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    Summary

    “President Riddle,” he said, barely managing to cover his alarm. To keep the snarl from slipping onto his face.

    Riddle—Marvolo?—smiled at him, a wine glass in his pale hand.

    “Harry,” the man purred. “So nice to see you again.”

    The realisation that the president, the man responsible for his current lifestyle, was the one to request him had Harry’s throat constricting in panic.

    Fuck.

    Harry had belonged to the Capitol since the moment he was pulled bloodied and broken from the arena, sand still clinging to his hair and Luna's blood caked under his fingernails. Passed between the upper echelon, a pretty bauble for them to touch and fuck and own, he was haunted by his memories. But beneath the frost slowly encroaching on his heart, there was an ember.

    Fluttering. Weak. But there.

    And it was that ember that caught the attention of the one man in the world he hated more than himself.

    Language:
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