May the Games Begin

Alexandra,

I trust this letter reaches you swiftly. You are aware of your obligations, and I  write to remind you that the time has come to rise to the expectations that rest upon your shoulders. 

The arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students presents a unique opportunity, but also a challenge. You will find their presence instructive. But take heed—Durmstrang in particular houses threats you must not underestimate. Their reputations precede them, they have been groomed to be ruthless in their ambitions, much like ourselves. You will find in them a competitor, perhaps even an adversary. Stay vigilant. Show whoever it may be nothing but your most polished facade. We cannot afford to allow them to best you, for your failure would reflect on us all.

I am fully aware of your movements, Alexandra. Do not think for a moment that anything escapes my notice. You are to volunteer your name when the time comes, and you will do so with pride, carrying the Garnier name as it deserves. Do not disappoint me. If you hesitate—if you falter—there will be consequences. You know I do not make idle threats.

Never forget who we are. It is your duty to this family.

Victoria aut mors.

Lord Sebastian Garnier

She crumples the letter and squashes it into the furthest corner of her bag. 

Narcissa, who is brushing her icy blond hair in the mirror, sends her a glance before continuing with herself.

“You ought to fold up his letters.” Is all she says, her back towards her.

Alexandra scoffs and makes a show of kicking the bag on the floor. “I won’t.” The large thud is barely satisfying and she finds herself wincing as her foot makes a contact with a rather sharp corner.

For a moment Narcissa studies her from the reflection in her mirror. Her eyebrows furrowed in what seems to be disapproval.

Of course .

“Suit yourself.” She responds coolly, but Alexandra has already seen the expression on her face. She thinks she is overly dramatic and a touch foolish for her behaviour.

She can understand why.

Narcissa doesn’t know what it’s like to have the weight of expectation on her shoulders for every waking moment of her life. She only knows what she is meant to be; a perfect daughter.

Alexandra has to be the perfect heir.

It’s a harsh burden and she cripples under the weight of it more often than not. It clouds her judgement and prevents her from moving around the world as easily as Narcissa does. Who doesn’t care for the strain of expectation and instead modifies it to fit her. The pureblooded life compliments her, it was designed for her. 

Alexandra has to wedge herself into the mould and hope she changes to match it.

She always has to change. Today is no different.

“Is Malfoy planning to volunteer?” She asks, turning her gaze away from the bag that contains her biggest irritation. It’s a bad habit she’s succumbed to. Perhaps the more logical side of her believes that the more volunteers the smaller the chance of being selected.

It’s a sad hope. One that is bound to deceive her.

Narcissa frowns slightly, and Alexandra might mistake that look for sympathy. “I assume so.” She says. “I expect we’re going to find out sooner or later.”

Tonight. They’ll find out tonight.

The dorm room is filled with an air of tension and slight dread. The latter is likely exuding from Alexandra. Narcissa seems as composed as ever.

It’s not fair.

“And you?” She asks, turning to meet her eye. “Are you going to enter?”

Alexandra pauses for a moment, and it half crosses her mind that she can say no. That she can cut her losses and simply refuse to volunteer. 

There’d be a chance of that, if her father were not the kind of vengeful that extends his wrath even toward his only daughter.

Perhaps in another life, she muses. 

“Yes.” The word comes out strained and she reaches for the glass on her side table. “It’s my duty.”

There’s a faint silence that follows, before Narcissa rises, and knocks on the bathroom door. “Nesrin, I'll be with Lucius, Alexandra can keep you company.”

Alexandra rolls her eyes, reaching for her own wand before moving to leave the room. “I have a prefect meeting to get to, I won't be back till later.”

There’s a sound of outrage that can be heard amidst the pouring water of the showers.

Alexandra doesn’t bother staying behind to hear what insult Nesrin has no doubt hurled at her retreating form.

It’s late in the afternoon, and the castle’s corridor is highlighted with a hue brought along by  the setting sun. It’s bittersweet to walk down. She finds it hard to admire its beauty when something so ugly is residing within the pits of her stomach waiting to be thrown out.

Madame Pomfrey will tell her it’s a side effect of chronic stress, and that she should take a stress reducing tablet every other day. A strange muggle contraption really, it’s small and white, and her mother had thrown them out the moment she had seen them.

Foolish girl. She had called her.

And so she walks, bound by the forces that wipe her hopes from fruition, and tortured by her own stupidity in believing they would be fulfilled. 

The classrooms she walks by are noisily filled as students pack their things, marking the end of a school day. None of them will be partaking in the games. They are much too young.

And once again Alexandra is forced to accept her own cruel misfortune. Of course she had to be born just within the limits of a 7th year. Of course she had to be born the only child of an ambitious Lord. Of course this is her fate.

When the time presented itself, she had dropped divination the first chance she had gotten. She regrets that dearly. If only she had contact with a spirit or two right now, she’d have cursed them into changing her fate entirely.

 But alas if only she knew the true trickery of fate. And the way that one awful event can often reveal itself to be something entirely different. The hard cold shell of the clam that sandwiches itself around a pearl.

“Alright Black.” She says, pausing as she notices him at a corner. He’s leaning as though waiting for something, his grey eyes void of any interest.

He moves off the wall and falls into step with her. “ You made sure to take your time, Garnier.” Regulus drawls.

“I didn’t realise I was on a schedule.” She snaps back, though her words lack any true venom, she’s too tired for all of that; and knowing Regulus, he likely won’t reply anyhow.

And he doesn’t, not immediately anyway. Instead he busies himself by putting his hands in his pockets and walking ahead. The only noise in the empty hallway being the sound of their feet on the floors. There’s something about him that’s infuriatingly serene, that manages to annoy her every time. His features, sharp and refined, bare the same regal arrogance that Sirius and Narcissa carry-the Black sigil that is imprinted on all of it’s descendants. Evidence of their superiority amongst mere mortals. 

Regulus is more similar to Narcissa however. His arrogance is muted and cold. His intensity is icy, where his brother’s burns bright and wild.

They’re both beautiful, she thinks. It’s frankly frightening. Regulus shares his brothers’ looks in some twisted way, but that’s where the similarities die. He is, despite everything else, a slytherin, polished by expectation and duty.

“Are you putting your name in?” She blurts out for the second time within an hour, and she almost kicks herself. She assumes she’ll get no response, they are technically competitors after all.

Regulus is silent for a beat longer before he replies, his gaze is still fixed on the ground and his face still emotionless. “I will.” He says, voice clipped and cold. He speaks as though he is stating a fact, rather than a statement.

She doesn’t reply and continues walking. She knew he’d apply, much like every other Pureblood with overbearing parents would. Much like her, the luxury of choice is unbeknownst to him. He has a duty to do, a legacy to uphold.

She doesn’t bother questioning his own feelings on the matter and he certainly won’t ask her.

Eventually, they  arrive at the empty classroom at which Lily Evans is holding the second prefect meeting of the year. Alexandra has to make an effort to pointedly ignore the glare Evans is sending her from across the room. It’s not like she has the energy to be entertaining one sided hatred anyhow.

Alexandra finds this random vexation frankly unnecessary, if she’s honest.

To her right, William Hoodshell wonders if Alexandra had helped Lily retake her notes after ‘accidentally’ pouring ink all over them.

Regulus sends her a glance, and she simply rolls her eyes.

“Did Potter ever apologise for turning you into a human chameleon, Hoodshell?”

The boy visibly bristles before turning back to face the front. 

Lily begins the meeting with a graph filled with statistics, it’s rather confusing really, the points are not exactly clear as a result of what appears to be over a 1000 categories.

It’s only when she takes a closer look that she realises it's a collection of every pupil in Hogwarts plotted against their likelihood to cause trouble.

Alexandra frowns when she spots that the picture of her used is a frightful one from second year. 

Honestly, it’s like they’ve given the role of head girl to a mountain troll.

Rolling her eyes, she leans forward, somewhat curious at her own penchant for mischief as decided by Lily Evans. Unsurprisingly, she’s placed herself at the bottom with a mere 1% chance of causing trouble.

Alexandra finds this graph very biassed and inaccurate, after all, not only is Lily a huge nuisance, but Alexandra is also very well behaved, meaning that hovering with a few others at 52% is frankly unacceptable.

The graph is an odd kind of curve, with its peak hitting 100%, Alexandra frowns wondering who could possibly be this troublesome, when, in impeccable timing, James Potter, head boy of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and the joint head of troublemaking (alongside Sirius Black of course), bursts through the door 30 minutes late with Remus Lupin hot on his heels. 

Remus himself has a rather high level of naughtiness, with his average accumulating at 78%.

“Sorry we’re late.” He mutters, moving to take a seat beside her absentmindedly. When he notices who it is however, he jumps a little before pulling a face and scoots over to Hoodshells side.

If it were anyone else, she might be offended. Considering who it is though, she just snorts and turns back to look at Evans at the front. Who appears to be verbally berating Potter for his tardiness.

“Honestly it’s as though you forget you’re supposed to be head boy!” She exclaims, her hands on her hips as though punctuating her disdain. “I should take house points!”

Potter just sighs girlishly, his hands on his heart as he sends her what she thinks are supposed to be puppy dog eyes. “Lily my flower, the light of my life, have i ever told you how melodious your voice sounds when you’re angry.” He muses, reaching for her hand.

“You’re late, Potter and this is how you try to get out of it?” She snaps her face burning. “And for Merlin’s sake, stop calling me that!”

James doesn’t seem to register her words, apparently trying to play it as though he is dumbstruck by her beauty. “I’m only late because I was distracted by your beauty, Evans. It’s blinding, honestly.” He says still grinning.

Alexandra shares a look with a bored looking Regulus. She’s sure her expression may appear cold and tired of their stupidity. But deep down she’s rather invested. Something about their daily squabbles really does make for an interesting piece of drama.

“You’re disgusting. Do you know that? Absolutely revolting.” Lily says, and she rolls her eyes so hard that Alexandra wonders if they’ll get stuck.

“And yet, here I am, still madly in love with you.” James says, sending her a wink before finding his seat at the front.

Alexandra isn’t entirely sure why he even bothers trying at this point, it’s clear Evans’ is yet to see him as anything more than a great nuisance. She shakes her head. Must be some kind of Gryffindor masochism, she thinks.

Lily, realising she’s making no progress with James, rounds on the boy beside him. “Why did you let him be this late?”

Remus, either zoned out or completely disinterested, jumps at being addressed by Lily’s flashing eyes. “I tried.” Is what he says, sending James a glare. “But you know what he and Sirius are like.”

Alexandra internally scoffs at the name. Of course he’s causing problems without being present. Typical Black.

Regulus sends her another look, but this time it’s knowing. As though he expects a reaction she has yet to give.

She’s partially offended by this and shoots him a glare. The younger boy simply eyes her, not bothering to say anything in response.

Honestly, it’s as though the one requirement for becoming a member of the Black lineage, is to grate on her nerves.

Now that Lily’s flow of presenting has been shut down. She puts down her graph and resigns herself to handing out sheets of parchment, with their patrolling routes on.

“Who are you partnered with?” Regulus asks, breaking the silence.

She rolls her eyes as another sigh racks her body.

Turner.

She has to patrol with Turner of all people.

“I’ll ask to switch.” She responds, not answering his question. 

There’s a very low chance that Evans will go through with her wish, not after their long history of arguing. She still believes her to be somewhat reasonable though, and she leaves her seat to intercept her from giving their round of patrols to Turner, who seems to be looking at Alexandra with a face of confusion.

This confusion only deepens when she pokes Lily in the shoulder and waits for her expectantly as she turns around.

Lily frowns when she notices the contact Alexandra has made with her shoulder and makes a show of trying to wipe it off. “What do you want, Garnier?” She says, her irritation visible.

Alexandra isn’t sure why she’d thought that Lily would at least hear her out. It’s clear to see now that she has the maturity of an angry first year. Something that is frankly a bad trait to have as a seventh year head girl, she thinks.

“Can I switch my patrol partner out?” She says, not bothering to acknowledge William Turner’s outrage at being disposed of so easily.

“I was just going to ask the same thing.” He mutters his freckled cheeks burning in what she’ll assume is embarrassment.

Neither of the girls bother replying to him, and Lily decides she’s above the conversation entirely, rolling her eyes before handing him his sheet and moving on. 

This irritates Alexandra a lot, and she follows her to her desk, not willing to let her ignore her request.

“I didn’t choose to be his partner, you can’t force me to patrol with him.” She snaps, sending her a glare that she thinks would be very hard to ignore.

Thankfully, she is correct, and Lily does acknowledge her presence.

Unfortunately this does nothing for the case she is building. “You can’t expect me to do you any favours when you insist on looking at me like I'm something below you.” She comments, shooting her a glare back.

Alexandra has to physically hold back from correcting her and telling her that she is in fact beneath her. Judging the predicament she’s in at the moment however, that would be rather stupid. 

“I can’t offer you any respect if you refuse to do the same.” She says, dismissing the irritation in the back of her head. If you’d have told her father that she was attempting to reason with a muggleborn, who just so happened to have a higher level of authority than she did, he’d most likely disown her and then exact his punishment.

She pushes the thought to the back of her mind when Lily sighs, rubbing her fingers along her nose bridge. “I suppose you have a point.” She mutters  looking mildly conflicted. “But I won't do you anymore favours.”

Favours? The voice in her mind repeats incredulously, this is basic human decency. Thank you very much.“Yes, I wouldn't expect you to.” She grumbles, filing her name beside Regulus’ for this term's patrol duty.

Lily evidently frowns at her sass but ultimately chooses to pick her battles, directing her ire at Potter, who is fiddling with what appears to be a snitch (honestly he’s not even a seeker?) instead of helping Lily organise the meeting. 

Alexandra doesn’t plan on getting caught in the crossfire when the redhead inevitably loses her temper and gathers her things the moment she becomes certain that the meeting is over.

The corridors are darker when she leaves the classroom, and the lack of light tells her the meeting had overrun. It also prevents her from noticing the group of rowdy fifth years that all but plough into her as they run down the hall.

Gryffindors, she notes and she frowns reaching for her wand. They’d be receiving detentions the lot of them. Being out of bed past curfew is bad enough, invading her personal space with their stupidity is another.

“Are you dumb?” Asks a haughty voice from behind her. Alexandra turns around, shining the light of her wand in the face of Nesrin, who is attempting to shield her eyes from the sudden glare in her vision. “Surely, you don’t plan to give the fifth years detention when they’re allowed to be out of bed Alexandra.”

Alexandra studies her face for a moment, clearly confused by what her friend is getting at. As far as she’s concerned, today is a regular friday in the cold depths of October, it’s not near enough to Halloween to warrant any form of celebration, and even if it were, being out past curfew is still a punishable activity. 

When Nesrin realises that her friend doesn’t understand what she’s saying, she sighs in a loud display of tiredness (Which is quite offensive really, because Alexandra considers herself much smarter than the girl before her). “I’d have thought you of all people would be aware that the cups been brought out.”

Oh.

Alexandra’s stomach feels as though it’s been set alight with dread, and that her very being has been washed up on the shore of disaster. She doesn’t know how she managed to let this slip her mind, how she could fool herself into thinking that this wasn’t a problem.

Her throat is suddenly dry, and she has to stop herself from wincing when she says casually, “That doesn’t explain why there’s so many fifth years running about.” She sends a glance at the direction they were walking. “They can’t volunteer.”

Nesrin shrugs, leading her down the corridor. Their footsteps are paced, gradual. But Alexandra feels as though they are the trumpets sounding her descent to hell, it’s inevitable, she knows this and yet the feelings of nausea she had pushed down so forcefully are picking apart her insides, searching for a way to escape.

She pauses a moment, abruptly trying to gather herself and spinning her friend some lie about her bludger injury acting up. Nesrin doesn’t look as though she believes her, she waits nonetheless.

“Dumbledore’s put an age limit on the cup, i can’t wait to see the damage it does them when it flings them away for volunteering.” She smirks, looking genuinely amused.

Alexandra believes this to be a poor attempt at lifting her spirits, if anything it has only made her feel worse. She’s gripping on the stone pillar about two metres from the great hall, and trying her utmost to keep the contents of her stomach down.

She hasn’t felt this nervous in a while.

It’s not the tournament itself that scares her if she’s honest. She could very well except the notion of putting her life at risk if only to further the family’s reputation. It’s the process of selection that daunts her-that has always daunted her.

Should she not be deemed worthy by the cup, it would be the largest insult to her family name, it would move her father to anger and her mother-a wife incapable of providing a male heir- into further shame.

It would sentence her as a failure and the noose around her neck will have finally robbed her of her final breaths.

She does not believe herself a worthy champion. She does not think of herself as cutthroat, nor brave. 

She does not have the patience of a Hufflepuff, nor the curiosity of a Ravenclaw.

She is not foolishly reckless the way a Gryffindor might, and she certainly doesn’t know as many hexes as she claims to do.

She has no intrigue in spellwork or history, she’s a good dueller but there are certainly better.

She is neither burning bright with determination nor steadfast in her ambition.

She is a grey area and unlike her, the cup will not waver once it has made it’s decision.

“Are you alright over there?” Nesrin wonders impatiently. Her voice is blunt as usual but an element of concern weaves around her words.

Alexandra pushes off the wall and straightens, forcing the dull tension in her shoulders to the very edge of her mind. “Fine yeah. Must’ve had something off at lunch today. Come on, let’s get going.”

Nesrin sends her another look before walking on ahead, Alexandra follows, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her.

After five, six, seven steps, they arrive at the entrance of the Great hall the hallway bustling with intrigued students of all years. A few prefects loiter around the doors, preventing any wayward students from causing anymore ruckus than necessary.

It’s a hard squeeze to get through, and it doesn’t do much for Alexandra’s already swimming vision.

The main blockage comes from a group of Durmstrang students. Each tall and stern, their blood red robes and furry hats doing well to make them stand out in the warm lighting of corridors. They all surround a single one, who appears to be whispering something humorous to the others, because they all burst into loud laughter after he has spoken.

She isn’t normally daunted by the prospect of social interaction. Particularly when it means that she is putting a rather irritating group of individuals into their places. Something unnerves her this time.

She jots it down against her already unstable emotions and moves forward anyway.

“Excuse me.” She says, her voice coming out firmer than she feels. She pokes the shoulder of the tallest one, the one at the center of their attention and he spins around to face her.

He is at least a few inches taller than her, his build strong and wide, his feature sharp and his eyebrows bushy. He exudes an aura of some sort. A frightfully masculine one, that has her conscious of her own appearance all of a sudden.

He’s the same one she’d noticed in the Hall at their entry. He has a way of garnering attention that is mildly unsettling to her.

“Yes, my apologies.” He responds, his accent thick and russian. She becomes aware of the other stares coming from his friends and straightens her own posture. Nesrin from beside her does the same, apparently picking up on the same thing she had. 

“Thank you.” Alexandra says, moving past him, and he looks mildly amused.

“Don’t get lost in there.” The deep voice replies, and she has to look away to prevent him from seeing the heat rising to her cheeks.

It’s a bit silly really, she has no reason to be blushing, they’d barely even spoken.

Merlin her emotions are all over the place.

The first thing she notices when she walks into the room, now void of its normal benches that segregate the houses, is the large wooden cup at the head of it. It’s bright blue flames flicker wildly, causing shadows to dance tauntingly on the walls.

Her nausea is quickly replaced with a strong desire to hide. She is no longer fearful of what is to come, but rather resigned to believe nothing good will possibly result in this.

The hall is packed, with students of all year groups gathering to watch the most reckless of them volunteer their names. 

The second thing she notices is Lucius Malfoy’s proud set of shoulders from within the glowing blue rings of the age line. A group of younger Slytherin’s, that often pride themselves in idolising him as a hero, stand close, along with Narcissa who unusually has what Alexandra might mistake for a nervous look on her face.

She understands why.

Entering the games is no joke, and yet from the way Malfoy’s icy locks glint in the light of the blue flame, one may mistake him for a court jester giving his final act, a god peering down amongst mortals, a king setting a decree for his subjects. 

His name is thrown with a quick flick of his wrists and the fire roars, capturing the essence of yet another volunteer. A murmur of cheers are aroused by his feat, if not the sheer grandeur of his as he had accomplished it.

She can feel her heart beating restlessly within her body.

Next up is Evan Rosier. He does not bother carrying himself with the same grace of Malfoy, and yet he is to be admired himself. His shoulders are slouched as though it is yet another tedious activity he is forced to partake in, and he drops the parchment from his grasp without so much as a second look towards the cup.

His back is towards her, and the only thing visible is the bounce of his blonde curls as he walks, but that is all she needs to see. She can already picture the expression on his face, the blank glaze over his blue eyes that he takes more often than not.

Nesrin huffs to her left and Alexandra understands what she is trying to communicate. It’s worrying, the way don’t seem to have a care in the world. The way they prove themselves to be stronger champions than her.

“Do they really think they’ll be picked?” She can hear someone question over across the hall, and she doesn’t have to turn to picture the annoying smirk on the speakers face, nor the arrogant way he leans back on the arm of a chair as though he is above everything brought to him.

“Honestly mate, i don’t think they know what the meaning of champion even is.” The other comments, and this time she does turn to face them, and funnily enough she is correct. Black and Potter lie lazily amongst an combination of Gryffindor and Beauxbatons students watching as more people muster up the courage to volunteer their names.

She notices the blonde girl that was eying Sirius up at dinner. She seems to have gotten what she wanted after all, because she reaches up to fix the collar of his shirt and he simply twirls a lock of her hair around his fingers in response.

It doesn’t do much for her nausea.

Pettigrew, leaning on his palms beside the two, watches with a glance. He catches her eye from across the room, and kicks Sirius, who upon noticing her presence makes sure to state, “I reckon there should be an anti Slytherin policy around the games.” He straightens his legs but doesn’t break eye contact with her. “Just to make sure there’s no killings and all.”

Apparently pleased by the suggestion, Pettigrew nods thoughtfully, “I’d have to agree with you there Padfoot, just to be certain of course.”

“Naturally.” Potter chimes in, shooting her an obnoxious grin.

Nesrin shoots them a glare from her position beside Alexandra. “Shove off.” She calls out to them, but there’s no true animosity in her voice. She’s never managed to get past that girlish crush she’s had on Black, not since he’d grown out his hair in fifth year at least.

Alexandra doesn’t relate, so when she glares at him it’s the most withering look she can manage. “I guess you won’t have an issue volunteering your own name then will you?” She remarks, biting down the pressure she feels in her lungs. The fire has grown hotter in the few moments she has been stood here, it hungers for something other than Rosier and Malfoy, it desires the taste of something older, something worth destroying.

Sirius responds to her challenge in that brazen way he responds to all things. He flaunts his arrogance as though it is a weapon, a sword sharp enough to impale the steeliest of challengers. He stands, his grin set in place, and Alexandra cannot help but be blinded by it, a star amongst men.

Potter appears greater than life himself. And the two, heirs of the noble Black and Potter lineage, march up to the cup as though it is nothing more than a cauldron of water and they are nothing less than thirsty travellers.

It irks her, the way they can eye the burning cup and grant it what it wants. As though it does not have the power to relinquish them of all they hold dear, as though they have not bound themselves to what potentially is their doom.

But as the cup burns up the names of the two, and releases it’s wave of light to show it is satisfied. Alexandra cannot help but note that the two boys burn brighter than it ever could. As though their own existence overpowers its own.

A wave of applaud carries around the room, and several cheer as the two return to their seats. She expects a challenge in response, a jeer to highlight their triumph, a sign to demonstrate their superiority over her-a stamp to highlight the weakness of her resolve.

None of that comes.

And the boys simply continue to watch as the other students either succeed and get their names in, or fail the age limit and are thrown comically away from the cup.

She’s hit with the sudden and mortifying realisation that her encouragement meant nothing. And that Sirius Black had truly intended to put his name in, on his own free will. And that he had not bothered seeking retaliation because he did not care enough to do it. And that she was so beneath his notice that he cared only to use her as a pedestal for him to stand on and that she had hardly done anything to dampen his mood, let alone slight him.

Alexandra’s stomach somehow plummets even more.

How is she expected to be a champion, if even Black appears as a shining emerald beside her.

“Have you seen Regulus?” Is what Narcissa asks when she comes to stand beside them. Her early look of dismay has disappeared without a trace from her face, and had Alexandra not been the one to notice it, she’d find it hard to believe that it was ever there.

“Last i saw him he was at the prefect meeting.” Alexandra replies, schooling her own expression.

Neither of the girls seem to have noticed her own descent into emotional madness and she’s silently grateful for it. The last thing she needs to be right now is vulnerable.

Several of the younger students move away from the cup as it sends out angry embers at the roof of the castle. The enchantment on the ceiling flickers slightly, casting a long beautiful shadow over the room. 

It is not yet satisfied, it is owed a debt it has come to collect. It expects to be sated tonight, and Alexandra is the only one that knows how.

Remember who we are

The note in her pocket weighs on her being as though it carries a summation of the life she is yet to have lived. The writing on it is neat, spaced carefully to occupy a suitable amount of room without doing enough to be obnoxious, the x in her name is looped in a manner that implies consistency, continuation.

She cannot be sure she will shine as brightly as the other planets in the universe, but she is sure to survive.

She will survive.

Nesrin sends her a sympathetic glance but makes no move to do anything else. Narcissa sends her a stiff nod before looking away. There is no appearance of dismay on their faces the way there was during Malfoy’s turn.

It’s as though they are aware of what she needs. Of what she requires to continue.

The crowd slightly quietens as she makes her way through them, most of them questioning where she is headed.

Because, God forbid Alexandra Garnier does anything to place herself in a situation of actual danger.

It’s supposedly out of character for her, and perhaps they are correct, she takes on the fear of something predictable in the stead of something unseeable, something burning without hope of being put out, something that would not rest at consuming only part of her. 

Her fathers wrath.

The flames of the cup bear down into her face, as though relishing in the structure of her being before they inevitably warp it forever. Perhaps they notice a resemblance between her and the previous tributes, or perhaps they simply lust for her soul as most do, excitable at the idea of stealing away a piece of it.

She doesn’t know what she looks like right now. Whether her lip quivers in the face of something so much bolder than she is, whether her body shakes in fear or anger.

She has no idea.

She only knows the feeling of resignation as she drops her name into the fire, and the flames roar into life, having collecting the very thing it had longed for.

The blood of the old, the soul of something new.

It has been 20 years since a Garnier has been a tribute, and a 100 years since any of them had garnered a win for their family name.

May the games begin.