The Reaping
Even the skies mocked District 12.
The skies and their puffy white clouds that produced a soft breeze to fill the square with the smell of change that Sirius used to love.
Sirius loved autumn when he’d been eleven and eager for a chance to prove himself. Sirius loved autumn the day he’d been chosen at sixteen, for all of two minutes.
As much as they were called Games, they weren’t much fun. And nobody ever won, not really. Not when you had to go on for the rest of your life carrying the weight of so many ruined lives, lost lives, on shoulders too young and frail to handle it. Only President Dumbledore and his Capitol pets ever won anything.
Sirius looked out at the crowd of losers, the crowd who hid two future chess pieces within their ranks. Which two doomed children would Sirius have the dubious honor of ‘mentoring’ that year?
Would it be the girl in the front with the hungry look in her eyes and black braids that stuck out in crooked angles? Or the boy toward the back, his hand protectively on another boy’s shoulder?
Brothers, Sirius was certain of it.
He looked away from them quickly only for his eyes to accidentally land on a ghost.
James.
No…
Sirius looked away quickly, not letting the boy even notice his brief moment of interest.
Not James. James was dead.
James is dead.
Dead.
The boy with the wild black hair and cheeks carved by hunger had eyes too green and a nose too small to be James. That boy was short too, James was never short when he came to haunt Sirius.
Sirius knew the boy’s name, somewhere beneath the memories and the pain and the drugs, Sirius knew his name was Harry.
It was easier to not remember his name.
It was easier to not remember anything-
Not the games.
Not the brothers he once had.
Not the life he once envisioned.
Not the twenty-six kids who died under Sirius’ mentorship or the twenty-three who died in Sirius’ games.
Forty-nine ghosts to haunt him when his veins were singing and his thoughts were spinning.
And not the name of the godson that Sirius was meant to protect.
Sirius had one thing left in his life, and it came in a little glass bottle with medical warnings he ignored. And, as soon as the corpses were called and brought to the stage, Sirius had his escape in his pocket, ready to take him and his ghosts to oblivion.
The anthem began playing once the bell rang ten; Sirius stayed in his seat, a blatant showing of disrespect.
What else could they do to him?
Rita shot Sirius a nasty look, but he watched the clouds and ignored her. Rita was a nasty woman, one who took a lot of joy out of her job.
She didn’t get to judge Sirius.
The mayor of District 12, another nasty woman, only slightly more tolerable than her deceased predecessor, moved to the microphone to begin her annual speech.
‘The Capitol hates us and wants to watch us kill each other. They call it glorious, but that’s a lie. Run, run now, die on your own terms. Don’t let them take you alive.’
Or something similar. Sirius didn’t know. He wasn’t listening. It was all and the same, anyway, no matter what pretty, flowery words she chose to wrap the promise of a future corpse in.
It was hard to ignore the sickly sweet honey tones of Rita when she got up and bounced on her heels to the microphone and began her spiel.
“Welcome!” she cried. “I am honored to be here on behalf of our President Dumbledore and the country of Panem to choose two lucky tributes for the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games!”
There was a smattering of expected and forced clapping. Sirius smiled briefly as it was sparse enough to sound mocking. District 12 may not have much - or anything, really - but they certainly still had some spirit left over in there somewhere.
Fuck the President, fuck the Hunger Games, fuck the entire country.
“Let’s see who our first lucky little tribute is, hmm?” Rita reached in the bowl of doom - a moniker James gave the bowl of names that Sirius still used - and dug around for a dramatic moment until she pulled out a slip of paper snatched by bright green nails, like poison, sharp enough to kill a man.
Or a child.
Sirius had seen children die from weapons that looked much more innocent than Rita’s fingernails.
“Our first tribute from District 12 is…”
Don’t say his name…
“Luna Lovegood!”
Sirius looked away from the clouds long enough to force himself to see the next ghost to haunt him. It was easy to find her in the crowd - the others backed away as if this girl’s impending death was contagious.
She was tiny, fuck, they got smaller each year. He bet she'd barely reach his chest. Her hair - so blonde it was nearly white - was pulled into two long pigtails cascading down her shoulders and onto her chest. Her figure was slender, like a ballerina, and her eyes were as blue as sapphires and twice as large as they stared back at Rita. He didn't know if it was due to having her name called or if they usually looked to be in a perpetual state of surprise, but Sirius felt like she'd see through his soul and judge him unfit for life if she turned them on him.
Sirius didn’t think she’d win, he’d never gotten a winner, but he looked at her and knew that she would die quickly.
Probably painfully.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
A rush of shock through the crowd. Sirius fidgeted in his seat and squinted at the only person who hadn’t walked away from the silently crying girl.
A young man who stood tall, firm shoulders beneath a clean enough flannel shirt. His hair was a dirty blonde that bordered on light brown, ruffled by hands that had, no doubt, been running through it until the girl's name got called. Although there was some baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, it was obvious that he would grow up to be quite the looker. Or - would have, if he hadn't doomed himself to an early grave.
He stood proudly then, shielding the sobbing girl - Sirius couldn't tell if she was crying for herself or the stupidly brave boy in front of her, or maybe both - and jutting his chin out. He was bearing everyone's stares remarkably well. Sirius was sure he was the only one who could spot the slight tremors in his knees.
The girl - Lovegood, was it? - was clinging to one of his hands that was dangling at his sides, the other clenched into a fist, and desperately tugging on it to get the boy to look at her. She was shaking her head, mumbling something too quietly for the rest of them to hear, but it was obviously in vain. The boy simply squeezed her hand once before letting go, the determination in his hazel eyes more pronounced than ever.
District 12 never had volunteers. Not for the last fourteen years. The last one had been…
Well. The last one was dead, anyway.
And this boy who walked to the stage with a naive look of bravery on his face - so like Sirius with his arrogance and his excitement to play - would be dead soon as well. He introduced himself as Neville Longbottom, but Sirius was watching the girl he volunteered for cry in another child’s arms.
Sirius hoped that girl, Neville Longbottom’s girlfriend, he presumed, wasn’t pregnant.
“Wow! What an exciting day!” Rita cried. She patted her curls and smiled brightly, undoubtedly delighted to have a bit of drama in Panem’s most dull district.
Nobody else shared her enthusiasm.
District 12 kids weren’t even contenders in the games, they were the canon fodder to be killed for entertainment.
“Let’s see who our next tribute will be!” Rita said. She dug in the bowl while Neville stood with his feet planted firmly and only the shaking hands he hid behind his back proving the boy wasn’t brain dead.
When Rita snatched another paper, Sirius had been thinking about James. James would have liked Neville. He would have told Sirius that Neville had gumption and bravery.
Sirius would have laughed and said Neville’s guts might save his guts.
Sirius would have, as usual, been wrong.
And then, as if allowing James to linger in the dark corners of Sirius’ mind had been the catalyst, Rita unfolded the paper and read the name Sirius tried to wipe from his memory.
“Harry Potter!”
No.
No.
No!
Sirius finally looked his godson in the face. Harry was easy to find in the crowd while the others moved to give him the spotlight. Sirius saw the brief look of shock in Harry’s eyes, the way his mouth fell open.
Harry hadn’t arrived that day and planned on having his own name drawn. Few ever did.
Someone volunteer, Sirius silently begged them. He had jumped to his feet at some point, but none noticed as they looked at the boy so small and underfed - starving and gaunt - with eyes filled with pity.
“Are there any volunteers?” Rita asked. She would love it if there were, more drama for their District.
Sirius would love it too.
And he had never known it before, but silence could be loud, could weigh so heavily. Because the silence that filled the square when Rita called for a volunteer was deafening.
Heartbreaking.
Oppressive.
Harry didn’t expect a volunteer to take his place, he was already walking to the stage with his head held high. And he was right: his soft footsteps, from a body too thin, too worn, was the only sound ringing in the wake of Skeeter's words.
District 12 kids never won. Sirius Black had been the exception, but Harry Potter had no chance.
And Sirius, who was meant to protect him, would have to watch as James’ son died in an arena for the glory of Panem.
“When you get back, you have to take care of them,” James said as casually as he could while they walked through the foliage together. “Promise me, Sirius, promise that you’ll take care of Lily and the baby.”
Sirius laughed, always playing his part for the cameras.
“Fuck off, James,” he grinned. He picked up a stick and poked James in the arm with it. “You take care of them when you win. Oh! Hey, if it’s a boy, name him after me, will you?”
Harry James Potter took the stage and stood beside Neville Longbottom while Rita read off her closing spiel. Sirius hovered behind the boys, his hands fluttering uselessly at his side.
Sirius didn’t save James. He didn’t save Lily. He didn’t raise Harry. He protected nobody, nothing, and now he’d have to watch his godson die.
‘YOU PROMISED!’ James yelled in the corner of Sirius’ mind. ‘YOU SWORE IT!’
Sirius had. On national television. And now the nation was laughing as the child Sirius swore to protect stood on the stage as shining proof of Sirius’ failure.
Harry came to Neville’s shoulder in height, and his arms, bare beneath a surprisingly clean and crisp green shirt, were about as big around as a decent stick. His hair, so like James’, was flattened once before Harry stuck his hands behind his back, mimicking Neville’s stance, and Lily’s chin was raised arrogantly. It was all for show. A spectacular show, true, but a show nonetheless.
Sirius knew it. Harry knew it. Neville Longbottom knew it. And all of Panem knew it.
Harry Potter was going to be dead within a fortnight.
When Rita ended her speech, peacekeepers stepped forward to grab the boys. The one who grabbed Neville was rough, maybe anticipating he’d be the more difficult one. The one that grabbed Harry was surprisingly gentle as he guided him in to the community center to the room where his family and friends would come say goodbye and beg him to try and live.
“Who came to see you?” James asked when they boarded the train together with forced smiles and linked arms.
“Reggie,” Sirius said. He blew some kisses to the cameras before closing the train door and collapsing on the floor. “Fuck, James. Reggie.”
“I know.” James sank to the floor with him and pulled Sirius to his side. “He came to see me too, with Lily. He- he said thank you.”
Sirius knew it was his turn to say thank you, but he couldn’t get the words out.
He never did thank James. There hadn’t been a reason to, he lost a brother to the Games either way.
Sirius stood outside the door that he knew Harry would be in. He twisted his fingers one by one as he paced the hallway outside Harry’s door. He hadn’t been certain which room which boy was in, but then Neville Longbottom’s parents arrived with the girl Neville volunteered for and a few other children, and Sirius knew.
The room with no visitors, no noise coming from it at all, was where Sirius’ godson sat.
It was cruel, making Harry sit there and wait to be moved to the train. The Capitol was screaming in his young face, “NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOU! YOUR DEATH WON’T MATTER!”
And Sirius could step in that room, he could introduce himself fourteen years too late, he could hug Harry and promise to help him live.
He could lie and lie and lie.
But he didn’t.
Sirius sank to the floor outside of Harry’s room, his back to the door, and pulled out his syringe filled with morphling and plunged it in his arm.
While Harry waited for words of love and assurance that would never come, Sirius cried with his ghosts over the boy who would haunt him for the rest of his life.