Reaping Day
Harry
“Up! Get up! Now!”
Harry wakes to his aunt’s shrill voice and harsh knocking on his door. She raps on it again as he tries to blink away the fog of sleep. “Up!” she screeches, and Harry hears her walking toward the kitchen, then the sounds of her starting breakfast. He rolls over as he tries to remember the dream he’d been having. It hadn’t been a nightmare, for once; just a pleasant dream with burnt bread and dandelions.
“Are you up yet?” his aunt demands, back outside the door.
“Nearly,” says Harry.
“Get a move on, you ungrateful wretch, so you can look after the bacon. I want everything perfect for Reaping Day, so don’t you dare let it burn.”
Harry groans quietly – Reaping Day, how could he have forgotten? He drags himself out of bed and digs around for some socks. After pulling a spider off a pair he finds under the bed, he tugs them on and opens the door cautiously. He’s used to spiders, a hazard of sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, which is full of them.
When he’s dressed he pads down the hall to the kitchen. The over-large room, situated at the back of the bakery his relatives run, is already filled with the smell of frying bacon, layered over the ever-present aromas of flour and yeast and baking. Harry spots a pile of clothes tossed haphazardly in “his” chair (where he sits on the rare occasions he’s allowed a proper meal). Reaping Day is the only day he ever gets new clothes, or at least clothes new to him, and they’re never as nice or as well-fitted as the ones his cousin Dudley gets.
“You can look at your clothes when it’s time to put them on, you greedy little brat, now mind the bacon!” Petunia snaps. Harry dutifully takes over the task of preparing a breakfast he knows he’ll be lucky to get two bites of. Life with the Dursleys has always been miserable, but he can at least minimize the misery with obedience and silence. He’s not in the mood for her to take a swing at him with the frying pan today – it’s bloody hot and full of bubbling grease.
Uncle Vernon enters the kitchen with a bark of “Comb your hair!” by way of greeting. He always seems to think Harry’s messy hair is some sort of intentional insult, some way of defying the Durselys’ expectations, but Harry can’t help it. His hair just grows all over the place, no matter what he tries.
By the time Dudley arrives in the kitchen with his mom, Harry is sliding fried eggs out of the pan and making up plates for the three people who would get to eat them. The fact that his aunt had only pulled out three place settings is a clear indicator that he can expect to go hungry this morning. No matter – he’d already snuck a piece of bacon and a slice of toast when his uncle wasn’t paying attention.
His relatives all sit around the kitchen table, chatting happily and ignoring Harry as he serves them, so he slips away to start washing pans while he waits for them to finish. He ponders the upcoming Reaping as he mindlessly scrubs and rinses. He’s been forced to sign up for tesserae for the entire family every year, while of course Dudley only has his required entries. “Harry Potter” would be on 25 little slips of paper today, “Dudley Dursley” on only 5.
Not that it matters. It might as well be 30 little “Harry Potter”s in that glass ball. Harry has been told every year, in no uncertain terms, that if his cousin’s name is called, Harry will have to volunteer to take his place. If he doesn’t, his aunt and uncle will kill him. They never state it so baldly, they couch it in thinly veiled euphemisms like “you won’t even live to regret it” and “you’ll never see the light of day again” but the ultimatum is clear: die in the Games for Dudley, or die at home for failing to take his place.
Dudley is too spoiled to even be grateful for it. He’s never had to do chores, never had to sign up for tesserae, would never have to compete in the Games, all thanks to Harry, and yet his favorite pastime still seems to be “Harry Hunting” with his mates. They love using Harry as a punching bag when they can catch him. The only advantage to being scrawny is speed. Speed and fitting into tight hiding places.
The clinking of forks on plates from the dining area has petered out. Taking this as his cue, Harry slips back over to the table and collects the dishes to finish washing up.
“Remember, boy, if Dudley’s name comes out of that ball today, you better step up and volunteer, or else this will be your last day on this Earth,” Vernon sneers at him. Harry just nods and keeps on with his chores.
Once the kitchen is once again spotless and the dishes are drying on the rack, Harry snags his new outfit and shuts himself in the bathroom to clean up and get ready for the dreaded day. The Dursley family is lucky to have two bathrooms: one “half-bath” downstairs, ostensibly for customers; and one “full bath” upstairs where they actually live. This means Harry is lucky by extension, since even though he lives downstairs in what is technically the shop, he actually has access to a toilet and a sink, if not a bath. If the Durselys could have denied him even that small luxury, he’s sure they would, but it’s built-in so they can’t change it.
He scrubs himself down at the sink with a sliver of soap and a ratty hand towel, then tries and fails to tame his hair. He pulls the “new” clothes on with some trepidation at the threadbare and worn garments. At least they actually fit him well. Most of his clothes are Dudley’s hand-me-downs, and since his cousin is very nearly fat, Harry generally looks like a drowned rat in rags.
Petunia usually trades whatever Dudley has outgrown each year to get something brand-new for “Dudders” and something second- or third-hand for “the boy” on Reaping Day. Dudley also gets new clothes for the start of school, for his birthday, when he (rarely) gets good grades or (frequently) wins a boxing match, and at the Harvest Festival. Harry has to make do with one new-to-him outfit that might possibly fit him on Reaping Day, and whatever castoffs Dudley outgrows that Petunia can’t be bothered mending for trade.
Harry takes one last look in the mirror, taking in his painfully thin face, untameable black hair, and bright green eyes. This is as good as it gets, he thinks, squaring his shoulders and heading out of the bathroom to man the shop for a few hours until the Reaping begins.
***
At one-thirty, the Dursley family – plus Harry – all head for the square. The bakery is only one street away from where the crowds and cameras are all gathered, so they don’t have far to go. Despite the festive appearance of the square, draped in banners and bunting, everyone is grim and silent.
Harry and Dudley sign in and shuffle along to join the other sixteen-year-olds in their roped-off area. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spots his classmate, Katniss, and gives her a terse nod. They’ve never really spoken more than two words to each other, but Harry’s always felt they shared some sort of connection. If nothing else, they both understand starvation.
Not that it’s all that uncommon for citizens of District 12, or Panem for that matter, to understand starvation.
Up on the temporary stage in front of the Justice Building, Mayor Bones and Ludo Bagman are taking their seats, murmuring to each other with concerned glances toward a third, empty seat. Bagman is favoring a garish purple wig this year. Surprisingly, it complements his powder blue suit quite well. As the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and starts her annual reading of the history of Panem.
“Disasters,” blah blah blah, “brutal war,” blah blah, “Dark Days,” blah. Harry lets his mind wander as Mayor Bones drones on about the Treaty of Treason and the origin of the Hunger Games. Today, each of the twelve districts will offer up one girl and one boy as “tributes”, to participate in a fight to the death, as a reminder of how powerless they are against the might of the Capitol.
By the time the mayor gets to listing District 12’s (three) past Victors, Harry is practically asleep on his feet. He jolts in surprise as Remus Lupin, one of the aforementioned Victors, staggers onto the stage to scattered applause. He seems confused, trying to give Bagman a hug before falling into his chair. Of course he’s bloody drunk, Harry thinks darkly, useless fucking mentor.
The mayor, doubtless feeling humiliated as the entire moment was televised, hastily attempts to regain the crowd’s attention by introducing the District 12 escort.
Ludo Bagman trots to the podium to deliver his trademark, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” His bouncy and jovial air is slightly dimmed by his off-center wig, plus the morbid irony of being so happy to announce which children are slated for slaughter. Everyone knows he’d trade his entire collection of Hunger Games memorabilia for a chance to escort for a district where kids actually win sometimes, instead of being left to flounder by a drunken mentor.
Finally, it’s time for the drawing. As always, Bagman roars, “Ladies first!” and struts to the glass ball filled with thousands of little slips of paper, digging his hand in deep with a grin. Harry idly hopes that it won’t be Katniss’s name, that his fellow survivor won’t be forced to test her skills in the Arena.
It feels like a sick twist of fate that Harry’s wish is immediately granted – it’s not Katniss Everdeen’s name that Bagman reads out.
It’s her little sister’s.
Mere feet away from him, Katniss has gone still – it doesn’t even look like she’s breathing. Harry takes a hesitant step closer, then another, close enough to raise a tentative hand and place it ever-so-lightly on her shoulder. She startles, sucking in a desperate breath, but she has eyes only for Primrose.
“Prim!” she cries, sounding strangled. “Prim!” Harry’s hand drops as she stumbles toward the stage, everyone immediately making way so she has a clear path. She reaches her tiny, terrified sister just as she’s about to step up.
“I volunteer!” Katniss gasps, and Harry’s heart sinks. “I volunteer as tribute!” There’s a buzzing in his ears that drowns out the confusion onstage as Bagman and the mayor argue over the proper procedure for volunteers. Not her, he thinks, over and over, not her, not her, not her, not after everything she’s been through.
The universe, indifferent as always, ignores him as Bagman calls for a round of applause. Thankfully, the crowd ignores him too – not even the gamblers clap. Utter silence is their show of support, their mute protest that this is wrong. A little girl shouldn’t be drawn for a battle to the death. Her big sister shouldn’t have to take her place. This is wrong.
Silence is not enough, nothing will ever be enough to acknowledge the wrongness of this sacrifice she’s making. Without really thinking about it, Harry touches the three middle fingers of his left hand to his lips and holds them out to her. Around him, the crowd follows suit one-by-one, until everyone is holding fingers up as thanks, as appreciation, as farewell.
Katniss looks on the verge of tears as Lupin staggers across the stage, mumbling compliments and throwing an arm over her shoulders. Then he does a nosedive off the stage and has to be hauled away on a stretcher. By the time Bagman regains control of the situation and starts digging in the boys’ names, Harry is numb. He thinks this day can’t get any worse.
So, of course, Ludo Bagman calls out “Dudley Dursley!”