The Interviews
Blaise stood, cool as could be, in his place in line just behind Theo with their mentor hovering beside them.
“Be aloof,” Snape muttered to them again. “Lockhart has a knack for digging his heels in, no need to give away any strategies or anything truly personal.”
“We know,” Theo snapped irritably.
Snape curled his thin lip up at them, disgruntled by their refusal to simped for his advice. Mother despised Snape, she said it often. She was happy enough to pass on the role of mentor to him when he won his games, but Mother frequently called him a sneak and greasy man who manipulated others to win rather than using any great skill.
Blaise thought that manipulation had merit as a strategy, but he would never have to use it. Blaise was a career, a legacy, a tribute with more options for allies than a single tribute should have.
When the stage lit up and the interviews of the tributes began, Blaise kept track of his allies in the first and second district.
Draco spoke nearly as much as Lockhart did. He sounded arrogant, confident, all wrong.
The moment someone stated that they would win was the moment of their downfall, that was what Blaise’s mother taught him.
It was one thing to fake it for the audience, an entirely different thing to sound so truly delusional as Blaise believed Draco did.
Pansy Parkinson was less arrogant, though her designer clearly decided to highlight her other… assets in the skin tight leather dress she wore. Blaise was at least dressed modestly, though his suit pants felt incredibly tight around his waist.
Pansy tried so hard to sound grown and lethal, but Blaise thought she sounded like a little girl playing assassin.
Blaise zoned out, as he was certain Panem did, when Crabbe and Goyle had their interviews. The two boys grunted more than they spoke and only got away with their short responses because their arms tricked viewers into thinking they would win with ‘brawn’ rather than ‘brain’.
As if one or the other could win the games. The victor, the true victor, had to be both.
Theo plastered a nearly perfect mask on before he strut out on stage in the tailored suit that made him appear taller, thicker, stronger.
As Theo’s ally, it was important for Blaise to listen to every word that he said. If Theo made the Gamemakers unhappy, it would be Blaise who would suffer with him in the arena.
Theo did beautifully though. Theo lavished praise on the Capitol, on Panem, on the President. When he was asked about his strategy, Theo smirked and remained mysterious enough to interest viewers.
Blaise clapped when Theo’s time ended and Theo took a sweeping bow before exiting the stage on the right.
“Do not disappoint me,” Snape murmured when Blaise’s name was called.
Blaise spared him a brief look of amusement. Disappointing Snape meant nothing to Blaise. Snape was a tool to be used to further Blaise’s game, nothing more and nothing less.
It was the legacy he carried on his shoulders that Blaise had to uphold.
Blaise strode on the stage as the exact image of a young tribute. He was healthy, his body toned from years of training. His costume was immaculate and paired well with the half-smile Blaise graced the audience with. Blaise was a Zabini, he had no need to smile too prettily for sponsors. The audience would see Blaise’s health and his confidence and would trip like fools to support him.
And when Blaise won, he would smile during the victory interview and thank all his sponsors. Blaise could play humble after he won, that was when he could be gracious.
Blaise played the crowd with a charming smile and a wave that highlighted his physique. It took beauty, brawn, and brain to win the sponsors and the games.
And Blaise intended to show he had all three in spades.
“Well, well, well!” Lockhart, dressed in a powder blue suit that gave him a ghastly complexion, grabbed Blaise’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. Blaise smiled along with him, consistently aware of the audience.
“Juliana Zabini’s son!” Lockhart crowed, causing the audience to scream at truly deafening levels.
Lockhart smiled brightly when Blaise sat beside him with his legs elegantly crossed. “What a delight! Doesn’t he look just like his mother, folks?”
A scream of approval from the crowd that Blaise acknowledged with a tilt of his head. Blaise did favor his mother in looks, it was what he always knew would cement his place in the games one day.
What was better than seeing the son of a Victor fighting the same fight? The drama, the spectacle.
It was irresistible entertainment to the sycophants who licked the boots of the President.
“I have been told the similarities between us are striking,” Blaise said with obvious intent. Let them remember how Juliana Zabini destroyed the other tributes in her games.
Let them imagine Blaise doing the same thing.
“I’m sure you have,” Lockhart agreed merrily. He was an insipid man, nothing more than a puppet.
Blaise looked at him as if they were the best of friends.
“How does your mother feel about you being in the games?” Lockhart asked Blaise. “Is she worried?”
“Not at all,” Blaise said, pairing his words with a laugh for the audience to echo. “My mother is proud that I’ll be representing our name in the Games once again. She’s promised a delightful gift if I win.”
Lockhart threw his head back and laughed, letting the lights catch his unnaturally white teeth and bounce off them.
“And if you lose?” he asked Blaise with a wink when he finished laughing.
Blaise raised a shoulder as he carelessly inspected his perfectly manicured nails.
“I suppose if I lose then I’ll never know what she planned, will I?” Blaise said. He looked up at Lockhart and smirked. “All the more incentive.”
“Yes it is,” Lockhart agreed with a bob of his head. “You don’t seem worried though, Blaise.”
Blaise straightened up and became solemn and respectful.
“It’s a fools view to not take their competitors seriously,” Blaise said, subtly digging at the tributes who came before him. “While I’m confident in my abilities, I’m not naive enough to believe I will win without a struggle.”
“That’s a really mature view,” Lockhart said just as falsely-solemn as Blaise was. “Who do you think will be your biggest competitor?”
Blaise hadn’t expected the question and he answered before he had time to think it through.
“Harry, of course,” Blaise said. He tried to save his slip-up when he saw the way Lockhart’s nostrils flared like a dog scenting prey. “Any tribute with a legacy nearly as strong as my own cannot be overlooked.”
“No, they can’t,” Lockhart said. “Especially not the tribute with a ten, hmm?”
Blaise smiled faintly. There was no world where the pretty and underfed boy with hate in his eyes had earned a ten through any physical show. Blaise would bet money that Harry had simply vexed the Gamemakers into making him the biggest target.
“He’s quite handsome, it’s possible they gave him a ten for his eyes,” Blaise drawled, disparaging the score and trying to make it meaningless.
It had an unintended side-effect.
“Is he?” Lockhart made a face out at the crowd and Blaise had to work to keep his own expression calm when the audience laughed and giggled.
That was just the type of personal information that Blaise should never share before all of Panem.
“Mm, like an interesting flower,” Blaise said. “Pretty, delicate, easy to crush beneath a boot.”
There were a few laughs at Blaise’s jest, but just as many whistles that had him grinding his teeth.
“Have you allied yourself with a fellow second-generation tribute?” Lockhart asked quickly, likely just as conscious of the ticking clock as Blaise was.
“I suppose you’ll all see when the games begin.” Blaise winked out at the audience and hoped to salvage his image.
“We’ll just have to ask Harry about it!” Lockhart cried, getting the audience to cheer with him when he raised his hands.
“He’s quite witty, you’ll see,” Blaise said airily. It didn’t hurt his game to talk up another player, necessarily. He merely had to let the audience titter and laugh until the timer ran out on his interview.
“Good luck to you, Blaise Zabini,” Lockhart said, standing up to shake Blaise’s hand. “District Three, ladies and gentlemen!”
Lockhart held Blaise’s hand up in the air between them and Blaise liked the image of victory he must be presenting.
When Blaise strutted off the stage with his head held high, Snape lurked in the shadows and grabbed his shoulder immediately.
“What were you hoping to achieve by playing up the boy from twelve?” Snape asked, sounding neutral about it, as he guided Blaise to the elevators.
“A heated and passionate romance in the arena,” Blaise drawled with as much sarcasm as he could. If he were home, he wouldn’t hesitate to charm Harry to his bed. In the games there was no relationship to be had when any other tributes.
Even the alliances would fall.
There was only one winner.
“Interesting,” Snape mused thoughtfully. He stared down at Blaise while they waited for the glass elevator and there was a light of amusement in his dark eyes. “If it was a ploy for sponsors, it was certainly a bold choice. Tragic romance has never been played on the screens before, I do not doubt that it would encourage sponsors to see the young lovers go as far as they could.”
Blaise hummed nonchalantly when they stepped on the elevator together. It was not until they reached their floor that Blaise felt relatively safe enough to question his mentor.
“And what if the other half of the tragic romance had no interest in playing along?” Blaise asked, thinking of the way Harry carried rebellion in every line of his body.
Snape smirked, unconcerned.
“I imagine that the only thing that would be more interesting to the viewers than a doomed love is an unrequited one.”
Blaise stayed up late that night, thinking over a strategy that would distinguish him as more than Juliana Zabini’s son while getting him further in the game.
*****
Harry stood there, in furious disbelief, as the tribute from three, Blaise, had went on stage and tried to make Harry sound like some… some… some fucking pathetic whore.
‘Quite handsome’, sure Yaxley said something similar once. Technically, Yaxley said Harry was ‘pretty enough’, but it was basically the same sentiment.
‘Witty, you’ll see’, because Harry was meant to put on a show for these people? These Capitol pets who couldn’t wait for Harry to enter an arena and be torn to pieces?
‘Interesting’, Blaise had called him.
Harry ground his teeth together so hard while a furious buzzing filled his ears. He’d fucking show them interesting.
As the last tribute to be called for the games, Harry was also the last tribute to be interviewed. Sirius continued to murmur things to Harry that Harry couldn’t care less about. Even if Harry could hear, he wouldn’t listen.
When Neville’s interview finished up, Harry suddenly peeled off the suit jacket he wore and tossed it to the ground. Harry loosened the green tie that was picked to match his eyes and he unbuttoned the top of his black dress shirt before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.
If Harry had time, he’d have ripped the sleeves off altogether.
“Harry, please…”
“And last, but certainly not least! Our final tribute of the night is HARRY POTTER!”
Harry messed his hair up from the slick design Malkin had done and raised his chin before he stalked on stage with as much anger showing as he could.
The bright lights blinded him briefly, the screams from the audience deafened him. There were hundreds in the crowd, shouting Harry’s name, drooling over his impending death.
Harry hated them all with every fiber in his body.
Harry hated them more than Yaxley or Sirius.
Yaxley fed Harry, even if Harry had to degrade himself to earn the food.
Sirius had once shown Harry a moment of kindness that carried him through tough times.
The people cheering knew nothing. They gave him nothing. They only thought Harry would entertain them.
“Panem means ‘bread’,” Yaxley slurred once while his sweaty palms touched Harry all over. “Panem provides the bread, the districts provide the circuses- the entertainment.”
Harry didn’t want to do it, but Harry was furious and knew he’d never manage to keep his mouth shut.
As soon as Harry’s eyes adjusted and he could see the stage clearly, he turned his face from the crowd and stormed to the open seat, a matching red seat with plush cushions and a high-back, beside Lockhart.
Lockhart didn’t even let Harry’s completely cold disposition trip him. Lockhart never did. There had been a tribute once who refused to speak through their entire interview and Lockhart still spent their time trying to talk them up.
Harry would speak, though the entire country might wish he didn’t.
“Harry! How are you?” Lockhart asked Harry once the cheers quieted and Lockhart sat to begin the interview.
“For the first time in my life, I’m not hungry,” Harry said coolly, staring Lockhart down and ignoring the audience.
If nothing else, Harry hoped to be the first tribute to trip Lockhart up. Maybe the Tent Kids would laugh, high-five each other, excited to have someone finally talking about what their lives were like.
Harry could be incredibly entertaining when he wanted to be.
“I bet not!” Lockhart laughed, somehow maintaining a smile even while speaking. “The food here is simply sublime!”
“It’s better than the bits I used to get from the garbage,” Harry agreed.
Lockhart laughed without even sounding nervous and pushed right past that tidbit of information.
“How does it feel, Harry?” Lockhart asked, suddenly very solemn. Harry imagined that the screens at home would be playing some stupid sappy music in the background.
“Are you worried you’ll end up like your father or hoping you’ll make him proud in the arena?”
“I hope I make nobody proud,” Harry said bitingly, irritated by that. Harry didn’t know his father, he never had the chance. Sirius could have told him about him, but he didn’t.
The whole district could have told Harry and they kept him in the dark.
Harry didn’t give a damn about making anyone proud.
Lockhart laughed though like Harry had shared a hilarious joke. There was a tiny tightening of his blue eyes that nearly made Harry smile.
They were getting there.
“I bet plenty of people are already proud of you,” Lockhart said enthusiastically. “That ten is something to brag about!”
Harry maintained an emotionless face while the crowd broke out in cheers again. They were trying to win him over, use what Harry said to place bets on his life.
“Is it?” Harry asked blandly. “Remind me, what score did you get? Oh, I forgot.” Hey flashed a smile then, a mean and sharp one. “You’re a Capitol pet, you never faced the arena.”
There was a second where nobody seemed to know how to react to Harry and someone made a quiet groan on the side of the stage, but Harry kept his eyes locked in Lockhart.
Spin that to something safe, Harry dared him with only his eyes. Keep up the show, entertain these animals.
Lockhart chuckled nervously and his eyes darted to the side of the stage where Harry knew Peacekeepers stood. There was no point in punishing Harry on stage, not when he’d be dead thirty-six hours.
It was the most free Harry ever felt and he hoped that the Tent Kids were watching because Harry suddenly had a lot to say.
“It’s funny that Blaise called me witty actually,” Harry said abruptly, looking from Lockhart to the camera that had to be zoomed in on his face. “Nobody’s actually ever heard me talk much. I mean, the other kids that LIVE IN FUCKING TENTS but that’s it.”
Someone hissed Harry’s name on the side of the stage, but Harry stood up in a fierce rush of anger and glared out at the audience.
“I’m glad I’m so interesting now, now that I’m going to die!” Harry yelled. “Is this entertaining? Huh? President Dumbledore, HAVE I ENTERTAINED YOU YET? HOW MANY KIDS HAVE TO DIE FOR A WAR WE DIDN’T START?”
The timer went off, forty seconds early, and Harry walked off the stage after he mockingly saluted the audience with his middle finger. Nobody clapped for him, Harry didn’t expect them to.
Sirius stood like a statue when Harry stormed past him.
“They’ll kill you,” Sirius called after him, his voice choked with pretend grief.
Harry paused and looked over his at the man who swore to take care of Harry and didn’t.
“They already did,” Harry told him coolly. “You just haven’t buried my body yet.”
Harry would be buried in a grave back at District Twelve within the next week. The only hope he had left was that the district that neglected him for fifteen years would at least chip in and find a way to mark his grave.
Because Harry was going to give them one hell of a show in the meantime.