Wicked Game
My steps echoed through the closed doors, reverberating off the walls of the judging area. I couldn't help but ignore Harry's quiet words of good luck, my teeth clenching and a snarl itching to escape my tightly pressed lips. As I suspected when I woke up no one was blamed for my ‘accident’. Despite all the cameras in the Capital, not one was able to catch the group who attacked me. According to the investigators, none of the other tributes were unaccounted for, so it was out of their hands. The investigation was a farce anyway, if I died they would just pull some other unlucky soul to take my place. As long as they had their 24 pigs to slaughter they were happy. I’d avoided Harry all the same, ever since.
As the second to last District 12 tribute, I was accustomed to being last in everything. And now, as I approached the judges, I couldn't help but notice their disheveled appearances and slurred speech. The stench of alcohol and desperation filled the air, reminding me of the downtrodden Peacekeepers back home in Aberforth's. They too used alcohol to pretend they weren’t just as trapped under the Capital’s rule as the rest of us. Just cogs in their ever-turning machine. But these judges, with their overly primped appearances and fake wigs, seemed like a different breed entirely. What were they trying to hide behind their facades of decadence? I could only wonder as I steeled myself for whatever twisted dance they would have me perform for them next. It disgusted me to think that my life was just another form of entertainment for these privileged Capitol citizens.
A hazy pair of eyes met my own and carelessly motioned for me to get started. Reluctantly I followed their direction, stepping towards the throwing range. But as soon as my back was turned, their attention returned to the overflowing plate of food that could have easily fed a whole family in District 12. Suppressing a sneer of disgust, I reminded myself of Moody's advice to charm these people, to pretend that they were my friends or worse family. Harry, with his sweet yet naive demeanor reminiscent of a trusting puppy, was exceptionally good at this act. Even if it was all just a facade, it was still more convincing than any truth I could ever wear.With trembling hands, I reached for the first knife and savored the weight of it in my palm. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself back in District 12, surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of home. In my mind's eye, I could see the little clearing behind my parents' bakery where I would sneak out at night to practice my throwing skills. With each stolen sharp object, I honed my aim until my arms ached from exhaustion. The knife felt like a natural extension of my arm now as I raised it; its perfect balance gave me confidence.
Without hesitation, I released it in a fluid motion that mirrored Harry's perfected nonchalance during our training sessions. Though not quite achieving his level of indifference, I landed closer to the center than ever before in my midnight escapades. Not even a single judge glanced in my direction as the blade hit its target with precision.
My frustration grew with each indifferent glance from the audience as I performed flawlessly. But suddenly, their interest was piqued by the arrival of a suckling pig on a silver platter. All eyes followed the delectable dish as if they hadn't already indulged in more delicacies than most would see in a lifetime. My gaze fixated on the pig, honing in on the bright blood-red apple wedged in its mouth. My vision blurred and my teeth gritted together as I gripped a handle tightly and raised my arm once again. With a grunt, I pulled back and released with breathtaking precision, hitting the core of the apple dead center. The crowd erupted into applause, but I barely noticed as my focus remained on the now-split apple skewered on the end of my weapon.
The silence hung heavy in the air, following me like a shadow as I made my way out of the room. With each step, my anger began to shrink and shrivel up, no match for the all-consuming fear now coursing through my veins. My mother's warning about my arrogance echoed in my mind, her words proving true once again. I had pushed my arrogance too far this time. What had I been thinking? They were going to kill me, I was sure of it. The walk back to the doors felt like an eternity as I waited for the inevitable bullet to burst through my skull. But it never came. It wasn't until later that night, when I saw the score of 12 beside my name on the screen, that I realized the game makers were taking a much more calculated and ruthless approach to ending my life. The number glared at me, taunting me with its significance. The odds were not in my favor, and I knew I would have to fight harder than ever before to survive this twisted game.
*****
I stood in the wings, watching Draco Malfoy swagger onto the stage like he already owned the arena. My fingers clenched the folds of my blue dress - the one Sirius designed to make me look like flowing water, dangerous and beautiful. Like a weapon.
"My boy, my boy!" Slughorn's voice boomed across the stage.
He was exactly what Father had warned me about - Capitol excess wrapped in a veneer of golden blonde beauty and false warmth. Just like Mother, really. She was probably watching from the bakery now, dry-eyed and practical as ever. At least Father would be crying. Poor Father, who still kept that tiny dried primrose from Lily Potter pressed between the pages of his recipe book. Who still teared up when Harry came to trade at our back door - or used to, before all this.
Draco's interview was calculated perfection. Of course, it was. He'd been training for this his whole life, while I'd been learning to frost roses on wedding cakes.
"Tell me, Draco," Slughorn leaned forward conspiratorially, "what's your strategy for the arena?"
Draco's smile was all teeth.
"Well, Horace, I believe in making an impression right from the start. The training session today? That's where the real tributes separate themselves from the...shall we say, lesser contestants."
His eyes flicked toward where I stood in the wings, and my neck burned where his knife brushed it, a few days ago.
"Oho! Confident words!"
"Why shouldn't I be? District 1 has a legacy to uphold. And personally," he examined his manicured nails, "I find that fear is the best weapon. Once you've shown someone true terror, killing them is almost a mercy."
The audience ate it up, of course. They always did. When Slughorn asked about allies, Draco's smirk grew wider.
"Let's just say I know how to spot real talent. Some of us understand what it takes to win. Even from the outer districts, there are...surprising finds."
His eyes glance at Harry, standing off stage, a crazed possessive light in his eyes.
Several tributes later, Slughorn announced, "And now, the young man who captured all our hearts at the Reaping - from District 12, Harry Potter!"
My throat tightened as Harry stepped out in his charcoal suit, tiny embers dancing across the fabric. He looked nothing like his mother, but sometimes when he moved his head just so, I caught a flash of that same quiet grace that Father always described.
"Harry, Harry," Slughorn began warmly, "that was quite a moment at the Reaping. A real savior move. Tell us about your brother."
The audience sighed collectively as Harry talked about volunteering for Collin. Yes, perfect, brave Harry Potter. The boy I thought I was beginning to understand.
Until I saw him with the Careers. Until I heard him standing there while Draco trapped me against his chest and traced his knife against my neck, while he did nothing. Just like Mother would have done nothing.
Harry's green eyes softened.
"Collin's all I have left. After our parents... well,” Harry looked choked up for a moment like he needed to blink back tears.“
Horace ate it up like a five-course feast.
“Harry, my boy, take your time, we have all night,” Slughorn says in bald face lie.
However, what did I know? Maybe for Harry Potter, the boy who saves, they did have all night.
“I couldn't let him face this,” Harry says finally his green eyes shining wet with unshed tears, “Collin loves ducks and picking flowers. He's too young. He never would have survived,"
“But now you risk death, young man,” Horace says putting a laughably fake hand on Harry’s shoulder to comfort him.
As if Horace wasn’t benefitting greatly from his death.
“If it means I have bought him a few more years, then my death will have been worth it,”
“A noble answer indeed,” Horace says, seeming a little teary-eyed himself.
The interview moved through Harry's life in the Seam, his quiet determination winning over the crowd. Yet his eyes kept drifting offstage, searching for someone. Draco most likely.
"Miss Granger!"
My cue. I stepped out into the glare of the lights, letting the dress ripple around me. Slughorn beamed, his emerald suit almost blinding under the spotlights.
"The baker's daughter from District 12 - and might I say, you've quite transformed from the girl we saw at the Reaping!"
I gave him what Sirius called my warrior smile. "Amazing what a little polish can do, Horace,"
"Indeed, indeed! And that training score - a twelve. Quite impressive for District 12. Care to give us a hint?"
I thought of the knife I'd sent through the gamemakers’ roast pig, of the knife-throwing skills I'd picked up watching Careers practice.
"Let's just say I'm full of surprises."
"Oh, mysterious! I like it!" Slughorn winked at the audience.
"Now, speaking of surprises - your district partner's quite the talk of the Capitol. Any thoughts on Harry Potter's noble sacrifice?"
The question hit like a slap. I kept my face neutral, the way Mother had taught me without meaning to.
"Sacrifice is a funny word, isn't it? Sometimes things aren't quite what they seem."
A murmur rippled through the audience. Good. Let them chew on that.
"My, my! Do I detect some tension between District 12's tributes?"
I thought of Harry's silence during the attack, of Draco's arm around his shoulders.
"I think it's best if we all look out for ourselves now. That's what the Games are about, isn't it?"
"Practical thinking! But surely, coming from the same district..."
"My father once told me that love is the most dangerous thing in the world," I cut in, thinking of his pressed primrose, of his eyes following Lily Potter's ghost. "He was right. In the arena, love gets you killed."
The buzzer sounded. As I rose to leave, I heard Harry's steps behind me.
"Hermione, please-"
I brushed past him, my dress whispering against his suit. For a fraction of a second, I caught the scent of pine and smoke that always clung to him back home. But then Draco was there, his arm sliding around Harry's shoulders, wrapping him in his cloying cologne like a snake coiling around its prey. Harry’s eyes widened for a moment as he stiffened before he relaxed into the hold, giving Draco a smile full of teeth. A cub pretending to be a lion.
"Come on, Harry,” Draco crooned, a dangerous look in his eyes as his grip tightened, “We have much to discuss."
My spine stiffened, but I kept walking. Behind me, I heard them moving in the opposite direction, and I thought of Father's pressed primrose, of Mother's practical silence, of Harry standing still while Draco's knife traced my skin.
The arena would be easier than this, I told myself. In the arena, at least I wouldn't have to pretend I didn't care.