.

Every one of his words, though fuelled by anger and impatience, started to click. This was all a game. The game leading up to the actual Games. She was skillful, she was smart, she could do this.

This is a game of wizard’s chess. The king’s piece is in sight. Make your move.

“It represented me in the most simple way. The details are a bit of a secret though,” she smirked.

Gilderoy gasped. “Oh Hermione, do tell!”

This is a game of wizard’s chess.

She pulled an honest expression to her face. “It’s something very dear to me, but I can give you a little bit of a hint.” She looked out towards the standing crowd. At the tease, they smiled up at her, one by one.

Gilderoy's eyes lit up, the corners of his mouth pulling up into bright pink cheeks. He turned to the crowd and started to garner a chant. “Tell! Tell! Tell!”

A few people from the crowd joined in, while Gilderoy kept motioning for them to get louder. And they did. They got louder and louder, and suddenly Hermione was blushing and wondering if it was supposed to be this easy.

The king’s piece is in sight.

“Okay,” she laughed. “You’ve worn me down! There were runes on the dress.”

Gilderoy's eyebrows flashed up his forehead. “Runes, you say? The study of ancient runes is quite that, ancient, is it not? Practically extinct!”

She nodded. “It is. Fleur is brilliant. And look at this piece,” she said, pointing down to her dress. “When I say she’s brilliant, I mean it.”

Gilderoy’s expression shifted to curiosity, his eyes passing over her dress slowly.

“It is quite lovely,” he hummed. “Would you stand? Give the people a better look!” He regarded the crowd again and encouraged their eager applause.

Make your move.

She stood, and caught Fleur in the crowd again. She gave her the smallest twirl of her finger before motioning down to Hermione’s skirt.

Hermione remembered—With two hands, Fleur had said. She wasn’t sure how much time was left in her interview but she knew there wasn’t much. Whatever surprise Fleur had hidden within her dress would have to make itself known soon.

Gilderoy beamed at her as she made her way to the center of the stage. She grabbed her overskirt with one hand and turned her back to the crowd, showing off the intricate details of the feather design. The crowd ooh’d and ah’d, thoroughly enraptured by the show she was putting on.

He brought his face up close to the train of her skirt and examined it. Running his hands over the feathers, he seemed to revel in the soft texture and detailed pattern.

“Simply beautiful,” he remarked. “I see why you like your stylist.” Voices among the crowd rang out in giggles.

Make your move.

Now in the center of the stage, Gilderoy came over and stopped before Hermione. She knew her time was running out.

“Before I let you go, tell us, what went through your mind when you volunteered?”

If this was a game, Hermione could play. She decided to tell the truth.

“I was nervous.”

His expression was warm. “I bet you were. And what did your family tell you when they saw you off?”

She hoped the clench of her jaw went unnoticed at the mention of family.

“They told me to be strong and try to win.”

Gilderoy hung on to her every word. “And what did you tell them?"

Make your move.

Her veins turned to ice. It was the moment of truth. She felt it in her bones, her muscles, and deep within her heart. All her previous hesitation and fear seemed to dissolve at the direct probe. If she had to kill right now, she could. She believed she truly could.

“I told them I would try. I promised I would."

Gilderoy looked at her, glassy-eyed, and squeezed her hand. The buzzer blared, signifying the end of her interview.

“Best of luck, Hermione Granger, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

Hermione nodded her head in acknowledgment, and as she turned to make her way off the stage, met the eyes of Fleur one final time. A tiny flash of a thumbs-up was all she needed.

She grabbed the overskirt of her dress on either side with each hand. Pushing both arms back and swiftly down, the skirt train flared into the air and straightened out behind her. To the unknowing eye, she hoped that it looked like an inconspicuous adjustment. She looked back at the skirt as the crowd stilled.

Suddenly, the feathers at the tip of the dress ignited. One by one, each feather burst into flames, beautiful magical flames, and started to fall like dominoes up a straight path toward her hips. She pulled her arms up, letting go of the skirt behind her, and watched in awe. As soon as the last feather lit up, the entire skirt crumbled to ash.

As the last bit of ashy powder fell to the floor, a large and unexpected gust of wind swept it into the air. It slowly encircled Hermione and engulfed her from head to toe. The crowd gasped.

It swirled around her body like a tornado, slowly shifting from shades of grey to fragments of gold, silver, and red. The specks of colour drifted up her body, collecting at the top of her head, and slowly trailed down her back. They moved like fairy dust, purposeful and controlled until the wind around her calmed and she felt the prickle of magic all over her skin.

Her dress was embodying a phoenix. The truest symbol of the journey through fire she would have to take in the Games. And like her pin, it was a nod to rebellion. She wondered if President Riddle was watching, and what he was thinking.

This is a game of wizard’s chess. The king’s piece is in sight. Make your move.

As the specks of colour settled to form a new overskirt in place of where the other was, the crowd broke into a deafening roar. She smiled at them sweetly and walked the rest of the way off stage, glowing feathered train trailing behind her.

Checkmate.

When Hermione passed the safety of the curtains, her whole body slumped forward. The adrenaline she’d felt on stage came flooding out of her in rapid breaths, panting in a desperate attempt to fill her lungs with air. It was as if she had held on until her breaking point and now the dam had broken. She had done it. The relief she felt was palpable.

She had promised Ginny she would try, and she did. She had been able to find the smallest ounce of courage and willpower deep within her and that was the strength she needed to get through the interview. It was the final daunting task she had left to face before her journey into the Games began.

If she had taken the time to observe her surroundings, she would have seen the blonde head of hair sitting on the other side of the stage from where she had exited. He had smiled when she spoke, applauded her when she made her exit, and then collapsed into his chair to spend the rest of the evening watching the crowd filter out of the square.

But instead, Hermione made her way to the elevator without glancing back.

Alone, she rode all the way up to the twelfth floor. She waited for several minutes for the rest of her team to arrive but when they didn’t, she figured they had been caught in the crowd of people leaving the Circle. She followed the delicious smell of dinner and felt her feet gravitating to the dining area. As soon as she entered, heavy overskirt trailing behind her, she heard the shriek of Rita’s voice.

“Hermione Granger, you little vixen!” she trilled, opening her arms to envelope Hermione in a bear-like hug. “You kept your charm under wraps on purpose, didn’t you?”

Hermione blushed. “Not quite, but I’m glad you think so.” And she was. Infinitely glad. If Rita had bought it, then everyone else had too.

Moody gave her one swift pat on the back, already reeking of alcohol. “You did good,” he gruffed, magical eye spinning as he reviewed the dinner offerings. “You can hope it’s enough for the sponsors.” It was as much compliment as she would get from him so she took it in stride.

Cedric and Viktor kissed her on the cheeks and whispered sweet nothings to her. She was struck by the painful thought that she would actually miss them, but quickly swallowed it down.

“Wonderful job,” Fleur smiled, and though she tried not to let her face show it, Hermione could tell she was pleased. The dress had done what she planned.

“Thanks to you,” Hermione responded.

The group of six collapsed onto their chairs and dug in to eat. After a meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and baked carrots, Hermione was stuffed. When a plate of fruit scones arrived, they all shifted to the sitting area to watch a replay of the day’s events.

When Gilderoy’s final words wrapped up the night, the television screen went dark. A sombre hush fell over the room as the realization of what was to come settled over everyone. The following morning would be Hermione’s last waking in a bed before the Games began. Whether she would ever get to do it again after that, remained to be seen.

The Games would begin at eleven.

Moody and Rita wouldn’t join Hermione at the arena. Their task as of the morning would be to head to the headquarters, a top-secret location that changed every year and was only divulged to Death Eaters and the mentor and escort for each tribute. Their focus would be to finalize deals with potential sponsors and determine the strategy for when gifts would be delivered to her. She would be escorted to the arena only by Fleur, who would see her out until the very moment she was launched into the Games.

Her final goodbyes with everyone else would come now.

Rita clasped her hands around Hermione’s, faint tears already collecting on her lower lash line, and wished her well. She thanked her for being her tribute and told her it was an honour to escort her.

As Rita reached over to wake Moody, she muttered under her breath. “Maybe they’ll reward me a good District next year.”

Hermione sighed, wondering if Rita intended to be overheard. But she couldn’t find it in herself to be mad at the woman or lash out. This would likely be the last time she ever saw her, and for that she was grateful. As Moody roused from his nap, Rita kissed Hermione on the cheek and scurried out of the room.

When Moody opened his eye, he crossed his arms and looked Hermione up and down, scowling. Whatever positive sentiment he had shared with her earlier, though scarce and somewhat dry, had quickly evaporated from his demeanour. He looked at her the way you look at a pile of hippogriff dung.

“Any final words of advice*?” she asked, hoping to break the tension and speed their goodbye along. She figured if she didn’t say something, he could have eyed her all evening.

He yawned, placing his hand steadily on the flask at his hip. “Avoid everything at the Cornucopia. If the bow and arrow aren’t set right before you, don’t bother with anything else. Throw up a shield charm and get the hell out of there,” he muttered, unhappy as ever to have to do his job and offer advice. “Is that clear?”

“No,” she said. “Not really. What if I can’t make a bow and arrow?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, unimpressed. “You’re a witch Granger, I’m sure you can think of something.”

She scoffed but remained silent. If it were really as simple as just being a witch or wizard, there would rarely be any casualties. But the reality was, only one person would be left standing at the end of it all.

“Okay,” she breathed, knowing that arguing with him wasn't worth it. “And then what?”

He smiled at her, a vicious and mean sneer that did nothing to ease her nerves or bring her comfort.

“Constant vigilance,” he said. “Stay alive.”

It was the same advice he had given her on the train. There was nothing else left to say.

After she was hugged and showered in pecks by Cedric and Viktor, she waved to Fleur and made her way to her room. A bath had been drawn and the bedsheets pulled back for her. Though there was nobody else in the room, she knew the black-haired girl had been there.

She wished she at least knew her name.

Hermione settled into the bath, relishing in the warmth and comfort it brought. She dispensed the soap that had become her favourite since she arrived, a mixture of strawberry and mint, and slathered it across her body with a coarse loofah. She scrubbed the ash that still magically lingered on her skin and the weight of the rest of the day away. She massaged soap into her hair, knowing it would be the last time, whether for long or forever, that she would be able to get a good wash. Cleansing charms could only do so much in the arena, and the luxury of filtered running water and a bathtub would be nowhere to be found.

After her bath, she dressed in a fleece nightgown and climbed into bed. Like the bath, the bed was warm and enveloped her like a hug.

The moment her eyes closed, vivid images flipped through her mind. The faces of the other tributes, weapons pointed at her, her own gruesome death. She shot up in bed, heart racing, and tried to calm her rapid breathing.

Think of something good. Think of something good. Think of something good.

But was there any good left to think of?

One hour passed, then another, and still, her mind was consumed with the odds. What the terrain would be in the arena, the weapons, and her fate. Would they be dropped in a desert? Or a frigid tundra? Maybe a dystopian city, or a chemical wasteland?

She hoped if anything, if there was any luck left for her in the world, that it would be a forest. Something she was familiar with. A forest would give her the best chance of survival, with ample space for shelter and food, regardless of whether she ended up in an area with no magic or not. She could survive it. She knew she could. At least for a little while.

As the hours passed and her mind whirred, the anxiety absorbed her. The more Hermione thought, the less likely sleep would come to her. Her heart raced, her palms sweat, and suddenly she was up on her feet and pacing around the room. She paced until the walls started to close in around her. She was in a prison cell, and she needed to get out.

Bursting from the room, she ran down the hall towards the stairs, taking two at a time before she reached the door to the roof. All she wanted was to breathe fresh air. To let it fill her lungs and feel alive for just a little longer.

Breathing suddenly felt like a luxury she couldn’t get enough of because she knew it was slipping through her fingers faster than she could hold onto it. There was a countdown clock, a ticking time bomb, and then suddenly and all at once it could vanish.

She burst through the door and gasped as the air hit her face, her heart immediately calming. This was her last night breathing fresh air without being hunted.

But maybe that day had already long passed.

The roof was empty but lit by the moon in the sky. The stars twinkled brightly and illuminated the night. It was breathtakingly beautiful. She could never see a sky like this in District 12 because of the pollution. She walked herself to the small garden she had uncovered the last time she was there and sank onto the ledge.

Just moments later, the door to the roof creaked open.

With her reflexes still fuelled by the lingering anxiety, she quickly disillusioned herself.

The door opened and closed, but there was nobody there.

Warm wind howled around her, broken up by the commotion of the still busy streets below, but she was alone. There were no scuffs of shoes or sounds of steps to be heard. She started to wonder if the wind had flung the door open itself or if the roof was charmed to play tricks on her, but the thought barely gained traction before a layer of disillusionment slowly started to pull back like a curtain on the body of a person at the center of the roof.

Malfoy.

But glancing at him at that moment, she felt more inclined to refer to him as Draco.

He was lying on his back in the middle of the roof, arms and legs splayed around him, and his head turned up towards the sky. If he had seen or heard her, he didn’t show it. Instead, he appeared to be in his own little world, entranced by the sight above them. Hermione pulled her own eyes up and wondered if he was on to something. An unobstructed view of the sky would look how magic felt coursing through her body.

After another glance in his direction, she carefully moved off the ledge and behind the wild shrubbery of the garden. She took care to stay out of his eyesight and laid herself on the ground.

The dark blue canopy of the sky threatened to consume her. Laying back, head up at the stars, it felt like she was swimming in the depths of an endless pool. The moon was bright, a deep yellow colour, and close enough to discern its shaded craters. Specks of silver twinkled like fireflies above her and she decided that she had never seen something as wonderful, as beautiful and magical, as the sight before her.

She turned her head towards Draco, and he lay still in the same place he had appeared in. His body was relaxed, no tenseness in his muscles or limbs, chest rising and falling steadily.  

Looking at him, she realized there was something deeply intimate in laying paces away from another person and being engulfed by the same night sky. He was nothing more than a stranger to her, but laying there, suddenly without a worry to cross her mind, she felt as though she knew him. And he knew her.

Maybe it was magic in the sky that allowed for two strangers to look at it and feel known. No matter what life they lived, no matter what problems they faced, they could turn their head up to the same sky, see the same moon, and be swarmed by the same stars. Everything could dissipate at the thought that the world was so much grander and greater than just them.

Her eyes moved back to the sky and she let the shapes and movement of the stars lull her eyelids closed. She thought she might have seen a shooting star before she met the darkness, but it was likely a trick of the light. A figment of her imagination as she dozed off into a deep and restful sleep.

But at least one person on the roof had made a wish.

When her eyes opened in the morning, she was in her bed. She scarcely remembered a dream about constellations and flying through space. She thanked her lucky stars that she was able to get some rest before the day ahead of her.

She rose from bed to greet a knock at the door. Fleur gave her a simple shift dress to wear and told her that her clothing for the Games would be waiting in the warrens beneath the arena. She instructed her to meet in the dining area, where they would have breakfast and then be shepherded off.

Hermione had time to brush her teeth, wash her face, and slip the shift on. Wand in hand, she took one final look at the room before leaving for good. Her eyes passed over the space when she spotted something on the table.

Approaching, she saw a scrap piece of paper, small and coarsely torn. In ragged penmanship, read a message:

I’ll be rooting for you.
- Cho

It didn’t take long for her to understand what it meant and who it was from. The black-haired girl that she had failed had seemingly risked her life to leave the note for her. Her throat began to close in on her but she pushed the need to cry deep within, knowing she couldn't succumb to the weakness. Not not. Not anymore. She scrunched the paper in her palms, letting the sentiment bleed through her, before setting the note alight with a swift incendio. Its fragments crumbled between her fingers and disappeared into the carpet's plush.

Hermione was the first to arrive in the dining area. Squibs typically gathered to serve them breakfast, but none were in the room that morning.

Though she could have waited for Fleur, her stomach grumbled. She perused the serving table, passing her eyes over the offerings for breakfast, and reached for the stack of plates, ready to serve herself. But as her fingers grazed the ceramic, she felt a sudden pull behind her navel and everything around her started to spin.

Her body whirled in the space of nothingness, flashes of buildings and streets flying past her vision. The pressure she felt in her skull readied to crush her and she didn’t think she could handle it for a second longer before she felt solid ground materialize beneath her feet.

As the sensation came to an abrupt halt, she was dropped into an unfamiliar room just as four walls formed around her. She stumbled to get her footing, and the plate slipped from her hand, shattering against the floor. 

Where was she? Where was Fleur?

What had happened?

Besides her presence, the room was bare. On a lone chair laid what looked like her clothing for the Games. As her head started to spin, she leaned herself against a wall lest she collapse to her knees. Next to the chair was a small table with breakfast food laid upon it. The dining room at the training grounds was clearly a ruse to get her here.

She tried to steady her racing heart but the sudden transport and unknown surroundings filled her with dread. She stood as if petrified, trying but failing to make sense of where she was and what would happen to her.

Hermione’s focus shifted when a door suddenly appeared where there previously was none. The outline of it shimmered into existence along one of the walls for just a moment before it swung open and the last people she ever expected to see stood before her.

The head Games-maker, the one from the showcase with the dreaded black hair, marched into the room. As soon as he entered, he stepped aside to allow for another person to follow in behind him.

The President.

Hermione immediately knew that his appearance wasn’t one made to wish her good luck. Her fists clenched at the sight of the man, nails digging into her palms and leaving crescent-shaped moons in their place.

She wanted to pinch herself. It felt like a dream. A terrible dream, very much like the worst nightmare.

“Good morning Ms. Granger,” President Riddle said. “How do you do on this fine day?”

She stood, frozen, mind reeling. 

“It’s alright to be nervous,” he continued when she hesitated with her response. “Most tributes are.”

He looked her up and down and though his tone may have been gentler than she would have expected, the look in his eyes was not. It was vicious and judgemental, and it physically pained her to meet his sight. His presence filled the small room and threatened to suffocate her.

“Present your forearm,” the head Games-makers said. “Your left.”

She willed herself to ignore the fear coursing through her veins and did as she was told. The President approached her and trained his wand to her arm. As he opened his mouth to speak, she stammered out, “What—what are you—what is that for?”

He chuckled, a deep and throaty sound that came from the base of his chest and reverberated off the walls. “It’s your tracker, Ms. Granger. The stiller you are, the less it will hurt when I place it.”

He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge before she was hit with the sharp sting of a spell. She gritted her teeth at the force and felt the pain flood her senses. Though he maneuvered his wand light-handedly, the impact of his magic felt like a violent stab. Hermione watched blood trickle from her arm and the sight of it sent a wave of nausea through her. She willed her eyes to look away from his ministrations and shifted them to the only place she could think of: the only other person in the room.

The Head Games-maker.

He seemed intent on observing the President’s handiwork but as her desperate gaze landed on him, he trained his eyes on her in response. Everything about him was dark and harsh, as though he were filled to the brim with secrets, but his expression betrayed nothing of the sort. She saw his jaw clench once before he shifted his eyes back down to the wand of the President.

The spread of pain accelerated, sweat coating Hermione's forehead as she tried with everything she had to hold herself together. She tasted blood in her mouth from where she had bitten her tongue. The pain was nearing unbearable, as if her skin was being torched, but she didn’t know what consequences awaited her if she didn’t hold still. The President’s words could have been interpreted as a suggestion, but she knew they weren’t. They were an order.

She was on the verge of breaking and yelling out when the magic receded abruptly. She brought her eyes down to her arm to assess the damage and watched in horror as a pattern appeared on her previously unmarked skin.

It was a single red eye, closely resembling that of a snake.

Her knees buckled at the sight and when she looked up from the ground, the two men were gone. She traced a finger over the marking, skin raw and tattered beneath, and wondered if maybe this was her punishment. Maybe they had waited to stick it to her after her showcase until now. Scare and weaken her just moments before the Games began.

It was as much psychological torture as it was physical.

She was still on her knees when Fleur appeared in a flash, seemingly by the same travel method, but with much more coordination. She landed swiftly on her feet and immediately rushed over to Hermione's side. Her body was in shock, ears ringing and vision blurring, so she didn’t hear nor understand the healing spells that Fleur muttered. But a short moment later, the pain in her arm eased. When Hermione’s senses started to swim back to her, Fleur had cleaned the wound and bandaged the arm.

Reality quickly set in for Hermione. Whatever they had done to her with this spell meant that they would be able to trace her whereabouts in the arena. There was no getting away from them anywhere. She felt numb.

Fleur helped her get dressed in the outfit that had been laid out for her. The trousers stretched to her legs, buckles situated around the thighs that could second as knife sheaths. On top of a tank, she was given a jacket that sat high on her neck with a protective collar. The boots had thick soles and tied halfway up her shins.

As Fleur rose from tying the second boot, she stashed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the phoenix pin. Hermione didn’t bother asking where she had gotten it from, but the relief she felt at seeing it was unexpected. She had forgotten about it herself, but when Fleur affixed it to her breast pocket, her body eased beneath her touch.

Hermione paced the floor of the room, unable to stomach anything more than water and jammed bread. She pulled her Occlumency walls forward as strong as they would go and settled them at the front of her mind. She meant for no rogue thoughts to come in or out. 

Similar to how the door had appeared out of thin air, the wall opposite Hermione suddenly shifted to allow for a glass platform to rise from the ground. Atop the platform was a fireplace that suddenly flared to life.

Hermione took a step forward.

Above the fireplace appeared a clear glass hood, roughly the size of her, that spanned up to the ceiling and emptied out into a dark passage. It was the compartment that would take her into the arena.

Fleur reached out to her and clasped their hands together. “I believe in you, Hermione,” she whispered. 

Hermione stepped towards the floo and up onto the platform. As she stood, the glass column moved down over her body and encased her. She looked up at what should have been the room's ceiling, and her eyes got lost in the abyss above.

Floo powder rained down on her. She glanced one final time at Fleur, who smiled reassuringly.

It was the last face she saw before the beginning of the end.

A booming voice cut through the silence, ringing out through the room.

“Welcome to the Hunger Games!”

Everything around her went dark. 

Chapter Text

As the floo powder rained down on Hermione, she felt the cylinder around her contract and propel her upwards. She had travelled by floo before, but never with the knowledge that a bloodbath awaited her on the other end. The sensation of travel lasted only a few seconds before she appeared on a steep pedestal.

She was in the arena and the Games were nearly ready to begin.

Her vision blurred as she counted the tributes, each on their own pedestal, positioned 20 feet apart in a large circle. A sixty-second countdown blared over the space from somewhere above.

They would have to wait on their pedestal until the horn sounded to declare the start of the Games. Step off your pedestal too early, and you would be hit with a bout of cruciatus—an unfortunate disadvantage to have as the Games began.

Standing on the pedestal, knowing that she was in the arena that might end up being the last place she ever stepped foot in, felt like an out-of-body experience. A lump formed in her throat as her parched mouth dried her airways. She made a feeble attempt at calming her nerves by reciting the mantra that ran through her mind at the interview.

This is a game of wizard’s chess.

The king’s piece is in sight.

Panic seized her insides and she fought the overwhelming feeling of dread.

You’re probably going to die.

It was no use.

At the center of the circle of tributes lay the Cornucopia, a large golden horn that towered over everything. It was filled with weapons, food, and medical supplies. Hermione noticed other items strewn around on the grounds. Those furthest from the Cornucopia were typically the least valuable, whereas those closest were the most. But they also posed the greatest risk.

She ran her eyes over the space, trying to document as much as she could. The sight of pine trees surrounding the circle caused her heart to stutter. Amidst the silence, she heard running water somewhere far off in the distance and the creaking of large branches as the wind picked up.

They were in a forest.

Hermione didn’t want to look at the other tributes nor think about their strategies. She instead tried to forge together a plan for herself. She needed to find a bow and arrow and get out.

Luckily, she spotted one rather quickly, about 50 yards from her, not far off the Cornucopia. It wasn’t an easy path, but it was there. It was there, and she settled her mind on the fact that it would be hers.

Moody’s voice rang through in her mind, urging her to avoid the risk.

If the bow and arrow aren’t right in front of you, don’t bother… just get the hell out of there.

It was all the advice he had given her, and now with it all in sight, she realized he had underestimated her.

It was there. Right there. Not in front of her, but close enough.

It was a risk, she was willing, and knew she had to take.

Wand in hand, she zeroed in on it, anxiety quickly washed away by adrenaline. She stood, ready, and waited for it all to begin.

Accio it? Or put up a shielding charm and run? Accio? Protego? Accio? Prot—

Her heart continued to pound in her chest. Stillness plagued the grounds as every tribute readied their stance for the horn to sound.

The moment of silence before it did was defeaning. 

And then it boomed through the arena.

Go.

Hermione’s instinct hit and she broke into a run. 

She threw up a silent Protego as she move through the grounds, making a bee-line for her weapon of choice. Bodies shifted all around her, colourful spells and voices filling the air and flashing by her peripheral, but she focused her mind on moving her feet.

She knew she could reach the bow and arrow. The clearer it became in her view, the more her confidence grew.

The unexpected blast of a canon in the distance, the marking of the first death, made her stutter momentarily but she quickly picked up her pace again, shield charm enclosing her in a web of safety from spells.

The sound of a struggle reverberated against her charm and she turned her head to see two tributes facing off with spears. They were too close to each other to allow for both to survive. A spear punctured one of their stomachs and came out the other end, blood spraying violently. The girl fell to the ground and the canon went off in the distance again.

Hermione lifted her head back up, urging herself not to succumb to repulsion, and found another gear within her. She began to sprint, nearly flying through the open grounds.

The bow and set of arrows were there, right there, and she could almost imagine the feel of her fingers wrapped around them.

So—close—

Go—Go—Go—Go—Go—

Just a little further—

She wondered if she could get away from the Cornucopia quickly enough when she got what she needed.

Later, she would wonder if the thought had been a jinx.

Moody’s advice surfaced in her mind again as her feet continued to move closer to her target—get the hell out of there. If he was watching, he was surely screaming at her through the screen. She hoped her risk would pay off.

She was moments from being close enough to grab the set, arm already extending forward when a body whizzed past it. A white head of hair she recognized too quickly appeared, grabbing the bow and arrow from under her grasp, and disappeared in the blink of an eye to a handy work of disillusionment.

Draco.

She’d missed it.

She’d missed her chance and he was gone with it.

It was the only thing she wanted, the only thing she needed, and it was gone. Snatched from under her fingertips by the person who knew her strength best.

The person who very likely knew she would be going after it.

It was a betrayal by the person she fooled herself into thinking might have wanted to be her ally.

This man is going to kill you.

He might as well already have.

The commotion around her continued, but Hermione held the shield charm strong around her as she shuffled her feet and tried to make sense of what to do next.

Eyes passing over the space, she briefly spotted Harry. He was without a wand and in the midst of a hand combat match with another tribute. She recognized his opponent as the one from District 2, Cormac. A vicious-looking tribute with a mean snarl for a face.

They circled each other until Harry pulled his arm back in a fist and swung at Cormac’s jaw. The punch landed with a resounding crack. Cormac stumbled back, spitting blood and what looked like several teeth to the ground.

Harry had a large gash on his cheek and a bruise forming under his eye. Cormac lunged at him but Harry was quicker. He took his feet out with a swift kick to the heels and Cormac landed hastily on his back. Harry jumped on his chest and paused to look down at him for a brief moment before he gritted his teeth and started to pummel him with his fists.

One punch—crack. Another punch—another loud crack.

A metal band on Harry’s finger left pronounced indentations on the side of Cormac’s face. Hermione could see his bloodied knuckles from where she stood but he was nonetheless relentless in his attack. He landed punch after punch as Cormac lost consciousness beneath him. She only knew he wasn’t dead because the canon hadn’t gone off.

To her lingering disgust, Hermione realized how easily she could get lost in seeing a man pummelling another.

The sound of a canon in the distance snapped her out of her trance. How long had she been there? How many canons had gone off already? 

In quick succession, one more went off, and then another. The tributes were falling like dominoes. She needed to grab something quickly and get out. She had already wasted too much time for nothing. 

Hermione spotted a backpack and started to move towards it when she heard the sound of a whizzing object. A hatchet flew by her ear and lodged itself into the Cornucopia wall behind her, snapping her into attention. It had barely missed her head, unimpeded by the shield charm meant only for magical spells.

She lifted her eyes and locked in on the culprit. The Career from District 1. Pansy. The girl stood fifty yards away from her, dark hair billowing in the wind. When their eyes met, a dirty smirk graced her face, as if teasing Hermione.

The immediate fear she felt was quickly overcome with anger.

That bitch.

Without a second thought, Hermione lifted her shield and muttered a quick Confringo. Her spell blasted a medical kit near Pansy’s foot, narrowly missing its target.

She put her charm back up as Pansy’s angry eyes met hers and the girl sent a spell of her own in Hermione’s direction. It wasn’t a spell she recognized but it bounced off the shield charm and Pansy broke into a run. Hermione grabbed the bag near her and pushed off the Cornucopia wall, darting towards the forest.

She had one thought in her mind: get the hell out of there.

She couldn’t believe how easily the spell had come out of her. Never in her life had she cursed someone, but she realized now that she had never truly had the need to. This was a matter of life or death. And as Pansy neared closer, a part of her wished the spell hadn’t missed.

Hermione jumped over objects and rogue weapons, thankful she was nimble enough to move as quickly as she was. A large boulder lay ahead of her, directly in her path to the forest, and she prepared to leap over it. But when she neared, she realized it wasn’t a boulder at all. It was the mangled body of a boy and she winced when her heel landed in a pool of sticky blood, and it splattered up the back of her leg.

Her Occlumency walls threatened to collapse on her but she urged herself not to think, not to do anything, but just move.

Go. Go. Go.

She could process this all after. She just needed to make it out alive first. She adjusted the backpack on her back and found another gear.

Pansy had closed the gap on her, sending spell after spell in her direction. Hermione didn’t dare lift her shield to retaliate, knowing that whatever spell she did send might not make it to Pansy before the girl hit her with her own.

Just get the hell out of there.

Get the hell out of there.

Get.

Out.

As she neared the edge of the woods, she knew she was close, so close, to being able to blend in amongst the trees into safety. Pansy had slowed her pursuit but her intention was still clear. Hermione was, clear as day, her intended target.

She briefly wondered if the girl would continue her pursuit even into the woods. Careers typically stayed near the Cornucopia as long as they could, hoarding the best supplies and taking out every tribute in their way in the process. But the look she had given Hermione before she started to chase could have her going either way. Maybe a kill was more important.

A loud yelp suddenly reverberated off the barrier of trees. Hermione turned her head to the sound and saw Pansy behind her do the same. She didn’t recognize the voice, nor did she particularly care, but she instantly noticed that Pansy did. The girl slowed her pace and turned almost fully towards the Cornucopia with a look of worry. Hermione continued to run.

Seizing the moment of opportunity, she lifted her shield charm and muttered Fumos in Pansy’s direction. The spell shot out from her wand and shrouded the space between them in a heavy fog.

Hermione ran until she felt the cover of trees surrounding her. The edge of the woods was sparse but there was enough there to shield her, and she felt the instant relief of safety as the shrubbery enclosed around her. Tree roots bulged out of the ground and her pace steadied but didn't slow as she focused on the path beneath her feet.

She continued to run until she was deep enough into the woods to be hidden, until she was certain that nobody could have followed, and then slowed to a jog. She didn’t know how much time had passed since her narrow escape but her senses were still on high alert.

By the grace of Merlin, the next few hours passed in total solitude. The only thing that crossed Hermione's path was a small rabbit and a deer out in the distance. She assumed there would be other creatures, magical and probably more threatening, but she wouldn’t worry about them until she had to.

Her heartbeat gradually slowed and she started almost to enjoy the presence of the forest around her. She was where she felt comfortable. It was as promising of a setting for her as she could have hoped for.

The crunch of gravel under her shoes, the tickle of leaves against her arms, the feeling of the blanketed breeze against her skin was all too familiar. If she closed her eyes she could almost picture herself, carefree, in the forest in District 12 with Ron.

But she knew this one would never feel right. This was not that forest. And she was no longer that girl.

It was late afternoon when she heard canons again. Birds bolted out of the trees above her head at the sound, her only company on the endless trek to nowhere. One blast, followed by a few moments of silence, and then another.

It was the first canon she had heard since the ricochet of blasts amongst the grounds in the opening moments of the Games. Their sound was magicked to span across the entire arena, so there was no telling where the deaths happened and how close they were. Her heart started to race and she picked up her pace instinctively. She still didn’t know where she was going, but she wasn’t ready to stop yet.

Away. As far away as I can go. Not far enough yet.

Hermione had lifted the shield charm around her, but her wand remained in her hand tentatively. She allowed herself a moment to ponder the events of the day. Her narrow escape, even hours later, still felt incredibly daunting. 

It was a close call. Too close, Moody would say, and she would reluctantly agree. 

She hadn’t yet allowed herself to mourn the chance she had or to hate Malfoy for what he took from her. All of her fleeting feelings, first thinking he was good, then that he was bad, then worse, and then good again, passed through her mind like the pages of a book picked up by the wind. She had never felt certain about where he stood. But she knew now. Without a doubt in her mind, she knew.

This man is planning to kill you.

It was so easy to think then, and so easy to believe now. There was never any other alternative. He had gotten into her head, under her skin, and over her walls, and he had played her like a fiddle. He had given her just enough to think he was on her side.

Why she still didn’t know, but he did. It was just enough and a part of her, the absolutely smallest part, had held on to hope that she would have had an ally.

She had been so foolish. Her fears had been clouded by her own inordinate want to survive. There were no allies in the Games. There were killers and those who were killed. You were one until you ultimately became the other. But you were never an ally. You were never with an ally. At least not truthfully. Not with any good intentions.

Her fists clenched at her sides, the one grasping her wand closing painfully around firm wood. She wished it wasn’t true. Her whole life was a testament to the power of allies. She had been one and she had had several. There was always greater strength to be found in allies, reluctant or willing. She absent-mindedly stroked the softened edges of the pin on her chest.

If you fight alone, you’ll always lose.

I f you don’t fight together, you’ve already lost.

Hermione was thankful that the cameras streaming the Games, the ones she knew were hidden throughout the arena and focused on her at every given moment, couldn’t see into the workings of her mind. The power of allies could destroy the Games.

As the woods around her evolved, her feet carried her up a hidden cliffside. It took her from a low valley to a high point clearing. She was no battle strategist, but any good hunter knew that observing and attacking from higher ground was always more favourable. From there, she could also see anyone who approached without dissolution.

She had been flanked by unease for hours, but it had truthfully been more like days. The woods stretched out before her for endless miles. She was high above the ground and the grandness of the arena before her didn’t even seem real. It was hard to believe it was an arena at all.

Hermione picked her tree carefully. Though she was confident she could build a strong shelter on the ground, one that could be hidden, she also knew it was a risk. There was no telling what tricks the Games-makers wove into the arena and something hidden by magic one moment, could easily be revealed the next. The safest bet was to find cover in something that couldn’t be manipulated—the natural cover of branches, leaves, and trees.

Twilight had started to fall when she finally settled on her choice of a beech tree. It wasn’t the tallest available but the low-hanging curtain of leaves provided exceptional coverage. She slumped down next to it, the hours-long trek finally catching up to her. While it was still light outside, she decided to go through the bag she had grabbed in the Cornucopia.

She tugged back the flap and readied herself for disappointment. She pulled one item out after another, laying them before her, and cataloging each. A sleeping bag, a pack of jerky, an ounce of what looked like blood replenishing potion, a baseball hat, and a bottle. At first glance, she thought the bottle was empty, but quickly realized she may have hit a stroke of luck. It had water in it.

In an instant, she became aware of how dry the inside of her mouth felt. She unscrewed the cap haphazardly and took a large gulp. It felt like liquid gold running down her throat. Then she opened the bag of jerky and pulled at a piece with her mouth. It was difficult to chew, especially after the week of the food she had at the training grounds, but it was better than nothing. She ate one piece and then another. She had had her fair share of escapades in the District 12 forest to know how to survive on limited food. She hoped it would be enough to hold her over until at least the next day.

She knew that some tributes would be hunting through the night. Few had probably been lucky enough to find any edible resources, and those who had would be full of energy. Unlike her, she figured almost all would have weapons they were itching to use.

She only hoped she had moved far enough from the Cornucopia to not get caught in their cross-fire, or worse yet, hunted deliberately. She packed up all the materials back into her bag and climbed up the tree.

It was late evening, after she had settled on a sturdy branch and secured her sleeping bag with both magic and a belt around her, when the anthem of Regnum began to play. The announcements of the fallen would follow shortly after.

The opening day always drew the most casualties. It was considered a luxury to be where she was, just listening, instead of being one of the faces projected in the sky. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the announcement above her. She paused to watch.

The Pure Capitol symbol, the one of President Riddle’s movement, projected in the sky. In a greenish smoke, a skull appeared and a serpent slowly slithered out of its mouth. It was the same symbol the Head games-maker had etched into his arm.

As the symbol faded, the first tribute’s face appeared. A girl from District 2, whom Hermione faintly remembered was named Lavender. Following her, a boy from District 4 she didn’t recognize.

Two Career tributes gone on the first day was unusual. They typically all made it through the initial bloodbath, but 2 out of 6 were already dead.

Their faces were followed quickly by both tributes from District 5, the boy from 6, and the girl from 7. Hermione’s heart quickened in anticipation of seeing Harry’s face in the sky, however, the girl from 7 was followed by the boy from 8, which meant he had made it out of his earlier scuffle alive. Cormac’s face too hadn’t been projected so neither had killed the other.

Both tributes from 9 were projected in the sky and at the next face, her heart fell. A sudden flash of a memory whirled through her mind: a boulder in the distance, a body, and blood under her shoes. The body she had jumped over in the clearing while escaping Pansy, she could see its face now. She knew who he was even then, but her Occlumency walls had stopped her from realizing it.

The boy’s face in the sky was from District 11.

Blaise.

After his face, the projection faded into darkness to a somber melody. The only sound left was that of the bristling trees around her.

She cataloged the fallen to work out who was left: two careers, both from five and nine, the girl from seven, the boys from six and eight, and Blaise from eleven. Ten tributes total, almost half gone in one day. Four Careers, Harry, Malfoy, and her remaining. A handful of others that she couldn’t remember the names or faces of but knew she could figure out.

Nestled on the large branch, the darkness slowly started to envelop her. Hermione knew it was a risk to sleep, but she also knew she needed it.

With her back positioned against the tree trunk, legs stretched out before her on the branch, her eyes closed once. They stayed closed for only a moment before they flashed open again, not trusting the stillness that had settled around her. She tried to keep her gaze out onto the horizon but with only the light from the stars for visibility, the darkness blurred her vision.

Hermione’s lids fluttered closed again, and though she tried to battle it, sleep consumed her quickly after. The last coherent thought she had before she fell into slumber was how she could trick a blonde-headed tribute into giving up a weapon. She had a flash of a vision in which she held a knife flush to his throat, but it dissipated as fast as it came to her.

The sound of a snapping branch awakened her sometime later. Her eyes shot open and were immediately blinded by the rays of the rising sun through the blanket of trees around her.

A branch snapped below her again, followed by a scuffle of dirt under scurried feet.

Feet.

Whatever it was, there was more than one. The smell of rotten fish filled the air.

Hermione placed her hand on her wand, stashed safely away in the pocket of her pants. Her movements shook the branch slightly and the sound of feet underneath her multiplied.

But the sound brought a swift realization to her. There were no voices of people, and the steps didn’t sound human either. Suddenly, she heard a small phut sound before a spark ignited and a bush some distance away from her tree caught fire.

The creatures scurried in masses, almost blindly, to the blaring light. From her spot, she immediately grasped what she was dealing with.

Blast-ended skrewts.

The creatures had stingers and shiny armor plates over their backs. They looked like a mix between crabs and scorpions, almost three feet in length, and there must have been at least a dozen of them below her.

They were considerably tricky creatures to deal with, made even worse by the protective plate on their backs. Because of it, they had only one spot that could kill them with a wand: their underside. The rest of their armour deflected spells, and unfortunately for Hermione, she only had a wand.

She was, to put it lightly, royally screwed.

From her vantage point, no spell could reach their vulnerable underside. But climbing down the tree to get a better aim was a death wish. She would be swarmed and stung in moments, dying painfully and slowly under their slimy legs and pointy stingers.

Draco had ruined it for her in more ways than one. The bow and arrow could be her lifeline. But her future at the moment didn’t paint a pretty picture.

Skrewts were not known to forget a target once they spotted it. She could try to wait out their focus, but they would sooner light the tree on fire or climb it than leave. She had no way out.

Hermione’s heart raced in her chest, beating so hard she felt the branch underneath her shake. She stood on wobbly legs, grabbing onto the branch above her, and stepped away from the trunk. She walked along the edge of it and the sway of leaves caught the attention of the skrewts below, who quickly came tumbling towards her again. She tip-toed along and saw no viable option.

She was as good as dead.

Turning to face the trunk again, she started to walk her way back, willing her mind to come up with something, anything. She thought back to her care of magical creatures classes at school and pulled spindles of memories to the forefront of her brain.

There were the obvious characteristics of the skrewts that she knew and could of course see. The biggest challenge was that they could deflect her magic. But, she also remembered her professors talking about the exceptions.

Magic was interesting that way. Even the strongest and darkest of it could be permeable. There was always an exception to the rule. She just had to figure out which one the skrewts had.

The pages of her mind flipped quickly through options and she started to fire off spells to test and confirm her ideas. She knew it might draw attention from passerby tributes, but she was a girl without a choice.

She shot off a Confringo and it bounced off the side of a shell.

She followed with an Expulso but that didn’t work either.

In quick succession, she fired spell after spell—Bombarda, Reducto, Deprimo, but each bounced off and vanished into nothing.

Her eyes snapped down to the ground where a particularly aggressive skrewt had started to try and climb the tree, the spells attracting its attention.

Crippling fear coursed through her body and she momentarily considered an unforgivable out of desperation, but quickly squashed that thought away. A killing curse would be her last choice, but even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. The arena barred the use of unforgivables.

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath in, eyes locking onto her targets on the out-breath.

Think, Hermione, think.

What’s the strongest spell you know?

There were several.

What spell permeates all else?

Also a few.

She gulped through the knot in her throat, the pieces starting to fall together.

What spell did you vow to never use?

There was only one.

The skrewt that had been climbing towards her toppled over and another quickly used its body as leverage to get higher. The creatures were more resourceful than she had given them credit for, and they were coming for her fast.

Fiendfyre.

One of the most dangerous and powerful spells known to magical kind.

As she whispered the word in her mind, the knot in her throat spread to her whole chest. It was the spell that had changed her life. She swore never to cast it as long as she lived.

Never say never, her voice of reason grumbled. It was in Moody’s typical tone and she hated it. You’ll have to if you want to live now.

She had read everything she could about fiendfyre when her parents were killed. She took out every restricted book, scoured every unregulated source, and researched every last word on it. The spell was uncommon, unpalatable, and unendurable. She knew enough to know that she really knew nothing at all.

But that didn’t mean she was without her own theories. It was why she had landed on just one to explain her parent’s death. Unlike what most believed, the spell could very much be controlled, and though she had never tested the theory herself, she thought she had a pretty good idea as to how.

The skrewts’ approach had become relentless, bodies toppling over one another in a large pile, and they had reached just a few meters away from where she stood on the branch.

Her heart ached at the thought of having to perform the spell. She could still remember the feeling of her own magical core flailing, something she was certain happened the moment her parents perished in the midst of it. It was the most terrible feeling in the world.

Fiendfyre was the darkest spell she had ever known. To her, it was darker than any unforgivable, because it had taken the one thing from her life that was irreplaceable. It also wasn’t quick or painless. It dragged out death to unfathomable depths.

Hermione would go against everything she believed, everything she had learned and stood for if she muttered the incantation. She could never take it back after that.

It felt hypocritical and wrong. The thought of the words coming out of her mouth brought rising bile up her throat.

But she had to do it. It was a matter of life or death.

She had no other choice.

She looked up towards the sky and hoped they could forgive her.

The Incendio curled off her tongue and shot out into the distance, quickly catching the attention of the skrewts below. They scurried towards the fiery bush the spell left behind and easily cleared the grounds below her tree.

Hermione climbed down the trunk and planted her feet to the ground firmly. She lifted her wand and pointed it in the direction of the flock.

She let the thought of her parents, the smiling face of her mother, and the laughing grin of her father, anchor her spell-work.

One reluctant heartbeat at a time, she whispered the fiendfyre incantation in her mind and simultaneously muttered another under her breath. “Protego Diabolica.”

The spell flowed out from her wand like mercury and formed a slow-rising ring from the ground around her. She steadied the cast from her shaking hand with the support of the other and watched in awe as bright blue flames danced up from the earth.

The skrewts came quickly at the sight. When the first crossed the fiery ring, it instantly started to burn. A loud wailing sound filled the space around her as the legs of the skrewt incinerated and crumbled to dust. Once the underbelly was burnt, the protective shell engulfed in flames, melting into liquid, and seeping into the dirt.

Hermione stood at the center of the ring, tears rolling down her face. She willed her mind to focus but her Occlumency walls stood strong, anchored by the faces of her loved ones in her mind.

The fire continued to burn, and to her utter relief, remained contained within the ring. It meant there were no other enemies near her surroundings for the flames to go after. She gritted her teeth and pushed the force of her magical core into the spell.

The skrewts continued to go after her, and one by one entered the ring of blue fire and collapsed. They burned and melted to varying degrees and the smell of rotten fish that they carried with them filled the air with a revolting stench. But she stood, and she cast, and the fire continued to pour out of the tip of her wand.

They died quickly and soon the only thing that surrounded her was the heat of the flames. As carefully as she could, Hermione willed her mind to ease back the spell. An abrupt end to fiendfyre was the most dangerous kind.

The dancing flames receded to a simmer before just the thinnest wisp was leaving her wand. The wisp seeped into the ground and heated the earth beneath her feet. Eventually, the heat dissipated and the spell seized. Her wand fell from her hand at the instant relief.

But with it came sorrow. She collapsed to her knees, surrounded by the ring of charred remains, and began to sob.

Chapter Text

The smoke had settled and the stench had cleared by the time Hermione could breathe again. At some point, she had silenced and disillusioned the space within the ring, but she didn’t know when or how. 

The come down from the spell hit her harder than she would have hoped. She was riddled with guilt, disgust, and most noticeably, pain. Her magical core, the most important link that remained to her parents, had not just flailed. When the spell seized, it had nearly combusted inside her. She had felt pieces of it tear away and fill her veins with darkness, heavy and foreboding in her heart.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. No spell should ever have been so powerful.

Fiendfyre was responsible for death as much as it was for life now. Her life. It was a juxtaposition she couldn’t wrap her mind around, nor wanted to. It disgusted her, like being a traitor to her own blood and being.

My parents were supposed to be alive.

I should have been dead.

The sun had nearly risen to its full height by the time she made it to her feet. Every bone in her body ached. Every fibre of her magical being squirmed beneath the topmost layer of her skin.

She stood in the center of the ring, ash billowing around her as the wind lifted particles and swept them away. Her beech tree to the right of her, another to the left, and the bush she set on fire straight ahead. Her initial spell had left a burn mark, a straight line through the ground, from where she stood to the shrubbery she burned.

Seeing it all was chaos and pain and an unsavoury reminder of her brush with death. Hermione wanted nothing to do with it for even a moment longer.

Hastily climbing up her tree, she unfastened her sleeping bag and rucksack from the branches. She stuffed her belongings into the bag haphazardly and swung it onto her back.

The forest around her was eerily quiet. She knew the cameras were whirring in hidden spaces around her and wondered how they had portrayed her magical outburst. Had she come across as deranged on television? Would anyone across Regnum understand why?

Did she even care?

With all the strength she could muster, she pulled her Occlumency walls forward. They had held strong when she needed them most and then collapsed like a dam when her body did. She needed them now more than ever.

Her mind settled on one thing. She never wanted to find herself in a situation where she only had magic again.

She needed a weapon. She needed her weapon. There was likely only one person who could have it, and she was ready to do anything to pry it from his hands.

The sing-song of birds filled the air. Hermione turned her back to the grounds, and let her body carry her in the direction that felt right. Slowly, step after step, she left the confines of the space around the tree, all the damage she had done untouched, and disappeared into the depths of the forest.

She moved steadily for the next few hours, pushing tree branches and leaves from her way while keeping an eye out for any disturbances around her path. She snacked on jerky and drank hesitantly from her bottle of water, conscious of the fact that she didn’t know if and when she would come across a fresh stream. She had decided to take an unbeaten path, assuming it would be the safest choice to stay out of sight and away from the other tributes.

The sun beat down on her head and back as it shined down from above. The heat and stickiness it left in its wake seemed too real to have been magically created for the arena. It felt like the sun on any day in District 12: bright and high, heat stifling and real. 

The cover of leaves was her only relief from that heat. It had only been a few minutes into her hike that she had pulled off her jacket and stuffed it into her bag, having already extended it with an undetectable charm. The bandage wrapped around her arm had slicked off with her sweat. She had yanked the material off and stashed it in her pocket, relishing the small token that reminded her of someone that was on her side.

Fleur had taken great care of the damage the tracker had left. Hermione slowed her trek to gape at the eye staring back at her from her arm, and for a moment, thought she saw the pupil of it dilate. But when she focused her stare on it, the marking remained still. She shook off the uneasy feeling, writing it off as a hallucination from the heat, and keep moving. She vowed not to look directly at it if she could help herself.

Sweat collected at the nape of her neck, fly-away hairs sticking to her cheeks and forehead as she brushed them back from her eyes with her equally damp forearm. She trekked through the woods for hours in utter silence. No other footsteps, no voices, and certainly no cannons. It was as if a hush had settled over the forest after the commotion of the earlier day.

The sun started moving past its peak in the sky when she came across a collection of bushes that looked out of place. There wasn’t any particular reason that they caught her eye, except for the fact that they looked almost too conveniently placed in obstruction of her path.

Hermione approached them slowly, lifting the wand in her hand to run a diagnostic spell over the space. The closer she came to the bushes, the more they looked like they were a glamour. As if a ruse to cover up a space someone didn’t want others to find.

Moody’s unpleasant tone shifted through her head.

This is not a good idea.

Her voice of reason, yet again.

She knew in her gut that it might be right. But if she was anything, she was brave, sometimes almost at a detriment to herself. And she knew what she had her sights set on: the bow and arrow. She had assumed from the get-go that there was a chance she would have to put herself in harm's way to get what she needed.

She stood before the glamoured shrub, ready to do what she wanted, what she needed, but an inkling of hesitation settled within her.

What would she find behind it?

What if it was a trap?

Would it be worth her life to try and find out?

Wand still at the ready, she ran the fingers of her free hand over the glamour and watched it shimmer beneath her touch. It was an excellent glamour, and she doubted many other witches and wizards could have even spotted it. Whoever had placed it there knew what they were doing, and certainly didn’t want to be found.

If she had any money she would place it on Malfoy.

Her heart floundered at the possibility of having the bow and arrow in her possession. Would she catch him off guard? She hoped she would. But maybe he would catch her. Flying stars might come her way before she could even think of a defensive spell.

It was a risk she knew she had to take.

She took a cautionary step back, holding her breath as she pointed her wand at the glamour and watched it flicker, initially resisting her magic. She held strong to her spell and after a few moments watched the magic give away. As it slowly started to peel back, she noticed the adjacent shrubs to it shimmer as well.

The more the glamour peeled back, the more clear the rest of the pattern of wards became. It looked deliberate, as the shrubs seemed to form a circle from the point she had disturbed. It looked to span past her view deep into the bushes and ended somewhere far beyond her reach.

It was an incredible piece of magic.

A part of her started to doubt that Malfoy was behind it. He seemed too brazen to be responsible for such a meticulous charm.

The glamour that peeled away was at eye level and barely large enough to fit her head through. She took a step forward and peered into the space it concealed.

To say she was surprised at what, and who, she saw would be an understatement.

The glamour allowed her a view into a large and open plain. The grass inside of it looked brighter than anything she had seen in the forest. There was a single large tree at the perimeter of the space.

Next to it stood a muggle-built shelter, put together from scraps of branches and tree bark. A ragged canopy hung overtop as a makeshift roof. It was small and compact, and reasonably practical, though she figured it was likely magically expanded within.

Before the shelter lay a makeshift cot, occupied by a blonde head of hair. Glaringly blond, so white it nearly blinded her against the sun's rays. But it was not the blonde she was looking for.

The girl from District 11, Luna, lay atop the cot with a heavily bandaged left leg. Blood that looked to still be fresh was seeping through the wrap. Despite the injury, the girl looked at ease, one hand behind her head and the other hanging down to the ground, bangles and rings all over, fingers running softly through the grass. She had a compress on her head and a smile plastered to her face.

Huddled next to her, on his hands and knees, tinkering with some sort of salve, was the boy from District 7.

Harry.

He looked towards Luna, eyes bright, and said something to her softly. Her face lit up at his voice and she fell into a fit of laughter. Harry smiled at her and shifted his body to look at the bandage on her leg.

Hermione stood, partially shrouded by the other bushes, and willed her jaw to stay closed. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing, and a dozen thoughts ran through her mind at once.

Harry, the boy who had gotten the highest showcase score, who she had personally considered the person to watch out for, sat in her view and fiddled with a bottle of antiseptic. He looked at Luna with worry and fear in his eyes and tried to hide it with a well-placed joke. Luna looked back at him as if he was her hero.

It was one of the most peculiar things Hermione had ever seen. Her heart both filled and shattered at the sight.

She couldn’t find it in her to look away from the scene playing out before her.

She remained planted to her spot as she watched Harry remove a ring from his finger and pull the soaked bandage off of Luna’s leg. He positioned his wand at the wound and though she couldn’t hear what spell he muttered, she could do little else but watch as he tried to heal the girl before him.

The moment felt like a movie until it slowed in motion. Harry fumbled with a new bandage before it slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He bent his head down to pick it up, shifting his gaze from Luna. His hand wrapped around it and when he lifted his head back up, he froze.

Goosebumps flushed Hermione’s body at the sensation of being watched.

Harry had spotted her.

They locked eyes and for a moment, neither did anything but stare at the other. Then his eyes flashed to her chest, likely at her empty wand holster, and quickly down to where her hand was, which he couldn’t see through the opening in the ward.

When she remained frozen, a vein on his forehead pulsed. He hastily slid his hands beneath Luna and lifted her into his arms without strain. He caught Hermione’s eye for another split second before he and the girl in his arms vanished before her sight.

The camp remained undisturbed, a gust of wind blowing through and lifting the canopy roof, before it settled into silence.

There was no longer anyone there to see. 

Hermione realized that she had held her breath the whole time watching the two of them. She stood before the disturbed glamour and willed her body to move, but it remained frozen. The moments prior played through her mind like a scene on a loop, over and over and over again.

Body numb, her hand found the pin on her chest. She stroked the edges of the metal absent-mindedly and couldn’t help but think about the words she had uttered in her mind just the day before.

Allies could destroy the Games.

When she considered that, she never thought the partnership that the Careers had to be an allyship. Their groupings were a matter of convenience; to hold strong until the weak fell and then turn on each other.

A true ally would take a struggle on as their own and would share the fruits of their labour when it was needed. A true ally was hard to find.

Harry, arguably the strongest tribute in the batch if his score was any tell, looked like he had done nothing to further his own prosperity. If Hermione had known any better, she would have said he even seemed to be putting his own interests on the line to care for an injured peer.

Not an injured enemy, one he planned to kill when everything was said and done, but a peer. Possibly even a friend.

An ally.

She didn’t know where he had gone with Luna but the state of their camp looked like they had planned to stay. She stepped back from the opening she had created and positioned her wand back to it.

No thoughts passed through her mind as she conjured the spell to cover the hole she had made. The magic shimmered under her hand as the glamour stitched itself back to the original pattern. When it closed, it pulsed once, twice, and then settled comfortably into its spot.

Hermione passed her hand over it to confirm it performed as it did before and it gave nothing away. It was as if she had never even been there. Satisfied, she stepped back from the shrub and started to move from it, pushing through the branches to find an alternate path.

Before she was completely out of sight, Hermione glanced back at the patched spot, the one she could no longer see but knew was there, somewhere beyond the trees. Her heart stammered in her chest at what she had done, at what she had witnessed, at what she had learned. It felt sacred to know what she knew now, and she would hold it close. Every part of her felt like that was the right thing to do. And above all, she wanted to. She wanted to preserve what she could amidst the impending. In utter spite of the warzone they were all in.

As she turned her back to continue her trek, she could only hope that she had done enough to cover her tracks.

She had walked for roughly a mile when she spotted smoke rising high in a plume above the trees in the distance. Her heart stammered in her chest at the sight. First because of the memory of her own fire from the morning, and more importantly, because it was a sign of another tribute.

Whoever the fire starter was, was a fool. Magical fire didn’t leave evidence of smoke the same way that muggle fire did. And the plume she saw was definitely of the muggle kind. The smell of hickory wood in the air confirmed it.

She quietly disillusioned herself, knowing that the closer she got to the fire starter, the more risk she faced. Whoever the tribute was had just broadcast their location to everyone, and at her proximity, she was already too close to be safe.

She had walked only a few more steps, taking caution as the billow of smoke poured into the sky, when she heard the trickle of water. She paused to listen to it.

Somewhere there was a stream, and it carried running water. Part of her knew it could have been an illusion, a plant by the Games-makers to get into the tributes’ heads. But she heard the laps of moving waves and their splashes against rocks, and it sounded too much like the real thing to be a figment of her imagination.

Her parched mouth was something she suddenly became acutely aware of. Her water had nearly run dry and she needed to replenish it if she wasn’t going to survive. Maybe just long enough to be killed by something else, but survive for the time being nonetheless.

She would follow the sound of the stream and find it if it was the last thing she did. And if it could get her away from the plume of smoke, it would be all the better. 

Still disillusioned, hidden amongst the wild shrubs off the main path, she was overcome with a new sound: that of feet, breaking into a run.

Hermione froze.

There were several feet, and unlike the snapping of branches in the morning that quickly gave away that the occupants weren’t human, she was certain these were. Her heart beat violently in her chest as a sombre realization settled in her gut—that the feet were moving in her direction.

“Over here!” a voice called out.

She sank into the bushes, hoping whatever movement she might have caused went unnoticed. As the running feet neared closer, her heart beat faster. She held as still as she could, branches poking into the side of her face and leaves tickling her exposed skin, but still, she stood like a statue. The only movement of her body was the rise and fall of her chest as she desperately tried to get air into her lungs as quietly as she could.

A pack of feet whizzed past her, stampeding like horses on the loose, and she counted two sets. She didn’t see who they were through the bushes as they raced by but moments later another set of footsteps drew closer from the same direction. The second set of feet slowed their run and she could see them waver nearby from where she hid, not following the path of where the first two went. Another two sets, another two people.

Four tributes total.

She quickly realized who she was dealing with. If she had to guess, the Careers from Districts 1, 2, and 4. As she had expected, they'd banded together.

They did every year, but what they had was always the furthest thing from being allies. They were a pack of wolves in sheep’s clothing. When tensions got too high, they would swiftly turn on each other.

The steps from the first set of running feet echoed against the trees for a few moments longer before they too came to an abrupt stop.

The two tributes who didn’t follow, standing 20 feet away from where she hid, stood still.

The forest around them was silent.

Suddenly, an agonized scream filled the air. It was followed swiftly by the sound of banging, like a hammer to the cold hard ground.

“Fuck!” one of the tributes near her spat. A female voice, high-pitched and angry. Hermione heard her and the person with her start to pace, seeing the shift of their two bodies crisscrossing each other through small openings in the leaves.

The loud banging continued. Between emphasized pounds, she heard the faint sound of pleading. A begging voice from the same direction, muffled and strained.

She realized the sound wasn’t of the ground being hit.

It was of a person.

A girl likely, being bludgeoned.

The pounding continued, hit, after hit, after hit.

It was almost more unsettling not seeing it happen, but being able to hear every brutal point of contact. Knowing that every second that passed meant the person was closer to death.

Her fists were clenched at her sides as nausea settled in her core. The two tributes kept pacing, muttering to themselves but not loud enough for her to hear.

Eventually, the person stopped pleading. The pounding seized. Silence plagued the space around her again.

And then was filled by the dreaded sound of a canon.

A rambunctious cheer broke out in the distance and was followed by a chorus of laughter. The pacing tributes stopped. Hermione felt a trickle of sweat roll down her forehead, narrowly missing her eye. Her jaw ached from clenching, and her whole body felt rigid with the stillness she found herself forced to maintain.

Any rash movement and her life would be the next they claimed. 

Two sets of footsteps drew closer to where the other tributes stood before there were four people in her line of sight, but barely. Their wands were lit with faint light and one carried a large lantern. She could hear better than she could see them, only spotting a few details through the breaks in the branches.

A head of black hair, a tall form, likely male, another, and the fourth she couldn't quite discern.

“Cormac,” the same angry female voice as before hissed. “Watch where you’re fucking going. You got blood all over me.”

The knot in Hermione’s stomach twisted at the name.

Cormac.

The same tribute who had fought Harry at the Cornucopia.

Blood. Covered in blood.

“Parkinson,” a male voice spat, who Hermione immediately presumed was him. “Stay out of my fucking way and maybe I won’t have to get blood on you.”

Pansy.

The tribute from District 1 who had flung an axe at her head in the Cornucopia. Hermione’s heart beat violently in her chest, so hard she could feel it up her throat and in the back of her head.

“You didn’t have to make such a mess!” she shrieked. “What was the point of this anyway?”

“The point?” Cormac yelled, footsteps stomping as if he was barreling toward her. “Did you forget where the fuck we are? We’re in the bloody Hunger Games! The goal is to kill.”

“Must you have been so violent?” Her voice was filled with venom, raw and unhinged, solely directed at him.

Hermione couldn’t see anything but partial shots of their bodies, all four tributes circled around each other. But she didn’t have to see anything to hear the spite in Cormac’s voice when he responded.

“I didn’t do the killing,” he paused, the sneer evident as he spoke. “Milicent did. I just held the girl down.”

A voice cackled, female, and Hermione deduced it was Milicent, relishing in the joy of what she had done.

Milicent was a Career as well. That of District 4. 

The knot in her stomach twisted further. The bitter silence amongst the group rolled in like a fog and slashed through every one of her senses.

Somebody cleared their throat.

“Gather around,” Cormac huffed. “I’ll show you how we get to Potter.”

Potter.

Potter as in—oh god. 

Harry.

Hermione tried to swallow the frog-sized lump in her throat but couldn’t. Cormac had just been an active participant in killing a tribute and he was already prepared to move on to another. 

“Since we fought, I have his blood—“

“He fought you,” Pansy interrupted. “He beat your sorry ass to a pulp.”

“That—is—besides—the—point,” he hissed. “I have his blood. That's all that fucking matters since I also happen to have a potion to bring us right to him when I add said blood to it.”

If Hermione could have gasped, she would have. She didn’t even know a potion like that existed. It was most likely experimental and something from Pure Capitol. No doubt dark and not sold on the public market.

“Nobody is following you anywhere until you prove it,” a different male voice said. Hermione guessed that was the voice of whoever had stayed back from the attack. Based on her understanding of their group dynamic, whoever had been with Pansy.

There was a moment of quiet amongst the pack before she saw Cormac appear between the branches and push his chin into the speaker's face. “Warrington, I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Back off!” Pansy shoved Cormac, her fists landing on his chest.

Hermione vaguely remembered the name, Warrington.

Cassius Warrington, of District 1.

Pansy’s District mate, and she was almost certain now that it was the person that had stayed back with her. 

Cormac scoffed. “Didn’t know you needed your little girlfriend to be your bodyguard, Cass.”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Pansy spat. “You’re just a prick.”

Hermione itched to see what was going on in full view. None of them had seemed to notice her but she wished she could have been in a better position, at least watching from a safer spot above.

Cormac muttered something under his breath and then the sound of fumbling and rummaging filled the air as if he had his hand inside a backpack. It lasted a few seconds before he plopped down on the ground crossed-legged. He placed a vial before him and pulled his shirt off.

At his low angle, Hermione had the perfect vantage point of him. The rest of the pack held their wands lit above his head, illuminating his makeshift workspace.

Bare-chested, he placed his wand on the edge of the shirt fabric and sliced through it carefully, isolating a piece that was no larger than a sickle. He held it up to the light and looked at it carefully before a greedy self-satisfied smirk pulled at his face.

He unscrewed the vial cap and dropped the scrap of fabric inside it. Amidst the shading light, she could see the vial sizzle as the fabric melted inside it and released a small trail of smoke. Cormac watched it for a moment before he looked up at the pack and smiled.

“Okay, now what?” Pansy probed loudly.

“Now,” Cormac said, pulling at his words. “I drink it.”

“That's disgusting.”

“But effective,” he added. He eyed the mixture with furrowed brows before he placed it at his lips and threw his head back. He immediately recoiled at the taste and looked like he might chuck it back up, but the moment quickly passed and he rose to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Cormac called out. 

“To kill Potter,” he barked back. “The potion will lead the way.”

His steps descended away from the other three tributes until Hermione could no longer hear them. Somebody raced after him and based on the conversation she had overheard, the scraps of understanding she had formed of their dynamic, she assumed it was Millicent. Pansy and Cassius on the other hand seemed to hesitate. She saw nothing but their feet and faces, something on their hands twinkling against the light of their wands as they whispered to each other with stern looks on their faces.

Eventually, they turned towards the path the other two Careers went down and followed.

Hermione waited until they were out of earshot before she exhaled a shaky breath of air. She hesitated for several long seconds before she allowed her muscles to ease and move from her spot in the bushes.

And then the prior moment hit her like a ton of bricks.

They were going after Harry.

She wasn’t sure if it was still a bluff or how the potion worked, but Cormac had made his intentions clear. Harry was his next target.

Maybe he always was, and the tribute they took out was just convenient. But in any case, they were already on their way to him.

A part of her almost didn’t fault the Careers. Harry was the highest-scoring tribute from the showcase, and she was sure that others had noticed his potential. She surely had. He should have been everyone's top target.

He was a complete stranger to her and for a moment, sh wondered if it would be the worst thing to have him out of the way.

It definitely wouldn't hurt.

It would be one less tribute against her, two if she counted Luna, who she was sure they could get if they managed to get to him.

The passing thought left her horrified.

Had the Games already gotten to her so quickly? She had just seen Harry, and though he could have attacked her, he hadn’t. He had every opportunity to kill her on sight, but he had gathered another tribute, one he was clearly taking care of, and just eased away.

There was no attack. No provocation. And she was still alive.

He could have killed her and he didn’t.

The Careers could kill him, but she had the power to stop it.

She still didn’t understand why he hadn’t gone after her, but what mattered was that he didn’t.

At the very least, they could be even.

A life for a life.

It would be a far cry from being an ally, but once the thought was realized in her mind, she knew there was no turning back. She had the power to do something about it, and if she could, she would.

At the worst, maybe it would score her some points with the sponsors.

It didn’t matter if not saying anything would make her path in the long run simpler. It didn’t matter if they succumbed to reasons that weren't her own. But at that moment, if she didn’t try to do something to warn him, she would never let herself live it down.

Hermione's hand shook knowing what was to come next. There was no way she would make it to Harry in person to warn him, and frankly, she wasn’t so foolish to want to be there when he got attacked.

There was only one thing she could do, and though it technically wasn’t difficult, it was complex for other reasons. There was so little good left in her life that conjuring the right memory would be a challenge.

She allowed herself just a moment to think before she settled on the vision she needed. She tethered her magical core to the thought and focused her willpower into the tip of her wand. The words that left her were in the quietest whisper she had ever spoken. 

“Expecto Patronum.”

The silver-blue wisp spilled out to form her Patronus, the creature flapping its wings in greeting around her head.

She hoped she was doing the right thing.

She hoped he would understand.

“The Careers have your blood," she whispered to the creature. "They know where you are,” a breathless pause. “They are coming.*”

The bird nodded without a second's hesitation and soared valiantly into the air, picking up speed as it flew away from her. She watched it recede, watched it grow smaller in the sky, until it was nothing but a speck of silver light in the distance.

Nightime had long ago fallen. In a blink, the bird disappeared into the darkness. 

And just like that, Hermione was alone. 

Chapter Text

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was seconds or minutes later that she heard a piercing scream. It came from the direction in which the Careers had gone and her stomach immediately dropped.

The sound cut off abruptly and was followed by stark silence. There was only a brief moment before it filled the air again, ragged and pained.

Her feet started to move, fast. Not towards the danger, but away, as far away as she could take herself. She broke into a run and didn’t look back.

Not knowing who the scream belonged to was the worst part. It was as if the voice was being amplified through the grounds the same way the canons were. She knew her Patronus might not have made it in time. She knew it could have been Harry or Luna.

She hoped she was wrong.

Her feet carried her away from where she hid from the Careers and towards the sound of the water. She ran past the spot where the tribute was killed just as her body was being lifted into the air by snatchers.

Though it was dark, the light from the snatcher wands illuminated the tribute's body and face. Dark blonde hair hung below her as she floated into the air. But that was the only discerning feature Hermione could see. Her face was otherwise unrecognizable; brutally deformed and bloody. A smashed baseball bat floated alongside her, the weapon, no doubt. 

Hermione swallowed the bile that crawled up her throat at the sight. The Careers weren’t just cold-blooded; they were heartless. Inhumane and vile.

They deserved the same torture and pain as they had inflicted.

At the grave sight of the girl, she started to run faster, faster than ever before. An early night breeze filtered through the trees and her hair billowed behind her as she held her wand up with a Lumos to light the path beneath her feet.

The same scream sounded again, causing her to flinch. It felt as though it was following her. The sound cut off abruptly in what sounded like a strangled gargle.

There were a few seconds of silence where the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears and the scruffs of her feet against the dirt before a canon went off in the distance.

It was entirely possible the canon didn’t belong to Harry, or inadvertently Luna, but the chances were also stacked against them. Tears started to form in the corners of her eyes because she didn’t know if she had done enough. A cruel part of her was certain that she hadn’t—that she had failed them. 

Seeing how the lone girl tribute was killed, practically tortured, filled her with rage, but even more so, fear. She knew that if the Careers had found Harry, his and Luna’s death would have been imminent.

She couldn’t blame herself. She knew she shouldn't. But the single canon had meant there was death. 

At least for one of them. 

The tears that had started as a trickle were now running down her cheeks and soaking through the neck of her shirt. She couldn’t blame herself, but she did. She had likely hesitated too long, and the Patronus hadn’t been fast enough. She felt their blood stain her soul as if they had died at her own ruthless hands.

Hermione ran until she felt like she couldn’t run any longer, willing her Occlumency wall to hold up.

Just a little longer until I can find safety.

Her mouth was painfully dry and she ached to fill it with water. Nearly 8 hours had passed since her bottle had run dry, and she had been under the sun, and had strained her body and mind — especially so, now. She was desperate for a drink. 

Moving through the forest, her pace was frenzied, as if someone was chasing her despite the fact that she knew that nobody was. It was the same phantom feeling she felt coming up from the cellar at The Burrow. If she kept running, if she didn't look back, the darkness might not catch her.

The further she ran, the closer she thought she could hear the river grow too.

As she neared the edge of a valley, a flicker of light caught her eye. It was moonlight mirroring off of something reflective. 

Hermione had found the river.

She slowed her pace and dimmed the Lumos on her wand. She could hear the running water clearly, as it lapped up the edge of the bank and splashed into the air. A cold drizzle splattered across her face when the wind blew.

She could collapse from happiness at the sensation.

But she knew she wasn’t out of danger yet. Any one of the other tributes could be at the riverbed at the same time as her. And she still didn’t have a legitimate weapon, so caution now was better than death later.

She stopped abruptly in her tracks as she reached the edge of the forest before the bank. The river shined brightly against the light of the moon and looked like a stream of silver. She whispered, "Homenum Revelio"— waiting for the swooping motion over her to indicate another presence.

But it never came.

The spell wasn’t perfect, only covering a close vicinity, but it was enough to ease her nerves for the time being. She was the only one there and she would fill her water quickly and be gone before any tribute neared close enough to get her.

As she stepped out from behind the cover of trees, the ground beneath her changed to tightly packed sand. The bank's slope descended before it was enveloped by the running water.

Hermione pulled her bottle out of her bag and took careful steps toward the stream’s edge. She ran a diagnostic over it with her wand to ensure it was drinkable, and when the tip illuminated green, she dove her bottle in to start collecting.

The sight and confirmation of safe drinking water was the best outcome she could have hoped for at the end of the night she had had. At least there was some positive to be found in the grim. For now, she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on what became of Harry and Luna. The announcement had yet to come over the sky and she didn’t know when it would. It was a known tactic of the Games-makers to stagger them day in and day out if only never to make the tributes feel like they had figured out a pattern to the Games.

The feeling of the cool water against her hand brought relief to her entire body. Though the stream ran strong, it was soft against her skin and wholly refreshing. If she had more time, she wouldn’t hesitate to dunk herself into it.

The bottle continued to fill as the water lapped around her and tickled her skin. Something small slithered past her hand but she paid it no mind, as it could have been one of many things in the water. A leaf, or maybe even a fish. She wasn't dense enough to think that she was the only being or thing finding use in the running stream. 

Her bottle was nearly full when the slithering sensation graced her skin again. The second time felt more alarming than the first, but she shrugged it off as paranoia. It was dark and she didn't plan to stick around to find out what it was. 

Rising to her feet, she pulled her hand out of the bank and screwed the cap back onto the bottle before tossing it into her now dustry bag. The dirt and sand settled onto her wet skin, quickly caking it in a thin hard layer. She stepped back to the river to rinse off before making her way back into the forest.

The water lapped against her skin and she relished in the cool feeling of it enveloping her hand, trying to imprint it into her memory. She would be able to find her way to the river again, but she had no guranatees that the next time would be as peaceful as it was now.

As the dirt washed away, she moved to pull her hands back out and shake off the water. But as she did, something cold and slick suddenly wrapped around her.

The slimy substance slithered up her skin and enclosed around her wrist. The moment it did, she felt it pull at her. Startled, she yanked her arms back, briefly losing her footing on the sand but staying upright. Whatever wrapped around her didn’t budge and instead pierced her skin sharply. She yelped as it punctured her and yanked her arms again, harder, until the strain released.

But not in the way she would have hoped.

She pulled something right out of the water with a splash and as she stumbled back, came face to face with what had grabbed her.

It wasn’t a leaf or a fish or even a piece of seaweed.

It was a Grindylow.

A demon that lived in freshwaters and feasted on witches and wizards. It was the type of creature parents scared their children with when they misbehaved, and for good reason. Grindylows were small but vicious, and though she couldn’t see much of this one in the dark, she knew it was horned and had a mouth full of pointy teeth.

The same teeth that had sunk into her arm.

Long tentacles hung down below the creature in her arms. Its nails dug into the frail skin on the inside of her wrists and she could feel better than she could see the punctures through her tendons and veins.

Hermione tried to pull the creature off of her but its grip on her held strong. Her hands remained in a lock, pressed against one another firmly. The Grindylow opened its mouth, reeking of spoiled garbage, and dove for her arm. She jumped back and threw her hands down, slamming it into the ground with her.

On impact, the Grindylow moaned but still didn’t release its hold on her. She slammed it down to the ground again and it splashed her with specs of slimy skin and guts, but still remained glued to her skin.

She threw her head back and groaned, frustrated because it seemed like she could not catch a break. She slammed the creature down again, then a second time, and then a third in quick succession, and it crunched and snapped against the ground each time. Its small body flailed in the air when she swung her arms down and the slimy tentacles squished under her hands at each impact.

After the third time, the creature went limp. Its guts oozed out of it in chunks and mixed with dark liquid that trailed down its bludgeoned tentacles. Though its grip on her wrists remained tight, she thought she might have had an opening to shake it off and grab for her wand. But that thought passed quicker than it came.

Suddenly, she felt the tug against the creature, and it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t the one responsible. Instead, a small army of heads popped out from the river.

An entire pack of Grindylows surrounded her, having grabbed onto the dead one’s tentacles to pull it back into the water.

One Grindylow, she might have been able to manage. But the sight of a vicious group filled her with dread.

“Accio wand!” she called out. But it remained in its place.

She felt her feet sliding through the damp sand beneath her shoes as they pulled against the creature still locked around her.

“Accio!—Wand!” she tried again, but was again met with silence.

She quickly found herself almost knee-deep in water, with no grip on her feet and no way of stopping the pull.

Hermione scraped at her arms, desperately trying but failing to pull the dead Grindylow off of her. Her feet continued to skid through the slippery river ground as she was dragged further and further into the water.

This is not how this is supposed to end.

This is not how I’m supposed to die!

“Please!” she begged to the empty night sky. “Please! Accio wand!”

She was desperate. Desperate and hopeless.

Her wand remained lodged in its holster, not responding because it was practically in her hand. But not quite. Not close enough to wrap her fingers around and Relashio the creatures away.

Her magic pulsed at the tips of her fingers as the Grindylows started climbing up her form. A tormented scream left her body.

This would be the end of her.

The creatures scraped at her and yanked her hair, wrapping their slimy little fingers around her legs, her torso, and her neck. With her wrists still bound by the dead creature at her hands, she had no way to throw them off, and her panic turned to fear which quickly turned to anguish.

She cried out, too desperate to think about the fact that nobody would be there to help.

Her cry, muffled by spider-like fingers gnashing at her face, was still too loud for her to hear the splash of water.

One pronounced splash.

Then another.

And when the Grindylow attached to her neck fell back and caused the third splash, she finally heard it.

Something small whizzed by her ear. She heard the swish of it as it flew across the river and disappeared into the forest. It left two splashes trailing in its path.

She didn’t know what was happening but slowly, the Grindylows started to fall like dominoes. First the one from her neck, then one that was climbing up her chest, before finally, the weight of the hold on her wrists slackened.

A rogue head floated by her body in the water and she squirmed away from it. Stumbling back, water still splashing along the river stream, she was met with another head. Its beady eyes were still open and its mouth hung agape.

The river around her started to reek with the smell of blood. The creatures were being decapitated and she was in the middle of it all.

She had to get out. Now.

What remained of the Grindylow at her wrists, were just its claws now. She flung her arms apart and the brittle skin exploded violently.

Hands finally free, Hermione grabbed one Grindylow off of her back and hurled it into the air away from her. The sound of the swish came quickly after and she saw moonlight gleam off a small object that sliced its way through the creature before it splashed into the water in two pieces.

She ducked her head and grabbed for her wand. The Grindylows that had been lucky enough to escape decapitation up until that point followed her. She started to shoot spells into the water without a second thought.

Relashio, after relashio, after relashio. It was the only magical spell that could hold them at bay. Not kill them, but annoy them enough to retreat.

Pulling herself up the river bank on her hands and heels, she laid her back as low to the ground as she could while the spells continued to leave her wand. Panting, heart racing in her chest, she was entirely consumed by the flashes of magic and splashing water all around her.

The further she moved away from the river, the more it seemed like the attack from the small objects wasn’t intended for her. Instead, it was hyper-focused on the creatures still in the river.

The splashes accelerated, one after another, two and three at once, and sounded like hail raining down from the sky. She threw her hands over her head and pressed herself flat to the ground, blood mixed with sweat, water, and tears all over her body. Sand filled her mouth, but she waited with bated breath for it all to pass.

Suddenly everything around her stilled.

A gust of wind blew through the trees and leaves rattled on their branches above her. She hesitated for a moment before she slowly lifted her head up, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness around her.

The water lapped up the bank calmly and reflected the bright moon off of it. She couldn’t even count how many bodies, limbs, and heads floated at the top of the river.

It looked like a Grindylow stew.

The air hit Hermione's face and made her feel like she had dunked her whole body in ice. She was alert and instantly aware of everything around her, and she slowly got to her feet to brush the sand off her body. She saw the waves of the water and the bobbing parts in it and heard every detail of the leaves, the wind, and the hoot of an owl in the distance.

As the pace of her breathing calmed, she stood and took in the details around her, looking for any inconsistency, any flash or sign of another life or enemy. Her focus lent well to catching a swish when it sounded and one of the small objects dove out of the water. She ducked her head as it passed and heard it land behind her.

She wasn’t alone.

This wasn’t over yet.

Her heart sputtered again as she whirled towards the forest, wand extended out, ready to shoot out a multitude of curses and hexes. She turned blindly, aiming for wherever the objects had flown to but her wand was stopped in her turn by a solid presence.

She was still standing on the riverbank, no trees for some distance, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust in the dark to see what had stopped her wand.

It was not a what, but a who.

Her wand pressed into the juncture of a neck, right underneath the sharp line of a chin. Hand shaking, she felt the wand tip graze against a patch of short stubble.

She stood face to face with another tribute.

A murmured Accio had another object whirling past her ear and landing directly into the pouch at his hip.

It was a pouch for throwing stars.

She watched his hand reach for it and caress the flap with his fingers before pulling it closed. She pressed her eyes to his face and when his met hers, she filled with rage.

“Normally a damsel in distress thanks her knight in shining armour,” he drawled.

She caught the faint rise of his dark brow before she saw what was slung over his back.

Her bow and quiver of arrows.

Hermione saw red.

She pressed her wand into his neck harder, feeling the taut skin strain against the point. But he just looked at her, completely unbothered. He swallowed slowly, the breath getting stuck where she dug into him, but his face betrayed nothing.

Instead, the corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk.

Art credit: elivorn

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” she spat.

Malfoy looked taken back, eyes widening in feigned shock.

“Just one?” he mocked.

Her blood boiled at his facetious tone. She didn’t need even one.

“First of all, a thank you would be nice.”

She tipped her body towards him, inadvertently pushing even deeper into his skin. Her eyes swam with fury at the sight of him just standing there, the weapon he had snatched from under her draped over his chest.

“A thank you?” she growled. “For what? You almost killed me!”

“I killed those disgusting things that almost killed you.”

The moonlight reflected off the edge of his nose and she saw him trail his eyes over her face and down her neck before he locked in on the spot over her heart.

She threw her hand up instinctively to cover it from his prying eyes but her fingers only graced the edges of her pin.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead,” he said over his shoulder as he opened up another pouch for his stars.

For a split second, she wondered why he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried to grab for his wand, which remained slotted in the holster on his chest.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to clean the mess up after the damsel.”

At that, she pushed him hard. Both hands on his chest and with all her might, but he barely stumbled. Hermione pushed him again, taking a deep step into it, and he looked down at her and rolled his eyes.

“I—am—not—a—damsel” she hissed, enunciating every word between a shove, fists hitting the firm expanse of his collar and resounding with a thud.

Malfoy did nothing but laugh, throwing his head back and breaking into a deep and infectious roar.

“I will kill you!” she yelled, trying to get him to hear her over his own voice. “I can think of 50 different spells that would kill you right now!”

He brought his head back down to look at her, a hazy expression marring his face.

“Then kill me,” he said. His tone of indifference only made her angrier.

“Give me the bow and arrow and I’ll reconsider,” she wagered.

He looked like he wanted to laugh again, but didn’t. He shrugged his shoulders before he spoke. “Just kill me.”

Hermione didn’t know what game he was playing but she needed no part in it. She wanted to get the bow and arrow and get out. No thank you’s or lifelong debts in the process.

“Give me the bow and arrows.”

“If you want them, you’ll have to kill me for them,” he smirked.

“No!”

She didn’t know why the word came out of her mouth so quickly, but his goading had messed with her head. She didn’t want to actually kill him. At least not right now. She was tired and hungry and still thinking about Harry and Luna and the lifeless body of the girl the Careers had killed. She just wanted to sleep.

To hold the bow and arrows in her arms and fall into a dreamlike state.

Was it a sin to be too tired to kill another tribute? Was it a sin to look them in the eye and have a spell at the tip of your tongue but hold yourself back from uttering it? A sin to know that if you eliminated them, your road to victory would only be easier, but a part of you didn’t want it easy?

A part of you wanted to take the godforsaken Games and everyone that built them and burn it all down to the ground. To take out every Games-maker, every politician, and every person that bet on the outcome of people's lives and destroy them.

Was that a sin?

Yes.

Then she was a sinner.

“How about we make a deal?” his voice broke through her reverie.

Hermione wasn’t in the business of making deals with people who had it out for her. He might not have killed her today, but he had every right to after the moment passed.

Malfoy was unfazed by her non-response and was already pushing his arm through the bow sling and pulling it over his head.

“I give you what you want,” he said, holding them out to her outstretched in his hand.

She started to reach for the bow but he clasped his fingers around it and pulled it back from her with a glint in his eyes. He tutted at her before he continued— “And in exchange, we work together.”

She froze.

Nothing felt real and she wondered if she was dreaming.

But the logical part of her knew this wasn’t a dream.

She was in the Hunger Games and it was a nightmare.

Had she heard him correctly? Had he suggested they work together?

The way the Careers “work together”? Or better? Worse? 

Most importantly—Why?

Her mind raced with a thousand questions, a million possibilities, but not a single thought of an actual answer.

She couldn’t do this right now. She wanted to grab the bow and arrow and just get out. She needed a night with her thoughts, a night to mourn what might have happened, and relish in the relief of what didn’t.

Work together? She didn’t even know what she had left in her in order to work at it all alone.

Her mind whirred but no sound escaped her mouth. She opened it, then closed it again, met his eyes, but then looked away. She had nothing conclusive to say.

Malfoy extended the bow and quiver to her again and looked at her expectantly.

This was his peace offering, Hermione realized.

She felt her fingers pull towards it. The confusion and doubt were written all over her face.

“Think about it, Granger.”

She met his eyes and hoped it showed that she would.

He let go of the weapon and let it sink into her hands. Before he retreated into the forest, he saluted her—two fingers at his forehead that he flicked her way.  

She watched Malfoy walk up the slope of the riverbank with ease, shuriken stars flying towards him from all around and landing in the pouch at his hip.

Right before she lost sight of him, he turned back to look at her and wavered in the silence. Hermione saw something unsettling in his eyes, something she couldn't quite explain, before he turned away and disappeared into the woods.

Chapter Text

Hermione staggered into the woods after Draco left and chose the first tree she found out of sight. The swaying of the branches lulled her to sleep quickly, but it was anything but restful.

When her eyelids fluttered closed, she could see the lifeless look in the eyes of beheaded Grindylows.

The phantom graze of their slimy fingers washed over her body every time the wind blew and rattled the branches.

In her dreams, their haunted faces came alive and gnawed at her arms and legs, sinking their sharp teeth into her skin and seeping blood out of her.

Dream Hermione would cry and scream from the pain as the creatures pulled her deep into the water until she suffocated.

Every time, she woke abruptly, panting, sweat dripping down her neck. The tree she was in would sway and shift in tune with her breathing, and though she would quickly fall back to sleep, the same nightmare would begin all over again.

She wished she had a calming drought, a sleep potion, or the ability to more easily forget so that she didn't have to drown in her nightmares. Every moment in the Games was just another thing that would keep her up at night if she ever made it out.

Hermione awoke in the early parts of the morning, the sun barely starting to rise, to the playing of the national anthem. The branches above her parted to reveal the sky, where the Pure Capitol symbol projected in black across the morning blue and white.

It was only the second announcement of the fallen since the Games began, and already, the games-makers had shifted from the night to morning.

She wasn’t even really sure if it was the second morning at all. In a magical arena like this one, daylight could be extended, and nighttime cut short. Twenty-four hours could feel like an eternity when the concept of time was tampered with.

You could easily lose your mind to the weight of exhaustion in the middle of the day, or the feeling of being wide awake as darkness fell. It was the Games-makers’ way of keeping everyone on edge, no matter how comfortable or powerful they felt. 

She waited with bated breath for the verdict of the fallen, her gut sinking as she wondered what it would feel like to see the faces of Harry or Luna in the sky.

The first face was no surprise to her. It was the girl that Hermione had seen and heard bludgeoned to death.

District 3, her name read Hannah.

The next face was one she didn’t recognize. A boy named Ernie, from District 10.

The fallen were always announced in chronological order—the sight of his District number flooded with relief. 

It meant that Harry, from District 7, had survived the night.

Ernie’s face faded into nothing and was followed by a somber melody.

Her heart skipped a beat. Just the two fallen tributes the day before.

A confirmation that not only Harry but also Luna had made it out alive.

Them and every single Career.

She thought back to the blood-curdling scream she had heard the night before. If it wasn’t one of them, then who could it have been?

There was a canon, so the only possibility was the tribute from 10. Which meant the Careers were likely responsible—that they added a kill before they even had a chance to get to where Harry and Luna were.

Savages. 

As the music ended, she ran through her mental tally again. Two fallen, on top of the ten from the day before, leaving just twelve remaining. The Careers, Malfoy, Harry, and Luna making up more than half of who was left.

Twelve tributes dead in the span of two days.

Her body ached, both from restless sleep and the sobering realization that she was living through hell.

It was unclear how early in the morning it was, but if she was up, then she knew she couldn’t just sit in her tree all day lest she wallow and feel bad for herself and the circumstances she was in.

The tree swayed like a gentle urge for her to get moving.

Hermione looked around and cataloged her belongings. Her bow and arrows remained tucked inside her sleeping bag with her, where she had clung to them through the night. Her backpack hung off a branch above her, secured with a protection spell. A bottle full of water, a hat, and an empty pack of jerky was what remained inside it. The vial of blood-replenishing potion was still tucked into the small zippered pocket at the front.

Her stomach grumbled at the thought of the empty pack of jerky. It had been almost 48 hours since she had eaten normal food, having survived until that point solely on the bits of smoked meat, water, and adrenaline.

But now that she had her bow and arrow, finding food would be the least of her problems.

Hermione warded her tree and the area surrounding it. Certain there were no creatures around, human or magical, she gathered her arrows and slung her bow over her back. Transfiguring the baseball cap into a small satchel, she stuffed the empty packet inside and climbed down from the tree, leaving the rest of her bag disillusioned in the branches.

From the ground, she looked up at the spot she had chosen proudly. She had found it on her last legs of energy, drowning in the darkness of the night, but had done a good job. The tree stood close to the water, but out of sight, off the beaten path and deep in the shrubbery of the woods. It was a large tree, much like the one she slept in the night before, but it felt like something about this one had specifically called to her.

Its sways through the night had felt like breathing, a comforting sensation that made her feel less alone. After one final look back at it, Hermione disillusioned herself and started to move to higher ground.

Taking cautious steps, she made a point to continue to stay off the beaten path in search of food. She had already had her fair share of unpleasant encounters with magical creatures and tributes. All she needed and wanted was a squirrel or a rabbit, even a bird of some sort, that she could catch and kill quickly.

Hermione walked until the valley began to turn into lush trees, deeper and darker the further she moved. They built a canopy of leaves above her and almost fully blocked the sunlight out. It was like walking into a cave carved through a mountain. The air was suddenly cool and still—a sobering sensation compared to the bright warmth of the day that she had just come from.

As she crossed the threshold from light to dark, almost a sharp line through the forest, she felt the rippling caress of something along her skin, like a brush of air from her head to the toes within her shoes.

It was the disturbance of a magical barrier.

The dissolution over her body had vanished.

The wand in her hand felt no hum, and there was no buzz of magic at her fingertips. It was like holding a stale piece of wood, no different than the sticks and branches strewn across the grounds of the forest.

She quickly realized she had found herself in a part of the woods with no magic. With only her and the bow and arrow at her disposal, goosebumps flushed her body.

Hermione retreated to where she came from, and as soon as she stepped back into the light where the trees were less dense, magic flamed through her body again. It was the confirmation she needed to know that she was magicless only under the dark canopy of branches.

She would have to be quick. Get in and get the hell out of there.

It was only a few moments after she stepped back into the darkness when she saw it. Movement ahead of her up in the path she was walking.

A small body scurrying from one bush of trees to another.

A rabbit.

She had had years of practice hunting animals on the move, so she didn’t even need a hide-out spot or to wait to find it when it was eating. The bow buzzed in her hand as if it was calling, begging her to use it. So she did.

The rabbit didn’t make it to the end of its path, her arrow puncturing through it as it froze mid-stride and fell limply to the ground.

As she approached it, she could see it was grown and fairly meaty. With magic on her side, once she left the odd cover of trees, she could cook and preserve it for days with charms. It would be enough to hold her over until her next chance of hunting, whenever that would be.

Hermione pulled her arrow out of the rabbit and carried it by its ears beyond the magic-less barrier. She moved deeper into the woods, ensuring to stay off any semblance of a beaten path, and climbed until she was surrounded entirely by overgrown shrubbery and bushes. There she disposed of everything she didn’t need or want to bring attention to her from predators and other tributes. Carefully hidden in the middle of the overgrowth, she skinned the rabbit and quickly vanished the blood and remains so that the smell wouldn’t accumulate from the heat beating down on her.

When the meat was roasted, she devoured it. Rabbit wasn’t her favourite game, but beggars couldn’t be choosers in her situation. The most important thing was that she was sated and full.

She pulled the empty jerky package from her backpack and transfigured it into a lightweight jar. Stuffing the leftover meat into it, she set it with a preservation spell and tightened the lid closed. After she cleaned her hands and vanished all signs of her presence, she slung the bow over her back and started the trek back to her tree.

Wand in hand, she followed a similar path to the one she came from. Her free hand brushed aimlessly over the bow, and for the first time since the night before, she let her mind wander back to how it came to be in her possession.

Everything she didn’t have an answer for always seemed to come back to Malfoy.

The more she saw him and heard the things he said to her, the less she understood his intentions. Why was he doing this all? What did he want from her? Why hadn’t he killed her when he had the chance?

But then again, why hadn’t she?

There had been almost no hesitation on his part to hand over the bow and arrows to her, almost as if he had planned to all along. But when that thought passed her mind, it seemed preposterous.

He was a tribute like her, and everyone’s main goal should have been survival. It was a Game of the fittest, of the toughest and most clever.

Was his fascination with her just a ruse? She couldn’t rule it out, but the look he had given her when he asked her to think about his offer seemed genuine. As if he had truly wanted to partner up with her.

But it just brought her back to the same starting point—why?

Hermione hated that she felt like she owed him now, not just for the weapon but also for saving her. She didn’t want to admit it in front of him, but he definitely had. There would have been no way she could have survived the attack from the Grindylows without him.

She owed him her life.

Nearing the sounds of the river and entering territory that she knew would be more populated, she disillusioned herself and all her carry-on.

Her fear from the attack in the water had manifested itself into anger and resentment towards him, but she wasn’t angry that he had saved her in actuality.

She was angry that he had done so because he thought she was helpless.

He admitted he had when he called her a damsel—a damsel in distress.

If she was something in the world, she was anything but that.

She didn’t need a knight in shining armour. She needed an ally with his metal tested—someone who looked and treated her like an equal.

Someone who fantasized with the inklings of want like her, about bringing the Games down. Maybe even more than her.

And that was the whole problem. She didn’t think he did. She didn’t think anyone did.

He had helped her at the showcase, then with the attack, and then had handed her a weapon that could end his life. That wasn’t the course of action of someone who wanted to watch the Games burn.

There was wanting to be an ally, and then there was being a fool. She hadn’t initially taken him for the latter, but maybe he was.

Maybe he just wanted to be a hero.

But she didn’t need saving, nor his help or his courtesy. She needed to win. He could take his twisted saviour complex elsewhere.

If it came down to killing him, she reasoned with herself that she could.

As Hermione approached her tree, she muttered “Homenum Revelio” under her breath to ensure the coast was clear.

Warmth enveloped her as she neared the tree’s perimeter. She could see a spot of red sticking out from amongst the branches—her sleeping bag. She silently scolded herself for not disillusioning it properly.

With her bow adjusted across her back she started to climb. One branch after another, she placed her hand, then her foot, and alternated as she made her way up the trunk. The branches at the bottom were sturdy, allowing her fingers to wrap around each arm of the tree with ease. When she neared the top of the trunk where her belongings were, the branches started to thin. The tree tapered off to a point where she could nearly wrap her arms around the whole width. She cautiously slowed her ascent.

Each of her movements swayed the tree, every shift of her hand or foot shaking the barely supported branch below it. She had nearly reached the top when her foot suddenly slipped.

Her instincts were quick. Grabbing onto the branch above her head, she caught herself with her other foot, mere seconds before she would have fallen to the ground. The leaves danced around her, shaking with the nerves that washed over her body. It was a close call. Much too close. If her tree was being watched from from anywhere, it would stand out like a sore thumb with all the commotion she was causing. She let her breathing calm before she continued on again.

As she moved this time, she was more careful, holding on to the branches tightly with her hands and looking down to maneuver her foot back to a solid spot again. Hermione placed her right foot to the same branch she slipped from, testing the placement with a shift once, then adjusting a second time, until she felt comfortable with where it stood. She took a deep breath in, and on the exhale, readied her body to move.

She pulled herself up, putting pressure on her right side, and felt the sturdy pushback of the branch below her.

All was well until she heard an odd sound.

A slow, winding crackle that grew from nothing to a loud reverberation of splintering wood. As she pushed her body to grasp onto the branch above her, the one below snapped.

It broke off right at the core of the trunk, hitting other branches and leaves as it soared to the ground. It hit the forest floor with a resounding thump that echoed through the woods around her.

Her foot dangled in the place the branch was, and she quickly maneuvered it, though at a rather awkward angle, to the same branch her left foot was on.

How did I do this the night before, she wondered.

It was preposterous. She could have just levitated her stuff down to a lower spot before starting to climb. But as all things in her life, she somehow always found herself taking the most difficult route. One that she argued should be simpler, should be more rewarding, but in a place like the Games, was utter drivel. She focused all her strength on her arms and legs and with one good pull, got herself up the last bit of space she needed to get to her things.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the tree stilled below her and pulled her backpack off the branch it hung from. Everything from her satchel was dumped swiftly into the bag. Her hand rummaged through it, cataloging all of the contents, checking off her mental list to ensure everything was accounted for.

The peculiar sensation that bubbled in her stomach was unexpected. Odd and uncomfortable in a way she had never felt before.

She perked up, cold air rushing down her spine.  

Like pins and needles carving through her magical core, it was a feeling so unwavering she felt her insides twist. Unease settled like a blanket, heavy and foreboding, over her shoulders. There was no other way to explain it—she suddenly felt like an unwanted guest at a gathering.

And then, the entire tree started to shake.

Violently, it swayed with unimaginable force from one side and then to the other. Hermione shrieked and grabbed onto the trunk, bag slipping through her hands and getting caught a few branches below her. The tree shifted from left to right, and over again, moving in a way no plant should have been able to move. It was like a boat caught in an ocean storm, crashing against waves, coursing through the water at no control of its own. And she was its ill-fated passenger.

But she wasn’t in a boat, and they weren’t in an ocean, and there was no storm. 

This was the Games and she was in the middle of a forest. 

And she realized all too quickly that the tree she was in was alive.

The branches swung down to the ground as if the stomping feet of a giant trying to squash spiders beneath it. She held on for dear life as the tree jerked her in every which way. She knew this moment would be getting projected across all the screens in Regnum, and Moody would be watching.

He would wonder how she could have gotten herself into this mess.

But she was wondering something different—how would she get herself out?

The tree wrenched sharply to the left once, nearly at a ninety-degree angle from its upright position, and then sharply to the right.

And then the branches really came to life.

One by one, in no particular pattern, the branches started to swing at themselves and attack the tree's trunk. The thumps and smacks echoed through the grounds, and Hermione thought that if she survived the attack, she would surely be killed by a tribute that heard the racket.

The self-inflicted ambush moved swiftly up the base of the trunk until it reached Hermione, still clinging to her spot with everything she had in her. Her backpack hanging a few branches below was smashed against the tree and then whipped out somewhere into the grounds with vigour she had never seen before from a plant.

For a brief moment, she wondered if it was really a plant at all—more than likely, a type of modified vegetation set up by the Games-makers.

That or it was sentient, which was so much worse.

The tree continued to beat itself, focusing its attack on the topmost part of the trunk. Slowly and then suddenly all at once, she realized it was drilling down into the spot she was in. The trunk whipped violently, trying to throw her off, but she locked her legs and arms in place and just held on.

But the harder she held on, the angrier it seemed to get.

Faintly, she heard the building sound of splintering wood. The same sound that passed before the branch snapped off, but louder and more pronounced this time. It built until it was blaring in her ears and stirring her insides, but a look down the trunk confirmed that all the branches were still in their place.

The sound amplified through the corridors of the forest, and a particularly loud splinter reverberated over her head like thunder. The impact of it sounded like it had struck the base of the tree and filtered down to the very core under the ground.

Limbs still wrapped tightly around the trunk, magic bubbled up beneath her and sparked out the ends of the still-attached branches.

The bark started to crack and pop off the bone until the entire tree looked like it was shedding. It did so even where she held it, body just barely protected by her jacket and pants, crackling off into bits and pieces that fell to the ground below her.

The fleeting bark made waves for another issue.

The sound that she had heard may have very well been a lightning strike as a large splinter began to weave its way down the very middle of the trunk. It ran like a stream down the base, and she felt the crack of it deep within her own chest.

The tree was splitting open like a banana peel, and she was stuck in the middle.

Hermione watched with horror as it separated between her. Splitting right before her eyes as she felt her grip around the trunk expand with it. When she started to slip, she did the only thing she could think of by grabbing onto a branch above her and let the separated piece take it with her.

She hung 50 feet from the ground, legs flailing below her, and wondered how things could have gone so wrong so quickly.

She looked up to the now clear sky, devoid of any leaves or branches, and saw a bird flying in the air. It soared in around where she was in the forest as if watching, waiting for her to finally fall.

It looked like a hunting bird, and she realized she would likely be some creature's dinner tonight.

The wand in her back pocket hummed. She dangled with one hand and felt for the wood before her fingers wrapped around it.

Magic buzzed in her palm, and she realized she had only one choice.

If you’re already falling, just let go.

So she did.

Her grasp around the branch slipped through her fingers as the force of gravity pushed against her, and she started to free-fall. Head up towards the sky, she saw the bird suddenly swoop down towards her in a sharp dive. She closed her eyes.

The cushioning charm was already rolling off her tongue when she felt her hand snatched from above her.

She yelped as her arm popped out of its socket painfully, eyes shooting open only to be blinded by the white rays of the sun in the sky. Whatever had grabbed her hand immediately swung her body up, taking her trajectory from a downwards fall to a swoop upwards, and she landed with something between her thighs.

“Hold on,” a voice said.

She clenched her legs and immediately wrapped her arms around the solid structure in front of her chest, and as her eyes adjusted to the light in a patch of shade, she quickly realized that she was sitting on a broom.

Pressed against someone with a white head of hair.

Draco.

“What are you doing!” she yelled, pushing at his back.

“Put me down!”

“Let me go!”

He made it seem as if he heard none of her pleas as the wind deafened both of them in response to the broom picking up speed in the sky.

Her fingers started to slip from around him as the force of the wind pushed against her, and she momentarily wondered if she should just let go again. She knew how to cast a cushioning charm.

She didn’t need him to save her. She could have done this all herself.

One of her hands started to lose hold of his shirt, and she felt him grab onto her again, repositioning her grip.

“I said hold on!”

She tightened her grasp on him, tucking her head behind his neck, and waited for it to all be over.

He whirled through the air, passing nothing but trees before the speed of the broom slowed, and they descended onto a secluded plain. The moment her feet touched down on the ground, she jumped back from him as if he had scorched her.

He straddled off the broom, mussing his hair as a sly grin crept onto his face. Her anger boiled over.

She charged at him, swinging back to throttle him in the chest, or more preferably his face, and he threw his hands up in defence. But she didn’t get further than that before a sharp pain soared through her arm and she collapsed to her knees.

The adrenaline of the flight had masked the throbbing of her shoulder up until that point, but now it threatened to consume her. The pain pulsed loudly, numbing the fingertips of her hand as she grabbed onto her elbow to stabilize her arm. Every shift of her body made her grit her teeth to fight the tears that threatened to spill over.

She knew magic could heal this type of injury, but she was still filled with fire-hot rage.

“Let me fix that for you,” he crouched down next to her.

She recoiled away from him, catching sight of ink on his forearm; the red-eye tracker staring back at her amongst a half sleeve of other tattoos. He had started to reach for her with his wand when she jerked away and immediately hissed in pain.

“This is your fault,” she spat. “Get away from me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Granger, just let me heal you, or you won’t be able to use that pretty bow I gave you.”

How dare he?

How dare he.

Hermione felt her emotions start to spiral, swirling within her as they mixed with the darkness hidden deep in her core.

The magic from his wand tip lingered in the air around them as he started to reach for her again when she startled him by jumping to her feet.

“Why! Why are you doing this?”

This referred to so much more than just the broom. From the very first day they had crossed paths, to every moment between then and now. She couldn’t look at him without the questions about his intentions driving her mad.

Draco clenched his jaw, a look of resignation passing over his face before he dropped his eyes to the ground and retreated his wand away from her.

A fleeting thought drifted through her mind, one that had been pushing at her insides since the moment she first met him. One she didn’t want to believe.

It was the seed of doubt that this was all a game to him. Literally and figuratively. Her fists clenched at her sides, rage growing at his silence.

She had seen it in tributes before. Be nice, build reliance, start a partnership, and then stab the fool who trusted you in the back.

The realization hit her then. She was the fool, and the dam within her broke.

“Let’s hear it, Malfoy! Why are you so set on getting under my skin? What do you get from partnering up with me? That’s it, isn’t it? You have some twisted Pure Capitol scheme to trick a dirty District tribute? Do you get more sponsorships from it? Maybe a cash prize? Tell me all about it, Draco!”

She dipped her words in spite, coating his given name with as much venom as she could muster.

His head perked up, eyes going wide before he gulped and cleared his throat.

“No,” he uttered.

But that wasn’t good enough for Hermione.

“Then what is it? Why are you trying so hard to make this”—she motioned at the two of them—“happen?”

She poured all her anger and fear into the glare she gave him. She could see him shudder under it and hesitate before he finally met her eyes.

Guilt was written all over his face. She was about to push him again when he looked down, resigned, and just shook his head. “I can’t say.”

The avoidance was damming. Three words were all she needed to understand that she had figured him out.

“Right."

Any restraint she had remaining left her in a flash.

“Then you need to leave me alone," she growled. “And while you’re at it, stop trying to help me. I don’t need your help.” She stuck a finger from her uninjured arm into his chest, hard, dirt-covered tips leaving marks along the white of his shirt. “I do not need a saviour.”

He had the nerve to look affronted and stepped back from her. She negated it by stepping toward him and stabbed a finger into him again.

She hoped it would bruise.

“I don’t need a hero, or a knight in shining armour, or someone to bail me out! I’m bloody capable of doing it myself, and you should have just left me be!”

His eyes trailed from her face to her hair and stopped. Whenever she got angry, her hair got angry with her. She didn’t even want to think about what she looked like, but this moment wasn’t about that.

It was about making it clear where she stood.

She pointed her wand at her shoulder and muttered a healing spell, gritting her teeth as the magic coursed through her and set the injury straight. It locked back into place with a pop, and after a few moments of lingering pain, she rolled it back to get a feel for it.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough.

Doubt marred his expression as if he knew a self-cast healing charm wasn’t as effective as one cast by someone else, but he said nothing. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his trousers and met her stare.

She grabbed him roughly by his t-shirt collar and pulled his face close. His eyes shot open, but he let himself be jerked forward without restraint. Inches away from him, anger seeped out of her every pore.

They were both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in rhythm against each other. Hermione clenched her jaw as whips of his hair tickled her forehead.

“You’re not the only one that can see in the fucking dark, Malfoy.”

His mouth pressed into a hard line at her words, at the memory of his own that surely bubbled to the surface, but he remained quiet and kept his gaze locked into hers.

She pushed into his mind and let the unspoken sentiment bleed through her.

Leave—me—alone.

She shoved him back hard, not caring if she injured him. His expression remained unchanged as he stumbled on his feet. When he regained his bearings, he pulled the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck and swallowed tightly.

Hermione adjusted the bow across her body before turning away from him. It would take her hours to find her belongings again, and at this point, he was just standing in her way.

He didn’t stop her as she started to take strides toward the forest.

Her ears rang, her mind still not fully comprehending everything that had happened in the last hour, but she shoved her Occlumency wall into place and focused on counting her steps.

She was almost out of earshot when he called out to her.

“I’ll take this as you not being interested in partnering up?”

She whirled around to look at him, disbelieving he would really be that dense.

"Take it as a shove your saviour complex up your arse.”

When Hermione turned towards her path into the forest again, she didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Malfoy had kept the broom in the air for so long that Hermione was certain they were far gone from where he picked her up. But it took barely stepping into the cover of the forest to see that she was closer to the cursed tree than she thought. In fact, its twisted remains were visible from where she stood, the sun beating down with vigour in the hottest part of the day, and she could see that she was barely a mile away.

He had likely kept in the air longer than necessary just to piss her off.

Setting her sights on the path ahead, she buried herself in Occlumency to let her anger dissipate. She didn’t need to act rashly, but she knew that if she were angry, she would. The forest around her started to blend as she sunk deep into her mental walls, leaves overlapping with leaves, branches crossing branches, and her head remained down as she moved towards the torn tree trunk with purpose.

Despite her best efforts, a thought spilled over her reinforced Occlumency and took residence in the space that she tried to always keep clear. It was the space where all her doubts collected.

For the briefest fleeting moment, she wondered if she had been too harsh on him.

Had her reaction been justified? Was she truly in the right?

And more importantly, was there any coming back from it if she changed her mind?

Hermione franticly pushed the thoughts out as soon as they surfaced. There was no space for them to plant any roots. So she stopped walking, shut her eyes so hard that her forehead scrunched, and a moment later, a foggy mist swirled inside of her and her mind was clear again.

When the tree came into sight, she slowed her trek. Though it lay still before her, split down the middle, there was no telling if it was still alive and she was no fool to risk finding out by approaching it brazenly. She collected a handful of rocks and moved to hide behind a large bush.

She started with one rock; let it sail across the decimated plain that separated her and the tree, and waited for the thump of it against the carcass of wood. It hit the trunk, bouncing off of it, and landed evenly on the ground. She waited for something, anything, to come of the tree but the forest was completely silent. Then she tried with another rock. It sailed faster, hit the tree harder, but fell just as ceremoniously to the dirt without any fray. She waited longer this time, perched on her heels, but again, the forest around her remained completely quiet. 

One rock after another sailed through the air after that, hitting parts of the trunk all over in quick succession. One thump, again, again, thump—thump—thump. She threw every rock she had until her empty hands were empty. They fell clasped in her lap and she began to count. Slowly in her head down from sixty, she watched the tree for any sign of movement.

It remained as it was.

When Hermione reached zero, she started from the top again, slower this time, and again the space around her was still.

Minutes passed as she counted, catching no changes from the tree, when she finally felt confident in making the call that it was long dead. Disillusioning herself as she stepped out into the clearing, she took cautious steps towards its remains. She knew that the sooner she found the rest of her belongings, the better.

Passing her eyes over the space, she tried to spot any sign of her things. Her backpack had been sent flying by the tree during the attack, so it was unlikely to be anywhere close.

She paused and let her eyes adjust to the sight before her.

The tree was split open like a banana peel, branches snapped at their cores, leaves strewn in a scattered mess. Uprooted ground and dirt littered the space around the twisted trunk. It looked like a war zone.

A concoction of green and brown colours swam in front of her vision like camouflage before her eyes caught on to a disturbance—a spot of red amongst the chaos.

Her sleeping bag.

She muttered a quiet Accio, and the bag wriggled out from the remaining branches before flying her way.

But it didn’t come in one piece.

Two separate sections of material, barely scraps, barrelled towards her and left a trail of floating feathers in their wake. It looked like a pillow fight gone wrong, or like the first snowfall of the year, as tiny pieces of feathers fluttered to the ground, not quite falling as they were picked up by the wind and created a tornado of fluff all around her.

When the sleeping bag froze in front of her and dropped to her feet, she could see very clearly that the sack was ruined.

It lay in front of her, torn along a ragged edge, exposing the colourful seams inside. Large gaping holes on either side had allowed the interior contents a quick escape.

She pulled a small feather from her tongue and wondered if it was salvageable.

A scene flashed behind her eyes of getting trapped in a magic-less zone without the ability to cast a warming charm. She could likely live without a sleeping bag, but she would rather not try if she had the choice.

Crouching down onto her knees, she muttered a stitching spell along the two scraps. They met each other slowly but unevenly, and she cursed herself for not listening close enough to Molly’s instructions when she mended clothes around the Burrow.

Leaving a hole for the feathers, she summoned as many as she could and directed them back into the bag, while those that she missed floated around her in a frenzy. The smallest ones were almost entirely unresponsive to her spell, too affected by the wind, to go where she directed them. She let out a frustrated huff and eventually gave up.

The same stitching spell was applied to close the hole shut, and she stood back to look at her handiwork.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing. However, if she ever made it out of here, she could cross off magical seamstress from her list of possible careers.

She rolled the bag and sized it down so it fit in her palm, stuffing it into her pocket until she could find her backpack, and rose to her feet to continue her search.

And then she stopped dead in her tracks.

What search? Why was she searching for anything?

She was a magical being, for Merlin’s sake.

“Accio backpack.”

That was all she needed, as the bag came barrelling towards her from the deep pits of the forest, and roughly ten seconds after she had summoned it, it was set in her hands.

Hermione rummaged through the bag, cataloging the contents—the jar of rabbit meat remained, cracked but in one piece. She mended it and tossed it back into the bag. Her water bottle was still there, and she paused to unscrew the lid to take a few sips. A trail of water rolled down her chin as she tossed it back into the bag too. She found the small satchel that was transfigured from the baseball cap as well.

Unzipping the front pocket, she felt around for the vial of blood-replenishing potion. It was small and escaped her grasp as she rummaged inside, shifting her hand from one end to the other.

But the longer she dug for it, she realized her efforts were in vain. The pocket seemed empty. The tip of her wand lit with a Lumos as she shoved it inside to confirm.

She was right. It was empty.

The zipper had been closed when the bag came to her, so there was no chance it could have flown out during her summons, or even during the attack from the tree.

“Accio blood potion,” she tried, but a part of her figured the effort was futile.

The forest around her remained quiet, and she knew the vial was gone.

There was only one explanation.

She wasn’t the first to find the bag since it went missing. Somebody had gotten to it before her and taken what they deemed valuable.

Hermione didn’t let the disappointment linger as there was nothing she could do. A small part of her just hoped she would never need it, and if she did, then Moody’s presence with a sponsorship gift would come in time.

After resizing and placing her sleeping bag into the backpack, she threw the straps over her shoulders and looked back at the tree. There was no way she could find shelter in it again. She needed a new spot, and as much as she tried to reject the thought, she knew of only one place she could safely go to. 

She refilled her bottle at the river, which had since been cleared of any Grindylow remains, and transfigured the satchel into another bottle to fill to the brim too. Her trek would take her further away from the river than she would like, so having the reassurance of extra water was a necessity.

Her sights set on one destination, she repositioned her bag on her back and begnan to walk.

Hours later, Hermione had yet to encounter anything or anyone. The day was silent as it slowly faded from afternoon into early twilight. Her knowledge of foraging struck when she spotted some berries along her path. After running a diagnostic spell over them to confirm they weren’t poisoned or tampered with, she popped one into her mouth.

The taste nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Seeing them was one thing, but the burst of flavour along her taste buds took her right back to the day of the reaping. In the woods with Ron, they had snacked on the very same thing—boom berries.

She had no possessions left to transfigure or she would have collected an entire jar of them, either for snacking or the off chance she found other ingredients to make a potion, but there was still relief in knowing they existed in the arena. She pulled off as many as she could hold in her hands and continued on her way.

Despite dusk falling when she reached her destination, she instantly spotted the charred circle of ash she had left behind.

There was unease with being back where she spent her first day, which felt like it had been weeks ago, but there was also a sense of odd comfort—a type of familiarity with having faced her demons there and having overcome them.

And this time, she had her bow and arrows.

When she climbed into the tree and set up her sleeping space, the thought that she had been in this very spot, under very different circumstances just hours before, felt odd. So much had happened since then. So much had changed.

As darkness fell and enveloped the arena, she waited with bated breath for the announcement that she knew wouldn’t come. There hadn’t been a single canon since the morning’s projection in the sky. It had been a quiet day for everyone.

With her bow and quiver of arrows tucked inside the sleeping bag, she fell asleep to the sound of crickets, rustling leaves, and the faint melody of a song she almost recognized.

That night carried no nightmares, no swaying to lull her back to sleep after abrupt awakenings, and no demon tree. She slept soundly and dreamlessly, tucked under the weight of the repaired sack and the moonlight.

In the morning, the light from the rising sun awoke her slowly. She took her time waking up, letting her body and mind rest until the cushioning charms under her back started to lose effect.

Hermione’s morning was lazy, to the point of near-luxury. She climbed down from her tree to find herbs, which she gathered and dried. An empty packet of crisps was a concerning sign of another presence, so she picked it up quickly and made her way back to her shelter.

Transfiguring the packet into a teacup, she boiled a small amount of water from her bottle and dropped the herbs inside. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine being back in the Burrow sharing tea with the Weasleys.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon resting, trying with all her might not to think about what happened the day before. The warm wind was like a caress against her skin, and before she knew it, she had started to doze off again. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later when she was abruptly awoken.

“Hullo?” a voice called.

She jumped from her spot, eyes flashing wide.

“Anyone here?”

The blood inside of her stilled, body frozen as if petrified. The voice was one she didn’t recognize.

“It’s Harry if that means anything,” the person said, a calm coolness to his tone. He paused as if waiting for something before adding, “I’m unarmed.”

Harry?

Was he here for her?

She had never so much as had a conversation with him before, but a part of her had assumed she would likely be crossing paths with him again.

Hermione cleared her throat and heard him rustle below her on the ground.

“Are you alone?” she asked tentatively.

He exhaled loudly enough for her to hear. “Yes, I’m alone.”

“Why are you here?” Hermione said. “What do you want?”

Harry cleared his throat, dry dirt crumbling under his shoes. His form appeared in an opening of the branches below her as he walked closer to the tree. He looked up and met her eyes.

“I’m here to thank you.”

She looked down at him like an animal caught in a compromising position. She knew what he was referring to, but what was she to say besides the obvious?

“Okay,” she called down to him. “You’re welcome.”

She heard him shuffle his feet and watched as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

He didn’t look like he planned to leave yet. Maybe it wasn’t all he wanted from her.

“Like I said, I’m unarmed,” he pulled his hands out of his pockets in surrender to show her they were empty. “Would you come down?”

He looked nervous, but she figured if anyone should have been, it was her. After a moment’s hesitation, she drew her bow over her chest and started to climb down the tree.

Dust filtered into the air as she jumped the last foot and landed on the dirt ground. The charred remains of her previous escapade partly surrounded him, though most of the ash had blended into the dust and sand of the forest grounds.

She passed her eyes over where she knew the circle was before looking up at him, and he was already watching her.

“Hi."

She smiled, strained, instead of answering.

He opened his mouth once, then closed it before he cleared his throat and spoke.

“This is a bit of an odd introduction." He chuckled lowly, dragging his palm against the back of his neck. “I don't know how else to say this but...erm—thank you for sending the Patronus.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. It had certainly gotten to him then.

“This is the first time we’ve spoken,” she said. “How did you know it was me?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Lucky guess.” The expression that drifted onto his face told her he didn’t plan to divulge much more than that.

It sounded like a load of bull, but she let it go.

“You’re welcome,” she said firmly. “It was the least I could do in return for not killing me.”

It was almost humorous how easily those words left her mouth, as if they were talking about sharing sweets in the school courtyard. You gave me a chocolate frog, so I shared my jelly slugs.

But this was life or death.

You let me keep my life, so I helped you keep yours.

She could have told him that she didn’t know if the Patronus would have made it to them in time, she could have admitted that she wavered on even sending it at all, but it simply didn’t matter. She had already come to peace with the fact that she had done it.

“It made it to us just moments in time,” he admitted as if the words were being pulled out of his mouth by a more powerful source than just him, fidgeting with a black ring on his finger as he spoke. “I came here to give you something.”

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets again and fumbled deep within them. The strain on his face was evident, brows furrowing and jaw clenching, before his eyes finally lit up and he pulled his hands out.

His left hand was closed around something small. He hesitated before he reached towards her to place it in her hand. She had almost no time to react before she felt her fingers wrap around something cylindric and cold against her skin.

Hermione looked down at her hand and then lifted her gaze to meet his. “What is this?”

Harry didn’t have time to answer before she handed it back to him. It didn’t matter what it was because she didn’t need anything from him. That was the whole point of the Patronus in the first place. She didn’t want to owe him anything.

“Just take it,” he said, pushing the vial back towards her.

“But—”

He forced her fingers closed and pushed her arm gently away from him.

“Just take it, okay?” his tone was exasperated as if wishing she wouldn’t argue with him.

Hermione held the vial up to the sun, and it swirled like molten gold. Not a single light beam passed through the viscous liquid, specks of chrome swimming within it.

She knew exactly what it was.

“Where did you get this?”

The corner of his mouth pulled into a grin because he knew she recognized it for what it was. “It was a sponsor gift.”

She was immediatly dumbfounded.

Firstly, because she had yet to receive any sponsor gift from anyone. Moody and his coordination of gifts were nowhere to be found when she had needed him most. Secondly though, and more importantly, why was he trying to offload this to her? It was the type of thing someone could change the tide of the Games with.

“I don’t know why you’re giving me this, but I can’t take it.”

Hermione had just felt like she evened the ground between them, handing him her own thank you for not hurting her, but this was outrageous. Harry damn Potter had just given her a vial of Felix Felicis as if it was nothing.

Liquid luck.

What type of sponsors did he have that would send something like this?

And what Games-maker in their right mind would allow it?

It was the type of advantage you could only make up. It couldn’t have been anything but a cruel joke.

He kept his hands in his pockets, taking a slow step away from her to avoid her handing the vial back to him.

“Did you forget where we are?” she breathed. “Just because you didn’t kill me, and I helped you, doesn’t mean it needs to escalate to this. We’re in the Hunger Games. You do know what the premise is, don’t you? I could use this to kill you!”

He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Yeah, I’m aware.” If not for the tenseness in his shoulders, he would have otherwise looked completely unbothered. “I have a feeling you won’t, though.”

She held herself back from rolling her eyes. He had no way of knowing that for sure. “Why are you doing this?”

“If not for you, it would be in the hands of the Careers.”

Regardless if that was the truth or not, Hermione didn’t care. She couldn’t take it. She hated the idea of owing him anything, and there were too many other things on her mind, mainly staying alive, to worry about. She couldn’t also concern herself with having to even their playing field again.

But in some twisted way, it somehow also made sense. If the Careers had killed him, they would have raided his entire camp. The last thing anyone needed was a Career with Liquid Luck on their side. And if he were telling the truth about them, she would be a fool not to accept it.

As Hermione pondered her options, Harry watched her, studying her face the same way you study a problem you don’t quite understand. The way when something intrigues you and you want to solve the puzzle it presents.

The way she knew she looked at Draco.

She glanced back down to her hand, his gaze to heavy to meet, and nodded slowly. The realization quickly settled in her gut that there was unlikely a proper way out of this.

She didn’t think he would threaten her to take it, but who knew?

She definitely didn’t. Harry was practically a stranger, and she didn’t know what lengths he would go to convince her.

He took her nod as acceptance and didn’t wait long enough for her to change her mind before he started to shift away from her. She stood in silence, still stunned, and watched him kick dirt, fumble with his hands, and tousle his hair again as if not knowing how to part ways. Then he stood up straight, nodded at her, and turned to go.

Whatever this was between her and Harry was odd. It made absolutely no sense. But it also didn’t feel wrong. The guilt that flushed through her at the thought made her feel queasy.

Who was she if she accepted his help but bagged on Malfoy for his?

Harry had already taken multiple steps away from her when the words came out of her mouth, too fast for her to stop them before they slipped out into the open.

“Can I ask you something?”

He paused, turning his head back to her.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Why are you helping Luna?”

She heard the faint sound of a camera whirl somewhere above her head.

It took him almost no time to answer her. “Well, none of us had a choice in being here. I’m doing the only thing I can to not let the Games win.”

It was as if he was pulling the words out of her brain. It was almost that exact sentiment that had propelled her to send the Patronus. But it wasn’t enough for her. She felt the spools of restraint within her start to unwind. Maybe if she understood his thought process, it would help with hers.

“Why Luna?”

The question made him pause. She caught him bite his lip, pushing his glasses up his face, before he cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure why her,” he said, a genuine sort of honesty laced into his words. “I probably would have done it to anyone.”

“Anyone?”

He chuckled. “Well, not anyone. But she’s not the only one I would have stepped up for.”

For a moment, Hermione wondered if he meant her, but it made her head hurt.

He was so much better than she thought. So much more than just a tribute here to kill.

Now that she had started, she couldn’t stop. She hoped the things he shared could help her decide on her path forward.

“Do you regret taking her under your wing?”

She had expected a nasty expression from him, but it wasn’t what she got. The answer was ready on his lips without a second thought. “No.”

“And what if you die?”

“Then I die,” he said, his voice noticeably quieter, almost as if he was resigned to the possibility. “I’m not a monster. Me and you, we’re not like the Careers. We’re not here to be killers.”

“Then why are you here?”

Harry straightened his spine, letting his shoulders roll back to give him a few extra inches of height. He searched her face, and when their eyes met, his expression softened.

“I don’t think either of us can answer that. But since we're here, I’ve chosen to be better than what the Games-Makers want, better than what Pure Capitol expects of a tribute. The least I can do is keep my sanity and preserve some good while I’m still around.”

It made so much sense, and yet none at all. Hermione stared at him, questions forming at the tip of her tongue, but her mind was too frazzled to let them sound. He nodded when the silence began to stretch, dropping his eyes to the ground, and retreated quietly into the woods without another word until he was out of sight.

She didn't know how long she just stood there. Staring at the path he took, the sun had firmly began to set by the time Hermione came to her senses. But even when she climbed into her tree, she couldn’t get Harry’s face out of her mind. Everything he said had stuck, but it was what he hadn’t said that she could feel digging into her core. A scalpel for her buried woes, all the fears she trumped instead of facing.

Laced into his words was the unspoken sentiment that if she needed an ally, he would be hers.

Two tributes in as many days had offered her that chance. But she sat in her tree, alone.

Hearing how he talked about his choice to partner with Luna, as if it was a conscious and intentional choice, was both terrifying and beautiful. His words had made it seem like doing the right thing was as simple as that—making the decision and just doing what he thought.

It shouldn’t have been that easy. It terrified her that it actually might have been that easy.

She thought back to Draco and the ease with which he offered her to partner up. It might not have been something he had his sights set on when this all began, but then again, why did it matter?

At that very moment, Hermione decided that it didn’t.

When the nighttime wind picked up, she tucked herself into her sleeping bag. It was another day without a canon, which meant that every tribute left since she sent her Patronus to Harry still remained. As she settled into her spot, she wondered what everyone else in the arena was doing. About the long days and nights still ahead of her, ones she was now determined not to spend alone.

Hermione’s mind drifted back to Harry, and she realized his arrival was likely the best thing that could have happened to her.

Something about him reminded her so viscerally of Ron. The way they carried themselves, the way they looked at her, the glint in their eyes. She muffled a choked sob at the thought of him back home.

Maybe in a different lifetime, some sort of parallel universe, the three of them could have called each other friends.

Ron’s cheery face and warm smile flashed in her memory, and she felt the prickle of tears form along her waterline. She pulled her head under her sleeping bag to muffle the sounds.

She had few men left in her life. Some born out of nature, others out of need.

Harry’s sentiments floated through her until she could string the words together like a poem.

We’re not monsters.

I’m not here to kill.

The least I can do is keep my sanity and preserve some good while I’m still around.

As she drifted off to sleep, she saw faces.

Ron.

Harry.

Draco.

She saw herself.

None of them were monsters.

They were all just men, people, trying to survive.

Chapter Text

Harry’s words were like a light switch in Hermione’s mind, and when she woke the following morning, she knew exactly what she had to do, and who she had to find.

It would have been nice if it was as simple as that—simply wanting to do something to actually get it done in the Games, but Hermione was no fool to believe that was true. There was no doubt that whatever her path forward would be, it wouldn't be easy.

Her conviction was strong, though. Harry’s words had resonated deeply within her, and her worries about having been too hard on Malfoy pushed through to the forefront of her mind.

How could she have known?

Of course, they were in the Games and he should have wanted to kill her, but she had faulted him for not acting on it. For doing differently than what everyone, including her, expected.

For doing what she hoped someone would do.

Maybe his actions towards her were his way of preserving his sanity. Maybe it was all his way of being good while he was still around.

And maybe there was a deeper reason even, the one he had hesitated to share with her. It didn't matter what it was—it only mattered that it was there. It was there and he had risked his life to try and show her without being able to tell her. And despite everything he had done before that she had misconstrued as brazenness and cockiness, maybe that was just who he was and how he dealt with these circumstances.

At the end of it all, she didn’t think he was a monster.

She felt the truth of that statement with every inch of her being.

It was as if she had forgotten that he was in the Games against his will just like her. It was possibly even worse for him. At least in Districts like twelve, they could see it coming. They knew what to expect, and when to expect it. The reaping happened every year on the same day, with the same television crew, and the same speeches. Each year, each District lost two young souls. Every single person knew it could be them next, or their children, or their friends' children. The thought of it hung over her every single day.

Just like living in the Districts, there was no escape from the reality of the Games.

But Malfoy was from Pure Capital. Them sending a tribute was unheard of, the complete opposite of what the Games were even intended for. Their entire existence was sculpted by people like him, not for people like him. He had likely had no time to prepare, no time to come to terms with the future that lay ahead of him.

He wasn’t a monster. Like her, he had just been set up by one.

Hermione spent her morning quietly, trying to find a comfortable place to rest along the branch she was on. She found another bush of berries, this time right near her tree, and collected handfuls after confirming they were safe to eat. She munched on them for lunch and then climbed back into her tree to drown in her thoughts.

As the day reached an almost unbearable heat, she dozed in and out of consciousness under the shady cover of leaves overhead. When she was awake, she found herself whistling a tune stuck in her head that she couldn’t remember ever hearing before. When she was asleep, the day was silent.

As the afternoon wore on, the pit in her stomach was so easily confused for hunger. She placed strip after strip of rabbit meat into her mouth as she tried to think of where to start.

If she were Malfoy, where would she be?

And that was the biggest problem of all. She didn’t know. She barely knew him at all. What his tendencies were, his quirks, where in the arena he felt comfortable—she didn't understand any of it.

Frustrated, she climbed down from her tree and sat herself down in the circle of ash. Though she only had her memory to go off of, she began to draw a map of what the arena might look like.

She knew where the river was, and that it was far from where she currently sat because there was no sound of water. She plotted the sentient tree that almost killed her, the spot she thought was likely to be where Harry was hiding, and the place she saw the female tribute Hannah get killed. She noted where Malfoy flew her to and what could have been the location of where she hunted.

It covered an area of what she presumed was about 10 miles. But it was very likely that there were still acres of unknown and unexplored terrain left that she hadn’t yet come across and therefore couldn't plot.

The grim reality was, that he could be anywhere.

The hours passed Hermione by quickly as the sun moved from above into the west and she realized an entire day was almost gone but she was no closer than she was that morning.

At some point, somewhere between then and when the sun began to set, she heard a canon. The echo of it ricocheted against the trees, bouncing and expanding as it passed like a wave through the forest. She jumped at the sound and scurried back up to her tree before the echo subsided.

The eerie silence that followed was the kind that was impossible to ever get used to.

As evening settled, her food supply started to run low. She continued to snack nervously, knowing the darkness was no time to try and go out to hunt. She would likely have to leave her spot anyway if she were to have any chance of finding Draco, but now was not the time.

She fell asleep early, just briefly seeing the announcement of the fallen, a tribute from District 3 named Terry. The anthem lulled her to sleep shortly after.

By the next day, the situation with Hermione’s food was dire. She now had two goals: find Malfoy and find food, in no particular order, though chronologically would be preferred. Maybe he would have food on him that he wouldn’t mind sharing.

It was wishful thinking after how things had left off between them.

She didn’t know where her search would take her, but she had to assume she might not make her way back to the tree again. She packed up her camp and set off in a new direction. Her path took her towards an unexplored area of the arena as it led away from all of the places she had mapped. It was a risk, since she didn’t know what was out there, but it was also a risk to only look for Draco in the areas she had already been.

At the point she was at, everything was a risk.

There was no way to know what awaited her in the new part of the arena, but with her bow draped over her back and the quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder, she hoped she was equipped enough to handle it.

An hour later, as the morning sun was just starting to rise, she came upon an area that looked promising. Not for finding Malfoy, but for food.

It was lush with trees, the kind that had bright green leaves as if they had absorbed only warm sunlight their whole life. They spread amongst rolling hills, one after another, towering over her like the skyscrapers in Pure Capital. Hermione felt infinitesimal beneath them.

She readied her bow, tugging an arrow between her finger along the string, and powered forward as a promising feeling settled over her. She walked for a few paces, nothing but the sound of gravel crunching under her feet as her anchor to reality, and passed her eyes around the space.

A quick glance to the left, a shoot of her eyes to the right, a look up ahead. Her eyes flashed back and forth until she started to feel dizzy, and then she stopped.

Rooted amongst the trees, she pulled her head up to the sky and looked at them. They swayed with the wind like a ruffle of feathers, green and bright and strong. It brought a smile to her face that she couldn’t hold back.

She felt so much peace in the forest, the presence of large trees like a protective hug around her that she couldn't quite explain the sensation of. The sound of the leaves rustling, the quiet howl of the wind, even the feeling of soil and dirt beneath her shoes, it all felt like home. 

At the end of it all, if she were going to die in these Games, at least she could do it in a place where she felt comfort. Few could say they got that luxury. 

In the silence, she was well equipped to hear a rustle of bushes not far off from where she stood. Her eyes snapped down to the sound and caught the barely-there shift of movement— a shade of brown amongst the tree trunks, a pair of antlers, and then it jumped across her path just metres away, as if it was almost too good to be true.

It was a deer, and if she could catch it, she would hit the jackpot. It could feed her for weeks.

The deer stopped suddenly, turning its head towards her, and already primed, she shot at it quickly. The arrow flew through the air at the perfect trajectory before the animal suddenly sprung from its spot and galloped into the woods. The arrow barely missed it, falling to the ground soundlessly.

She Accio’d it and followed after the deer.

It darted between trees, picking up pace at the threat of Hermione running behind it and she felt her heart start to race in her chest. It sprung one way and she shot after it, then another way and she followed quickly behind. Each time the arrow left her bow, it would just graze the animal's body, nearly piercing it, before it bolted in a different direction.

Leaves and bushes slapped against her skin as she ran, arrows flying in all directions as she just kept up with accio’ing the ones that missed before loading up to shoot the next. Her eyes were locked dead on her target, as each jolt of the animal caused it to lose speed and allowed her to catch up, but each shot she made slowed her down in turn.

The make-up of trees slowly started to shift from lush and green, arching over her like a canopy, to thinning and grey. She didn’t initially notice the change until an unsettling chill coursed through her body.

Her muscles reacted to the sensation, tightening beneath her skin as if a lightning bolt had incapacitated them frozen. She felt her legs start to give out beneath her, moving slower and slower despite her mind willing her body to keep going. The breath came out of her in rapid pants, as the coils of her lungs contracted tightly and her chest concaved in response.

She came to an abrupt stop.

The deer paused, looked back at her, and then bolted out of view into deeper parts of the woods before it was gone.

Hermione looked around her, realizing she was in a completely different part of the forest than she came from. It was technically the same forest, but nothing looked right.

Every tree was like a carbon copy of the one next to it, and the one after that, tall and straggling as if they were their dying breath. It was an unsettling illusion, like an army of thinning soldiers in straitjackets. She spun around as a grey fog started to roll towards her from all ends of the forest.

It prickled at her skin as she watched it coat the ground, rising into the air until it was nearly at her hip. It brought with it cold, a piercing kind that bit at her, digging deep into her flesh and bones.

The only concession was that she felt her magic still course through her body, tingling at her fingertips.

Dread settled over her core like a blanket and then suddenly tightened, sucking the breath out of her as she stumbled forward. The dread was overwhelming, unlike anything she had ever felt before. All her gruesome fears and memories started to rise to the surface, of her own death, of her parents perishing in the fire, burned alive as they called out for help with nobody to save them.

She didn’t come. It was her fault, her hands that carried their blood, her soul that was stained with the remnants of their life.

The fog swarmed around her and she could feel the chill deep in her bones as her mind continued to swim, to drown, in dreadful visions.

Death. Blood. Ripped limbs. Scorched skin.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, awfully, inexplicably wrong.

Torn flesh. Blood. Death.

Her mind filled with the scream that she had buried in the deepest pits of her mind, the scream that she had convinced herself was an illusion as she stood before her family house and it burned to a crisp. The scream that she was certain was the last sign of her parent's life before flames consumed it to an end.

Blood. Fire. Death.

Death.

Death.

Death.

She tried desperately to shut her eyes but they remained open and frozen. A dense wall of darkness swam toward her, growing closer and closer, until she could scarcely register faint shapes.

Swirling shapes that moved in a great wave.

Hermione strained against the fear and emptiness within her, trying to push against it with all her might, just to give her mind any room to breathe and think.

The shapes were dark and hooded.

An unknown entity, moving towards her as the cold only grew more bitter and harsh, slicing through her flesh like razors.

Don’t lose it, Hermione. Don’t lose it.

The figures seized movement just paces away from her and hovered around a single point, as if watching or waiting for something.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness they swept behind them and the pain from the clench of her jaw as she pushed her Occlumency to its limits was nothing compared to the pain she felt everywhere else. 

Pages flashed through her mind, one after another, sifting through entire books in seconds, as she searched needlessly for an answer, for a remedy to the nightmare she found herself in.

Her mind landed on a single image, a word outlined at the top of a page.

DEMENTORS, it read.

She felt her limbs go numb, as the cold started to strangle her. Pushing, aching, on the verge of collapse, she willed her eyes to focus on the rest of the page.

DEFENCE:

The image shifted as her breathing grew more rapid. She blinked hard, pressing whatever she could still feel of her heels sharply into the ground like an anchor. She pushed the remnants of her mind to try again.

DEFENCE:

It blurred again quickly, the word she needed just out of reach, just slightly too hazy to comprehend. Her jaw ached from the sheer force of her magic, as her body fought against her but she pulled everything she had into keeping upright. To keep seeing.

The warm tears felt sharp against her tender cold cheeks and she wanted to scream out, to collapse and let the cold just take her, but she couldn’t.

DEFENCE: Pat

So close. The words were still blurry. She rubbed at her eyes harshly.

DEFENCE: Patro

Almost there.

DEFENCE: Patronus

It blurred in and out of her view and then vanished as the pages started to flip again.

Her shoulders sagged as relief sank deep within her. Hermione had no time to think, to hesitate, or to plan. She focused on a single spindle within her reservoir of memories, clawing with everything she had to wrap her magic around it.

There was so little left in that reservoir, most happy thoughts long overshadowed by darkness, but it wasn’t empty. There was still something there, faint, but it was there. A calming rhythm and presence she knew so well. Her magic reached for it, grasping and pulling, until it wrapped just a single vine around the pulse.

She gathered all the strength left within her, every ounce laced into her core, her limbs, her muscles, and brain, and pushed it out of her with a grunt.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Ginny’s face flashed against her lids as the sliver of happiness anchored the spell forward.

Her silver bird darted out of the tip of her wand like a flame igniting, flapping its wide wings with a resounding smack. There was no hesitation in its movements as it charged toward the swarming creatures.

It barrelled into them like a speeding train, blinding silver light exploding outwards with an unparalleled might and force. Her bird flapped its wings in attack, chirping at the dementors, clawing and biting at their hooded forms. Piercing wails filled the air as they pulled their hoods further over their faces in agony and continued to be pushed back.

Hermione kept her arm as steady as she could but her knees buckled as the sounds of their cries bounced and echoed through the forest. She pressed her body to the ground, shutting her eyes forcefully, tears nearly suffocating her as she willed the world to let it all be over. 

And then the horrid sounds cut off abruptly.

Cowered behind a tree, she gasped for breath as the fog started to creep back, pulling the darkness with it. She took greedy gulps of air, feeling as the staccato of her heart beat wildly against the confines of her chest.

Letting her eyes drift open and adjust to the sudden light, she peered out slowly from behind the bush. The forest was lush and green again, a stark contrast to what it looked like when the mayhem began.

Her Patronus was still present, flapping its wings wildly in one spot, though the threat had clearly subsided. The bird circled in a continuous rhythm, looking out towards her and cawing for attention. She pushed herself to her feet gingerly, letting the blood flow through her body as she started to take cautious steps towards it.

What could it possibly still want from her, and why did she feel so foolish walking towards it as if another trap awaited her?

When she neared, her hand pulled towards it to try and pet it, to thank it for saving her life, but it vanished beneath her fingers in a mist of silver and white. She wasn't sure if she imagined the entire thing as her eyes passed over the hazy space, bushes and overgrown weeds all around, until she spotted a drop in the shrubs that didn’t look natural, as if it wasn't supposed to be there at all. 

As she took a step forward towards the drop, and her eyes slowly focused, they settled on a misshapen body lying still along the ground.

A boy with a blonde head of hair that was unmistakable.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her wand hand falling limp at her side. Her knees buckled again as she collapsed to the forest floor. 

Chapter Text

Draco came to with a sudden gasp, filling his lungs with a greedy gulp of air and bursting almost fully upright from the spot he lay in. He cowered away from Hermione as soon as he saw her as if he didn’t immediately recognize who she was and mistook her for a tribute there to kill him.

Seconds later, when his eyes adjusted, he slumped back against the tree and turned his head away from her.

When she first realized it was him lying there, unconscious and on the brink of death, her mind had flipped to the same page she saw during the attack, a single remedy listed for the effects of dementors: chocolate. She had rummaged through his bag, knowing she had none in hers, and when she came up empty-handed, snarling in frustration, a small package with a tiny parachute had floated down into her hands from the sky.

It was a sponsorship.

When she opened it, it was clear it wasn’t for her. It was a single chocolate bar enclosed in a dark green wrapper.

Now, almost ten minutes later, seeing him alert, she fumbled with it in her hands, transferring it back and forth so that it didn’t melt from the heat of her skin.

The heat she was relieved to have back.

Hermione's teeth clamped down on her tongue because she knew she should give him space and take things slow. He had been on the brink of a soulless life and she was certain he wasn’t expecting her to be there when he came to.

“Eat this,” she said, cautiously pushing the chocolate bar towards him, the wrapper already ripped open for ease.

Draco turned his head to look at her, met her eyes, then looked down at her hands. His brows furrowed, and his bottom lip just barely slipped underneath the top row of his teeth.

“Why?” his voice rasped, deep and unsettling. It was as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

“Just eat it,” she softened her tone. His fingers wrapped around the chocolate and he pulled his hand away with it quickly, eyes glued to her. She gave him a sympathetic look, one she hoped portrayed that she knew whatever he went through was bad, and that she wasn’t there to make it worse.

They sat in silence together, the only sound between them his quiet chewing of the bar. Hermione kept her eyes down, trailing a pattern in her pants patiently.

“Am I dead?” he asked her, voice breaking through the stillness.

She felt the corner of her lip pull but didn’t let it turn into a smile. It wasn't the time or place. She wondered if it was worth telling him how close he came to it, but decided against it.

“No, not unless I am. And I’m definitely not.”

Draco didn’t look at her while she spoke but she saw him nod and turn his face away again. He aimlessly placed the edge of the chocolate bar into his mouth, the muscles in his neck straining as he continued to chew.

Quiet. Resigned.

Lifeless.

It was so odd seeing him this way, after everything. After his brazen approach during the first day and all his snide remarks since. The glint in his eyes that was always there when he looked at her, despite her fleeting company, and the quick as a whip mouth that retorted anything she said.

He wasn’t the same person sitting before her now.

“It wasn’t real, you know.”

He whipped his head towards her, angry suddenly, on the defence. “What wasn’t real?”

Hermione took a slow breath before she answered. “Whatever you saw.”

He started to rise to his feet manically, intent on getting away from her, but he was too weak. He slumped down, struggling to get balance, and she reached out to help him sit back down on instinct—an instinct she wasn't certain even existed yet. But when her hand neared the bare skin of his arms, he flinched away from her touch.

“How do you know what I saw?” he spat.

Hermione tried not to look at the marking on his forearm, the same one that she had kept hidden on herself since the early days in the arena. But her eyes locked in on it and she had to quickly shake off the unsettling feeling that it brought. He saw her reaction and turned his arm in towards himself and sunk into the tree.

“I don’t,” she said softly, refocusing on their conversation. “I saw my own version of whatever you saw.”

Draco didn’t nod, or react, or do anything to show that he heard her. She sighed quietly, knowing that confusion, defensiveness, and anger were all common symptoms after a dementor attack. Especially one of the magnitude he faced.

He held the remnants of the chocolate bar in his hand limply, not looking like he intended to eat anymore.

“You need to—”

“Why are you here,” he croaked, cutting in before she could finish. His tone, despite being weak, was harsh, and she swallowed down the hurt that came with it, but knew she couldn’t hold it against him. It was a sobering reminder that she had left their last interaction even worse, even meaner than that.

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap and looked up at the side of his face as he continued to stare out into the distance. “It doesn’t really matter why. Just be glad that I was.”

Draco remained quiet, so she settled into it too. Minutes passed, stretching out like hours, but the silence remained. Her stomach grumbled at one point and he turned to look at her, but when her eyes met his, he quickly looked away.

“It was a dementor attack,” she finally said, quietly, barely above a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear.

He blinked hard and dropped his head down with a pained expression.

The question weighed on her, as to why he was here. How he came to be in the same peculiar part of the forest as her, at the same time. It felt too odd to just be a coincidence.

She paused before the words rolled off her tongue, no longer able to hold herself back. “How did you end up here?”

His hesitation was evident, as his bottom lip slipped into his mouth again and he bit at it. A blush coated the nape of his neck, the pinkish hue flowing in contrast against the stark white of his shirt hem.

He looked rattled, so different from how he portrayed himself before, to the point that it was unnerving to see. He was like a different person entirely, and she wondered how strong his mask had been, how many cracks had to have been placed in it for him to look and feel this broken.

He swallowed hard, but didn’t answer her.

Hermione thought she could try something different, a new approach to get through to him, to get past the defences that he had up.

Picking up a small stick near her foot, she ran it through the dirt and began to speak.

“I went out to look for food. I saw a deer and ran after it and it led me here.” She paused briefly, hoping he would interrupt, but he didn’t so she continued. “I was shooting at it with my bow and I didn’t notice when the woods started to change. One moment they were green and lush and the next moment everything turned grey. It got really cold and—“

“—your limbs froze,” Draco finished.

She looked up at his voice and he was watching her. “Yes,” she said, a downward tilt to her tone, confirming the end of the sad story. “My limbs froze.”

He met her eyes, and she could tell the mask was in its place. They were slate grey, flat, like concrete on a summer day, giving nothing away as to what he was thinking. They just looked at each other, and it should have been awkward or uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. She had saved his life, and he had saved hers, so they sat in silence and let that simmer between them as they looked at one another.

The only thing she could hear was her beating heart, and amidst the quiet between them, his as well. They beat in rhythm with each other, chests falling and rising as they let the air slowly fill and release from their lungs.

Looking back on that moment, she could recall the exact second his expression changed. Suddenly, she was drowning in grey. His eyes weren't concrete anymore but a thunderous sky in the late afternoon; a clouded river after it rained; the remnants of smoke after a flame went out. They shifted from slate, to silver, to almost blue, and she was captivated, having never experienced the pull of anything like it before.

And she knew he was thinking, that he was trying to make sense of it all, to figure out how to ask her something else, so she didn't startle when his voice broke. 

“Where did they go?”

She swallowed hard, knowing exactly what they referred to. “I sent them away.”

Draco's eyes continued to storm. “How?” he asked, a sliver of confidence, of something akin to hope, in his voice.

She pulled at her finger, realizing she wasn’t prepared for this part. Saying it out loud was admitting that she almost didn’t make it in time. That they had both almost succumbed to the forces, and he would have been gone and she would have never known otherwise.

“With a Patronus,” she whispered.

His eyes flashed wide and then settled back. “Why doesn’t it surprise me you know how to cast one?”

Hermione felt the hopeful tease in his voice, but by the flat expression on his face, wondered if it was just a figment of her imagination. Something she wished was there. But she could tell that she was close to breaking through. That the sights she had set out in the morning were so close to being realized.

That she was just a breath away from having an ally, from committing herself to being one as well and her heart danced in a rhythm at the thought.

Allies could destroy the Games.

And she could be one.

“Why are you still here?” he muttered.

She swallowed her pride, and spoke the words she had recited to herself that morning.

“You asked me to think about your offer,” she trailed off, watching him turn away from her as she spoke. There was a flash of something odd in his expression, and then it disappeared. Hermione cleared her throat, and continued, “I did. If the offer is still on the table, I’d like to accept it.”

She counted the silence that followed with the beats of her heart.

One, two, three, four, five, six—

And then Draco smiled.

It was sincere, wholly greedy, and relieved. His cheeks perked up, turning pink, and an odd warmth settled in the pit of her stomach because the expression was directed at her.

And because she wasn’t expecting it, she smiled back.

The moment didn’t last long, and he didn’t say anything more, but it was enough for her to know that he accepted the offer and the new unspoken truce between them.

When he finished the chocolate bar, the healthy colour to his skin returned quickly. He tested the strength of his arms behind him, felt no shake, and then pushed himself up to his feet gracefully, shoving the empty wrapper into a pocket in his trousers as he stood.

As Hermione started to rise to her own feet, his outstretched hand held out to her. She looked up at him, and he looked sure of himself, a glint in his eyes that reminded her of who he was, and she took it without hesitation.

When she was up on her feet, his hand didn’t linger. He dropped it to collect his bag and threw it over his shoulder as he started to take purposeful strides deeper into the forest. She stood and watched his back, not understanding the plan.

The few moments of her hesitation were enough to show him she wasn’t following because he paused and looked back at her over his shoulder, calling out, “Are you coming or not?”

She didn’t even have time to respond before he turned away again and continued on his path. She grabbed her backpack quickly, throwing it haphazardly over the quiver already set on her shoulder and raced behind him.

“Malfoy, wait—” she panted, catching up to his strides. “Where are you going?”

There was no stutter in his steps as he spoke. “Well, it looks like you’ve got your whole life packed into that bag, which I’m assuming means you don’t have a camp set up anywhere nearby?”

“Well, no—“

“Exactly,” he chimed in. “But I do.”

He turned to her and quirked his brow, giving her a look that said—you should have known that. But it was light-hearted, and when he turned back to the path ahead of them, there was a small smirk plastered on his face.

They walked in silence for about a mile before their path cut off abruptly along a deep wall of trees. Something about the way they were formed felt eerily familiar, as if she had seen a group of trees look like it before. But as quickly as that thought came to her, she realized why.

The glamoured wall surrounding Harry’s camp looked exactly the same.

Draco approached it and ran his hand over one of the tree trunks. It glimmered under his touch the same way it had under hers when she found Harry. He whispered a quiet incantation under his breath and the glamour started to peel away until it formed an arched entryway into a hidden crook of the woods. He stepped to the side and motioned for her to enter.

It felt like all or nothing at that point, and she knew that if she stepped beyond the threshold there was no going back on her decision, at least not for anything petty. But there was no hesitation in her steps as she entered through the passage, and Draco followed quickly behind. The moment they were both past the entryway, the glamour resealed itself.

Hermione stood before an incredible scene and tried to gather her senses.

The space itself was not very large but the camp was unlike anything she had ever seen. A canvas tent was pitched under an overgrown tree, the entry flap to it pulled back to reveal two sleeping cots inside. There was still burning campfire set paces away from that, a chair next to it, and a grill set over the flames. A pile of weapons was strewn in a corner of the camp next to a large carrier pack. There were knives, a sword, an unreasonably large sickle, and a still bloody flail. A chill coated the spine of her back at the sight. A lone axe stood upright in a pile of wood next to the fire.

“This is your camp?” she whispered, completely bewildered. 

“Yes, Granger,” he said proudly. “I don’t offer to work with people to then slum it out.” He paused. “Why… where have you been staying this whole time?”

Hermione gulped, hesitant to admit anything as she stood before the fortress of his camp. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said quickly.

“Don’t tell me that nasty river with those creatures was your camp?” Draco chuckled.

“Why would that be my camp? I’m not stupid.”

“Well, I don’t know much about you, but at least I know that. So then, where?” he probed again.

She clasped her hands before her and spun her thumbs around an invisible axis, staying deliberately silent.

He surpassed a laugh, straining to hold his face composed because he saw that she did not look like she was amused at the situation. “That tree?” he struggled to get out.

She remained silent, eyes downcast. It wasn’t embarrassing before, but it was terribly so now. She thought all the tributes survived like her, but looking at Draco’s living arrangements painted a very different picture. She had gotten by on scraps and he was living like a king.

The irony was palpable.

“It was that tree, wasn’t it? The one that almost killed you?” he pressed, expression now more serious as he looked at her, waiting for an honest answer.

The pressure of his stare was too much for her to bear. “Yes! Okay, yes!” Hermione blurted out. “Yes, I slept there! But once it was destroyed I found another spot.”

His serious expression quickly shifted to strain as he tried to suppress a laugh again. She would laugh too if it didn’t make her feel so bloody miserable and lame. “Don’t tell me it was another tree,” he snickered.

“Draco!”

He was clearly feeling like himself again if he could tease her this way. A desperate part of her hated feeling like she was beneath him. It was the same part of her that fought back his help. She wanted to feel like an equal, not like a joke for his amusement.

“I’ll have you know that trees are extremely safe! They’re protected by leaves, they’re covered, and being off the ground is a great hunting strategy,” she rambled. “And also, if the space ever shifts to no magic, you can still be covered!”

“No magic?” he scoffed. “That sounds fake.”

She glared at him, not sure if he was joking, but the serious look in his eyes as he sat himself down on the chair before the fire looked anything but a joke. His eyebrows were stern, his eyes flat, and tone calm, as if he was simply making a valid rebuttal to a well-worded claim.

“Well, it’s not. It might be rare but it’s not fake. The magic just stops.”

He threw his ankle up onto his knee and twirled his wand in thought. “I don’t think that’s possible, but okay.”

Hermione sighed, knowing it was likely one of the things about the arena that he might not know. Maybe not everyone in Pure Capital was consumed by watching the Games. Maybe there were some people that abhorred them like her, watching solely because it was required. Or maybe, they had a choice in the matter and he hadn’t seen enough or any Games to know it was possible at all.

There was so much she didn’t know about him.

So much she couldn’t answer but that she knew they would eventually have to talk about. The most glaring thing was the reason for why he had targeted her as a partner to begin with. But there would be time to ask him that. There would be time to learn about each other and hopefully they could get it right.

Maybe there was a way they could get out of this alive, together. Possibly with even more than just the two of them. But she didn’t hold her breath on the thought because nothing like that had ever happened in the Games before. She just let it spark a moment of thrill in her before it was washed away like water along a sandy shore.

Hermione realized then that she had been standing twiddling her thumbs, eyes glazed and looking at Draco. He quirked his brow at her when she came to and she couldn’t prevent the blush that coated her cheeks as much as she would have liked to.

“Make yourself at home,” he motioned to the tent.

Home.

The word did a funny thing to her stomach, and she wondered if it could have always been this easy to find.

Ducking into the tent, she came before two cots on opposite walls from each other. One looked lived-in, with a camping pillow and a woven blanket thrown along it. The other was empty.

Empty as if it had never been touched. As if it was set there for somebody that never came.

But now she was here to claim it. And the thought of sleeping next to somebody she barely knew, amidst circumstances where they were expected to kill each other, would take some getting used to.

She started to unpack her belongings from her backpack slowly, no pillow or blanket to her name, just a ratty sleeping bag, an empty jar, and a bottle of water. She laid it out on the cot and made herself comfortable on the padded floor, cross-legged and unsure what to do next. The walls were tacked with maps and diagrams and she passed her eyes over them, not quite certain what they meant but knowing they were likely important.

“Is that it?” his voice rang out from behind her as he stepped into the tent. “That’s all you have?”

Hermione grasped the bow still over her chest, finger just barely grazing the pin she hadn’t taken off and turned her head to him. 

“That's all I have,” she said and turned back to the maps on the walls.

It was almost as if he knew she was unsettled, nervous even, about the new arrangement they found themselves in: practically strangers, but fighting for their life together.

“Would you like to go hunting?”

She mustered out a nod and rose to her feet. 

They didn’t stray far from the camp in their pursuit, finding a raft of ducks that they were able to take out easily. Her with her bow and arrow, and him with his shuriken stars. Of all the weapons he had back in his camp, he very clearly had a favourite. He sliced the neck clean off a duck, and she shot one right through its head. He didn’t squirm as he held onto them both on their way back to the campfire.

He volunteered to do the dirty work with the birds, so she sat back in the chair by the campfire and watched him. His hands worked meticulously for being as large as they were, and she felt herself getting fixated on the way he maneuvered the boning knife around the animal. He took his time, carefully slicing around the bone, prying the flesh open with delicate care, and removing the insides with his fingers. He vanished the parts that couldn’t be eaten and when he was finished, brushed his hair out of his face with the back of his arm.

Hermione had never seen someone as adept with skinning and preparing animal meat as him. She wondered where he learned how to do it.

Draco set the birds to roast over the fire and transfigured another chair for himself from a scrap of firewood. He placed it next to her, but not too close, as they both seemed to have the same understanding of what the boundary was and didn’t want to cross it.

When he struggled with a cleaning spell for the animal blood splattered across his shirt, she muttered an incantation she had made up herself to clean up from the hunting she did in District 12. He looked at her wide-eyed as the red seeped out, leaving his top stark white again, but didn’t say anything more.

The sun had set by the time they started to eat and the silence between them was broken up only by sparks from the fire and crickets deep in the pits of the woods. She had just thanked him for cooking when the anthem of Regnum began to play and they both pulled their heads up to the sky.

From the corner of her eye, she caught him recoiling at the skull and snake symbol as it illuminated against the darkness of the night. As quickly as the reaction appeared, an expressionless mask fell into its place.

A single face and name projected in the sky—a female tribute from District 10 named Penelope. Hermione realized she didn’t remember hearing a cannon since the last announcement. A lot had happened in the last 24 hours.

When the anthem of Regnum began to play, they both pulled their eyes back to their surroundings. Neither said anything as they started to clean up, vanishing garbage, and muttering cleaning spells on plates. Hermione wondered if Draco was thinking the same thing as her, or at least something similar.

Another face of another tribute, gone. The reality of where they were; inescapable.

She snuck a glance at him as he put the fire out and his face was tense, rigid lines all over as the moonlight hit his features. He stayed back as she entered the tent to allow her privacy, and she was suddenly overtaken with the unsettling realization that she was invading what he had considered his space, and his space alone.

But he had asked her to, so she shoved the insecurity down and focused on her steps.

When she entered, letting the tent flap fall behind her, there was a folded set of clothes on her cot. She looked down at her body, dressed in the same clothing she had come to the Games in, kept appropriate only by desperate cleaning and refreshing charms, and the blush burned at her cheeks.

Hermione unfolded the clothes, revealing a t-shirt and shorts, a few sizes too big.

Draco had said nothing about it, but there was no doubt that it was his doing. She swallowed her pride and started to undress. The seams and buttons had baked days-old indents into the skin of her body, and slipping on soft cotton was the reprieve she had forced her mind not to fantasize about.

But now that she felt it, it was heaven.

She stepped out into their camp to hang her pants and shirt up to air, nearly colliding with him as he waited outside. “Thanks for—“ she started to say.

“Don’t mention it,” he cut off quietly and ducked in through the entrance.

The cool air on her skin was refreshing as she walked circles in front of the tent until she heard the rustle of a cot. She peaked her head in, making sure she didn’t see anything indecent, and stepped into the tent again when she spotted the back of his head along his pillow.

She climbed into her sleeping bag, leaving one side open to let air in, and settled into her cot. It was so much more comfortable than sleeping in a tree that she could cry. And maybe later that night, she did.

As both of their breaths evened, heard and felt so clearly in the confines of the small space between them, Hermione sighed and turned over to face him. She wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or not but words rolled off her tongue before she could stop them.

“Goodnight, Malfoy."

It was silent for a moment, his body still besides his breathing, but then he shuffled under his blanket and turned to face her. When he met her eyes, he sat up in his cot and the blanket fell to his bare waist. He reached over to the lantern settled between them and held her stare.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

He puffed a breath of air and the light went out, engulfing their tent in the shadows of the night.

Chapter Text

The dreams Hermione had that night were vivid and fitful. They were all black lines and sharp edges, unfamiliar manor houses, and moonlight reflecting off of golden white crescents. Then she was flying through the sky on the back of a dragon, hair billowing in the wind, laughing harder than she ever had in her life. The dragon dropped her off in the middle of the mountains, she turned a dial on a necklace hanging from her neck, and then repeated the sights all over again.

The freedom was exhilarating, contagious, and made her yearn for the day she could feel something even close to it, the sliver of possibility edging itself under her skin until it consumed her entire being.

She wanted it more than anything.

But she was no fool to think it would be possible in that way. Not in these circumstances. Not in this lifetime.

However, the seed of hope was still planted.

When her eyes cracked open to the early morning sun, they settled on unfamiliar surroundings. At least initially, unfamiliar because she had only ever opened her eyes to her childhood home, the Burrow, her room at the training grounds, and the cover of trees.

It took a moment for the realization of where she was to catch up to her. Hermione stretched her neck out, tight from the unexpected and sudden comfort of the night, and her gaze landed on the space opposite her in the tent.

Empty.

The blanket was carefully tucked under the edge of the cot, the pillow fluffed, and clothes folded neatly at the foot.

With a quiet Accio, her own clothing came flying towards her from outside of the tent. She dressed quickly, trying to replicate the appearance of put-togetherness to the best of her abilities. But she paused when she got to her bed. The ratty stitched sleeping bag was practically the only belonging to her name, besides her bow and arrows, and it looked terribly sad.

It was nowhere close to what Draco had to call his own.

She rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes. Large bricks stacked on top of one another slowly, meticulously placed and lined to perfection. The bricks came together to form a large wall that sectioned off an entire part of her mind. She felt the fleeting thoughts strain against the wall, prodding and pushing at it to budge, but it held strong.

Her feet carried her outside into the sunlight, and she spotted Draco sitting at the dormant campfire with his back turned to her. She approached quietly from behind.

“Morning,” he mumbled, biting off the corner of a packaged sandwich as her footsteps crunched into proximity. He was dressed in a different t-shirt than the day before and had a baseball cap set low over his eyes from the sun.

Hermione came to a halt next to him and wondered how he had gotten his hands on a sandwich in the middle of the arena.

“Malfoy,” she started, itching to ask him about what she presumed to be an abundance of sponsorships, sponsors likely lining up out the door to send him gifts, when the answer came to her without any need for clarification. Her voice trailed off in a sigh.

He was Pure Capital, that was how.

“There’s one for you too,” he pointed to a package on the other chair, as if he knew what she had meant to ask. But that really wasn’t what Hermione was interested in.

She picked up the sandwich and sat down in the chair opposite him. Her fingers fumbled around the wrapper, eyes roving over the contents: bread, lettuce, some sort of deli meat, cheese.

“Is this what you always eat for breakfast?” she asked, voice sounding tenser than she meant to let on.

He shrugged. “I eat what the sponsors send.”

The confirmation stung more than it should have. They were on the same side now, technically ready to fight for one another, but that didn’t make the reality of the situation feel any better. He had been living a privileged life inside the Games, one she was sure nobody else had access to. Not in this abundance.

Whatever appetite she had when she awoke was gone. She leaned back in her chair and placed the sandwich off to the side of her.

None of it felt right. She didn’t want to believe that the Games should have been as ruthless as the Games-makers developed them to be, but there was also a fine line between fairness and absurdity. Every single thing on this camp was likely gifted to him. And maybe it hadn’t been his choice, but his acceptance of the sponsorships was enough to show he was okay with it.

She was here now, and she should have been okay with it too.

Why wasn’t she okay with it?

Why did it feel wrong? Why did it feel like she would betray everything she knew by basking in gifts she didn’t deserve nor wanted to receive?

Hermione had yet to be given a single sponsorship, and though it was frustrating, at the very least, she felt clean. Untainted by the money of people who just wanted to see tributes die.

“Is there a problem?” Draco sat up in his chair, eyeing her still-packaged food.

She should have been thankful. She should have been glad she was getting it easy now.

“No,” she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m not hungry.”

It could have been easy to sit and wallow in the words she claimed, and she might have been able to do it, but her stomach betrayed her with a loud grumble. The first time she could ignore it, keeping her eyes settled on her lap even when she saw Draco turn towards her. The second time was more difficult to ignore. When it grumbled for the third time, he cleared his throat sharply.

Hermione looked up at him, and he was watching her, eyes glued to her face, mouth in a stern line. His left brow rose slowly, and he narrowed his eyes.

The challenge was written all over his face.

She didn’t break contact, eyes steady and firm, as she reached for the sandwich and undid the wrapper slowly.

The corner of his mouth twitched up his cheek.

She pulled the sandwich out with her fingers and pushed the wrapper down to the base. The only break in their eye contact was the occasional blink from him or her. Otherwise, their gazes remained steady.

What started as a challenge on his part was now very clearly a test. Hermione felt her lips scrunch into a scowl.

She pulled the sandwich to her mouth and let the aroma of meat and cheese invade her senses. He cocked his head towards her, an infuriatingly audacious invitation to take a bite.

She narrowed her eyes and did.

A large one, likely the most indiscreet bite of food she’d ever taken, and he chuckled before looking away with a satisfied glint in his eyes.

As she ate, they sat in silence. Draco vanished the packaging from his sandwich and threw his feet up onto the edge of the fire pit, tossing his head back onto the headrest of the chair.

Hermione forced herself to look away from him and focused her eyes on the perimeter of the camp where the faint shimmer of the ward glistened against the beams of sunlight. If he had been sheltered from everything outside of this camp this entire time, it was another luxury he had. In total solitude from the rest of the arena, it was tempting to imagine there were no Games at all beyond the barrier of the wards. That it was just her and him in their own little cocoon of blissful ignorance.

It felt like the freedom was almost there, so close she could grasp for it, feel it if she could just wrap her fingers around it, but it would always remain just out of reach.

She finished her sandwich and vanished the wrapper. With a quick look his way, Hermione could tell that he had made himself comfortable.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” he drawled, eyes closed and head turned towards the sun.

“I’m not sure. That’s why I asked.”

“Nothing,” he boasted, rosy cheeks flushing against the light complexion of his skin. “I’m doing nothing.”

“Why?” she asked, unsettled by the notion that a tribute could simply do nothing in the Games. Even when she was doing “nothing” a few days earlier, she still had to forage, she still had to stay hidden, she still had her own life on her mind the whole time. There was no “doing nothing” in an arena where the likeliest outcome was your death.

Draco was clearly not flagged by the same concerns. He shrugged his shoulders in response.

She wondered if the Games had always been this way for him. The most action he’d faced was when they’d interacted with one another, but he’d otherwise been sheltered from everything else.

She wondered if he’d even come across another tribute aside from her.

But she didn’t ask because she didn’t know how.

There was so much she wanted to ask but didn’t know how.

“Besides yesterday, do you ever forage?” she probed, pulling herself forward in her chair.

Draco remained arched back in his, arms crossed behind his head. “There are tons of supplies already on the camp.”

Right, she thought, no thanks to you.

“What about strengthening the wards?”

She thought about what Arthur had taught her about the Wards at The Burrow. They always had to be re-strengthened, adjusted, and tweaked as the circumstances around and inside them changed. With the Games still going on in full force outside of the barrier, it should have been a no-brainer to adjust them, at least daily.

“They’re already strong.”

He pulled his cap down to his nose, and she realized that was all she was going to get from him. There was nothing more left to say; there was nothing more left that she wanted to hear.

“Okay,” Hermione muttered, the resignation bleeding through every particle of her breath. Minutes ticked by as Draco remained seated, seeming content to spend the rest of his day the same way.

She passed her eyes over the space again, wondering what useful thing she could do. There was nothing to do in the tent, nothing to do next to him, but then her eyes landed on the pile of weapons he had stored near the edge of the wards.

Perfect.

Practice and an outlet for her turmoil.

“I’m going to go target practice,” she jumped to her feet, not bothering to wait for a response before she made a beeline for the weapons. Her bow and arrow remained in the tent, and that was fine by her. There were plenty of other weapons she could try her hand at.

There was already a target set up against a large tree, and it was no doubt another sponsorship gift. Her frustration coursed through her as if completely replacing the blood in her veins.

That was all she was—an utter mess of emotions and resentment, bundled up into the complicated form of her body.

She spotted a box of throwing stars and tossed them to the side. Instead, she pulled out a pouch of knives, unfurling the suede leather cover to inspect the steel handles. They looked completely untouched.

She assumed it was another convenient gift, so many to his name she had no idea how he was able to keep track.

He likely wasn’t even trying to.

Hermione snarled as she yanked a knife out and flung it towards the target. She didn’t wait to see where it landed before grabbing another one and throwing it in the same direction. Within moments all eight knives were gone.

She stormed towards the target with a huff, stomping her feet against the dirt ground, hair flying all around her, thinking that when she threw the knives next, she would imagine she was hitting people from Pure Capital. The Games-makers. The President.

It took two hands to try and get each knife out. She dug her heels into the ground, tugging with all her might, but the knives remained slotted firmly in the wooden base. She pulled with her entire body weight until one suddenly dislodged and sent her stumbling back.

Each time it happened, she just got angrier.

“Stupid handles,” she huffed, “stupid knives, stupid target, stupid tree….”

A particular stubbornly lodged knife had her muttering expletives under her breath, tugging and grabbing as it refused to move even an inch.

“Argh!” she roared as her hand slipped from around it again, turning swiftly from the target and throwing all the other freed knives in her hand soaring to the ground in a fit.

“Woah, Granger,” Draco's voice echoed through the grounds, “Don’t hurt yourself with all that rage.”

“Why?” she whirled around to look at him. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, they’ll have a remedy sent over in no time! Maybe a get-well card too? And a balloon? If it was you, would you ask for a box of chocolates?” She could do nothing to hold back the spite in her tone. 

He rose to his feet and took a step towards her, cocking a brow. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“No!”

“You sure?” he crossed his arms.

“No, I'm not sure!”

She could feel the magic sparking out the tips of her fingers, pushing her hair to stand on all ends. The breath left her lungs coarsely, where she was huffing and puffing more than just breathing. She didn’t know why she was so angry, seeming so deranged, but she was, and it was almost worse knowing Draco knew that she was.

“You should go cool off in the tent,” he sat back down into his chair, throwing his heel on the opposite knee.

“Are you sending me into a time-out?” she shrieked, fuming at his curt dismissal.

“Yes.” He dragged his cap back down to his nose again.

Hermione stood in disbelief, pulling her jaw tight to stop it from dropping, and watched as he sank into his chair without another word. She counted the seconds as they passed—five—ten—twenty—but little patience remained within her for anything more. She made sure to scoff loudly enough for him to hear as she stormed off into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind her.

Throwing herself onto her cot, the emotions swirling within her threatened to spill over, to consume her at her worst as they strained against the meagre semblance of control she still had.

She was so tired. Tired of everything. Of being in danger, of being watched, of being angry.

She was angry at Draco for the sponsorships, not because he had them, but because he took them instead of doing things for himself. The jealousy prickled at her skin, but she dismissed the feeling quickly.

It’s not jealousy, it’s only anger, she tried to convince herself.

She was angry that sponsors from Pure Capital would even send such mundane things as sandwiches. She threw her sleeping bag across the tent when she realized she was angry about sandwiches, feeling silly and dejected that her circumstances had reduced her to someone so petulant.

She settled back onto her bare cot, no support to hold her back up except for the side of the tent, which sagged beneath her body and tried to force steady breaths through her lungs. Her hands were clasped in her lap, thumbs spinning around one another as she thought, letting all her emotions swim to the top.

Was it really Draco’s fault? Was any of this really even the sponsors’ fault?

A resigned sigh interrupted the motion of her fingers.

She was getting angry at the wrong people.

All of this was the fault of those in power.

Everything she was angry at was a product of the Games, of the establishment set by the President and his Death Eaters.

It was likely that none of it would exist if President Riddle didn’t.

A nervous energy suddenly shot through her body, filling her veins with adrenaline she had no outlet for. She jumped to her feet and started to pace around the cramped space between the two cots.

She walked to one end of the tent.

I m angry because of the Games, not the tributes in them.

She walked to the other side of the tent.

I’m angry because of the Games, not the tributes in them.

The first side again.

I’m angry that the Games exist.

The other side.

I’m angry that the Games exist.

One side.

Why do the Games exist?

The other.

Are they really there to punish people for District 13?

Again.

Why do the Games exist?

The other.

Why do the Games exist?

Control?

Obedience?

Fear?

The red-eye tracker on Hermione’s forearm flickered, and she stopped dead in her tracks. It was as if all of the organs suddenly seized to function.

Then it flickered again, like a warning, just the slightest dilation of the eye inking on her skin, and that was all it took for her to realize quickly, but likely all too late, that she was thinking dangerous things.

Dangerous things that she couldn’t guarantee weren’t being monitored by outside forces.

She slammed her palms over her eyes, shutting all light out, and forced up the strongest Occlumency wall she was capable of. She forced it up to the perimeter of her mind, and after she built one, she pushed up another. And then another, until her entire mind was shuttered with red bricks.

She settled on the floor cross-legged and sank her blocked-off mind into meditation. The tent flap billowed in the wind and hypnotized her into a trance. Time ticked by slowly as she remained rooted in that spot, the sun moving along the field as it shifted into the west.

At some point, Hermione watched Draco rise to his feet, look back at the tent briefly, and walk towards the wards before he disappeared.

Sometime later, she saw him return. Day turned to evening, and he lit a fire outside.

As the fire sparked, she decided it was time to emerge from the tent.

The sun had already started to set, but she spotted him instantly, hunched over the fire, roasting a large fish over the flames.

“Nice of you to join me.” His head perked up.

She huffed and sat down, biting her tongue to stop herself from sticking it out at him.

“If you’re so inclined to know, I caught this myself.” He pointed to the fish proudly.

Hermione scrunched her nose and looked away.

“Don’t believe me if you want, but I did. Almost considered catching a swamp monster for you—“

“It was a grindylow,” she breathed, eyes set on the shimmers of the ward.

Draco paused as she cut him off but quickly continued. “As I was saying—a swamp monster for you, but I figured the fish would be more appetizing.”

She passed her eyes over him and realized he was teasing her as she caught the amused look on his face and the sparkle in his eye. He was prodding and pushing at the places that hurt as if he already knew her better than the few moments of time together should have allowed.

It was both pleasant and infuriating.

As the fish finished roasting, Draco sliced it down the middle and conjured two plates. “Transfigured from a leaf,” he assured her as she eyed the ceramic. She took it from him and quietly began to eat.

The awkwardness that lingered in the air around them was palpable.

“I have an idea,” he said suddenly as they were both finishing their meal. “How about we play a game?”

“A game?” she grumbled. “Now?”

“A game,” he affirmed. “Now.”

He jumped right in to explain the rules. It was a simple campfire game called Once Upon a Time. Though it was typically played with multiple people, he told her it could be played with two as well. They would take turns, starting to tell a story that the other person would have to continue, and would go back and forth for as long as they wanted.

It was mindless and easy, and to her utter surprise, she agreed.

“I’ll start,” he said, vanishing his waste and transfiguring the plate back into a leaf that he let fall to the ground. She watched it flutter through the air before a gust of wind picked it up and carried it out of sight. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a big city.”

Hermione had to suppress a laugh. She figured if he volunteered to start, he had some great idea in mind, but that clearly wasn’t the case. She surmised the reference with ease but hesitated to continue because she didn’t actually know the story's subject very well.

“He had blonde hair and a sharp tongue,” she continued quietly, not knowing what else to say.

A satisfied smile pulled at Draco's lips. “This boy did have blonde hair and a sharp tongue, and he was also particularly good-looking,” he leaned back in his chair like it was a throne. “But, there was more to him than that.”

Suddenly, he sat up stiffly and clasped his hands before him. “He came from a small family, with only a mother and father and no siblings to call his own.”

Hermione gulped at the mention of parents. The memory of the first time she saw him on television sparked in her mind, of the man who had cried out in silence desperately when the President made his announcement. The man who had pleaded so earnestly for him to reconsider before the camera had panned to Draco.

She felt with almost total certainty that had been his father.

“Bad things didn’t happen to families like his. They were powerful, wealthy, and influential, but—” his voice trailed off.

His tone was somber, flat, the expression on his face hard and completely unreadable. His clasped hands were clenched tightly, veins protruding along his forearms, the red-eye tracker pulsing against his skin. Though his face portrayed an emptiness, the expression of his body was one of rage. He swallowed slowly and cleared his throat. There was a prolonged pause before he spoke again.

“One day, that all changed.”

The air around them shifted to something unpleasant, something cold that prickled at the skin in a way that it shouldn't have. Like it never had before.

She didn’t know where he was going with the story, but everything about the way that he was delivering it told her that this was no longer a game, nor something he wanted her to contribute to. This was his story. She realized that in their circumstances, with cameras that were no doubt rolling on their camp, this was the best, and perhaps the only way, he could share it with her.

His eyes were burning through hers, willing her to listen, to pay attention to every word he said, and to try and understand.

“There was a lot the boy didn’t know about consequences, about amends you have to pay when something goes wrong, when someone does something wrong.”

Hermione saw him wring his hands before rubbing them up his pant legs slowly. She remained silent, watching him carefully.

“Everything happened quickly. He was lucky to be prepared when things went wrong.”

Suddenly, Draco rose to his feet and shifted towards her before he stood right at her knees, the tips of his shoes touching hers. “Give me your hand.”

It was an order, a command, his domineering tone, unlike anything he had used with her before.

Hermione stuck it out to him without hesitation, fingers splayed and palm up towards the sky. He brought a knuckle up to it before he paused and hovered it over her hand, as if waiting. She brought her head up to look at his face, and as soon as their eyes met, he deposited something into her hand. He pushed her fingers closed before she had a chance to see what he had given her.

“Don’t look at it now,” he warned.

She nodded and pulled the closed fist into her pocket, rising to her feet to allow her hand to fit into it. But he didn’t step back when she did, and suddenly they were only inches apart, her forehead at his chin as he looked down at her face.

Neither of them moved.

They were close enough to feel the brush along their skin as one inhaled and the other exhaled, sharing the warm air in the space between them. Though it was dark, Hermione could see every line along his face, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the furrow between his two dark brows, the tightness in his lips and cheeks. She realized then that the fire had almost gone out, only specks of embers remaining and the faint smell of magical smoke.

The sensation in her mind, the sudden push against her Occlumency walls, was familiar and brought back memories of their early interactions. But it was also different, gentle in a way she hadn’t felt before, and a stark contradiction to the way he stared into her eyes as though he could see right through her.

He prodded once, then a second time, eyebrows drawing together when she didn’t relent, but when he pushed again, she let him in.

At first, she just felt his presence there, the same way you do when you enter a room and know somebody is present before you even see them. He wavered at the entryway, eyes swimming as his own walls fell. He prodded at the inside of his cheek with his tongue before his voice projected inside her mind.

I can’t say anything more.

He pulled out like a lightning strike, stumbling back with a step before his eyes were flat and grey again. Hermione watched his face, the faint tap of his finger along her clenched fist the only break in the moment between them.

“Let’s go,” he motioned towards the tent.

He let her enter first again, and she fumbled with her clothing, refusing to let go of whatever was in her hand. It was small and warm, sticking to her skin as her palm sweat, but she didn’t care. She threw her clothing atop her bow haphazardly and changed into the same pair of shorts and t-shirt he had given her.

Instead of stepping out of the tent again, she climbed into her sleeping bag and turned her back towards the entryway. A few moments later, she heard Draco come in. She shut her eyes, only hearing as he fumbled with his clothes behind her. He dimmed the lights without a word.

Hermione waited for his breathing to even before quietly pulling her head under the sleeping bag and pressing the edge firmly down onto the cot. She lit the faintest Lumos she knew how to and uncurled the fist of her hand.

Her eyes strained to adjust to the light, but as her palm opened, the object in her hand came into clear view.

It was a ring.

A ring she vaguely recognized, with a thick gold band and delicate carvings all around. She pressed the tip of her wand to it as close as she could to try and discern the details, but as she spun it, a prominent symbol came into view.

She gasped, quickly muffling the sound against the cot.

It was a symbol she had seen before, many times over the last two weeks. A symbol she could trace with her finger from memory, remembering the very first moment she had ever seen it.

A triangle, a circle within it, and a line crossed down the middle. Atop the shapes, a bird.

But not just any bird.

It was the very same symbol as on her pin.

The puzzle in her mind started to shift amidst a whirl of chaos, pieces flying from one end to another, without any rhyme or reason but with a definite purpose.

She had seen this ring on him before, had watched his sturdy hands spin it around his finger during the interview before the Games began.

And it was adorned the entire time with the same symbol that she herself had been wearing proudly on her chest. 

Hermione's heart thudded as everything she knew fell apart, sweaty fingers holding on to the gold between her hands as she tried to build it back together.

Did he know what the symbol meant? Was it why he went after her?

She didn’t know Draco well, but she knew enough to know that there was meaning behind every action, a layer to everything he said and seemingly did.

If she were a gambler, she would wager he knew exactly what he was betting on.

She fumbled with the ring, heart racing as each thought brought on more questions lacking answers, any answers just bringing about more gaping holes in his story. She closed her fist around the ring and focused on her breathing, one breath in, one breath out. The tension in her body slowly dissipated as her whirring mind put her to sleep.

When she awoke in the morning, the ring was gone.

She turned over in her cot to see that she wasn’t alone in the tent. Draco was still sleeping, hand hanging out from under his blanket.

She trailed her eyes down the length of his bare arm, the smooth expanse of his skin, marred only by the dark ink below his elbow.

Her eyes stopped at his fingers, barely hovering over the floor of the tent.

The gold ring was on his index.

She could see it clearly from where she was—flat metal, no markings or symbols on it, any evidence of what she had discovered the night before, gone.

Chapter Text

Though Hermione and Draco stood on fragile ground, whatever it was they had slowly started to shift over the coming days. Piece by piece, moment by moment, the progress was small but steady, the air around them patient as it morphed from fear to uncertainty to something akin to reassurance.

The hours passed quietly, days without a canon or notable disturbance, and Hermione felt herself fall into a steady rhythm, one she had predicted she could easily fall victim to. Enclosed in the safety of their ward, it was tempting to pretend like they weren’t in the Hunger Games. To imagine that they were two strangers turned acquaintances, turned something even more —but not quite friends— that had simply gone camping together.

They ate together, trained together, hunted together, and all the while, Hermione felt the vines of trust grow from a seed of nothing to something almost tangible, something she could almost wrap her hands around and feel.

When they spotted a Quintaped through their camp ward, Draco quickly stepped in front of her and took out its head. She saw him fiddle with the ward after, likely restrengthening it, and smiled to herself when he said nothing about it.

After Hermione convinced him to venture outside of their camp, ‘only around the perimeter,’ he had said, she shot and cooked dinner for both of them.

There was nothing flashy to it, just small gestures to show that they could be the steadiness that the other wanted.

Behind her Occlumency walls, she reigned her anger in and kept it at bay, reminding herself whenever she felt it waver that it should be funnelled into conviction. Into drive that could help keep moving her forward in hopes of a day when she could step foot into safety, as far away from any arena or large city as possible.

Hermione’s eyes landed on Draco's ring often, always wishing she could catch the same markings she saw the first night, but it remained securely on his same finger, and he said nothing about it as if that evening had never happened.

After a while, she felt certain that he was keeping it under a disillusionment charm, but refrained from asking when she remembered the fear in his eyes as he told her he couldn’t say anything more.

She surmised it wasn’t just for his own safety, but now that she was somehow entangled in whatever secrets he kept, for hers as well.

The blending days brought monotony, the hours of sunlight shrinking while the hours of darkness grew. She could do nothing but think about the ring, think about just blurting out all the questions that ran through her mind at the sight of it, and it took more willpower than she would ever admit to keep her mouth quiet.

But it still bothered her, prickled at her skin like a bug she just couldn’t swat away hard or fast enough.

The ring could mean nothing, but it likely meant everything.

And she felt the most peculiar sensation of familiarity when she saw it on his hand.

A familiarity that stretched beyond the confines of their wards, to other hands, to the fingers of other people.

That realization, that she had likely missed a ring like his on someone else’s hand, tortured her. It kept her up at night with adrenaline that she could barely contain.

Until one day, Hermione got an idea.

“I’m going to go crazy cooped up like this,” she said one afternoon after they’d finished target practice and were dripping in sweat under the blaring sun. She remembered it was late October in Regnum, however far that was from the arena, and the sun was much too hot for that time of year.

“I’m not sure what to suggest,” he said, feigning ignorance because he knew what she was trying to get it. It wouldn’t be the first time she brought it up, nor the first time that he turned it down.

“But you know what I’m going to say.”

Draco paused his strides and sighed. “Why do you want to go out past the wards so badly?”

She hadn't told him yet. She wanted to prove her theory correct before she involved him in it. But the first step to it all was getting out of the camp.

“How are we supposed to get ahead? How are we supposed to advance in the Games?” Hermione voiced sternly, hoping he took the bait. 

“Simple,” he said. “We let everyone else kill each other first.”

The ease with which the words rolled off his tongue sent a shiver down her spine that she forced herself to ignore. “And then what?”

“And then we’ll figure it out.”

They fell back into their rhythm of organizing the weapons they had used, placing them all back in the thorough system she had made up and taught him. The silence between them was comfortable, but Hermione’s thoughts were anything but. They bounced around, circling the confines of her brain, edging themselves into every breath and step she took.

She had to escalate her plan.

“I can’t,” she finally said, plopping down into a chair around the fire pit and pressing her eyes to his face. An unsteady sigh left her lungs, her tone suddenly soft as she readied herself for what she was about to ask him to do. “I can’t stay hidden here all day. It doesn’t feel right.”

“You know what’s not right, Granger? This—” he blurted out, waving his arms around the camp as he sat down in the chair next to her and met her eyes earnestly. “All of this. The Games, pitting people against each other, asking people that are barely 18 to kill each other, that’s what isn’t right.”

She huffed at his stubbornness, realizing that she would just have to come right out and say it.

“I’d like to go visit another tribute.”

His response was out the very second the words finished leaving her mouth. “What? No. Why?”

“Because,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

“Why?” Draco hissed. “I asked you why. And who?”

She rolled her shoulders back and filled her lungs with a steady breath. “You just have to trust me, Malfoy.” He looked at her like he was ready to do anything except for that. “I want to go see Harry, the tribute from District—”

“I know who Harry is,” he spat. “What I don’t understand is why the hell you want to go see him!”

“I just need you to trust me.”

“You’re making it really hard if you don’t tell me why.” He shot to his feet, the look in his eyes bordering on feral as he towered over her.

She was expecting a reaction from him, but not a standoff. Two could play that game, though.

She jumped up and crowded his face with hers, the anger rolling off her body in waves. “I can’t say,” she hissed. “For the very same reason you couldn’t!”

He stepped back from her, expression suddenly falling flat.

“I can’t say, okay?” she breathed. “Just please, Draco, trust me.”

He didn’t look like he was ready to give in yet. His jaw was rigid, shoulders tensed up to his ears. “Why do you need to see him? What’s not good enough for you about this camp?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Because,” she growled, feeling her heart accelerate as she spoke. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even be here with you.”

She punctuated the words with finality, and a hush fell over the two of them.

The look of betrayal that flushed across his face made her insides clench. His eyes went wide for a moment, the grey storm appearing and sucking her in before it settled to slate behind an empty mask and he sunk back into his chair. There was an unexpected sadness that shifted into the lines of his features as he drew his eyes to his lap.

It was then that she realized why.

The hunch that had planted itself into her head early on that she actively tried to reject, wedged itself into the forefront of her mind again.

It was likely the very reason that he was so hesitant to leave the confines of the ward, to venture out beyond the safety set all around them, to even think about the other tributes out in the forest still fighting in the Games.

The comfort of the camp wasn’t for him.

It was for them.

The second cot that had already been in the tent when she had arrived, the plethora of weapons of which there were more than one person would ever need, and food that was always available in doubles.

Maybe at one point, it had been about him, but it wasn’t anymore.

This was about them.

Two parts, two people, the coming together of two soldiers on the same side.

The need to know why, how, for what reason, clawed at her, but this wasn’t the time.

Sometimes it wasn’t about the why or what, but about the existence of the fact. There was a reason, and that was enough.

“I spoke to Harry before I decided to come after you,” Hermione said gently, sitting down on the arm of his chair. “I don’t know much about him, but he’s a good person. He’s partnered up with someone as well. He gave me the push I needed to accept your offer.”

Draco didn’t look up from his lap as her shoulder brushed his, but she saw the faintest drop in the tightened muscles of his neck.

“I’d like to go see him together.”

“It’s dangerous beyond the wards,” he said, bringing his eyes to meet her face.

“I know.”

“The whole point of this camp is to have a safe spot in the arena. It’s practically impenetrable.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m glad we could talk about it like partners,” she forced a small smile to her lips. “But I think we should go, Malfoy.”

He sighed, huffing the breath out of his nose like a statement.

His tone was resigned when he spoke. “Fine, Granger. Fine, we’ll go. But we go see him, and we come right back to the camp.” He ran his shaking hands along his pants. “And, if we come across any danger, we turn right back.”

“Okay.”

“And,” he rose to his feet, the tension easing as the seconds passed. “If we’re going to leave the camp, I’d like to get those boom berries you keep going on about in your sleep.”

“I don’t talk about them in my sleep,” she laughed, “but, okay.”

By the late afternoon, they had forged together a plan with which both of them were satisfied. They would leave the next morning, early enough that the sun wouldn’t have fully risen, yet not dark enough to still be a hindrance to their travels. Hermione convinced Draco that they couldn’t come empty-handed, so they would hunt what they could along their way and bring what they caught to Harry and Luna.

Though he asked persistently to travel by broom, she refused.

“I’m afraid of heights,” she told him. “And I still haven’t forgiven you for your broom that one time.”

They spent their evening sharpening tools, packing supplies, and cleaning up their camp. Draco remained quieter than usual, limiting his answers to only a handful of words, but she quickly caught onto the fact that it wasn’t because he was angry.

It was because he was nervous.

He fidgeted with the casing of his throwing stars, paced when she paused to tie her shoe, and ran his fingers through his hair so many times it stuck out on all ends as if he had lived through a tornado to tell the tale.

“Would you relax?”

“I am relaxed,” he scoffed.

She placed her hands over his to stop their frantic movements, and they stilled instantly beneath her warm touch.

“No, you’re not,” she brushed her thumb along his skin, and his eyes snapped to the motion of her hand. “It’ll be fine.”

They stood that way, him watching their hands, and her watching his face before he met her eyes and forced a pained smile to lips.

After they finished prepping their bags for the morning, they walked back to their tent together. She felt his eyes on her the whole time, but when she turned to meet them, he would look away. He whispered a quiet goodnight and stared at her for a moment longer than usual before he blew out the candlelight and consumed their sleeping space in darkness.

Hermione tossed and turned in bed for what felt like an hour, likely even more, when she finally sat up in a frustrated huff. When her eyes landed on the other cot in the tent, it was empty. She wrapped her sleeping bag around her body as she got up to her feet and peeked outside.

Night had long ago fallen, revealing a large moon and a sky of sparkling stars, and she spotted Draco sitting in one of the chairs around the dormant campfire.

She padded over to him, barefooted, and joined him in the chair next to his.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked quietly.

He kept his eyes pressed up to the sky. “Probably the same thing you are. Can’t sleep.”

She brought her own face up to the stars and was overwhelmed with a blurry memory of a night sky just like it, a memory she could faintly remember seeing him in but with no explanation as to why. The sky was beautiful, overwhelming even, as the dark blue canopy stretched so far across the open night, the splatter of stars twinkling across her line of sight. 

“Something about this feels familiar.”

Hermione continued to pass her eyes over the space above them, seeing clusters of stars form shapes she could recognize, before she glanced down at the profile of his face to see a sly smile gracing his lips.

“Because it is,” he let the smile crack. “You probably don’t remember it, but you and I have watched the stars like this before.”

“We have?”

“We have. The night before the Games began, on the roof of the training grounds. I think you thought I didn’t know you were there.”

“I don’t really remember,” she felt her brows furrow as her brain struggled to grasp the memory. It felt like it was there, but it was blurry, muddled like how she felt after a few gulps of wine alongside Moody.

“Because I put a Confundus on you.”

“You did what?” she shot up to her feet.

He threw his hands up defensively as she hovered over his sitting frame, slotted in the pocket of space between his knees.

“I can explain,” he said.

“You better start.” She felt for her wand with a look of intimidation, though she knew it was back in the tent.

“You didn’t know I knew you were there and when I got up to leave, you were asleep on the roof. I didn’t know what would happen if I left you there, so I put the charm over you and levitated you back to your room.”

“You were in my room?” she gasped.

He rolled his eyes. “Why does it matter? We sleep in the same tent now.”

She tapped her foot against his.

“No,” he groused, “I wasn’t in your room. You woke up while I was levitating you and ran to your floor yourself. I didn’t even know what room was yours, but I followed after you, and you waved me away because I was, and I quote, a white-headed extraterrestrial.”

“You’re lying!” Hermione shrieked, unable to hold back the giggle that left her mouth.

“I’m not,” he laughed again. “You shut yourself in what I hoped was your room, and I left after that.”

“But I remember I had a dream about constellations… and shooting stars! I thought it was all a dream!”

A sheepish look graced Draco's face. “Yeah, that was all part of the spell. The constellations were there, and I remember seeing the shooting star.”

“You’re a jerk,” she sighed, but there was no threat in her tone.

“A thank you would be nice,” he chuckled. “I saved you even then!”

“Not this again!”

“You don’t say thank you enough.”

“And you do things that are too questionable to thank.”

“Touché,” he winked at her, settling back in his chair. “Tou—ché.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if the lightheartedness of their conversation was just a product of their nerves for what awaited them the following day, but it wasn’t anything she would complain about. It was as she had felt, piece by piece, moment by moment, the progress between them slow but steady.

But she would take any of it—every small sliver that she could hold onto because every little bit gave her certainty in her decision.

Every ounce of positivity made the seed of hope toward survival grow.

They fell asleep on their chairs that night, under the stars in familiar circumstances. As she let her eyes flutter closed, listening to Draco’s steady breath beside her, she had no doubt that it would be a memory she would have no issue remembering.

In the morning, they ate, they dressed, and they gathered their belongings. The sun had just started to crack the horizon when they made their way past the threshold of the wards.

Hermione stayed back as Draco muttered inaudible incantations under his breath to seal them, watching as they rolled themselves back to form a thick wall of trees again. They waited a few moments to ensure they held strong, and then they were on their way.

Despite what she expected, Draco had a better understanding of the grounds than her. He led the way through the space where the dementors attacked, Hermione only realizing that was where they were when they both shivered at the chill that ran down their spines. They met each other's eyes and without a word, picked up their pace.

They moved through the area quickly, the sigh of relief leaving both of their mouths when the unsettling feeling of danger passed. Once they were out, Hermione took over.

She traced her steps back to where she came from, remembering peculiar trees or divots in the dirt, and followed the path as they appeared. They walked in silence, wands in hand and weapons at the ready. It wasn't long before she saw the edges of her tree out in the distance.

“We can pause here,” she said as they finally approached it. He nodded and plopped down to the ground along the trunk. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” he shot up to look at her.

“I’m getting you boom berries, as requested,” she smiled, disillusioning herself in the process. She waited for him to do the same but could tell he used some sort of modified spell that allowed her to still see the faint outline of his body.

She found the boom berry bush quickly, filling a lidded jar with as many as she could fit while snacking on handfuls in the process. When she got back to Draco, he eyed the jar greedily. She dropped down next to him, and they both dug in. They only realized they had eaten everything when both their hands went into the jar at the same time and found nothing but glass and each other's fingers.

Hermione pulled her hand out quickly with a blush, and he just shrugged. She ran off to collect more to avoid the awkward fallout.

When she came back, both of them agreed that they were full. Tightening the lid of the jar closed, she deposited it into his bag as he rose to his feet.

She started to lead the way again, knowing exactly where to go from there to find Harry’s camp. She had walked only a few paces before she realized Draco wasn’t following.

She turned to see him standing at the edge of the open space below her tree. His eyes shifted from the tree, to the one adjacent to it, to the still burned remnants of the bush. He followed the three points over and over again as if on a steady path that the gears in his mind were pushing.

Then his eyes trailed to the line burned into the ground, not quite starting where he stood, but finding the clear path towards the spot where she once did. It was the burn line in the grass from the spell she shot to distract the skrewts.

Hermione retreated her steps until she stood alongside him. His brows furrowed as his eyes drilled into the spot where she knew the spell started.

She watched his eyes intently as they shifted from his consistent pattern, to trailing around the open space again. Not in sharp lines, but in one fluid motion. Rounded, circular, and smaller than the trees.

Shifting around the circle of ash that was barely there anymore, just fragments of evidence left to commemorate her brush with death.

He stopped suddenly and turned towards her, eyes landing on her pin. Knowing what she knew now, she didn’t cower away and instead, let him look at it. No words were exchanged but a modicum of understanding settled between them. After a brief moment, he nodded for her to lead the way again.

They shot two ducks along their path and he carried them both as she knew they were getting close. The trees shifted and Hermione kept her eyes peeled for the flicker that she knew was there, hidden in plain sight.

She found the same glamour as the first time, barely catching the faint shimmer along the sun.

“Are you sure this is it?” Draco whispered sternly in her ear.

“I’m sure.”

As she muttered an incantation under her breath, the glamour peeled away slower than it did the first time, a second layer flickering below the first, and she grabbed Draco’s wrist before a third layer finally gave away.

She held onto his arm tightly, feeling the bone jut against his skin, as the uncovered glamour revealed the same small view through the ward that she had seen before, opening up to the same large plain. Both of their eyes adjusted slowly to the bright greens and sunlight of the camp before a spectacled face appeared in their line of sight.

Hermione smiled as she passed her eyes over his dishevelled dark hair, the drawn wand he slotted into his chest holster at the sight of her, and the glimmer of light against metal on his finger, a ring slotted on his index.

“Hello, Harry.”

Chapter Text

“Hullo, Hermione,” Harry grinned. “Nice to see you again.”

His eyes followed the path of her hand as it disappeared beneath the glamour hole and connected to another arm. She pulled Draco into the view with a sheepish smile.

“And you’ve got company,” Harry surmised.

“And food,” she said. “We brought food.”

Draco held up the ducks by their neck. “I would have turned you away otherwise,” Harry laughed. “Come in then.”

He pointed his wand at the glamour from the inside and traced an entryway for them that they could both fit through.

She let go of Draco’s wrist and felt the blush coat her cheeks the moment the glamour peeled away to reveal them. When they stepped past the wards, Harry stitched it closed behind them.

“There was nobody behind you?” he asked with a raised brow, but it was clear that the question was rhetorical, that he presumed they weren’t fools enough to let someone trail them.

“No,” Hermione said. “We were careful.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught on Draco. Only seconds had passed since it was just the two of them, but he stood next to her now, a completely different person than he was in the forest. Every part of his body was rigid, his shoulders tense, jaw so clenched she was worried his teeth would crack. His eyes were glued to Harry.

“Harry,” she said quickly, hoping to diffuse whatever tension had settled over him. “This is Draco.”

“Hi,” Harry stuck his hand out. “Harry, District 7.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed to Harry’s hand as he held it out. She could see Draco’s eyes do the same.

The ring on his finger was more clear now, sitting on his hand as she had expected. 

It glinted against the sun, a different colour than Draco’s, but otherwise the same. There were no markings on it, but if she had to guess, they were there, just simply hidden in plain sight. She had no credible evidence to support the theory, but she just knew, could feel it in her gut that there was more to it than just a piece of metal on his skin.

Draco stuck his hand out and met Harry’s firmly. “Draco,” he said. “Pure Capital.”

Their hands released after a single shake, and when Harry’s dropped to his side, Hermione watched Draco’s eyes follow it.

“Harry?” an ethereal voice called out from the depths of the camp. A blonde-headed girl, hair braided down to her hips, emerged from the tent. “Do we have visitors?”

Harry waved to her and motioned for Draco and Hermione to follow. Hermione looked back at Draco, and his face was tense, the discomfort evident in every line of his body. When their eyes met, he shook his head once, a sign to remain quiet, and nodded for her to go after Harry.

She turned and followed his path further into the camp as he made his way to the tent with Luna. With every step, Draco’s presence remained close behind her.

Harry and Luna were chatting by the time they all re-grouped.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna said, her voice pulling at a memory in Hermione’s mind that she remembered so clearly from the training ground.

“Hello, Luna,” Hermione smiled weakly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, but we’ve already met. Don’t you remember?”

Hermione’s eyes dropped. It was Luna that she wasn’t sure remembered, but of course, Hermione did. The memory she had held Blaise’s face, and she didn’t know how she could confirm that they had met before without also reminding the girl of the person that she lost.

“That’s alright if you don’t,” Luna hummed. “It was at the training grounds. I was with Blaise,” she smiled. “Do you remember that pretty boy with me?”

Hermione watched Luna’s face lighten at the mention of him as she continued. “We worked on the camouflage.” Then she frowned before a smirk pulled at her lips and she looked Hermione up and down. “You weren’t very good, though.”

A pit settled in Hermione’s stomach, uncertainty filling her as she battled whether she should laugh or cry.

“Yes, I remember that,” she breathed. “I’m—I’m sorry about your district mate.”

Luna swatted at something over Hermione’s head, and she saw a ring on her finger too. Flat, a similar colour to Harry's.

“That’s alright,” she said, half distracted. “We can’t fight it when it’s our time.”

A quiet settled over the four of them, nobody knowing how to respond, as Luna approached Draco.

“I know who you are,” she said to him, eyeing his hair, down to his neck, down the rest of his body. “You’re the boy from Pure Capital.”

“I am.”

“Welcome to our camp,” she smiled.

Draco nodded, and when he didn't say anything more, Hermione jumped in to cover. “We’re not here for long, Luna, but thank you for having us.”

“So,” Harry said, eyeing the ducks in Draco’s hand, “about that food.”

Hermione couldn’t help the smile that crept up her face. “Do you guys have a fire?”

“I’ll show you the way,” Luna said. “Follow me.”

She took them on a convoluted route to the campfire, limping slightly as she stopped to show them the tent. Hermione quickly realized that their path to the campfire would have more than one stop to it. In fact, they were being taken on a full-fledged tour.

After the tent, Luna pointed out the part of their camp where they trained, the spot where they stored their belongings, the spot where they napped in the sun, and then finally, the campfire.

Draco trailed behind Hermione, and she could feel the tension continue to roll off of him, only growing with each passing moment.

She knew he didn’t want to be there. She knew that the longer they stayed, the worse it would get for him, and inadvertently for her as well.

“Here we are,” Luna finally said, showing them to the chairs around the wooded pit. Draco immediately dropped down to the prep station and started to work on the ducks.

As Hermione moved to sit down in one of the chairs, Luna placed her hand on her bare shoulder. It was a tender gesture, one made with the friendliest of intentions, but Hermione flinched as soon as the girl’s palm pressed against her skin.

But it wasn’t because of the foreign touch, but rather a sudden rush of heat that scorched her skin. By the time she looked over to Luna’s hand on her shoulder, the burning sensation was gone.

Draco prepared the ducks quietly and quickly, head down and focused on his work filleting, while Luna and Harry tried to engage the two of them in conversation. Harry’s attempt was feeble, but Luna didn’t relent.

“Did you guys see any Moon Frogs on your way over here?” she asked, poking the fire with a stick, much to Draco’s agitation.

Hermione saw Harry bite the inside of his cheek as if trying to hold in laughter. Hermione realized the girl was talking to her.

“Um, no, Luna, I don’t think we did.”

“Do you know what they look like?”

“No,” Hermione shrugged.

“Then it’s possible they’re still out there,” she smiled, leaning back in her chair, clearly satisfied.

Moments later, she spoke up again.

“Have you two been to the river yet?”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance at the question, but Hermione could tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t something either of them wanted to talk about in detail.

“Yes, we’ve both been.”

Luna hummed quietly to herself. “Did you by chance catch any Gulping Plimpies in the water?”

Hermione had never in her life heard of such a creature, let alone knew what one even looked like.

She wasn’t entirely sure if it even existed at all.

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “We only saw Grindylows.”

“Oh,” Luna nodded. “Grindylows aren’t my favourite. That’s a shame you didn’t catch any Plimpies. They’re delicious.”

The rest of the afternoon continued in a similar pattern, with Draco focusing all of his attention on the duck, Luna asking questions about creatures that Hermione was certain were figments of her imagination, and Harry trying not to laugh, clearly amused by Luna’s train of thought and Hermione's discomfort.

When Draco cleared his throat sharply, everyone’s attention turned to him.

“Food is ready,” he muttered.

He loaded four plates with a heaping serving of duck breast, which glistened as the sun hit. To each plate, he also added small amounts of salvageable organs, like kidneys and liver.

As each plate got passed around, along with forks and knives, Draco joined the group in the chair next to Hermione.

They all dug into their food quietly, heads pressed to their plates, silence suddenly blanketing the entire camp. Besides the clinking of their knives against ceramic, the only sound was the quiet hum of Luna’s voice.

Despite Hermione's hunger when she first got to the camp, trying to eat with tributes around her that weren’t Draco, pulled the appetite right out of her. Instead, her eyes passed over her fellow tributes, as the oddity of the situation finally settled over her.

These were people she was expected to kill.

These were people she should have wanted to kill.

But she felt no inkling. No push or pull at a dark place buried deep within, no desire, absolutely nothing.

And suddenly, it terrified her. Scared her to no end, the thought of what that meant for her, and what it meant in terms of the Games.

Three pairs of hands worked at the duck on each plate, slicing, forking, placing it in their mouths, but all she could see was the ring on each of their fingers.

Three people, three rings, three things she now knew, but only in fragments. Only in wild guesses and theories that she couldn’t make sense of in their entirety.

But she knew it was all important. She knew there was information she would never get to, at the very least not in this arena, and likely not even beyond it if she was lucky enough to be one of the people that made it out.

The moment the thought crossed her mind, she felt the collapse of her Occlumency wall.

Not the only person - one of.

One of. More than one. More than just her, or Draco, or Harry, or Luna.

More than one winner.

Her vision blurred as her knife sliced through the meat at an odd angle and clanked loudly against her plate, before falling to the ground.

Everyone’s heads turned up to look at her.

She kept her eyes glued to her plate and tried to steady her breathing.

As she focused on counting her breaths, a hand came into view slowly above her plate. A hand holding a knife, her knife, sparkling clean.

“Here you go,” Harry’s voice said softly.

Hermione’s eyes remained concentrated on the almost full piece of duck breast still on her plate, feeling her hands shake as she reached out for the knife.

It felt like living through a dream, where every movement was muddled, every passing second tickling down on the universe as if in slow motion.

She felt rather than saw as her palm wrapped around the cold metal, felt rather than saw as the presence of Harry’s hand didn’t recede, felt rather than saw as his hand pushed into hers and burned her skin.

Despite the chaos in her mind, she didn’t flinch. Any other day, she would have said something, but instead, he pulled back, and the part of her that stored her theories, the very same part that had a sense that they weren’t as wild as she originally thought, settled.

“Thank you,” she mumbled before hearing his steps retreat to his seat.

Once he sat down, the silence continued.

Hermione’s heart stammered. Her hands shook. Her skin flushed.

Despite the brief moment of clarity, she was still too far gone to feel Draco’s presence as he entered her mind, only realizing he was there when his voice projected and echoed off the walls of her skull.

You need to breathe, Granger.

But her breath came out short. Her lungs felt like they were seizing inside of her, convulsing and pulling the rest of her down with them.

Breathe, Granger.

Hermione could feel herself start to get lightheaded as the airways in her throat constricted, but she was acutely aware of one thing—his presence in her mind. It was steady and firm, and she felt the tendrils of her magic try to wrap around him, even though he wasn’t really there.

Not in solid form at least, not in the way that she needed. But he was there, and she could anchor her magic to him.

Start building your wall, Granger. Whatever you use, start building.

Bricks, she whispered the word inside her head, unsure if he could hear her.

Bricks, his voice sounded again, affirming what she had said, Use bricks. Start at the very bottom and place one next to the other.

Her mind followed the instructions without any probing as if he was conducting it with his own magic. Maybe he was, but Hermione would never know. Not in this moment, or after. All she knew was that she desperately needed to do what he was telling her to.

She needed her Occlumency. Now more than ever, she needed it to protect her from everything outside of her control. From everyone watching and seeing inside her mind.

Her eyes landed on the skin along her forearm, the barely-there edge of the marking on her flesh, and she shoved it down forcefully onto her lap, away from her sight.

One brick, laid next to another, and then to another. She counted each one as they dropped down to their spot until she had a row of seven.

When you’ve built your first row, start stacking a row on top.

Another brick on top of the first that she placed, another next to it, until another row of seven was complete—a wall, two bricks high.

Again, he instructed her.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each time, her mind stacked another row of seven. Each time, it was as if he could see her progress, as if he could feel her breathing ease the higher the wall grew.

Eventually, the bricks started to lay themselves without any probing from his voice. When the wall formed so high there were too many bricks to count, she pushed him out of her mind on instinct.

Her vision blurred into focus on her plate, the same piece of untouched meat remaining. She prodded it with her finger and it was cold.

She could feel the strength of the Occlumency wall she built as if her knuckles were pushing into the hardened edges of brick right in front of her. But there was no wall there, just the other people in the camp.

Hermione’s eyes followed the line of Harry and Luna’s fork as they drifted to their mouths, each placing a piece of meat on their tongue before slowly starting to chew. Her eyes drifted down to their plates, and they were empty.

Neither of them looked at her as they finished eating, and the shame she felt at what had happened moments before settled heavily over her. 

Had they watched as she came undone in their presence like a fool? How her breath had hitched in her throat, how her eyes had very likely glazed over?

Had they seen it all?

Luna pulled her out of her thoughts when she cleared her throat. “Draco, thank you for dinner. The duck was lovely.”

Draco wiped the corners of his mouth with the edge of a napkin and smiled weakly at Luna. “You’re welcome.”

“I especially liked the liver,” Luna said. “It tasted like sausage.”

Harry snickered next to her and spoke before Draco could respond. “Thanks, mate. It was great.”

Draco nodded a quiet, “You’re welcome,” before starting to rise to his feet.

“I got it,” Harry jumped up quickly, reaching for Draco’s plate. He grabbed Luna’s as well and didn’t say anything when he took Hermione’s, which was still full, as if he knew she was done with it.

As if he knew she didn’t want to talk about why it remained uneaten.

Hermione watched as Harry scourgify’d the plates before stacking them next to the prep station.

He had just sat back down when Draco spoke up.

“Granger,” he muttered, his voice low, meant for only her to hear. “I think we should….”

She looked over at him as he flipped his eyes towards the wards and back to her.

He didn’t have to say anything more for her to know what he meant. As much as she wanted to come here in the first place, every part of her was suddenly eager to get out, too overwhelmed with her thoughts in the presence of others.

She needed time to process everything. She needed time to think for herself without so many strangers nearby.

“Harry,” she began, feeling the coarseness still prevalent in her throat. “Luna, thank you so much for your hospitality. We're going to get going.”

Draco stood as soon as the words left her mouth, throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

“So soon?” Luna asked. “But you just got here.”

Hermione tried to force a smile, hoping her own tension didn’t come through the expression. She didn’t know what to do with the information she had. She didn’t know what it all meant. She didn’t want it to show on her face.

“We don’t want to be in your hair, and the sun is just starting to set,” she jumped up to join Draco. “And plus, there’s more risk if we’re in a big group.”

She was rambling, the words leaving her mouth at a thousand miles per second.

Harry rose to his feet without any argument. “Let me walk you to the wards.”

“Bye Hermione,” Luna waved. “Bye Draco! See you again soon!”

Hermione gave the girl a small wave as Harry turned on his heels and began to walk quietly.

She followed behind him, matching his steps as he headed towards the barrier of the ward, with Draco following a few paces back.

“I’m glad you were able to stop by,” Harry said. “It was nice to see you again. And I’m glad you took my advice,” he nodded his head vaguely to Draco.

Hermione's heart stammered in her chest as she felt the blush coat her cheeks. “I’m glad I did too.”

As they approached the wards, they shifted into silence. Hermione counted her steps until she saw Harry’s motion come to a halt next to her.

He pulled out his wand and smiled weakly at her, a barely-there expression that she couldn’t quite decipher. Her eyes shot to his hand again, catching the ring along the shaft of the wood.

His eyes caught the movement of hers, and a moment later, he stroked the ring with his thumb. But before Hermione could ponder the meaning, a spell was already leaving his wand.

Hermione and Draco stepped back as Harry sliced through the magical barrier, one layer, then another, until the third finally revealed an opening.

And what it opened to was rain—a torrential downpour of rain in the arena.

“Oh,” Harry said. “That’s not…” he looked back to their camp, not a raindrop in sight, and then over to Hermione. “That doesn’t look good.”

Draco approached the opening and peered his head out into the forest. He lasted about three seconds before he pulled himself back into the camp, drenched. Water droplets rolled down his face, hair pressed down over his forehead, as he looked at Hermione with a sheepish expression.

“I don’t think we can go out there,” Hermione breathed.

“No, I don’t think you can,” Harry added.

“Is there any other way into the forest? Maybe it’s not like that everywhere.”

“We can check,” Harry said as he started to walk towards another end of the barrier.

Draco shook his hair out, spraying her with droplets of water, and she pushed at his back. “You’re not a dog,” she muttered, as they both followed Harry.

He had already sliced another exit through the barrier by the time they reached him, but the results were the same.

Rain. Lots of rain.

More rain than Hermione had ever seen in her entire life, coming down like an endless jet stream of water.

But she stood in Harry and Luna’s camp, completely dry. She had no idea how it was possible, but with magic, she knew anything was.

“So,” Harry said. “Doesn’t look like you guys will be going anywhere today.”

“Well, no Harry, we—erm—”

“You what? You want to trek back to your camp in that weather?”

Hermione looked over at Draco, who was already watching her. Their eyes met, and she hoped he understood everything she wanted to say.

“No,” Draco said. “No, we don’t want that. But—“

“No buts,” Harry interrupted. “You can stay in our camp. It’s okay.”

"It’s just—"

“You can leave as soon as the rain stops.” He looked over to Luna, who was resting by the campfire, and she waved at him. “Come on.”

As the evening wore on, Harry periodically crossed the camp to the wards and sliced an opening through them. Each time, the rain continued to pour down.

When the sun started to set, dragging darkness behind it, Harry expanded their tent and offered one side for Draco and Hermione. Draco quickly transfigured both of their sweaters into cots.

But as they started to unwind for bed, and Draco stepped out of the tent to use the bathroom, Hermione quickly transfigured the two into one, a single sweater falling to the ground as the magic reverted. Transfiguring the sweater into a blanket, she draped it over the cot.

When Draco returned, Harry and Luna were already on their side of the tent and snoring quietly. His eyes went wide when he saw their sleeping arrangements.

He had just opened his mouth to speak when she brought her fingers to her lips and whispered, “Shh.”

He looked at her dumbfounded, and she pointed to the other side of the tent before bringing her finger to her lips again. He huffed without sound and let the barrier between the two sides of the tent fall closed.

“What is this?” he whispered at her, eyes wide but more surprised than angry.

“We needed a blanket,” she whispered back.

The cot was large, more than enough room for the both of them, but she fought the fear that coursed through her. She couldn’t explain herself out loud, so she swallowed the embarrassment she felt about what her actions looked like and climbed under the covers, shifting to the wall of the tent to make room for him. She turned her back to him to allow for a moment of privacy to change.

A few seconds later, he started to climb under the blanket.

Immediately, his presence was right behind her, his chest practically pressed against her back as his head hovered over the crook of her neck. “Why did you do this,” he muttered into her ear. 

But Hermione didn’t respond, instead, shifting off of her side and onto her back, feeling as his presence instantly retreated. She dragged the blanket up to her shoulders and stuffed her arms in, making a show of closing her eyes.

Draco lay propped up on his elbow, and she could feel the way his eyes bore into her face, but she kept her lids shut and waited.

A few seconds later, she felt the shift of the cot as he repositioned himself and his shoulder pressed into hers. He fumbled with the blanket before it met along a straight line with her side and shoved his hands under as well.

For a moment, they just laid there, neither doing anything. But she knew with certainty that he wasn’t asleep, and she was positive that he knew she wasn’t either.

She had a list of things she wanted to say to him, but could share none of it aloud. Not if her suspicions of the Games-makers were true. Not if they were listening, even to their inner thoughts, as she suspected.

Instead, she would have to be careful. Careful in the way he was when he shared the fragments of his story with her.

Hermione could feel the presence of his arm stretched down the bed along the same line as hers, not quite touching but within easy reach. She fumbled her fingers around, tapping them lightly against the cot, one, two, three times.

Time stood still as she waited for his acknowledgement before she felt the tap of one of his fingers in response.

She forced herself to continue breathing slowly, aiming to make it look like she was already sleeping.

The movement of her hand was slow beneath the blanket, centimetre by centimetre inching towards his fingers, which she knew were close by. When she reached his hand, he didn’t flinch, as if he was anticipating her touch.

She paused, letting him acclimate to her fingers on his skin as much as she acclimated to his, and then she started to move again. Torturously slow, she dragged her finger down his palm, feeling as gooseflesh coated his skin at the sensation while searching for the finger she needed.

She found it moments later, as the skin shifted to metal on his index.

His breathing hitched briefly next to her, and she froze before the pattern evened into a steady rhythm again.

When her fingers brushed against the ring, she felt a surge of energy course through her. It was hot under her touch, like a burning flame, and she wondered how he bore to wear it.

But the differing temperature was the tell-tale sign of magic within it.

It was the same sensation she felt when Harry brushed her hand at dinner, and when Luna touched her shoulder as they first got to the camp.

It was the evidence she needed to know with certainty that their rings were also magical and very likely disillusioned to hide the same symbols as his.

She tapped her finger against his ring once—for him.

After a pause, she tapped it a second time—for Harry.

A second later, again—for Luna.

Hermione waited with bated breath, finger still on his ring, as his chest rose and fell steadily, both their bodies otherwise completely still.

She anticipated his movement until the very moment he shifted, when his thumb lifted off of the cot and curled around towards his ring where her finger was.

Draco tapped once against her skin—for him.

A second time—for Harry.

A third—for Luna.

And then a fourth, pressing down into her finger hard.

The fourth—for her.

It was her that pushed against his Occlumency wall this time around, and there was no hesitation when he let her in, the only other sign of his awareness, the faintest nudge against her shoulder.

But it was him that projected into her mind, a near carbon copy of the words he said to her a few days prior.

You can’t say anything more.

His walls came up in a flash as he pushed her out, so harsh she almost shuddered, but she kept her body rigid and let the moment pass without giving anything away.

She knew they were being watched.

She knew they were always being watched.

He turned over to his side a moment later, facing his back to her.

Nothing else was said. Nothing else was done.

But they were both on the same page.

They both knew, and it changed everything.

The everything of the nothing, bare fragments of information, not quite enough to know anything at all, but it still changed everything.

She wasn’t the only one.

He wasn’t the only one.

There was an entire network.

Hermione sensed him fall asleep quickly after that as his breathing evened, and she followed not long after, mind still whirring behind her Occlumency.

She awoke abruptly to Draco shifting in the cot, eyes cracking open as she felt him suddenly sit up.

“Malfoy?” she whispered, voice raspy and mouth dry, trying to remain quiet as the lack of sunlight outside indicated it was still early.

He shot up to his feet and peered behind the barrier that separated the two sides of the tent.

“Draco?” she sat up, watching his movements. “What are you doing?”

He looked back at her and let the barrier fall to the ground, revealing an empty tent on the other side. “They’re not here,” he muttered. “Why aren’t they here?”

“It’s early,” she rubbed at her eyes.

He glared at her, tense, watching angrily as she started to lay herself back onto the cot.

Moments later, she felt him approach and start to pull back the covers to climb in as well, but he didn’t get far.

Both of them shot up as a piercing scream filled the air like a siren.

A scream so loud, it barely sounded human.

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and pulled her off the cot, pressing her behind his back as he whirled towards the tent entry with his wand in hand.

She grasped her own wand out from under her pillow, as a scream filled the air again.

And then the sound of voices.

Unfamiliar voices from outside the tent, male and female, the sound of footsteps, the ringing of metal knives colliding, and the sharp brush of a blade against its sheath.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered.

And then the voices yelled.

“Attack!”

Chapter Text

The flash of spells filled the air like fireworks, ripping through the barely-there walls of the tent in the blink of an eye.

The material dropped to the ground, and Hermione and Draco ducked with it, before she grabbed at the hem of his shirt and frantically pulled him under the space beneath the cot.

“What the fuck is going on?” he hissed. They were both panting, bodies pressed together as they tried to remain unseen in their hidden spot. Hermione’s hand shook around her wand as the spells continued to fly outside of the tent.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, “but we need to—"

“Was this a setup?”

“What?”

“What this a setup?” he growled, voice barely loud enough for her to hear despite the proximity of his head right above her ear.

“By me?” she whispered, nudging him in the ribs. “You think I would—"

“Fucking hell, not by you—by them.”

She looked up at his face, and his eyes were like mercury—hard, pained, and vicious. Anger was emanating from every part of him, but it was mixed with something else too, the same thing that she knew was spiralling out of control within her.

Fear.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, hoping with everything in her that it wasn’t but having no confidence to stand by it as fact.

It couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

But maybe it was.

A scream filled the air again, pained and bloody, and the memory of Hannah being beaten to her death flashed in Hermione’s mind, flushing an uncomfortable chill down her spine. Her palm pressed painfully into the wood of her wand.

“We need to get out of here,” Draco muttered. Hermione opened her mouth to retort, wanting to say that they couldn’t just leave if Harry or Luna were in danger, but he pressed his finger atop her lips roughly. “I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”

“But Draco—"

“No,” he spat. “I don’t care about anybody else. Me and you need to get out.”

She grabbed at the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward until their foreheads pressed against one another sharply. “No,” she practically growled out, “if they’re still alive, we’re not leaving them.”

He bared his teeth at her, breathing heavily, but remained silent.

“Where are your throwing stars?” she asked.

“Just get your fucking bow and arrows and follow my lead.”

That was it. That was all she needed to know they were on the same side, even though it might have been reluctant.

She pulled at her bow and quiver, stowed away under the cot for safekeeping, and was filled with relief that her previous day self had put it where it was. Draco rolled to the edge of the cot where the tent draped down to the ground and waited for her to be ready.

Hermione pulled her bow over her shoulder, crouching down at an odd angle to avoid shifts in the tent, and moved up behind him just as another scream filled the air amidst a clatter of weapons and yelling voices outside. She reached out for the hem of his shirt and grabbed on, anchoring herself to the steadiness of his presence, trying not to think about what they were about to do.

She knew without any doubt that the next few moments had all the writings of a suicide mission.

“Do you have your wand?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“At my ready, disillusion us. I’m going to vanish the tent cover and throw up a shield as soon as it’s gone.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“There’s no telling how many of them there are, but definitely more than one. As soon as the tent is gone, take my wand.”

It wasn’t the time or the place to process the meaning of his words beyond the bare necessity of what he wanted her to do. If they survived, she could think about what offering his wand to her meant later.

But only if they both survived.

“Got it, Granger?” he probed impatiently.

“Got it, Malfoy.”

The edges of his jaw clenched, and there was no telling if it was because he was processing the gravity of the situation that awaited them, or something else entirely. His breathing stuttered as the commotion outside the tent continued, and she pressed herself into his back, pushing at everything within her to force away the tears that were threatening to escape.

Her hands wrapped around his torso as he took a final steadying breath.

“On my count.”

His palm pressed over her hands at his waist and squeezed.

“3—”

He released her hand.

“2—"

She released her hold on him.

“1—"

She exhaled a shaky breath.

“Diminuendo —GO!”

The tent folded in on itself, pulling towards the point of Draco’s wand as it shrunk to practically nothing. In the same moment, Hermione disillusioned them both. What remained of the tent fell to the ground in a scrap of fabric the size of a pocket square.

They were immediately hit with a fresh gust of wind, cold amidst the dewy morning. Draco threw up a silent protego and pushed himself out from under the cot, Hermione following quickly behind. She grabbed for his wand as he made quick work of pulling out his throwing stars, making a beeline for a lush line of trees.

The scene around them revealed itself. The entire camp was in chaos.

Hermione nearly stumbled as she saw Harry in the middle of it, with a large gash on his cheek, fresh blood trickling down his face as he pointed his wand at another tribute. He stood over Luna, who was on the ground, grabbing at her leg.

The identity of the tribute he was facing made her sick to her stomach. It was one of the careers, Millicent.

“What the hell are you doing,” Draco cursed, turning back and grabbing at her roughly before pulling her behind him. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Malfoy,” she spat back. “We need to help him!”

Her words were met with only silence as Draco tugged her by the waist, dragging her with him, before shoving her behind an overturned table. She ducked behind it as soon as he dropped her, and he crouched down next to her, anger rolling off of him in waves.

“What part of ‘we need to get the hell out of here’ did you not bloody understand?” he hissed, eyes glaring at her with such brutality she felt herself sink away from his body.

“Malfoy, they’re both still alive,” she gulped as he pushed himself forward to stare down at her. “We need to help them.”

“No, we don’t!”

“Yes—"

Hermione’s voice was cut off by a wail as both she and Draco whipped their heads towards the sound.

It came from the direction of where they both knew Harry was, but they couldn’t see anything as they remained crouched behind the table.

They turned their eyes back to each other slowly and just looked at each other in shared silence. Both of them were breathing heavily, eyes flaring with a dozen emotions at once, shoulders tense, but Draco’s immediate silence was like an invitation, an opening that Hermione knew he was giving to her as much as he didn’t want to.

He wanted to get out for their safety, but he also didn’t have it in him to leave anybody behind. Nothing more was said before they both peered over the edge of the table, still disillusioned, to see what was unfolding.

Harry remained in a standoff with Millicent, with both a spear and his wand pointed at her, while she had a hatchet and wand pointed at him. The way they moved around each other was like a lover’s dance. When she shifted one way, he shifted another. When she stepped back, he stepped forward. When she suddenly lunged at him, causing Hermione to flinch forward before being restrained by Draco’s hands, Harry lunged back.

Hermione felt helpless sitting and watching them surround each other. She had seen too many Games, knew enough about the Career’s ways, to know that there was no way that both of them would make it out alive.

Millicent’s voice was sharp when she called out to Harry, and the sinking feeling it brought to Hermione, reminiscent of the terrible memory of Hannah, was unnerving.

“Might as well say your goodbyes, Potter,” the girl spat. “You and your little girlfriend aren’t making it out of this camp alive.”

Harry pounced forward with his spear and grazed Millicent’s shoulder before she jumped out of the way, snarling. She whacked at him with her hatchet, and Hermione jerked forward again, eyes glued to Harry’s motions, just as he ducked away in time.

She remembered how horrible it was to stay hidden in the bushes while hearing the sounds of Hannah getting killed. At that moment, she had thought that it was worse only hearing it happen than seeing it all play out.

Now, watching Harry, knowing that she had it in her to try and save him and Luna but likely only at the expense of her own life, was definitely worse.

Ignorance was bliss in terrible situations.

But there was no bliss now, no faking ignorance for anybody, absolutely nothing to make what was happening feel okay.

And seeing everything as it was now, the likelihood that Harry and Luna had set them up, was improbable, if not completely out of the question. Knowing what she knew about Harry, there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that he would have never done anything to risk his life so carelessly, let alone bring Luna into the crossfire.

This had been a planned attack. Something that had caught all of them off-guard in a moment of weakness. And the Careers were expecting casualties.

There was no past tense there. It hadn’t just been an attack; it still was one.

But something about it also wasn’t making sense.

Hermione was certain there had been more than one voice when they were still in the tent, but all she saw at that moment was Millicent. She passed her eyes around the camp, feeling herself fall into a dizzy haze, but the movement did nothing to ease her suspicions.

Besides Millicent, there wasn’t anybody else there.

But something didn’t feel right. An odd pull at her gut told her there was something she wasn’t seeing.

Draco’s arms were still restraining her from the back when she whispered, “It’s not possible that there’s only one of them.”

“What?” he brought his head above her shoulder, straining to hear her muffled voice.

“It’s not right,” she whispered again, eyes glazing over the scene of Luna at Harry’s feet, Milicent with her hatchet pointed at them both. The gears were stirring in her head as the unease settled over her, the feeling that the sight before her wasn’t adding up, pulling the muscles in her throat tightly. 

“What are you on about, Granger?”

She ignored his question, dazedly whispering her own back. “Where are the others?”

Her mind raced through the memory she had.

Millicent had been the culprit, the one responsible for Hannah’s death, but it hadn't been a self-proclaimed victory.

There had been four total tributes.

Her kill had been announced by Cormac.

As Hermione continued to stare at the scene, she just barely missed the flash of movement behind the trees along the perimeter of the camp.

Millicent and Cormac had been a pairing, closer than the other two.

Pansy and Cassius.

Four tributes.

Where were the—

That was when her eyes saw the sudden shift of another person darting out of the trees. Her gaze narrowed in on it quickly, catching the dark blonde hair and scruffy build of a boy she grudgingly recognized. The person her gut had been trying to tell her was there. 

The seconds that followed his appearance ticked down as if in slow motion, like dripping honey off a spoon.

Cormac jumped out of the bushes with a wand and a spear, eluding Harry’s notice. At the same moment, Millicent jabbed Harry with a stinging spell, something he almost dodged, but that nicked him along the shoulder. He winced as he stumbled back.

As he did, Hermione called out to him, called out his name to try and get his attention so that he could see Cormac coming.

It was a foolish thing to do, but she had no control of it. No way to stop herself once the instinct hit.

But barely any sound left her mouth before a large hand clamped down over the bottom of her face. She was pulled back into Draco’s chest, thrashing, as everything in the camp started to fall apart.

Harry’s head bolted up to see Cormac just a second too late. The Career wasn’t looking at Harry, though, but at Luna, who was no longer protected at his feet. As Harry turned, Millicent quickly retreated and disappeared.

It took barely the blink of an eye for the spell to leave Cormac’s wand. Even less time than that before Harry threw his body forward.

Outstretched, he pushed himself towards Luna, who was still cowered on the floor, with what Hermione would later learn was a broken leg.

But the spell shot out first.

It hit Luna before Harry could get to her. 

The impact of it blasted her square in the chest, some piece of magic Hermione didn’t recognize, and sent her flying through the camp with a punishing force.

As soon as it did, Cormac stopped in his tracks, a dirty smirk gracing his face as he revelled in what he had done.

Luna was propelled from her spot on the ground, forty feet in another direction, before her body slammed into a tree and collapsed forward.

Hermione cried out as the resounding crack of the girl’s head against the tree trunk echoed through the forest like a gunshot. Draco only pushed his palm further over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Harry’s eyes followed the path of Luna’s body, before he flipped his attention to Cormac. He instantly dove for him, breaking into a run and throwing his spear in the direction of the Career without a second thought. But Cormac ducked it easily with a loud cackle. Harry shot a blasting spell at him, but he dodged that as well. He turned to Harry and flipped him off with a laugh before rebounding off of the base of the campfire, and disillusioning himself into a mere ripple of space.

Hermione watched desperately as Harry tried to follow the ripple as it moved towards the barrier of the camp, but his eyes couldn’t keep up. Frustrated seconds later, everything around him went still. He turned suddenly towards Luna and at the sight of her, broke into a sprint.

Blood had started to run down the side of her face, a deep red, as she lay slumped over. She looked unconscious, eyes closed, characteristically peaceful, a terrible contradiction to everything going on in the camp.

But her body was disfigured, neck bent in a way it shouldn’t be, and though it was hidden, there was an evident injury on the back of her head. It was apparent from the way she slammed into the tree and by the amount of blood leaving her.

Hermione watched in horror as Harry raced towards her body, screaming her name coarsely, all else forgotten. His voice was anguished, pained beyond belief, as he called out, “Luna, I’m coming, hold on, I’m coming!”

Hermione started to thrash beneath Draco’s hold, clawing at his arms, kicking at his feet, elbowing his chest, as he cursed under his breath at her retaliations.

“Granger, fuck—"

Her nails tore through his skin, teeth piercing the inside of his palm until she tasted blood. She didn’t know if it was hers or his or both, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing in that moment mattered except for Harry and Luna.

She had to help them.

As Harry ran towards her, a translucent layer of film started to form up from the ground around Luna's body. It moved slowly, but faster than Harry could run, and before he got to her, it had encased her and the entire tree she was against.

But he continued to pursue, headstrong on making it to her, headstrong on ignoring the film and running through it, before he reached it and it threw him back. The very moment his finger tried to pass, his body jolted away from it as if it was filled with an electric current. He tried to push through it again, but it relented, holding strong against him.

Luna remained slumped over, the blood running down her head now starting to pool beneath her. It was dark, a red so deep it nearly looked like soil beneath the grass.

Harry snarled, trying desperately to get in from another spot, circling the entire tree hopelessly. He scrambled around one end, another end, but the barrier had encircled her entirely, and there was no way past it.

He punched and clawed at it, wanting nothing more than to reach Luna and help, to try and heal her, or comfort her, absolutely anything other than watching her succumb from a distance. But his efforts seemed futile.

At some point, watching him hopelessly, Hermione started to cry. A helpless wave of tears washed over her as everything collapsed around her—her Occlumency, her sanity, any semblance of strength, crumbling to the ground like dust. She clawed and grabbed at any part of Draco she could to get her off of him but he continued to restrain her.

The sounds Harry made were tormented, nothing but indecipherable words and pleas to anyone who would listen, but nobody that would help.

“Please, Luna—”

“Please, hold on—”

“I’m going to get you out—”

“FUCK—Luna—just hold on—”

But Luna didn’t move as the blood continued to pour from her skull.

“Luna, please,” he cried. “Please! I’m so sorry! Luna, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Luna, please.”

Luna remained slumped in front of the tree.

“Please, hold on Luna, you’ll be okay, just hold on,” he blubbered.

Hermione continued to claw at Draco, but as every second passed, she felt more and more that the effort was in vain. The countdown clock was coming to a close.

There was nothing any of them could do.

The camp was silent beyond the sounds of Harry’s anguish, beyond the muffled sounds of Hermione’s tears.

The wind moved through the air and rustled the leaves on the trees, picking up debris and overturned camp gear with it.

When the dreaded canon sounded, Harry cried out, collapsing to the ground.

Hermione’s heart sank, disbelieving that she wasn’t living through a nightmare. Disbelieving that any of it was real.

“No,” she sniffled, “No, no, no, no.”

“Luna!” Harry wailed, on his hands and knees, grabbing for the barrier, teeth clenching as it electrocuted him, but he continued to hold on.

A sharp elbow to Draco’s ribs finally let Hermione wedge out of his hold, before she jumped to her feet and pointed her wand at him.

“Don't,” she hissed through a mouth and face full of tears. She felt deranged, on the very cusp of losing her entire sense of rationality, though she couldn’t say for certain that she hadn’t already. “Stay the bloody hell back.”

Magic sparked from her fingertips, fuelled by a dangerous concoction of anger, shock, and despair, and she could feel the wand buzzing beneath her fingertips. Draco stared at her, a look on his face so pained and shocked that she would turn her wand against him.

But she swallowed the guilt from his expression and held her wand trained on him, with his still stowed safely in her back pocket. She could hear the anguished sounds of Harry as he continued to call out for Luna and she forced a tight swallow of saliva and snot down with all of the hurt she felt, and for a moment, just glared at Draco. Her jaw was clenched tightly, her eyes steeled, and he just stared back, furious.

And then, unexpectedly, he raised his hands up in defence and jutted his chin forward, a sign of defeat, of acceptance that they were going to do things her way.

She lowered her wand cautiously and turned towards Harry again.

He was dirt-covered and still on his hands and knees, crying out for Luna.

He jumped to his feet when the snatchers appeared, desperately trying to grab for his wand, which he didn’t have, to shoot a spell at them before they vanished in the blink of an eye, taking Luna’s body with them.

Hermione stood, hiccuping through her drying tears, mouth agape.

It made no sense.

None of it made any sense.

She wanted to collapse like Harry, she wanted to scream and cry, and implode from the anger she felt coursing through her. At the sheer tragedy of losing Luna, a girl she barely knew, quickly realizing that it wasn't yet over.  

They still remained in the line of danger. The camp, ravaged. One of their own, killed. Their entire presence there, a risk.

When the flicker of movement in the trees appeared again, she didn’t miss it. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation or doubt as she scrambled to pull her bow over her shoulder.

It didn’t matter who or what was coming.

There was nothing left within her to shoulder any more risk, any more danger, any more hurt, and definitely not any more avoidable death. She would stop it if it was the last thing she ever did.

Hermione felt the palpable relief as the remaining shreds of her Occlumency walls shattered, not because of weakness, but because of determination. As they crumbled down to the base of her mind, they made room for unadulterated fury. Rage so pure it practically felt like there was nothing else inside of her. It sparked along her skin, twisting her insides as the weight of it pressed down on her, nearly ready to consume her.

If felt like there was nowhere to go, nothing she could do to stop it from overtaking her entire being, when her head suddenly snapped to the movement of a form darting out of the forest.

There was no delay in her recognition of the person, and the moment her eyes landed on them, she found a channel for her rage.

With a hatchet in hand, Millicent ran through the grounds, jumping and dodging overturned camping supplies. She didn’t notice when Hermione rose above the table she and Draco were behind, nor did she see her when she jumped over it with her bow poised over her shoulder.

Hermione’s heart was calm as she watched the motions unfold. Harry, still crouched on his knees past the barrier, sitting in the spot Luna was before she was taken away, and Millicent running full speed towards him, hatchet poised to be thrown his way.

There was no hesitation when Hermione lined up her bow, as if she was on autopilot, not a single thought entering her mind except for the names of people who had been destroyed by the Careers, by the entire existence of the Games.

She pulled the arrow tight along the string.

Hannah.

Luna.

Harry.

Innocent victims of an avoidable war.

Millicent yelled out as she whipped the hatchet at Harry.

Harry flinched at the sound, turning in her direction and ducking.

Hermione flicked her finger and released her arrow.

It whirled through the air for mere seconds, cutting sharply through the wind, before it met its target. Piercing through Millicent's chest, it hit right through where her heart should have been. 

The second canon of the day went off before her body even hit the ground. She was rigid, eyes frozen wide, collapsing to the forest floor with a pronounced thump.

Harry turned sharply to Hermione, his pained expression evident even from where she stood. She felt nothing except for her beating heart, stable amidst everything, and the weight of the bow in her hand.

There was no remorse, no pain, not n inkling of regret for turning her arrow on another person.

Something she thought she would never do.

Something she thought she would never let herself live down if she did.

But she felt nothing.

It wasn’t enough to avenge any of the lives lost or erase the horrors they’d lived through.

Her eyes drifted out dazedly to a spot in the distance, barely sensing the tug at her arm as a large hand wrapped around the bow she still held and pried it from her fingers.

Bow out of her hand, she broke into a run towards Harry, not even flinching as another set of snatchers appeared for Millicent’s body.

When she crouched down next to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulder, Draco quietly followed and joined the two of them on his knees.

Harry said nothing as he dropped his head to her shoulder, muffling his cries against the fabric of her shirt.

He was broken, battered, his heart bruised.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

They weren't the monsters.

They weren’t supposed to kill.

But the real monsters were still everywhere.

And in that moment, everything clicked for Hermione as she realized what it would take to bring them down.

When robbed of all other options, to destroy a monster, sometimes you had to become one.

Chapter Text

Hermione remembered only flashes of moments after she embraced Harry. Tear-soaked clothing, sturdy arms around her, and then the blur of trees. Time passed in a warp as one moment she was looking down at him still on his knees, and when she blinked, they were back at Draco’s camp.

Correction, her and Draco’s camp.

Now, with Harry in tow.

When they arrived, multiple packages awaited them.

A new tent, a vial of sleeping draught, a set of trousers and shirt, and a single chocolate bar. It was quiet in the camp as Draco made his way to the packaged tent and set it up next to the one already standing with a flick of his wand.

Harry stood in a daze, muttering indecipherable words under his breath while he held on to the scraps of his belongings that he was able to grab from his camp, refusing to put them down. The very moment the second tent was up, he scurried into it and zipped the flap closed behind him.

Draco and Hermione watched as the tent walls shifted with his movements, the sound of rummaging behind the tent door suddenly becoming muffled as a silencing spell went up from the inside.

The hush that fell over the camp made Hermione’s skin crawl.

Neither she nor Draco said a word to each other as they pulled out food from their bunker. They moved as if they were both in a stupor, hazy, almost drunken, and avoided each other's eyes as they ate. They sat in silence until the sun started to set.

Hermione wasn’t sure if there was anything she could or should say. There were no coherent thoughts in her mind. Words were difficult to string together. She was okay with letting the day pass them as it was, and it seemed like Draco was content to do the same.

Talking about what happened now wouldn’t change a thing anyway.

As they prepared to retire for bed, Draco shoved the sponsored vial of sleeping drought into Hermione’s hands. She looked up at him, and without a word, shoved it back. But then he pushed it towards her again, more forceful, angry even, clearly operating on slivers of patience. She looked down at it again and shook her head before meeting his eyes and swatting his hand away.

She barely had time to blink before the regret settled over her as he immobilized her arms and legs with a wordless spell, and grabbed at her chin. His skin was soft on hers, but the hold was firm, indenting on her skin. Her eyes went wide as he pried her mouth open with his index finger and his thumb, uncorked the screw of the vial, and forced the liquid down her throat.

He didn’t give her a chance to reject it, not to swallow or cough, and held her mouth closed shut with his hand as he forced the liquid down with a spell. He left her restrained in her frozen state as he got to his feet and turned on his heel to the tent.

Only when he stepped inside did he lift the spell from her.

But by then, minutes had already passed, and the magic in the potion had started to take effect. Hermione stumbled to the tent aimlessly, the only thought in her mind to make it to the cot before she collapsed, any anger she should have felt towards Draco buried in her muddled state. She fell into a deep sleep the moment her head touched the pillow, overtaken too quickly by unconsciousness to even consider how it had gotten there in the first place.

Her eyes cracked open to a shiver running down her spine, with only flashes of blurry memories of what happened the day before. She couldn’t remember how she got into bed or anything she dreamed about, making no sense of the split-second images her mind was conjuring. All she knew was that by the time she stepped out into the camp, they were gone.

That day, Harry emerged from his tent twice, out and back in minutes for a bathroom break, but nothing else. She and Draco left food for him at his tent door, but he didn’t respond when they called for him. An untouched plate of breakfast was picked up at lunch and replaced by another full plate. It remained as it was for the entire day as well, as did his dinner.

Hermione didn’t want to let Harry suffer in silence, but Draco’s calm demeanour as he repackaged uneaten food convinced her that he was content with letting the boy be as he was. She found herself falling into the same rhythm as him, deciding that Harry would emerge when he wanted, and it was neither of their places to rush him.

And that was okay.

Like a creeping smoke, the tension between Hermione and Draco returned. It was the same kind of uncertainty that existed when they first partnered up, that they had just started to make progress on before they left for Harry's camp. But now, suddenly, neither knew how to say anything to the other without bringing up the events that led them to where they were, to become a group of three.

If she had known that Draco was slipping a calming draught into her food and drinks, she might have questioned why she felt so unperturbed about what had happened. The death of Luna weighed heavily on her, but that was the only thing she truly felt any pain about. With everything else, Hermione felt peace, a complete and utter lack of regret over what she had done.

Knowing herself, she worried it would have consumed her, that the guilt would have overtaken and run her completely dry.

But it hadn’t.

Not for the first day, at least. She was too numb as the day blurred past her, and that night, when she was overtaken by sleep.

The second day passed without a hitch as well. After breakfast, she laid in the sun, did some strength conditioning, and after lunch, target practice with a frisbee.

She didn’t think about why she bypassed the other weapons, not even looking towards the bow and arrow that she hadn’t even brought into the tent with her.

If anybody asked her, she would have said all was well.

But nobody did.

The day after, however, she started to waver. The memories of Harry’s cries were just a little bit louder inside her brain; the flashes behind her eyelids of Luna’s body flattening against the tree much too clear for her liking. But she kept her head down and powered through it. The third day back at the camp ended up being much the same as the first.

Neither her nor Draco tried to start a conversation with each other, both evidently content to simmer in silence.

Maybe it was better that way.

But that night, when she climbed under her sleeping bag, the overwhelming weight of distress pressed down on her chest.

And somehow, despite the pressure, she still felt nothing inside. Not in the way she did when she was numb, but nothing as in gaping emptiness. Inside of her and all around.

Her cot suddenly seemed too large for her, even though it was meant for only one person, and the need to anchor herself to another presence ran wild.

Her mind suddenly flashed to the night they spent at Harry’s camp, the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest as he fell asleep next to her, and the comfort she felt that she refused to believe was because of him.

But it had been a selfish lie.

She had slept in a bed alone her entire life, and yet one night in the same cot as Draco, and the feeling of weakness in her heart had her craving the feeling of him close by again.

It was confusing and odd and difficult to wrap her head around, so she tried to force the lingering feelings out as quickly as she could.

This wasn’t the place to find comfort in another person.

She wouldn’t allow herself to.

If only just to protect herself. She’d do anything to avoid the pain if that person ever got snatched out from under her hands. She had felt it before, and she didn’t think she had the strength in her to go through it again.

Even if it meant rejecting the peculiar feeling with everything she had in her. Even when it rose to the top of her chest and swirled around where her heart was.

She tossed and turned in bed, growing increasingly angry at herself every time her eyes closed and pictured the things she was trying to pretend she didn’t want. The restlessness led to frustration, an annoyance at every part of herself that had even entertained the idea of loneliness.

That was what this was—loneliness. Nothing less, nothing more. A desperate pull towards someone who had shown her compassion that her weak mind had twisted into something else.

She vowed to herself that she would pretend like it never happened, like the thought never crossed her mind. But it was a lost cause, as she fell asleep thinking about strong arms holding her in the night.

On the fourth day back, Harry emerged just as Hermione awoke. Her eyes cracked open as the morning sun started to rise, and as she prepared to step out of the tent, she saw the shift of movement outside and stopped in her tracks. Harry peered his head out of his tent, checking to make sure the coast was clear, and the only thing she could focus on was the bags under his eyes. A purple so dark it practically looked black, weighing down under his waterline, as if he hadn’t slept a wink since he got to the camp.

Her heart sank.

His journey outside the tent lasted barely minutes. He stepped out carefully and immediately turned towards the bunker where they stored their food and water. He grabbed a packaged sandwich, two bottles of water, and made a beeline back to his tent, as if he was never there.

When the flap closed behind him, she stayed frozen where she was and continued watching for several minutes. But there was nothing to catch after that. He had no doubt already shrouded his tent in a silencing spell.

That day was the most difficult of all, as the cracks in Hermione’s demeanour finally started to show.

Had she the energy to notice, she would have known that it was because Draco’s supply of calming draught was starting to run dry. But she didn’t, oblivious to the fact that he was giving her any at all.

Every howl of the wind sounded like a scream to her, jerking her from her spot as she whipped her head toward the source. When the leaves rustled, even just a single leaf across the camp, she heard it. She felt as if it was in her very bones, and each time it happened, it put her on edge, her hand drifting to the wand in her holster without a second thought.

In the silence, she heard Millicent’s voice spitting at Harry.

Might as well say your goodbyes, Potter.

You and your little girlfriend aren’t making it out of this camp alive.

She hadn’t been wrong.

Luna was gone. And Hermione was certain Harry had lost a piece of himself with her when she died.

And he never did get a chance to say goodbye.

The ache in her heart at the thought threatened to consume her then, turning her entire chest inside out and swallowing her whole.

She couldn’t do anything that day but sit on the grass, running her fingers through it aimlessly, trying desperately to build her Occlumency walls. She ate what Draco put in front of her, drank whatever bottle he set in her hand, but otherwise, did nothing else.

Every time she got a handful of bricks aligned into something that resembled a wall, they would come crashing down. Loudly and painfully, like a punishment to her mind. Like a statement saying, you don’t deserve to build the wall—you don’t deserve the sanctuary that comes with it.

When night-time fell, Hermione was teetering on the edge of a dangerous place.

She lay in bed fitfully, unable to even close her eyes without hearing the screams of her past. The vivid memories were no longer just of Harry’s voice. She heard the phantom cries of her parents, the voice of Luna, then the unexpected voice of Ron. It sent chills down her spine that she tried to ignore, attempting to convince herself that none of it was real. But when the solemn cry of Ginny sounded out in the dead of night, she shot up in her cot, completely out of breath.

The cry sounded like it was coming from outside, so she stumbled to her feet as her vision swam and took haggard steps out of the tent into the night. Her breath came out of her in short pants, as she was overtaken with the horrible feeling of not enough air in her lungs. It only made breathing more difficult, and all the while, she still heard the cries.

Coming from all around her, bouncing off the walls of trees that enclosed the camp, she could practically see the voices moving along where the barrier ward rested invisible in the sky. Her eyes followed the movement frantically; bursts of colour that bounced around the air like snitches, crisscrossing one another, blending into one before they separated and came crashing down to the ground and exploding upwards again in a continuous cycle.

At the foot of the tent, just outside the door, she collapsed to her knees, her eyes unable to follow the chaos any longer. To follow the things that seemed impossible to exist, pushing her over the edge of sanity.

The cries she heard only grew more horrid. She recognized the sound of every single person she knew and loved, as the pain in their voices clawed at her, crawling under her skin in a way that felt like her flesh was going to rip from her body.

Hermione grabbed at the dirt underneath her, trying to find some semblance of an anchor, some reprieve from the pain, but the voices mingled between each other like a harmonious cry for help that she couldn’t escape.

They were calling out to her. Begging for her to save them. And she could do nothing but helplessly listen, hands unable to reach for what they asked.

It was the most horrible feeling in the world.

Amongst the cries, she suddenly heard words.

Say your goodbyes.

Millicent's voice mingled with the screams of her loved ones.

You aren’t making it out of this camp alive.

She cried out, unable to take it any longer, and pressed her palms desperately to her ears, her dirt-covered fingers grabbing at her hair, as she heard yet another voice get added to the mix.

It was ragged, barely recognizable, and her eyes shot outwards to try and decipher the source amongst the heavy beating of her heart.

But there was no source besides her. It was her voice. Wailing, collapsed at the floor of the tent in disarray, completely spent.

She felt her mind fall into a haze as if for her own protection, metal bars suddenly clamping down on her brain as her eyes rolled back into her head, and she felt herself hit the forest ground.

There was no telling how long she lay there before she started to float, her body lifting seamlessly off the ground as if she weighed nothing. There was a peacefulness to it, a lightness that living didn’t provide. She wondered if it was what dying felt like. To hurt so much that your body just gave up, and the earth claimed it as one of its own, the lightness coming when it freed you from everything that was broken inside.

Hermione wavered in the air, hovering in one spot, and some shattered piece of her, the convolution of the many shards and fragments, relished in the tranquillity of it all. Her entire vision had blurred by that point, and she was certain that she wasn’t even breathing, but she floated as if she was filled with air, and it felt like freedom.

And then, from within the haze over her eyes, she began to see figures. They were indecipherable but bright yellow, a contrast to the darkness swimming in her vision. A faint tug at her jaw had her mouth falling slack before she felt liquid poured onto her tongue and a stream of magic at her throat that moved down to her chest, pushing the liquid inside when she couldn’t.

Almost immediately, the voices started to drift further away from her, like a train slowly gathering speed on its way to a place she wasn’t in. They went from yells to echos, to muffled sounds that were barely anything at all before her ears clogged with silence.

The relief was almost instantaneous, her vision blurring back into focus as she regained feeling in her other extremities. She wiggled her fingers as she became acutely aware of the steady rise and fall of her chest, the comforting intake and outtake of cool night air in her lungs.

The awareness of her surroundings came next. First, the yellow lights formed into lanterns, and then she realized that she wasn’t staring at the night sky anymore, but up at a tent. In fact, she was lying on a cot, just like she was when her night had started.

And clasped around her hand, was another hand. Strong fingers wrapped around hers, rubbing circular patterns in her palm. Her eyes dropped slowly from the ceiling and landed on Draco.

“Are you alright now?” he asked gruffly, his hair a mess, sticking up on all ends as if he had awoken from a nightmare.

Hermione didn’t have to reason with herself for long to understand that it was likely her that had woken him up. His nightmare being whatever she had gone through.

She opened her mouth to try and speak, but her voice caught in the dryness of her throat. Draco got the cue as soon as she hesitated and brought a bottle of water to her mouth, before helping her sit up. He placed a steadying hand on the back of her head and lifted her slowly as she tested her own strength before she put her elbows back on the cot and sat halfway up.

There was a greediness to the way she drank the water, trickles still rolling down her chin when she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Besides formalities, the two phrases he had just uttered were the most he’d said to her in days. As she tried to find the words to respond, not even knowing what it was she really needed, not even knowing why exactly he was asking, her eyes landed on his chest.

Entirely bare.

The dim lantern light filled every crevice of his upper body with shadows, his collarbone like a sacrificial cross, the smooth marble-like plane of his pecs, the ripple of muscles along his abdomen, and the splatters of thin light hair that ran all down his body until a trail of it disappeared beneath the band of his pants.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe, heat flushing her cheeks, and she found herself having to hold her hands clenched together to stop from reaching out and running a finger along his skin.

Hermione put it off to the mania, to lingering insanity from her panic attack, because there was no other explanation for why that thought would cross her mind.

But she couldn’t hold back the words when they escaped her mouth, eyes drifting up to meet his.

“Can you move your cot closer?”

Her voice was quiet, filled with uncertainty, and she saw the moment his eyes went wide at the request, so subtle she would have likely missed it if she wasn’t staring at his face. Her hands drifted to her hair nervously, twirling and pulling her fingers through the ends. But almost as soon as the expression appeared on his face, it was gone.

He rose to his feet without a word, and it took everything in her to keep her eyes on his head. But the effort was futile as she let her gaze trail down the lines of his back when he turned to his side of the tent. It was as if his skin was glowing, bright spots of light burying themselves in the dips of his shoulder blades, down his spine, and along the curve of his lower back.

Hermione tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, not knowing what had gotten into her. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of any of him.

It was the loneliness—the loneliness was getting to be too much.

Her fingers started to work more frantically through the ends of her hair.

He didn’t waver, didn’t try to guess how close she meant when she said “closer”, so he moved his cot until the edge of his touched hers. He gave her a look that said—is this close enough?—and she nodded before dropping her eyes to her clasped hands.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No,” she whispered. Anything more she needed, he simply couldn’t give her.

The weakness she felt in her core, went so much further than just her body. It was her very being, her heart, her mind, her soul. There was nothing he could give her to fix it.

“Do you want to try and sleep?” he asked carefully, still standing over the end of her cot.

“Yes.”

She tried to meet Draco’s eyes, but even a single second felt too long and too much to bear for her fragile state. He was looking at her with such worry that she’d never seen directed at her. So earnestly it almost felt like she didn’t deserve it.

“Would you like the light off?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He rounded the tent to the side of his cot where he could climb in and stopped. She felt his eyes on her as she laid herself back down, fingers still holding on to the edges of her hair as she did. He climbed into his own cot slowly and then paused, as if waiting for her to say something, to change her mind, but Hermione remained silent. The light on the lantern dimmed slowly before the entire tent was consumed in darkness.

Her eyes remained open, rooted to the roof of the tent as he shifted around next to her. She felt her fingers separate the ends of her hair in three and start to braid.

It was the only thing that ever calmed her down. She wasn’t very good, but it wasn’t done for beauty. The braiding was just for something to do with her hands. The simple act of touching her hair, the subtle pull on her scalp, had always been a sensation that soothed her. First from her mother’s hands and later from Molly’s.

Draco lay still beside her, and the warmth his body brought, despite the distance that remained between them, gave her a sliver of ease. But her hands kept moving, feeling as the soft locks of her hair weaved themselves around her skin, gliding along her fingers with every touch.

“Granger,” he murmured. “What are you doing?”

Her hands froze. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s nothing,” she whispered, embarrassed by her own weakness.

He shuffled in his cot and the warmth emanating from his body grew closer, more pronounced against her skin.

His head was hovering right next to her ear when his voice caressed her skin. “May I?”

Her fingers pulled through the ends of her hair again instinctively, unable to see him in the dark, disbelieving that he had said anything at all.

“What are you talking about?” she breathed, head starting to feel dizzy again.

He moved next to her, rising to his elbows, before he cleared his throat. “Do you mind stopping whatever the nothing is that you’re doing…” he paused, a steadying breath passing through him before he spoke again. “And, letting me take over?”

She believed with every part of her that she was dreaming. There was no other way those words would have left his mouth otherwise.

But her hand stopped moving and slowly drifted from her hair, an achingly desperate part of her ready and willing, the loneliness taking over control.

He was silent as he waited for her response.

Hermione found herself unable to form any words. The best she could do was a quiet, “Mhm,” before her teeth clenched tight from the shame.

“Turn on your side,” he whispered.

She did as she was asked, without any hesitation, turning her back to him beneath the cover of her sleeping bag. She settled on her side and shut her eyes.

Draco shifted behind her, rustling beneath his blanket, before she felt the hesitant touch of his hand on her. At first, it was just a finger, running down the length of her hair to the very tips, before he moved it back up and started again. Then he added a second finger, her hair weaving between both as he continued the same motion, up and down her hair.

The tingle in her scalp was the kind she couldn’t replicate herself, the euphoria washing over her like a drug. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world, as if his hand was pulling the tension out of every one of her muscles.

Two fingers turned into three, which quickly turned into his entire hand running through her hair. He was gentle, holding himself back from tugging when he came across a knot, of which there were many, simply moving to a different spot and continuing his path. Locks of her hair intertwined in the webs of his hand as he let them flow however they wanted between his fingers.

Hermione couldn’t help herself when she pressed her head back into his touch and he grazed her scalp. She couldn’t stop the deep sigh that left her throat, unable to hold back the relief when he repeated the motion.

It was the simplest of gestures, taking nothing at all except for some patience, and it meant everything to her that he had volunteered. He likely wouldn’t remember it in a few days, but she didn’t think she would ever be able to forget.

As Draco continued the rhythm of his hand, it put her into a half-conscious daze. She didn’t even try to fight the onslaught of sleep that blanketed her, his caress a reassurance that it was safe to close her eyes, safe to reflect on everything that had happened, because she wasn’t alone in it anymore.

The silent tears that flowed out of her were inevitable. The sweet smile of Luna appeared behind her lids as she sniffled quietly.

Draco didn’t say a word.

The face of Millicent, who Hermione still hadn’t fully processed was dead because of her, just brought on more pain.

But at that moment, she didn’t allow herself to dwell on it, or blame herself, or feel any regret. Instead, she thrust her Occlumency around the memory, knowing that it would likely dig into her eventually, but not having it in her to care, or let it ruin the peace she felt in the present.

She didn’t have it in her to process the gravity of everything right now, simply because she didn’t want to. Simply because it was easier not to. And maybe it would break her if she didn’t, but there wasn't much more breaking she could do. It was hard to believe it could get much worse than it already was. The walls stood firm and pushed the memory deeper and further out of her reach.

Instead, she focused on the motion of Draco’s fingers brushing softly through her hair and let it lull her to sleep. With his hand on her, it felt like somehow, someway, everything would be alright.

Chapter Text

When Hermione opened her eyes in the early parts of the morning facing the wall of the tent, the presence of another body behind hers startled her. She instinctively tried to move away, but stopped when her hair pulled against her scalp, the weight of something lying atop it restricting her.

It took a moment longer than it should have, but she remembered where she was and what had happened the night before.

She was at the edge of her cot furthest from the wall, and Draco was at the edge of his, closest to her. His body was pressed almost flush against hers, so close she could practically feel the rise and fall of his chest along her back, the warm air he breathed out ghosting against her neck. His face was nuzzled into her hair, but the rest of him wasn't touching her, one hand tossed over his head and the other laying flat atop the blanket.

Despite that, his presence felt just as intimate and close as if he had his arms wrapped tightly around her. 

Without any warning or reason, a memory flashed through her mind. One that felt like ages ago, but in reality, had only happened a few weeks before.

The training grounds, utter darkness, the pleasant cologne on his skin, his body pressed against her back just as he was now, as he spewed a riddle in her ear.

You might be the torch, but some of us have already learned how to see in the dark.

She thought about that moment many times before the Games began, but had seldom allowed herself a chance in the arena to reflect on anything that happened before she got there. It was a defence mechanism, a twisted way of building a barrier around the things she carried with her, the inevitable moments of her past that had led her to where she was.

So she hadn’t considered what those words meant when she learned about his ring. She hadn’t taken a single moment to think about the connection back to all the rings, the symbol on her pin he had been so fixated on, the existence of the network she was so certain was at play now.

None of it had crossed her mind before this very moment and her heart sunk in her chest at the realization.

It had meant very little then, but so much now.

He had called her a torch, something that could be a symbolic light leading others through the darkness. But she felt none of it. None of the responsibility, none of the awareness, none of the progress. She was just a broken and clueless person in the Games like everyone else, with no power to determine or destroy anything in her path.

Her fascination with any sort of rebellion had never heard the light of day, besides in the forest with Ron. Otherwise, nobody else could have known. And at the very foundation, they were just that—fantasies. Nothing tangible, nothing she could actually act on without getting killed. Nothing that would put a stop to the people who put them here.

But that thought didn’t ease any concern. Draco’s words were unlikely accidental.

None of what he did seemed accidental.

She settled on a simple conclusion, that amongst all the unknown, was one of the few things she was certain about.

Somebody had created a network, and Draco thought that she was the face of it.

But none of that made any sense.

If she was a torch, why had nobody told her? And how was she to figure it all out, now, in the middle of the Games?

She had so many questions racing through her mind, she could barely keep up.

Who had created this network?

Why? How? What did they want to accomplish?

How come she had been left in the dark?

And most importantly, how many others were there?

She could hear and feel Draco’s breathing behind her, the closest clue she had to it all. But the sombre fact that she couldn’t ask him anything outright was debilitating, a crux in the pursuit of whatever this network was trying to accomplish, and whatever her role within it was supposed to be.

He was right there, but she couldn’t say anything. Not out in their camp, or hidden in their tent, or even through Legilimency. Both their hands were tied because of their circumstances.

The secrets he kept would likely never see the light of day for either of them.

Hermione fought the heaviness of her lids, fluttering them open each time they started to drop, but after a while, the attempt seemed feeble. Knowing that Draco was close by, though his presence in her life bewildered her, seemed to pull the tension from her bones and sleep overtook her again quickly.

When she awoke in the same spot sometime later—several hours based on how much light was in the tent—she turned to look behind her to find Draco gone. Almost immediately, disappointment edged itself under her skin at the sight of the empty cot next to her, and though she knew it wasn't fair, she couldn't stop the feeling that consumed her. 

She had no right to be disappointed about anything. But the peculiar notion was difficult to ignore as she felt it in her very core despite trying to reject it.

Another look at the empty cot next to her was enough to force her to her knees and up to her feet. She dressed quickly, laying her days-old clothes with refreshing charms. She had quietly mastered replicating the scent of the strawberries and mint shampoo that her team had used on her in the training grounds and infused every bit of herself with it.

It was a little piece of makeshift home, the smallest reminder that there were people outside of the arena who despite being practical strangers, still cared about her. Every bit of the disappointment in her was edged out by something else, something unexplainable even to her.

As she pulled back the flap of the tent and spotted Draco by the fire, she came to terms with the fact that she felt the most rested and relaxed since the Games had begun. But it was a passing thought that quickly dissipated. She wasn’t ready to admit why to anyone, let alone herself.

Draco was set up by the logs, a steady stream of magical smoke floating into the air from the freshly set campfire. He smiled weakly at her as she approached, and turned back to the kindling.

Though she should have expected it, his silence still stung. She tried to remind herself that this was how things went between them. They didn’t talk about things because they couldn’t.

Because what could she really say?

Sorry for waking you with my meltdown yesterday?

What the fuck am I a torch of?

Could you touch my hair like that every night for the rest of my life?

Each question was more ridiculous than the one before. She held back the scoff that almost left her as she dropped to her seat, the disappointment clawing back up her chest relentlessly.

She felt like a hopeless fool.

They sat in silence as Draco continued to build up the fire, before starting to roast leftover meat from their last hunting trip. Hermione watched it start to turn golden brown above the heat, but her appetite was non-existent, despite the gaping hole she felt in her gut.

If she let herself dwell on it, she knew it wasn’t from hunger. Food wouldn’t sate the emptiness.

As Draco worked, she sat and watched his hands. The meticulous way they moved, the way they wrapped around wood, the way they clenched when he was thinking. They were the hands that had grabbed her in the training grounds, that had saved her life in the river, that were adorned with the ring on his index, and the very same hands that had worked their way through her hair the night before and had lulled her to sleep. His hands had brought uncertainty, they had brought fear, relief, mystery, and comfort, and now, in the dawn of the day, she couldn’t take her eyes off of them.

The sound of the anthem was the only thing capable of breaking her from her daze.

Her eyes shot up to the sky immediately, the first announcement since the attack on Harry and Luna’s camp. From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco still by the fire and do the same. She rose to her feet as dread filled her core.

It was ingrained in her memory now, there for as long as she would live, the way the bright sky was overtaken by the darkness of the foreboding snake and skull figure. It resembled something that tainted everything it touched, and as the early morning sun was overtaken by dark ink-like smoke, the sentiment held true.

It lingered in the air for longer than usual, longer than she ever remembered, shifting and moving with the gusts of wind, and she couldn’t peel her eyes off as if it was pulling her in with it. She felt herself cower away just as a shift of movement caught her eye from the corner of their camp.

A head of black hair emerged from the second tent before Harry's form stumbled out of it.

Hermione jolted forward, an instinct from seeing him properly for the first time in days, but she barely recognized the boy that crawled out of the tent. He was in the same clothes he was wearing when she last saw him, but they were ill-fitting now, dirty and ripped, shirt hanging off his shoulder, and pant hems dragging behind him. His hair was a dishevelled mess, an untamed beard growing in across his cheeks and chin that stood out in stark contrast to his fair skin. And the bags above his gaunt cheeks weighed his entire face down, barely holding up his eyes, the look in them, haunted.

He was a shell of the boy she remembered.

She took one step towards him, but Draco's arm came up in front of her to block her path. She flipped her eyes to his face, and he was watching Harry with a horrified expression. When Hermione looked back to Harry, he was staring at the sky, swaying on his feet, as if he was in a world all on his own.

“Don’t. He’s not….” Draco trailed off.

The smoke from the skull and serpent symbol faded to reveal the open blue sky for a brief moment before a face was projected in its place.

The face of Millicent.

Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest at the sight, but her Occlumency around the memory held strong. The face in the sky was expected.

What wasn’t expected was the sight of Harry dropping to his knees and yelling out, “No, that’s not possible!” He punched at the ground with clenched fists, his body seizing as if being consumed by a wave of shock.

Both Draco and her looked over to Harry as he suddenly threw his hands up towards the sky in prayer. Hermione could see his lips moving but could hear nothing of what he said from where she stood.

It pained her to see him this way, the grief from losing someone he cared for twisting his senses.

Millicent’s face faded and was replaced by Luna’s. Hermione took one glance at the sky and dropped her gaze down, unable to look at it any longer. She instead focused her sights on Harry again, who remained on the ground, crouched on his knees.

As Luna’s face faded and the national anthem of Regnum began to play, Draco looked down to meet her eyes. There was pain etched into every line of his face that she had never seen before, the blacks of his pupils constricted so small it was as if they were barely there at all. For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something, his mouth just starting to open, when both of their attentions were caught by Harry suddenly jumping to his feet and starting to storm towards them.

He stomped his feet, moving hurriedly but without any rhythm, still muttering things under his breath that made sense only to him. As he neared, Draco took a half step forward in front of Hermione, partially shielding her behind himself.

Harry came to an abrupt stop before them, disarrayed eyes flipping from his hands to their face. His hair fell across his forehead in sticky chunks as he ran his fingers through it, over, and over again, like a nervous tic he had no control of.

“I’ve got to go,” he said hastily, to neither of them in particular, eyes not quite meeting Hermione’s or Draco’s. “I’ve got to go. They’re still out there, I’ve got to go.”

He held his empty hands out to them without any purpose. Hermione’s eyes immediately caught on the ring on his left-hand finger. But now, there was a matching one on his right as well.

Smaller, a shade of blue, that he had slotted on his pinky.

There was no doubt about where the ring came from.

“Potter, what are you on about?” Draco said firmly, shifting further in front of Hermione.

Harry's eyes dazedly moved towards Draco’s face, but they were unfocused, set on a distant point somewhere behind him. “I’ve got to go,” he said again, voice barely above a whisper.

“Where?” Hermione said gently over Draco’s shoulder, standing on her toes to look at Harry’s face. “Where do you have to go?”

“I have to go find them,” he breathed, pulling roughly at the neck of his shirt. “They’re still out there.”

Harry started to rock back and forth on his feet, and Hermione’s heart felt on the verge of breaking, of shattering at the state that the boy was in. He looked lost, confused, talking in circles about something that made sense only to him, except it didn’t.

Luna was gone. Who else was there to find?

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, matching the tone of his voice. She pushed Draco’s arm aside and stepped forward. “Who? Who’s out there?”

“Them,” he muttered, a dazed expression on his face as if his body was there, but his mind somewhere else. “They’re—they’re still out there. I need to go find them.”

“Harry,” she took another careful step towards him. “How about you take a seat first? Are you hungry?”

Hermione didn’t know what else she could say except to try and divert his attention, if only temporarily. Whatever was going on inside his mind didn’t seem like it would pass quickly, and it didn’t have to, but neither she nor Draco could help him if his senses were fading.

Harry continued to stare out into the distance, eyes completely glossed over, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. When she took another step forward, and he didn’t flinch, she placed a hand under his elbow and started to lead him toward one of the chairs. With the smallest nudge, his feet started to move in the direction she wanted.

By the time Hermione took hold of him, he stopped muttering under his breath, his mouth pulling into a tense line. He let her lead him to the closest chair and had no reaction when Draco took his other elbow, the two of them helping him down into the seat.

Hermione looked over to Draco as soon as Harry was in the chair, knowing he needed food, something light, or water, absolutely anything to distract him. He met her eyes and nodded once, understanding the expression on her face without her needing to utter a word. He turned to the bunker with their supplies, and Hermione crouched down in front of the boy with jet-black hair.

Seeing the broken look on his face and his downcast eyes, Hermione decided she wouldn’t push him. Instead, she placed her hand gently on his knee, avoiding his fidgeting hands, and waited.

Draco appeared in her peripheral moments later with a bottle of water and some crisps, the package already opened for ease.

She buried a small smile, fighting back the memory of the time she did the same for him with a chocolate bar.

She turned back to Harry. “Would you like some water?” she asked him.

He made no motion to show her he heard, and at first, she was certain he hadn’t or was simply ignoring her in his daze, but then his hands stopped fidgeting and froze. He flexed his fingers aimlessly and then reached out with his left hand, an infinitesimal distance.

It was a reaction, a response to her question, a yes.

She looked up at Draco desperately, and he unscrewed the bottle, water sloshing up the sides, before placing it in Harry’s outstretched hand. He held on to it as Harry tested his hands around it, and still didn’t let go when he started to pull it to his mouth, acting as a second guide.

Harry filled his entire mouth with it and took slow gulps, easing it down his throat in bits. When he finished, he pushed it back into Draco’s hand and dropped his eyes to his lap.

He started to run his finger along the seams of his pants, upwards and downwards, in a continuous rhythm, focusing on nothing but that. The minutes passed slowly as Draco stepped back, and Hermione counted each shift of Harry’s fingers.

She was trying to think of a way to get through to him, to get his attention and understand what he was going on about, when he suddenly raised his head to look at her.

Her head jolted upwards at his motion and met his eyes straight on, unexpectedly clear as day.

“Hermione.”

She forced a hesitant smile to her face, before whispering, “Harry?”

“Hermione, I need to go,” he said, more firmly this time, a certainty to his words that he didn’t have when he was rambling. “They’re still out there.”

She still didn’t know who he was talking about, but the conviction in his voice was unnerving. Out of nowhere, he looked like he knew exactly what he was talking about, that the subject of his words wasn’t stemming from madness.

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, her mind flipping instantly to her earlier train of thought through her haze of sleep.

He was trying to tell her they were still out there, and just that morning, she had wondered how many others there were.

It sounded improbable, but could it be? Was that what he was referring to?

She took a steadying breath before speaking, excitement building within her, teetering on the edge of hope. “Who, Harry? Who’s still out there?”

“The others,” he said flatly, left hand darting out to spin the ring set on the pinky of his right. “They’re still out there.”

Her heart started to beat more quickly, picking up pace until it was shuddering against her throat.

The others—a confirmation that there was more to the network than just them.

“We had a plan,” he whispered. “We weren’t supposed to lose her. I thought they were dead too.”

Hermione felt herself gripping to his every word, muddling them in her mind, trying to put the pieces of what he was saying together, to make sense of bare fragments amidst the chaos of the unknown.

The others.

A plan.

He thought they were dead too.

The determined look in Harry’s eye gave nothing away, but she knew that his words were meant to be clues.

The others.

A confirmation that it wasn’t just him and Luna in the network. That it extended beyond the wards of this camp, that other tributes were working towards the same goal, hidden amongst the masses.

But who could they have been?

Now, she wasn’t sure if the state he was in when he emerged from the tent was deranged at all. Looking at the clarity in his face now, as he let her think in silence, showed nothing but a man who knew what he was saying, who had every gear turning in his head the way that it should.

This was not a grief-stricken boy, this was not a boy who was confused.

This was a man with a plan.

A plan.

He said that they had one, in past tense. That they weren’t supposed to lose her, also in past tense. But Luna was gone, and there was no doubt that he was talking about her.

So that meant that whoever the others were, whoever was still out there, was part of this plan. A plan that was supposed to protect Luna, likely protect Harry as well.

But who could have been powerful enough in the Games to be able to guarantee that, or at least put themselves in a position to valiantly try?

Hermione’s mind flipped through the remaining tributes at random, faces and names, some she recognized, some she didn’t, District 6, District 2, District 8, District 1.

Harry falling to his knees as soon as Millicent’s voice appeared in the sky.

Screaming out, “That’s not possible!”

A reaction not to what was there, but to what wasn’t.

The faces that didn’t get projected before her. The faces that he was expecting to see. The faces of tributes that he thought were dead.

The only Districts to come before hers with tributes still alive were District 1 and 2. And because she could quickly cross off Cormac, that left her with just two tributes.

Those from District 1.

Pansy and Cassius.

We had a plan. We weren’t supposed to lose her.

I thought they were dead too.

Hermione’s breath lodged in her throat as she wrapped her fingers around Harry’s knee tightly.

Careers, hidden in plain sight, working for the other side.

He thought they were dead because of the attack, the plan they had, meant to protect them. If his and Luna’s cover was blown, his only conclusion was the death of the others.

His reaction, the outburst, the unhinged look in his eyes. It all made sense. Every bit of it, complete and absolute sense.

He thought they were dead because there should have been no other explanation for Cormac and Millicent finding them. The fact that their faces weren’t in the sky meant that they were still alive, somewhere, injured or on the run.

For a second, she wondered why he was so certain there was no betrayal. But she couldn’t ask, and she knew he wouldn’t be able to say.

Her head started to spin as she felt a steadying hand on her shoulder, a blonde head of hair appearing in the corner of her eye, as Harry grabbed onto her hand. Her eyes lifted slowly to meet the boy in front of her, and he was already waiting.

With finality in his tone, he whispered, “I have to go find them.”

Chapter Text

“... alone,” he finished. “I have to be the one that finds them.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered back, the words leaving her mouth before she could even think to stop them. “Let us come with you.”

He dropped his eyes solemnly to his clasped fingers and shook his head. “I have to be the one to do it.”

“Please,” she placed her hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t do it alone.”

He twirled his thumbs around an invisible axis in his lap, brows furrowed so tightly that she wasn’t even sure he heard her speak.

Hermione wished she could read his mind. She wished she could see his worried thoughts and do something to ease them.

And she tried. As discreetly as she could, sitting before him, she tried to test him.

But she didn’t get far.

Easing her way into his mind carefully, she was met almost immediately by a barrier—one of the strongest Occlumency walls she had ever faced. Stronger than Draco’s, infinitely stronger than her own, as if the block protecting his thoughts was made of steel, multiple layers of it, inexplicably impenetrable.

Based on the empty look on his face, he might not have even known she tried to push her way in.

What kind of secrets was he holding that needed that type of protection?

The thought only made her want to break through even more.

“No,” Harry whispered, his bruised and sunken eyes making him look years older than the eighteen he was. “It has to be me.”

Hermione didn’t understand why. She didn’t understand why she and Draco couldn’t join, why they couldn’t help him, especially after everything that happened with Luna.

There was supposed to be strength in numbers. There was power to be had from working as a team. Hadn't she already proved that?

She thought after everything, they were one. That after losing Luna and bringing him to their camp, they had formed an unspoken agreement to work together.

Especially after the rings, of which she was certain he knew the significance of.

They were supposed to be allies, fighting the monsters together, there for each other through the darkness and the light, if that ever did come.

But deciding to leave on his own contradicted all of that.

Her mind shifted to the persistent thought that he had been betrayed. That his and Luna’s camp had been given up by tributes that he was expecting to be on their side, that he was now going to go after in hopes of finding.

What would he meet when he located them? Were they innocent people part of the network, simply overpowered and coerced into revealing his location? Or had they played him? Willingly given up his hideaway for some sort of advance, some sort of promise to eliminate his and Luna’s existence?

However, it didn’t seem like the worry had crossed Harry's mind despite weighing heavily on hers. She knew nothing of the others, only their presence during the death of Hannah, and beyond seeing their slight hesitation with participating in what the other Careers did, none of their actions seemed innocent.

She simply didn’t know enough to trust them, to know for certain that there wasn’t a trap waiting for Harry.

But Harry seemed to know. Almost too assuredly, in a way that seemed impossible for Hermione to bring up.

His head drifted up slowly to where she was waiting for him. With a simple glance at her, she was pulled into him, as if his eyes had wrapped tendrils around her very being and grasped onto her tightly.

Deep green irises, like the forest trees encasing their camp, like all those spread across the expanse of the entire arena. Streaks of brown and beige, like the bark and the soil beneath their feet, specks of yellow and orange like the beating hot sun in the sky. He looked at her as if he had a million things he wanted to tell her, as if he was pleading with her that she understand even though he couldn't let her in on any of it.

If he was Draco, she would have felt the push against her walls, seizing the opportunity with her vulnerable and focused on him.

But Harry wasn’t. His eyes held her gaze but he didn’t push anywhere, his presence remaining before her and nowhere near the walls around her mind.

She wondered if it was because he couldn’t, or because he couldn’t.

In either case, she would never know.

But his eyes spoke everything he had no power to say.

Of pain, of suffering, of newfound conviction and hope now that he knew there were others out there.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” she whispered.

The twirling of his thumbs stopped. “Yes. You can stay here.”

That wasn’t what Hermione meant. That wasn’t how she wanted to help.

“Harry—” she started to say.

“I’m serious,” he rose to his feet. “I need a safe base to come back to. You need to stay and hold down the fort, make sure there’s somewhere safe for all of us when we return.”

Hermione rose to his height as an inexplicable expression crossed his face. She started to open her mouth again when he turned to Draco behind her.

“You’ve made this place unplottable. Can you make sure I can find it and get in when I’m back?”

Draco nodded his head curtly. “Of course. I’ll adjust the wards."

Harry looked down at Hermione who was looking up at him pleadingly. “I best be going then,” he said.

“But—already?” she stuttered. Of course, she knew he had to go. That there was no way to talk him out of it, or talk herself in, but it was all moving so quickly.

Too fast to keep up, too fast to wrap her mind around, much too fast to try and get ahead; to build a plan, to do something, anything, to help him in more ways than just holding down the fort at the camp.

He had spent three, if not four days with them, the mornings and nights blending together so chaotically, and this was the longest they had all been together.

It seemed cruel to let him venture out into the arena on his own so suddenly.

Cruel in general, but especially cruel after losing Luna. After the damage to his own camp. After having to come to terms with the ruthlessness of the Careers.

The very same tributes that would be ready to attack again as soon as he stepped past the safety of their wards.

“I can’t waste another minute,” he said. “I’ve already wasted days.”

And with that, he excused himself from their presence and took off in a run towards his tent.

Hermione looked over to Draco desperately, hoping, pleading with her eyes to come up with some way to help Harry, but he just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground.

Resigned, without options, as if he too knew that there was nothing they could do to slow down Harry or wedge themselves into his plan.

Harry reappeared from the tent not ten minutes later, all of which were spent in shared silence between Draco and Hermione, and he walked out with a pep in his step and a backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes were set on both of them, but as she tried to meet him, she realized he wasn't looking in her direction. Instead, she turned her head to Draco and saw him staring out, gaze locked with Harry.

He gave Harry a slight nod before she turned back to the other man and saw him detour towards their bunker with food. He dropped to his knees and started tossing packaged food items inside his bag—sandwiches, crisps, a few bottles of water—before he rose to his feet again and turned Hermione’s way.

He had changed, a fresh set of clothes on his body, and though she hadn’t seen him eat anything since he emerged from the tent that morning, there was now a healthy flush to his cheeks. He took purposeful strides toward her and Draco before he came to a stop right in front of her toes.

“This isn’t goodbye, Hermione,” he smiled.

She met his eyes and tried to smile back. “I know.”

She said the words aloud hoping it would be easier to believe their sentiment if they were out in the air, past the confines of her mind where her pragmatic tendencies would try and shut them down.

“We’ll see each other soon,” he squeezed her shoulder.

The only thing that was too soon was his leaving. Was him packing away the only belongings he had and going after people she didn’t yet believe weren’t their enemies.

Too soon to risk his life after almost losing it.

But wasn’t that what this was all about?

The Games, their entire existence here as tributes.

A risk enough on its own.

If Harry’s beliefs held true, and there really were innocent tributes still out there that were part of whatever network or team that existed—she really didn’t know what to call it—then they should be here too.

They should all be fighting together.

Planning together.

Concocting together.

And though she had yet to utter the words aloud, rebelling together.

If she couldn’t think of a way how to on her own, maybe they could with their strength in numbers.

Maybe there was a way to bring it all down and burn the godforsaken Games to the ground.

And they wouldn’t know if they didn’t try.

She crushed Harry in a hug and buried her nose into his chest, her words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “Be safe, Harry.”

It was a request as much as it was a plea.

He wrapped his arms around her waist tentatively and pulled her flush against him. “I’ll do my best,” he whispered into her hair.

She pulled away slowly and took a step back from him, feeling as the walls of her Occlumency fluttered around her mind.

Whispered words pressed against the confines of which she couldn’t shake herself free.

Difficult things don’t make sense when they happen.

Harry reached out his hand and offered it to Draco. The two men met each other's grips with a step and muttered something to one another.

Something Hermione couldn’t hear.

Difficult things only make sense if they work.

And with that, Harry adjusted the straps of the bag on his shoulders and stepped away.

No more words were exchanged as he turned his back to them and started to march towards the barrier of the camp, towards the wards that would let him go easily, and welcome him back just the same if he ever made it to them again.

Hermione stood frozen in her spot, in a daze that didn’t even feel real, that truly shouldn’t have felt real, and watched his form drift further and further from her and Draco.

Her gut clenched the closer he got to the exit, and she was flagged by a terrible feeling that came with standing where she was, forced to watch him leave.

Draco sidestepped towards her until their arms brushed against one another and she didn’t know if it was a product of the weakness she felt the night before, or the vulnerability of the moment now, or simply the fear coursing through her bloodstream, that her head dropped sideways and came to rest atop his shoulder.

Her eyes were still fixated on Harry as he neared the perimeter, Draco’s shoulder bone jutting against her cheek as it anchored her to her spot, when he pulled his hand around her and pressed her to him beneath his arm.

“It’ll be okay,” he said quietly, his voice not quite a whisper, but lacking any punch or projection.

He tightened his hold around her as she kept her eyes glued on Harry’s shrinking form, just as the first trickle of tears dropped past her water line.

The only thing running through Hermione’s mind were her own words from days before.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Harry shouldn’t have been leaving. Luna shouldn’t be dead.

But both of those things weren’t just possibilities anymore. They were facts. Things they were living through that couldn’t be changed.

As Harry finally approached the wards, he turned back to Hermione and Draco and waved to them both with a wide smile. His shoulders were drawn back, his chin raised defiantly, and he looked every bit like a poised soldier ready for battle.

Hermione’s head perked up off of Draco’s shoulder and she waved back, hoping that his words would hold true, that it wasn’t a wave of goodbye, but a see you later.

That it wasn’t the last time she would see him.

She watched as he dragged his wand across the ward. It peeled away slowly and carved out an opening just large enough for him to pass through. He didn’t look back as he took the final step past the magical barrier, his form disappearing through it, and the ward stitched itself up immediately behind him.

And then he was gone.

Their camp, just a little bit more empty.

She and Draco didn’t move from their spot. Seconds passed, then minutes, but her head dropped back to his shoulder and continued to rest there while his hand rubbed up and down her arm gently.

There was a patience to the action, a similar patience to what he showed her the night before, and suddenly, without any warning or reason, it became too much for Hermione to bear.

He was offering her something that she didn’t deserve. That none of them deserved to feel while they existed in the Games.

Comfort.

Hermione jerked her head up from his form as if he had burned her, stepping away from him and searching his face.

It was flat, nothing but a furrow to his brow as he tried to make sense of what she was reacting to, his arm still suspended in the air.

But there was no explanation for it.

“I’m going to go rest,” she stated matter-of-factly, turning her back swiftly to him.

If he argued, she didn’t hear it, as her walking pace moved so quickly it was nearly a run before she dove into the tent and let the flap fall closed behind her.

There was only one thing she trusted herself to do and it was the only thing that would be able to hold her together.

Meditate, bury herself in her Occlumency, detach from everything around her.

At the foundation of it all, it was one and the same.

Her eyes landed on their still adjacent cots and she quickly sent his to the other end of the tent with a flick of her wand.

She didn’t need the distraction.

She didn’t need to get used to another thing that would be temporary.

Instead, Hermione dropped down cross-legged to the padded floor beside her cot and rested her back against the edge of it.

The cold of the metal radiated through the thin layer of her shirt, so sharp it was like being dunked into a bucket of ice water.

It was her anchor to her whereabouts as she let her mind sink into the depths of everything she was carrying with her.

The Games.

Her existence within them.

The loss, all the brutality, all the gore she had witnessed.

Her eyes rested dazedly on the cot at the other side of the tent, lids open but their presence not really there. Instead, her mind was pulling her, grasping and clawing as if it would turn her inside out and swallow her hole.

It was an unnerving sensation.

Her Occlumency walls pulsed around her mind, practically throbbing from the weight of everything swimming inside of her, but they didn’t relent.

Luna’s death.

The very fact that she had killed another person.

Harry leaving before he ever really even had a chance to stay.

The vivid images and faces flashed through her memory like channels flicking through a television. One, after another, after another.

So many terrible things that nobody should ever be forced to live through, that it was almost too much to bear.

And it would have been if not for the strength of her Occlumency.

After her meltdown the night before, it was clear that she needed to get to her breaking point to build herself back up again.

That against all odds, it had actually worked.

Despite all the thoughts racing through her mind, Hermione’s breathing was even, her hands clasped loosely before in her lap, no stickiness or discomfort to her skin.

Her mind was wild, but her body was entirely calm.

She sat that way for almost an hour, counting her breaths, trailing her fingers along the fabric of her pants, before her mind started to trail from the Games to life beyond them.

It was an insurmountable thing to even fathom, that life continued to go on somewhere outside the arena. Her thoughts drifted to her loved ones back home. 

She wondered what Ron was doing, how his hunting had been faring lately. 

She couldn't remember what day it was, but she knew that Ginny had started school again. She hoped she was enjoying it. 

She thought of Molly, of her cooking, and of Arthur and all his knick-knacks. 

As she existed among the other tributes, the rest of Regnum continued to live their life.

She wondered if they were still watching the daily streams of the Games.

Or, had it simply grown to be too much?

She didn’t know what she would do if she knew one of the tributes personally but was on the outside looking in.

Would she be able to stomach it?

Probably not.

So she couldn’t blame them if they weren’t still tuning in. 

But a small yet very desperate part of her wished they were. She wished they gathered around the telly in the living room of the Burrow despite how much it pained them. She wished they talked about her like she wasn’t gone yet, that they maybe even laid out a plate of mashed potatoes for her and whatever game meat Ron had caught as if she was with them.

And she wished they still had hope in her.

Still buried behind her Occlumency, her thoughts continued to drift.

Crookshanks’ face flashed next and it instantly warmed her insides. She remembered the last day she saw him, the day of the reaping, sleeping next to Ginny. That old man of a cat always did love the girl, and it always swelled Hermione’s heart.

And she felt it even then, as the muscles in her chest tightened, as the beating of her heart began to race, as she came to terms with how much she missed her furry friend.

Yet when a shift of movement caught in her peripheral vision, she sat up straight, and her eyes flew to the exposed skin of her arm.

Her tracker.

Pulsing, twitching against her skin, like a warning.

It was an unnerving sight, to see the pupil move and dilate as if it was human, as if it was simply a copy of one attached to a real person.

A person, or an animal, it was hard to tell for sure.

But from the very first day, she thought it was less human than it meant to look.

Hermione sat up on her knees and tentatively pulled her forearm closer to her.

The marking of the eye was as vile as it was when it was first imprinted onto her skin. Her other hand moved to it subconsciously, index finger reaching out and starting to trace along the still tender skin.

The sharp black outline marred her olive complexion with dark ink, a shaded crater in the inner corner, a deep hooded lid with short blunt lashes. The iris was a burnt red colour, darker on the edges and lighter at the centre. And right down the middle was the pupil, a barely there vertical slit of black that she was now certain she had seen narrow.

It was the way a person’s eyes narrowed when they were listening to you, but didn’t like what you were saying. The type of look that almost dared you to keep going with your train of thought.

When matched with a particular expression, it would make you stop in your tracks and reconsider.

But it begged the question—why was it reacting to her particular train of thought that way?

She was certain that was it, from the very first time she had ever seen it flicker—that its movement was a reaction to her thoughts. A near impenetrable confirmation that it could hear and see what she was thinking, that it was warning her when she started to tread into dangerous territory.

In fact, she had seen it do the same thing before, down to the narrowing of the pupil, but the last time and the time before that she actually was thinking damning things.

It had made sense when it warned her. She never questioned its intention.

But just moments earlier, she had been thinking about Crookshanks. Of his furry orange face and his potted belly and crooked walk.

Nothing about her familiar was damning.

Yet, here she was.

Hermione arched back against the cot again and held her arm perched atop her lap.

If it hadn’t been because of Crookshanks, what could it have been?

Maybe like so many other things, it had been a figment of her imagination, or a clever piece of magic meant to turn her on edge.

She sighed, not having the mental energy to think much more of it. Instead, she let her mind wander back to the face of her familiar. Specifically, that same last day that she had seen him.

He had been stretched out from head to toe parallel to Ginny’s small body, face buried in the crook of one of his paws. She loved watching him sleep that way, when his nose scrunched and he rubbed his little paws across his eyes to block the light out. He was the furthest thing from a light sleeper, often barely even registering her touch when she came to nudge him in the cheeks and rub his belly.

He could sleep through it all happily.

Especially if he was by Ginny’s side.

Hermione had restrained herself from thinking too deeply about her almost sister so as to not dwell on things that she knew would bring her pain. But now, because of everything, she needed it. Not because she wanted a reason to spiral further, but because Ginny always made her feel strong. Thinking of the young girl’s face always gave her conviction and fuel.

She could feel it even at that moment, despite the distance that separated them.

She tried to recall her features from memory, ignoring the pain that fluttered inside her when she realized that even weeks away from the girl would make that task difficult. But she clearly remembered her hazel eyes, the deep orange colour of her hair, the constellation of freckles along her nose and fair cheeks. The picture of her that she built in her mind was so realistic it was as if she could see her with her very eyes now.

The thought of it made her heart stutter wildly in her chest, just as the image of Ginny smiled up at her.

And then the tracker on her arm flickered again.

The exact same way, an almost identical shift of the pupil, narrowing as if it was warning her. 

Hermione scrambled up to her knees again and grabbed at her arm.

There was no explanation for it again. Nothing about her thoughts was dangerous; she was thinking things as far away from damning as possible, yet the tracker was clearly reacting to something.

Her eyes were glued to it, following the lines of the ink in a continuous pattern, trying to wrap her brain around what in the world she was seeing.The first time could have been a figment of her imagination, but this time she was certain it wasn’t. It had been clear as day.

But if there was no logical explanation for why thinking of Crookshanks caused it, and why thinking of Ginny did, how could she explain this?

How could she explain something that made absolutely no sense?

What was the common denominator here that she was missing?

Still holding onto her arm, crouched on the floor of the tent, Hermione tried to trace the steps of her thoughts back.

It had started with the Games, thinking of Luna, thinking of the death she was responsible for, but those thoughts came to her under the weight of her Occlumency. They felt like nothing when they fluttered through her mind, simply facts that she had come to terms with, things that she could never change.

There was silence after that, almost an hour of meditation, and then she was thinking about Ron, Ginny going to school, Molly and Arthur, how they were faring, and if they were still watching her on the telly.

She was calm then too, but if Ginny was the problem, then why didn’t her tracker react then?

It had only reacted when she thought about Crookshanks, but nothing about that memory of him was worthy of a warning.

There was nothing different in comparison to the previous thoughts except for the tightening she felt in her heart.

She paused.

The tightening in her heart.

It had started to beat more rapidly.

Could that beGinny, no. It couldn't possibly be that simple.

But with Ginny, as she started to paint the picture of her face from memory, there wasn’t an immediate shift in her tracker.

It had appeared when she realized how realistic the face she created looked.

When her heart had stuttered as the image smiled up at her.

Her heart had stuttered.

An eerily similar reaction to when she thought of Crookshanks.

The exact same way it was beating now as she sat on her knees and tried to piece everything together.

And then the tracker dilated, again.

Hermione was up on her feet in an instant. That meant—

She barrelled through the tent door, spotting Draco sitting under a tree at the opposite end of the camp. His baseball cap was pulled down over his nose and he was leaning his head against the tree trunk, either asleep or close to it.

She broke into a run towards him.

There was only one thing going through her mind as she stampeded through the camp, so loudly that his head perked up and he lifted his hat off his head to look at her.

She had a theory.

One that could change the tide of everything.

And she needed to test it immediately.

“Malfoy,” she panted, coming to a stop right in front of him and dropping to her knees. “Listen to me.”

He looked right at her and sat up straight, his undivided attention all hers.

She grabbed onto his inked arm with both of her hands and pushed into his mind.

She prodded once against his Occlumency wall and he flinched, but didn’t break eye contact, and when she tried to push in again, there was no resistance.

She could feel his nervous energy circling all around him as she entered his mind.

Listen to me very closely, she instructed.

He gulped slowly and responded back, Okay.

Think of something that excites you.

His brows furrowed, confusion marring his entire face.

Why?

Just do it. Think of something that will make your heart start to race.

He searched her eyes, biting the edge of his lip, as he tried to make sense of what she was asking him to do.

And then a light sheen of pink coated his cheeks.

Okay, his voice projected in her mind. I have something.

Now think about it, and watch your arm.

His eyes dropped down to the forearm which she was still holding onto.

Hermione expected that he would push her out promptly, but when he didn’t, she also didn't recede.

Would she be able to see what he thought of? If she could, did she even want to know?

His mind swam in thoughts, ones she easily swatted away so as to not overwhelm her, but she could feel his strain as he tried to focus his mind on the instructions she had given him. His eyes remained glued to the tracker on his forearm.

All of his energy was being channelled into one place, a corner of his mind way off to the side that he had let her into but that remained hidden behind Occlumency walls meant for everyone else.

She watched with bated breath as he conjured the thought, as the outline of a face slowly formed in his mind. It came into clear view slowly. First the outline of a chin, then a head of long hair, tawny eyes followed, and then a splatter of faint freckles along the nose. Piece by piece, she felt his heartbeat grow more rapid along the pulse point in his wrist.

As the picture neared completion, she gasped.

He flinched as the tracker on his arm flickered.

She dropped his arm as hers did too.

This was the answer she was looking for.

An innocent thought, far from dangerous, but the tracker still reacted just the same.

Because it wasn’t the subject that mattered, but their body’s reaction.

She pulled out of his mind, mouth agape, staring at the pink from his cheeks spreading to the back of his neck.

She had her answer; her sudden theory proven true.

Everything she had seen confirmed it.

The tracker couldn't see inside their minds. It couldn't tell what they were thinking. It only reacted to their excitement, shifts in the beating of their heart, and based its movements on assumptions—nothing more.

But there was a different problem now.

Draco's grey eyes stared at her, an expression she couldn't discern flooding his features, the slowest of gulps passing through his throat. 

The thought that had triggered his heart to race, the excitable thing that he conjured, had been a face.

A face she intimately recognized like no other.

He blinked as the realization slammed into her. 

The face was her very own.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched between them for a long time after that.

Neither wanted to divulge what they had seen and what they were thinking.

On one hand, everything was simple, exciting even. Hermione had practically confirmed that their minds were safe, that the only people who knew what they were thinking were themselves and anyone they let in through Legilimency.

Her mind, and as an extension, her thoughts, were as protected as she wanted them to be.

But on the other hand, everything was all the more complicated. To an overwhelming point, even.

When she had unintentionally conjured the memories that triggered her tracker’s reaction, they were innocent faces of people she genuinely loved and cared for.

There was a history there, a naivety to the thoughts caused by weaknesses in her heart for people that she missed.

But Draco had thought of her.

And without any context, she had no idea how she was supposed to feel about it.

There was a patience and precision to the way her face had formed in his mind, almost as if he was painting it with the utmost care, trying to depict her as she really appeared.

It was an intimate thing to be given a lens into how another person sees you. To come face to face with how their eyes are so much more forgiving than your own when you stare into your reflection.

It made Hermione feel a million things at once, and yet, nothing at all at the same exact time.

Was it a mere coincidence? Was her face nothing more than a thought of convenience because she was sitting right in front of him?

Or was there more to it? Things that she didn’t even want to think about in their circumstances, that simply couldn’t be possible amidst everything they were living through.

But beyond all of that, her mind flipped back to the realization that had come to her back at Harry and Luna’s camp.

That the more time she spent in the Games, and the stronger the alliances grew, the more she felt deep within her that it was possible to get around the requirement of a single winner.

The existence of the network supported that, spurred it on, and she couldn’t help but feel hope at the thought, muddled amongst the anxious energy that coursed through her.

Hermione hadn't previously allowed herself to dwell on the idea because it seemed like an improbable possibility. Just something that came in the spur of the moment, but couldn’t actually come to fruition.

But it was because she thought they were being watched. And they were, without a doubt; their every move was being watched, but she thought the surveillance went beyond their actions—that the Games makers, and no doubt President Riddle, had a way into their mind.

That they could prevent any thoughts of a rebellion; stop any insurgency amongst the tributes before the thoughts even made it out into the open.

“What does this mean?” Draco asked aloud, finally breaking the silence between them and pulling her out of her musings.

Hermione looked up at him from her clasped hands, still trying to wrap her mind around it all herself.

They had spent all this time thinking that their thoughts were being heard and monitored.

They had wasted all this time not being able to talk openly out of fear because of it.

They now, she was almost certain, had a means of communication to discuss anything and everything, something that in and of itself was terrifying to try and process.

And her face, the thought that he conjured, that she wasn’t yet ready to come to terms with.

She pushed inside his mind and there was no Occlumency wall there to hold her back from anything.

It means they don’t know what we’re thinking.

It was the easiest simplification of what she had learned.

Draco’s brows furrowed, tenseness visible in his jaw as he swallowed tightly.

How do you know for sure? The words floated through his mind for her to see.

I don’t, Hermione responded, because she didn’t. It’s an educated guess, because it was.

He rolled his eyes. We can’t risk everything based on an educated guess.

I know that. She huffed a breath out sharply from her nose. There’s no way to prove for sure.

Then how do you know at all?

She drilled her eyes into his, really, truly looked at him, and let the moment wash over her. He sat before her perched against a tree, legs outstretched in front of him. His trousers were a faded khaki colour, already losing their vibrancy from the layers of cleaning spells applied to them since the Games began. The visor of his baseball cap was turned to the back, tufts of blonde hair sticking out from the snap across his forehead.

His expression was patient, but it was filled with doubt.

“Would it be enough if I asked you to trust me?” she uttered aloud.

His eyes narrowed in on her.

“That depends, Hermione. How confident are you?”

It was a question for the ages. How confident was she?

If she was honest with herself, not as much as she’d like to be. But she trusted herself, she trusted her instincts and her intuition, and she had seen the reaction with her very own eyes when she had tested it.

She needed to get him to trust her though, to maybe ease her own nerves too, but it would be impossible to do without putting herself at risk.

Hermione had seen the reaction when both her and Draco thought of something that wasn’t dangerous.

But what would happen if that wasn't the case?

What would happen if she thought about something incriminating, if she put her entire life on the line?

That was the thing she was yet to prove. That they could avoid detection if their thoughts drifted to places that the Games-makers wouldn’t like. If they drifted beyond the realm of what they believed was appropriate, to ideas that supported an uprising.

And there was only one way to prove that.

Hermione had to risk it all.

She rolled her shoulders back and pushed into his mind again, trying to wrap her own around what she was about to do.

I'll show you.

The aura of his presence hovered around hers in his mind. She pulled out quickly, and he picked up on it immediately, following her out.

There was only one place she could go, and Draco knew it.

He pushed into her mind tentatively, no Occlumency wall to bar his entrance, but she began the stacking process quickly after.

Not because she was afraid of anyone else seeing into her thoughts, but because it was the only way to protect herself from how her body would react to what she was about to do. She stacked bricks slowly around him and let her lids flutter closed, forcing steadying breaths through her lungs.

Watch my arm, she whispered, not having the heart to look at it herself in case she was wrong. His fingers brushed lightly against the tender skin of her forearm, light enough to not startle her, but with full intention. He propped up her arm with both his hands on either side.

She couldn't be wrong.

She was betting her entire existence on the fact that she wouldn't be wrong.

A risk to trump all the risks she had ever taken in her life. But one with the potential biggest payoff, that could help all of them.

Not just her, or Draco, or Harry.

But also anyone still alive.

It could change the course of the future for every resident of Regnum suffering under totalitarian rule.

Air filled her lungs slowly, passing through her nose, expanding inside her chest in a languid rhythm that pulled all the tension from her body. When she exhaled, the air released slowly from her mouth, drying her freshly licked lips.

Are you watching?

The words floated through her mind like wisps, breathy and light.

Her heart beat steadily in her chest, a constant rhythm, slow yet strong. That's how she had to keep it if she were to make it through this.

Slow, steady, calm.

An anchor, one with the forest ground, nothing out of the ordinary or amiss.

Yes, he whispered back.

Hermione let one last steadying breath pass through her and uttered the words in her mind on the exhale.

I want to destroy the Hunger Games.

Her Occlumency held strong around her, not a flicker of a reaction from her body in any place. Not in her heart, not in her chest, not in her veins.

She was flat, practically comatose, despite the words she had let free. Despite the words she had wanted to let free for years, that had only prodded at her even harder since she became a tribute.

I want to light it all on fire, a slow inhale, her eyes fluttering open and landing on her forearm in Draco's hands.

I want to watch every last person responsible for the Games burn, a steady exhale, a smile tugging at her lips as she took in the dormancy of the marking on her forearm.

Fuck President Riddle.

Fuck the regime.

We can find a way out of this. We can burn it all to the ground. 

There was nothing, not a flinch or flicker or even a fraction of movement from her inking on her arm. It was there on her skin, but it meant nothing; it could do nothing when she had her emotions under control.

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet Draco's, who was no longer watching her arm. He held onto it steadily but his eyes were focused on her, drilling into her with such determination and hope that she could barely even comprehend it.

He had seen it.

He believed her.

There was no arguing against what she had just proved.

I'm coming with you.

And at that, she exhaled with a smile, easing herself back from him to let the tension pull from her body. She drew herself away and let her back drop down to the ground, her head rolling with it, until she was looking up at the sky.

His presence inside her mind remained.

Hermione let her arms and legs stretch out around her, relishing in the feeling of her magic coursing through her body beneath her skin.

He drew up to his knees and followed her, dropping down beside her gently and bringing his eyes up to the sky as well.

The heat of the sun was blaring down on them, the leaves and branches of the tree above providing just enough shade to not squint in the light. Hermione could see Draco’s face in her peripheral, mainly the point of his nose and the green brim of his hat that he had flipped forward again.

She let herself find comfort against the dirt ground, as odd as the notion of it felt, because suddenly, for the first time in weeks, months even, arguably years, there was hope.

It was an intangible thing, circling around her and Draco in a way that she couldn’t quite grab onto, but she could see, and more than ever, she could feel right in the core of her being.

They were still in the deepest and darkest of waters, no better than they had been in the morning, or the day before, or when the Games began, but their hands weren't tied the same way. They weren't shackled behind their back, their feet weren't weighed down with bricks, trying to pull them under.

Having the ability to communicate through Legilimency meant they had some power back, that if they played their cards right, they could think about and plan a plausible way out of the mess they found themselves in. And maybe it wouldn't work, maybe the chance to even consider it would just get their hopes up, but at the very least they had the chance.

They had their hands now, the ability to organize and think and concoct some sort of plan. They could do it without raising any red flags, without painting a target on their backs.

They could stay afloat if they just stayed calm and treaded water hard enough.

And maybe, possibly, if they were bestowed some sort of miracle, they could even swim their way out.

As these thoughts flitted through Hermione, there was no fear anymore. She let her head flop to the side to look at Draco and was met with his face already turned and looking at her.

He still had an in to her thoughts, his presence planted in the forefront of her mind, a front-seat view to everything she was thinking.

A smile pulled at his lips, and it was kind, gentle in a way she had rarely seen from him, but the placidity of it didn't reach his eyes. No, his eyes were raging. A storm that she had been sucked into before, dark grey clouds and punishing rain, a mischievous glint that pulled the corners of his waterlines up.

If his mouth was smiling, his eyes were smirking, smug like a bedbug. There was no denying he had felt her conviction, that he believed the things she thought about too, and that he wanted to be along for the ride, wherever it took them.

There was a comfort in looking into his eyes that she didn't think she could ever feel. Even now, weeks into their journey in the Games, they had shared more moments of silence than chances to speak.

And that was the other upside, of learning that they could freely communicate hidden behind their Legilimency and Occlumency; she would finally be able to ask him every single thing that prodded at her mind when she saw him.

She could ask him about his past, silly things like where he learned to skin game meat, and finally get to the bottom of why he targeted her. She could ask him why her, if there was any deeper meaning to why he was sent into the Games, and what he thought about their chances of breaking out.

Maybe he had a plan, maybe he had some sort of in, similar to his connection to sponsorships, that they could quietly exploit.

There would be time to ask him all of that.

Draco started to squint as the sun dipped in the sky into the west behind her, but he didn't lift his gaze. With the light shining on him, she could just make out faint freckles along his face, and because she had nothing else to do, she started to count them.

A larger heart-shaped one on the tip of his nose, a faded chestnut brown colour. Splatters of smaller beige ones flowing out from it grew lighter where the edges of his nose dipped into his cheeks. And the ones that flowed out along his cheeks eventually faded into fair skin and were no more.

There were dozens, all different sizes and shades, and she realized at that very moment, that it was a shame she never noticed them before. It was a lovely feature to his face, and being close enough to not just see them, but to consider the intricacies of how they were set on his skin, was incredibly intimate and warm.

You have freckles too, his voice in her mind startled her.

It pulled a smile to her face that she had no business stopping. He had remained in her mind the entire time, seeing as she studied the patterns of his skin, listening to her calling them lovely, and on top of the smile, she felt the unavoidable blush coat her cheeks.

You weren't supposed to hear that, she laughed. I forgot you were there.

If you didn't want me to, you should have pushed me out, he laughed as well, a hearty bellow that had him take his eyes off her and flip his head back up to the sky. His laugh was contagious, the kind that rarely showed itself, but when it did, had the ability to rope you in and fill you with joy.

She sat up, mesmerized, and looked down at him, still lying in the same spot next to her. It was the laugh of a person she still barely knew well enough to appreciate, but one that she wanted nothing more than to be the reason for. To be the one that elicited it, to be the one to listen to it, to be the one that it was directed at.

It was a wonderful and peculiar feeling all at once, and it suddenly terrified her.

She pushed him out of her mind frantically, watching as he flinched, his aura cowering back as she entered his unimpeded.

You need to learn how to protect your mind, she uttered, a sudden gravity to her voice that neither of them were expecting.

Fear filled her as she thought about his laugh, and the chance that he wouldn't be able to let it free past the confines of the arena.

It wasn't her place to have this fear. She had no right to worry about his emotional well-being, to imagine his life beyond the Games, to think of anything but their survival. 

But she felt it, the inkling and the curiosity and the hope, and it startled her in a way that she didn't know how to process. 

And without any way to explain it, everything inside of her flipped upside down. She could feel her face pull sternly, her brows furrowing as she continued to look down at him, evidently filling him with unease as he propped himself up on his elbow and flipped his cap back again, pushing it away from his face.

Do you hear me? She snapped, blood rushing through her as her heart suddenly picked up its pace. You need to learn how to stay calm, to remain undetected.

I heard you, he frowned, his brows knitting together.

We can't talk about anything until you do.

Draco pushed himself up further in one swift movement, leaning his body back on his palm.

Will you teach me?

She nodded—"Yes, but not today"—and pushed herself up from the ground, brushing her hands down the back of her pants to rid them of the dust collected in the seams.

"Tomorrow?" he jumped up to his feet.

Hermione's eyes flickered down to the tracker on his arm, the dormant red eye that made her skin crawl, and then back up to his face.

She took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. "Yes, tomorrow."

Chapter Text

When they returned to their tent that night, Draco didn't say a word as he pulled his cot next to hers. He didn't ask why she had moved it away in the first place, nor if she wanted it close by again like the night before.

It was as if he anticipated what her response would be. He simply did it because he knew she wouldn't want to answer the first question, and to the second she would say, yes.

The light flickered off to utter silence. Hermione’s mind whirred, on edge with anticipation for when Draco would be ready, for when the floodgates could finally open on everything she wanted to ask and say to him.

She knew she couldn't do it that night. She had already waited long enough, so another sleep was nothing, especially considering the outcome that eventually awaited her.

But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t eager. That she wasn’t lying in bed feeling like she was at the edge of something that would tilt her world on its axis.

If he was forthcoming, she could have answers to practically everything.

The reason for why he went after her.

What his role in the network was.

And from there, the more important answers could be revealed.

If he had any idea about how the Games were set up behind the scenes.

If there was any Capital information he could share that could get them ahead.

What they could do to bring the fucking Games burning to the ground.

Hermione would have to start slow. At the point they were at, Draco had gotten only mere glimpses into the workings of her mind, but she didn’t know if he was ready to talk about any of the more dangerous things in any depth.

Dangerous, but important, arguably life-changing.

However, she couldn’t predict what his answers would be. There was simply no telling how he would react to the extent of her twisted mind.

She lay rigid in her cot, trying to force steady breaths through her lungs, and counted the quiet inhales and exhales of him next to her. After a while, she could tell he had fallen asleep.

Not because of his breathing, or the stillness of his body, but because of the quiet snores that he started to emit.

She almost giggled him awake.

But her eyes remained glued to the ceiling of the tent amidst her unsettled mind. Eventually, she started to feel her eyelids grow heavy. She fought the initial oncoming of sleep, trying to push herself to greater lengths to memorize all the things she wanted to ask Draco, and prepare an area of her mind to document all the things he would say. But the attempt was feeble. The weight of exhaustion, of the entire day, pressed down heavily on her.

Right before she fell into unconsciousness, Harry's face flashed in her mind. It felt like she had lived through ages since he left, but it had only been that morning that they had last seen him.

And yet in less than a day, everything had changed.

For the very first time since the Games began, Hermione had hope.

In the morning, she awoke to Draco already sitting up in his cot. Her eyes opened slowly to see him cross-legged and perched against the wall of the tent. She trailed her gaze up his form and stopped at his face—his eyes were closed but his eyelashes were fluttering wildly, a tell-tale sign of Occlumency in the works behind his lids.

Hermione pulled herself up in her cot and shifted towards him.

For a moment, she just watched him. He was breathing deeply, taking slow and steady inhales through his nose, his chest rising as it filled with air. On the exhale, his lips parted into a small O as he released the breath through his mouth, his chest and shoulders pulling inwards. His entire body was otherwise still, hands clasped before him.

Hermione had never seen him meditate before and for reasons she couldn't explain, she found herself unable to take her eyes off of him.

Draco had already quickly become a factor in her life that felt secure and steady, despite the short few weeks they had spent together. Watching him do nothing but simply sit and breathe, oblivious to her presence, only did more to bring ease and contentment to how she felt about him.

She wasn't sure how he was able to have that effect on her so quickly, but in the days that passed, it was getting more difficult to fight against.

Every time she was around him, she felt the anxiety bleed out of her, dissipate to something that was barely even there, as if his presence had a way of erasing it almost entirely without even doing anything but existing.

As she continued to watch him, she wondered how long he'd been awake. Had he even slept at all? Following the revelation of the previous day, and their conversation, she knew he was eager to get started as well, to get himself ready based on what she had said.

But she hadn't been expecting this.

However, if he had been practicing since before she had even risen, now was as good a time as ever to test his strength.

She smiled to herself and focused on the movement of his lashes, pulling as much of her magic together as she could, readying herself to propel it forward.

Both Occlumency and Legilimency were peculiar pieces of wizardry. Neither were meant to be done without a clear view into a person's eyes, but she had learned early on in her life that just because something wasn't meant to be done a specific way, or was difficult, didn't make it impossible.

It took an inherently strong Legilimens to be able to push into someone's mind without access through their eyes. The first time she did it as a child, it had startled her right out of her seat. The older she got, the more skilled she became, until using Legilimency on someone without a portal into their soul became almost as simple as doing it the traditional way.

When Draco had done it to her the first time, she hadn't even thought twice about it. It was an inherent skill to her, almost like second nature.

But that didn't mean the skill was easy, or common in any way.

He was clearly as adept as she was, arguably even more.

His lids remained closed, still fluttering, still buried behind a powerful wall of Occlumency.

When she finally got the chance, she would have to ask him where he had learned it. He would likely want to know the same about her.

She focused her gaze on his closed lids and funnelled her magic forward, feeling as the tendrils of it reached out towards him. She attempted to enter his mind slowly, a cautious shift of her magic, trying to avoid detection, attempting to seamlessly drift past the bearings if he left even a single crack unsealed.

But his Occlumency walls were firm, clamped down around his mind for no Legilemens to sneak past, even the most gifted kind. Easily guarded against her attempt, she tried again. She took a deep breath in and pushed forward, guiding her magic towards his being. She was staring at him, gaze laser-focused on his face, leaning forward as if it would help ease her way in.

And then his eyes flashed open.

Hermione scrambled back, startled, clutching at her chest.

"Good morning, Granger," he drawled, quirking a single brow at her.

She tried to catch her breath, her heart beating a staccato inside her throat.

He remained stock-still and smirked. "Just because I can't see you, doesn't mean I can't feel you.”

She huffed and rolled off her cot as he started to laugh.

"Good morning to you too, Malfoy," she crossed her arms. “Glad to see you’re up and at ‘em, already practicing.”

“Of course,” he smiled, invading her personal space as he rose to his feet and towered over her.

She craned her neck to look up at him, gaze falling on the way the tufts of his white blonde hair fell past his eyebrows. There was a glint to his eyes, a mischievous tease, as he looked down and leered at her as if he had an in on a joke that she didn't.

There was an air of playfulness to his entire expression that dug itself under Hermione's skin and sent a shiver down her spine.

And the reaction caused her to flush, her cheeks suddenly burning hot.

She pushed back on her heels and turned out of the tent. "I'm going to get breakfast," she huffed over her shoulder before storming out.

But he followed quickly behind.

"What's wrong?" he jogged up next to her, his large strides no match as she tried to put distance between them.

She was embarrassed, rightfully so, and didn't know why the reaction had come over her, but it had. And despite her earlier revelation that Draco brought a sense of comfort to her, and that his presence was something she might choose to seek out, coming to terms with anything more was a stretch.

He stopped walking.

"Nothing's wrong," her voice squeaked. "I'm just hungry.”

But suddenly he was silent, as if the amusement had quickly passed.

She walked a few more paces before she stopped as well and turned back slowly to look at him. He was standing behind her and grinning.

That cheeky bastard.

Brazen as they come, his lips pulled into a crooked smile as he watched her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Stop that.”

"Stop what?" he raised a brow.

"That," she jutted her chin out at him, referring to his everything. "Whatever you're so amused about, stop it.”

"I thought you were hungry," he chuckled.

"I am," she huffed, turning on her heel again and storming off into the bunker with food.

Inside, she passed her eyes over the options for breakfast. Makeshift shelves from branches and tarp, stocked high like a pantry. In the corner of the small space was a trap door, opening to a refrigerated dugout, kept cold by a hefty cooling charm. There wasn’t a single nook or cranny of the bunker that was empty.

As she stood at the entryway, she couldn’t help but think about how surreal it was that she had a wider selection of food in the Games than she ever did back at the Burrow. And it was never for lack of trying on the Weasleys’ part. Making up the costs associated with eating well, eating with variety, were simply out of the question for a family of their size.

Especially when everyone in Regnum outside the Capital was forced to live in poverty.

She shook herself free of the thought and picked up two packaged sandwiches. Before making her way back out of the bunker, she ran a cleansing charm over her teeth.

Back out into the camp, Draco was waiting for her. He sat next to the dormant campfire with his feet up on the large rocks that surrounded it. She handed the sandwich to him without a word and sat down next to him to dig into her own.

They ate in shared silence, neither uttering a word until they neared completion.

"So," he finally said, when he finished chewing and vanished the plastic wrapper from his food. "You remember what you said you'd do today, right?”

Hermione wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin and vanished it with her wrapper. "I remember.”

"I'm ready whenever you're ready," he leaned back into his chair.

Something about the way he spoke, about the nonchalance carrying through his voice, suddenly irked Hermione.

Where had this all come from?

Sure, he had been cheeky before, cocky even, but this was different. There was a level to it she had never seen before.

She sat up straight in her chair and leaned over towards him. "You know this isn't a joke, right?”

"I know," he said, still leaning back. "Who said it was a joke?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're being weird and acting like it's a joke.”

Draco gasped, having the nerve to sound affronted. He pulled forward in his chair and dropped his feet.

"I don't think any of this is a joke," he growled, matching the expression on her face. He was angry, lacking the ease in the lines of his body that had been there just seconds before. "Nobody thinks this is a joke."

"Then why are you acting like it is? None of this is funny.”

"I'm—not—acting," he spat. "You told me to relax. I spent hours in the morning doing just that. Fucking sue me for it, why don't you, Hermione?”

Her given name rolled off his tongue with spite and her breath caught at the sound of it.

It was too much. It was all too much.

She pushed into his mind without any warning, his rattled Occlumency walls letting her right through as if they weren't even there to begin with.

What are we doing?

His presence entered her mind seconds later. I'm not doing anything. You're the one picking a fight.

She sighed aloud and leaned back in her chair.

She hated to admit that he was right, but that was exactly what she was doing.

She was picking a goddamned fight.

And for what?

For him being relaxed?

For him feeling enough sense of calm to be able to joke around her, to tease her for something menial that hurt nobody?

Yes, she was picking a fight with him for that.

Because she couldn't relate. She didn't have it in her to tear away everything she felt and indulge in that level of comfort in any capacity, him there or not. No part of her would allow it.

So she had picked a fight with him because she was stressed, because she was jealous that he could unwind and let the weight of it all dissipate as if it didn’t exist. And it had made her frustrated, angry even.

She looked up to see him watching her.

She sighed. I'm sorry.

Can you speak up? I can't hear you.

She snarled and threw her arms down in frustration. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. You're right. I was picking a fight and I'm sorry."

"All is forgiven, Granger," he smirked. “Glad we could get that out of your system.”

“Prick,” she muttered under her nose.

“That I am,” he said as he rose to his feet and extended his hand to her. She pulled back from it, not understanding what he meant by it but his expression gave away nothing. He wiggled his fingers around until she looked back down at it and tentatively placed her hand in his.

"Let's go," he tugged her up to her feet. He took one step back from her and then pulled her behind him, his long strides moving quickly before he broke into a run. He didn't let go of her hand as he led her towards the edge of the camp, wind whistling by their ears as they ran.

His hand was cold, fingers grasped tightly around hers but not in a way that hurt. He continued to pull her behind him until he stopped at a large tree, one she hadn't ever noticed even existed at the perimeter of their camp.

They were both out of breath, huffing air in and out of their lungs, as he crouched down on the ground and dusted away some fallen leaves along the base of the tree trunk. From the ground, he looked up at her and pointed to the space next to where he turned and sat.

"Why here?" she crouched down next to him.

"Why not?" he shrugged.

He murmured a quiet Accio under his breath and extended his hand out. His baseball cap came flying out from the tent seconds later and landed in his palm. He set it visor forward on his head and then flipped it back. The tufts of hair stuck out from the peephole again.

"May I?" he asked.

Hermione tilted her head and assessed him, trying to understand why he was asking permission on something for the first time since they met. She nodded her head and dropped her Occlumency walls.

He entered slowly, a careful presence in the base of her mind, eyes drilled into hers as she felt his magic spread everywhere.

I already know how to protect my mind, his voice reverberated inside of her. I'm not at risk. I just need you to show me what you do.

Okay, she voiced, taking a deep breath in and slowly out as she readied herself to let him in on the secret. We can think and say anything as long as our bodies stay calm.

His brows furrowed. What do you mean by anything? What do you mean by stay calm?

Anything. We can say anything as long as our heart rate stays steady, as long as it seems like we're thinking nothing at all.

Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek. Is that all there is to it?

Hermione clasped her hands before her. I think so.

And you're confident? He tested again, his voice taking on that stern tendency that she had come to know from him.

She swallowed tightly and nodded. About as confident as I can be.

She walked him through her process to relax his senses, the same process that she had followed just the day before when she had proved her theory right. It was nothing more than an extension of the meditation practices they were already both familiar with as Occlumens. The focus though was less on the mind, and more on the body.

Steady breaths, a release of all the tension from your muscles, drilling into and counting the beats of your heart, doing everything in your controlled power to not let them waver.

Hermione didn't know what would happen if they lost track of what their body was doing. If they started to discuss things that couldn't be said aloud and didn't notice their tracker reacting.

If it reacted for long enough, what would the Gamesmakers do? Would they punish them? 

Deep within her, she couldn’t imagine it ending well.

They simply had no choice but to do it right.

Her and Draco practiced back and forth, testing one another, watching each other's trackers for any sign of faltering. They started simple, thinking of anything under the sun, regardless of whether it would garner a further reaction from them. She got glimpses of faces that she had never seen; a young elf, a building straight out of Pure Capital, a four-poster bed with silk sheets. When it was her turn, she thought of Crookshanks again, of her room in the Burrow that she shared with Ginny, her favourite dinner that Molly cooked.

Both of them passed that test, their bodies remaining calm, and their trackers dormant.

Then they challenged themselves to tread into more dangerous territory. He pictured a face of a dark-haired boy that she didn't recognize, a woman who looked similar enough to him to be his mother, a signet ring with a symbol she had never seen before. Hermione thought of hunting past the fence, of the pin that she had worn every single day since the Games began, of the squib in the training grounds.

Again, there was nothing. Neither of their trackers flickered, none of their thoughts were accessed.

After that, there was nothing more to test.

They were ready to get into the details.

As they started to ask each other questions, they decided they wouldn't dwell on any answer for too long. It was safer for the both of them to ask, answer, and move on. If any of them needed or wanted to pass on the question, they could, and there would be no hard feelings.

It simply wasn't safe enough to force either of them to answer something that would shift whatever sense of calm they had instilled in their body.

Draco pointed to himself to go first.

Why did you volunteer?

Hermione's breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes, counting the steady beats of her heart until she felt calm enough to look at him and answer.

The girl, Ginny, she's like a little sister to me. Her parents adopted me years ago, and we made a vow to protect her.

Draco's expression dropped, but he didn't say anything.

Her turn.

Why were you put into the Games?

Draco shook his head. Next question.

Where are all the sponsorships from?

He shook it again. Next.

She sighed. Who was that boy you thought of?

He dropped his eyes down to his hands and closed them. No, next.

Malfoy, you have to answer something.

He kept his eyes closed and shook his head. None of that, not now. Ask something else.

She huffed out a breath of air from her nose but did nothing more to show her frustration.

Her next question didn't seem any easier, but it was the only one she could think of.

What do you know of the network?

He opened his eyes and leaned back onto his hands. It looked like this was a question he was willing and able to answer.

Not a lot.

There was a pause before she interjected—More info.

He sighed audibly and regarded her with a tilt of his head. I don't know much, probably not any more than you do. I don't know who controls it or where it's controlled from. I just know that it exists.

Did you know about it before you came into the Games?

Yes.

How?

It's my turn now, but in any case, next question.

Hermione had to hold herself back from snarling out loud.

What did you know of the network before the Games? His eyes landed on the pin on her chest.

She grazed it with her fingers, forcing a slow inhale through her lungs. Nothing. I didn't know it existed.

His brows furrowed. Nothing?

Absolutely nothing, she confirmed. I only started to figure it out when the Games began.

But your pin, he jutted his chin forward.

It was a gift. The symbol meant nothing to me when I received it.

Who was it a gift from?

I think it's my turn, but it was from the mayor of District 12.

The mayor? His mouth dropped open.

Yes, the mayor.

She gave him a moment to regroup as she poised for her next question. The one that was burning inside of her, the one that led to so many others. She only hoped he would be willing and able to answer it.

Were you already part of the network?

He sighed again, crossing his legs at the ankles and regarding her with a peculiar look.

No, I wasn't.

Is that why your ring is different? She eyed it on his hand.

He looked down at it and then back up to her.

While the ring was similar to the ones that she had seen on the hands of Harry and Luna, it wasn’t identical. The size of it differed, as did the colour, and it had always seemed to Hermione that there was something about it that just wasn't quite the same.

Yes, he sighed. That's why it's different. He paused for a beat and then added—I made it myself.

You—what?

I made the ring myself. I knew what kind they had but there was no way for me to infiltrate them before the Games began. It was the only thing I could do to show them I was interested, that I was on their side.

Her mouth dropped open in awe. That was a turn of events that she hadn't been expecting.

I want to go back to the mayor—

Okay. She nodded.

When did he give it to you? How could you not have known? Did he explain nothing?

The words filtered out quickly, practically a ramble, as if he was a man on edge.

You need to relax, she narrowed her eyes at him. I'm not answering until you do.

Draco took a few steadying breaths before looking up at her, the tension gone from his shoulders.

He gave it to me right before I left for the Games, after I had been escorted off the stage. He didn’t explain anything. He just asked me to wear it.

It’s not a coincidence, his voice muttered.

Maybe not, she shrugged. But there’s nothing we can do with the information.

Granger, this is important. It not being a coincidence is important.

How so?

The mayor? You don’t think that means something? The fucking mayor of an entire District gave you a pin that propelled you into being the face of the entire network.

Is that why you—

Of course, that’s why. That was the only thing I had to go off of.

Nobody told me, she exhaled shakily. They threw me into this without saying a word! What if I didn’t want to be the face? Nobody asked me if I wanted it! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with it and people are looking to me as if I have answers.

Granger, now you have to relax. Take it easy. Pull yourself together.

Their heads turned suddenly as the airy wisps of an animal appeared unexpectedly, bounding through their wards at lightning speed and racing towards them. Both of them grabbed their wands and jumped to their feet, recognition of the magic dawning later than their instincts hit.

Hermione placed her arm in front of Draco to restrict him from moving.

The animal trotted towards them until it stopped abruptly at their feet.

It was beautiful. A large lion with a hearty mane, exposed incisors and a long tail flicking from side to side curiously.

"It's a Patronus," she whispered.

The lion's paw scratched at the ground before it roared wildly. And then it emitted a voice, one they both recognized.

"I found them. Everything is okay. We're on our way.”

Hermione grabbed onto Draco's arm to steady herself, feeling the tendons of her knees grow weak, as the lion disappeared into nothing more than dissipating smoke in the air.

"It's Harry," she whispered. "Harry is okay.”

Draco looked over to her, his gaze soft, and smiled. "Seems so.”

Hermione let go of him and stepped back.

It took her only a second to find the thought she needed.

Ginny. Always Ginny.

"Expecto Patronum!”

The light from her Patronus darted out of the tip of her wand and Draco stepped back, mouth dropping open, before the light formed her own creature.

"Safe travels," she told it. "We'll see you soon.”

After a brief pause, the creature flapped its wings and took off, flying through the air until it disappeared past their wards.

And then their camp was silent again.

Draco continued to stare out in the direction the bird went before he turned slowly to meet her, the expression on his face completely dumbfounded.

"A phoenix," he whispered, looking as if he didn't believe the words leaving his mouth. His eyes darted to the pin on her chest and then back up to her face. "Your Patronus is a phoenix.”

Hermione nodded, grazing her fingers along the pin.

"It is," she said, slowly coming to terms with everything she had learned. With everything that it meant. “It always has been.”

Chapter Text

After sending the Patronus to Harry, Draco tried to pick back up where they left off, but it quickly proved impossible.

The only thing he wanted to talk about was Hermione’s Patronus; to debate the topic of her pin and her perceived role over and over again. It didn't matter to him that she claimed to know no more than he did, likely even less. In fact, he disregarded that entirely in his attempts, assuming that if he phrased the question differently, or didn't take no for an answer, she would eventually reveal the secrets he expected her to be harbouring.

But Hermione had nothing.

She spent almost an hour deflecting his attempts, trying without any success to get him to share something instead, but her efforts quickly proved futile. When he asked for what seemed like the dozenth time if she knew why the District 12 mayor would have given the pin to her without explanation, she reached her breaking point as her Occlumency walls started to waver. She was tired, they were getting nowhere, and it was time to put an end to it for the day.

I think that’s quite enough, she finally projected in his mind, cutting off yet another train of questions from him.

“No, it’s not,” Draco muttered out loud, “We’re not just going to gloss over this."

She narrowed her eyes at him, brows furrowing.

How many times do I have to—she growled, stopping suddenly, closing her eyes and forcing steadying breaths through her lungs as she felt her heart begin to race angrily.

When she got it under control she slowly opened her eyes again to look at him. Stop talking, she grumbled. It’s enough.

“We have to decide that together,” he stuck his nose in the air. “And I’m not done.”

Hermione frowned. “Okay.” She rose to her feet and brushed forest dirt from the back of her pants. “You can keep going then. Knock yourself out. But I’m hungry, and tired, so I'm done.”

She looked down at Draco, rolled her eyes at the snooty expression on his face, and turned on her heel to walk away.

He didn't follow her.

After Hermione emerged from their storage bunker and finished another packaged sandwich, her mood instantly eased. With her appetite sated, she decided that she was willing to try again with Draco.

But he, as always, had other plans.

Eventually, he approached the seat adjacent to hers and sat down. His jaw was clenched tightly, his shoulders practically raised to his ears, his entire aura oozing tautness and hostility. From the corner of her eye, she watched him lean back in his chair, look over to her, and stare unhappily at her face until the sun started to set.

When she finally met his gaze, he didn’t look away, prodding at her Occlumency walls as soon as her eyes landed on him. The first time he did it, she simply rolled her eyes. But when her sight landed on him again to the same result, she got up to create distance between them.

However, he quickly followed. And thus began a pattern for the rest of the evening.

If she so much as dared to look at him, he would try to make his way past her Occlumency walls with a smirk on his face. Each time she moved further away, he just slotted himself next to her and deliberately waited until she looked at him before trying again.

The entire charade got old quickly.

She knew he could push into her mind without access through her eyes.

He didn't need the proximity.

But he knew that she knew that.

He was clearly making a point to just be a brat.

When darkness finally fell, and they ended up where they started—at the camping chairs next to the fire—Draco got up without a word. Hermione's eyes shot up to him, and when they landed on his face, for the first time that entire evening, he didn't try to force his way into her mind. Instead, he extended his hand out to her.

There was a sheepish grin on his face, the weight of the whole day buried in his barely-there smile lines and the crinkle of skin at the corners of his eyes. Her eyes dropped down to his upturned palm, the familiar ring slotted on his finger, and then back up to his face.

A peace offering.

Without saying anything at all, she presumed it was his way of wiping the day away; of asking her to move on from his pestering without any hard feelings.

Hermione placed the tips of her fingers on his hand and pushed down a smile. He closed his palm and pulled her up to her feet before turning on his heels and leading them both back to the tent.

That night, she dreamt of the wildest things. A commonality that seemed to appear very often recently—dragons. Lately, it was almost always dragons. But this time, she flew one side by side next to the bright aura of her phoenix Patronus.

Together, they soared through the air, the surge of exhilaration flaring through her bones and warm wind brushing past her face. For a while it felt like freedom, but as she passed the battered remains of an entire village below her, her pace stuttered. She saw houses on fire, scorched crops, the battered remains of entire buildings from explosions, and not a single living soul amongst any of it.

It was a decimated land that spanned for miles.

But in her dream, she kept flying. She flew past the remains until the forest was lush again, large spruce trees rising up into the sky so high they nearly reached her. And amongst them, a drop, a cutout that was easy to miss and difficult to spot, but her eyes landed on it immediately.

It looked like a ward, hiding something behind it the same way tributes did in the arena, and she had seen enough from Harry and Draco to recognize it for what it was. She eased the neck of her dragon up and it stopped moving, coasting in the air in a single spot.

The ward shimmered as rays of sunlight bounced against it, moving and shifting as the wind blew through the trees. But it was reacting far more than she was accustomed to. Wards were supposed to stay hidden; they were charmed to absorb sunlight so as to not draw attention. They weren't supposed to sway in their spot when a gust of wind gathered.

This ward, though, was showing off. A magical presence practically calling out to her, trying to catch her attention and keep it.

She drifted closer to it, closer so she could just get a better look, close enough to try and find the outline or decipher what was hiding behind it. Close enough to see the entire ward disappear in the blink of an eye.

It peeled back as if controlled by the stream of magic from a wizard or witch’s wand, until it revealed a door. A camouflaged metal door at the base of the forest ground. Just paces away from where the carnage ended, a door that led to somewhere, a somewhere she didn't know, in a place she didn't recognize.

But before Hermione could approach any closer, her eyes shot open with a gasp to a wildly beating heart, inside the tent where she fell asleep.

In her panicked state, her head swivelled, taking in her surroundings with greedy gulps of air. She had awoken to quiet around her. And this time, unlike the morning before, she was completely alone.

She turned in her cot to see Draco's empty, the blanket he had used the night before, partially pulled over her body. And though she couldn't see him anywhere, she could hear him, his voice projecting from outside the tent.

"Expecto Patronum," he uttered, barely audible.

There was a moment's pause as she sat up in her cot before he repeated the words again.

"Expecto Patronum." Angrier this time, like a hiss of venom.

She got to her feet.

"Expecto Patronum!" he snarled, the time and space between incantations growing shorter, pointing to a cast without any evident success.

She peered her head out the tent flap and saw him near the fire pit. He was standing and facing the other side of the camp, nothing but his profile visible from where she was. His wand hand shook, his shoulders clenched as he pointed the stick of wood out from him.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A frivolous wisp of light spilled out the tip of his wand before it vanished into nothing.

His Patronus wasn't corporeal. Not even close.

Hermione darted back from the opening and quickly got dressed. Seeing his feeble attempts gave her an idea, something to benefit him as much as it could prevent a repeat of the previous day's events. She threw on a t-shirt, her only pair of pants, and did up her boots before running her wand over the length of her body with a refreshing charm, before she stepped out into the camp and marched his way.

"Good morning, Malfoy," she announced, her voice making him jump.

"Oh," he sighed. “Hi, Granger."

"I can teach you.”

A shade of pink coated his cheeks. "Teach me what?”

She curled a brow at him. “How to cast a Patronus.”

"I know how to cast one," he frowned.

"Didn't really look it.”

He frowned deeper. "It's been a while.”

"A while and forever are not the same thing, Draco."

He crossed his arms at his chest. “I don’t need you to teach me anything.”

There was a beat of silence before he turned on his heel and started to stalk away from her.

For a moment, she didn’t know if she should let him go or follow. She heard his footsteps recede as they moved towards what she presumed was the tent, and before they faded entirely into obscurity, she pointed her wand outwards and thought of the same freckled face she always did.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Her trusted phoenix darted out from the tip of her wand and quickly took form. It flapped its wings wildly before her and caw’d. From her peripheral, she saw Draco stop mid-stride at the sound and turn slowly to look at her.

To look at it.

Hermione stepped forward and let the large bird approach her. It had been a long time since she cast it just for company, but neither of them were strangers to such a thing. For a long time after her parent's passing, it was her only reprieve she had from the loneliness that plagued her.

And she had always cast it to Ginny’s face.

The bird landed on her shoulder, and she felt the immediate buzz of heavy magic against her skin. She looked up at it, sparkling silver eyes almost entirely buried between layers of translucent feathers as it met her gaze. She outstretched her hand to it and after a beat of silence, it nudged its head forward and brushed against her palm.

Despite her experience with it, the wonder of magic never ceased to amaze her. While most would expect a Patronus animal to exist only as mist or a cloud of smoke, it was far from the truth. Hers, her wonderful phoenix, was anything but. It may have been translucent to the human eye but it was solid and far more than just corporeal to the touch.

She could feel it breathe as it sat on her shoulder, the weight of its large body pressing down on her, and as it shifted to get comfortable, she could hear its beak chirp in contentment when it finally found a spot it liked. Its feathers tickled the skin on her neck as it cozied up to her and she felt her chest clench at the memory the sensation brought. It took everything in her not to let her knees buckle below her.

She and the beautiful bird stared at one another, and suddenly, she could swear she saw a smile grace its face. When she blinked, whatever remnants of it she was convinced were there were gone.

The sound of an invisible camera whirring somewhere up above her was the only thing that brought her back to her senses. She hoped the moment was playing out on every television across Regnum.

When she broke contact with the warm eyes of her fowl, her gaze landed on Draco slowly approaching, his expression marred by utter wonder as he took slow and calculated steps toward her.

It was almost as if he was afraid, not daring to move too quickly in case it startled her Phoenix.

But the caution also carried an air of fear in it, because she knew deep within that he had never cast a Patronus for himself, and the unknown of what he was seeing, likely for the first time in his life, would have no doubt justified that.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she whispered, as he neared into earshot.

His wide blown eyes darted to hers and for a fraction of a second narrowed, but then he looked back to the bird with a dazed expression.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” he pronounced, his tone laced with false certainty as if he was convincing himself as much as he was her.

She stifled down a smile and watched him as he approached ever closer.

“Can I touch it?” he asked, a hint of embarrassment carrying through his tone. At the sight of the bewilderment etched onto his face, Hermione’s heart clenched. She felt the bird shift its claws atop her shoulder gently and regard Draco with a tilt of its head.

She nodded and whispered a quiet, “Yes,” watching as he reached his hand out slowly to the phoenix. He moved like molten lava, stretching out the moment, evidently for the sake of the bird, and likely for himself.

The smile he was trying to hold from breaking puckered his cheeks, turning them bright and rosy. Hermione couldn’t help the sudden swell in her chest that she tried to desperately bury.

The bird looked over at her and tutted, and she could swear it knew.

It turned back to Draco and reached its head out to his outstretched hand and they both held their breath as they watched the bird examine the offering. It sniffed once, and then regarded him in utter silence for a moment. When it finally sniffed a second time, it threw its head back and caw’d loudly.

“What does that mean?” he uttered, panicked eyes looking to Hermione for an answer.

But she just watched the gaze of the bird drop back to the two of them as it reached for Draco once more, nudging the top of its head into his hand.

Hermione couldn’t help the smile that cracked as she watched Draco beam.

“It means it likes you,” she sniffled.

She wouldn’t dare share with him that it was the first time she ever let anyone near her Patronus this way. That it was far more intimate than he could ever imagine. That the bird’s acceptance, her one-time constant companion, did more to her fleeting emotions than she could ever put into words.

“This is incredible,” he said mindlessly, scratching the fowl along its neck and rifling its feathers. He brushed his hand down the tuft on its chest and the bird trilled happily.

All the while, Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of Draco. It was as if he existed in a different plane, his gaze locked solely on the wonderment sitting atop her shoulder. His eyes crinkled in the corners in the way she had come to not only notice, but wholeheartedly appreciate. His smile, all teeth, graced his face before he broke out into a fit of laughter as the Phoenix tickled his upper arm with its beak. It looked and sounded like music to her ears.

This is incredible.

“It is,” she whispered, gaze never leaving his face. “It really is.”

She continued to watch as he pet the phoenix, eyes wide and entirely consumed by the work of magic at his fingertips. The bird quickly grew to like him as it chirped and sang and flapped its wings under his touch. When it flapped so wildly that it raised itself off her shoulder into the air, easily relocating to Draco’s shoulder instead, her initial jealousy and fear was quickly overtaken by a rush of warmth in her heart as she watched him gasp and then immediately break out into a grin.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked, fingers shaking as he dragged them down his pants to no doubt wipe the clamminess off of them. “This can’t be real.”

Hermione stepped back and let them have their moment.

“It’s very much real,” she laughed.

Draco looked over at her, burying another smile as the large bird tried but failed to nestle into the small crook of his neck. “How is this possible?”

She shrugged. “It’s magic, Malfoy. Anything is possible.”

“That’s funny Granger, but I’m serious.” He turned his head back to the face of the bird and continued to watch it. When he spoke, he did it without breaking his gaze. “I didn’t know this was possible, that a Patronus could feel so real.”

“Do they not teach how to cast a Patronus charm in Pure Capital?”

He huffed a breath of a laugh out from his nose. “No, they definitely do not.” But then he straightened and turned to her with a peculiar expression marring his features, his mouth suddenly pulled into a tight line. “Why…” he asked slowly. “Where did you learn how to cast one?”

A flash of memories fluttered through Hermione’s mind.

The smell of burnt bread.

A house consumed by flames.

The loneliness of the dirt road as ash rained down on her.

She blinked dazedly as concern began to flood Draco’s face.

The Burrow.

The small library at school.

The stash of books that somehow made it through the fiery carnage.

Hermione started to feel dizzy, stars flickering in the corner of her eyes.

The book.

The spell.

The Muffliato.

Draco’s hand grabbed her elbow as the phoenix on his shoulder flapped into the air unhappily at his sudden movement. Hermione’s knees began to wobble and his other hand came around to grip her second elbow. The bird flapped its wings with vigour, rising into the air, and caw’d loudly right before it vanished in a wisp.

They both watched it disappear before looking back at each other.

Hermione swallowed tightly. “Do you want me to teach you?” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, dazedly realizing that his face was much closer to hers than she remembered. She didn’t know if she had it in her to cast it again right now, but she needed a distraction.

This was as good of one as she could think of.

His eyes passed over her face frantically. “It doesn’t look like that’s a good idea,” he exhaled, adjusting his hands on her elbows.

She wriggled her toes inside her shoes and sank into the feeling of his steady hold. “I want to.”

His brows furrowed, evidently disbelieving the words leaving her mouth. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she swallowed, bracing herself to act on her affirmation. “I’m sure.”

She could hear his heart pounding in his chest and she counted one—two—three—before he stepped back from her and let one of his hands fall.

“Teach me then,” he said softly.

Hermione’s tight grip on her wand slackened, a sudden reprieve from the wood digging into her hand. She inhaled slowly and exhaled just the same, waiting as he reached for his wand from his back pocket. His fingers flexed around it, body moving into a battle stance, and he looked up to meet her gaze.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Teach me.”

Hermione’s eyes ran down the length of his body slowly, the ease with which he interacted with the phoenix just moments earlier, long gone. He was now all raised chin and puckered chest and rigid lines, much less a boy and much more a soldier.

The process of casting a Patronus might not require the physical attributes that he prepared himself with, but she knew it would require the same mental fortitude that one would need at war.

A breathless commitment to the task, mind, body, and soul; all or nothing.

But the words that left her mouth easily contradicted that.

“It’s actually not very hard."

He tilted his head in utter silence at her and then broke into a laugh.

“Right, good one,” he huffed when he caught his breath. “Thanks for the lesson.”

“I’m serious!” she said. “It’s all in the mind.”

“Okay,” he exhaled. “So then what’s wrong with mine?”

“Well, what are you thinking about when you try?”

Draco’s eyebrows furrowed, shoulders shrugging. “About how much I want to cast one, I guess. Sometimes I wonder what my animal will be.”

“Wrong.” Hermione tried not to smile.

His eyes narrowed at her but the look lacked any real bite. “So then what’s correct, Queen of the Patronus?”

“Happiness,” she looked up at him, her gaze soft. “You have to think of something that makes you happy. The happiest memory you have. Something that is powerful enough to break you if it was ever ruined, but just as powerful enough to build you back up if it did.”

“Something happy,” he sighed, eyes flowing up to the sky as if looking for an answer there.

“Not just happy,” she assured him. “Ecstatic. A memory where you were so happy it almost hurt.”

He nodded solemnly, the aura of the soldier he was just moments earlier seeming to leave him on a heavy exhale. His shoulders slumped forward as his eyes dropped to the ground, hand clenching and unclenching around his wand.

“A happy memory,” he uttered under his breath, and she continued to watch him. He started to pace before her, rolling his wand between his fingers, face completely blank.

And then suddenly he stopped.

“I — er— I can’t think of anything right now.”

“Nothing at all?” Hermione asked. “It’s good to start with a few different happy memories. You’ll never know which one it is until you try.”

“No,” Draco shook his head, slotting his wand into his pocket. “Nothing right now.”

He avoided her eyes and she knew in an instant he was lying.

There was no way to tell why: if it was because he didn’t want to share the memories or if he didn’t think they were good enough. But a part of her thought there was likely more to it.

Perhaps he couldn’t think of anything because there was nothing to think of.

An empty bank.

A life filled with memories, but none of which he could call happy.

The thought sent a wave of nausea through her, twisting and churning in her gut.

It wasn't possible.

Everyone had something. Everyone had to have something.

Right?

Hermione didn’t notice Draco start to retreat from her and move towards the edge of the camp as she racked her brain around how it was possible—how someone like him from a place like Pure Capital could lack a single happy memory notable enough to cast a Patronus.

Her trance was only broken by the sound of running, stampeding footsteps on the forest floor. Her eyes flicked up to see Draco running towards her. He shoved her behind him, grabbing at his wand and turning towards the wards of their camp.

Over his shoulder, she saw the ward peel back, in the one spot she knew it was magicked to if summoned by the right witch or wizard. Draco took an instinctive step back, taking her with him.

It peeled until it revealed an opening, and at the exact same time, magic streamed from Draco’s wand—a shield forming around their two bodies.

There was a moment of utter silence, where nothing moved behind the opening.

And then, as they had hoped for, expected, and feared, Harry stepped forward. There was only a second's pause before he looked behind him and ushered someone forward. He stepped aside and slowly, two heads peered into the opening.

The heads of people that had Hermione’s heart racing furiously in her chest, threatening to beat right out of it.

A boy and a girl.

Bright eyes and a freckled face on one, a hard gaze and blunt black bob on the other.

It was them.

The others had finally arrived.

Chapter Text

It took only a second, the briefest of silent pauses, where none of the current or new arrivals uttered a single word, before Hermione felt Draco shift in front of her. The magic spilling out of his wand seized, the barrier he had created swiftly dissipating until it was no more. And then, without any hesitation, he directed his wand arm and pointed it at the two tributes standing at the entry of the wards.

Pansy and Cassius: the Careers from District 1.

Hermione had already deduced that it would be them with Harry, but seeing their faces, the way their features contorted as their eyes settled on the tip of Draco's wand from the distance, made the entire concept of it all, suddenly feel too real.

Like something that wasn’t just an intangible idea, but the truth that there was now no turning back from.

Careers, hidden in plain sight, working for the other side.

And now, they were here.

On their side, shared; one and the same.

"What are you doing?" Harry's panicked voice called out to Draco. Hermione's eyes snapped up to see him rushing forward as she felt her own magic flare at the tips of her fingers. "Put your wand down!"

She took an instinctive step forward, coming to a stop side-by-side next to Draco. She could see that his eyes were glued on Pansy and Cassius, nothing but their heads peering in through the opening, and his wand hand trembling just slightly. So slightly she knew it wasn't meant to be seen. That he was putting in a conscious effort into hiding it. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed tightly, and in an instant, he shifted his arm to point directly at Harry.

"No," he uttered through gritted teeth.

Mid-stride, Harry's eyes went wide and he froze. "Malfoy," he said tentatively. "What the hell are you doing?"

"We need assurance."

"Of what?" Harry choked out.

"That they"—he pointed his wand back to the Careers—"can actually be trusted."

Up until that very moment, Hermione didn't realize why Draco's reaction had seemed so rash; so sudden and unexpected.

They both knew that there were other tributes coming. This was all of no surprise.

At least, it shouldn't have been.

However, it didn't stop her heart from thundering inside the confines of her chest.

This wasn't a surprise. She knew it had been coming. She knew who Harry was bringing with him. But as her eyes traced the lines of Pansy's face, the initial numbness she felt when she first saw them, was all quickly washed away by a surge of memories.

The Cornucopia.

The hatchet that just barely missed her head.

The face of the same girl standing just metres away from her now, solely responsible for flinging it at her. And it was likely only due to sheer luck that Hermione's blood wasn't dripping from her hands.

Slowly, her own wand began to rise. Unlike Draco though, she couldn't hide the tremble in her arm.

Cassius’s brows drew inwards as his eyes bore into hers, his expression turning hard and sour.

She recognized that too. Standing in the bushes, hiding for her life, as the two of them meandered around while the other Careers in their pack went off to kill another tribute.

And it wasn't until that very second, despite knowing that these two people would be walking into their camp and expected to share in their resources, in the same fight as them, that Hermione realized what it all meant.

That they were opening their door to two people that she presumed were the enemies.

People that she couldn't even disprove weren't exactly that.

And it hadn't even crossed her mind until she saw their faces, until she sensed Draco's hesitation, until she recognized that she should feel it too.

That she was a fool if she didn't.

Her ears began to ring, the only decipherable sound amongst all of it, the distant piercing scream of a tribute girl before her death.

One that both people at the ward had stood by for and allowed to be killed.

She steeled her breath and pointed her wand directly at them.

"Hermione!" Harry gasped, lunging forward again but quickly halting when his eyes landed on the wand that was still pointed at him. "Stop!"

"Their hands." She didn't lift her eyes off them, not even giving Harry the benefit of a glance his way. She knew his intentions were pure, she trusted him.

At least she thought she did.

But she didn’t trust them. Not yet at least.

"Show your hands," she said, directing the command at the two Careers. At her words, Pansy's expression twisted, her lip curling in obvious distaste. She turned her head to Cassius and her mouth moved, uttering words that weren't loud enough to hear by anyone but them. 

Hermione could sense Draco getting impatient next to her while they both watched Pansy and Cassius. She could hear the clicking of his tongue as if he was readying himself to hurry them along in whatever way it took.

The ward was being kept open for much too long to be safe for anyone.

"Guys..." Harry stepped forward again, his voice pleading now. It was that movement that prompted Draco's wand to shift back to Pansy and Cassius.

"What she said," he jutted his head towards Hermione. His voice projected much louder than hers, much stronger than she assumed he felt. "Show us your hands. Now."

The two Careers exchanged a glance again, and this time it was evident even without seeing the entirety of their bodies, that they were tense, no doubt even angry. If Harry had prepared them for their arrival, Hermione doubted he had prepared them for anything like this.

Both her and Draco's wand arms twitched as Pansy and Cassius suddenly shifted forward past the ward, their hands drawn upwards in defeat, in a show of total surrender. First Pansy stepped through, her palms spread wide and the expression on her face entirely placid.

She didn't carry an ounce of subtlety to her movements though; clearly putting on a show of her displeasure. Her steps were sharp, nose raised high in the air, and her lips pursed tightly.

One step behind her, Cassius moved through the opening as well, his face visible an entire head over Pansy. His hands were similarly raised, arms almost entirely above his head.

The moment that they both fully moved through the ward, it stitched itself back together again behind them.

Hermione didn't know if it was good or bad that they were now trapped inside with all of them. 

"Are you satisfied?" Harry asked, irritation beginning to lace his tone. Hermione hoped he understood the precaution, but she knew that even if he didn't, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

But now wasn't the time for that.

His question swirled in her mind and for a moment, she wondered if she truly was. Her eyes traced the lines of Pansy and Cassius’ open palms, not seeing anything amiss, and though she trusted her own senses, she trusted the fact that in the arena, she couldn't take anything for face value even more.

In fact, it would be stupid if she did.

Next to her, she was almost certain that Draco was thinking the same thing. The thought only solidified itself when she felt the sudden probe at her Occlumency wall. His presence was something she recognized now; not quite warm and welcome, but familiar.

What do you think?

Hermione took a second to catch her breath, to steel her heartbeat, before she responded to him.

Nothing looks off but I don’t know. I’m not sure.

She expected him to say something, but for a moment’s pause, he uttered nothing at all. She could still see his eyes glued to the new arrivals, but it was as if the question answered itself.

He wasn’t satisfied either.

And then his voice came. Neither am I.

She knew nothing about Cassius, but she was well versed in Pansy’s proclivity for yielding Muggle weapons. There was none that she could see on either of them; nothing except for possible stars that could be hidden in a pocket, though for some reason she doubted that was the case.

But there was something that could easily be hidden.

Their wands, she uttered. Do you see them?

She asked Draco because she couldn’t, and the all-encompassing fear and frustration of having stood before them without any protection from a magical attack suddenly flushed through her.

Before Hermione could do or say anything though, Draco’s voice projected through the camp. 

“Accio wands.”

He reinforced his own wand pointed at the Careers, and in an instant, both of theirs came flying into his hand.

Neither of them even flinched; likely because they were expecting it and because they would have done the same.

Harry let out an anguished sigh, still standing in the divide between the group of four. “I didn’t expect it would go this way.”

Draco stuffed the two wands swiftly into his back pocket and turned to Harry. “Well, you should have. We’re in the Hunger Games. Need I remind you what the premise of the entire thing is?”

Harry sighed again, but before he could utter even a word, Draco cut in. “You couldn’t have honestly expected us to welcome two people that we don’t know with open arms, could you?”

The silence that flagged Harry was answer enough. Almost immediately, his eyes hardened. Hermione watched him clench and unclench the muscles in his jaw before the clearing of a throat caught everyone's attention. Her eyes flashed over to the source only to land on Pansy.

"Are we done here?" she asked, hands still lifted up in defence. "What else do you need?"

The sharpness of her voice sent an unwavering chill down Hermione's spine. "Proof," she answered quickly, the word leaving her mouth on instinct, pushed out by the fear and uncertainty that was not just flowing through her, but racing in every one of her veins. "Prove that you're not one of them."

Everyone within the camp should have known who them referred to.

Killers, tributes here with their hearts set on death.

Ones that were irredeemable.

Ones that were too far gone to join their unspoken cause.

At the probe, she watched as Harry looked over to his compatriots and exchanged a glance with them. Specifically with Pansy. And when the girl looked back over to Hermione, undoubtedly to answer her question, she had a smirk on her face as if the answer she had was amusing. A thrill to her, even.

Without uttering a word or dropping their arms, she and Cassius tilted their heads and pointed to the rings on their fingers with the ends of their thumbs.

And at that, it almost all made sense again.

The alliance. The side that Harry was working for; there was more to it than just a promise to act.

At least, that was what Hermione had assumed.

The rings were a symbol; nearly undeniable proof that they were all fighting for the same cause.

The right side of it all.

But it didn't explain how or why Pansy and Cassius had publicly aligned themselves with the other Careers; how or why they had stood by as another tribute had been killed; why Pansy had attacked Hermione; or why Luna was dead at their figurative hands. The memories of it all coursed through Hermione’s mind again, the tremble returning to her hands, and with a sudden flare, like a fire igniting inside of her, she realized it wasn't enough.

Her wand arm was up and pointed at Pansy within a hair’s breadth of a second. "You tried to kill me," she snarled, taking a definitive step forward as she spoke.

But Pansy's reaction wasn't at all what she expected. The girl sighed, her head tilting as she slumped her weight onto one foot. "I wasn't trying to kill you," she scoffed.

"In the Cornucopia. You threw—"

"—I remember," Pansy cut in. "But I wasn't trying to kill you.”

Hermione could still practically feel the hurl of wind that followed the flying axe; the way the crack of the cornucopia resounded behind her as if it were her own bones snapping when the axe struck into the side of it.

"I was trying to get your attention."

No, no, no.

That wasn't plausible. 

"I don't…” Hermione’s voice wavered. “I don’t believe you."

Pansy smirked again, less mischievous and more just pleased this time. "It worked, didn't it?"

Yes, Hermione thought to herself instinctively, but no, maybe—no.

No, no, no.

It couldn't have been that simple nor innocent.

“But I saw you, and you”—she pointed her wand at Cassius—“with the other Careers. You killed someone.”

"Except we didn't," Cassius said. "We didn't kill anybody."

"I saw you,” Hermione growled. “I know what you’re capable of.”

“We’re not here to kill you,” Pansy’s fingers clenched inwards and outwards in the air. “Because if we wanted to, we would have done it then.”

Hermione’s heart dropped, arm jerking sideways as if Pansy's words slammed into her. 

"What?" she hissed.

“Because we saw you too.”

Silence.

Pansy's admission hung in the air amongst utter silence.

Every fibre of Hermione's being stilled. She couldn't think. She couldn't breath. But her heart was thundering. 

Nobody knew she had been hiding in the bushes then, watching them with the other Careers. Not Harry or Draco, and Pansy and Cassius shouldn’t—couldn’t—have known either.

Pansy’s eyes drilled into hers, almost as if daring Hermione to disbelieve her claim. The heavy depth of her gaze was as honest as she had looked since her head peered into the camp. Beside her, Hermione felt Draco edge closer. Though he tried to push into her mind, the same familiar prod at the edge of her Occlumency wall, she didn’t let him in.

Because it wasn’t the time.

Everything she remembered about that moment—hiding for her life—felt like it was tilting on its axis, itching to turn upside down.

They had known she was there.

What she thought was skilled camouflage, utter stillness, the holding of her breath to remain undetected, had nothing to do with her skills or will to live.

It had all been a farce.

Because if what they were saying was true, Pansy and Cassius had been aware of her presence.

And if that was true, then Hermione was only alive because of them. Because they didn’t give her up. Because they didn’t reveal where she was. Because they pretended, so well that even she was fooled, that they didn’t know she was there.

It was all too much for Hermione to process.

Even though she had started this entire probe and accused Pansy of trying to kill her, everything the two of them said had discredited the picture that she had built of them in her head.

Hermione could feel her mouth hanging open, the inside entirely dry, her sanity balancing on a precarious thread. Though they had given her exactly what she was looking for.

Supposed proof.

Evidence.

If true, nearly irrefutable confirmation that they stood in honesty to what the rings on their fingers meant.

That if they had aligned themselves with the other Careers, it was part of a plan, a component of something much bigger than Hermione could even begin to understand. Something far more complicated than what it all looked like on the surface.

It meant that maybe Pansy was just trying to catch her attention, possibly swayed by the same thing that Draco had admitted to her; The pin on her chest had marked her as a symbol. A valiant cause to go after, even though Hermione couldn't make sense of any of it when the Games began.

And Luna. The words of Harry came rushing back to her now.

They had a plan.

What transpired wasn't how it was supposed to be.

That whatever had happened to result in Luna's death, was not intended for, by whoever else was connected to their mission.

As Hermione processed this all, thoughts rushing through her mind and bouncing off the carefully crafted shelves within and toppling all the organized boxes to the base, she felt her spine straighten, her resolve settle, her assurance solidify.

She wasn't certain this was enough to trust Pansy and Cassius with her life, and maybe it wasn't even her choice to make, but something in her settled. A sense of calm that suddenly felt like it belonged in place. 

Slowly, her wand began to lower, and as it did, she could see both of their faces soften. When her arm came to a rest by her side, she flexed and unflexed her fingers once and then exhaled before dragging her eyes to the face of Harry.

"We're satisfied," she said, an answer to his question from long moments ago. Her voice was flat, by no means thrilled with what she was saying, but honest in its intention.

Almost instantly, Draco's presence was in her mind again, a flurry of anxious energy and unease, wanting an in to her reasoning. But she inhaled and exhaled again and diligently pushed him out.

Hermione's eyes remained on Harry, waiting for his response.

The only person between both sides; the only one who could bring them all together.

"Good," he said, tone even. Several seconds passed before he lifted his eyes off Hermione and looked over to Pansy and Cassius. His head jutted forward in a quick nod, and a second later, both their hands dropped slowly to their sides.

After they did, it was evident that none of them knew what to do next. Draco inched ever closer to Hermione but kept his mouth shut, while her feet remained planted firmly on the ground.

Amongst the camp, silence flagged them, nobody daring to move from their spot.

Hermione knew it was her that made the call, so even though she could sense everyone’s agitation and desire to finally settle the frigid air, she would likely be the one that would have to make the first move.

But before that, she had to let Draco in.

So she pushed into his mind, and as she expected, he let her in immediately, as if he had been waiting.

What is going on?

I can't explain right now.

In response, Draco sighed. But you think we can trust them?

Hermione’s eyes flipped back and forth between Pansy and Cassius, both of whom were looking at her and waiting.

I think so.

Was she certain? No, not a chance. But if she was being honest with herself, she couldn’t be certain about anyone. Not Harry, and arguably, despite everything they had shared between them, not even Draco.

She couldn’t be certain without a sliver of doubt about anyone at all.

But she trusted her intuition, despite the blaring alarm bells she forcefully quieted. She trusted the fact that there was something much bigger at play within the Games than she could have ever prepared herself for. And she trusted the feeling inside of her that confirmed everyone’s elses implications; that she had an active and increasingly important role to play in it all, even if she didn’t understand it.

And she trusted, because she had no choice, that she had to put her life on the line and in the hands of other people for a chance to get out of the Games alive.

That was a fact when she first volunteered, when she stepped into the Cornucopia, and every day since then until now.

It had never changed.

I think they’re telling the truth.

The truth about what?

She tried to swallow, the knot in her throat making it increasingly difficult, but she forced it down with all her might.

They could have killed me. They had a chance. I didn't know it then but that's what they meant. If they wanted to, they could have. They would have. 

But they didn’t. Draco bristled next to her.

No, they didn't. Unless I can view a memory of theirs, I’ll never know for sure if they actually saw me, but I don’t think we have any other choice.

Their rings, he nodded, the jut of his head so subtle she probably would have been the only one to notice. They’re vetted.

I assumed as much.

So we do this?

Yes.

Okay. Draco inhaled slowly next to her and turned to look at her. I trust you. 

Hermione lifted her head up and slotted her wand into her back pocket. Then let's hope neither of us is wrong then.

And with that, she took a definitive step forward. One, then another, and another, before her feet stopped right in front of Pansy and Cassius. When she started to move, Draco followed behind her, and Harry took it as a sign to approach as well until eventually, the five of them stood in a half-baked circle facing each other.

Draco reached into his pocket, pulling out the two wands he'd snatched, readying himself to hand them back, but he stopped as his fingers adjusted around the foreign wood. Instead, he turned to Hermione, flipped his cap backwards, and nodded his head just once.

Her gaze flitted from his eyes, down his cheeks, to his mouth, and back up again, and in his expression, she saw a boy who was scared, but who was ready to fight.

There was an unwavering power in the vulnerability he afforded her, and she refused to take it for granted.

So she turned to the two new members and settled her gaze on Pansy.

Her arm extended slowly in offering before it stopped mid-way between her and the other witch. For a moment, Pansy’s brows furrowed, taking in Hermione’s open palm, before she looked back up at her. And then, as if she didn’t want to delay the inevitable any longer, her mouth pulled into a tight line, a gesture that made her look as young as she was.

A child soldier.

Her hand extended outwards and met Hermione’s firmly, palm slotting into palm. Each of their fingers gripped the other’s for one quick shake before they both released.

Amidst her own battle with her wildly beating heart, Hermione heard Harry exhale shakily next to her.

After Pansy, she moved on to Cassius. When she extended her hand, there was no delay in his taking it. After one quick shake, he let her go and it was done.

Hermione turned to Draco and beckoned him forward. He too started with Pansy, as if following Hermione’s direction, but before shaking the girl’s hand, he turned her wand around and offered it back to her. She grabbed it quickly, slotting it into the holster on her chest, and shook his hand. After he did the same with Cassius, everything was done.

In the seconds that followed, it was as if each of them was quietly coming to terms with what had happened since their arrival. If it was difficult to process for Hermione, she was certain that it was no easier for any of them.

But, she hoped that the worst part of it was finally over.

“Now what?” Harry’s voice came from her side.

Hermione paused before looking up at Pansy and Cassius and exhaled slowly. “Welcome to the camp.”

Chapter Text

Hermione laid in her cot, aimlessly staring at the roof of the tent, the presence of Draco's warm body not far from her.

If she had it in her, she would let herself dwell on how much had changed since she joined him in his camp. Now, their camp. She might have thought about what it meant or why his gaze felt heavy on her every night before the lights went off, or how she found his body practically pressing into hers in the morning, even though that was never how they fell asleep.

Draco, a boy from Pure Capital, the most unexpected person to find solace in, especially here. The entire notion of it should have made her skin crawl.

She couldn't explain why it didn't.

Not anymore. Not for a long time by arena standards.

It was as if deep inside of her, she knew it was safe. That amidst the chaos of the Games and everything around her, that he was, in some way and somehow, constant.

Dependable.

Someone she could trust.

But having Draco by her side that night did nothing to ease the unrest she felt as she tried to fall asleep.

Hermione spent the better part of an hour watching Pansy and Cassius tour the camp, set up their tents, and even attempt to make small talk with her and Draco. But there was no part of her which felt like she could participate.

Not after everything that had been thrown at her that still had her mind reeling.

And though she retired to bed early, just barely at the crack of twilight, intent on letting sleep consume her so that her body, and more importantly her mind, could get some rest, she remained wide awake. She lay in her cot aimlessly until Draco entered some hours later. Her eyes remained closed as his presence filled the tent, as he undressed and changed into sleeping clothes, and all the while as he climbed into the cot next to her. There was distance between them when he slid himself under the covers, inches separating the bases of their two cots, but nowhere near what existed when she had first joined him.

But she could feel the warmth from his body nonetheless.

As the light seeping into the tent gradually dimmed, the manufactured daylight drifting further and further away until it was completely out of sight and the camp was flagged by darkness, Hermione still hadn't found a wink of sleep. Not as Draco next to her was consumed by slumber, not as the crickets drew to life outside, and not as the weight of exhaustion pressed heavily onto her.

So after what felt like hours, she crawled out of her cot, to her feet, and tiptoed towards the exit of the tent.

The cool night breeze brushed against her face as soon as she stepped outside, warm enough to remind her of summer but crisp enough to rattle any exhaustion and force her senses even further awake. She walked until she got to the campfire, no longer just two or three chairs set around it, but now five.

An unsettling sight, which would take some getting used to.

Dropping into the seat she always occupied, for no reason other than it being the one that Draco never sat in, she moved to rest her head on the backing to try and watch the stars, but her eyes caught on something different.

Two new tents standing upright in the camp, surrounding Harry’s on either side, that weren’t there just that morning.

Even more alarming than the chairs, especially when she knew each one housed a tribute that was now not just figuratively, but literally on the same side as her.

In the middle of the Hunger Games. Where children were meant to fight to the death.

She had found a place amongst allies.

As if, it had always been meant to be that way.

Shaking herself free from the gravity of that thought, Hermione let her eyes drift up to the sky and began to map out the stars.

Their bright white spots littered the dark blue canopy in small clusters, forming indecipherable figures and shapes.

Cassiopeia next to Lyra next to Andromeda.

She had studied these constellations before, quite diligently, for there was nothing else a young girl could do after her parents passed than bury herself in the stories of others and worldly things. So, as she traced each grouping slowly, she was remiss to realize that none of their placements made any sense in conjunction with one another. She shouldn’t have been able to see all of them so clearly. Not at the same time, either.

But, as she had already come to learn, very little of anything in the arena made sense at all. What Hermione was seeing before her likely had a lot to do with the fact that the place she was in was entirely manufactured; planned and executed by Pure Capital Gamesmakers. And while built to destroy the tributes, it just as much existed to confuse them.

Next to the three stars she had already recognized, she found Sirius, and Orion, and buried amongst them all, Draco. His namesake constellation was blurry, barely visible at all, and she felt her eyes strain in the darkness as she tried to decipher each point of it, each minuscule ray of light against the blanket of the night sky.

And then, like a deafening boom, a cannon went off somewhere in the distance and rattled all the tranquillity in the camp.

Hermione jerked out of her seat as the sound reverberated off of every tree around her, hand grasping for her wand on instinct. It had been so long since she had heard one, days and nights muddled into one, that initially she thought it was an attack on her.

But almost instantly, the hum of the anthem began to play. Behind each tent, she thought she heard rustling, but her eyes remained glued to the scene unfolding before her in the sky.

Green smoke, the slow formation of a skull, and a serpent slithering out of its mouth.

The symbol of Pure Capital, of everything that President Riddle stood for. As it faded, Hermione didn’t so much as flinch, desperately waiting to see whose face would show.

At this point, there wasn’t anyone else who she knew or wondered about, but the thought that they were slowly building a group while other innocent tributes were potentially still out there, constantly made her sick to her stomach.

She had hoped they had gotten everyone now.

But there wasn’t any way that she could know for certain.

So she had to assume that everyone was innocent, redeemable, saveable, until she got irrefutable proof that they weren’t.

The only person that she suspected wasn't was Cormac.

She hated that a vicious part of her hoped that it would be his face that lit amongst the sky, but it was a difficult notion to stop herself from.

However, the face that did slowly form was one that she didn’t recognize. A girl, young, definitely younger than her. District 8 listed briefly below her.

She didn’t even know her name.

Her heart clenched, wondering, what if? What if she could have joined them? What if she was someone who could have fought with them?

What if they found a way to help her live?

But before she could give much weight to any of that, the form of the girl's face slowly dissipated. Seconds later, the dark night sky held the bright white stars again, and it was as if nothing had happened at all.

Like the girl’s life and death meant nothing.

But even though all evidence was gone, Hermione knew that it was one more person down; seven still standing.

Five of whom were in the camp.

An eerie feeling settled over her as her eyes flitted to the sky again and even though she tried to keep her gaze focused on the constellations above her and track them, her lids closed slowly, sleep consuming her finally after that.

When she woke in the morning, bright sunlight blinding her, Hermione’s eyes opened to the surroundings of her and Draco’s tent. It took a prolonged moment for her to make sense of where she was and what she was seeing before she remembered that it wasn’t where she fell asleep the night before.

She startled out of her cot only for her gaze to land on Draco, still sleeping in his own, lying on his back, not far from her. At her sudden movement, a groan escaped him.

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered between clenched teeth, his eyes remaining shut.

“But—” she stuttered. “I wasn’t—How?”

His eyes opened slowly then, irritation, or morning grumpiness (it was difficult to tell), riddling his expression as his eyebrows furrowed atop his forehead.

“Do you have a question?” Though sleep laced his tone, there was still a bite to it.

“Yes,” she scrunched her nose. “Did you hear the cannon last night? Did I dream that?”

“I heard it.” He pulled his arms out from under his blanket and stretched them up above his head, stifling a yawn.

“So then I was outside when I fell asleep.”

Not a question, but a statement.

A fact.

His arms dropped with a pronounced thump to his side and he perched himself up on his elbow as turned to her. “Yes, you were outside, Granger.”

“How did I get inside?”

He tilted his head at her, his expression falling flat.

“Because you woke me up when you left the tent.”

She crossed her arms. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Well, it should.”

Her heart stilled in her chest, slowing to a snail’s pace as her mind tried to piece together the happenings of the night before. She had laid in her cot aimlessly for hours, and when she finally felt so restless she thought she might scream, she had tiptoed out into the dark night outside.

She had made certain that she didn’t wake Draco when she left. She was positive that she had checked that he was still sleeping.

At least she thought he was.

But now, none of that mattered.

The memories of the night before meant that the fear and emotions coursing through her then, as she watched the sky, all came rushing back to her now.

The skull and serpent symbol.

The anthem.

The face of the fallen tribute.

“Did you see the projection?” she asked quietly, willing her voice not to leave her in a shaky timbre.

Draco sat up, turning his back to her, rigid. “No.”

“District 8,” she whispered, trying to collect the pieces of her memory to form the face of the girl again. But in her mind, it was muddled.

Was her hair straight or curly?

Were her eyes dark or light?

Draco’s back rippled, tension straining at his neck.

“Do you know who she was?”

“No,” he shook his head once.

“Do you think…” Hermione trailed off, not knowing how to frame the question, but hoping he was quick enough to pick up on what she meant.

“I don’t know.” He let his head drop into his hands, fingers clenching into fists inside his hair. “Maybe. Likely. But I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she exhaled shakily. And the two of them said nothing more.

As they emerged from the tent, Hermione prepared herself to see and face the others, namely Pansy and Cassius, but despite the not-so-early morning, the entire camp was empty. She turned to Draco, seeking his gaze instinctively, and when her eyes settled on him, he was already looking at her.

They shared a quiet moment before he stepped away and into the food bunker.

He reappeared moments later with two cans of beans in his hands.

Her eyes dropped to them, eyebrows bunching as she realized it was peculiar – because they typically ate sandwiches for breakfast. But Hermione knew it wasn’t her place to complain.

It was as if Draco read her mind though when he said, “Bunker is looking scarce. We didn’t have a package come in yesterday, so we’ll have to make do with what there is.”

She nodded and kneeled down next to him by the fire.

Draco had just sliced his wand through the metal packaging when both their eyes flitted up to the sight of movement by the other tents. Again, Hermione’s heart clenched in her chest in anticipation of what was to come, but only Harry appeared.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

Temporary relief for prolonging the inevitable.

He gave her and Draco a small smile and a wave before he glanced at the cans in their hands and turned to the bunker to grab his own.

“There’s nothing...” Draco trailed off, eyes downcast.

“It’s alright,” Hermione quickly cut in. “I’ll go with him and explain.”

He refrained from saying anything in response and just nodded.

Hermione rose to her feet and quickly followed Harry’s path. It was difficult to imagine that they had nothing left, but if Draco’s assessment was correct, she wanted to see it for herself. When she stepped down into the bunker, Harry was rummaging through the makeshift shelves built there.

“Do you know if”—his voice was muffled as he reached his head deep into an alcove to continue his search—“there’s anything else?”

“Draco said we were running low,” she uttered as she passed her eyes across the barren remnants of the bunker. She had never seen it as empty as it was, realizing that the stock had been depleting for far longer than she had noticed.

A small package of bread remained on the shelf, a handful of bags of crisps, and in the makeshift freezer held together by a cooling charm, only a single package of frozen game. Chopped roughly, it was hard to even tell what it was.

But the most obvious thing was that there wasn't much of it at all.

Definitely nowhere near enough to feed five people.

“We can grab the bread,” Hermione said, her mind racing as it tried to find an explanation or pinpoint when things started to go so downhill. But more importantly than that, racing to try and find a solution. “He took some beans out with him. We can all share.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

And then, for a prolonged moment, neither of them moved.

In the quiet and the dark of the bunker, all the unsaid and untouched questions suddenly made the air feel heavy. Harry’s eyes were planted on his feet, no doubt sensing the stiffness, and when his eyes lifted up to look at her, it only made everything worse.

Hermione's heart dropped uncomfortably into her stomach, aching and twisting in her gut as the words he couldn’t seem to say out loud came through in his eyes, and as much as she wanted to speak and hash out everything that had happened, it didn’t feel like the right time or place.

Not now. She wasn’t sure if ever, or any time soon.

“We should—”

“Yes,” he said quickly, as if eager to escape whatever energy had settled on the two of them. “After you.”

She watched him grab the bread as she scurried up the ladder that led them back up to the camp, his form following quickly behind. As much as she wished she could have prepared herself for what she knew was coming, it still stopped her dead in her tracks when she emerged into the sunlight again.

The backs of Pansy and Cassius, making their way over to the fire where Draco was.

She stood stock-still, wringing her hands, before Harry climbed out next to her and his eyes settled on what she was looking at too. He exhaled quietly.

“It’s alright,” he whispered to her.

Hermione registered the words and their meaning, and she wanted so badly to believe that it was true, and Merlin, she swore she did, but as she urged her feet to move, they just didn’t budge.

“I know it is,” she whispered back, trying to convince herself almost as much as she was convincing him. “It’s just all new.”

“I know,” he nodded, grabbing her wrist gently. “Come on.”

She could see Draco’s mouth moving as he said something to either Pansy or Cassius, and though she wasn’t able to hear what it was, she wished she could.

Because frankly, how do you greet someone after what they all went through?

After the standoff the day before.

After the history that she shared with them.

Before she could come up with a viable option, Harry stopped and she found herself standing right next to Pansy.

“Hi,” Hermione swallowed, looking up at her and then at Cassius.

“Hey,” Cassius said with a nod.

“Hi,” Pansy responded quickly after him.

“And hello,” Harry said with a goofy grin, evidently trying to break the same, yet different, tension that they both had just felt in the bunker. “We brought bread,” he held up the bag before him.

Draco looked down at the iron pan floating above the fire with the beans slowly sautéing and then back to the bread in Harry’s hands.

“An English breakfast,” Harry said, trying to infuse as much excitement into his voice.

“Fit for royalty,” Draco sighed. “We should have a sponsorship arriving soon.”

“So it’s you who stocks the bunkers with food?” Cassius turned to him.

Draco nodded. “Someone I know. Very generous gifter.”

“And you?” he turned to Hermione.

But she just shook her head. “You guys?” She addressed all three of them.

“Just once,” Harry said. “But otherwise, no.”

“No,” Pansy added.

“And no,” Cassius concluded.

“So we’re relying on you then,” Cassius looked at Draco again. There was no accusation in his tone, nothing bitter at all, but Hermione sensed as Draco went stiff next to her and dragged his hand down the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“We can always forage,” Hermione quickly cut in, trying to alleviate the pressure off of Draco’s sponsor as the sole provider. They had never broached the topic, but she always knew it was someone through him that was keeping their supplies stocked.

“That we can,” Pansy said with a smirk as she deposited herself into a seat.

They all watched quietly as Harry pulled slices of bread out of the bag and began to hand them to Draco, who ladled the cooked beans on top of each piece. And as they all dug into their breakfast, the silence remained.

The only sound was that of chewing, or humming, which Pansy seemed to quietly do, but otherwise, the same tension from the bunker slowly crept in and surrounded the five practical strangers. And before they even finished eating, it was so thick that any one of them could have cut through it with their wand.

This time, Hermione decided it was up to her to break it.

If only as amends for the stand-off the day before.

“Did you guys hear the cannon last night?” she asked, wiping at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. 

They all answered in a variety of yes’s.

“I was out here,” she added.

“So you saw who it was?” Pansy asked.

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “The girl from District 8.”

Harry and Pansy exchanged a quick look before he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Romilda.”

“Is that her name?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Harry said softly, a solemn look falling over his face.

And that alone cleared any wonderment Hermione had about this particular tribute.

That it was more than just another loss.

She had been on their side.

“It was—erm—odd,” Hermione said, trying to somehow shift the topic away lest they dive too deep into something that was clearly not as simple as she might have hoped for. “To hear the cannon again after so long.”

“It’ll probably be a while until we hear one again,” Cassius arched back in his chair as he spoke.

“Why do you think that?” Hermione turned to him.

“Because besides us five”—he motioned around the group with his hand—“there’s only two other tributes left.”

“Right,” Hermione said, affirming the obvious assessment. But that didn’t explain his statement. “Do you think it’s so improbable for them to go after each other? Or after us?”

“Well,” Pansy cut in. “One of them might.”

“One?”

“The only other Career,” she confirmed. “He’ll definitely try.”

“Yes, I got that,” Hermione said quickly, frustration starting to build. It was as if each of them was talking in circles, tiptoeing around information they had that they either didn’t want or know how to share out loud.

If she had to assume, she would guess it was the former.

“The other one is probably safe, though. She’s good.”

While her math had already confirmed that there was one more tribute out there, the statement only brought more suspicion.

“Who is she?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Her name is Astoria,” Harry said. “She’s from District 6.”

“Do you—” she hesitated, not even sure what she was aiming to ask.

“—Yes,” Harry quickly cut in.

Hermione nodded, dropping her eyes to her hands.

No question or answer had to even be uttered aloud to affirm what she thought.

That there was another.

Confirmation that while she presumed Cormac was a lost cause, at least one more person still existed in the Games that was on their side.

And as much as she wanted to make sense of the information, her mind was gnawing at a particular piece of the story that remained incomplete. Something the new arrivals alluded to, something she knew happened, but of which she didn't have a complete picture.

“Cormac,” she said as firmly as she could. “What happened with him?”

Her eyes passed between the three faces to see them all grow tense, lips pulling into tight lines as they straightened their posture.

“What do you mean?” Pansy’s eyes flickered up to hers.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Hermione frowned. “We came to this camp with one less person than we should have.”

But Pansy didn’t respond. Next to her, Cassius’ jaw clenched, and on the other side of Pansy, Harry went rigid.

She assumed they all knew what she was getting at, but especially him.

“You’re here now, and though I might think of apologizing for coming on so hard, I’m not going to. Cormac…He’s still alive.”

She watched Pansy swallow tightly.

“But Luna isn’t.”

Harry rose to his feet suddenly, turning on his heel. “I’ve heard this already.”

“No,” Hermione uttered at him. “Stay, Harry.”

“Gods Hermione, it’s too difficult to talk about again, okay?”

“Harry, we're a team now. That’s what this is, isn't it?” She suddenly exploded, looking around wildly at all of them—at Pansy, Cassius, and then Draco next to her who was watching her face intently, before she dragged her eyes back to Harry.

She jumped to her feet and lunged at him.

“We talk about this together! Because as much as it hurts you, I killed another tribute for her!”

She said this with a heavy pant, trying but desperately failing to control the racing pace of her heart. Admitting it for the first time out loud was terribly painful. 

“I never thought I would kill anyone! But I did for her, and if you think this hurts you, realize that it hurts others too. So if I want to hear about what happened with Cormac and Millicent when these two were partnered with them”—she pointed at Pansy and Cassius—“and get an explanation for what caused her death, we’re all going to talk about it.”

Something behind his green eyes flashed, either anger or terror, but Hermione could sense the moment they shifted, despite his gaze remaining glued on her the entire time she spoke. There was no hiding his disdain for the words that left her mouth, but when she finished, her breath leaving her in gasping breaths, his feet didn’t move.

They stared at one another for several long seconds before he freed his arm from her hold. A part of her expected him to turn and storm off then, but to her utter surprise, he didn’t. Instead, Harry stepped forward and wordlessly settled himself back down into his seat.

Hermione stood in no man's land and watched him before he tilted his head and pointed to the empty spot next to Draco.

“We’re all here,” he said with a heavy exhale. “So let’s talk.”

Hermione nodded and moved back to her seat before he, or anyone, had a chance to change their mind.

A phantom burn licked against her skin, buried beneath the sleeve of her shirt.

Exactly where her tracker was.

Her heart was still racing and her thoughts still reeling over everything she had just admitted out loud, and she closed her eyes just briefly to try and force the hysteria out. It wasn't easy to face something she had barely even had a chance to process.

That the first person she ever killed was a direct result of Luna’s death.

And that Luna’s death was a direct result of whatever happened between Pansy, Cassius, and the other Careers.

And she was without answers for any of it.

In the moments that passed after she sat herself in her spot across from Harry, none of them spoke. And then suddenly, Draco’s voice sounded.

“So where were we?” he said.

Hermione’s head flashed up to him when she heard him, but he wasn’t looking at her, his eyes set on Pansy and Cassius, as the question was directed at them. He seemed to understand what this meant to her and was stepping in to alleviate some of the mounting pressure. 

“Right,” he answered his own question. “Luna, the tributes that attacked the camp, what do you two know about that?”

Pansy and Cassius sat silently and stared back at Draco, their hands clasped in their laps, before Harry suddenly spoke up.

“It wasn’t their fault.”

Draco’s head turned slowly to Harry, so slow it barely even looked like it was moving at all, before he stopped abruptly.

“I never said it was their fault,” he uttered. “I asked them what they knew about it.”

“And yet, you quite clearly insinuated that it was our fault,” Pansy hissed.

“Then explain to me how it wasn’t.” Draco’s head snapped to her.

“It’s not that easy to explain,” Cassius jumped in. “Things weren’t that simple.”

“Try us,” Hermione said, softer than intended, finally finding the strength to speak out loud.

After a few beats of silence, Pansy cleared her throat.

“We had a plan to steer them in the direction away from where we knew Harry’s camp was. That was always the plan.”

“So you knew where he and Luna were staying?”

“Of course,” Cassius said, as if it was the most simple thing in the world. “There’s no rule against forming alliances in the Games, there never has been. Everyone had their roles to play and places to be.”

“And your role was…”

“Our role was to align ourselves with the Careers.”

“Why?” Hermione questioned, trying not to let the disgust drip too heavily from her tone.

“Because,” Pansy carefully enunciated. “They only trust other Careers.”

“And then what? When was the supposed alliance to end?”

“Well, definitely not when it did,” Cassius said.

“We figured as much,” Draco muttered. “When we woke up in the camp and were under attack.”

“Neither of you should have even been there,” Pansy growled.

“And if we weren’t?” Hermione jumped in, anger surging through her as if her earlier admission had fallen on deaf ears. “How much worse would it have been? Who else would have had to die?”

She said this with the hope that it was evidently clear that she was speaking about Harry.

Because frankly, it was true. If she and Draco hadn’t been there, he likely wouldn’t have been alive either.

But Pansy, unlike what Hermione was expecting, only sighed. “You just don’t fucking get it.”

“What is there not to get?” Hermione snarled.

It was clear as day for her. That something had happened between the four careers. That Cormac and Millicent had found out where Harry’s camp was, either by accident or on purpose, and had broken the alliance so that they could go after him.

Her and Draco had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was the how that she didn’t understand.

“They weren’t going after Luna or Harry,” Cassius mumbled.

Hermione’s breath hitched at the silence that followed his statement.

Pansy’s eyes lifted up slowly to Hermione, her expression entirely unreadable. “They were going after you.”

Chapter Text

They were going after you.

The words washed over Hermione and rendered her still.

Her heart felt like it dropped to the base of her stomach, a hollow emptiness quickly following the sensation that turned her hands clammy and sent her insides churning and twisting.

It was as if her entire body no longer belonged to her.

Her vision went hazy.

Her ears began to ring.

They were going after you.

They were going after you.

Me.

They wanted to kill me.

“But—” she stammered, her tongue foreign inside her mouth, “How—why—”

“You know why,” Pansy said. Her voice was firm and non-negotiable.

But Hermione didn’t know. She doubted anybody knew any less than she did.

Before she could gather her senses to demand more, Draco interjected. “Care to explain in a little more detail?”

“We would if we could, mate.”

It was Cassius speaking, though the haze at the corners of Hermione’s eyes meant that she didn’t even see him.

Cormac and Millicent had been going after her.

Everyone in Harry’s camp had been endangered because of her.

Luna had lost her life because of her.

A crushing sob ripped through Hermione. “No,” she cried out. “No, that’s not possible.”

She grabbed at her chest, hands clenched at the fabric of her shirt there, eyes flipping wildly between what she could see of Pansy, Cassius, and Harry. When she made sense of Harry’s downcast eyes and folded hands through her haze, she knew that her outbreak meant nothing.

That even if she tried to convince herself that what Pansy said wasn’t true, every part of him she was seeing confirmed that it very much was.

Draco’s hand settled firmly on her shoulder and squeezed ever so gently.

Breathe, Granger. You need to breathe.

Hermione anchored herself to the warmth of his palm, but what he asked of her didn't get any easier.

Luna, poor sweet Luna, a girl who Hermione knew almost nothing about but who had left such a mark on her time in the Games.

She should have been alive.

Hermione had thought of her all this time as a martyr; a victim of a targeted crime, a person who didn’t deserve to die when they did, but whose death seemed inevitable because of who surrounded her. Harry. The boy who had gotten top scores. The boy who had pummelled Cormac in the cornucopia. The attack had seemed personal, directed at him; Luna just an innocent victim that was caught in the middle.

But this, what Pansy had shared, was so much worse than Hermione had set out to believe.

It was her that Cormac and Millicent wanted.

It was her that they were going after.

It was her that had endangered every single one of them—Luna, Harry, and Draco.

Luna wasn't a martyr, or a target, or likely even someone on their mind when they attacked the camp. She was an opportunity kill. Someone they went after just because they couldn't get to her.

In its simplest form, Luna was only dead because Hermione was alive.

Breathe, Granger, Draco’s voice sounded again in the base of her mind. You’ve got to breathe.

I can’t, she projected shakily.

Yes you can. You can and you will. Breathe.

But his words did nothing to soothe the chaos that was swirling inside of her. His hand on her shoulder only brought her back to the very moment that was causing her to spiral, to the one that she now knew wasn’t what it was made out to be.

Draco’s arms had held her back behind the overturned table in Harry’s camp. She had fought with everything she had in her to try and break free from his grasp. To try and help Harry and Luna.

To put herself in the line of danger.

And it was only because of him that she didn’t make it there.

It was likely only because of Draco that she was still alive.

Close your eyes, Granger.

She fought the instinctual urge to do exactly what the voice in her mind was saying, but the edges of her vision continued to blur, surroundings swimming in and out of focus. She grit her teeth, tears pooling on her lash line, and tried to fight the onslaught of fog consuming her, but it only made the sensation more unbearable.

She should have been the one to die.

It should have been her in Luna’s place, her face projected in the night sky, her presence missing from the gathering of people.

As Hermione felt herself begin to drown, she could hear commotion around her. However, she couldn’t see it. Intermingling voices and moving figures drifted past her wavering senses, and she was there as a part of it, but only barely.

What remained though was the steadying hand on her shoulder.

Draco.

Draco was the only reason the dread hadn’t buried her yet.

Draco was the only reason she was still here.

Are you breathing, Granger?

It was his voice again as if he knew she was thinking about him, as if he knew the weight of his actions and his presence and the onslaught of emotions she was battling. Her chest was unbearably tight, muscles clenched and constricting her airways so firmly that she could barely breathe. Every inhale and exhale of air was a frantic gasp, taking every bit of strength she had in her, leaving her on the verge of a collapse.

But she fought it. She fought it so hard it hurt.

Come back.

You’re okay.

Come back, Hermione.

She didn’t know if it was his voice or her own this time, but almost immediately she clenched her lids, shutting out any semblance of light until she was consumed by utter darkness.

If what Pansy had said was true, though Hermione didn’t even have it in her to disbelieve it, she couldn’t give up. She couldn’t let Luna’s death be for nothing. She couldn’t let the weight of these games swallow her whole before she even had a chance to fight.

Really, truly, fight.

Her beating heart sounded in her ears—a shuddering rhythm that nearly deafened her in its wake. But it was pounding, and it meant she was alive, and as much as it pained her to mourn what was lost for her to still be feeling it, exhilaration and gratitude suddenly and unexpectedly coursed through her because she was.

Because she wasn’t done yet. Because she hadn’t been broken.

Because she wasn’t alone.

One second passed, then another, and by the third, it took all the strength Hermione had in her to force her eyes open, and she was immediately blinded by the beaming afternoon sunlight. Bright white rays shone down on her and her hands lifted up to block their path instinctively, groaning as her vision began to spin from the sudden and uncomfortable intrusion.

Her heart was still pounding, racing to catch up to everything she had just processed—shock, to disbelief, to pain, to something she couldn’t even explain. Not hope or glory or power, but an inexplicably confusing feeling that was caught somewhere in the middle.

She forced herself to blink slowly and after several moments, floaters spotted her vision as they moved in and out of her gaze languidly. She was still in the middle of the camp, having not moved an inch from the campfire, but standing now on her feet instead of sitting like she remembered.

Hermione heaved a desperate breath of air in through her mouth and exhaled shakily, eyes cataloging everything she already knew about her surroundings, trying to decipher what, if anything, had changed. The most obvious thing was that others were gone—Harry, Pansy, and Cassius—nowhere to be seen.

But she could still feel someone’s magic around her.

She turned swiftly and was met head-on with Draco, who was standing right behind her.

His eyes were blown wide, dark brows furrowed atop his nose, mouth just barely agape as he watched her. His gaze was frantic in the way it moved, flipping from the features of her face to her shoulders to her hands and then back up, as if searching, waiting, pleading.

There wasn’t an Occlumency wall in sight, as he lay himself bare before her, allowing her to see everything. Every line of worry etched into his skin, every flare of fire in the pupils of his eyes, every bit of power and indignation flowing through his veins.

They stood in utter silence, taking each other in, and she let one beat of her heart pass, then another, forcing the bits of lingering haze to fully and finally clear before she pulled back her own Occlumency. She took her time peeling back each layer, feeling as the weight and strain of the boxes she had built tumbled down, swallowing tightly as she came to terms with what she was doing.

Why she was doing it.

Who she was doing it for.

Draco’s eyes softened, crinkling in the corners, as each layer was pushed back for him to see, for him to examine, for him to get familiar with.

The weight of his gaze on her was something she could barely stomach; Heavy, and pronounced, and loaded with meaning. A dozen different emotions fluttered behind his eyes, raw and unimpeded, and she felt her insides clench as she tried to make sense of them all. She could see pain, she could see anger, she could see fear, she could quite literally see the blazing fury. But intermingling amongst all of that there was also a sliver of hope, desperation, a softness that seemed so clearly directed at her it almost felt like she was impeding on something far too intimate that she wasn’t meant to see.

It should have all scared her, it should have had her cowering back from him and running into the deepest pits of the arena as far away as she could go, but it didn’t. She almost wished it did, terrified because she thought it would, but her feet remained planted to the ground, not daring to step away from him. Not even an inch. Any distance seemed like too much distance in her current state.

Hermione inhaled shakily, fighting the quiver of her throat which made it difficult to swallow, gaze unwavering from Draco. Her mind was a warzone, everything they were going through was utter hell, but as she looked at him she felt only strength and light and overwhelming fire, and this sudden and inexplicable need to not just fight with him, but for him as well.

Like he had fought for her. From the very beginning, even when they were strangers, when she didn’t understand who he was, what he wanted, why he wanted it with her. And while everything he did was loaded, with a second and third reason laced into it, every single one somehow always came back to her.

To her.

He had fought for her.

He had protected her.

He had saved her life.

And even if she wanted to believe that he didn’t know what he was doing, the thought felt wrong in her mind, in contrast to everything she knew about him and herself.

She could argue that she didn’t know much at all, but that was a weak sentiment compared to the irrefutable fact that she knew what was important. Only what was important.

His eyes were dazed, staring as if unseeing anything else but her, and his mouth opened just slightly as if wanting to say something, but no sound came out. Hermione could feel herself shaking, could see the tightness in his shoulders as he fought the urge to do the same, and she realized that no words would be enough to express what she wished to say.

So with clammy hands and shaky legs, she took one pronounced step forward, then another, and on the third Draco took one towards her as well, before she threw herself at him, their chests colliding, and crushed him in an aching embrace.

Hermione’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and neck, first haphazardly, making sense of his body against hers, and then tightly, winding around him and clenching her fists into the fabric of his shirt. If the motion startled him, he didn’t show it, one of his arms frantically slotting around her waist and the other snaking up and bracing her neck as he pulled her flush against him, her head burying atop his chest. The pads of his fingers dug into the soft fleshy spot between her hips and the edge of her ribs, and it almost bordered on painful, but it wasn’t.

What was silence seconds earlier was now a shared moment in which Hermione could not only hear the pounding of Draco’s heart, but could feel it against her own as well. Thumping wildly, racing to catch up hers, as he’d been doing for far longer than she ever gave him credit for.

The warmth of his body sent a wave of gooseflesh down her spine, and his palm spread against her back as if he sensed it, and wanted to catch every single one, and anchor her to himself. The motion was so simple, so innocent, so raw, and she didn’t know what she did in this life or another to deserve someone so exhilaratingly complicated to want to be what he already was to her.

“You knew,” she whispered into his chest, an accusation that lacked the punch, her voice muffled, cracking as she fought another onslaught of tears. His hold on her only tightened in response as he bound to say nothing to the words that rushed out of her. “You knew,” she said again, her throat croaking.

He had to have known that she was the target all along.

“Granger,” he responded, his voice hoarse, as he seemed to search for the strength to say anything more, her name lingering on his tongue like a loaded proclamation. “I—” Draco began, and then exhaled, hesitation taking over. Silence barely had time to settle on the two of them before he whispered something unintelligible under his breath. She blinked against the fabric of his shirt, trying to make sense of it, only for him to swiftly lift her off the ground and pull her further into him.

He found a way to tighten his hold on her, his embrace caging her in as he enveloped her in his arms and pressed her tightly to him. With her feet off the ground, completely in his mercy and his hold, his ribs dug painfully into hers. But she didn’t care, and it didn’t matter, because a surge of exhilaration coursed through her at the overbearing proximity and it suddenly made her feel more alive than she’d felt since she first stepped into the arena.

Since she first volunteered.

Since so long before that it made her stomach churn to even think about.

“I—” Draco started again, his voice wavering and muffled as his head remained buried atop her shoulder. Hermione felt him take a shaky breath as his chest expanded into hers before he finally spoke. “I did. I knew, Granger.” His voice was as quiet as can be, only for her to hear.

It was an admission she had no doubts about.

“How could you not tell me?” She uttered the words into the crook of his neck, unable to muster the willpower to look him in the eyes as she said it.

His arm only snaked tighter around her waist, his touch foreign yet inexplicably warm at the same time. “How could I?”

She almost wanted to accuse him of lying to her, but that’s not what this was. It was an omission of a fact—something she had the right to know, as with all the things she had been reluctantly and all too slowly learning about herself.

It didn’t seem fair that there was so much that she didn’t know. That there were so many people around her that seemed to have a wealth of knowledge and understanding of the why’s and the how’s and she was left to fend for herself in the darkness trying to figure out the what if’s, making only fragmented sense by picking up the pieces that they unwillingly dropped for her, only when she pulled at them with the skin of her teeth.

And with him, Draco, she had wavered on the tight line that separated the idea of ally or foe, of the desire to trust or not, to fall into the pool, or hold on for dear life. Only for her to learn about what he did when they were in Harry’s camp. In the same instance, for her to assume it was a mere coincidence. And in the same breath, learn that it wasn’t.

If she had to explain the feeling that consumed her, that brewed in the pit of her stomach, mixing with the flurry of relief and the overwhelming prickle at her skin where he touched, she’d say it felt a lot like anger.

So she uttered the words she didn’t wholeheartedly mean, only to regret them the moment they sounded.

“I hate you for not telling me.”

For not telling her what he knew. For not telling her how much danger she was really in. For not trusting her with her own existence.

He stilled, arm going slack around her waist for a brief passing, racing, second before he pulled her tightly into him again. His other hand clenched and then softened around the back of her neck, before she felt the sensation of circles, his fingers gently rubbing into her skin.

It was just him, his crisp scent, and his being nearly swallowing her whole, and the shame she felt for saying what she just said aloud almost dissipated amongst all of it, but then his voice sounded.

And it wasn’t at all what she expected of him.

“I know you do.”

And just like that, she was rendered speechless, taken back by bewildered surprise. A feeling that wasn’t entirely new to her when it came to him. He was full of surprises. A riddle. A child soldier and a man all at the same time that she couldn’t unpack long or hard enough to ever get to his core. What he afforded her were only small moments, almost self-deprecating in their nature, filling her chest with a type of warmth that she couldn’t even begin to explain.

Draco adjusted his hold on her, slotting her into a space even higher in his arms against his chest, that melded them together as if that was how they were meant to be. She felt him suck a shaky breath of air in, making an almost reverent sound against her skin, before she thought she felt him smile against her. There was a slow and aching desperation to the way he moved, a longing she couldn’t even begin to unpack, as if every part of him was on fire as he held her, and instead of seeking the reprieve of water, he had found the fuel that could let him burn.

In his arms she felt weightless, the strength he carried both somehow figurative and literal all at the same time, because as his magic pulsed around her, and practically through her, it felt like they had the power to do anything if they did it together.

Despite being as close to him as she could physically be, it still felt like it wasn’t enough, as if she would now and in every moment after this, not just want but need more, yet she couldn’t allow herself to yearn for it before she told him what she needed to say.

It was simple. Two words that portrayed so much more than she could actually utter out loud, but she needed to say them and for him to hear them and hopefully understand the layers that they carried.

“Thank you.”

As they left her, they were barely even loud enough to be a whisper, practically soundless against his neck, that she briefly wondered if Draco even heard her at all. And then she felt him pulling back, his chest peeling away from hers, and in the moment of panic that followed, she realized she didn’t want this to end.

Though an aching part of her knew, painfully and gut-wrenchingly, that with where they were, it likely would end far sooner than she would ever be ready for. She had no time to even enjoy it for what it was before she already had to mourn it, and she knew she would burn the Games to the fucking ground if they took this away from her.

But the rage never even had a chance to manifest before she recognized that he wasn’t actually going anywhere as she saw his face appear before her and felt his forehead press into hers.

His eyes were only inches away from hers, wide and alight with life, and as her skin burned against his, she couldn’t help but want to cower back from the weight of his gaze. But even more than that, she wanted to press even further into it. Even further into him. To drown in what he was offering her.

Himself. Anything she needed. In any way she wanted, as long as she remained alive and ready to fight.

“For what, Hermione?”

He said the words back to her just as quietly as she did. A whisper, a promise, a question that didn’t need answering. Hermione’s throat grew tight, the inside of her mouth dry, as her eyes darted down to his lips just briefly, only inches away from her, and back up to his gaze. It felt like there wasn't enough air for the two of them in the minuscule inches of space that divided them.

“For everything,” she whispered back, letting a beat of silence pass before she let her eyes flutter closed. She felt more than she saw as he took the smallest of inhales, as if trying to swallow the sentiment whole.

The words hung between them. Neither pushed, nor pulled.

His breathing stuttered, chest expanding into hers, and then his hand began to move, dragging from where it was on the nape of her neck upwards to her scalp. As he moved, he left a trail of searing heat in his wake, something so exhilarating against her skin it felt like she was bathing in delirious magic. There, against her head, he buried his hand in her hair, strands separated by the spread of his fingers, and just held her against him.

They simply existed this way, chest against chest, forehead against forehead, breath with breath, until Hermione lost all concept of time.

Nothing else needed to be said. She was certain if she didn’t have any more words, then neither would he.

It was only when they both heard shuffling coming from the tents that he began to release the hold he had on her, hand reluctantly pulling out from where it was buried in her hair. He pulled his head back, slowly sobering from the moment, eyes passing across her features as if trying to memorize them, when he quietly spoke.

“We’re alright?”

She met his gaze earnestly, almost wanting to laugh at the need for the question after the embrace and the intimacy they had just shared. But when she saw the faint flicker of worry in his eyes, she straightened back, letting her hand curl into the fabric of his shirt. “We’re alright, Draco.”

And with that, even though it looked like he regretted every second of his movement that followed, he gently put her down and let her go.

When Harry, Pansy, and Cassius emerged together from one of the tents, nothing was said about what happened earlier. They simply walked out, joined Hermione by the campfire where she was watching Draco target practice, and sat down. There were no questions, no comments, not even a single wavering glance her way.

It was as if nothing had happened at all.

They sat in silence together for several minutes before Harry softly cleared his throat.

“Hermione—” he began.

Her eyes darted over to look at him, gaze drifting from Draco across the camp.

“Yes?”

She watched him swallow tightly, running a hand through his misshapen hair.

“Do you know if…”

He hesitated, letting a pronounced exhale leave him as his chest slunk inwards.

“If there was a…”

“Merlin,” Pansy cut in, and relief instantly flooded Harry’s face. “What Potter is trying to say is, do you know if a sponsorship package arrived?”

Hermione’s mind immediately went back to just that morning, of the discovery that they were low on food. A growing concern when it came to feeding so many people at once.

“No,” Draco said firmly, appearing at Hermione’s side. “There was no package.”

“Is that normal?” Cassius cut in.

“No, not particularly,” Draco said as he sat down in the empty chair next to Hermione. “They usually arrive every day.”

“Was there one yesterday?” Pansy asked.

Hermione saw as Draco began to waver amongst his Occlumency, his eyes flickering between being present and not. “No,” he uttered.

“When was the last time—”

“Three days ago.”

Hermione felt a pang in her chest at the revelation. She couldn’t explain how or why three days had passed without her noticing. How she could have missed that there wasn’t any package fluttering down from the sky. For three whole days.

And though it was true that every package was sent for Draco, a sender he had yet to reveal any details about, on the days that they did arrive, it felt like it was meant for the both of them. Everything came in pairs. If there was one bag of crisps, there was another. If there was one vial of replenishing potion, there was always a second.

But that had all stopped.

And in the arena, three days was an eternity.

Now they had gone three days without replenishment of food. It wasn’t a necessity by any means, and many tributes had survived with far less, but being a group of five meant that their path to survival, to a basic need like eating, was incredibly more complicated.

There were more people to feed. There was a greater complexity in finding enough food. And a more serious risk when hunting in a big group.

“Mate, it’s a sure bet luxury that you had, and don’t take this as us trying to sucker off of it, but is there any reason that the sponsorship would have stopped?”

“No,” Draco snapped. The word left him quickly. Almost too quickly. “There’s no reason it would have stopped.”

Silence settled on the group of them for only a brief moment before Pansy spoke.

“It’s concerning to say the least.”

“Why?” Hermione asked. “Besides the fact that it’ll be more work for us to forage, most tributes don’t have this type of luxury as it is.”

Pansy huffed a breath of air from her nose before Harry gently nudged her. She looked over to him, let her features settle, and then turned back to Hermione.

“It means something is up.”

“Like what? Sponsorships aren’t always consistent. None of us”—she motioned around the group of them— “have gotten many, if any at all. We’ll have to figure out a plan to replenish as much as we can.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Then I’m not following.”

“What happened three days ago?” Pansy probed, but as she said the words her tone grew flat, eyes falling downcast. A beat of silence passed before she mumbled the next words aimlessly, as if they had no meaning. “What changed three days ago.”

It wasn’t a question anymore.

It was a statement.

And in her face, Hermione could see as recognition dawned on her, then on Harry, before she heard Draco whisper a muttered, “Fuck,” next to her.

What had happened three days ago?

Hermione’s mind began to whir, flashing between memories, from one day to the next, from one moment to another, trying to piece it all together, before she gasped.

Three days ago.

The announcement in the sky. Harry’s supposed breakdown that wasn’t one at all.

The beginning of his trek to find the others.

Suddenly, a booming sound rang out all through the arena.

Every one of them startled out of their seats, their eyes flashing up to the sky where a skull and serpent symbol began to slowly form in that putrid shade of green smoke that Hermione had come to despise.

Because it never brought with it any good news.

And then a voice rumbled, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

“Remaining tributes, your attention.”

Chapter Text

It was a man’s voice; one Hermione didn’t recognize. Deep, sharp, and most notedly, powerful.

The type of voice that you just knew held secrets.

Moments after he first spoke, a brutal pause followed, carrying the brand of silence that only came before carnage. Eerie, heavy, digging under every layer of flesh and bones. It was so quiet that she could hear the rustling of branches amongst every tree surrounding their camp. So clearly, she could likely isolate the sounds to each specific one if she had to. The almost silent clicks of the cameras. The pounding of her heart in her ears.

An announcement.

Unheard of for the Games; not just for this one, but for any that came before. There had never been an announcement in the midst of any of them. The Games always began with one and only ended when a single tribute remained.

“Attention, attention,” the voice spoke again, booming through the camp.

It sounded like it was coming from some far-away place, yet it carried through every particle of air around Hermione as if it was somehow both whispering in her ears and yelling over her head at the very same time. The illusion was blood curling. It echoed amongst the forest, blanketing everything around her, crawling up her spine like the dreaded feeling of unease. Almost instinctively, the four tributes around her seemed to lean inwards, her eyes noticing the minute shift in their shoulders, inching closer to the centre of the circle that they all shared.

As if there was comfort to be found in one another amidst the impending.

“There has been an amendment to the rules.”

The speaker’s tongue rolled over the words slowly, but the content of his statement came down like a mallet, reverberating through Hermione’s skull down to her toes. Yet again, silence followed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood upright. She didn’t even have it in her to expel a breath.

“Sponsorships will, moving forward, be rationed—”

A beat. A pause. Hermione’s shaky exhale. It was something they had already all discerned. The speaker’s tongue clicked against the roof of their mouth.

“—as deemed necessary.” The last three words were said with a smile.

If the seconds before the sky lit up with the green haze of the skull had been different, maybe she would have gasped. Perhaps she would have found some small part of her that still had a place for disbelief or shock or the thrill of surprise. But she didn’t. Every day spent in the Games had only solidified that there was no way to truly make them any worse. Because they were already hell.

And those responsible could spend their whole lifetime trying to undo them, and it would still never be enough.

Which is why she could only feel one thing at that very moment. It seemed to quickly grow from a simmer, low and slow and no greater than her feelings of hope or anger or power, to a punishing boil that consumed everything else around it in mere seconds.

Valour.

A sense of unhinged bravery in the face of the monsters.

I can’t let the weight of these games swallow me whole before I even have a chance to fight.

Hermione was transfixed, the feeling igniting within her, as she slowly rose to her feet. As did those around her, Draco by her side, Pansy, Cassius, and Harry on her other. Everyone’s eyes were pointed at the sky. The green smoke began dissipating, a quiet, solemn tune filling the air.

“May the odds be ever in your favour.”

And then, just as abruptly as it appeared in the sky, all around them, every bit of it vanished.

Nobody said anything in the long and heavy seconds that followed. Nobody even moved, feet and eyes remaining glued to where they were. They had all deduced most of the announcement before it had even come. This wasn’t a reaction of surprise.

The confirmation, though, didn’t taste any less vile.

“I fucking knew it.”

Everyone’s heads snapped to Pansy, whose gaze remained fixed on the sky.

“Those fuckers.”

Hermione froze, fighting back a painful gulp as a knot settled in her throat. There was no denying that she shared in the sentiment, but she didn’t have it in her to try to utter the same words out loud. Not like Pansy. And by the looks that briefly passed over everyone’s faces—Cassius’ gaze narrowing, Harry’s mouth falling slack—it was evident they felt the same.

“Pans,” Cassius started, reaching his hand out to her shoulder before she abruptly jerked away from him.

“No,” she sniped, eyes turning to meet his, her pupils constricted so small they were barely visible.

Something dark, something inexplicable, settled in the features of her face that hadn’t been there just moments before the announcement. Her nostrils flared, a previously invisible tendon in her neck pulsing, her lips downturned in a bitter scowl.

Whatever mask she’d been wearing before had been pulled right off.

And as Hermione watched her, it was a bitter reminder of who Pansy was. A tribute from District 1; a soldier trained from birth. Tougher and stronger than she could ever dream of being.

And this soldier was angry.

“Pans,” Cassius tried again, shifting towards her. “Do you want to—”

“Do I want to what?” Pansy hissed, balling her hands into fists.

“Do you want to take a breather?” Cassius amended, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to discern what had gotten into her. “This isn’t— it’s not a—we suspected this was coming.”

“And what good did that do?” she hurled the words at him.

“Pansy.” Harry stepped forward, reaching for her as well.

“Don’t touch me.” She swatted at him too. “I’m not an animal.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Cassius cut in, his tone taking on a harsh candour. Harsher than Hermione had ever heard from him in the short few days they’d spent together.

What is going on?

It was Draco’s voice, uttering the same thing she was presently thinking in her mind. Warmth bloomed inside her at the sound, which she quickly pushed aside.

I have no idea.

“What are you all just standing there for?” Pansy turned to address the entirety of them, gaze briefly locking with Hermione before she caught Draco as well. “We’re fucked, we’re utterly and royally fucked, and none of you are doing anything!”

“Merlin, Pansy, we talked about this,” Cassius pleaded, searching for her eyes which she adamantly diverted from him. “It’s going to be fine. We’re going to be fine. We’re prepared for this.”

“You don’t fucking get it.” She turned then, meeting Cassius head-on.

“There’s nothing to get,” he exhaled. “We’re going to be fine. There’s nothing more they can do to hurt us.”

Pansy blinked, a sudden silence permeating the air around them. Her breath left her on a shaky timbre. “You’re an utter fool if you believe that.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked off towards the tents. Hermione watched Cassius as he watched her, his eyes never leaving the back of her hair. He exhaled a buried sigh and shook his head.

“She’ll come around,” Harry said, assuring him softly. “She always does.”

“Sure,” Cassius uttered, eyes downcast.

Hermione’s gaze moved slowly from Cassius to Harry and back to Cassius again, trying to make sense of what she was witnessing, trying to explain, at least to herself, why it all felt so odd. An almost painful discomfort took purchase in the base of her stomach as she tried to force the contents of her racing mind not to escape her grasp.

No matter how she looked at it, Pansy’s outburst didn’t make any sense. As Cassius had put it, they had already deduced something along the lines of this announcement was coming. They had clearly already spoken about it too. None of it was supposed to be a surprise. So there was no logical reason for Pansy to react the way she did.

And this simple conclusion made it abundantly clear that there was something much grander, likely much more complicated, at play. Something that Hermione did not understand. But what she did know was that there was something there about Pansy, something off and inexplicable, alarming because it seemed to pull a side of her out that both Cassius and Harry were unhappily familiar with. Cassius, who had likely spent the most time with her as her District mate, to an almost intimate extent, based on his buried reaction.

“So,” Harry said, cutting through the silence and bringing Hermione back to the present moment. She would have time to pick it all apart later. At least, she hoped. “Seems like we need to figure out a plan.”

“Seems like it,” Draco uttered, his voice there but mind seemingly distant. Hermione’s eyes trailed up to his face to see his gaze staring out across the camp towards the perimeter. There was no furrow between his brows, no lines forming around his mouth, his jaw slack. She knew though, that his Occlumency was hiding unease. “We’ll have to go out and forage.”

She understood now why he was looking out to the perimeter.

Whatever was out beyond those trees would determine their fate.

The four of them shared only a brief moment of quiet understanding before Harry sharply cleared his throat.

At the sound, Hermione looked over at him. She watched his hand reach into his back pocket and slowly emerge, pulling out a tightly rolled scroll aged to a shade of faded yellow. He held it in his hands, eyes alight, as he mumbled something under his breath; something concise but indiscernible. She watched, transfixed, as the scroll began to unravel in his hands, rolling out on both sides from the centre.

He lifted it before him, eyes scanning across whatever was on the page, before swallowing tightly. Pulling his wand from the holster on his chest, he let his magic guide the open scroll into the air, hovering it before them, so they could all see.

Hermione’s eyes took it in quickly. There was no text on it, just a large shape drawn in the middle, dark ink outlining the jagged edges of its exterior. Within the shape were smaller details, the ink just as black, areas noted by varying markings. Squiggles, triangles, jagged lines, and it took a beat too long for her to make sense of what she was looking at before Draco took a hurried step forward.

“Is that—” he paused, drawing his head closer to the scroll, lifting a finger and tracing it along the shape’s outline. He followed it around the entire perimeter, taking his time as if memorizing the path before he straightened and turned to Harry. “Is that what it looks like?”

Harry held his wand in his hand, lips pursed, and nodded.

That was when Hermione stepped forward, coming to a stop next to Draco, and allowed herself a clearer view of the contents of the parchment. It looked no different up close, the shape still indiscernible, the markings just as geometric, and her eyes had just begun to follow the path Draco had traced with his finger when every piece of the puzzle fell into place.

She wasn’t looking at just any parchment.

And the content wasn’t just any non-descript shape.

“It’s a map,” she looked up at Harry, an upwards tilt to her voice, equal parts alarmed and delighted. “You’ve got a map.”

“I do,” Harry said. “Well, we do.”

She held his gaze for only a moment before her eyes hurriedly moved back to the scroll. She could see it all now: the outline of the shape was the perimeter of the arena, the squiggles were the path of the river, the jagged lines noted the spots where the terrain inclined or declined, and the triangles marked the areas of densest forest, the shapes mimicking that of the towering evergreens.

Every bit of what she saw was a near-identical reflection of the map she had formed in her head. She could make out the part of the arena where the tree had nearly killed her, its proximity to the river where she almost died, and the open field Draco had taken her to when he caught her on his broom.

The most alarming thing of all though was the small bustling dots all over the arena. A cluster where she stood now, four dots huddled in a circle and one just a short distance away. When Hermione dragged her finger to the spot, names appeared above each dot. Her own, Draco’s, Cassius’, and Harry’s. She could fairly easily deduce who the fifth dot signified—Pansy.

Her eyes continued scanning the map until she found another one—a single dot right outside the Cornucopia’s perimeter. When she dragged her finger to it, the name Astoria appeared above it. The final dot was not far from there, in a place she didn’t recognize, only signified by the symbols of the evergreens, a nondescript spot inside the depths of the forest.

Cormac.

She felt her heart begin to pound inside her chest. He wasn’t close to them, not by arena standards at least, but the sight of his dot, of the confirmation that he was alive and likely well while in the confines of the forest they all shared, made Hermione’s blood begin to boil.

She averted her gaze from his dot before the anger could consume her.

What this map meant was that they knew where everybody was. She couldn’t imagine how useful it would have been at the start of the Games when tributes littered the arena. There was no telling what she could have done with this type of information at her fingertips, but the fact of the matter was that it was useful now.

Almost too useful to have been sacrificed as a gift to a tribute.

And suddenly, a memory rose to the surface, one that seemed like it was from a distant, far-away time. From the mind of a girl who was eons different from who Hermione felt like now. She had been sleeping in the branches of the large tree when Harry’s voice had awoken her from below. He had presented her the vial of liquid luck, the same vial she still kept safely stowed in the depths of her pockets now, and she had briefly wondered then how he had found her, how he had known exactly where she would be.

Now, it seemed like she had her answer.

“You had this the whole time?” Hermione asked, peeling her gaze from the map once more to look at Harry again. She bore her stare into him, intending for her eyes to communicate the underlying meaning of her question.

Harry stared back at her, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was going to answer her. She didn’t know why, or what there was to hide now, but she could see the hesitation etched into the lines of his face, buried in the angles and shadows of his expression with all his other secrets.

His eyes left her for only a split second, flipping to a spot over her right shoulder, where she knew Draco stood, and when Harry looked back at her, his stare softened. He lifted his wand towards his holster and gently slotted it inside.

“I did.” He cleared his throat before letting an exhale leave him. “Since the very first night.”

So this was how he had found her then.

This was how he had found Pansy and Cassius, too.

And if she were to guess, the map must have been in the wrong hands at one point because it was likely how Cormac and Millicent had found them as well.

The next hour was spent huddled around the campfire, the fire itself dormant, the rocks that surrounded it used as legs to prop a piece of wood to form a desk. The map of the arena was spread out on it in the centre.

“I really think we should start here—” Cassius said, pointing to a cluster of triangles on the parchment that marked dense forest, adamantly repeating an earlier statement to the group. They had gone back and forth for so long Hermione had begun to lose track of time, waning minutes marked by the passing of the sun overhead as it moved into the west. She didn’t recognize the part of the map he was referring to, so she had no opinion to share.

Harry just shook his head, strands of jet-black hair jostling around him. “Absolutely not. There’s nothing to find there.”

“And how would you know?” Cassius inquired, not the first time the question had left his mouth.

Hermione sighed. The two of them had been going at it for what felt like hours, circling back on around the same discussion, over and over again. She had no understanding of why Cassius wanted to start at that particular spot on the map and entirely no explanation for why Harry didn’t. Neither she nor Draco had said a thing since it all began.

“I just would.”

“How?”

They were staring each other down now, Harry’s expression bordering on furious; his eyebrows and mouth bunched so tightly, he looked like he might explode. Cassius was beginning to turn red, his jaw cutting a sharp angle where it clenched at his neck, tendons pulsing as they dipped under his shirt. Hermione could practically feel the crackle of fiery magic surrounding them.

“He’s right,” Draco interjected, his voice a sudden reprieve that had Cassius and Harry blinking quickly and inching away from each other. “Potter’s right.”

Cassius heaved in a sharp intake of air before he turned his ire to Draco.

“And how would you know?”

Draco rose to his feet, ignoring the underlying accusation in his tone, and reached for the map still set across the table. “We should start here—” he jabbed his index finger down into a spot that Hermione could see was closer to their base camp, roughly centred between where they currently were, and the area Harry had wanted.

“You see?” Harry motioned to Draco, eyes searching for Cassius’ gaze. But he ignored him, taking a pronounced step forward and dropping down into his seat, silent. Draco looked up at Harry with a shrug. In response, he only got a nervous chuckle from the boy before they were all seated around the table again.

Hours later, as nighttime began to fall, the early evening blanket of twilight unenjoyable because of the way all their stomachs grumbled, they had mapped out exactly where they would be heading out to forage. It was the spot that Draco had pointed to, not far from where they were now, in the opposite direction of the two remaining tributes, and towards a particularly lush forest that they all agreed had a high chance of getting them what they needed.

Game, herbs, mushrooms, berries, it didn’t matter. They needed food, and there was sure to be plenty of it there.

As they began to prepare for their nighttime hunt, something they too all agreed was safest since they were going out in a large group, the reality of what they were about to do settled heavily in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. She had survived multiple days on her own in the wild before she joined Draco. Though the risks were lower now with fewer tributes that could kill, the stakes felt higher.

The responsibility of caring for others made the prospect of what they were about to do that much more troubling. It was easier when she just had to care about herself. She could grasp the notion of caring for Draco, too. But an entire group of four people besides herself, with everyone’s lives on the line, made her insides churn.

The next hour passed quickly.

She and Draco packed their bags silently inside the tent. Hermione could, at moments, feel his eyes linger on her, but every time she looked his way, he quickly diverted them. He didn’t enter into her mind, and she didn’t enter into his.

She could likely deduce what he was thinking without doing so.

Chances were it was the same as her.

As dusk settled on the arena, and the two of them slowly made their way out to the rest of the camp, Harry and Cassius were already waiting. And though Hermione expected Pansy to be with them too, as hours had passed, she wasn’t by their side.

Cassius looked tense, arms crossed at his chest, teeth tugging on his bottom lip. Harry’s eyes lit up as he locked stares with Hermione.

“Do you guys have everything you need?” he asked, rather conversationally, eyes flipping from her and then over to Draco, who was right behind. There was no mention of the fact that Pansy wasn’t in attendance.

“Yes,” she said, simultaneously running through her mental checklist. Her bow and quiver of arrows were slung safely over her shoulder. Besides that, it wasn’t as if she had much of her own to bring. Draco had given her an extra set of clothes, arguing that she might need them if they get held up on their mission, several knives, both for throwing and cutting, and a bottle of water—the only resource they had yet to run low on.

“That’s good,” Harry nodded before looking over at Cassius, “We do too.”

As soon as he spoke, an awkward silence settled over the four of them. The kind that made Hermione feel like she was standing on a tightrope, unsteady and antsy. She wanted to ask where Pansy was—if she was even coming. Harry and Cassius’ discomfort at the prospect of having to answer for her absence was difficult to hide.

It was evident in the way they avoided her gaze that it was a question that they wouldn’t be able to address. Nor want to.

Somewhere beyond the camp’s perimeter, an owl hooted to welcome the night, and all their heads turned toward the sound.

The trance of the moment had been broken.

Hermione cleared her throat, and Harry and Cassius both looked over at her. “Is… everyone ready then?” she asked.

Harry ran his fingers through his hair. “Erm, yes,” he chuckled nervously. Next to him, Cassius wrung his hands before dragging them down the front of his pants. “We’re erm—not sure about—we don’t know if Pansy is coming.”

“We can still forage without her,” Cassius quickly cut in.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry added, meeting Hermione’s eyes earnestly, “We definitely can. She just hasn’t left her tent since the afternoon, and it’s silenced, so we can’t get to her, and we’re just assuming she’s not interested.”

He was rambling. Harry Potter was rambling.

Draco made an odd sound from behind Hermione, a sharp exhale of air through his nose accompanied by a quiet hum. She didn’t know what it meant.

“Right,” Hermione breathed. “That’s—well—that’s alright.”

“Is it?” Draco asked. The question was directed at the two other men.

“Well, if that’s what she wants,” Cassius said with a shrug, eyes flitting to the tents. Hermione didn’t even know which one was Pansy’s, but it was safe to assume she was behind the wall in one of them.

“Did you guys try—”

“—Knocking?” Cassius interjected.

Hermione nodded.

“Of course,” he scoffed.

“And…”

“And she didn’t answer,” Harry supplied. “It seems like she’s silenced it. We haven’t seen or heard anything from inside since she stormed off.”

“Did you try breaking in?” Draco asked. It seemed like a silly question, but nobody laughed.

“Yes, we even tried that. Pansy is… well… she’s thorough. Obviously well trained. I know that first hand,” Cassius sighed. “She would never leave her tent open to anyone. Not even to me.”

The little nuggets of information were slotted into the recess of Hermione’s brain for later.

But it was just further proof of her earlier assessment: Pansy was a soldier. Unequivocally so.

“Is there a reason for any of us to be concerned that she hasn’t come out?”

Cassius shrugged again and turned his gaze to Hermione. “Besides the fact that it’s a pain in the arse and the help would have been nice, no. It’s not the first time she’s done this.”

“Locked herself away?”

“Yes. And also not the longest.”

“Understood,” Hermione nodded.

She felt Draco take a step forward until he came to a stop right behind her, chest nearly brushing against the quiver slung over her back.

“So we’re ready to go then?” he asked the group.

Hermione watched Harry make eye contact with Cassius, the both of them nod, and then turn to Draco. “Yeah. I think we are.”

“Okay.” Draco’s hand brushed against Hermione’s hip, and she stifled a breath. “Let’s go.”

Her feet began to move beneath her, following Cassius, Harry just paces ahead of him, and Draco not far behind her. With every step that closed the distance between their living quarters and the perimeter of protection, her heart thudded more loudly, her magic thrummed more clearly, racing through her veins.

The only thing she knew for sure that existed in the vast arena, was death. Death and destruction and hopelessness.

We’re going to be okay, she told herself.

We’re going to be okay, she clenched a fist around the handle of her arrow.

We’re going to be okay, she stopped abruptly as Harry slowed and began to cut through the fabric of their perimeter, effectively opening the path to the rest of the forest.

Draco came to a stop right next to her, and as she turned to look at him, his hand quickly enclosed around hers. Her eyes widened at the feeling of his touch, still foreign yet irrefutably familiar in the way the comforting warmth settled within her.

He squeezed her fingers just once, grey eyes staring back at her.

“Granger, we’re going to be okay.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that Hermione noticed when she stepped past the opening was the oppressive darkness. In the moments that followed their departure from the camp, as she watched the ward close behind Draco, he disappeared before her very eyes beneath the night. She realized it wasn't the type of dark she had come to know. It wasn't grey, not even the darkest of blues. It was, in its simplest form, pure black.

Unlike in the safety of their camp, where the vast expanse of land was open to the sky above, illuminated by the moon and stars, the forest outside of the perimeter was shrouded by a canopy of towering trees, blocking all of it out. It was as if they were within a vacuum.

And this knowledge brought with it no ease.

"I hope nobody is afraid of the dark," Harry said, tone grim.

Seconds later, a dim Lumos came to life, and Hermione blinked, adjusting to the suddenly intrusive light.

She had been outside this spot twice: when Draco had first brought her to the camp and when they had ventured out to see Harry. Both times, she paid little mind to the terrain that led to and from the camp, but as they began to walk, a part of her wished that she had. With only the glimmer of faint light to guide them, the four of them moved quickly. The pads of their feet thumped against the dry dirt of the forest, the winding path beneath them inclining and dropping, intertwining amongst bulging tree roots and rocks.

At the front of the pack, Harry held his wand in one hand, lighting their way, and a knife firmly in the other. Behind him, Cassius held the map open, an even dimmer Lumos of his own pointed right over the parchment, bright enough only to see their marked route and nothing more. It remained open in his hand, magicked to follow the cluster of their four dots as they began their journey towards their hopeful salvation.

Only several meters past their camp, Hermione dislodged her bow from over her shoulder and unsheathed a single arrow from the quiver on her back. Thankfully, she didn't need the help of any light to poise the arrow against the string of the bow.

That came like second nature.

With her weapon of choice in hand, she forced herself to ignore the quickly developing ache that settled across her forehead as she squinted into the barely-there light. She could scarcely see Cassius's back in front of her, let alone the path beneath her feet or anything beyond Harry's wand.

It was like walking into an abyss. The only confirmation they were even moving was the changing terrain and the cluster of four tiny dots inching across the parchment.

"Everyone okay?" Harry whispered over his shoulder. She caught his eye for only a flash as he looked back, the tip of his wand illuminating his face, before he turned ahead again.

Was she okay? No. But there wasn't a choice for anything else.

So she called out and said that she was. So did Cassius and Draco, and the four of them continued on their path as if every one of them hadn't just lied.

After Harry's question, silence settled on the group. Seconds of it stretched into minutes, and before long, felt like it turned to hours as their journey trudged through the night. As they moved, blanketed by the darkness, under the rustling trees, amongst the quiet whirring of cameras around them, it was easy for Hermione to let her thoughts wander.

To how she had gotten to where she was now.

About her time living with the Weasleys, sharing a room with Ginny, cuddling with Crooks, and hunting with Ron in The Meadow; it all felt like a lifetime ago.

To how all the pieces had fallen to lead the three tributes around her, including Pansy back at the camp, to work as one.

From Draco snagging the bow at the Cornocopia, ultimately tying their lives together, to the Patronus she sent to Harry, which did the same, to the loss of Luna, who should have still been amongst them.

To the impossible prospect of ever getting out.

Could she do it? Could they?

What would life even be like beyond the confines of the arena if she survived? The thought of returning to District 12 in any capacity wasn't something she could wrap her mind around.

Not after all of this. Not after everything she knew and all that she was sure she had yet to uncover.

And she couldn't even fathom the thought of possibly doing it alone. The chances of it being her at the end were already slim, but she had made it this far, if only for the help of those around her. What would happen at the very end? What would happen if it was just their group left? Would the wands turn on each other?

What then?

Bile threatened to rise, but only thanks to her empty stomach, it didn't make it far. Instead, the nearly coordinated rhythm of steps around her put her into something trance-like, a sort of haze that made her feel like she was floating. The steps moving beneath her barely belonged to the body she occupied. The body she occupied was nothing but a chess piece, marching to what she knew, in one way or another, would be utter destruction.

Harry came to an abrupt stop at the front of the group. The motion brought Hermione back to her senses. It was impossible to say how much time had truly passed.

"It's just up ahead, yeah?" Cassius asked, bringing the tip of his illuminated wand closer to the parchment. Draco came to a rest behind Hermione, his chest brushing against the quiver still slung over her shoulder, and though she couldn't see over Cassius anymore, Draco leaned overtop her and took the contents of the parchment in for himself.

"Looks like it by the map," he uttered, and Hermione hated what his voice did to her as she felt a traitorous line of goosebumps pepper down her spine.

This wasn't the time or the place or the anything for that.

But in the dark, it was easy to imagine that her eyes were closed and the ghost of his touch was still all around her like it was that morning. That she was drowning in his arms and not under the weight of the Games. That they weren't marching into the depths of the arena to hunt for food, to stake their survival on.

That they could just be.

A silly notion in any capacity.

She felt her breath hitch as he leaned further into her to inspect the map, and she swallowed it right down.

"We might need a brighter Lumos up ahead," Harry said. "The start of the forest we're after should be just up the hill."

Hermione peered around Cassius's body and quickly traced the map in his hands, confirming their proximity to the marked-off circle to which they were headed. Just a single jagged symbol stood between them and their endpoint: a hill, as Harry had noted.

But as soon as they began to move again, barely several steps from the point they had just stopped, Harry and Cassius's Lumos suddenly cut out.

They all froze. In a flash, they were fully engulfed by the darkness.

Hermione blinked, but there was no difference between her eyes being open or them being shut. She brought her hand before her face and could see nothing. Not an outline or any flicker of light. It was infinite and all-consuming. Even more like the abyss she first compared the nighttime around them to.

She stuck her bow out gently and felt for Cassius in front of her. He jolted when she finally reached his back.

"Hermione?"

"Yes," she swallowed. A beat of silence passed before she felt him ease beneath her touch.

Her heart began to thrum in her chest because she knew exactly the kind of area in the arena they were getting themselves into.

Up ahead, she felt Cassius move, his arm outstretching before him.

"Oi," Harry yelped, and she knew that Cassius had reached him too. "Warn a guy before you start grabbing?"

Cassius chuckled, and she felt the rumble of it against her bow. She reached her free hand back to try and connect herself to Draco. But as her feet remained planted, cautious to avoid losing her footing and her point of contact with Cassius, her hand came up empty in the space behind her.

"Draco?" She turned to look over her shoulder, despite it being a feeble motion in the darkness. There was still nothing for the naked eye to see. Her hand began to move frantically in the space around her, covering the entire circumference for as far as she could reach, but there was nothing to touch, no body to brush her fingers against.

"Draco?" she repeated, and if her heart were thrumming wildly before, it would beat right out of her chest now.

He had been right behind her.

He was supposed to be right behind her.

As she felt the wave of panic claw up her throat, it nearly trumped the recognition that the buzz of her magic had stopped coursing through her, the way it didn't pulse at her fingertips. It was the loss of a constant hum that always accompanied her, dormant as if she was just a regular being with no magic to yield.

Troubling as much as it was unsettling as much as it was the least of her concerns now.

She took a shaky step backwards and felt Cassius move with her. "Malfoy," she huffed. "Where the hell are—"

A bright light blinded her, and she threw her arm up to her eyes.

"What the hell," she hissed, fighting the wave of dizziness that came over her.

The light began to dim before it was no longer blaring, and it turned to the soft release of a lantern before she could finally open her eyes.

A set of fingers enclosed around her hand and pulled it away from her face. Staring back at her was Draco, a sly smile tugging at his lips that looked like he was trying not to let crack.

"Sorry," he shrugged.

Hermione eyed the battery-powered lantern in his hands before turning away from him.

But her hold on his fingers didn't release. She just tightened it further, not wanting to let go.

The sweet yet painful feeling of relief.

"Good move on the lantern," Harry called out.

"Someone had to come prepared," Draco quickly retorted back. But there was no bite to his tone.

Hermione focused her gaze on Harry's bespeckled face as he grinned at Draco.

Something tugged at her as she watched them. An inexplicable thing, like longing for a past that never was and a future that cannot be. The feeling didn't quite get the chance to manifest.

"So, no magic?" Cassius asked, before muttering a quiet incantation under his breath to no avail.

Draco hummed. "Definitely not." She vaguely remembered when he argued with her that it wasn't possible. That moment hadn't aged particularly well.

"I've dealt with it before," Hermione chimed in. She reluctantly let Draco's hand slip from her hold. "In the arena, that is. Only muggle weapons."

"I know it exists," Cassius muttered. "But it's one of those things you train for but hope you won't ever find."

Hermione nodded but not because she understood.

"We'll make do with the lantern," Harry said. "Pass it up here."

The lantern exchanged hands from Draco to Hermione and then to Cassius before it finally landed in Harry's hands. He tied the top handle to a strap along the side of his bag, letting it dangle by his hip. It left his hands free, and the path dimly lit for him and Cassius. Enough to at least lead the group forward. With a final look back over his shoulder, Harry began to move once more.

Hermione let her bow drop from the point against Cassius's back, but her hand remained clenched tightly around it, refusing to stash it away. It might have made more sense, might have even made the trek in the darkness more simple, but finding herself in a part of the arena without magic again was all the more reason to continue holding onto it.

Beneath her own feet, she could still barely see the terrain, but almost immediately, she noticed the shift in the dirt. An upwards tilt quickly confirmed the presence of the hill they had to get over. The incline was sharp, sharper than she would have liked, and when her foot slipped past a tree root that she anchored her step to, dirt crumbling beneath her, it was Draco's nudge from behind that got her still again.

"All good?" he asked. His hand hovered a beat too long on her hip.

"Yes," she exhaled. "Of course."

They continued to climb, the ground beneath them disintegrating fast, slipping from under their shoes and making every step challenging and unstable. Hermione began to huff her breath, but she quickly realized she wasn't the only one struggling. All around her, the boys were too. Harry was panting, Cassius scoffing with every other step, and behind her, she heard Draco let one too many muttered expletives slip past his lips.

She instinctually tried to grab onto the hedges that previously lined their path, eager for at least something to hold onto, but the surroundings quickly turned barren. Any bushes that framed their journey before weren't there when they needed them most. As Cassis slowed, she paused as well, taking a moment to catch her breath.

The lantern flickered, light distorting behind scraps of fabric and motion as Harry began to stagger.

"A hand?" he called out suddenly, and Cassius darted forward. He grunted as clothing rustled between fingers, as feet shuffled against dirt. Cassius's grip on the ground began to slip beneath him with no roots to anchor to. Despite being unaware of what was happening ahead of her, Hermione let her instincts take over. She nudged her shoulder into his back, putting pressure onto it to help keep him stable, and behind her, Draco did the same.

"So close," Harry uttered through gritted teeth. "Almost there, Cass!"

Draco strengthened his pressure on her back and helped nudge both her and Cassius forward before a thump sounded, flanking them in darkness. The three of them nearly all tumbled forward as Cassius lost his hold on Harry's body.

"It's flat up here," Harry exhaled from somewhere above them, voice shaky. "We're almost there!"

"My turn then," Cassius called up to him. "Help me up!"

Hermione heard Harry shuffle; a moment later, the lantern shone downwards atop them.

Illuminating the spot they had to climb past.

"Bugger," Cassius muttered under his breath.

It was worse than Hermione could have imagined.

The incline was at a nearly 90-degree slope. There wasn't a single shrub or bush surrounding the path to hang onto, no tree trunk or root in sight to help get them over the hill.

Even hill was a generous namesake.

What stood before them was a cliff point. It was an inclined path that cut off at a wall, a wall that looked barely held up by the gravel that formed it, hanging off a dangling edge. That was where Harry was, his lantern suspended right over it. With every shift of his, dirt crumbled to their feet. One wrong move and any one of them could go tumbling down the path they just climbed. To either grave injury, or, just as quickly, their death.

The prospect of climbing it seemed brutal. Especially without magic. On their own, it would have been impossible.

"I've got you, Cass," Harry said from above. He laid himself down and slung his arms and head over the edge they all needed to get themselves over. With his fingers, he reached out as far as he could go and motioned Cassius forward with his hand. "Hermione, Malfoy, ready to help?"

Hermione took a careful step forward. Both her palms came to a rest against the small of Cassius' back, fingers flexing into the fabric of his shirt.

"You ready, Granger?" Draco murmured from behind her, adjusting his own hands against her back. He nudged the quiver over to her side and stepped up right behind her, his body coming to rest like a wall that didn't plan to budge, no matter what it took out of him.

Hermione's voice was small as it left her. Not because she didn't think they could do it. But because she knew they had no choice but to succeed.

"We're ready, Harry."

And then they began to push.

Beneath the lantern that Harry held, she and Draco nudged Cassius forward, careful in their steps as they moved to the cliff point. Hermione dug the toes of her shoes into the dirt as firmly as she could as she and Draco hoisted Cassius up just far enough to grasp Harry's hand. Her shoulder pressed into his back, Draco's arms guided the two of them before he took over entirely and thrust Cassius up the last inch he needed for Harry to pull him up the rest of the way.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go," Harry winced, and they could do nothing but watch as Cassius eclipsed the cliff top, and the two of them disappeared over the edge with a pronounced thump.

The lantern went with them, and the path was again flanked by darkness.

"All good!" Harry called out.

Hermione took in a shaky breath, urging her hands not to tremble. She wrang them against the front of her pants, clammy and hot, acutely aware of Draco encroaching on the space between them at her back again.

It was her turn next.

The lantern reappeared from above with Harry, Cassius now right beside him. Their eyes were alight as they slung their heads and arms over the edge and reached toward her.

"Come on, Hermione."

Hermione blinked up at them and swallowed through the knot in her throat.

"Do you want to give me your bow and arrows?" Draco's voice ghosted against her neck, hand coming to a rest on her quiver.

"No," she said quickly, turning to him, fingers clenching around the strap slung over her chest.

Their eyes met, and beneath the dim light, drenched in its shadows, his grey stare looked haunted.

"It would make it a lot easier to help you up if you did."

Her fingers clenched tighter, nails digging into the flesh of her palms.

But he waited, more patient than she would have been, eyes never leaving hers.

"Fine," she huffed, handing her bow to him before lifting the strap of her quiver over her head. She watched him pull it carefully across his shoulder before slinging the bow over the same way, freeing his hands.

Seeing him with it reminded her again of the cornucopia. In the darkness, she could practically imagine it all around her. The seconds counting down, the strewn objects and faces of the tributes that were no longer alive, the carnage that followed. The moment that she thought then was a betrayal.

"You ready?" his voice cut through the silence.

"Yes." She turned and looked up towards Harry and Cassius. "I'm ready."

Hermione took a deep breath as Draco's hand settled on her back and they began moving towards the clifftop. Inch by inch, with him anchoring behind her, she reached toward the waiting hands. But the cliff top was taller the closer she got to it. And the fingers she tried to grab remained just out of reach.

"It's too high. Hold on."

She didn't have time to think, to process, to reason.

Draco's fingers splayed across her spine as his other hand gripped below her thigh. She stretched for the outstretched arms of Harry and Cassius as Draco hoisted her into the air, up past his chest, ignoring the way her heart raced as his hand slipped down, down, down, his palms both featherlight but firm against her body.

When she grasped Harry's hand, and Cassius's quickly after, it took just one more push from Draco, her feet balancing against the underside of the terrain before the two boys pulled her over the edge with them, and she came tumbling over the other side.

"Oof."

It took several blinks for her to get acquainted with her surroundings before she saw the two boys grinning at her. Flustered, she smiled back.

"We're three out of four," Harry said. He turned over the ledge to look down at Draco before meeting her eyes again. "Would you like to do the honours?"

Again, she didn't have time to think, to process, to reason. She knew that time was of the essence. So she peered over the edge and caught Draco's stare.

He looked up at her, laid out to bare. No Occlumency wall in sight. He was showing her that he knew his life was in her, in their hands.

The three of them slung their arms out and down to him, palms open and ready to grasp his when he could reach them. Draco held her stare for several seconds longer before he rolled his shoulders back and began to move.

One step, two, cautious and careful because his task was that much more complicated with nobody alongside him to help, he inched himself towards the hanging cliff point. When he reached it, he paused, settling a hand along the scraping underside that held them all up. Hermione followed his motion, eyes blown wide, and grasped the edges of his fingers as they reached for her, just in time for both Cassius and Harry to follow suit and grab onto each of his elbows. In a maneuver that she never expected, one Hermione would have never dared to do herself; his feet shuffled before one landed firmly on the undergrowth, just as he used it to propel himself into the air.

No words, only muffled grunts, were exchanged as they hauled Draco towards them, lifting him up and past the cliff. Pieces of unstable ground from the edges began to break off and crumble down the path they came from.

"Come on," Harry urged. "We're so close!"

One piece of the ground broke off, then another, before a large chunk separated away and nearly split the cliff edge in two. Draco's fingers began to slip from her grasp, but it was that, the untimely risk and threat of failure, that allowed Hermione to channel every ounce of strength she had left. She felt her jaw clench, teeth grit tightly, and just one tug later, Draco eclipsed the cliff and collapsed atop all of them.

In the darkness, she could see nothing, but she could feel the chaos of intertwining bodies as all their libs entangled and they began to roll. An elbow here, a jab of the knee there, but none registered as pain because it meant that every one of them had made it over the cliff edge safely. They rolled past it for several metres before their motion ceased on flat solid ground.

Behind them, a booming crash sounded from the point they had just come from. Tumbling dirt, like a landslide. A plume of dust began to rise and fill the air.

The edge they'd just been on had crumbled and collapsed into the ether.

From somewhere off to her side Cassius muttered, "Shite, that was close."

But Hermione barely heard him, barely even registered what had just happened, as she came to her senses with where she was. Somehow beneath Draco, his chest pressed against hers, arms caging her in and face hovering above her own.

She could barely see his eyes beneath the lantern's dim light, but he held her stare nonetheless. In the frozen moment, it was as if neither of them could expel a breath.

And then he whispered against her, his voice barely loud enough for even her to hear.

"Thanks for not letting me fall."

His breath tickled the spot between her nose and her upper lip. It sent a pang through her chest that ached, that made her heart race, that lit every one of her nerve endings on fire, but she could do nothing to battle it except swallow it all down whole.

His gazes bore into hers, pulling words she didn't have out. "Likewise."

As he drew back slowly and rose to his feet, he extended a hand out to her, which Hermione quickly took, and helped her up alongside him. She adamantly ignored any lingering looks from Harry and Cassius.

It was easier to pretend that they hadn't seen anything. That they didn't know anything.

There wasn't even anything to see or know.

Harry lifted the lantern from the ground next to him and brushed his other hand down the front of his pants, dust fluttering from the fabric. He looked over his shoulder at the point they had all just climbed from.

"Well, that was something," he lamented.

Hermione tracked the edge that had disappeared behind them. "How are we going to get back?"

Cassius pulled the map out from his pocket and unravelled it. "We'll think of something," he said through a half smile. "We're almost there."

And as if nothing had happened, they began to move again, picking up their pace quickly. So quickly they were nearly running. One after another, darting over tree roots and around bushes that stood in their way, the path paved for them, as if it had been stomped down by numerous travellers before them. They moved this way until, up ahead at the front of their pack, Harry came to a screeching halt.

"It's here," he breathed. "We're here.

The here he referred to didn't look like anything out of the ordinary. The trees looked much the same, as did the path beneath Hermione's feet, but suddenly, she felt more than she even saw why he referred to it as such.

At the tips of her fingers, a thrum. A thrum that pulsated against her skin and suddenly roared to life, racing through her veins.

It was filled with magic.

"I see mushrooms!" Cassius called out, darting off into a bush.

"There's a rabbit's den here," Harry pointed with the light from his wand, stepping off the beaten path.

Hermione stood before a magical scene, abundance all around her.

They began to forage immediately, all knowing there was no time to waste. They transfigured sandwich wrapper after wrapper into containers, shrinking them all down once they were full, and stuffing them into their bags. One box of mushrooms was quickly followed by another. Hermione caught a rabbit and left it for Draco to skin. And Harry moved on to collecting wild herbs that she herself didn't even recognize.

She found herself walking the path, not straying too far from any of them, eager to just let the moment set in with her. It was an undeniable relief to have found what they had. To know that the journey they'd gone on was proving to be worth it. And to be there as a group of four was all the better—it meant more hands to hold, more bags to fill, more resources that they could take back with them.

It meant even a few extra days that they could sit still and avoid another venture out for food.

A few more days of safety when the entire notion of it was so scarce.

They foraged until all their backpacks were filled, until even the shrunken containers proved too much to carry. They managed to catch and skin several more rabbits and rodents before they were ready to call it a night.

And it was then, her extended bag filled to the brim on her back, that Hermione saw it.

Spots of red amongst the bushes closest to the largest tree, splatterings of the vibrant colour visible even in the dim light of night. Something she recognized and loved.

She crouched down and began collecting.

"What is that?" Cassius peered over her shoulder.

There were so many in Hermione's hands she could barely hold them.

"Boom berries," she smiled, handing one to him.

He took it and inspected it in his hands.

"Boom berries? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Did I hear boom berries?" Draco's voice called out, nearing quickly. "Did you find boom berries, Hermione?"

He had loved them when she first introduced him to them.

"Entire bushes," she said. She popped one in her mouth, and Cassius observed, turning his eyes to Draco when he did the same.

"Gods," Draco groaned, shovelling them by the palm full. "They're so good."

"I'd love some boom berries," Harry grinned, joining at Hermione's side, plucking a handful off the bush.

"You've had them before?" Cassius asked, still holding a single one between his fingers.

"They're my favourite," Harry said. "Try one, mate."

Cassius looked at it again, moving it from side to side, and then his eyes flitted back to the three of them, all chewing. Hermione loved witnessing the first time someone tried a boom berry. She could still remember the very moment her own life changed when she did.

The thought reminded her of Ron.

Of their days out in the forest.

She pushed it away and buried it in the back of her mind.

Instead, she watched as Cassius tested himself, nibbling at the side of the berry in his hand. He took one minuscule bite, chewed, smacking his tongue against his teeth, and then another.

And then his eyes lit up.

"Oh," he stammered. He reached into the bush they were hanging from and plucked several into his hand before popping more in his mouth. He chewed intently, his eyes only growing wider as he got more of the crisp, sweet flavour. "Oh. These are good."

"See," Harry nudged him. "I wouldn't lie."

"No, of course not," Cassius said around a mouthful of the berries. He rummaged in his pockets before pulling out a small chocolate wrapper. Before Hermione's eyes, he transfigured it into another container. "The great Harry Potter does not lie. He would never harm me."

Harry chuckled.

"I'm pissed you never mentioned these sooner," Cassius barked. "Deprived me for Merlin knows how long."

"Never had the time, mate," Harry bellow laughed.

Hermione watched their exchange, unable to help the smile that pulled at her cheeks, something about it so naive and innocent; she felt it tug at her shrouded heartstrings. It was unfair that they all had to find themselves here. That they couldn't be living out their adolescence in peace.

That so much simple joy could be found amidst all the torture and ruin.

Joy in berries.

They all deserved to be doing it safely.

But that wasn't where they were.

When they had packed enough boom berries that the lid of the container barely closed, they pulled their bags over their shoulders and met to regroup.

"Everyone ready?" Harry asked. He consulted the map, trailing his fingers along a path that looked different than the one they came from.

Understandably so, as that one was unlikely to be fit for them anymore.

They set off in the direction they came from initially, but instead of following it back down to the cliff, they took a sharp right. Hermione walked behind Draco, who was just a half step behind Harry, with Cassius behind her this time. The monotony of the night settled over them quickly.

And as they moved further and further into the forest, inching closer and closer to their camp, silence plagued the four of them.

Their journey back, surprisingly, was rather simple.

Easy. Almost too easy. And faster.

It felt like they spent several hours less on their trek back than on the journey that had taken them there.

As if the arena had somehow shifted, morphing and changing beneath their nose, a concoction of subtleties that were easy to miss. But not for Harry. Not for the map that he had in his hands.

If it wasn't for that, Hermione might have found it concerning, but as she moved amongst the group, there was no fear. There was no hesitation. Not with everything that they had overcome.

It wasn't long before the sun started to rise, weak rays of light filtering in from the trees above them. And some time after that, she began to recognize the terrain and knew they were almost there.

When the magicked ward came into sight, just the slightest shimmer of it against the sun, Draco stepped forward and sliced through the barrier that stood between them and their camp. Hermione finally let herself exhale freely, breathing out all the tension in her chest and neck. It felt like a weight was being lifted off her shoulders, off all their shoulders, with enough food in tow to last them at least another week.

Draco ushered Harry through, and at that moment, she met the eyes of Cassius behind her.

They had all been silent on their trek back, barely a word exchanged between any of them. He held her stare as she looked at him, and she let a small smile pull at her lips.

He looked tired, they all were, and she was certain that everyone would collapse into their tents and sleep the rest of the day away.

For whatever reason, Cassius didn't return her gesture. His glazed eyes just trailed over her face and then settled to the ground.

But as Draco pulled her forward, any worry that could have manifested slipped away as she took the last few steps back into where she felt safest.

Their camp.

The sigh of relief that left her as she took in her surroundings was a long time coming. It had been bubbling, waiting for an escape, since the moment the announcement about the sponsorships had sounded. Everything looked the same. Their rocks surrounding their campfire, the makeshift table still set on top, their tents—everything was as they had left it. 

Well, almost everything.

The only difference was Pansy.

Wide-eyed, she burst through one of the tents, her head turning frantically one way, then another, before she spotted them. Her hand came to her mouth, gripping at her face, and her knees buckled just briefly before she burst into a run toward them.

Hermione wondered what tirade would come onto them, onto Harry and Cassius, for leaving her behind.

As she watched her near, an indecipherable scream tearing from her lips, she knew that whatever it was would likely be worth it.

Because they had accomplished the most important thing—they had all made it back alive.

Chapter Text

“WHERE THE FUCK WERE ALL OF YOU?”

The words were spit like venom, slicing through the air as Pansy stormed their way. Her voice bellowed through the grounds, ricocheting off every tree encircling the camp. She looked haggard as she moved, and as she neared, Hermione caught the darkened circles beneath her eyes, the scattered scratches lining her arms and thighs.

“I looked”—she immediately hurled her fists at Harry—“everywhere. Do you even realize what you did?”

“Pans,” Harry held his hands up, his backpack dropping to the ground at his feet. “We were foraging, everything is—”

“—don’t you dare say fine. Nothing is fine.”

“Okay,” Harry eased away slowly, fear flooding his features. Pansy immediately turned her wrath to the next man up—Draco—who was standing just off to the side of Harry.

“And you,” Pansy hissed, jamming her finger into his chest, hard. Draco muffled the sound of what would have been a yelp. “I should have known you would’ve allowed these two morons to leave me. I was stuck! I was stuck in there!”

Draco rubbed at the spot Pansy had dug her nail into before holding his hands up in surrender. But he didn’t try to justify why they left the way that Harry did. Instead, Draco seemed to catch on something, his head tilting down at Pansy.

“Stuck?” he uttered. “You were stuck?” His lips moved over the words as if he was trying to make sense of them.

“In the tent,” she spat, lunging at him like a predator. This side of Pansy was frightening to see, not because it was out of place, but because Hermione had suspected she kept something like it hidden inside her and that it was only a matter of time before she let it break free. “I thought you were all fucking dead!”

“You were caught in the tent?” Draco asked again as he dodged her, his hands coming up as he swept by her side. He looked at Hermione over Pansy, catching her eye. It was there she saw the unspoken question—the way he could say so much without saying anything at all.

Stuck in the tent?

She registered his concern because she was already wondering the same thing.

It seemed preposterous. Especially when you brought magic into the equation. Nobody just got stuck inside a tent they willingly put themselves in.

“Pansy,” Hermione tried slowly, her voice soft in hopes that the witch would go easier on her. Despite that, she couldn’t help the memory that surfaced, of the the axe and the Cornucopia.

The girl had promised that it wasn’t what it had seemed like.

Now was as good of a time as ever to test if she had been telling the truth.

“Could you go back to that for a second? About what Draco asked. You were stuck... In the tent? Are you sure?” She looked to Harry who just shrugged.

“I was trapped,” Pansy hissed. She turned the ire to Hermione but didn’t make a move towards her. “Stuck, closed in, I don’t care what fucking word you use to explain it. I was in the tent, and I couldn’t get out.” She ran a hand through her hair, fingers pulling at the roots of the short black strands. Her voice shifted from anger to anguish. “I thought something happened. How could you just leave me like that?”

She looked at the group of them, eyes passing over their faces slowly. Hermione realized that Pansy wasn’t unnerved that they had gone without her. She had been scared. Over the unknown. Because she hadn’t been able to get out of the tent and had no idea what had happened to them.

But it begged the question—why? Why couldn’t she get out?

“Harry, didn’t you say you tried to get to Pansy?”

“Huh? Yeah, Cassius and I tried to get in. Right, Cass?”

But his voice was met with silence.

“Cassius,” Pansy spat, searching for him in the back of their group. “I’m most mad at you. How could you leave me in there?”

Silence, yet again.

Hermione turned, looking for the boy who had just been right behind her.

“Cassius?”

But the face that met hers was empty. Eyes sunken. Skin nearly sheet white.

“Pans,” he croaked, taking a wobbly step to his side. His eyes rolled into the back of his head before he suddenly slumped forward.

“Oh gods,” Hermione reached for him, grabbing his elbow. Pansy lunged toward him as well, pushing past Draco and Harry, and grabbed for his other arm.

“Cass,” she exhaled, worry staunchly lacing her tone. Whatever fire had coursed through her had been quickly replaced by something else. It was softer than Hermione had ever heard her be. “Salazar…are you okay?”

Cassius wavered on his feet, his balance failing him as he grasped at the air where he expected Pansy’s shoulder to be. “I’m not feeling very…well.”

The skin beneath his shirt where Hermione held him was burning, scorching hot, and in mere seconds, he grew even paler. He was practically grey, his lips a shade just off blue. Hermione looked up desperately, searching for Draco’s gaze. For an answer, for help, for anything.

But he only stared back, frozen in state, equally as shell-shocked as she was.

“Mate,” Harry came forward, just as Cassius’s knees gave out and they frantically lowered him to the ground.

Hermione's mind was racing to catch up to what she was seeing, trying to make sense of what was unfolding before them.

How could he have—

When could he have—

What could they have—

Cassius curled in on himself, fingers grasping at the neck of his shirt. He groaned, and it formed somewhere deep in his throat, a guttural sound much less like a human and so much more like a wounded animal. And then blood began to gush from his nose.

Hermione’s instincts flared to life.

“Cassius,” she crouched next to him, tilting his head, her hand coming to a rest on his cheek. He was cold now, so unbelievably cold. Everything was happening too quickly. “Cassius, can you hear me?”

He only groaned louder, fingers clenched in the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling so tightly that the seams began to tear.

“Episkey,” she uttered, hovering her wand over his face. She didn’t know what was wrong, nor if the spell would fix it. But she had to try. 

The magic trailed over Cassius's features, seeping into his silken skin, but did nothing. He writhed as blood continued to pour, pooling beneath him. Pain seemed to surge through his body as he clawed desperately at his head, at his chest, at his neck, at his legs.

“Merlin,” Harry crouched down, taking Cassius’s hand. “Brackium emendo,” he tried.

But that healing spell too just seeped into his skin and settled as if there was nothing there for it. The way healing magic reacted when someone had no ailments to heal. But Cassius clearly did—there was undoubtedly something wrong with him.

“Get out of here,” Pansy shoved them both away. “You’re useless. You’re not helping him!”

Cassius began to turn blue, gasping for air. Hermione's stomach twisted in on itself as a ragged scream left his throat.

This couldn’t be happening.

“Repafiros—” Pansy spat.

“Rennervate—” she tried again.

“Episkey—”

“Episkey—”

“Episkey!”

“What the hell is going on with him?” Harry scrambled around Cassius’s body. He was looking for something—anything—to help explain what they were seeing.

“I don’t know! I don’t freaking know! We’ve tried everything!”

Suddenly Draco’s voice cut through the mayhem.

“He’s bleeding”—he kneeled next to Cassius’s head, his wand pressing into the boy’s chest.

“Great,” Pansy snarled. “We can all see that, Malfoy.”

“Inside of him,” Draco added. The hollow look in his eyes was unnerving. “He’s hemorrhaging.”

“If you know, then fix him. Do something! We can’t let him die!”

Die.

Draco flinched at the word, and his gaze immediately dropped to Cassius.

“Anapneo,” he whispered, the word rolling off his tongue carefully. Cassius choked, throwing his head back, and then heaved in a desperate breath of air. His eyes flashed wide, and they just briefly caught on Hermione’s before rolling back into his head again.

Without any other warning, he began to convulse.

Pansy cried out at the sight of his shaking body, struggling to muffle the sound against her hand.

Draco, the sudden epitome of composure, closed his eyes. When he spoke, his words were nearly a whisper, almost melodic in the way they left his lips.

“Vulnera Sanentur…”

There was an aura to the spell as it took form in the air, something Hermione had never sensed before. She felt a chill race down her spine.

Several seconds passed before Draco spoke again. A repeat of the very same incantation. It sounded like it was meant to be a song.

“Vulnera Sanentur…”

Hermione didn’t recognize what he uttered, but something about it felt foreboding, heavy in a way she couldn’t explain. She could almost smell the magic he was drawing around her. Like faint remnants of sulphur and burnt ozone.

The type of spell that seemed reserved for the workings of dark magic.

She had no idea what it meant. She had no idea what it was healing in Cassius.

But she watched in awe as he seemed to ease beneath the motion of Draco’s wand as if it was pulling the hurt right from his body.

Draco repeated the spell for a third and final time. “Vulnera Sanentur.”

Cassius’ chest rose from the ground, a glow emanating through it, the rest of his limbs hanging below him. Draco kept his wand trained, his eyes firmly shut, and didn’t let the magic seize. It flowed until Cassius gasped suddenly, his body dropping back to the ground, entirely still.

And then there was only silence.

He didn’t move. Hermione’s fought the tremble of her hands by her sides. The quiet was mercilessly stifling. And she couldn’t yet tell if he was breathing or not.

Draco’s eyes shot open and he immediately muttered a Stasis charm. A light film of yellowed magic coated the entirety of Cassius’s body.

It was then that Hermione saw it—the barely there rise and fall of his chest. The absolute smallest of breaths.

Pansy collapsed to her knees in front of him.

“Is he okay?” she ran her hands down one of his arms and then the other. When Draco didn’t immediately respond, her eyes flipped up to him. The words stammered out of her, “Is he going to be okay?”

Hermione finally found the power to expel a breath herself. Her head was spinning.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. He slotted his wand into the holster on his chest slowly. He didn’t look at any of them, his eyes dazed, the workings of Occlumency in his stare as he gazed out onto the camp’s perimeter.

They all stirred in the uncomfortable stillness that followed. Hermione struggled to meet the eyes of anyone. She just stared at Cassius’s limp body trying to process what they all had just seen.

It didn’t make sense.

None of it made any bloody sense.

It was Harry who broke the silence, voicing the thoughts of the entire group.

“What in Merlin’s name was that?”

It wasn’t like Hermione to not know. To not see something and immediately diagnose the situation, search for a solution, figure a way out. When the Episkey didn’t work, she was helpless. They all had been until Draco had pulled out that spell.

“I don’t know,” Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. Admitting it was nowhere near as painful as the reality of what it meant. She hadn’t known. She still didn’t know.

Pansy held Cassius’s hand, his limp fingers moving with hers. She looked like she couldn’t find it in her to let him go.

He had just barely made it.

And it wasn’t even clear yet if he was going to be alright.

“What was that spell?” Pansy asked, looking up at Draco from the ground.

“Hmm?”

“The spell,” she repeated. “What was the spell you used?”

Draco pulled his lips tight, his jaw pulsing with the motion. “A healer.”

“For what?”

Hermione saw the flash in his eyes, the way they darkened just briefly before his Occlumency seemed to quell whatever it was that surfaced. He didn’t immediately answer, letting the silence simmer.

“It was for wounds” he finally said. “Deep wounds.”

“How did you know?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t.” Draco swallowed, his throat bobbing tight. “It was a lucky guess.”

“A guess?”

He turned when Hermione’s voice sounded. He nodded just once, eyes never leaving hers.

“Where did you learn a spell like that?”

Again, he said so much without saying anything at all.

“Someone I know… taught me.”

The statement fluttered in the air and settled over her like a cloak, wrapping tightly around her. Nearly suffocating her. Hermione wished she could ask, wished she could know, so much more than he was letting on.

It had to have been for dark magic. It may have toed the line of it itself.

A lucky guess.

A guess could mean so many things. Was it a guess in his thinking if it would work?

Or was the guess about permission—about whether something like it would even be allowed in the Games?

The look on his face told her he couldn’t say. And like always, that he was sorry for it.

It was that grey storm of his gaze again, the pull Hermione couldn’t fight, like it was the two of them in the arena and nobody else. It told her that he wished things were different so that he could let her in. So that he could share what he knew with her.

That he despised the secrets he was forced to hold. The ones they all were holding.

But they knew their hands were tied. Barbed wire that held their lives in its bind.

A camera whirred up above them, and the trance that his stare held was broken. All their heads flipped up to the sky.

Something about the appearance of the camera, the timing of it, felt inexplicably wrong.

“I still don’t understand,” Pansy said from the ground, her fingers clenched tightly around Cassius’s sleeve. It was covered in dirt, but she didn’t seem to care. “How could this have happened? Why is he the only one not okay?”

This, in fact, was the question they should have all been fighting to figure out.

It reverberated through Hermione’s skull.

Why was he the only one not okay?

She hadn’t lost sight of anyone on their trek. Every step they took was beaten, either followed or preceded by someone else. There had been no spells, no traps, nothing in their way that aimed to harm one but not the others.

“Did he fall?” Pansy probed. “Could something have hit him?”

“No,” Harry said. “No, it’s not possible. He was right behind me. He was behind me the entire time.”

“On the way there,” Hermione corrected. “And then he was behind me on the way back. None of us strayed. There wasn’t a single point when anyone was on their own.”

Pansy exhaled, her eyes trailing down Cassius’s form. If they were helpless before, they were even more so now. Pansy likely felt it even more—not having been with them.

But as Hermione wracked her brain, retracing every single step they took, she couldn’t find anything out of place. She had practically kept her bow pressed to his back the entire way there. And when it wasn’t, it still grazed him. He couldn’t have stepped away without her knowledge even if he had wanted to. There wasn’t a sliver of doubt in her mind that whatever happened didn’t happen then.

And at their hunting spot, when they had spread out to forage, they were still only paces from one another. They hadn’t ventured into any precarious territory alone. They hadn’t seen anything odd, they hadn’t sustained any injuries, and they hadn’t even eaten anything.

Nothing except for the boom berries.

But they had all shared those together.

Draco’s voice cut through the silence, pulling them all from their stupor.

“Could there be a link?”

“What?” Pansy looked up at him, tilting her head. “A link to what?”

Something stirred inside Hermione. Draco blinked, meeting Pansy’s stare head-on.

“With the tent,” he said slowly. “The tent that you couldn’t get out of.”

Another layer to the mystery on their hands.

Hermione hadn’t thought of it but—

“No…” Pansy said. “No, there couldn’t be.” Her voice sounded more confident than she actually was. But then her eyebrows furrowed, concentration knitting them together. “But…could there?” She seemed to search for something, her eyes turning glassy. Likely for a valid objection to Draco’s words. An objection she failed to find. “I hadn’t even considered it,” she finally said.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. “You might be on to something Malfoy. Maybe there is a link?”

Hermione remembered Cassius saying that Pansy was adept at closing herself off when she didn’t want to be found or spoken to. The notion itself hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary to him at all. So who were they to question it?

It hadn’t been Hermione’s place no matter how odd she may have found it at the time.

But now, the suspicion dug into her, the possibility of Draco's suggestion pressing into her ribs, slotting underneath her bones and wriggling inside of her in a way that made it difficult to think, to breathe, to stand.

Maybe it had been intentional. Maybe there was a reason that Pansy hadn't been able to get out.

“But why?” Hermione voiced. “And how? It wasn’t any of us that locked you in there. And what connection in the world could that have to Cassius?”

At the mention of his name, he stirred suddenly from his place on the ground, fingers clenching by his sides beneath the Stasis.

“Woah.” Draco surged forward, unsheathing his wand. “That shouldn’t happen.” He motioned it above Cassius, strengthening the spell, and his body seemed to still again.

The suspicion just dug further under Hermione’s ribs, feeling like it was expanding behind the casing of her chest.

She started to pace.

“It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make any damn sense. Cassius was fine, he was completely fine.” Hermione stopped. “How can someone go from fine to this”—she threw her hands out, motioning towards him.

Because it was true.

Things like this didn’t happen spontaneously. They didn’t happen without a reason.

There had to have been a cause.

“If you didn’t get attacked,” Pansy said, a lilt to her voice as she rose to her feet. “And he didn’t fall…then how? How could something have hurt him without any of you seeing it? Without anything even happening?”

“Unless,” Draco said. “He did it to himself.”

There was a brief moment of silence—the kind that felt deadly—before Pansy whipped around to him.

“What?” she growled. “You think he did this to himself? He would never. Cassius would never!”

“Maybe not knowingly,” Draco said, suspicion lacing his tone. His eyebrows furrowed, jaw tightening where it met his ears.

“What in the world do you mean by that?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head, his eyes dropping to Cassius’s body. His expression shifted as he looked at him, to something clouded in doom. But his face was blank when he turned and set his gaze on the perimeter of the camp again. “Just think about it.”

It was clear that he already had.

He knew something that he wasn’t saying.

Hermione was certain of it.

Something he couldn’t share out loud.

It was the worst kind of riddle to try and solve—one grounded in misery. In pain. Standing on the precipice of a word, a dreaded possibility, she didn’t even want to consider.

A horror you could never come back from.

But how, how, could he have done it to himself? How could he have unknowingly inflicted harm, in a place where they all knew to be mindful of everything? A Career, a tribute trained to avoid the inevitable. He was smart, he was disciplined, and he was careful. He seemed like the furthest thing from naive—to take the Games arena as it was and not question its intentions.

But she had, hadn’t she?

She had done exactly what she couldn’t prove he wouldn’t do.

The river, an idyllic escape, the rush of fresh water. She had searched for it barely a day after the Cornucopia, desperate for a drink. And of course, she had found relief in it.

But it had also been a trap.

And then the tree right after, what should have been shelter from the other tributes in the arena, an obvious safeguard that even the most trained would flock to, was anything but that.

It had nearly killed her.

Two seemingly inconspicuous moments. Mere coincidences, if one didn’t bother to look hard enough at them. And they had one thing in common—the arena.

Controlled by greater powers.

Powers that took pride in seeing every last tribute suffer.

And once that train of thought picked up steam, the revelations, they didn’t stop.

The blast ended skrewts that had found Hermione when she was most vulnerable, the pockets of no magic that littered the forest, even the rain she remembered that met them outside of Harry’s wards when they should have been leaving. They were forced to stay then. And they had nearly paid their life for it.

Every single instance, every moment, was carefully designed. Intentional, even when she couldn’t recognize it. Coordinated, curated, as if they were all marionettes.

None of anything had been an accident.

The only reason the Games had tributes was for the Game-makers to have them die.

Whatever it took.

They only wanted one remaining at the end of it all.

That’s what Draco knew. That the Games-makers were willing and able and ready to do anything—absolutely anything—to get what they wanted.

Even if meant toying with the tributes they brought into the Games, instead of having them destroy each other. In spite of all the money and time and festivities they waged to pretend to honour them in front of the country, they could dispose of any one of them if they pleased.

Because the sanctity of the tributes in the Games meant nothing. To the Games-makers, to the President, even to most of Pure Capital, their lives were worthless.

Unless they did what they were meant to do.

That was Draco’s advantage of being from Pure Capital, of coming from a family that he had told her was once important in the highest circles. No peasant man would have been ridiculed before the President’s chambers like his father had been if who he was didn’t mean something.

No family of their status would have ever been punished and forced into the Games unless they did something to deserve it.

Unless they knew something they shouldn’t.

Unless they tried to fight a cause they knew they couldn’t dare to change.

Hermione shot up, her eyes searching his, and Draco was already looking back. Resigned, heartbroken, a boy who never had any choice in the matter. And his stare was begging her to believe him, believe that he wished he could do more. Pleading with her to forgive that what he knew couldn’t help or save them.

Cassius stirred beneath the stasis charm again, as if he knew it too.

Hermione couldn’t bear to look at his body on the ground. Because now, she did as well.

“It was the berries,” she whispered, voice solemn. “There was something wrong with the berries.”

“What berries?” Pansy asked. “You didn’t say anything about berries.”

“That’s not possible,” Harry cut in. “We all ate them. That doesn’t explain a thing.”

Hermione swallowed and as if timed with the horrors of the realization, Cassius began to convulse again. The last thing she registered was Draco crouching down next to him, poised with healing spells on his tongue, his wand at the ready.

There were never any coincidences in the Hunger Games.

All their deaths were inevitable from the moment they stepped into the arena.

“Pansy,” her voice shook, heart stammering inside her chest. “If we had found berries, would you have eaten them right away?”

“In the arena?” she asked, panicked eyes flipping to Cassius because she didn’t understand why she was being asked such a foolish thing now. “I would never eat anything I found in the wild without checking it first.”

The stasis charm on Cassius shattered, exploding in a blinding ray of light.

Hermione’s hand came to her mouth, choking back a sob. She couldn’t say it out loud. She could only stare at Pansy, her hand clenched around Cassius’s, as she stared back.

“That’s why I couldn’t get out of the tent,” she said, voice trembling, realization dawning on her. “That’s why I wasn’t with you.”

As everything around them began to fall apart, Hermione could only nod and fall to her knees next to Cassius.

The blood rushed from his nose again, his fingers twisting as he grasped at his chest. Red pooled beneath his head, turning the soil shades deeper than it ever should have been, a colour that had no place amongst the living.

It was nothing short of horrific, the way it all unfolded before them.

The way it did so with no intention of sparing a life.

“Help,” a gargled scream left Cassius’s throat. Those were the first words he’d spoken since they’d lowered him to the ground. “Please”—he choked, spitting up blood and bile—“help me.”

Draco and Harry scrambled, muttering every spell they could think of. Hermione whispered healing charm after healing charm under her breath, even as her eyes lined with silver. In between every broken sob of Pansy. In time with every clench of her own hand around Cassius’s wrist.

It was limp in her hold. The pulse barely registering.

“Fuck!” Draco spat. She heard him try the same incantation from earlier again but it was to no avail.

She could only stare at Cassius’s face as he screamed, could only bite her tongue to keep the tears from falling.

“Episkey,” she whispered. “Episkey, Episkey, please, Episkey—”

Her incantations fell on deaf ears.

Cassius writhed between them, coughing up blood, so much blood. The strained sound of his throat tore at every one of Hermione’s heartstrings. She couldn’t concede that they were losing him. That they could do nothing to stop his pain.

“No, no, no,” Harry pleaded. “Cass, no!”

But Cassius was fading, his breaths growing harrowed as if it took every ounce of strength his once-lithe body could hold. She fought to feel his pulse beneath her fingers, and couldn’t fathom how hard she was pressing at his wrist for it to even register anymore.

“I can’t stop the bleeding! I can’t—FUCK.”

The ground beneath Hermione’s knees was soaked with red. Cassius’s head lolled to the side as his scream cut out, a single line of blood dripping down his cheek from the corner of his mouth.

“No,” Pansy whispered, tears streaming down her face. “No, Cass, no, you can’t go.”

Cassius lay still, but nothing about it was calm. It was a lie, a momentary mercy from the storm, a cliff beneath the water you couldn’t see but knew would wreak havoc.

Hermione could still feel his pulse, though barely. It was weak and undoubtedly fading. Harry and Draco still moved around him, their unison of healing spells sounding to no avail.

She pulled her red-rimmed eyes up to Pansy.

The girl was already looking at her. A face so filled with sorrow, so lost for hope, just utterly broken. “Please, no.”

Hermione searched for Cassius’s pulse against her fingers, trying to hold onto it. His blood soaked her knees and she forced herself to pretend it wasn’t there as she gathered all the magic she had and offered it out to every Ancient God there was, a sacrifice of power for life.

But she couldn’t find the thrum against his skin. She shook her head slowly, tears brimming and slipping past her lashes.

“No,” Pansy said again. She looked down at Cassius, her hand brushing back his soaked hair. She tried to right the front of his shirt, but there was too much bile and dirt and blood coating it. The motion was so pitiful Hermione could barely stand to see it. “No, he’s okay. He’s going to be okay. I didn’t do this.”

Harry brought his knuckle to his mouth and pressed into it tightly. He could barely hold himself together long enough to speak. “You didn’t, Pans.”

Crouched near Cassius’s head, Draco still held his wand trained, his eyes shut, as he repeated the same incantation under his breath.

“Vulnera Sanentur—Vulnera Sanentur—Vulnera Sanentur—”

His voice was the backdrop to everything as the crescendo finally began to fall.

“It wasn’t you, Pansy,” Hermione tried, searching desperately for assurance. But there was only a gaping hole where it once was, with no hope and no mercy to find,

Cassius didn’t deserve this. None of them deserved this end.

Her finger tried to hold onto his pulse.

Even though she knew it was gone.

Gone.

“They don’t have to take him,” Pansy said. There was a delirium to her voice that shattered Hermione’s heart all over again. “They can take me. They can bring him back and just take me.”

Hermione shook her head softly, pleading with her eyes for Pansy to understand.

This was their punishment. The Gamemakers had done it to break them for daring to step out of line.

Cassius’s limbs had gone rigid. Pansy still desperately tried to wipe the mess from his face and his clothes, to make him seem presentable.

To try and make him look as if he was okay.

Draco’s voice was nothing but a whisper amongst the wind now. He was fighting to keep composed, to keep it steady, even though his eyes were rimmed red just like the rest of them.

It was that rhythm of his voice that blanketed what Hermione sensed would come the very moment they lowered Cassius to the ground. But even though she saw it coming, nothing could have ever prepared her for the sorrow it brought.

A sound so loud, so large, so all-consuming in its wake.

It reverberated through the arena, birds bristling from their trees.

A single camera whirred up above them.

The canon, signalling the end of a soldier’s fate. Ending the show that the Games-makers had scripted just for them.

Final. Brutal.

Unrelenting.

It deafened them all with its power, pulsing beneath the ground, against their skin, inside their chests.

A dull sound, a goodbye they never got to have, but it was not entirely empty.

Instead, the echoes of it were full of answers.

Answers to questions they should have long ago dared to ask.

Chapter Text

Cassius was dead.

Cassius was irrefutably and undeniably dead.

They didn’t even have a chance to begin processing it, mourning his loss, before powerful magic swept them all from his body. Up and out, away from him, as if the very ground at their feet was shifting below them while the ground beneath his body held firm and steady.

Anything to get them away. 

It was barely a breath later that the snatchers appeared, their dark hooded figures materializing in the air, riding high and wide on their brooms in the sky. The sky that had long gone gloomy, pulled over by dark grey clouds.

A farce meant to mimic their misery, but Hermione knew that just beyond it all, the sky shined light and bright. Just as the Gamesmakers wanted. Just as they felt—a celebration for them, and one to spite any remaining tributes.  

It only took one snatcher to swoop down so fast Hermione could have missed them with a blink. They didn’t even need that as magic lifted Cassius’s limp body from the ground, his torn clothing swaying in the wind, the blood on his skin already caking dry.

There was an awful sense of calm on his cold stilled features. All forms of wrong and misplaced, as if he had passed peacefully. As if the moments that led to his end were mere figments of Hermione’s imagination, and he hadn’t suffered the way he had before their very eyes. 

The snatchers vanished without a sound as quickly as they materialized. Cassius disappeared with them. 

And Pansy’s scream echoed through the camp for long after he was gone.

Dead.

Cassius Warrington, tribute from District 1, was dead.

There was no way to explain the feeling that filled Hermione.

She was numb all over. Empty inside like a husk. With nothing but a dull, raging, throb of pain pulsing through her core. 

And somewhere deep within, the first forming embers of fury – ones she wasn’t yet ready to reach. 

The Gamesmakers had killed Cassius. 

They had killed him.

Not a bloodhound high tribute, not the carnage of the Cornucopia, not an accident or even an honest mistake. It was something that even their desperate but utterly useless healing magic couldn’t stop. 

He had lost the claim to his own life because of the powers that controlled them. 

Even the word lost tasted foul in Hermione’s mind as it formed. Because you couldn’t lose a thing you never owned. And here, in the Games, they owned nothing. Not even themselves. 

The embers of that faraway fury began to spark. 

Cassius was a boy, had been barely old enough to be called a man, staking for the very thing everyone thought the Gamesmakers wanted. 

A show. A brutal game of survival.

But as Hermione stared at the space where his body had lay, she reminded herself that she had always known that the Hunger Games were never for that. 

They were always meant to be punishment. 

That’s what the District 12 Mayor, Dumbledore, had once said. On the day of the reaping that felt like it was so long ago now. A lifetime away. In the speech he gave every year, but with words Hermione had never thought to fully process.

But now they formed like puzzle pieces and clicked into place. 

The Hunger Games were retribution for a rebellion gone wrong, for a battle waged against Pure Capital by a District that no longer existed. To this day nobody dared to speak about District 13. Hogwarts. About what remained of it and its people.

Because there was nothing left. They had all been wiped by Pure Capital. 

And President Riddle had forged the Games so that nobody would ever forget it. So that no soul in Regnum would even dare step out of line again, encased in the yearly reminder of what would be done to them if they ever tried.

The Games were punishment to every living family, haunting them from the day they were born. None knew peace until their children reached 18. But then their children had children, and children after that, and all they ever knew was fear and forced obedience. 

Hermione knew this intimately, still carried the weight of the Weasley family and her sister on her shoulders.

There was no freedom from this prison. 

Because every year, one boy and one girl from every District paid that punishment with their suffering. Forced to compete for their precious life, just like Cassius, just like Hermione, just like Pansy and Harry and Draco and all the other tributes who had come before them. They had all been forced to stake their lives against each other. Children. Children to be broken for the bravery of those that came before them. 

There was no irony in it all.

And Hermione berated herself for ever thinking that she could find a way to be safe. For ever hoping that she could be brave enough or clever enough to shield herself or anyone else from the horrors of what this place was. That there was even a notion of it to even begin with.

She never controlled her own safety in the arena. The Gamesmakers did. They controlled everything.

And they had killed Cassius.

They had done so because they didn’t care. Because they wanted everyone to know that they could.

Because they were monsters.

For long after, nobody moved within the camp. None of them uttered a single word.

And in the silence, Hermione lost herself to the truths that would always haunt her.

The Gamesmakers had conned them into thinking they had the sovereignty to protect themselves if they were smart and strong and cruel. Those were the lies that were spun, what every tribute was made to believe. And so it was all too easy to pull that rug from right under them.

Cassius had shared in their breath, had watched as they all ate berries from the same bush, and trusted what he saw. Fools, they were all fools to let it happen while the Gamesmakers took what they’d planted in the arena, those very berries, and waited for the moment to ruin only the ones held in his hands.

Poison, no doubt, or some sort of other twisted dark magic, embedded into their core likely no more than a second before he took a bite.

Because everything was under the control of the capital. The regime that President Riddle ruled over, and his acolytes, they were masterminds to it all. From the very ground the tributes walked on. To the trees that grew, to the water that flowed, to every creature that roamed the forest.

Because it was not a forest. It was an arena. It was made.

And tributes were never meant to find safety within its walls. They were only there to be broken by it.

It wasn’t Pansy’s fault. It was none of their fault.

The only ones to blame were the Gamesmakers.

And the man who empowered them all.

Hermione pressed her fists into her forehead, stifling the raging magic that threatened to burst from her fingertips.

It was as helpless of a feeling as there ever was to know that she could do nothing, say nothing, to reveal that truth. And the Gamesmakers knew that.

They loved that fear.

They rode it. They would always exploit it.

And Hermione was so tired of being afraid.

She looked up at Draco, searching for the courage he had always worn like a cape, but he held his head in his hands, his wand discarded carelessly by his side. As if he didn’t want to touch it. As if he feared touching it. Because he likely thought his magic had failed him when they needed it most. And it could do it again.

Not far from Draco, Harry sat on his haunches, his mouth moving soundlessly as if he was whispering under his nose. Hermione couldn’t hear the words he said. But she could see his glassy eyes, the way he stared unseeing at his palms as he dragged them through the dirt.

There was nothing in his gaze except for hollow disbelief.

And Pansy, she sat cross-legged in the grass, hands limp in her lap. There wasn’t a single flicker of emotion on her face. Just utter stillness. Her eyes were unblinking, her lips fallen slack, the wet of tears already drying in the reds of her cheeks.

She stared at the place where Cassius’s body was and didn’t move.

If Luna’s death was painful, then this, the way they all watched Cassius die, the way they all fought for him to live, the things they now knew and were powerless to fight, it was gut-wrenching. It tore at every fibre of Hermione’s being, and this was a tribute she had barely even known.

But he was theirs, and was supposed to fight the good fight with them, and now he was gone.

“It’s my fault.”

Everyone’s head lifted to the voice. Pansy’s voice. She still sat, staring at the blood-stained ground where Cassius last was.

“Pans,” Harry croaked. “Please don’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

“No,” she said. “It was. It was my fault. It was my punishment.”

Punishment.

It was all the Hunger Games ever were.

“They did this. They locked me in the tent for what I said. They stopped me from going with you.”

Hermione could still hear Pansy’s voice, clear and sharp, as she muttered, “Those fuckers”. Two very simple words. But there had been so much resentment laced in her tone, so much that soundlessly carried through her. Accusation and hatred that every camera picked up, that every viewer heard.

It clearly hadn’t fallen on deaf ears even in Pure Capital.

But it should have never been enough to kill a tribute for.

“They knew, they knew what I meant. They knew you wouldn’t understand. They knew I couldn’t take any of it back.”

Pansy sniffled, and it was the only sign that she wasn’t entirely gone. But the rest of her remained still, like the smooth curve of stone as the white to her fair skin began to return to her features.

Something cold. Hard. Dull and hollow.

“It was all because of me. I accused them of being willing to hurt us. When Cassius argued, I called him a fool for believing they wouldn’t. They were taunting me when they locked me in that tent. I knew the very moment I couldn’t get out that they would prove me right. That they would show me how much they could hurt us.”

An eerie sort of hush fell over their already stilted camp.

It was dangerous, so dangerous, to utter the things that Pansy was saying.

The Gamesmakers had killed Cassius for far less.

But even as Hermione’s heart began to thrum, even as the marking on her skin flickered above the tracker in her arm, she didn’t dare stop the girl. Because as terrifying as it was to hear it all out loud, as horrifying as it was to know she had fought tooth and nail to find a way to communicate in secret, maybe it was this that they really needed.

To stare death in the eyes and not let it frighten them.

To not let themselves be pawns like the Gamesmakers wanted.

To let it fuel a mighty fire instead.

“Cassius loathed everything we had to do. But he did it all because he knew it was right. For every accusation I made, he was always the voice of reason. For every bit of anger I had, he was always the sense of calm.” Pansy let out a trembling exhale, looking skywards as she dragged her eyes from the empty spot amongst them. “They got tired of having their buttons pushed. They got tired of having him keep me in line. They wanted to break me.”

And there it was.

The reminder that had sparked all of this. The memories that Draco’s words had forced to surface, of all the times Hermione had nearly lost her own life at the hands of the same people. Of all the times she had nearly been broken by them. By the same monsters.

They had done this.

They had killed Cassius as a punishment not just to Pansy, but to them all.

“I would have never let you eat those berries if I had come. I would have tested them first, I don’t know how, but I would have tried.”

“We all ate the same berries,” Harry said.

“I know,” Pansy continued. “I know you did. So I wouldn’t have been able to save him. Because if it wasn’t the berries they would have gotten him some other way. They wouldn’t have let him live much longer than he did.”

A looming sense of threat gathered around them, building like a crescendo. Hermione could feel it clinging to her skin, the way its darkness brushed against her.

They would have gotten him some other way.

They wouldn’t have let him live.

Accusation after accusation, and Pure Capital heard it all.

The Gamesmakers had orchestrated a murder and the tributes sitting in this camp knew it.

The cameras whirred above them, broadcasting every moment across the twelve districts of Regnum. Every single person watching would know too.

Despite that, somehow, the threat of punishment wasn’t enough. The threat of death, of suffering, Hermione didn’t dare to back down from it and stop Pansy from sharing it all out loud.

Because it was all true, and it was clear who was to blame for this, and if even one soul back in Pure Capital could hear it, or if one person in the Districts could be reminded in case they ever dared to forget, maybe they wouldn’t be the only ones left fighting.

Maybe they could do more.

“Pansy, stop. Stop right now,” Harry swore. “You saw what happened to him. Don’t do this. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

Hermione wondered if it would be the worst way to go.

But the worst way to lose would be as cowards. As tributes that didn’t fight.

The look in Pansy’s eyes shifted from vacant to something wholly lethal. She peeled her eyes from the drying blood on the ground and turned to Harry.

“Why?” she uttered. “What are they going to do? Kill me? Kill me like they killed Cassius?”

Draco stifled a sound next to Hermione. The cameras whirred wildly.

Pansy lifted her eyes and met one head-on.

“Do it,” she hissed. A wild air began to swirl around her, cold and dangerous. “Do it,” she repeated. “Kill me.” Pansy heaved a breath of air in before she rose to her feet, continuing to stare at the single camera hovering above her.

There was nothing beautiful about it, nothing gentle. This was rage–violent, raw, unabated rage.

The kind of thing Hermione felt herself latching onto, seeping strength from, breathing in like a woman starved for air. She let the craze fill her veins and travel like the serpentine of blood through her body until she was buzzing, until the tether between her and Pansy felt like it would never break.

As Pansy lunged at that camera, Hermione could only watch with pride as the girl moved through fire, as she set a promise to burn everybody who had anything to do with their suffering to the ground. Pansy grabbed the protruding lens with her hand and pulled it right up to her face. Every word she spoke was an uttered threat to the nation, but more than that, to Pure Capital. To the Gamesmakers. To President Riddle. And every monster he fuelled.

“Are you watching?” she whispered right into the glass. “Do you like what you see? If you don’t, then how about you kill me. I’m sure you’ll make it hurt real nice. That’s the only damned thing you’re good at.”

The flickering embers turned into flames, and suddenly the fury roared like wildfire inside Hermione.

The unrelenting power of Pansy’s voice brought her to her knees, sent her magic flaring from her fingertips, desperate for release.

Kill me.

Kill me.

Kill me.

The taunt was like a spinning record, growing louder, stronger, with every word.

Pansy was so unafraid. Pansy stared into the depths of that camera as if it was the eyes of every last Gamesmaker and the President and every man and woman who ever stood by their side.

It wasn’t even a threat.

It was a dare. It was a challenge.

It was a promise to not go quietly, to thrash and scream so that everybody heard.

A promise for whatever one was worth from a tribute in the Games. From a child in a world that wanted nothing but to make them suffer.

Because what Pansy was doing, was risking her life.

She was showing everybody that if she was going to go down, she wasn’t going to go easy. She was going to go swinging.

It was the bravest thing Hermione had ever seen. Unapologetic and utterly fearless.

And as much as that terrified her, it still roused her to her feet. Because Pansy didn’t deserve to stand alone. And even if it was the most reckless thing Hermione did since she stepped into the arena, it was also the most courageous.

Stepping past the line drawn in the sand for all the rules of the Hunger Games. The rules they were all made to believe couldn’t be broken.

If the Games were punishment, then this was defiance. And it felt so wholly right.

So Hermione pulled her bow from the ground and plucked an arrow from her dropped quiver. And with those two things in her hand, she came to a combative stand right behind Pansy, ignoring the flares of pain and movement within the inking on her arm.

A quiet, unspoken front, in the face of monsters.

As she rolled her shoulders back and jutted her chest out proudly, she was sure that if there was ever a turning point in her life, it would be this. The beginning of what would ultimately be their eventual end.

Pansy didn’t stutter, her only recognition of Hermione’s presence the quick flick of her eyes to her back, before they turned on the camera she kept prisoner in her hold again.

“I’m waiting,” she whispered. But the quiet of her voice did nothing to mask the cruel slice of her tone. It was a damning taunt, and she smiled wickedly as the words sounded. “Give me your worst. Kill me, kill me for everyone to see. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For Regnum to know how powerful you are? Then show everybody what you’re made of. The camera is here and I’m all yours.”

Before her next breath, Harry staggered to his feet. There was fear in his eyes, no doubt the same kind that Hermione pushed down in her own, but there was also vengeance. A will to fight, no matter how bleak the prospects were.

He wouldn’t let Pansy go down alone. Not now, not ever.

He met Hermione’s stare and it held so much promise, so much life, and even though she never knew what he and the other tributes meant to accomplish in the Games, or what their partnership was for, taking the stand next to her was the forming of a new oath they committed to together. Like a role for herself that she now understood, and would exist for as long as she lived.

If they were going to die, they would do it as one.

Hermione’s heart ached to think that there was still someone missing. She searched for Draco’s stare from where he sat still on the ground but his eyes didn’t meet hers. They were clouded, staring at the camera Pansy held as if he could see through to the faces on the other end, layers of Occlumency shrouding his thoughts.

She never thought that she would need him to do this with them. And maybe she didn’t, but she wanted him at her side and somehow she knew deep inside that he wanted to be next to her too.

But defiance was so dangerous for someone who came from where he did.

A boy of Pure Capital. Bred to be like the monsters. Someone so far from that, and yet still so woven into all that they were.

Standing next to them, propping up Pansy’s words, would be as powerful of a front as he could make.

Like one of President Riddle’s own spitting in his face.

And she knew that Draco realized the power and weight of his actions. How much louder they would be if the citizens of Pure Capital saw a tribute like him, the first time someone from their city had even been sent into the Games, stand up to the Gamesmakers and as an extension, their very own President.

If doing so risked their lives as District people, then she couldn’t imagine what it did for Draco and the family he still had in Pure Capital.

Hermione suspected that was the basis for his hesitation.

Pansy’s voice continued but Hermione didn’t dare break her stare from Draco. She began to pull her arrow along the edge of her bow. Wood against the cut of nearly unbreakable string.

“Do it,” Pansy said, the camera still in her hold. “You know you want to. Everyone knows you do. But is it not as fun when a tribute sees it coming, is it? When they offer their life up to you on a silver platter? You’re not as brave when all eyes are on you.”

Draco shot to his feet suddenly and Hermione’s heart swelled in her chest. He met her eyes for only a moment before he joined her at her side, a pace just behind Pansy as Hermione and Harry were. He exhaled a strengthening breath and Hermione couldn’t help but reach down to grab his hand.

She squeezed just once.

He squeezed back.

Pansy’s magic coiled around them all in swirls of green and black, an energy both dark and light, and Hermione instinctively reached for the pin she had barely taken off since she volunteered as a tribute. The aged gold phoenix atop those shapes from the District 12 Mayor. The magic surrounding her made it feel like the pin buzzed beneath her touch. So she pulled her arrow along her bow one more time and pressed the hard base of it against her chest.

She held no hesitation as she aimed at the camera in Pansy’s hand.

Somehow, she knew the following words were the final thing that Pansy meant to say.

“Everybody knows who you are now. Everyone knows what you’re capable of. A very proud legacy for a President like you, Riddle. Tribute killer. Child killer. And if I die, everyone will know it was you. All you.”

Pansy sneered, scornful and utterly smug.

“Do what you wish you could do to every tribute like me, to every District that isn’t your own. Nobody forgot Hogwarts. District 13 is still fighting. Your worst nightmare incarnate. So fuck you.”

Hermione’s knees nearly buckled beneath her.

District 13.

Still fighting.

She knew, she knew then what all of this meant.

“So do it, Riddle. Rid the world of one more rebel. Kill me.”

Breathing became difficult. Hermione’s head spun, and all around her, the camp seemed to come alive with magic she couldn’t explain.

She pulled her arrow back against the string.

Nobody forgot Hogwarts.

District 13 is still fighting.

Rid the world of one more rebel.

She let the words fill her with hope, with light and life and more bravery than her body could hold. A rebellion, loud and proud and angry and still there.

Her hand didn’t tremble, steady as stone, as her fingers flicked the tightly bound horsehair of her bow.

Every television across Regnum remained on that night, long after the four tributes of the camp disappeared from the screen. The flickering broadcast replayed the sight of Pansy Parkinson, District 1, over, and over, and over again.

“What are you going to do? Kill me?”

The camera was pulled tightly to her face, a front-row seat to the ferality in her cruel sharp face.

“Show everybody what you’re made of,” she spat.

At her back, the forms of Hermione, Harry, and Draco all stood valiantly behind her. Their eyes danced as they revelled in the mocking glory of her words. Hermione’s hand grazed the aged gold pin adorned to her chest before she placed the base of her bow atop it and drew an arrow tightly across the string.

Pansy didn’t relent in her taunting. “Do it, Riddle.”

She spoke of rebellion, of promises made and broken, of nods to the people still fighting against the very men she dared to tell. Her tone only grew more rigid, her onyx eyes only grew more steeled.

“Rid the world of one more rebel,” she said at last. There was no timidness, no sorrow, no fear in her voice. She was a warrior, a soldier, utterly unbreakable.

When she smiled, a brutal thing of an anarchist, no soul in any of the Districts could bear to look away from their screen. Not even from Pure Capital. 

Her tongue rolled over her last two words in a purr.

“Kill me.”

That was the last thing the camera caught before an arrow struck it, its pointed stone shattering the screen and cutting it to black.

Chapter Text

No cameras appeared again.

The darkness wasn’t just in the shattered lens, it wasn’t only filling every screen still on around the country. The moment Hermione’s arrow landed, the Gamesmakers also flushed the arena into the dead of night.

Oppressive, heavy darkness, not even a single star visible in the sky.

The four tributes stood, unmoving from their spots, only the sounds of their laboured breathing filling the camp. Hermione couldn’t find the words, nor the strength, to let her voice sound.

Pansy had called herself a rebel.

All this time, the allyship, the rings they had worn, the kind that Draco had replicated for himself, she now understood that it all somehow, some way, tied back to the very same thing—District 13.

District 13 was still fighting.

And now she knew what the tributes around her were undoubtedly part of. What cause they championed. The people they served.

All this time, something had remained of District 13. The witches and wizards who had fought for freedom from President Riddle’s regime in the Battle of Hogwarts all those years ago, those who tried to defeat the tyranny. The ones that had long been thought to be defeated, wasted away, they were still out there. The flames of their rebellion were still burning strong.

The remnants of that very same rebellion that had come to life right within the arena Hermione stood in.

“This was never part of the plan,” Harry said quietly, barely above a whisper.

“The plan?” Pansy turned to him. There was still so much lingering ire in her voice. “We never had a plan that would work.”

Rings, and promises, and plans. There was so much Hermione didn’t understand, so many secrets the people around her had been holding.

“And you think this will work?”

“They killed Cassius,” Pansy hissed. “I wasn’t working off a plan.”

Harry let out a heavy exhale, the kind that seemed to burn through him. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Pansy shrugged, the motion too simple and easy for a girl who had just taunted the Gamesmakers, the very people who held their lives in their hands. For a girl who had revealed things that nobody in Pure Capital had likely seen coming.

“Wait until morning, I guess.”

“And then what? They’re going to kill us now, too.”

Hermione’s mind was still reeling. She could barely reign in her thoughts.

These tributes right before her were part of whatever still existed in District 13. They knew who was out there. They fought for them.

Pansy crouched down, burying her hands into the mix of sand and dirt where Cassius last was. Though his blood had already dried, it still stained the ground. It had nowhere else to go.

“Probably,” she said. “But the odds were never in our favour anyway.” She grasped a handful of the bloody dirt within her palm and pulled a small clear bag from her pocket to fill it. “At least now they know who we are. Why we’re here. That our people were never broken.”

Our people.

District 13.

It didn’t make any sense. Pansy was from District 1. Harry from District 7. And what place did Draco have amongst them, being from Pure Capital? There should have been nothing to tie them together. And within District 13, of all places. A place thought to be decimated, people who everyone believed were long gone.

Hermione’s head pounded, questions rising and falling quicker than she could process.

“Is that it then?” she blurted out. There was no decorum in the way she said it, just a disoriented unleashing of words. “If none of us care to die”—because that’s what their stand together unspokenly was—“then can we speak freely?”

Speak freely so she could get answers. She needed answers.

“I suppose so,” Pansy said. “What’s the worst they’ll do? Kill us?”

It almost sounded like a joke but Pansy didn’t let the sound of any morbid laugh break.

It wasn’t a joke. So far from it.

Hermione didn’t even know where to begin.

She hadn’t known the extent of their secrets when she had risen to her feet to stand behind Pansy.

Her legs had nearly given out at the sound of, District 13 is still fighting.

She still barely believed a word of it now.

“How,” Hermione breathed. “And when, and why, and Gods—who?”

Pansy exhaled a shuddering breath, as if whatever strength fuelled the fight she put on for the camera finally flickered out. Hermione could barely make out her eyes in the darkness.

“Let’s talk about it when the sun comes up.”

Hermione nearly lunged at her. But she fought to reel in her anger quickly before she let it show, until she was nothing but a still body in the darkness. It would do nothing to let the questions she had come to blows.

“What if we don’t make it until then?”

A very possible reality. One they had all staked their lives on not moments ago.

“Then the information wouldn’t be worth sharing anyway.”

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.

“So that’s it?” she hissed. “We just go to bed as if having a tomorrow is even guaranteed?”

“I told you,” Pansy said. “The odds, they were always stacked against us. Very little changes if they know who we’re with and what we’re part of. Consider it a miracle if we wake tomorrow. And if we do, we’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

There was a finality to her words that was nearly impossible to argue with. So Hermione could do nothing but nod.

The likelihood of their deaths hung heavily over her. Different than it had when she first stepped into the arena. Then, she thought she had a chance to survive. Thought that her life was in her control, and only hers.

But now she knew that it wasn’t. That they had all dangled it before the Gamesmakers, promising that they didn’t care if they took it away from any of them.

A promise she stood by, no matter how much the reality of it stung her.

A promise for whatever one was worth from a tribute in the Games. From a child in a world that wanted nothing but to make them suffer.

Pansy turned towards their tents. She flinched as Harry laid a protective hand on her back, but didn’t brush him off. “If you’re lucky, our friend from Pure Capital can answer some of your questions tonight.”

She jutted her head towards Draco, who didn’t utter a single word in response. He hadn’t yet moved or said anything since the nighttime fell on them. He only seemed to straighten at Pansy’s suggestion, his hands clenching tighter at his sides.

Hermione couldn’t wrap her mind around how Pansy could be so nonchalant about any of it.

But she had likely accepted her death long before she offered it out the way she had to the Gamesmakers.

Though to Hermione it was still raw, the cuts fresh. She had so much to mourn.

She watched as Pansy and Harry walked quietly to their tents. Pansy didn’t even pretend to step toward her own and instead let Harry pause beside his before she followed him inside.

A comfort of presence, probably the only kind he could offer her after the evening they had all had. After everything they had lost with Cassius, and the frenzy of all that had followed. She probably didn’t want to step inside the tent that kept her chained, the one where everything she knew fell apart.

How long would the Gamesmakers wait this time?

What kind of ways would they make them suffer?

“Come on.” Draco took off with a stride toward their own tent. The way he moved was lethal, fury rippling from his back in waves she could nearly see in the dark.

Hermione followed after him.

The moment they stepped past the entrance to their tent, he flushed the entire thing in his magic. A hollow sort of hum filled Hermione’s ears. And then Draco turned, quick and sharp like lightning, and gripped her shoulders in his hands, his face just inches away from hers.

“Listen to me, and listen to me carefully.” His words were but a breath, Occlumency layer after layer peeling back from his eyes. A flame sputtered on in the lantern above them and Hermione just stared up at him, bracing herself for the worst. “There are many things I want to tell you but still can’t. No matter what Pansy did, no matter what we did with her, I can’t—I just can’t.”

It was a silencing charm that filled and surrounded their tent. Hermione could practically feel the brush of his Muffliato against her skin.

There was a worrying sense of alarm in his gaze, and she didn’t know what to say to it.

She wanted answers, she needed them, but she knew the secrets everyone held were precious and dangerous, so she didn’t know what the right way to fight for them was.

Draco clearly saw the muddle of emotions on her face, the spear of determination that she struggled to sharpen and swing.

“Please,” he cut her off before she could speak. “I just can’t and I want you to know that I wish I could. I really wish I could. I want to tell somebody so badly. I want to tell you, Hermione. But even after what we did out there, I still can’t.”

Hermione inhaled a breath and didn’t dare take her eyes off him. There was so much pain, so much agony, in the lines of his features as he looked at her, she could barely stand it.

No doubt for the secrets he had to hold. For the things he had to do.

But also for all the things he tried and couldn’t do.

Guilt, so much guilt, for all of it.

It weighed on her the same way. Almost as much as the desperation for answers.

She could see him beginning to crumble, and for a moment, that superseded any need to have her questions met.

“Draco,” she whispered. She forced down a tight swallow, her muscles flexing painfully in her throat. Hermione reached up her hand and dared to touch him. Dared to brush a wisp of his white gold hair back from his face. “Do you think any of this was your fault?”

Her touch barely lingered but he still leaned into it, eyes closing as he shuddered a breath.

“Please,” she continued. “You can’t.”

“How could I not?” he exhaled, eyes still closed, hands still gripping her shoulders. “I’m from the place that everyone loathes. I know a part of them blames me for all of it. For Cassius’s death, for their existence here, for everything.”

“Pansy and Harry?” she asked softly. “I don’t think they blame you for anything.”

“I’m one of them,” he spat, eyes flashing open suddenly, wild and crazed as they stared back at her. “I’m from Pure Capital. I was raised amongst all of it. You have no idea who my father is, or what my family's place is. You have no idea what it does to a person.”

“Of course, because you won’t tell me,” Hermione flung back. It felt cruel to say but the truth of the words tumbled out of her and she couldn’t stop them. “Because your entire life is a secret, and even now after we’ve flailed ourselves for the Gamesmakers, when we have nothing left to lose besides what we already would have lost anyways, you still say you can’t tell me anything. Am I wrong in believing in your good, Draco? Was I a fool in thinking you weren’t like them? You tried nearly everything to get to me, so are you saying that it was all a lie?”

“I’m saying that it’ll never be enough.”

“Your father was punished before the President. You’re here as that punishment.”

“Yes.”

“So then you’re suffering just like the rest of us.”

“You don’t understand.” He stepped back from her, his hands falling to his sides. The loss of contact stung, felt icy cold on her skin.

“Then help me understand,” she pleaded. “In whatever way you can. With whatever you’re able to tell me.”

Draco inhaled a trembling breath and exhaled just as shakily. He dragged his hand along the side of his face, looking anywhere but at her.

“Please,” she asked again, taking a step towards him.

He just stepped back.

“Draco.”

His breathing was laboured, his eyes twisting with agony. He swallowed tightly and shook his head as if he didn’t want to believe it—especially not the truth of what she suspected he carried.

“Malfoy.”

“I knew!” He whirled on his feet. “I knew what they did to Cassius and I couldn’t stop it.”

Hermione stilled, pausing mid-step. “You knew?" Her stomach twisted in on itself. "As in you knew ahead of time what would happen to him?” 

“Gods, no, fuck, of course not before. But I knew what they did to him, and do you know how I knew?” His stare turned to her then, harsher than he’d ever looked. “Because they teach things like that in Pure Capital if you know where to look.”

A surge of darkness rippled from his body, nearly knocking Hermione off her feet. It was as if he’d pulled a plug on all that he’d kept hidden deep inside of him, and those wicked treacherous things now threatened to burst free.

She’d never felt anything like it, never knew something so sinister could intertwine with the soul of someone's body and not wreck them. But that venomous magic filled the tent, his magic, foreign to her and brutal and utterly tortured, and nearly stole her breath away. She cowered back from him, a step away as if her body feared it.

He had to hold that power within himself always.

How, she didn’t know.

And the fear must have flickered in her features because Draco straightened, and just as quickly as she felt that sensation of this hidden magic of his, like the scrape of vicious dark claws against the light of her own, it all vanished at her next blink.

He slumped forward as if the weight of it all came crashing down over him.

“My magic should have been enough to stop it,” he said. She knew he wasn’t talking about the type of magic he had just let her sense. He was referring to the power of all the magic he held, the depths of which she now suspected were likely insurmountable. “But it didn’t. Not for long enough to matter.”

His words felt in utter contrast to what he’d just shown her, to what resided inside of him. But it was an ink drop of relief that spread through her nonetheless. Because he had wanted to use it to help Cassius, to help all of them.

“You tried, all that mattered was that you tried,” she said. A part of her wanted to reach out and hold him, if only to offer some sort of comfort. She had no idea what he had kept caged inside of himself all this time. “Who cares if you know what the magic was? It was a miracle someone did. More than any one of us could have said.”

Draco just shook his head. “Hermione, I knew everything. Exactly how much he suffered. Exactly how much pain he was in.”

The remaining words were left unspoken.

I knew exactly how to cast the spell that did that to him.

Hermione stilled again. Her mouth opened to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. She tried to swallow through the lump that formed in her throat but it only seemed to grow the harder she tried. He looked at her as if he was begging for mercy, for a reprieve from it all.

“You did what you could,” she said tightly. “If you hadn’t been there, he would have died even sooner.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“We were always powerless, Draco.”

“It should have been me!” he stammered out, his voice breaking.

Hermione flinched. “What—”

Draco stormed toward her, backing her against the wall of the tent. It was so easy to forget how large he was. But now that she had a taste of the magic welled inside of him, for the first time in a very long time, Hermione wondered if she should fear him as he came barreling at her.

“It should have been me,” he growled. “I was always the one that was supposed to die. I didn’t care if I did. I came in here knowing that nothing awaited me after the Games. I was supposed to be in Cassius’s place.”

Hermione couldn’t mask the tremble in her lower lip as she stared up at his face.

“I want you to know that there are no coincidences. I’ve known about District 13 for far longer than anyone knows. I knew what I had to do here. I knew I would always die.”

She had no words. None to express how she felt at that moment, none to capture the twisting in her gut, the turmoil spreading through her insides, a phantom pain spreading through her chest.

Draco seemed to swallow her silence, let it brew inside of him as if it was shame.

It wasn’t. She needed him to know that it wasn’t shame.

But her mouth opened and no sound came out. She just looked up at him and hoped he could read the truth in her eyes.

His head tilted as he looked down at her. It was only after several long stilted moments, which could have been seconds or minutes long, that his eyes softened ever so slightly. Like a tender pull against what he had just let sound. He looked as if he was trying to memorize her features, as if he was searching for that reprieve he wanted right in them.

She wouldn’t understand what it all meant until long after he stole the breath from her lungs with what he said next.

His voice was gentle, soft. “Do you remember what I said when Gilderoy Lockheart asked me how I felt about being put in the Games?”

Memories surged to the front of her mind.

Hermione could still see the way he twisted the ring around his finger on stage at the interview before the Games began—the ring she had then known nothing about. She remembered the way his eyes scanned the crowd before they found her, the way he stared right through her until he turned back to Gilderoy.

I suppose you could say, that it lit a fire within me.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Do you know why I said that?”

She didn’t answer, only looked up at him with wary eyes.

“Do you know where the fire came from?”

She shook her head just once, a barely there movement.

“From you, Hermione. The fire didn’t just come from nowhere. You set it. The very first time I saw you, saw that pin on your chest. You looked at me and set me on fire.”

“You,” Draco repeated, his eyes melting under her gaze. “You’re the link to all of this. The moment I saw you I knew I couldn’t just die as I wished. And you didn’t even know.” He let out a dry laugh. “You’ve never known anywhere near what I hoped you did. So that fire, it came from you. It gave me purpose, it showed me that there was something I could do to get to you. But once I did, I was still handcuffed. I still couldn’t tell you everything I knew. But it gave me this very small inkling of hope that we might find a way to survive it all. And I feel different now than how I did before it all. I don’t want to die.”

Hermione wasn’t sure when the tears had started to flow, when she had grabbed the front of Draco’s shirt and pulled him ever closer.

“I don’t want to die either,” she whispered. “I don’t want any of us to die.”

“I meant what I said,” he pushed his forehead into hers. “I’m useless to help, even Pansy and Potter still won’t be able to share everything you want and need. But District 13 is real and alive. They have been for far longer than you can even imagine. And the people involved…” he trailed off, the rest of the words lingering at the tip of his tongue but never sounding. “I can only hope there comes a day that I can tell you everything. That you can see it all for yourself and learn what you mean.”

You’re the link to it all.

There had always been an inkling, even talk of it—this role of hers that she knew nothing about. The pin she wore, the one gifted to her by the mayor, a greater symbol than she could ever hoped for. But a symbol for something she had never grasped or understood.

There are no coincidences.

Total strangers had known of her before she ever even had half a thought about who they were. The tributes in Districts like hers, even Draco in Pure Capital, there was even some sort of link back to the mayor.

She had clearly meant something to them. She still did. As if her legacy preceded her own knowledge and being. It felt like she was so close to knowing what it all meant, as if the missing link was just sitting right out of reach.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” she finally said.

“Besides all the stupid feelings I’ve just dumped onto you?” His mouth was a hard line but there was the smallest hint of amusion in his gaze.

She hadn’t looked at it like that, but she had been lying to herself for far too long.

She had feelings too, even if she couldn’t explain them. Even if they had found her in the most unlikely of places, with no room or time or place to grow.

Hermione smiled up at him and pulled him even closer, until their chests touched and she could bury her head into the crook of his shoulder. His body was warm against hers, and safe, so utterly safe.

She didn’t want to ever let go.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, her back still pressed to the hard wall of their tent.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, or the day after, will you trust me?”

Trust, a peculiar, dangerous thing. But she did, she trusted him, trusted him with her life.

So Hermione nodded against him, whispering into his skin, “Yes.”

Draco wrapped his arms tighter, nestling his head atop her hair. She felt him inhale as if trying to fill his senses with the smell of her.

“Then we might just find a way to come out of this all alive.”

Hermione had wanted so badly to hold onto Draco, almost as much as she wanted to know all the secrets he still held. He gave her only crumbs, and even that, she could see pained him. She didn’t know how he balanced the will to help, with his fear of revealing too much, with all that he knew and the lives that were still at stake.

You’re the link to it all, he had said. And it had come as no surprise because Hermione had expected as much for a long time.

Because there are no coincidences. Too many things had fallen into place for them to be anything but planned.

Through the night she dreamt of District 13, imagining what it might look like. Of Draco and Harry and Pansy among other blurred faces, in a place she didn’t recognize, but that filled her with the most powerful thrum of hope. They moved amongst each other, the ceilings low around them, the windows small if not nearly invisible, rings on their fingers, a strip of gold on their chests. She fluttered through this dream as if she was both nothing and everything, both the air and the ground, there but not at the same time. They didn’t look at her as she moved through the rooms and the halls, as if she didn’t exist for them, but the longer she dreamt, the more powerful they all began to look to her.

She noticed daggers at their hips, knives sheathed into holsters alongside their wands, could practically feel the anger rippling off of them. There were papers strewn through every room she entered, diagrams and maps pinned to the walls and across every tabletop. She couldn’t see what any of them said. But her imagination was wild, nonetheless.

Despite Draco’s assurance that they would find a way to survive, a part of Hermione didn’t know if she would ever get to open her eyes again after that night. In the unrelenting darkness, sleep had claimed her, but when she felt that slowly forming tug at her lids, she wasn’t sure if it was the phantom draw of death or the living morning light pulling her into consciousness.

Was she dead? Was she still alive? Which reality would be the kindest?

If she opened her eyes, what would she see? Could she stomach the sight of what it revealed?

Had the Gamesmakers done what Pansy had asked them to?

The night was too peaceful, too free from pain, to think that they had. They would have made them suffer. The very same way they did to Cassius, if not worse.

She briefly wondered if it would be his face she would see, or Luna’s in the afterlife, when she let the pull claim her.

When she finally opened her eyes it was slow, carefully measured blinks as she acclimated to the bright light. Her surroundings swam into focus and the first thing she saw was the four tent walls around her. They were the same walls that held her and Draco for the last several weeks. Or maybe it had been months. Time had become a non-existent concept.

She turned her head and found Draco next to her. She tracked the steady fall and rise of his chest, assurance that he was still alive and breathing. She looked down at her own body, and found the same thing there.

She was alive. They were both still alive.

Mercy, considering what had happened the day before.

Draco had tossed and turned next to her through the night so Hermione didn’t wake him as she climbed out of the cot and gingerly made her way to the exit. Worry tugged at her for what she would find out in the camp. 

But when she stepped out into the sunshine, nothing could have prepared her for the actual sight she saw. Her eyes swept the vast grounds, her hand coming to her mouth to stifle a gasp from sounding.

The entirety of the camp was filled with packages. Everywhere. Littering the ground for as far as she could see. Different shapes, and sizes, and colours, each with its own small parachute. Dozens still fluttered from the sky.

They weren't just any packages.

These were sponsorships.

After the Gamesmakers had forbidden them.

And by the sheer amount Hermione was seeing, it was as if every single one held back had been released to them, with that and even more.

She rubbed at her eyes, certain that they would all disappear when she opened them again, certain that she might still be dreaming, or even more likely, in some weird sort of hell after death. Maybe she was being taunted. Maybe this was a place where her wishes were satisfied only to be ripped from her hands in the blink of an eye.

But across the camp, Pansy peered out from Harry’s tent. She caught Hermione's eye for just a moment before her mouth fell open as she took in the same sight of the sponsorships.

And then her stare met Hermione’s.

They didn’t need any words. Pansy only had to smile and it was as if all the pieces of the puzzle firmly fell into place.

The sponsorships weren’t here because the Gamesmakers had changed their mind.

Not by choice. Not out of goodwill.

No.

It meant somewhere, somehow, the Gamesmaker's hands had been forced.

Whether by the stand taken before the cameras, or some far greater power. The power of people, the power of rebellion. 

It was very likely, as Pansy rolled her shoulders back and stepped out into the light, as she picked up a sponsorship at her feet and began to open it, that they had had something to do with it.

Them— District 13.

Chapter Text

District 13.

District 13.

District 13?

After what the Gamesmakers had done the night before, the entirety of Hermione’s surroundings felt like a sick illusion. Waking up soundlessly, opening her eyes to a camp that wasn’t ravaged, sponsorships growing with every blink. Yet as soon as the thought that District 13 might be responsible for any of it crossed her mind, she realized how preposterous it seemed.

A district that nobody knew existed until the night before, surely couldn’t have done this—filled their camp with sponsorships— after the Gamesmakers had altered the rules to strictly forbid them.

It shouldn’t have been possible. It couldn’t have been.

Yet a kernel of doubt had planted itself amongst the madness in Hermione’s brain. While the Gamesmakers had announced the initial rule change, they hadn’t announced anything to reverse it. If the appearance of sponsorships had been their doing, would they not have made that clear to the tributes, and more importantly, to the audience? At the very least, to show that they were still in control. Because what did a silent barrage like this say, if not the loss of such a thing.

But the thought of them losing control sounded as preposterous as her initial assumption about District 13’s involvement.

Hermione had to remind herself that there was no logic to the Games, to the Gamesmakers, to the way they functioned. She had to stop looking for such a thing in the arena, in anything touched by the brutal hands of the regime, because she wouldn’t find it.

She tried to separate her thoughts from her feelings, seeing the camp littered the way it was with sponsorships, and she was certain it wasn’t relief that brewed inside of her. Maybe that’s what she should have been feeling, or what she would have been, if the previous day hadn’t happened, but the reality of the aches and tugs in her chest, in her heart, could have easier been described as a delirious sense of bewilderment. The kind that only manifested when you woke from an odd dream, expecting not to see its remnants all around you, only to realize that the dream was actually the existence of your life. That sort of feeling didn’t bring relief. It was uncomfortable, it prickled at her skin, tugged at the essence of her mind in a way she hated.

It made her question if she’d decidedly lost it during the night. If falling asleep after the day they’d had, had been a mistake, an opportunity they all allowed the Gamesmakers to take to fool them. But there wasn’t enough to explain just quite why they would in this way. They gained nothing from reversing their rule change, from bombarding them in packages that would ultimately help them survive.

The truth. Hermione wished for the truth as much as she needed answers. They were, in many ways, one and the same. Instinctively, she began to track the things she knew were true.

Looking across the camp to where the other tent stood, she watched Harry and Pansy taking careful steps around the packages closest to them. Pansy hadn’t finished opening the one she had started unravelling, having left it discarded on the ground. Whatever excitement had initially flickered on her face had been replaced by a look of understated concern, a tentativeness that tugged at her features and filled every step she took.

The truth Hermione found there was that she was decidedly still in the Hunger Games. A given that needed no reminder. She still stood in the same camp, in the same arena, she still shared in the same fate with these other tributes. They were still her allies.

She didn’t let herself think about what came next, the way that allyships were known to end in the Games. That was a truth she wasn’t ready to face yet.

Instead, she focused herself on watching them carefully as they crouched down to each package by package, large and small, some wrapped in bright papers and others just simple metal boxes. There was no pattern to their parachutes, no rhyme or reason for where they fell amongst the camp. And so with every step that Harry and Pansy took, the tentativeness never faded. Which presented another truth: that whatever it was they were all seeing, like Hermione, it didn’t look like Harry and Pansy trusted it either.

Harry and Pansy. It was only Harry and Pansy that had emerged from that tent. She didn’t want to recognize the confirmation of another truth that brought, which had been itching at her mind since she’d awoken, one she’d kept putting off acknowledging. The blaring memory of the previous night came rushing back to her, powerful and brutal enough to nearly throw her to her knees. Her stomach churned, her magic buzzed through her veins, her hands flushed cold and clammy.

The truth was that there were only four tributes remaining in the camp. Which left Cassius, tribute from District 1, dead.

Hermione hadn’t imagined that. She’d witnessed the horrors of it with her very eyes.

Sponsorships now covered the ground in the place where he’d died.

Once she recognized the hollow blow, the pit it brewed in her gut, it only seemed to deepen painfully.

It had all been real. His suffering, their collective desperation to save him, the unrelenting power of their failure. She realized, mutely, that her mind was numb. Because it wasn’t just his death that had caused so much turmoil. It was everything that had come after, as well.

She braced herself against the still raw and all too confusing revelations, of all the unbelievable things she’d learned. Which only brought her back to District 13. The rebels, the cause she was now undoubtedly part of. What had Pansy’s words triggered? Had they really been as powerful and altering as Hermione had felt?

Only questions, she only had questions and no answers in her grasp.

The tent rustled behind her and Hermione turned to see Draco emerge from it, stifling a yawn. He caught her stare, warm and still sleep-riddled, and then it shifted from her face to the scene held behind her. He immediately straightened.

“What the…fuck?”

There was no decorum to the way the words tumbled from his lips.

His eyes took it all in and she could see the shifting emotions across his face as he processed what he was seeing. While she hadn’t been able to read anything in his expression when she’d first met him, now she could somewhat understand even the blank nothingness he tried to keep on him at all times. And after what she’d learned the night before, it was never really nothing. He was filled to the brim with thoughts and fears and things that he either didn’t want to, was afraid to, or simply couldn’t share.

Her response was unsuitable, but she said it anyway, topped off with a shrug. “Good morning to you too.”

He stepped up beside her. “Was it like this when you woke up?”

Hermione tracked his eyes to Harry and Pansy who were continuing their trek through the camp. They’d made it through maybe half of the sponsorships, doing nothing more than leaning down to look at each one. They weren’t opening them, they weren’t even touching them. Instead, it looked like a strict process of cataloguing.

“Yeah,” she said. “We haven’t been up for long. But it was already like this when I came out.”

Draco made a sound, something between a hum and a grunt. And then nothing else.

This time their surroundings posed a question that it seemed like none of them had answers to. Having company in this feeling, beneath the blanket of unknown which Hermione previously felt like she was all alone under, didn’t feel as great as it might have seemed. Company didn’t make the reality of stark mystery any less unsettling.

She stepped forward and followed the path of a small gray package as it tumbled through the air by its even smaller parachute. If she didn’t know any better, it might have looked like a piece of confetti. Enough for her to briefly consider if it was part of a gift. But that thought was fleeting. More likely it was misfortune, packaged in a pretty bow. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Sometimes the most dangerous things were the ones that flew under the radar, ones that seemed too obvious to suspect. Like simple berries picked from a bush. Ones that three people ate, but another died from.

There was always something to question in the arena, in the system that was the Hunger Games. Hermione didn’t need to remind herself of that now. Questions were a part of who she was, the essence of all that she could be. If there were answers to ever be found, she hadn’t found them yet.

She placed her palm out in front of her as if to let the package she was tracking settle gently atop her skin. But she didn’t actually want to hold it. Something about seeing Harry and Pansy not stop long enough to unravel anything in its entirety with their hands, made her feel like she shouldn’t either. Maybe there was something to be said about their caution. Because the only thing she was more certain of than the fact that she knew nothing at all, was that she didn’t trust a single thing the arena presented to the tributes. At one point she foolishly had, but not anymore.

With her wand clenched tightly in her other hand, she let her magic flow around the package until it surrounded it from all sides, until she could control it entirely. She left it hovering mere centimetres above her hand—if she moved it would still remain. But she didn’t touch it. Instead, she used her magic to slowly lift and reveal the name tag woven into the grey bow.

In slanted letters, a name stared back at her.

Hermione Jean Granger, District 12

Her heart immediately thundered.

This was the very first sponsorship to arrive in her name since she’d entered the arena.

The first.

In what was easily weeks.

And it had arrived now? Of all the sponsorships littering the camp, she’d just happened to find one that was made out to her so easily, as if it was a common occurrence.

It had to be a coincidence. Just a mere chance that this was the package that caught her eye. How many others had her name on them throughout the camp? And why now?

“I don’t like this.” Draco’s voice came from her side. He was still standing right next to her, closely eyeing the package as Hermione began unwrapping it with her magic.

“What exactly?” she asked. She didn’t like any of what she was seeing either. She wanted to hear him say it, though, if only to validate her own feelings of mistrust.

He swallowed tightly, the curve of his jaw pulsing with the motion. “Everything.”

“Well,” Hermione sighed. “Neither do I.”

The package hovered in its spot as she pulled her palm out from under it. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like the best idea to even risk it touching her. An excessive caution, maybe, but none of it sat right. Not the appearance of all the packages, not the initial excitement it had all brought on, not the lack of celebration from the others. Something wasn’t right, she could feel it in the shifting air.

But this package, this lone gift with her name on it, felt like it belonged to her in ways she couldn’t place nor explain. It could have been that all the packages in the camp had her name on their tag and it wouldn’t matter. Because it was this one that had come directly to her.

“I’m going to open it.” Her voice didn’t sound convinced of the fact that it was a good idea.

“Are you sure?”

No, Hermione wasn’t sure of anything anymore. But Pansy’s words from the previous day flared to life in her mind, reminding her of the wild abandonment that the Games didn’t like, the promise that they had all stood by.

“What’s the worst it’ll do,” she said. “Kill me?”

It took a moment too long for the words to settle before Draco reacted.

“Hermione—”

Her magic spilled from her wand a split second before he grabbed at her wrists, as he shoved her back from the still-floating package.

But the grey wrapping had already broken apart and begun to flutter to the ground when the box beneath it opened, its four panels falling away. Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Draco had pulled her back several metres in the time it took for her magic to take effect. She could see Pansy and Harry on the outskirts of the camp, backing away from the other sponsorships at the sound of alarm in Draco’s voice.

As the exterior of package came apart, it fell to the ground soundlessly.

The inside contents remained hovering where Hermione’s magic had initially willed them to. She tilted her head, examining the object from the distance Draco had forced on her.

It was a lowly single feather.

A feather.

She’d waited how many long weeks for a sponsorship only to receive a feather.

Her eyes narrowed because she had nothing else to do amidst the laughable blow. She took it in for all it was: small in size but bright in colour, a shade of burnt red at its core that tapered out to whisps of blaring orange. A feather whose origins she didn’t recognize outright, but tracing its lines, a strange sense of familiarity tugged at her.

Was it some sort of cruel joke?

It felt like there was no other explanation for it than that — it had to be.

Because there was no way a feather had come as a sponsorship, especially not now. Even the change in the rules aside, sponsorships were typically like gold this far down the line in the Games. With every passing day a package grew more expensive. If something had cost a Knut at the start of the Games, it would cost at least Sickle now. That was month’s salary in most Districts. If anyone really had gathered the funds to send something her way through Moody, it would have been bound to be more valuable than a feather.

Yet a Sickle was like loose change to a wealthy member of the Capitol. They could easily afford it, if they wanted to. The thing was, why would they want to?

A worthless sponsorship was apparently all Hermione was good for.

She almost found herself accepting the disappointment, letting the creeping wave of pathetic self-loathing cover her whole. But the suspicious familiarity that was tugging at her suddenly yanked hard at her mind. She shot upright, shoving Draco right off of her.

This wasn't just any feather—

“Don’t touch it,” he hissed, scrambling after her.

But Hermione had no plans to touch it. She only wanted a closer look. Because she knew what this feather was, she was suddenly certain of it. She was quick to berate herself for the fact that it even took this long to realize.

“I wasn’t planning to touch it,” she said. “But I figured out what it is.”

She’d seen a feather like it twice, all in one day. A real version and what she now understood to be, a replica. She turned to Draco, eyeing him carefully. His gaze snapped to hers like clockwork, knowing she’d turn to him, and she searched for the meaning in his face.

Fleur. Her stylist Fleur had worn feathers on her ears the very first day she’d met her. Hermione had paid little attention to them until those feathers made a reapperance later that day. Until she’d watched the very boy before her discard of his robe unceremoniously after the opening carriage ride of the Games. Only moments after he’d been inside her mind, had questioned her about her pin, about the runes on her dress, and promptly shut her out.

She’d watched his robe burst into flames and send a thick plume of magical smoke into the air as he made his way back into the tribute tower. His robe burned hard and quick, and before long, the only thing that remained of it was a pile of ash. Atop it had laid a single feather.

An exact copy of the kind that Fleur had had pinned to her ears.

The very same type of feather that now hovered before them.

Hermione released the hold of her magic over it. It fluttered slowly through the air, twirling around its axis endlessly. A motion that almost looked calculated on avoiding its touch down to the ground.

Draco knew she knew. She sensed he could see the realization in her eyes. That she had no idea what it had meant then, all those long weeks ago. That she hadn’t put the pieces together until that very moment. The feather on Fleur had meant something. Something important enough for Draco to make a copycat of and leave for her to see. She understood the ring he had, how it tied its way to the others, but the feather… to Fleur…

She dove for it, willing to catch it before it hit the ground. If it was connected to Fleur, maybe it was a message, maybe it meant—

Draco dove for her at the very same time, nearly tackling her to the ground away from it.

“Hermione, don’t—”

Strong hands wrapped around her waist and held her back. She nearly reached the feather, nearly caught it in her hands, but her effort wasn’t enough. It fell to the ground with a final twirl, not a sound to be heard from it.

A blanket of silence filled the camp as they all watched it with curious eyes. Draco’s hands didn’t loosen around her. He just held her back as if to remove the possibility of Hermione making a dive for it again.

She traced its every line, breathing hard, tumbling recklessly into frustration.

She understood being careful, but what was this if not a sign from Fleur, or from someone familiar with what the feather meant. Because it had to mean something, for Draco to have acknowledged it then too. It felt important, like a precious message in a time of need, like the smallest kernel of hope that someone remembered her, that they were trying to communicate with her, and likely, the other tributes in the camp, too. There was a high chance they knew more about the meaning of the feather than even she did.

But yet, it had still been made out to her.

The sound of parachutes rustling around the camp snapped Hermione’s attention to them, a gust of wind circling through the space, the trees around them building in motion, in sound, like a crescendo. They’d rarely gotten wind in the arena.

The Gamesmakers, that is, had previously not given them much wind.

The swaying of the trees continued to build, growing louder, more pronounced, leaves tearing from their spots on branches. There was a thrum to it that was hypnotizing, a building chaos that was cohesive yet intense. Their camp was encircled by trees, and that had always been a comfort, but at that moment, the way they towered over them, the power of the wind they brought, it felt like something was beginning to loom over them.

It pulled the air tight into Hermione’s chest.

Harry and Pansy felt it too, nearing her and Draco quickly. Draco’s hands had fallen slack at Hermione's waist, head drawn up to track the motion of the trees, the wind they brewed.

Hermione’s own eyes dropped down to the ground to where the feather lay instead.

This wind should have taken it with it, the small delicate thing that it was, but it lay unmoving in the spot where it had dropped to. Even the little fine hairs didn’t rustle. Not in the way she would have expected. Instead, as she focused her gaze on it, ready to track it wherever it went, she noticed something odd.

From the very base of the feather stem, the tip suddenly ignited. It was a small flame, a single flicker, the way a wick of a candle would have.

She tugged at Draco, pulling his attention to it. “Look.”

It burned for several seconds before the flame began to travel its way up the stem, licking every fine strand of the feather that tapered out from it. Like a line of dominoes, slowly consuming, the feather was alight in fire so quickly she could have missed it with a blink. It was a bright burning fire, much larger than an object that size should have called for, sparks bursting from it. Hermione could even feel the heat of it on her face.

Collectively, they all took a careful step back from it.

The last several days had left Hermione’s mind a jumbled mess, so it was an effort to explain what she was seeing. The first thing she thought was that it was a good thing she hadn’t held the feather in her hands. By how quickly it had been consumed by flames, it could have easily burned her. With the Gamesmaker's powers, that burn could have been enough to kill. But it begged the question—where had the fire come from? It was an inconspicuous feather that tugged at a faraway memory, and nothing more.

It seemed to relish in the flames, not suffer in it. How she knew this, she couldn’t say, but Hermione could feel it. Could almost hear it in the howling of the wind, in the whispers of the flame flickers.

Maybe this was meant to happen. Draco had made a feather appear following a ball of fire, after all, had he not?

All questions seemed to lead Hermione back to him.

She pushed his hands off of her, took a measured step back so she could look into his eyes.

“What is this?”

“I don’t—” he jumped to say, but then stopped himself. “What do you mean?”

“The feather.” Hermione pointed to it, accusingly. “Tell me what it means.”

“I don’t—”

“ —Yes,” she cut him off. “You do. Don’t lie to me.”

In her periphery, she could see the ball of feathered fire grow larger, burn brighter. Her anger burned with it.

“I would never lie to you.”

She tasted his words, but didn’t believe them. There was a fine line between lying and avoidance that everyone but Hermione toed.

“But you’d withhold information,” she said. “No?” It felt cruel, yet she didn’t regret it. Draco flinched at the accusation as if she’d swung at him. “So, tell me.”

Hurt flickered in the lines of his face for a split second before he shoved any remnants of it away. But when his voice sounded, it was obvious he couldn’t hide it from appearing there.

“You should know what it means.”

Hermione nearly swung at him for real this time. All these backward conversations, the things that the tributes around her said without saying at the same time, drove her mad. Why was she the only one that was still in the dark? Why was she expected to go along with their cause when she knew nothing, when they didn’t help her nor provide the information that she so desperately yearned for.

She took a pronounced step forward, crowding the air before Draco purposefully. When her head flicked up to glare at him, he was watching her carefully, mouth slightly ajar.

“Well, I don’t,” she hissed into his face. “I don’t know what any of it means.”

Draco tilted his head, his eyes shifting from concern to something wicked. It reminded her of the way he’d looked at her before the Games began. When he was trying to figure her out the same way that she was him. This was the face of someone certain they were proving a point.

“Yes, you do, Hermione.”

“No—”

“—Yes. Think.”

“Tell me.”

“Think,” he repeated.

But what was there to think of? Hermione wasn’t frustrated. She was well beyond that, on the verge of an outburst. She hated being toyed with. And that’s exactly what it felt like everyone had been doing to her. Most times, Draco, more than anyone. If none of them thought it was worth answering when she asked, what was she even doing with them? And if she was still here, it should have meant that they trusted her, that whatever they needed from her, was enough to give her the privilege of knowing what they knew.

“Draco,” she said, carefully mouthing his name. It took everything in her to reign in her anger, to make his name sound stern but calm, other than what she actually felt.

“Hermione.”

“Guys—”

A rough tug at her sleeve, her senses immediately closing in on the panic in Harry’s voice. She darted back from Draco, turning in the direction Harry pulled her in.

Only to see the fire from the feather beginning to consume the packages around it.

One by one, as each sponsorship went up in flames, the feather disintegrated into ash. It all happened so quickly, a feather one moment, and grey cinders the next. Only to form itself back into a feather and go up in flames again before another package began to burn and the pattern repeated itself all over.

A feather, a burst of flame, soot, a feather rising from the ash again. Fire, ash, feather, fire, ash, feather, fire, ash, feather, over and over and over. One package, another, five, ten, again and again. With each implosion of the feather, another package succumbed to the flames. Each time it did, the feather disintegrated. It was sacrificial the way it came together, burning brighter, stronger, hotter. As if a sacrifice made it more powerful.

Suddenly Hermione couldn’t tell if Draco was self-satisfied or afraid as he looked down at her and spoke.

“Remind you of anything…” he murmured. “...little phoenix?”

Chapter Text

The wind around the camp picked up suddenly, masking Draco’s voice as if to carry his words away from them. But Hermione heard it all. She grasped onto them like a lifeline, an unfurling of secrets and masks and answers to questions she didn’t even know how to ask.

Remind you of anything…little phoenix?

It all fell into place so quickly. The feather, her Patronus—a phoenix. The pin on her chest, the symbol it held—a phoenix. The surging rebellion it tied her to, Draco’s promise of you’re the link to it all, his assurance that there were no coincidences—a phoenix, a phoenix, a phoenix.

The fire surged all around them. Hermione had no time to process the revelation, no chance to stifle the blow it drove to her gut. The only thing she could see in the flames were the bright wings of a fiery bird she’d cherished. The gusting wind was fuel to the blaze, spurring their surroundings into a raging wildfire.

This is what had been looming earlier. The edge in the air, the tension building amongst the trees. It was all there, in the answers Hermione hadn’t known were hidden. These packages weren’t the responsibility of District 13. This was a gift of a special kind, courtesy of the Gamesmakers.

An attempt to scorch a rebellion into ash before it turned around and burned them.

The packages began to fall faster to the flames, and in a matter of seconds, at least half were up in balls of fire. Dangerous, spitting, flares that scorched the earth and spread high in the sky, coursing between sponsorships as fast as the fire was leaching and regenerating in the feather.

The packages were never meant to survive. The flames were a taunt, a mockery of the phoenix, meant to outlive the four tributes in the camp.

Panic struck, loud and bright. Hermione barely had time to exchange a glance with anyone before they all sprang into action.

The first rule of fire was to leave everything behind. That had been drilled into Hermione’s mind after the loss of her parents. The most important thing was you—better to get out alive with your hands empty than to be lost in the flames with your belongings.

But they all had so little in the Games. Fear of scarcity, of the desperation that came with having nothing at all, overrode her immediate instincts. Instead, she dove into the tent after Draco and grabbed anything she could hold as fast as she could, before they burst from the exit and made a run for the perimeter. The tent, they couldn’t take. Hermione couldn’t look at him so no words were exchanged to confirm this, but it was obvious they both knew. It would waste too much valuable time.

The word home didn’t cross her mind, because you couldn’t replace a home, and she had lost the only one she’d ever known. Amongst the charred remains of a little cottage on a bakery-lined street in District 12. Her family lost to it. Now she knew a Capitol boy had looked at her and seen a phoenix when he’d invited her into his tent. It would never be a home to her. But when she knew nothing, had nothing, it was the closest thing to it and she suspected she would never see it again.

Fire would try to take things from her as it always had, but it wouldn’t take her. That was her power, she realized. Because that’s what Draco meant, had he not? That for whatever ridiculous reason, a rebellion had looked for a symbol to their fight and found her. An origin steeped in the tragedy of fire, becoming an icon that she was never prepared to be.

She didn’t know how to be a phoenix. She didn’t even know what that meant. But she refused to accept that fire would take her allies, her friends from her.

Pulling up the fiercest Occlumency wall helped shut out every thought that had the power to distract Hermione, to weaken her. There was no time for that. The ferocity of the flames was only growing.

Harry and Pansy wasted no time in their tent either, trailing on her and Draco’s heels, haphazardly stuffed bags thrown over their shoulders. Hermione couldn’t think straight as they all ran. She didn’t know what she had grabbed from the tent. Her bow and quiver of arrows had already been pulled over her back when the madness began and she had nothing else to her name to take.

The pin—a phoenix— had been attached to her chest since the moment the District 12 mayor had given it to her. The tributes around her had seen it, had fought for her because of it, and all the while, she had never known why. Now, she was starting to understand. They’d escape the fires with her, they had to.

Nearly every package, easily hundreds, were up in wild flames, a sea of blazing inferno. Everything around the camp was a sight of reds and oranges, sickeningly hot, smoke surging with the wind. Hermione dragged the neck of her shirt over her nose as a wave of racking coughs flitted through her.

She only had one destination in mind: the perimeter of the camp, where the wards had kept them safe for so long. No longer was that the case. The fire had spread to the trees that lined the perimeter now. The flames that consumed them were fierce, aiming to devour them in an all-too-bright glare of hot light.

Somewhere at her back, from the direction of their left-behind tents, the sound of falling trees shook the ground. Fireballs erupted between splitting wood, sending sparks and blazing branches into the air. Not far enough to reach the four of them as they ran, but the wave of scorching air that it brought singed Hermione’s hair, a wall of heat burning at her back.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute since they’d all stood in the spot of the strike.

“Fucking—HELL,” Harry spat from the back of their group. Expletives were the only way to react to what had befallen them. There was little else worth saying when the toxic air burned their throats. The only other things they exchanged weren’t words, but the huffing of their breaths, the coughs that racked through them, muffled against the fabric of each of their shirts.

It took everything in Hermione to keep her senses right, to keep her Occlumency wall strong. To not succumb to the panic that fire brought, to the responsibility she didn’t know what to do with that pressed over her shoulders. She needed to keep her focus on her rushing stride and nothing more. They were so close, so close to the end of their camp.

She could only hope that the fire wasn’t blazing beyond it.

Draco sent his magic hurling towards the wards and they reacted as if they sensed the urgency, peeling away quickly. Practically disintegrating, as if the guarding magic wanted to be there just as little as they did.

When the wards fell away, the rest of the arena they revealed was no better of a situation than the one they found themselves in. Fast-moving flames came at them from one side, a soaring, unrelenting wall of fire.

Any doubt that this wasn’t a man-made inferno, burned with all of the hope Hermione had left.

They’d taunted Pure Capitol with their lives, had dangled the rebellion before them. Hermione, unknowing the implications, had called on her phoenix Patronus more than once. Unknowing the consequences, had paraded around with her phoenix pin for every camera to see. While the rebellion had quietly claimed her as their own. And while she may not have understood why the responsibility had befallen her, President Riddle’s regime didn’t seem to care.

It was disorder, it was mutiny in their eyes. Fire came from all sides, willing to end them.

There was no clear path to follow outside the wards, only broken openings between shrubs and branches, that one wouldn’t know existed unless they knew where to look. But there were only two directions to head in when they finally emerged. Either towards the quickly surging flames that were coming at them or in the opposite direction.

The choice was a given. They all turned up the hidden path that led away from the fire.

Draco was the first to send a jet of water streaming from his wand at the flames chasing them in an attempt to weaken their force. Hermione followed quickly behind, as did Harry and Pansy. Their uncoordinated attempts weren't pretty, but they kept the surging flames off their heels as they ran.

Noxious smoke burned Hermione’s eyes as much as it stung going down her throat. Branches tore at her clothing, scratched her skin, drawing blood. She didn’t know how long their bodies could hold on. But failing, falling behind, letting the fire catch-up to them, wasn’t an option either.

So they all ran like hell. Even as the flames burned brighter, as they consumed everything in their path the more powerful they got, the four of them still ran for their lives.

The only mercy was that it was light outside. If this had befallen them in the darkness, they likely wouldn’t have even made it out of the camp.

She ignored Draco as he glanced back at her the first time, looked back at the trailing flames herself when he did it again. He said nothing, because how could he? Why would he? When the breathable air ran dry, when there were more important things to focus on. But she could tell he wanted to. He’d left her with a bombshell and no chance to explain another word.

It wasn’t clear how long they ran. But the thick of the forest eventually began to wane, distance between trees growing, the power of the flames withering. And with it, their Augmenti spells grew more effective. Slowly, the heat of the flames became something they could handle.

It allowed their adrenaline to begin to drain. But with it came the stark blow of reality. The brutal ache of their limbs, the searing burns on their skin, the debilitating plunge of weakness that threatened to immobilize them.

While they could turn the Augmenti spells on themselves, what they really needed was a running stream of water. And Draco, either by sheer luck or by some magical god’s grace, led them right to it. A shallow river, much like the one Hermione had once filled a bottle in.

She looked back behind her to confirm the fire had tapered out. The smoke was still pluming into the air, but it was far away now. Not dark like active flames brought, but light grey in colour, like winter slush.

With the fire behind them, and the sight of fresh water, all the adrenaline in their bodies seemed to come undone.

Pansy stumbled, woozy on her feet, before she crouched down next to a crook in some rocks and vomited.

Harry ripped off one layer of clothing, then another, tossing it to the wayside. He was covered in burns, all across his neck and arms. He crawled his way to the water alongside Drace, hissing as it met his skin. They both lowered themselves in entirely, all the way down to their chins, before they dove their heads under.

The realization that the fire was behind them, that they’d somehow made it out, left Hermione unable to do anything at all. It was like being dragged under suddenly, head first into a barrel of sludge. Her onslaught of rigidness came on so quickly she didn’t even have a chance to process it. Somewhere between Pansy and the water, control of her limbs gave away. Every bit of her was on pins and needles. The rushing thrill pressed into her lungs, squeezed its way through her brain, until she was nothing at all.

Hermione slumped onto the ground slowly, every part of her body foreign to her. It moved on instinct, not because she had any control. Her shaking arms hugged her legs weakly, her chin pressed atop her knees.

And there, immobilized, she sat. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

A phoenix.

The rebellion had looked for a symbol to their fight, and somehow, had found her.

Fire.

Fire.

Fire.

She was defined by it. Haunted by it’s smell, the taste of it, the feel of it on her skin. It had taken everything she’d loved once. But now she'd been given a chance to own it, to take back its power, to let it fuel her fight.

Fire was a peculiar thing. It blazed unrelentingly. But could she do the same? Is that what the rebellion wanted from her?

“Hermione.”

She couldn’t, there was no way she was cut for the role. She was unprepared, whatever they needed, she couldn’t deliver on. And what was failure if not her greatest fear?

“HERMIONE—”