The Capitol
Katniss
Katniss isn’t really sure what to make of Harry. The boy with the bread seems just as cynical and reticent as she is. Last night, they both decided to leave their drunken mentor to the tender ministrations of the Capitol people, when either one of them could probably have garnered his favor by cleaning him up. She spent the rest of the night in her room, trying not to think about Harry, thinking instead about her family, about bread and dandelions and katniss roots, about what Prim was doing each moment as the train carried her further and further away.
She wanted to cry herself to sleep, but the tears wouldn’t come.
She’s sitting at the breakfast table, enjoying her second mug of hot chocolate, when she decides it’s time to deal with Remus Lupin.
“So – you’re supposed to give us advice,” she says to him.
“Here’s some advice: stay alive,” he says, then starts giggling. She exchanges a glance with Harry, and they seem to come to a silent agreement that Lupin’s bullshit stops now.
“Hilarious,” Harry drawls – then his hand whips out and knocks the glass of wine out of Lupin’s hand.
Lupin stares at the blood-red stain spreading on the floor, then at Harry, then swings a fist right at Harry’s jaw. Only Harry’s jaw isn’t there anymore, he’s ducked under the punch and stood up faster than she can blink. When Lupin turns away and reaches for the bottle, Katniss drives her knife into the table, just shy of his fingers. She braces herself for him to punch her this time, but instead, he sits back and blinks at them.
“Well, well, well,” he says, “Did I actually get a pair of warriors this year?”
Harry slides back into his chair and resumes picking at his plate like the last few seconds were an amusing interlude – which, they pretty much were.
“I’m not much of a warrior, but I can avoid a fight like you wouldn’t believe,” he says calmly, “and you should know Katniss is an excellent poacher.” He smirks at her. She sticks her tongue out at him.
Lupin turns to her. “Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”
She’s about to try and throw it, just to prove a point, when Harry answers for her. “Probably, but she’s deadly with a bow. You should hear people talk about her at the Hob. Always a clean kill, always through the eye, even with fucking squirrels.” Katniss isn’t sure she’s ever even seen Harry at the Hob, but he must have spent plenty of time there if he’s heard about her hunting.
“Both of you, stand over there,” says Lupin, directing them to the center of the room where he circles them. Katniss feels like an animal for trade with him prodding them, checking their muscles, examining their faces. “Well, you both seem fit. Attractive enough for the stylists to work with. Not entirely hopeless.”
Harry drawls out a sarcastic “Gee, thanks,” and Katniss snorts.
“I’ll offer you a deal,” says Lupin. “You both do exactly what I say, including not interfering with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you.”
It’s a pretty shit deal, but better than nothing. “So, help us,” she says, “When we get to the Arena, what should our strategy be at the Cornucopia if–”
“Hold your horses. We’ll be pulling into the station any minute. You’ll be handed off to your stylists. It won’t be a pleasant experience, but no matter what they do to you, don’t resist,” Lupin says.
“But–” Harry begins.
“No buts. Don’t resist,” Lupin interrupts. He leaves the car abruptly, bringing the bottle of wine along with him. Suddenly, the car goes dark except for the overhead lights. They’re in a tunnel. She tries not to think of the mines or being trapped forever in darkness like her father.
As the train slows, bright light pours through the windows again. Both of them fly to the window for their first glimpse of the Capitol.
It’s just as grand as the cameras always make it seem, if not more so. From the glittering rainbow of towering buildings, to the bizarre painted people who have never known hunger, to the vehicles zooming around the wide streets, everything looks painfully colorful and opulent. People start pointing at the Tribute Express. Katniss and Harry step back from the windows as one, with shared grimaces.
“Here we go,” Harry mutters.
Here we go, Katniss silently agrees.
Harry
Harry is not impressed with the Capitol. Sure, it looks impressive, it’s supposed to, but all Harry can think about is how every. fucking. person. here. is clearly, ostentatiously, well-off. His stupid prep team has been clucking over him for hours, commenting on how skinny he is (I’ve been starved), how some of his ribs and knuckles and toes are crooked (I’ve been beaten), how his hair is a travesty (I’ve been told), and all of them sound outrageously annoyed with him for it. Like he wouldn’t change any of it if he could.
His stylist, Madam Malkin, has been sitting off to the side the whole time, observing the proceedings with almost clinical detachment. She has yet to offer any input, apparently content to let the prep team remake him to “beauty base zero” before she lifts a finger. Harry has practically bitten through his tongue trying not to say anything to any of them, keeping in mind Lupin’s advice of “don’t resist.”
He takes in the details while his team fusses. Each of the preps is covered in their own unique flavor of tattoos and makeup and outrageous fashion choices. Madam Malkin, on the other hand, looks almost normal. An affluent and elegant normal, but if she dressed down a bit, she could blend right in back home.
Finally, the prep team finishes greasing him down (again), and flutters out of the room. Malkin stands and circles him. He’s naked, which was embarrassing about three hours ago. By now he’s pretty much used to it. The silence, however, is uncomfortable.
“Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you at the Games before,” he finally asks, just for something to talk about.
“Yes, this is Olivander’s and my first year as Games stylists,” she replies. Olivander must be Katniss’s stylist.
“So you got stuck with 12,” Harry nods. That’s usually how it goes.
“Olivander and I asked for District 12,” she says but doesn’t explain. She gestures for him to put his robe on and have a seat on the couches she’d been occupying before. With the push of a button, a decadent meal rises from the table. Harry digs in immediately, never one to turn down food.
“So, Harry, about your opening costume,” Malkin begins. “My partner, Olivander, and I want to have you and Katniss in matching outfits. As you know, it’s customary for the costume to represent the industry of your district.”
Harry nods. Previous years have had some pretty comical attempts at turning the district industries into costumes. District 12 is usually either in a “sexy coal miner” getup or completely nude and covered in coal dust. He’s not sure which sounds worse.
“To that end, instead of focusing on miners or coal, Olivander and I decided that the best way to make you both memorable is to set you on fire.”
Harry immediately chokes on his bite of food. Madam Malkin just smiles at him as he coughs and tries to catch his breath. “You– I– you– what?!” he splutters.
***
Hours later, sure enough, Harry and Katniss are in matching black unitards, waiting in their chariot for Malkin and Olivander to set them on fire.
“What do you think?” Katniss whispers to him. “About the fire?” She looks beautiful, otherworldly, like some primordial fire goddess ready to damn him for all eternity.
“If you have to, just stop, drop, and roll,” he grits through clenched teeth, not at all happy about his impending immolation. Katniss chuckles humorlessly, obviously in a similar frame of mind.
“I know we promised Lupin we’d do whatever they say, but I don’t think he knew this was coming,” she murmurs. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Hopefully far, far away. That much alcohol near an open flame might blow up the building,” Harry snarks, and suddenly they’re both laughing, holding on to each other and the chariot. They’re interrupted by a blast of music through the massive doors that slide open to reveal crowd-lined streets.
The district chariots start rolling out and Olivander shows up with an honest-to-odds flaming torch. Before they can even react, he says “Here we go then,” and holds the torch to their capes. Harry clenches his hands, one on the rail and one still on Katniss, but the heat never comes. Olivander just lights the headdresses too, lets out a relieved sigh, and says, “It works.” Like he was worried too. Which is not at all encouraging.
The next moment, Olivander’s jumped down but is shouting and gesturing to them, drowned out by the music. “What’s he saying?” Katniss asks, and Harry squints.
“Oh,” he recognizes the gesture, “he wants us to hold hands.” One of Katniss’s hands is still on his shoulder, so he grabs it with the hand that was on her shoulder and drops them both to their sides. Olivander nods and gives them a thumbs-up, and then they’re moving.
The crowd collectively gasps, then cheers for “District 12!” Everyone is watching them, the kids on fire. Harry catches a glimpse of them on screen. It only reinforces his previous thought that Katniss could be a goddess of fire in another life. She’s smiling and waving, blowing kisses, and it’s all Harry can do to tear his eyes off the screen so he can follow suit.
He’s promised, himself and Ron, that his only goal in these games will be to Keep Katniss Alive. Looking at her now, he’s not sure she needs it. She could burn the world with a smile.
When they reach the City Circle, Katniss starts to loosen the death grip she has on his hand and pull away. Harry's fingers tighten automatically. She looks at him curiously, and he just shakes his head minutely. She shrugs but keeps holding his hand.
He’s not entirely certain why he can’t bear to let her go. It’s odd for them to be presented as a team, but it feels right. He’s here to keep her safe. His only goal is for her to win and go home to her family. They are a team.
President Riddle is giving a speech, but based on the view from the screens, all the cameramen care about is the kids on fire, Katniss especially. Harry smirks that Tom Riddle’s famed charisma isn’t enough to hold a crowd’s attention in the face of a fire goddess. Finally, the chariot takes one more lap before trundling into the Training Center.
Their prep teams immediately descend on them, and Harry reluctantly pulls his hand out of Katniss’s. “Thanks for not letting go,” he whispers nervously, offering her a shy smile. Something flashes in her eyes that he can’t quite decipher before it’s gone and she leans over to kiss his cheek.
His blush might just have the power to reignite his costume.