The Beginning
Twilight used to be one of Harry’s favorite times of the day.
In the glowing darkness of District 12, Harry could sneak about and try to find ways to keep himself alive. Without daylight, Harry once stole 2 eggs from a fat hen behind the butcher’s shop. Before it became fully dark, Harry could walk in front of the lines of Peacekeepers, seek out Yaxley to determine if he would have a warm bed for the night or not.
Twilight was always a ‘maybe’.
Maybe Harry would see the sunrise in the morning.
Maybe the world would burst into flames and take them all from their suffering.
Both options had been equally enticing, in their own ways.
Twilight used to be Harry’s favorite time of the day before he discovered that twilight would be the backdrop to his death.
*****
Harry rose on the morning of the games and surprisingly didn’t feel sick. Harry inspected his hands after the last hot shower of his life and saw that the his fingers weren’t shaking at all. When he looked in the mirror - for the last time - Harry didn’t see any fear in his own eyes.
What stared back at him were the dead eyes of a Tribute.
They weren’t the excited eyes of a Victor, nor the terrified eyes of a Victim, they belonged to a Tribute.
Harry wasn’t sure what made him a Tribute on the inside to give him the eyes of one, but it soothed him in a way.
Breakfast was solemn and lavish with the grandest variety of foods yet. Harry didn’t feel sick at all and so he gorged himself, regretting that he couldn’t line his pockets with eggs, sausage links, fresh rolls. He could line his stomach though, and he did his best to think of nothing at all —
Last meal.
Sirius made it clear before, Harry earned himself no sponsors who would pay to send him meals in the arena. Harry didn’t want their blood money, their ‘gift’, that was only spent to extend their own entertainment anyway, so it made breakfast Harry’s final meal. Maybe he would find some fruits in the arena, maybe a small animal he could kill and cook, but it wouldn’t be the rich and flavorful meal being given to him then.
Not freely, nothing was free.
Neville sat beside Harry at the table, shoveling food in his face with as much intensity as Harry did. When Neville reached for his drink, their hands collided and their eyes met for a moment.
“I think they should let us have wine for our last meal,” Neville said, staring at Harry with his hazel eyes that always seemed warm. Maybe that was just Harry, always searching for warmth everywhere. Neville sounded hesitant though, like he was testing the waters to see where Harry was. “It doesn’t seem fair that I never got to be drunk.”
Harry’s lack of feeling went so deep that he couldn’t even smile or smirk at Neville’s complaint. They’d be dead in a few days - if they made it that long. Harry had a list of things he regret never experiencing, getting drunk wasn’t one of them.
“I’ve been drunk before,” Harry told him. They were allies still, right up until Harry was dead. Harry hoped Neville won, it would mean more food for their district. “It wasn’t as much fun as fuckin’ Sirius makes it seem.”
Not that Sirius made anything seem particularly fun; Harry wouldn’t either though, in his boots. Harry wasn’t all warm and fuzzy toward the man all of a sudden, but there was a low feeling of something Harry almost couldn’t identify.
Gratitude?
Harry hadn’t slept the night before, as much as that would hurt him soon enough he just couldn’t. Sirius had just been there, sitting on Harry’s bed, saying nothing, doing nothing. It had been a secret pleasure for Harry, having someone stay.
It was only because Sirius felt guilty, Harry knew that. It wasn’t a freely given gift. Sirius had loved Harry’s parents, not Harry, and saw Harry as an extension of them. ‘Godfather’ or not, Sirius never would have talked to Harry if Harry hadn’t been reaped. They had shared one brief conversation in Harry’s life, on what he stupidly used to think was the worst night of his life.
But Sirius had stayed with Harry, just a quiet presence in the night.
Sirius snorted weakly across from Harry after the jab, Neville grinned and his body relaxed some once he must have realized that Harry wasn’t changing his mind about them.
“Where’d you get alcohol from?” Neville asked, sounding impressed. “I thought only Peacekeepers could afford it, that’s what my dad said.”
“Peacekeepers bought it, shared it with me,” harry shrugged. He didn’t give a damn about his manners so he stuffed more food in his mouth and talked while he chewed. “Old Winky called it rotgut, I figured out why.”
Neville chuckled, spraying bits of food as he too said ‘fuck manners’. Sirius made a noise that wasn’t a laugh and drew Harry’s attention.
Sirius looked terrible, like he was the one going in the arena - Harry glanced at the watch he would take with him - in the next two hours. There were deep purple bags under grey eyes, tangles in his black hair that laid around his slumped shoulders.
What Harry noticed the most was that even if Sirius looked terrible, there was no haziness in his eyes. Was Sirius planning on staying sober until Harry died in the arena or would he be drowning in morphling the instant Harry was out of sight?
“Rotgut isn’t good alcohol,” Sirius said, staring at Harry with intensity in his eyes. Harry might prefer the haziness to the sharp clarity they held then. Sirius’s next words though…
Those were almost the worst pain Harry had suffered yet.
“When you win, I’ll buy you a real drink.”
It had been cruel to say in front of Neville, worse to say to Harry. Harry thought Sirius only said it to make up for his grief the night before, showing his belief in Harry winning. If Sirius thought he was giving Harry hope then, he was wrong.
Harry didn’t think he’d win, probably wouldn’t make it to the final five. Sirius didn’t think so either, it was just one more gift given before the slaughter.
It was odd how Harry was the tribute but everyone else kept giving him things to carry to his death.
Harry and Neville shook hands after breakfast. They would be splitting up to get ready and wouldn’t see each other again until they entered the arena.
“We avoid the blood bath,” Neville said as he gripped Harry’s hand, going over their plan they developed again. “We run, we hide.”
“And then we survive,” Harry said without emotion or belief.
Neville grinned and squeezed Harry’s hand once more before dropping it.
“And then we survive.”
Sirius followed Harry through the building, out to the Capitol car that waited for him. They would drive to another facility, one that would have some sort of system to connect it to the arena. Harry wouldn’t see what the arena was until he was inside of it and afterward it would be closed down, only used for tours for Capitol citizens who wanted to relive the gory event.
Neither Harry nor Sirius said anything on the drive. Harry’s mind shut down on him fully, not taking in the sights of the city or the way his breathing was surely too steady to be normal.
Shouldn’t Harry be scared? Shouldn’t he care that it was his last moments of time outside of the arena?
“Shouldn’t you have some last minute advice?” Harry muttered to Sirius, not turning his head to look at him.
Sirius scoffed and Harry saw his hand rising from the corner of his vision. Sirius had thin hands with long and pale fingers, nicked in scars he must have earned after being polished up as the Victor of his games. One of those hands tentatively landed on Harry’s shoulder, weighing no more than a feather. If Harry didn’t see him do it, he might never have noticed.
“You survived this long on your own,” Sirius said raspily. “Keep it up, just a little longer.”
Harry nodded.
A little longer, that was all Harry had left in him anyway.
Their car pulled up to a building that was massive, wide if not tall like the Tribute Tower. Harry climbed out on wooden legs that were still sturdy and he ignored the building to look up at the sky.
The sky in the arena would be fake, just an image of whatever the gamemakers wanted them to see. It wouldn’t be the sun that burned Harry’s skin in summers, it wouldn’t be the stars that Harry and the other tent kids made up silly names for on calm nights. If they showed a moon, it wouldn’t be the one that tucked Harry in at night for the last fourteen years.
Harry bit his lower lip when it tried to quiver as he tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. Tears were useless and Harry wouldn’t shed them.
Not even if they burned his eyes behind his eyelids as the calm began to leak away and the truth of it all crashed in Harry like a speeding train into a tree.
It was the last time Harry would see the sky, feel a true breeze.
Harry spent over half his life living outdoors. It was a freedom in the mild months, a curse in the harsher seasons. With everything Harry never had, the sky itself couldn’t be taken from him.
Until it could.
“Harry.” Sirius touched Harry’s shoulder again. “We have to go inside.”
Harry clenched his eyes shut hard, wished he had just died back in the district where it wouldn’t be televised, wouldn’t make his death into a joke. But if he did that then it would be some other kid standing where he was… someone who wasn’t prepared to make the Capitol regret their games for the first time in seventy-four years.
When the cold misery inside him washed away with hot fire, when Harry made himself angry instead of sad, he opened his eyes.
They would regret having Harry in their games, if only because Harry would fucking make them regret it.
Harry was made to strip when he went inside the facility. Harry stood in a cold room and stared at nothing while his body was checked for anything he might try smuggling in. Sirius had the watch approved as a token, so Harry was able to keep it on when he was handed the clothes that he would wear.
Tributes all entered the arena in the same outfit every year. Harry thought maybe he would get some hint of what the arena was with the clothes he was handed, but he had no idea at all.
“It might be kind of cold,” Sirius mused, having stayed the entire time in the room with Harry. Sirius felt the fabric of the plain black trousers and long sleeve jacket Harry was given with a look of concentration on his face.
“Feel this lining?” Sirius handed Harry the jacket and Harry felt the inside, as Sirius had, and nodded as a word popped in his head.
“Fleece?” Harry said uncertainly. Harry thought he had a fleece blanket, in his tent. It was the one he got the year he’d been eleven when another of the tent kids died in the games.
“Lucky dog!” The boy who lived in tent one, the unofficial tent for whoever was oldest and in charge of sorting supplies, laughed when he gave it to Harry. “This one’s fleece too!”
Harry knew he only got such a luxury because another kid was dead, it just didn’t stop him from using it that winter when it became frozen outside.
“Yeah.” Sirius watched Harry pull the soft jacket on over the black sleeveless shirt he had been given. Next were the trousers over his boxers. Harry didn’t comment about the thick black socks, it was just…
“I forgot some people wear these every day,” Harry said as he pulled them on and wiggled his toes inside of them. Harry had one pair of socks when he lived at the orphanage and they’d been holey, thin, and hardly even good as mittens by the time Harry couldn’t fit them on his feet anymore.
Socks were just a sign of money, something Harry never had and never would.
Sirius said nothing and Harry looked up at him sharply.
“D’you wear socks?” Harry asked, a bite of accusation in his voice.
As Harry pulled on the boots that went just above his ankle, Sirius took one of his own boots off. Harry looked down and saw Sirius’s feet were bare, which was too fucking stupid for words.
“If you didn’t spend your money on morphling, your feet wouldn’t be cold in the winter,” Harry said, scowling hard at those bare feet.
“If I didn’t spend my money on morphling, I’d still not wear socks,” Sirius told him. “I never wore ‘em as a kid and now they make my feet itch.”
“That’s how I feel when Yaxley would give me clothes to wear,” Harry said. There was sweat building on the back of Harry’s neck, causing his skin to itch anyway. Clothes weren’t important, not anymore, they were just an easy subject to discuss. “But warm is warm.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there for nearly a minute, both out of stupid things to say, both knowing that the time was ticking and Harry was meant to be climbing in the tube centered in the room soon.
Harry tried to think if there was anything he wanted to know about Sirius’s experience in the games. Something that might give Harry an edge, any sort of advantage.
When Harry opened his mouth to ask about finding water, that wasn’t what he said.
“Did you ever care?”
To the very little credit that Sirius earned by giving Harry a token and staying with him the night before, Sirius didn’t pretend to misunderstand and he didn’t lie to him.
“No, I didn’t.” Sirius cleared his throat and opened his arms at his side, one last gift that Harry stepped toward.
Harry never had that before, a hug. It was nice, he could see why people liked them.
It was a sudden and unexpected rush of comfort, of silent understanding. Harry didn’t need to say anything, he just hesitantly curled his fingers in the back of Sirius’s shirt and let his forehead rest on his bony shoulder. Sirius’s arms were thin while they wrapped around Harry’s torso, holding him tightly… but not too tightly.
“I could though, I will,” Sirius whispered to Harry. “Harry, I swear, if you win… everything’ll be different.”
It would be.
If Harry won, he’d be a Victor. Harry would get a house in Victor’s Village. He’d have more money than he would know what to do. Harry wouldn’t be hungry, he wouldn’t be cold.
It was a pretty dream… and dreams had no purpose in the arena.
Sirius watched when Harry climbed in the tube that would send him through an underground system of tunnels and then up in the arena. Sirius was crying, Harry was not.
Harry was about to be broadcast on every television in the nation - they did not get to see him cry.
Even through the thick glass that separated them the second Harry stepped on the trigger plate, Harry could hear Sirius’s last words to him.
“See you soon.”
Sirius would see Harry on a screen, Harry would never see him again.
It shouldn’t hurt… Harry barely knew him and what he did know, he didn’t like…
There was still a small part of Harry that missed Sirius as the plate began shooting away, taking Harry from the godfather that never cared to the arena where he would die.
The very first thing Harry noticed when he was burst in the arena, was the sky.
The majority of the sky was a deep purple intermixed with smooth lines of yellow and orange beneath it. It almost made Harry smile, to see the sky painted in his favorite time of day.
Twilight had always been the best time back at District 12.
It seemed as if it would be the backdrop to the scene when Harry would die.
Harry took too long to blink and adjust to what he assumed was going to be eternal twilight. Once he did, Harry kept control of his face even while he was surprised by the arena.
In the past, there were deserts and forests, frozen landscapes and beachside arenas surrounded by open water.
What Harry was brought in was a rooftop of… something. Harry could tell he was several stories high on a building that was made of dark brick. While the voice of Gilderoy Lockhart announced the starting of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, Harry tried to quickly guess at where he was.
“The games will begin in sixty… fifty-nine…”
The giant cornucopia sat in the center of the rooftop, filled with what Harry could see were gleaming weapons, knives so sharp Harry wanted to drool, and bags and bags full of what Harry knew would be food and other supplies.
“Forty-seven… forty-six… forty-five…”
Harry looked around him, ignoring the tributes surrounding him, and saw that in the four corners of the rooftop were tall rounded towers that made Harry think of a castle. The doorways to the towers were open and dark inside them, which meant they would be fighting each other inside what Harry guessed would be a dark castle… in black clothes.
Awesome.
“Thirty one… thirty… twenty-nine…”
Even with the knives tempting him, the supplies calling his name (and Harry was fast, a thief by nature… he could make it, grab supplies and go, he was sure of it…) Harry knew he needed to find his ally, try and decide which tower they would be escaping through once the gong sounded.
“Fifteen… fourteen…”
On Harry’s left side stood the older of the two boys from eleven, Taylor Anderson. On Harry’s right side stood one of the red-headed twins from five, Fred or George. Harry’s eyes roamed quickly while his muscles tensed, preparing to run…
“Seven… six…”
Neville was on the left-side of the circle and he already found Harry and was staring hard at him, shaking his head. When Harry quirked his head to the side, Neville looked at the cornucopia, back at Harry, then shook his head again. That was when Harry noticed that his muscles were flexing toward the cornucopia.
Harry was a good thief… quick and sneaky… he really thought he could dash up to the supplies, take a knife and a bag, be gone before anyone could try and hurt him.
But Harry had been a tent kid before he was a thief and even as cruel as all the kids could be, they honored their word to each other. Never had Harry left his tent and thought one of the others would steal his things. Never did someone score a large amount of food and not do their best to share.
And Harry gave Neville his word.
“Three… two… one… BEGIN!”
The gong sounded, the games began, and Harry began sprinting away from the cornucopia, toward Neville, while ignoring the regret he already felt for abandoning a chance at taking anything with him.
The games may have begun, but Harry already felt smug that the gamemakers didn’t taunt him into giving up who he was with their shiny weapons and sturdy supplies.