1. The Reaping
When Harry’s name is called at the Reaping, she does not feel fear. Only numbness, and a growing awareness at the back of her mind that thinks, Aunt Petunia will be furious I won’t be able to make dinner tonight.
Laughter bubbles out of her throat, because it’s funny. It’s funny, because it’s not just tonight’s dinner she won’t be making. Harry won’t be doing anything for them ever again. And isn’t that just wonderful?
The people fear the games because they don’t want to die. But to Harry, who has never known a reason for wanting to live, having her name called isn’t the worst thing in the world. Depressing as it is, for her, getting reaped is exactly what the Capitol makes out the reapings to be. A chance for fame and the eternal glory, and the sweet promise of freedom it offers; To leave behind the sorry excuse for a home she has only ever known and to find a life for herself worth living.
Besides. Even if she does die, which is very likely, it’s still a way out. Life is overrated, anyway.
“Cedric Diggory.”
The crowd stirs, this time showing a far more visible reaction than when that stupid orphan Harry Potter was Reaped. If Harry is the shadows no one notices as they pass them by, then Cedric is the brilliant, blinding sun in all its blazing glory. The Golden Boy, the pride of their district, smart and athletic and absurdly good-looking. Everyone who attends the local highschool knows of him, them and their parents and their aunts and uncles, their best friends and their neighbors, too.
When Cedric’s name is called, there’s a shift in the air, and just like that, the games aren’t a death sentence anymore. Harry recognizes the look shining through the people’s eyes because she once wore it, too, when she was still young enough to believe there was goodness in the world. Hope. An unspoken word, yet it spreads through their numbers at the speed of wildfire. Their dirt poor district actually has a chance this year. Surely, if anyone can win the games, it’s Cedric Diggory.
There’s a mob of people that demand to be let inside when the time comes to say their goodbyes. Cedric’s father, his best friends, his teachers, his classmates, so many people come and send their farewells.
No one comes to say goodbye to Harry.
-
The interior of the train is breathtaking.
The Dursleys are in no way poor, so even despite having spent half her time with them looking out from inside of a cupboard under the stairs, Harry is in no way unfamiliar with the sight of the moderate luxuries of life.
But there is nothing moderate about this. Gleaming steel walls, sleek tinted window panes, carpeted floors that line the compartments, and the rich appetizers that cover up the tables. Getting to enjoy any of this for even a moment at all might just be worth the death that will surely soon follow.
Cedric starts trying out the food right away, but Harry hesitates. She turns in a full circle to check if there is anyone here who might tell her off for taking some. Even when she picks up the slice of what appears to be fancy pie, she is cautious, waiting for a few extra seconds to see if anything will happen, before inhaling the pie in one gulp.
“Training for the games already?” Cedric grins at the show of paranoia, and Harry chokes on the unexpected sweetness of the smile- The pie. The sweetness of the pie. It’s very sugary but delightful, actually, even if Harry does continue to hack like an old lady until Cedric pours her a glass of lemon water.
“I should watch myself around you, huh?”
“That’s not what I- No!” Harry gasps in horror. “I would never- Not to you! Not to anyone!”
“I’m only joking, Potter,” Cedric smiles again. “I’ve seen you around, you know. You’d never even hurt a fly.”
Harry frowns at that. Is that true? Would she never hurt a fly? It’s true that she has some level of aversion to hurting others, likely because it’s been done to her too many times, but that kind of attitude will earn Harry much more than a scraped knee from a shove by her cousin where she’s headed.
“Nervous?”
“You wish,” Harry mumbles, a stupid answer to a stupid question. Of course she’s nervous, and it’s entirely Cedric’s fault for having asked such an obvious question in the first place.
Cedric gives a bark of laughter, and Harry flinches back immediately. It’s an even more stupid response that Harry internally berates herself for, because what is there to flinch at? Cedric can’t read her thoughts. Harry is free to think whatever possibly offensive thoughts she likes. Just because Aunt Petunia has the eyes of a hawk capable of spotting out Harry’s inner thoughts doesn’t mean that everyone can do it.
“You’re a good kid,” Cedric tells her. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”
“You, too,” Harry replies, pauses, then shakes her head furiously. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, I mean. Not that you’re a good kid, too. Not that you’re not good, just that you’re not a kid- You are a kid, but you’re older than me, you’re already eighteen, you’re a legal adult, so-”
“Am I making you nervous?” Cedric shoots her a grin.
Yes, actually, but not for the reason Cedric thinks. Harry has never had a conversation go on for so long without being called a freak or yelled at or both, so it’s only natural that she keeps waiting for something to go wrong.
“Why aren’t you nervous?” Harry asks, trying to sound annoyed, but the way her voice wobbles ruins the whole effect.
Cedric gives a light shrug. “I’m not not nervous. But we’ll call it realistic optimism. I’m eighteen, either the oldest or the same age as the other tributes. I’m strong, I’m athletic, and I know how to fight. The odds are in my favor, don’t you think?”
With his reputation, Harry would easily believe that Golden Boy Diggory was arrogant enough not to worry about his chances in the games. If only he weren’t saying it to her in person. She knows that particular brand of self-assurance in his eyes to know that it’s forced. It’s the same one she wears every day as she suffers at the hands of her relatives, because there’s no reason for her to go on if she doesn’t keep lying to herself.
The door to the compartment slides open, and in walks the only Victor that their district has had to offer in decades. Remus Lupin is dressed humbly for someone who has all the wealth in the world at his disposal, and he looks too kind to be a person who has spent more than half his life in the heart of the Capitol. The Victor of the games from twenty-one years ago, according to the reruns the Capitol broadcasts play, when he pulled off a shocker of a victory by going from the shabby kid predicted to kick it on the first day to being the last tribute standing.
Lupin’s eyes go to Cedric first, as is expected. Cedric is the light of the room, and no one has ever paid much attention to Harry, anyway. That is what she hates most about her existence, which doesn’t make much sense, she thinks, as Lupin and Cedric exchange pleasantries and get started on talking strategies right away. All the attention she has ever received came in the forms of sneers and shouts, so she should have a tendency to shy away from attention rather than yearn for it.
But while being shown cruelty by the world is a natural thing, though perhaps not so early on as Harry was exposed to it, a life spent in solitude isn’t. Humans are social creatures, their primal instincts draw them to each other for the sake of survival. Harry has been alone all her life. She has no friends, her cousin Darcy made sure of that, and it’s not like she has any family outside the Dursleys. She craves attention the way a starving creature would food, and it is a terrible weakness to have. False love is so easy to give, and one could give her only a scrap of what they could offer and she would be wrapped around their fingers in an instant.
“Potter,” Cedric nudges her, and Harry snaps back into reality. “Remus was just asking you what your strengths were.”
It is nice of Lupin to assume she has any strengths at all. Harry has to think for a good ten seconds about it before finally responding with, “I can run fast.”
“I see,” Lupin nods, and to his credit, his tone doesn’t seem at all as mocking as it has the right to be. “It is a real talent, Harry,” he says, as though he has read her thoughts. “If you really are faster than the average person, there’s the option of running for the supplies and then retreating, rather than just fleeing as soon as the games begin.”
Lupin speaks of grabbing supplies but breathes not a word about weapons, and it’s easy to see why. Harry is scrappy, thin from malnourishment, with limbs that stick out like twigs. She isn’t even halfway attractive, the only features worth commenting on is the color of her bright green eyes, so the option of sponsors is off the table, too. Considering that this is all Lupin has to work with, the most he will be able to do for her will be to get her through the first day, maybe not even that. So she can’t really blame him for thinking she wouldn’t be able to handle a weapon, the same as she won’t fault him when he inevitably decides to place all his cards with Cedric rather than spare any for her.
“The arena is designed to tear a person from the inside out,” Lupin begins with such delightful words. “It will push you to the very edge of humanity, and more often than not, the ones who make it out alive do so by letting go of their humanity altogether. Once inside, you will see and do things you never dreamed you would, and when it comes to that, the most important thing isn’t scavenging for food or knowing how to wield a weapon- It’s to make sure you don’t lose yourself to despair. To feel it in the arena will cripple you, you’re as good as dead if you don’t know what to live for anymore. You have to have an anchor keeping you to this world, reminding you that there is a home to return to. So find that, remember it, and bury it deep in your heart in these days that you have left, because you will need it if you’re going to survive.”
Harry doesn’t have a home to return to. But she does have something to live for. The promise of freedom is lingering just out of reach, if she wins the games, she will become a Victor, worshiped by the Capitol and beloved by all. To be loved is all she’s ever wanted, and here is the chance to have that on the grandest scale. Just survive the games, and Harry won’t ever again have to tear up her heart just to get a scrap of the affection others are given for free.
She wants it. She wants it so, so much, so she locks that hope in a tight box and buries it in her heart. Not too far down, though, because too much hope is a dangerous thing, and Harry still has to allow herself to be accepting of death when it comes for her. She isn’t stupid, she knows the odds are stacked against her. Thankfully, the fact that she now has a life she wants to live doesn’t necessarily mean that she fears death. Life would be better, but death would be equally as kind in relieving her of her painful want for love.
“There she is! Oh, isn’t she beautiful?” exclaims their Capitol escort, a cheery and completely clueless woman by the name of Bertha Jorkins, who is the perfect embodiment of everything the Capitol represents. Ignorant of the cruelties of the world simply because she doesn’t know better, perfectly happy to cheer for the deaths of twenty-three children because that is how she was raised. Harry wants to hate her for every name she has reaped in the past years, but the woman is so childlike in her obliviousness that it feels wrong to do so.
Harry looks out the window to what Bertha was pointing at, and her jaw softly drops open in awe. She has heard many things about the place, but the tales of its buildings and grand monuments do not do the Capitol justice. There are buildings that are tall enough to touch the clouds, marble structures divine enough to have come from the gods. Then there are the people themselves, decked out in the strangest yet most beautiful clothes Harry has ever seen, full of color and rippling with movement, swathes of robes and cloaks milling about.
They cheer madly as each train comes rolling into the station, and as though he has planned this from the start, Cedric moves to the window and starts waving at them. His eyes are hard and resentful, but are masked by the brightness of his smile. Harry thinks she understands it, but she cannot sympathize with it, because she, unlike him, is genuine when she basks in the attention, truthful in all the ways anyone can be when she puts on a dazzling beam.
Cedric hates them because they cheer for his death, but Harry has been desensitized by far too many snarls that she should just go kill herself to be bothered by it. Let them cheer for what they want. She has heard it in shouts and rages before, and it is far more pleasant to hear death threats come in the form of applause and excited hollering.
Once in the Remake Center, Harry is introduced to her prep team, a bubbly duo named Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil who can’t contain their excitement at having managed to land spots under whichever new up-and-coming designer it is that has been assigned Harry’s district. “He is an absolute genius,” Lavender squeals, while Parvati nods furiously from beside her. “Only just graduated from Hogwarts, him and his brother, but they’ve been taking the Capitol by storm!”
Harry’s half of the genius pair in question turns out to be a nice fellow by the name of Fred Weasley, around the same age as Cedric perhaps, and not unlike Harry’s district partner in the way that he smiles with his mouth but not with his eyes. Maybe it isn’t wise of Harry to make judgments based on an introduction alone, but something tells her that the lead designer of her district has a much more balanced perspective on the cruelties of the hunger games than either of his jovial assistants do.
“Me and my brother, we want to leave a mark when we leave this life,” Fred declares as Lavender and Parvati finish up with styling Harry’s hair. “We express ourselves through our passions, and our passions are shown off to the world. Nothing too strong, lest the unfamiliarity draw the crowd away, but just foreign enough that it remains intriguing and they stay hooked by the allure- Not noticing how we do eventually end up influencing them through the subtleties.”
“He’s so charming, isn’t he?” Lavender sighs.
“George and I each got the districts we asked for, and we plan on putting on a show to be remembered,” Fred continues, after shooting Lavender a winning wink. “Nothing too fancy for the Welcoming Parade, though. The real jewels will be showcased on your final night, during the interviews with Lockhart. Until then…”
Harry doesn’t really understand the concept behind the designs, but she isn’t really much of a fashion expert to begin with, so she supposes she’s the last person who should judge. Her outfit is a gown studded entirely with shining black stones, dull enough that they don’t take away from the highlighting piece of the set- A delicate crimson necklace whose mesh links go around the base of Harry’s throat. Cedric is dressed much the same when they’re made to join each other soon after, but with Capitol-style robes in the place of a dress.
They do as they’re instructed to and head into the Entrance Hall where Abraxan-drawn chariots await them, and here is where they get their first glimpse of the other tributes. Remus, who hurries up to them not long after, starts telling them which ones they should look out for- The Careers are always worth looking out for, he says. They are the tributes who treat the games like the bloodthirsty competition for glory that the Capitol paints them as, usually fan-favorites because they know how to put on a good show. Their numbers are almost always majorly filled by the same mentors each year- Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, and Antonin Dolohov, all three of whom have incredibly high-up connections within the Capitol.
Personally, Harry doesn’t think any of the three mentors seem all that impressive. She knows, of course, that Lucius Malfoy was absolutely ruthless in his own games, having been fully expected to win and proving everyone right with the deadliness with which he wielded his weapons. Were she not aware of this, however, she would think he was just another pompous Capitol prat, and that the bow tying his sleek blond hair together at the back was a bit much.
Severus Snape, greasy-haired and absolutely dislikable when he first stepped into the arena, won his games by his disturbingly extensive knowledge of poisons, without a single sponsor aiding him throughout the whole ordeal. Not because he was too proud to accept help, but because he was so unpleasant and somber that even until the last days, he remained without any sponsors. Harry can immediately see why; Even from here, the man looks like a great big brooding bat.
Dolohov is a tricky one, because his games showed that he was as brilliant as he was insane, the latter being the reason he wasn’t as affected by the arena’s brutalities, and the former being the cause of his quick victory. He looks to be in a healthy mental state for now, but if Harry’s observation of his two peers has revealed anything, it is that looks can be incredibly deceiving.
The anthem booms out from the speakers above, and Harry and Cedric are ushered onto the chariots. The Abraxans, pure white steeds with powerful wings, are creatures that Harry has only ever read about in the rare books that she could get her hands on. They are majestic and beautiful, though quite unnatural in the way they’ve been bred and trained entirely for human use. Only the fanfare of the nearing crowd draws Harry’s attention away from the creatures and onto a whole separate species of beasts entirely.
Bright, bold colors and manic sparks in their eyes, the height of the Capitol citizens in all their glory. They scream themselves hoarse for this year’s new batch of tributes, following the chariots through the streets, throwing flowers to the ones they’ve already picked out as their favorites. It’s not until all twelve chariots have been pulled into a circle in front of the presidential manor that Harry gets a good look at those other tributes. One pair in particular stands out to her, and she can tell from the line of Cedric’s gaze that he’s noticed them, too. A dress and a pair of robes, matched in the way they are studded entirely with dark emerald stones. Snape’s tributes are dressed in the exact same design as Harry and Cedric, down to the fine scarlet links around their necks.
A rather curious decision, Harry thinks. Everyone knows that her district and the one those two tributes are from are as different from each other as anything can get. Harry’s district is known for being impoverished and so useless that they only produce Victors once in a blue moon. Snape’s district comes out with Victors every other year, the best of the three Career districts in being ruthless like Dolohov’s but also full of wealth like Malfoy’s. Is this what Fred meant when he said that he wanted to influence the crowd? What is it even supposed to mean?
“To prosperity being found when stability is met,” President Riddle wraps up his speech, which Harry didn’t even know he’d started. “To glory where victory is found.”
The cause of all the misery and the suffering the districts have only ever known. Harry can’t quite bring himself to detest the man, as it’s not like he’s ever made a personal move against her, in the way certain people in her life have, and also because it’s not like he’d even notice if she did. She does, however, understand what he stands for. There above the crowd of excited, fanatic, mindless Capitol citizens, President Riddle alone stands with a level head and clear logic. He, unlike the ones he rules over, fully understands the brutalities of the games. He, unlike those whom the people of the districts curse and wail about for being rich and spoiled and ignorant of the districts’ suffering, is completely aware of the inequality and injustice that runs deep within his country. And that is what makes him so dangerous. He wields the games like a weapon to keep that injustice in line, and he wields it well- Has been, for fifty long years.
Clearly, a man never to be messed with. Harry averts her gaze and instead returns her eyes to Snape’s tributes, happening to do so at the same time Snape’s male tribute does the same. Their gazes meet. Emerald green looking into and getting lost in the depths of stormy gray.
“Happy Hunger Games,” says President Riddle. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”