Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you are reading this, then I have died. I accept my death with only the wish that these records have survived the war. Many have tried to hide these chapters in our history, to burn the past away as their war burned the future.

I cannot allow that to happen.

These Games, these tributes, must be remembered. Not for their triumphs alone, but for their failures. Not for the shining lies the Capitol will tell you, but for the truth as they lived it.

Do not mistake these stories for fiction or glory. It was not glory they fought for, but freedom. They were liars, fighters, tyrants, and rebels. They were children.

What you read here is dangerous. When you believe you can’t go on, remember their names. Remember when they fought on and channel their spirit as you too fight on.

Nobody ever escaped the arena, not even the ones who survived. But the experiences they endured deserve to be remembered and shared. I will do that until the Capitol finds me and kills me. These stories should be shared regardless of my fate.

A forgotten history will be a repeated one.

While October burns, say their names and share their stories.

— The Keeper of Names

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore dressed slowly, carefully, checking that every button was snapped and there were no holes anywhere. 

Mama would have been embarrassed of him if Albus went out with Father and Aberforth looking ‘like a nasty district beast’. There were a lot of patches on Albus’s pants, but that was okay because all of his classmates had patchy clothes too. 

All of their families had suffered during the war, the Dumbledores had it worse though. Albus didn’t know how much more they could have personally lost before it would have been better to just die. 

The Dumbledores lost their wealth to funding weapons to defend the Capitol. They lost their home to mob fires. They lost their angel, Albus’s Mama. And, the worst of all, they lost Ariana. 

Albus’s baby sister, the most beautiful flower in the family… It was horrible, Albus didn’t think he’d ever forget hearing her screams mixed in with the gunfire and the rebel chants. Albus could still see her blue eyes, blood streaming beneath them while her innocent twinkle slowly faded.

Ariana was honored tenfold, especially since it was her death that pushed Father to finish the bombs that wiped out District Thirteen. It was why the Dumbledore family was being honored by President Dippet that day. It was an honor, Father told Albus and Aberforth that many times. 

Father was the one really being honored, but Albus liked that he would get to stand up on the balcony with the President and see everything Father helped set up. 

When Albus was dressed neatly, he combed his hair down, checking that there wasn’t a single auburn hair out of place. The mirror he used was dirty, forever dirty like most of the Capitol was, but if he squinted his eyes he could see himself. At eleven, Albus wasn’t very tall yet, but he could kind of see traces of Father in him, enough that he hoped he’d be strong and powerful one day like Father. 

Mama’s blue eyes were brightest on Albus’s face though, everyone told him he had his mama’s eyes. Albus reached out toward the mirror and touched the cold glass, directly beneath his eyes. 

“Miss you,” Albus whispered. “Take care of Ariana, Ma.” 

When Albus tried to smile, his reflection blurred and fractured, making his face look as twisted and pained as his heart felt since the end of the war. 

Aberforth threw a tantrum when Albus forced him in the bath, screaming and wailing about the cold water. Albus tried really hard to not get mad at him, but did he think Albus liked the cold water?! Did he think Albus didn’t want to scream every time he had to scrub himself with the sharp bristled brush? It was a waste of time and energy. 

“Shut up!” Albus hissed, shoving Abe’s head under the water and holding it just for a few seconds. When he yanked him back up by the hair, Abe sputtered and sobbed, but he stopped fighting so much. 

“I don’t wanna go,” Abe cried, much more quietly. “I wanna stay home. My kitty needs me.”

Albus threw a disgusted look at the filthy little stuffed kitten that Aberforth carried around every day. It wasn’t even his, it was Ariana’s. It should have been buried with her, but Aberforth was selfish and kept it for himself. Albus could still see his sister’s blood on the ears of the cat where her hands clutched it as she died. 

“It isn’t real,” Albus told him as he scrubbed Aberforth’s hair, quickly yanking to remove the tangles he always had. Aberforth had blonde hair, like Mama and Ariana, but it tangled up like the devil. “And you can’t bring it tonight or Father’s going to whip you,” he warned him. 

“But she needs me, Al,” Aberforth sniffled. “Pwease? Can we bring her?”

Albus sighed, fed up with his brother and his baby games. Aberforth was seven, he didn’t need to be saying words like a baby or carrying around Ariana’s stuffed kitten. But Father was home, Albus could hear him getting dressed in his room, so Albus nodded at Aberforth and held a finger to his lips for silence. 

Aberforth lit up with a big smile when Albus put the stuffed kitten in his inner coat pocket. It was Father’s coat he wore for the Capitol Army before the war, so it was still big on Albus, but it was the nicest coat he had. 

“If you stay really quiet, I’ll keep her with me, okay?” Albus whispered to his brother. “Promise?”

“Promise!” 

If Albus had to carry around a dirty stuffed kitten during the festivities to keep Aberforth from bawling and making Father angry or embarrassing their family, so be it. Albus had done worse things before. 

Father gave each of the boys a check before they left their house. Albus stood up straight and kept his shoulders back and his eyes forward, just like a soldier. Father cuffed him for having wet shoes, but Albus didn’t tattle and tell him it was Aberforth’s fault. 

Even though it was. 

“Abe, chin up,” Father told Aberforth, looking down at him sternly. Aberforth lifted his chin and Albus could see Father smiling softly at him, like he used to do to Mama, like he never did for Albus. “Be a good boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Aberforth said softly. 

Albus didn't look when Father bent down to pick up Aberforth, swinging him up on his hip. He wasn’t going to look. Father always did that though, he always treated Aberforth ten times as nicely as he did Albus. 

After Mama died, Albus had to stay home and take care of Ariana while Aberforth, four years younger than Albus, got to go with Father to war meetings and the barracks. Albus wanted to meet soldiers, Albus wanted to be sent for sleepovers at the homes of generals and high honored peacekeepers. It was always Aberforth though.

Aberforth got all of Father’s love and all Albus had was Ariana. The rebels took Albus’s whole world from him and Aberforth suffered not at all. 

The world was so horribly unfair that Albus wanted to scream sometimes.

Albus didn’t scream though, he never screamed. Albus marched silently behind Father and Aberforth when they left their temporary home, a pitiful apartment in the part of the Capitol that had the least damage from the war. The streets in their neighborhood weren’t fixed up at all, not like the main streets were. 

Up and down the main street that led them to the Center City were decorations that hid damage. A banner hiding a demolished building. Ribbons tied to broken lampposts. The beggars that lined the streets were scared away, kept hidden by the rows of Peacekeepers. It was the nicest their city had looked in so long, since before the war. 

The closer they got to the Center City, the more elaborate the decorations became. It reminded Albus of the old parades, the ones that he would watch with Mama as a young boy, gleefully waving when Father marched by. The city didn’t have a parade in so long, Albus was glad they were finally coming back. 

Nobody needed some happiness in their lives more than they did. 

Albus kept his head high when he followed Father through the crowd, headed directly to the tower where the President himself waited to welcome them. Some of Albus’s classmates called out to him, but Albus would never be so common to wave or yell like a little kid. 

Dumbledores were different, they had to show that. It was a Dumbledore who drove the final fleet toward victory. Albus wasn’t just another Capitol child, he had his father’s heavy footsteps and mama’s expectations to follow. 

Father received many salutes and half-bows as they approached the tower. A peacekeeper with shining boots opened the door for them and even saluted Albus as they passed through. 

“One day those will be your men,” Father told Albus. He wasn’t looking at him, but Albus knew that Father didn’t expect Aberforth to lead armies. Aberforth was soft, like Mama, that was what Father said before. It was Albus who would carry their family expectations, but it was Aberforth who carried all of Father’s love. 

“Yes, sir,” Albus said, his voice a sharp contrast to the whispery way Aberforth responded to Father. Aberforth looked at Albus over Father’s shoulder and wriggled around, while they were on a staircase, until Albus quickly opened his coat, showing him that the stupid stuffed animal was still in his pocket. 

Albus couldn’t wait to lead armies one day and he really couldn’t wait for Aberforth to grow up and quit being such a baby. He was seven, he was the same age Albus had been when the war began and Albus definitely wasn’t wetting the bed or playing pretend at his age. 

The top of the tower held a grand ballroom, filled with many important people. Albus made himself look as tall and respectable as he could while they crossed to the balcony. Father paused a couple of times, greeting the men he worked with and who worked for him. Some of them shook Albus’s hand, some of them petted Aberforth’s head like the scared puppy he was acting like. 

“Don’t you dare,” Albus whispered to his brother when Father stopped to talk to a fellow. Aberforth’s eyes were watering and he was shrinking down and curling up, a sure sign he was getting ready to bawl. 

“Wanna go home,” Aberforth whispered tearfully to Albus. “Want my kitten.”

Albus kept a polite smile as he shuffled closer to Father. “If you embarrass us now, I will throw your kitten in the streets,” Albus whispered without hardly moving his lips. “I swear, Abe. I’ll rip its head off and have it trampled.” 

Albus would too. If Aberforth embarrassed them, embarrassed Father and made him furious, Albus would make sure Aberforth regretted it as much as Albus would be sure to. Father’s fits had gotten better since the war ended, Albus didn’t want Aberforth to send him back to the bottle. 

On those nights when Father was the scariest person Albus knew, Albus always ended up bruised and alone in the bed he was meant to share with Aberforth. 

Aberforth must have seen how serious Albus was because he sucked in his lower lip and squished his eyes shut for a few seconds. When he opened them, the tears weren’t nearly as close to falling as they had been before. Albus gave him a quick thumbs up in approval. 

“It’s about that time,” the man speaking to Father said. He didn’t acknowledge Albus or Aberforth, but Albus sort of thought he probably couldn’t see much of anything past his giant stomach. It sickened Albus, seeing some citizens so overweight. 

Did they not suffer? Did they not starve? How did they find food when even the Dumbledore family, so close to the top, had bone water for soup more nights than not? 

“It is. Come, Albus.” Father snapped his fingers as he turned to the balcony and Albus followed right on his heels, like the dog he had just accused Aberforth of acting like. 

If Albus was a dog though, at least he was an obedient one. Those were the dogs that didn’t get put down as a waste of space. 

One of the guards by the balcony door stopped them and Father had to put Aberforth on his feet so they could all be checked for weapons. Albus stood still while he was patted down quickly, praying they wouldn’t comment about the stuffed animal in his pocket. Aberforth whined like a baby when they put their hands on him and Albus pinched him hard when they were cleared. 

“Quit,” Albus hissed. “You’ll embarrass us.”

Sometimes Albus thought about just cutting out Aberforth’s tongue, to make it so he couldn’t cry and whine about everything all the time. Then Aberforth would reach over and take Albus’s hand, squeezing his fingers like Ariana did, and Albus would feel like the worst brother there was. 

His baby sister, buried in a grave. His baby brother, scared of his own shadow. 

Some brother Albus was. 

“Percival!” President Dippet lounged on a grand throne in front of the bannister, his dais high enough to survey everything beneath them. President Dippet was old, probably the oldest man Albus had ever seen before, but he stood up and shook Father’s hand just as any other man would. 

“My sons,” Father said, presenting Albus first. “Albus.”

“Albus! A pleasure!” Dippet shook Albus’s hand merrily, nodding in what seemed to be approval. “You take after your father, don’t you?”

“Thank you, sir,” Albus said, proud but humble. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“The honor is all mine,” Dippet said, winking happily at Albus. Albus didn’t really know why he was so happy. Sure, he was the President of the once again free world, but he was also the President who let a war get so out of hand. 

“And you remember Aberforth,” Father said, pushing Aberforth forward gently. 

“Ah, Kendra’s spitting image, if there ever was one, may she rest in peace,” Dippet said respectfully. “Gentlemen, come, I’ve saved you a seat. Percival, I trust the walk here was pleasant?”

Father told Dippet about the improvements that were made for the event while they settled in. Albus felt like king of the world when Dippet gestured to the seats he saved just for their family on his dais. Albus stood for an extra second, looking around the street that was packed with Capitol citizens, and imagined they were cheering for him. 

It made Albus dizzy, like the night he had a sip of Father’s wine to celebrate the end of the war. Unlike the wine that left a bad taste in his mouth, Albus wished he could have more. 

“You!” Dippet snapped at a nearby peacekeeper who jumped to attention immediately. “Go fetch my tin of sweets, I’m sure Percival’s sons would like some.”

Father glared at Albus quickly and it wasn’t fair. Albus wasn’t going to embarrass him or act like a slobby pig, but it had been so long since he had any sweets at all. Aberforth wasn’t given the same glare so Albus turned down sweets from the President’s personal stash and Aberforth was practically being hand-fed chocolate by President Dippet. 

Albus wished, not for the first time, that it was Aberforth who had been filled full of bullets and buried and not Ariana. 

There was a trumpet that blasted through the center of the city and then Albus could hear the faint sound of the Capitol marching band beginning their song. 

Dippet absently fed Aberforth one last chocolate before actually picking him up and putting him on his lap, as if seven wasn’t too old for everyone to treat him like a baby. 

“Ah, look alive, Dumbledores,” Dippet said merrily. “Our parade begins!” 

Albus sat up straight, not wanting to miss a single second of the first parade the Capitol had in years. It had been so long since he last saw the brightly dressed marching band that just seeing them took him back to when he was a younger boy, holding hands with Mama while candy was thrown for all the Capitol children. 

The crowd exploded happily when the band marched through and Albus could hear as those who were the furthest from the tower turned savage in their cheers. While the full band played on directly beneath the President’s balcony, a new set of individuals were taken down the parade route. 

Albus couldn’t believe it when he saw them. There were twenty-four of them, two from each district. Twelve boys, twelve girls, all of them between eleven and seventeen years old. They were all dressed in the old prison uniforms, black and white stripes that had dulled since they were last worn. 

The crowd screamed as they passed through, locked in a cage made of iron bars on the back of a truck. Many citizens threw garbage at them, splattering them through the bars. Some of them cried, some of them screamed for help. 

Nobody was going to help the children from the districts, the children of the citizens who tried to destroy their country. Those were the monsters who caused Mama’s death, the relatives of those who shot an innocent girl. They were filthy, feral; each one was sentenced to die the next day - all but one. 

“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Dipped murmured to Father, his nose curled up in disgust. 

Father grunted in agreement and shook his head. “I’d be surprised if it isn’t mud that spills from their bodies tomorrow.”

Albus nodded, even if nobody looked at him. It was crazy to think that he shared anything in common with the district children, surely even their blood would be different from each other. 

When the truck reached the front of the route and the band lowered the volume of the Capitol Anthem they played, President Dippet put Aberforth on Father’s lap so he could stand. 

“Citizens of Panem!” President Dippet raised his hands, forcing absolute silence on everyone in the crowds. “For the last four years, our country has been without peace. The districts that we cared for turned on us like a wild dog, biting the hand that fed them, protected them, loved them. 

“How were we repaid? With war on our streets, blood on our hands, and the loss of security in our lives!”

The crowd cheered, Albus clapped politely. It was all true, every word of it. The Capitol took care of the districts and at their very first chance, they turned on them. 

“No more!” President Dippet cried, looking then directly at the truck that held the tributes. “The Hunger Games will remind us, every year, about the cost of disobedience, of trusting those who hurt us, of how peace is often gained at the expense of sacrifice. Every year the districts will send us two of their children as tribute, and each year all but one will fall just as so many of our children fell.”

Albus’s claps were vicious then as was his glare when he looked down in the truck at the tributes. They killed Ariana, Albus didn’t think one thousand district lives could ever justify that. 

“Tomorrow we will have the tributes inside of our coliseum, preparing to fight for their lives,” Dippet said. “There will be wars between them, blood on their hands. But as a sign of our forgiveness and our mercy, one of the tributes shall experience security upon their win just as we are secured through ours.”

One of the tributes, a tall boy with strawberry blonde hair, looked up at the balcony and met Albus’s eyes. Albus had a frozen mask on his face, no pity at all for that boy. He looked to be seventeen, Ariana had only been three. 

And unlike the tribute, Ariana had never been given a chance to survive the war they started. 

“When the sun rises tomorrow, we will see which of these tributes is prepared to prove their loyalty to their country, their district, and themselves.” Dippet spread his arms wide and raised his voice over the renewed shouts. “Tributes of the Districts, may the odds be ever in your favor! May the odds always reflect the glory of PANEM!” 

The band picked back up their jaunty tune and the crowd cheered while the tributes were driven away. Albus watched the tall boy the entire time they drove until he was finally out of his sight. 

“Well, Al, what do you think?” President Dippet asked Albus after taking his seat. “Any guesses on who might be our very first victor?”

Albus thought about the tall boy and the way he stared at them, looking for all the world like he didn’t understand how far beneath them he was. 

“I think the tall boy has good odds, sir,” Albus said respectfully. “He looks strong.”

“Like a racehorse!” Dippet cried in agreement. “This game may not be won by strength alone though. It will take intelligence, ingenuity, and determination as well. We shall see if your tall boy wins,” he winked. 

Albus returned the President’s smile and then quickly averted his eyes forward when he could feel Father watching him. Albus sat up straight in his chair, chin up, and imagined what it would be like the next day, seeing twenty-four beasts fighting for their lives. 

Would they cry? Would they bleed the same color that Albus did, that Ariana did? What happened if none of them won? And why did anyone have to win anyway?

“Father?” Albus waited until the walk home to ask Father his question. They had feasted at the tower with the President and celebrated with the others over the first Hunger Game. Albus felt tired after eating and talking to so many people, but at least he didn’t fall asleep on a bench like Aberforth did. 

Maybe he should have though, since Aberforth was invited to the President’s Mansion to sleep for the night. Father and President Dippet whispered about it for a few minutes after Dippet made the offer to keep Aberforth for the night. Albus had hoped that Father wouldn’t allow it, but he shook Dippet’s hand and commanded Albus to leave with Aberforth. 

Father glanced down at Albus, his eyes glazed slightly from the drinks that poured during the celebration. Albus’s stomach clenched with a pang of worry, but Father didn’t yell or swing out. 

“Yes?”

“Why do we have to have a winner?” Albus asked. “For the Games? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just execute two citizens from each district every year?”

Father didn’t scowl or cuff him, he actually seemed thoughtful and took his time to answer Albus’s question. 

“If we executed two citizens every year, then it would just be the Capitol killing children,” Father said. “Eventually, as history forgets the fear and the pain the districts caused, we would be seen as the enemy instead of the light. But if we allow their children to entertain the nation and kill for the greater good, then we’ve given them something every man, woman, and child needs.”

Albus waited, hoping Father would tell him what they needed. When he didn’t, Albus had to ask. 

“Hope,” Father said simply. “We give them hope that they can become something more than what they are. We’ve allowed them to become immortal in legends and stories. The games, Albus, will burn them. The hope will keep the flame alive.”

Albus wasn’t sure that he understood, but he thanked Father for the explanation anyway. When Albus laid in bed that night, he stared up at the ceiling and thought of the tall boy with the strawberry blonde hair and angry eyes. 

If it was up to Albus, they would all be executed one at a time with a parade held after they were gone. And, if it was up to Albus, there would be lots of candies thrown to the crowds during the parade. 

On the morning of the first games, all of the Capitol rose at dawn. Nobody wanted to miss the show, they wanted to see the rebels punished for all the suffering they caused. 

Albus was excited to see the coliseum where the fights would take place. Mama told him once before that it had at one time been a place of glory, of beauty. There were revels and shows performed there… before the dark days of the war. 

It had been bombed by the rebels, damaging the walls and destroying some of the seating. The Capitol worked hard to restore it for the Games and it seemed so large, so full of excitement, when Albus and Father arrived. Albus loved walking behind Father through the crowd as they made way for him. 

Father’s official title was General of War, but all of Panem saw him leading the charge on the last day of the war. Albus watched from school with Aberforth and chanted himself hoarse when Father said it was for his daughter that he found the strength to defeat the rebels. Nobody forgot what the Dumbledores did to save them and they praised Father for it as they passed through. 

Albus kept his head high and didn’t even let the sight of Aberforth dressed in a fine shorts set break his mask. 

“Al!” Aberforth darted around the others waiting inside the lobby of the coliseum to get to Albus and probably would have grabbed Albus’s legs in a hug if Albus didn’t stop him. 

“Can you act your age?” Albus whispered sharply to Aberforth. “You’ll embarrass Father.”

Aberforth looked to where Father was greeted by President Dippet and then scooted himself as far in Albus’s side as he could. 

“Missed you,” Aberforth said, his fingers curling at the end of Albus’s jacket. He blinked blue eyes up at Albus grinned. “Did you take care of my kitty?”

Albus glanced around carefully before he opened his jacket, showing Aberforth that Ariana’s kitten stuffed animal was still in his pocket. 

“I’ll give it back if you act good today,” Albus told him sternly, just the way Father would have. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Aberforth whispered in agreement. “Awmando said we can see the animals, if we wanna.”

Awmando?! Albus seethed when he realized that not only had Aberforth been given permission to call President Dippet by his name, but that the stupid boy couldn’t even say it correctly. 

Albus shoved Aberforth away from him, making him stumble and nearly fall. Albus was older than Aberforth, smarter, stronger. Albus took care of Mama, of Ariana. And again and again it was Aberforth who had all the best luck. 

Maybe if Albus looked more like Mama then Father would have favored him. 

“Boys, come!” Father called abruptly when the first light of day shone through the domed ceiling. “President Dippet has something to show us.”

Albus fell in an obedient line behind Father and only took Aberforth’s hand to keep him from being carried by someone else. It was unfair that Aberforth was trying to ruin Albus’s day, but he wasn’t going to let him. 

Someone was finally going to be sorry for killing Ariana and even Aberforth couldn’t take that away. 

There were tunnels in the sides of the coliseum, tunnels that wrapped around the dome and branched off for different amenities. In the center of the arena, on opposite sides, were two grand doors. The first door they saw as they followed President Dippet had a cage attached to it and nine girls inside of it. 

‘Girls’ may have been too generous of a term though since they were dirty, disgusting, snarling animals. And ‘nine’ was probably generous since the one on the ground looked dead. 

“Frightful creatures, aren’t they?” Dippet chuckled to Father. “I shudder to imagine ever spending a life with a female such as they. I think they would sooner light a man on fire than warm his bed.”

“Where are the others?” Father asked, his eyes counting the girls coolly, never reacting to the insults or tears they screamed at them. If anything, Father’s eyes grew colder the more noise the girls made. 

“Everard has one,” Dippet said with a wave of his hand. “I’m certain he’ll return her soon. The others have already perished. And here I thought the beasts wanted to spill blood in the Capitol.”

Albus laughed shortly at that, as did Father. Dippet urged them onward, chattering about the boy tributes. When there was a small scuffle behind him, Albus looked over his shoulder. One of the girls, the one that Everard had probably, was being pulled by her hair down the dirty stone path. Albus watched the girl as long as he could, until she was thrown in the cage with the others where she promptly slumped over. 

There wasn’t going to be much entertainment if they kept dying off before they were even in the arena. 

The male tributes weren’t faring much better than the girls. The tall boy was still standing, as were six others, but that was it. Father frowned and Albus could tell he wasn’t happy about it, but he did say that there might be ways to improve the games before the next year. 

“We might never have needed to bomb the districts, not when they do such a good job at killing each other,” Dippet said. “That one there, Albus’s racehorse,” he pointed to the tall boy, “killed two others last night.”

The boy didn’t look sorry, not even a little tiny bit. The boy actually lifted his chin and bared his teeth at the President. 

“It’s a mercy you’ll never know,” the boy told Dippet. “When you die, you’ll do it slowly, agonizingly, fighting for air that your lungs will never fill with again.”

The boy’s soft tone of confidence left goosebumps on Albus’s arms and a quick peek at the President showed a flash of shock before he wiped it away and sneered as cuttingly as Father did. 

“Disgusting beasts, all of them,” he said. “Come, Dumbledores, we’ll see how his smart mouth fares him in the arena.”

Albus didn’t say as he followed the President and his Father, Aberforth sniffling tears the whole time, but he felt more sure than ever that the boy was going to win. 

They traveled up a spiral staircase to reach the balcony and Dippet realized halfway up that Aberforth was crying. 

“What’s wrong, dear boy?” he asked, his bushy grey eyebrows flying up on his forehead. “Did one of them hurt you?”

“I thought - you said we’d see animals,” Aberforth cried with fat tears hitting the floor. 

Albus cringed hard and felt his face burning with a blush because of how dim his brother was. Albus knew he didn’t do as well in school as Albus did, but he didn’t think Aberforth was a complete waste of space either. 

Father looked equally humiliated, until President Dippet laughed. 

“Oh, the wonders of youth!” Dippet held his hand out and Aberforth didn’t seem like he was going to accept it until Albus pushed him. Dippet smiled down at Aberforth and Aberforth disrespectfully looked at the ground. 

“The beasts in the cages are animals, sweet one,” Dippet told him patiently while they continued to climb to the balcony. “They’re dirty district beasts, nowhere near as pure and lovely as you are.”

“I… I wanted to see a kitty cat,” Aberforth said. 

Albus decided then and there that Aberforth had to grow up. They were being honored by the President and Aberforth was making them look bad. Father indulged him too much, Albus wasn’t going to anymore. 

President Dippet indulged Aberforth just as much the whole time they took their seats on the balcony - Father on Dippet’s right hand side, Albus on his left, and Aberforth on his lap. There was enough commotion happening in the stands of the arena as the Capitol citizens filled their seats that Albus could tune Aberforth out completely. 

Everyone was eager for the first ever Hunger Games. It sounded silly to think that the crowd was hungry for it, but they were. Albus was too. Finally, finally, he would see someone pay for all they did wrong. 

When the dome above the dusty area reflected the orange lights of day, Dippet stood to address the crowd. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Dippet raised his hands high, letting his golden sleeves dangle down, making a very impressive image. “I WELCOME YOU TO THE FIRST ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES!”

Albus didn’t scream like the others, but he wanted to. He settled for clapping loud and hard, knowing all his classmates would see him sitting by the President, approving wholeheartedly with the games. 

“THE LAST TRIBUTE REMAINING WILL BE RETURNED TO THEIR HOME AND GO DOWN IN OUR HISTORY AS OUR FIRST VICTOR!”

The doors opened and the screams of approval turned to shouts for blood. In marched the dirty girls, the seven boys. The chains that held them were gone and they slowly gazed around the arena. 

It wasn’t until Dippet swung his arms downward and cried ‘BEGIN!’ before the floor in the center of the arena opened up and a crate was raised in the arena. Albus craned his neck to see what laid inside of it and his pulse quickened when he saw weapons. 

“Inspired idea,” Dipper murmured to Father, everyone’s eyes locked on where the tributes inched toward the crate uncertainly. 

“It certainly adds excitement,” Father said. 

It really did. Albus was on the edge of his seat when the first tribute reached the crate. They bent down to pick a weapon and their blood was the first to be spilled when another tribute kicked them away from it. 

Everyone gasped when the tribute spat blood on the dirt and rolled to their feet, lunging to tackle the one who kicked them. They didn’t see the short sword he held though and they actually impaled themselves on it. 

Their blood was red as it spilled, but it mixed with the dirt floor of the arena and became the mud Father suspected they would be filled with. 

“Oho!” Dippet laughed the loudest when a gong sounded, indicating that the first of the tributes had died. “They aren’t very smart, are they?” 

“Not at all,” Father agreed with a small and satisfied smile. Albus tried to arrange his face like his, but Aberforth whined suddenly. 

“Can I —”

“May I,” Father corrected him automatically, for probably the millionth time. 

“May I go to the bathroom?” Aberforth asked, squirming on Dippet’s lap. “Please?”

“Albus, take him,” Father ordered. “Quickly, if you want to see the fight.”

Since Albus did want to see the fight, he pulled Aberforth along quickly to the President’s restroom attached to the balcony. The crowd screamed and gasped so much while Albus could hear metal clashing with metal. The gong sounded again and again and Aberforth was taking forever. 

“Hurry up!” Albus complained, pounding his fist on the door. “I will leave you here,” he threatened him. 

When Aberforth didn’t answer, Albus began to feel a flutter of panic. He wasn’t… hurt, was he?

“Abe?” Albus knocked again. “Answer me right now or I’m coming in,” he warned him. 

There was no answer and Albus barged right in the bathroom, only to see his brother curled up on the floor. For a second, Aberforth’s blonde hair was longer, his body smaller. For a second, the sobs were gurgling screams. 

For a second, Aberforth was gone and Albus could save Ariana. 

“Ari!” Albus dropped to his knees and it was by shaking Aberforth that brought him back to himself. It wasn’t his innocent baby sister dying before him again, it was just Aberforth being a horrible embarrassment. 

The outfit that President Dippet gave him was filthy from the floor and when Albus lifted him by the shirt collar roughly, making him sit upright, he frowned for a moment at the bruising bite on Aberforth’s shoulder. 

Why would he bite himself?

“Don’t - don’t tell them I cried,” Aberforth wailed. “Please, Al, please. I don’t wanna watch no more. I don’t wanna be here. Can we go home? Just me and you?”

“No, we cannot go home,” Albus hissed, shaking Aberforth roughly. “If Father hears you insulting the President like that he’ll have both of our backsides.”

“I don’t - don’t care!” Aberforth cried even louder. “I hate it here. I hate him! I just wanna be with you!”

Albus had to keep himself from actually choking the life from Aberforth when he threw himself at Albus and started crying in his chest. For a second, Albus thought of how it would feel to hold a sword, to let Aberforth impale himself on his own stupidity. 

Which reminded Albus that they were missing the fights and if they didn’t hurry, Father was going to whip the skin from their backs. 

“Aberforth, you listen to me right now,” Albus said lowly, torn between trying to make Aberforth calm down and refusing to indulge his childish antics like everyone else did. 

“We are going to go back out there and we are going to stay until it’s over,” Albus told him. “You promised me that you would be good, Abe. Is this being good?”

Aberforth at least had the sense to shake his head no while his shaking body began to relax. 

“Correct,” Albus said. “We’re going to walk back out there together. Okay?”

“Can I sit with you?” Aberforth asked, peeking at Albus through eyelashes clumped with tears. “I’m scared.” 

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Albus assured him, standing him upright before he stood as well. Aberforth took Albus’s hand and let Albus take him to the sink for a quick wash. 

“Those tributes can’t hurt us anymore,” Albus told him as he wiped down Aberforth’s face. “They can only hurt each other. It’s just a game, Abe, okay?”

Aberforth nodded slowly, clearly still not understanding but at least willing to listen to Albus. It really was going to be Albus’s job of making him grow up, to understand the real world. 

Or maybe Albus could push him over the balcony and let the district animals destroy him like they did Ariana. It was an idea to think about on their walk back to their seats anyway. 

Aberforth sat beside Albus, not that Father or Dippet noticed. They were both standing at the edge of the balcony, leaning against the rail, watching while the last two tributes fought it out. 

The tall boy was in the arena, swinging a trident around like a man would. The boy he fought against had a sword and made up for his short stature in speed. Albus was pulled forward to watch the fight beside his father, forgetting entirely about Aberforth. 

All around the fighting tributes were bodies and blood, mud and weapons they used to kill one another. There were no signs of mercy, no indication that they even hesitated before proving how dangerous they all were. One of the tributes, a girl, had half of her skull opened and the tall boy stepped in the bloody mush that spilled from her as he fought the other boy. 

It was a very close fight, Albus didn’t know who was going to win as the boys traded injuries back and forth. The tall boy had a hole in his neck from the sword, but he still managed to drive his trident through the other boy’s chest. 

There was a moment where Albus looked down at him and saw it, he saw the realization the boy had as he took in the blood and the death that surrounded him. That boy caused it, he caused their deaths. And Albus saw that the boy didn’t regret it. 

Why should he? He was going to live and become a legend. In fifty years, citizens would know his name while the name of other more deserving citizens would become forgotten. 

“OUR VICTOR!” Dippet yelled, his hands straight in the air. The crowd picked up the chant - “VICTOR. VICTOR. VICTOR.” - as the boy was directed to the center of the arena. 

The boy was spilling blood still, bright red rivers of blood that he wasn’t smart enough to try and staunch. He held on to his trident instead, which just showed how ignorant the districts were. 

“Your name and district?” Dippet yelled down at him. 

“My name is Nicolas Flamel,” the tall boy, Flamel, said so clearly it echoed through the entire coliseum. There was a pause when his name was chanted before Flamel smiled widely, his teeth stained a disgusting blood red. “And my home is DISTRICT THREE!”

It happened too quickly. Albus had watched Flamel as he shouted his district, not registering that the trident he threw was aimed directly at their balcony. There was a scream and, at first, Albus thought it was for Flamel himself as he collapsed on the ground. Flamel looked like he laughed once, twice… 

Albus saw his smile freeze on his face just before the light in his eyes disappeared and his chest stopped moving. 

Someone screamed, there was a cough, something warm and wet splattered across Albus’s face. He turned quickly and looked down at Father’s hands, his hands that just pulled the trident from his stomach. Albus looked up at Father’s face just as Father looked at him. 

Time slowed — Aberforth screamed and Father dropped the trident before slumping against the railing and then falling over it. Albus tried to stop him - he tried to save Ariana again and again and again - but Father struck the ground in the arena in a puddle of his own blood. 

Everywhere Albus looked there was dark red blood mixing with the dirt, spreading the mud-blood across the arena. 

Aberforth was snatched by a Peacekeeper as they were ushered away from the balcony, the President’s own guards protecting the boys as they did Dippet. Albus almost missed his chance, he almost missed it as the coliseum filled with screams and citizens stampeding out to safety. 

Seeing Aberforth’s blue eyes filled with fear over the shoulder of the peacekeeper is what reminded Albus of what he knew then he needed to do. 

Father was dead. 

Mama was dead. 

Ariana was dead. 

Albus took the stuffed kitten from his pocket and looked at Aberforth as he threw it behind them, sending the ratty thing sailing over the bannister and down into the arena. 

Hope might keep some flames alive, but Albus knew another trick, just as effective…

Fear.

Chapter Text

“Ladies first!”

The woman from the Capitol, the one with the heels too tall for her body and cheeks painted a clownish red, smiled at the citizens while she dug for a slip of paper. Well, she might have thought she was smiling, Gellert thought she looked like she was impersonating a duck. 

A really ugly duck with feathers painted an offensive shade of orange. 

The citizens of District Twelve seemed to hold their breath collectively while they waited to find out which unfortunate girl would be the 5th female tribute sent to fight in an arena. The cameras sent in by the Capitol scanned over them all, probably waiting to get a closeup as soon as the girl chosen heard her name. 

Sure it was dramatic, but it was a cheap pay off. If the Capitol wanted drama, they should zoom in on the parent of the chosen girl. It would take the girl a second to comprehend the sounds, another second or two before her shocked mask would fall. The parent would understand it immediately, they’d hear the name they chose and they would understand it meant death. 

The Ugly Duck plucked a scrap of paper finally and held it up high. Gellert’s fingers itched to snatch the paper from her, to replace it with a fake coin or lump of coal. It wouldn’t be all that hard to do, it wasn’t like District Twelve would sell him out or nothing. 

“The District Twelve female tribute for the fifth annual Hunger Games will be…” Ugly-Duck paused for drama. “ISSA PEVERELL!” 

Damn. 

Gellert reached a hand inside his suit jacket to take the tiny pencil he kept on him to write Issa’s name in his shabby notebook. As he wrote her name out, easily doing it without looking, he glanced over his shoulder to the males who aged out of the reaping. Issa’s father let out a wail and his brothers had to lunge to grab him, to hold his arms in place, when he looked ready to tear through the square and rush his daughter to safety. 

The Peverells were weird, creepy, but Gellert liked them. They were always down for a round of cards, a round of drinks. Issa’s dad spent quite a bit of time trying to defeat Gellert at his own games, her uncles helped Gellert out a few times when someone wanted to jump him. Iggy was a good guy, Gellert hated to see the pain on his face. 

What a shame. 

Nobody clapped and nobody smiled when Issa stepped on the stage, trembling with terror. Issa looked like a perfect representation of the tributes Twelve had so far - olive skin, dark hair, coal dust coating her ratty clothes. There wasn’t one ounce of meat on her, she might not even make it to the arena. 

“And now for the boys!” Ugly-Duck took center stage again to stick her orange dipped nails in the other glass bowl, the one that held the name of every boy in District Twelve between eleven years old and seventeen. 

There were four hundred and seventeen scraps of paper in that jar. Gellert did some quick math while he flipped his cards between his fingers at his sides. 

There was less than a 0.25% chance that the slip pulled would say Gellert Grindelwald. 

“The District Twelve male tribute for the fifth annual Hunger Games will be… GELLERT GRINDELWALD!”

Wow. Okay. 

Gellert kissed his mom’s necklace, threw a smile on his face, and stepped forward immediately. 

It was showtime. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, what an honor to be here today!” Gellert said loudly, smiling like he won a lifetime of bread instead of a fatal placement in the Hunger Games. “Panem, how are you? Thank you for coming!” Gellert smiled directly in the cameras, adding a playful wink for good measure. 

There were some giggles, a lot from the girls side of the crowd, and Gellert walked up the stage stairs confidently, head high, smile fixed. Issa seemed shocked as Gellert passed her, more by his reaction than she had been by her own fate. 

“You mind?” Gellert took the microphone from Ugly Duck and did a twirl on the stage, letting the coat tails of his jacket add some flair. “District Twelve, let me hear you! When I say ‘Gellert’ you say ‘Great’! Ready? GELLERT!”

Gellert’s family, the kids he camped with who knew Gellert’s games almost as well as he did, were the first to add their voices. 

“GREAT!”

“GELLERT!”

“GREAT!”

“DISTRICT TWELVE!”

“GREAT!”

“Aah!” Gellert pointed out in the crowd and waggled his finger. “I didn’t say ‘Gellert’!”

There was laughter, the easy laughter of people who were relieved. They could laugh with Gellert, they were safe. It made them feel better to see Gellert embracing his reaping, it eased the guilt they felt for immediately thinking ‘thank God it wasn’t me’ after his name was pulled. 

“Mister Grindelwald, this is most inappropriate!” Ugly Duck tried to take the microphone from Gellert and he slid to the side on the heel of his boots, the velvet covered heels that made him look like he was gliding when he was on stage. 

“District Twelve, I want to thank you for being such a wonderful audience,” Gellert said, knowing that every camera was on him, every citizen in Panem was in his grasp. “And as a final goodbye, because we all know that Miss Issa is going to rip my lungs through my nose with her fingernails—”

Issa giggled, so sweet and so young. 

“I’d like to reveal a secret to you, only my friends here in District Twelve,” Gellert said, walking a fine line. He couldn’t rush the trick, but he couldn’t delay it and get himself shot on stage by a peacekeeper either. 

“I, Gellert the Great, am a psychic,” Gellert told them all. “I sound crazy, right? How could I possibly be psychic? I was born with the gift, friends. Don’t believe me? That’s okay, I’ll prove it. Issa Peverell! Can you reach in your pocket and read to me the paper you’ll find there?” 

District Twelve seemed to hold their breath again while Issa’s nose scrunched up in confusion. The Capitol Duck quit quacking as even she seemed interested in Gellert’s claims. Issa put her hand in her pocket and all of Panem surely saw when her eyes widened in wonder. 

“Would you read that out loud, Dear Issa?” Gellert asked her. 

Issa cleared her throat and it didn’t matter if her voice was soft, shaky. It was so quiet in the District, maybe the whole country, that everyone heard what she read perfectly clearly. 

‘“Issa Peverell will be reaped first and then I, Gellert the Great, will be reaped’,” Issa read. “Wow!” Issa turned the notebook page around and nobody in the district could read it, but Gellert knew that the cameras were zooming in on it, broadcasting the prediction to the country. 

And when they panned back to Gellert, he swept his hat off his head for a flashy bow as a puff of colored smoke added even more mystique to his act. 

“My name is Gellert the Great and this week you can see me on your TV as I take my act to the Capitol itself!”

District Twelve exploded in whistles and applause, someone even threw a flower on the stage for Gellert. Gellert smiled dazzlingly to them all, bowing again before he was directed off the stage to the train that would take him to the Capitol. 

Any good showman would explain that an audience should never know what the showman was truly thinking. If the show was good enough, the audience would think exactly what the showman wanted them to. 

It was why Gellert kept up his smile, his winks, his charm until the train doors slid closed and he could take one second to tell himself the truth he didn’t want to face:

Gellert the Great very well may have just performed his final show in District Twelve. 

The train car that Gellert shared with Issa for the trip to the Capitol would have been uncomfortable anyway, but the three armed guards that kept their guns trained on them definitely didn’t help. Issa shivered and trembled for the first two hours, the poor girl was literally shaking in her…

Bare feet. 

Gellert pulled his cards from his pocket and began shuffling them after a while, wanting to test a theory. 

“Pick a card,” Gellert told Issa, offering her the fanned out deck. Issa scooted a little bit closer and reached out slowly, pulling a card out from the middle. 

“I’m going to shuffle the cards now…” Gellert shuffled the deck twice before he fanned it out again and offered it to Issa. “Put your card anywhere you want, I won’t look.” 

Gellert turned his head away and waited for Issa to add her card back in the deck. As soon as she did, Gellert shuffled the deck while staring hard in Issa’s eyes. 

“I am now reading your mind,” Gellert told her, fully aware that the guards were hanging on his every word. “Hm, oh, yes, you’re right, I am the most handsome fella in District Twelve.”

Issa, a sweet and innocent eleven, laughed while her skin blushed darkly and she shook her head. “I didn’t think that!”

“No?” Gellert shuffled again - once, twice. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were thinking that I should be Queen of the Hunger Games.”

Issa had no poker face, none at all. Her mouth fell open and even if she shook her head quickly, denying Gellert’s claim, he knew he had managed to surprise her again. 

“Boys can’t be Queen,” she said. 

“Then I’m either the worst psychic in the world, or…” Gellert pointed at the train door they entered in, specifically at the Queen of Diamonds card that was stuck to the outside of the glass, displaying the face for everyone to see. 

“Is that your card?” Gellert asked, grinning despite himself when Issa let out a dramatic gasp. 

“Yes!! Gelly! How did you do that?!” Issa asked, using her uncle’s nickname for Gellert. 

“I told you.” Gellert shuffled the deck again, grinning slyly. “I’m psychic.” 

The guards lowered their guns and one of them went to the door to press his fingers against the solid glass, unable to reach the card no matter how hard he stared at the glass pane. 

“How’d you do that?” he asked Gellert, as eager to discover his secrets as Issa was. 

Gellert shuffled the deck, then cupped his hands around the entire deck. He opened them and the deck was gone and blue glitter exploded from his hands. 

“Magic.” 

It took Gellert two more tricks to have the guards wrapped around his pinky. Once they were, once they had removed their helmets and sat on the ground with Gellert and Issa, the train ride was less unbearable. 

Gellert kept his tricks up the entire ride, always betting on himself for the sake of food every time he began a new trick they swore he couldn’t really do. It was exhausting, and not exactly easy, to keep it up for so long, but it was worth it. 

By the time their train arrived in Panem’s Capitol City, the guards owed Gellert three slices of bread, a package of real Capitol salt, a chicken leg, and a small glass of whatever liquor they thought Gellert should try before he died. Their deals opened them up to drop little tidbits of other information as well—

The tributes were being taken to holding cells where they would wait to find out about the changes being made to the game that year. They wouldn’t be transported to the arena until the games officially began. The peacekeepers knew some of their names, the ones who had been reaped earlier in the day. 

Gellert filed away all the details he could in the back of his mind, carefully placing it in a set placement of his memory palace. If knowledge was power then Gellert needed to get real smart, real quick. And that usually meant he had to get people comfortable, get them talking. 

Stupid people were all the same. They’d tell Gellert anything he wanted to know if he set the situation up just right. Since Gellert doubted if there was one smart person in the Capital, he thought there might be a slim chance he wouldn’t leave the arena in a wooden box. 

Not a great chance, but a slim one. All a good magician needed was half a chance anyway. 

Gellert got his first chance to check out the other tributes almost immediately after being kicked from the train. District Twelve, the furthest from the Capitol, had the furthest to travel. It meant that when Gellert and Issa were pushed to a big truck with a metal cage installed on the back, there were twenty-two pairs of unfriendly eyes on them. 

There were some that looked unfriendly enough that they could kill him before they ever entered the arena. In the past four games, not once had there been a full twenty-four tributes fighting. More often than not, they killed each other off before the gong ever rang. 

Gellert climbed in the cage first with Issa close to his back. For the first few minutes, as their truck drove out of the station and into a service tunnel, Gellert said nothing and watched. 

Gellert watched the boy with the flat nose twitch when the tunnel blocked the light. Gellert watched a girl with red curls close her oversized eyes when a distant noise sounded like a gunshot. Gellert loweredhis eyelids, slowed his breathing, and watched through his lashes as the boy with what looked like teeth made of cracked pavement sized him up first. 

There was a lot to learn by watching others. 

When the truck hit a bump and the boy with the creepy silver eyes accidentally fell on the boy with the flat nose, Gellert decided it was time to stop watching and start performing. 

“I’LL KILL YOU!” the flat-nosed boy yelled as he grabbed the silver-eyed boy and slammed him against the cage bars. It was so cramped in their cage that a fight between two of them would ripple out and Gellert didn’t like his chances in a fight that up close and personal. 

“Excuse me.” Gellert cleared his throat and pasted a small, but innocently confused, smile on his face. The boy being throttled by the flat nosed boy could see Gellert, but the one threatening to snuff him out couldn’t until Gellert cleared his throat again. “Excuse me!” 

The other tributes all watched Gellert while the flat nosed kid turned his head and glared darkly at him. 

“You got a problem?” he asked. Gellert inspected his clothes without breaking eye contact and took in every patch, every slipped stitch. 

“Me? Gosh, no,” Gellert said. “It’s just… I’m getting a message, from someone in your life? It - no, she said it’s important I talk to you.” 

“Are you - can you talk to ghosts?” one of the girls asked, sounding just as impressed as she should if it was real. 

“Ghosts? No.” Gellert cringed suddenly and gripped the sides of his head dramatically. “There’s spirits though and they’re so loud! Please, I’ll tell him!”

The flat nosed boy had completely released the silver eyed boy by then and Gellert had his whole attention. Hopefully they were close to their destination, Gellert didn’t think the boy would react with reason and logic if Gellert didn’t hit the mark just right. 

“Ignore him, Drax,” the pretty girl with the fancy hairdo said, looking down her literally stuck up nose at Gellert. “He’s messing with you.”

Arrogant, nicest clothes in the truck, ‘Drax’. 

“I think a poor boy from District Twelve knows better than to mess with anyone from District One,” Gellert said humbly. “This just happens sometimes, the messages I get don’t always make sense. I - no, forget it. I’m sorry.” 

It was all very carefully done, a perfected act. The flattery, the hesitance. Gellert wasn’t surprised it hooked Drax, it did for many others that were older and allegedly smarter. 

All eyes were on Gellert and that was how he liked it. 

Look at him, pay no mind to the tricks happening around them. Look at him, let him crawl in their minds and rest there. Look at him, it was easier to attack from the inside. 

“What’s the message?” Drax asked. 

Gellert yelped and grabbed at his ear, pulling and pushing in distress. “She’s loud,” he complained. “Was she always this loud?”

There were six emotions that people could rarely ever hide from their expressions: joy, grief, anger, fear, disgust, and surprise. There was a seventh one, but Gellert forgot it and it probably wasn’t important anyway. With the six emotions he memorized, there were 43 muscles in the face that could combine to create hundreds of expressions to give away their emotions. 

The twitch of Drax’s lip paired with the tightening around his mouth: it was joy and it was grief. 

“Yeah, her whole life she was yellin’,” Drax said. He sat down and the others moved away from him. Issa curled in Gellert’s side and he put a hand on her, letting her know he was there. 

“Your sister said you’re the noisy one,” Gellert said, a shot in the dark. Someone with a clumsy hand sewed the patches on Drax’s shirt, someone he might have known for their whole life. 

When someone was surprised, their eyes widened at the top. It wasn’t really a widening of their eyes, it was a stretch of their upper eyelid. When they were scared, their bottom eyelid stretched, like they were bracing themselves for a blow. 

“Dory?” Drax asked. He howled and one of the younger girls screamed when he grabbed Gellert by the neck, easily swinging him to his feet to slam him against the bars. “DORY AIN’T DEAD!” he screamed. “MEOWSER DIED! NOT DORY!”

Gellert the Great, killed because an idiot boy thought Gellert was communicating with the spirit of his dead cat. If they found out, Gellert’s chosen brothers and sisters would laugh so hard. 

There was a tiny chance Gellert could get out of it, a teensy tiny chance, and if he misstepped then at least he never had to kill Iggy’s niece. 

Not that Gellert really thought he could. There wouldn’t be any home to return to if he did and if it wasn’t him and Issa in the end - there was no reason to kill a sweet little girl. 

“Dory… Dory said don’t…” Gellert made a gasping sound and let his lashes flutter. It actually was hard to breathe with Drax’s thick fingers wrapped around his neck. Gellert counted his breath, slowed it…

One…

Two…

“Hey!” Drax released Gellert’s throat so he could slap him, hard, and then shook him. “Magic Man! What’d Dory say?”

Magic Man. 

That was neat, Gellert might use it. 

“Drax?” Gellert softened his voice, lowered it to a breathy whisper. “Drax? Are you there?”

Gellert didn’t need to look, he could feel when an audience was his. There was one chance to keep them and a showman had to be flawless. If he was? They’d never forget him. 

“D- Dory?” Drax’s voice shook. Did… did he think Gellert was channeling the spirit of his sister? The sister he swore wasn’t dead! 

Huh. 

Gellert thought District One was meant to be intelligent. 

“It’s not your fault,” Gellert whispered. “I’m okay. Meowser is here. See?” Gellert laughed, a soft airy giggle. “I’m safe, Drax. They can’t take me like they took you.”

“But… you were safe,” Drax said, a pain-filled moan. “I didn’t do nothin’! I went quietly!”

If Drax wasn't yet crying, he would be, Gellert could hear it. 

And for the finale…

“Drax?” Gellert let his lashes flutter weakly and lifted his hand to place it very gently on Drax’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault. I - I love…”

Gellert exhaled at once, letting his body go absolutely limp, and was rudely dropped on the floor. Issa scrambled to pat his face, whispering his name urgently, and Gellert only ‘came to’ once he was sure enough time had passed for his audience. 

“What happened?” Gellert asked Issa groggily, wincing as he rubbed the handprint on his cheek. He made his eyebrows raise when he ‘noticed’ Drax crying silently above him. “Did I hurt you?” he asked him. 

“You don’t remember?” A scrawny kid with a big nose and unevenly shaved blonde hair might have been the most impressed by Gellert’s act. “His sister died and - and her ghost was inside of you!” 

“That… happens sometimes,” Gellert said, real apologetically, inching his way back into a seated position. “Drax? Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Drax said, a pretty obvious lie with the rage in his eyes and snot dripping from his flat nose. “You - thanks,” he grunted.

Gellert touched his cap and bowed his head humbly. “I’m just a connection,” he said. “It’s something of a curse in my family.” 

If the Grindelwalds were cursed with anything, it was blue eyes and charismatic smiles. Ma always said that Gellert could charm the coins from the rich, just like Pa could. Gellert doubted if she knew that Gellert was going to have to use that charm in a fight for his life, but he felt good about putting on a great show if nothing else. 

The other tributes didn’t seem to be in any rush to gang up on Gellert or Issa and the lack of fighting for the rest of the ride made Gellert hopeful that maybe he could pull it off. Maybe Gellert the Great could find a way to win the Hunger Games and return home a thousand times more famous than he ever dreamed. 

The tunnels they drove through began to lighten and Gellert kept his face passive even when a horrible stench hit him. It smelled like death, like decayed bodies stacked in a hole in the ground. It smelled like District Thirteen did before Pa was killed and Ma fled with just Gellert by her side and one bag of belongings on her back. 

“Ugh.” The girl with the big eyes and red curls got sick from the smell and Gellert had to swallow his own bile when they saw what made the smell. 

It was animals, a pile of decaying animal bodies. There were many Gellert probably wouldn’t have known even if they were breathing creatures. The way the flies covered the pile gave the illusion that they were moving, buzzing lightly, with fur that melted into sludge with time. 

Gellert covered Issa’s face with his suit jacket and kept her hidden until they passed the carnage. If Gellert breathed slowly, let Issa breathe with him, they’d get past it. 

Or they would be taken through a tunnel labeled ‘ZOO’ and driven directly to the center of it. Nobody could be right one hundred percent of the time. 

There was a small gathering in the cage their truck stopped in. Five peacekeepers waited with their guns drawn just behind six Capitol kids. They were students, of some sort, all of them wore deep red jackets and silk black ties that made Gellert’s own tie seem faded and shabby. The two girls looked sick, so did the youngest one, a scrawny blonde kid. 

The boy in the center though… he stared directly at Gellert with blue eyes that were the icy match to Gellert’s dark blues. That boy stood the tallest, that boy Gellert recognized as the President’s ward. 

All of Panem watched his father fall during the first Games. Gellert cheered as loud as his family did when the Capitol saw that they wouldn’t be killed off quietly. 

“Tributes!” The boy stepped forward with a commanding air, one he stole from his father’s valor and his adoptive father’s ego. The boy clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin as he surveyed them all, blind to the tension radiating off one of the tributes. 

“My name is Albus Dumbledore and I will be leading the new mentorship program while you are guests of the Capitol,” the boy, Albus, told them. “When you are released of your cage, you will remain within the confines of this enclosure,” he gestured shortly to the bigger cage they would enter. “This evening you will meet your mentor and the changes to the Games will be explained to you.

“Until then, there is to be absolutely no fighting,” he went on. “You will not harm yourself or your fellow tributes. Failure to comply with this rule will result in punishment.”

What were they going to do? Make them fight each other to the death? The boy with the wiry hair and silver eyes looked like he had the same thought. 

“Attempting to escape will result in punishment. Disrespecting the home you’ve been given temporarily will result in punishment. Black!” Albus called to the peacekeeper waiting by the lock on their current cage. “Release them.” 

Gellert held Issa to his side, keeping her back as the bomb that was Drax exploded. 

“YOU KILLED HER!” Drax lunged directly for Albus and landed a fine hit to his face. Albus was knocked on his back, soo uncivilized for the President’s ward, and Drax managed two more solid hits before a gun fired. 

It only took one bullet through the center of Drax’s forehead to splatter the tributes behind him with blood and cow them all sufficiently. Drax hit the ground and Albus was helped up by the peacekeeper who saved him. 

Gellert let Issa climb out of the truck ahead of him and brushed his coat off when he hopped out. Gellert bent over in a dramatic bow, right over Drax’s body, and offered Albus his hand as he straightened up. 

“Gellert the Great,” he said. “It’s a real pleasure to be here.”

One tribute down, twenty-two to go. 

The other tributes spread out some around the nasty enclosure they were kept in. The boy with the truly unfortunate teeth grabbed the bars of their new cage and shook them. Issa curled up under a plastic tree and closed her eyes. 

Gellert couldn’t sleep, he didn’t want to explore the animal cage they were in. He was restless, his fingers itched with a desire to do something. 

“Hi.” The boy with the silver eyes, the one Gellert basically saved his life, offered Gellert his hand when Gellert paced past him. “Garrick,” he said. There was a small grin, just a split second of amusement. “And you’re Gellert the Great, right?”

“Emphasis on great,” Gellert told him solemnly, winking over Garrick’s shoulder to the girl he must have been reaped with. 

“Sabine,” she said. “How’d you make Drax attack that boy?”

“Make him?” Gellert asked, emphasizing as much bewilderment as he could. “Ma’am, you give me too much credit. I never would have made a fellow tribute risk his life in such a way.”

Sabine huffed at him, but Garrick was amused. 

“Is his sister really dead?” he asked. 

Gellert shrugged. “It’d be pretty messed up if she wasn’t, right?”

“Is everyone in District Twelve like you?” Garrick asked, looking beyond Gellert for Issa. Gellert shifted a little, keeping himself in his line of sight. 

“They’re not nearly as fun,” Gellert assured him. He raised his voice some, drew the others in. “After all… can they see your future?” 

“Oh, please.” Drax’s district partner, the pretty girl from One, scoffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder while everyone else crowded around Gellert. “Let me guess, you can see that we’ll all be dead in a week?” she asked bitingly. 

“One of us won’t be,” Gellert said. It was an old trick to lower his voice, make the crowd come to him. He reached out toward the girl winningly, “If you want, I’ll read your future for free, love.”

The girl could sneer at Gellert all she wanted, there was a very faint pink dusting on her cheeks when she stormed forward and thrust her hand at Gellert. Gellert had that effect on people sometimes, it worked for him. 

Gellert lifted the girl’s hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and then flipped her hand so he could trace the lines on her palm. 

“What’s your name?” Gellert asked. 

The girl raised an eyebrow at him, mocking him even before she opened her mouth. “What? You can’t read it in my thoughts?” 

“Oh, I can,” Gellert said with perfect confidence. “You don’t want to tell me? That’s fine. Look deep in my eyes, let me search your thoughts.”

The girl had very brown eyes, a deep brown that showed her confidence. And Gellert knew her name. 

“Twinkle, Twinkle, little star…” he sang quietly, smirking slightly when Twinkle couldn’t hide her surprise. 

District One gave their kids the stupidest names, they were always memorable for their stupidity alone. 

“How…?” Twinkle’s mouth fell open and the tributes were all Gellert’s, they just didn’t know it. 

For over an hour Gellert read palms, made predictions, and crawled his way into every tribute’s mind. They were all such easy marks, each one desperate for information on how they might survive the arena. A few of them glared distrustfully at him, but Gellert had a good time anyway. 

It was better when the guards from the train brought Gellert the food they owed him. Gellert didn’t think they’d follow through, so their visit was a nice surprise. Gellert tried to get as much information from the guards as he could, they didn’t know much - but anything might save Gellert’s life. 

Gellert had a drink of the liquor they brought just before the guards left. He waved a subtle goodbye to them and immediately turned his head, carefully spitting the vodka into the wrapper the chicken leg had been wrapped in. 

“Ew.” Issa made a disgusted face when Gellert situated the baggie of booze into his inner suit pocket. “That’s gross, Gelly.”

“I know!” Gellert gasped quietly. “It’s so gross that we should never ever tell anyone I did it, okay?” 

“If I don’t tell anyone, can I have a little bitty bite of that chicken?” Issa whispered. 

“As if I’d eat in front of you,” Gellert said, only shifting enough that he could see if a tribute approached them. There was no rule that said ‘tributes cannot make deals with peacekeepers on train rides and then accept food in repayment before they go in the arena’, so Gellert didn’t want them to make one just for him. 

“What kind of a first date would this be if I did that?” Gellert teased Issa. “Here, let me…” Gellert reached for Issa’s ear and pulled an old purple handkerchief from behind her ear, shaking it out and laying it on the rock between them. 

“We are not on a date,” Issa giggled. She was so little, so young… Gellert didn’t know if he would live, but he knew she wouldn’t. 

What did it hurt Gellert to give a little kid as many experiences as he could before her death?

“We’re not?” Gellert stuck his lower lip out and tried to make his eyes big and sad. “Issa Peverell, you’ll break my heart. I told Iggy that I’d make an honest gal out of you.”

“Uncle Iggy told me that you’re a flirt and I should never ever date you,” Issa said, so serious. Gellert laughed as he deboned the chicken, he could imagine Iggy telling Issa just that. 

The chicken meat went on the handkerchief, the bone went in his pocket. Gellert gave Issa half the pile, then added half a piece of his bread for her too. 

“The thing about your Uncle Iggy is that he’s jealous,” Gellert told Issa once the food was served. “He wants to keep me allll for himself, but we all know who the prettiest Peverell is.”

Issa didn’t waste any time with the food, not that Gellert did himself either. The smell that surrounded them didn’t exactly add anything to the flavor and it needed to be gone before another tribute saw it and decided they’d be happy to kill them for a small meal. While they ate, Gellert kept up his silly flirtations, nothing more than a way to make Issa smile. 

“When we’re on the TV, I’m gonna tell Uncle Iggy that you said I’m the prettiest Peverell,” Issa said after she swallowed down the last of her portion of food. “Papa says he’s sweet on you, so he’s not gonna like that when you get home, Gelly.”

“Issa, don’t say that.” Gellert took Issa’s hand in his and turned it over once, twice, thrice. When he opened her hand, he picked up the tiny pink flower that rested there. The stem was frail, but Gellert was able to tuck it behind Issa’s ear, adding some color to her dark hair. 

“You can’t give up now,” Gellert whispered to her. “You make me a promise, Issa, okay? Promise me that when we get to the arena, you’re going to fight as hard as you can. You promise me that you’ll be a good girl and not do anything crazy. You fight, you go home to your family, and you tell Iggy that I was a perfect gentleman, okay? Promise?”

“I’m scared, Gelly…” Issa’s lip wobbled and her eyes became wet. “What if I’m too scared to fight?”

Then she would be killed. It wasn’t a question.

“Issa, do you know the scariest person I’ve ever met?” Gellert leaned against the fake tree and had Issa lay her head on his shoulder. 

“The scariest person I ever met was your Pa,” Gellert told her. “There I was, putting on a show in the Hob, and your Pa comes charging in and yells at everyone ‘Hey! Where’s the punk that swiped my squirrel?’” 

“Was it you?” Issa asked, clever girl. 

“Issa, do I look like the kinda fella who would steal squirrels from men like your daddy?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right,” Gellert said. “I stole that squirrel right out from under his nose and I wasn’t going to give it back. Except your Pa saw me standing on a grand stage, performing the most daring feats of magic, and he snatched me up by the collar and shook the snot out of me.”

When Issa giggled, Gellert grinned faintly. It had been terrifying at the time, Gellert had only just moved in District Twelve and he didn’t know anyone yet. The people there were good enough to not report a woman with a boy slipping in their gates and taking up the shack of a family killed in the war, but Gellert thought that was where their kindness ended. 

Then Antioch Peverell had Gellert up in the air with a fist pulled back, ready to beat the squirrel right out of him. 

“Ant!” A boy ran in, a couple of years older than Gellert, looking too much like the man ready to kill him for Gellert to feel any relief. “It’s a kid. He’s just a kid.”

“He’s a thief,” the man snarled. “Where’s my squirrel, eh?”

It was gone. Gellert gave it to Ma, Ma cooked it up. 

“I’ll - I’ll share it, if you put me down,” Gellert offered, cowering hard and not able to hide it. 

Everyone in the pub went silent and Gellert scrunched his eyes shut, sure he was about to be beaten to death. Instead, he was dropped on the floor and only opened his eyes when a deep laugh filled the area. 

“My God.” Antioch was bent at the waist, laughing a deep belly laugh. Something glittered at his hip, it looked like a silver chain, Gellert thought maybe it was a watch. He didn’t get to check though, not when the boy swung his hand toward Gellert. 

Gellert closed his eyes again and tried to curl up, but the boy only grabbed his shoulder and helped him to his feet. 

“I gotta know, what size pants do you wear?” the boy asked. 

Gellert blinked - District Twelve was weird. “Uh… I don’t know? Why?” 

“Just wondering where you keep your balls,” he chuckled. “I’m Ignotus, that’s Antioch.”

Since it didn’t seem like Gellert was going to be beaten to death, he introduced himself as well. When Antioch finished laughing at ‘Gellert’s balls’, Gellert surprised him by offering an apology hug. 

Gellert swiped what he thought was a watch and scored an invite to dinner with Ignotus, Antioch, their brother Cadmus, and Antioch’s daughter Issa when he returned the photo inside of it. The locket had a neat engraving on it and edges that were sharp enough to cut a man. Gellert created a grand story of how he fought the thief that stole it, though he was only able to save the picture. 

Issa listened to Gellert’s story silently and sighed when he finished. “So you’re saying I should fight my hardest because Pa loves me?” she asked. 

That was one way to interpret it. 

“I’m saying…” Gellert reached for one of his inner pockets and pulled the silver locket from it to dangle in front of Issa. Gellert had used it a couple of times when he was in a tight spot, but mostly he just liked the engraved symbol. 

Gellert lowered it in Issa’s hand and curled her fingers around it. 

“You need to take that back to your Pa, let him know you fought the thief that took it,” he said quietly. “You can make a grand story about the risks you took, you can be great, Issa.”

Issa smiled at Gellert with hollow cheeks, hungry eyes. “Issa the Great,” she said. 

“Yeah.” Gellert’s chest ached with what he knew Issa’s future would hold. 

“Issa the Great.”

Albus returned to the cage they were held in before the sun set that evening. There were others with him, Gellert didn’t need to count to know it would be twenty-two more of them. They had a small army of peacekeepers with them and none of them got too close to the bars that separated them. 

Gellert wasn’t imagining Albus’s eyes on him, a lot of them were sending him curious looks. So they were their mentors… interesting. 

The other tributes stood half a step behind Gellert, which he hated. Except for Issa, she stood right beside him, which he hated. Gellert subtly pushed her behind him, keeping her from their line of sight. 

It didn’t take a psychic to guess what the plan was going to be - each tribute would be paired with a Capitol kid. Gellert didn’t know how the Capitol planned for that to be beneficial for anyone, but he knew how he planned to make it work for him. 

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I requested your presence today,” Gellert said, projecting his voice as far as it could carry. Two of the Capitol kids looked disgusted at being addressed by a tribute, but the rest of them were interested in him. 

“My name, ladies and gentlemen, is Gellert the Great and I asked our esteemed President to grant me a visit here so I can introduce you all to…” Gellert reached for the bars and closed his fingers midair before opening his hand up and showing a glittering stone. “The future!” 

One kid clapped, tough crowd. 

“And I gathered you all here to tell you about the mentorship program,” Albus said, silencing the lone clapper with a filthy glare. “Since my information may save your life, I should probably go first.”

“Sure, sure,” Gellert said easily with a grin. “I mean, I think my information could save someone’s life too… not yours. But definitely yours,” Gellert pointed to one of the boys, an older one. Then he shrugged and swapped one mask for another. “You go ahead though, Albus.”

They were shaken, Albus made a good show of acting haughty. Gellert didn’t meet a lot of fellow performers, it was interesting to watch someone else put on their own show. 

“Our goal this year is to make the Games more enticing to viewers,” Albus said. He sounded unhappy, what a shame. 

“Any improvement to the games is a benefit to not just you, but to all of Panem. Though most of you will die,” Albus paused to stare directly at Gellert. 

Gellert winked. 

Albus stammered, but he got to his point eventually. “It - it will mean improvements for future tributes from your home. This year, each of you will be assigned to a mentor who will collaborate on possible improvements. When I say your name, you will follow your mentor to a place to confer. Any attempt to breach the gate, any attempt to harm your mentor, any tomfoolery at all will result in immediate execution.”

Gellert sifted through the threats and propaganda to find the real meaning and then immediately threw his hand in the air. 

“I’ve said since day one that the games need improvement,” he said cheerfully. “If tomfoolery would improve them, should we be so quick to exclude it?”

Albus could scowl all he wanted, he didn’t scare Gellert. Gellert was going to die or he wasn’t, that was all they could do. They could take his life, but the stage was his and the audience would be too. 

“No tomfoolery,” Albus repeated. “Now—”

“Got it. Guys,” Gellert turned his head and pointed at the other tributes. “Absolutely no tomfoolery. Albus and I decided we will not allow it, okay?”

If Gellert wasn’t mocking the President’s Ward, he was sure he would be throttled for aligning himself with the Capitol in any way. Even Twinkle had to work to hide her smirk though, none of them were going to complain about Gellert making a fool of Albus. 

Albus was visibly taken aback, apparently he didn’t know how to recover when Gellert nodded with a friendly smile and asked him to please go on. Ah, Gellert was sure he’d get there one day. A little spoiled guy like him? He’d bully his way through life just fine. 

“Female, District One, Phineus.”

“Twinkle!” Gellert turned and winked at Issa’s giggle as he once again interrupted Albus. “You’re with Phineus,” he told her seriously. 

“Understood.” Twinkle looked past Gellert to the Capitol kids and there was a fresh sneer on her lips when she saw the boy she was meant to follow. 

Gellert did it with every tribute Albus assigned, only earning himself more fame within the tributes for knowing their names. It wasn’t a hard trick, the hard part was not laughing at Albus’s obviously rising anger. 

As the list dwindled down, Gellert knew exactly who his mentor was going to be and knew that Albus must have requested it himself. 

“Female, District Twelve, Aberforth,” Albus said, stepping to the side and letting the lone clapper lift a hand toward Issa. 

“Issa, you go with Aberforth,” Gellert told Issa. “I told you about him, remember? I’ll go with Albus, okay?” 

Issa nodded and must have been so confused, but she threw the sweetest smile on her face to wave at the kid she was assigned to. 

“Hi, Abe!” 

Issa skipped off to the area she was assigned to with Aberforth and Gellert grinned only to himself. Issa might not be the prettiest Peverell, but she was quickly becoming his favorite. Even Iggy never cottoned on to one of Gellert’s bits so quickly. 

“Sorry about that,” Gellert told Albus, strolling casually up to the gate between them. “You used to have more of a sense of humor, Al, what happened?” 

Albus only took a second to process that surprise, but a second was all Gellert needed to size him up. Stiff, uncomfortable on his own. Albus kept his body angled just right where he technically faced Gellert, but the line of peacekeepers behind him weren’t entirely invisible to him either. Albus drew courage from his crowd the same way Gellert pulled confidence from his. 

The difference was, Gellert could perform a solo act all day and he doubted if Albus could. 

“You don’t know me,” Albus said, soo stiff and tight. His eyes only strayed for a second, but Gellert was definitely making him uncomfortable with the feigned familiarity. 

“You… oh.” Gellert let out a heavy sigh, letting his shoulders sink and his head drop some. “You don’t remember me.”

Albus’s brow creased, but not in outright disbelief. “If you actually knew me, you’d know I don’t make a habit of forgetting things.” A pause, a slight tilt of his head - yeah, there was no way he was older than fifteen, sixteen max. “Where exactly do you think we met?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gellert said, very defeated and disappointed. “It was a long time ago, before the Dark Days. I hoped when my family made it back, we… but… no, we have different lives now.” 

Albus was definitely curious, Gellert almost had him. 

“You used to live here?” Albus asked. 

“Well, not here.” Gellert forced himself to grin, so wry and humbly accepting his cards in life, as he gestured to the space around him. “I loved coming here though. The tigers? Remember when they had to separate them for fighting?” Gellert chuckled at the ‘memory’ and sat down slowly, giving Albus the upper hand from his view. 

“We’re meant to be discussing your plans for the games,” Albus said slowly. The muscles in his legs twitched, like he wanted to sit but wouldn’t let himself. 

“Right,” Gellert said quickly. “Sorry, you’re here to help me and I really appreciate it. Oh!” Gellert smacked himself and hoped his memory was right. “How is Ariana?” he asked. 

There was a moment for every showman and every crowd - one beat where they were hooked, or they were gone. Lose them, and the curtain might as well fall. But to catch them? That was the spark, the hook, the sweet rush of power that made the whole game worth playing.

And Gellert had Albus. 

“Your sister?” Gellert pushed, elated when he saw that he won, he did remember the name correctly. It was the small details that locked in a story. “I hope she’s well. I used to pretend she was my sister, before we left the Capitol. It’s silly, I know, but I always wanted a little sister. Issa’s really the closest thing I have now.”

“You - Gellert Grindelwald, right? How do I…?” Albus sat down then, putting them nearly at eye level. “I don't remember you at all?”

Albus didn’t respond about his sister, but there was a weight of grief under his tone. Gellert was going to dedicate an entire room in his memory palace to the boy, he was sure that it would somehow help him eventually. 

“It was a long time ago,” Gellert assured him kindly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m nobody now and you - look at you!” Gellert tilted his head a little, mirroring Albus’s behaviors back to him. “I knew you’d be a looker, you look like your dad.”

There - the second Gellert said ‘dad’, Albus blinked, but he also flared his nostrils. So he didn’t get along with his dad before he died, Gellert wasn’t shocked. 

The man that dropped a bomb on District Thirteen and killed thousands probably wasn’t exactly a nice man. 

“Why are you living in the districts?” Albus asked, sidestepping the bait. “All soldiers were pulled back from duty.”

“Father was killed in duty, Mother couldn’t prove our identity for return,” Gellert said. “It wasn’t so bad, being there. I missed my friends, but…” Gellert reached out to the bars, let his fingers trail down one wistfully. “I hoped I’d see you again before the games,” he said, such a shameful secret. Gellert couldn’t blush on cue, but he dropped his eyes. 

Wasn’t it so shameful? Lowly Gellert pining away for his childhood friend, trapped in the districts as a Capitol citizen. Poor Gellert, chosen for the reaping with just the wish to see his friend once more. 

Tragic, really. 

Gellert wondered if Albus would cry when he died, that seemed like more than a small chance. 

“What an… odd thing to hope for,” Albus said, leaning forward just a hair. “Especially for someone who can see the future.”

Ah, so he did see Gellert’s reaping! Gellert knew Albus had zeroed in on him immediately, 

“It’s hard differentiating between what I’ve dreamt and what’s the future sometimes.” Gellert winked, making sure Albus knew his intentions before sobering himself. “I’ve seen the games too, and… and…” Gellert leaned forward, lowered his voice to something intimate, shared only with Albus. “I’m going to die, Al. I’m so sorry.” 

Gellert couldn’t blush on cue, but he could cry. Gellert only had to think of Ma, all alone in their shack, losing the last of her family… Gellert had no problem pulling up some tears. 

Albus hesitated, eyes flicking to the Peacekeepers at his back as though to remind himself they were still there.

“You don’t know that,” he said, quieter than before, but still trying for authority. “If you’ve seen the Games, then you’ve also seen that people survive them. If you want a chance at that, we should be talking about strategy, not…” his gaze lingered on Gellert’s wet eyes for a moment “…farewells.”

“You’re right.” Gellert sniffled and then laughed at himself, so pathetic. “I can’t imagine what I could do though. The boy from seven? He’s already sworn to kill me. Look.” Gellert pulled the collar of his jacket down, showing Albus much more of his neck than he needed to. There would be bruises there from Drax, Gellert bruised easy. 

“I told them no fighting,” Albus hissed, anger twisting his face. It wasn’t for Gellert, yet, he was just a boy who was used to being listened to. Someone made him feel very important from a young age, he was the pathetic one. 

Little boy playing pretend, thinking his dad’s legacy and his adoptive parent’s ego were being handed to him on a silver platter. He disgusted Gellert. 

“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Gellert said. “I think if I can stay awake until we go in the arena, he won’t be able to kill me. Then once I’m there, maybe I can - can find a hiding spot?”

“You can’t stay awake for four days,” Albus said dismissively, and it was too true. Four days was a long time. “I’ll speak with the guards, make sure they know to not tolerate any fighting.”

“Thank you, Albus,” Gellert said, just short of gushing. “Now! You said that we need to plan a great show, right? Something that viewers can really get into? I’ve got plenty of ideas, what are yours?” 

“I think the country needs to meet you all before the games begin,” Albus said. “They only see some of you for a few seconds and don’t have an opportunity to become invested in you.”

Oh Albus was sick. It was sickening, making them all become human to the citizens so they would cheer harder for their deaths. 

“I love it,” Gellert said, nodding along eagerly. “Why should they care who lives and who dies? They don’t know us yet. We let them meet us, get to know us, and they’ll choose favorites, make bets amongst themselves. It’s brilliant, Al, really. Except just seeing us isn’t enough, is it? They need to feel like they know us, like we’ve invited them all into our lives. That’s how we make them care about the games.” 

“Like… like an interview?”

“Precisely! An interview that everyone in the country must watch,” Gellert nodded. “Even the animals in the districts will want to watch once they know our names, our stories.” 

Albus straightened, the faintest spark of excitement in his eyes. “If we control the questions, we can control what they remember,” he said, quickly, planning it all as he spoke. “We could do it the night before the Games, make it part of the build-up. Every tribute on stage, one by one.”

“Give them each a chance to show who they truly are,” Gellert said. “Give the stronger tributes, like the boy from four, a chance to show their strength. Give the little ones a moment to say why they think they’ll win. It’ll be the most watched program in the country.” 

“I don’t know if I could make it happen quickly enough,” Albus mused. “Do you think it would help?”

“Help me survive?” Gellert smiled, so soft and sad, and reached through the bars just to brush his fingers on Albus’s arm. “I don’t think it could hurt me any.”

Albus didn’t pull away from Gellert’s brief touch and when he left, he promised to talk with the guards and return the next day. 

Which left Gellert with quite a bit to do that night. 

Everyone was on edge after their ‘mentors’ left, it was a rising tension that had people separated out on their own, not looking at one another or fuming furiously. Moods were only made worse when they were given ‘food’ that was nothing more than a bucket of sludge…

Sludge with fur and bones in it. Sludge that actually made Gellert feel sick to see, to smell. It was an insult more than an offering and none of them even touched it. 

Gellert still had his two pieces of bread and he needed to save one for Issa and himself, but the other one could be used to get himself further in the arena. Gellert sat with his back to the gate, scanning the others slowly while he made up his mind. 

“You know, I think that we’d make it further if we had a team,” Gellert murmured to Issa, checking over each tribute one at a time to weigh them up. Twinkle was never going to be an option, Gellert knew the distrust was mutual. 

Garrick was alright, Gellert was sure he could beat him in hand to hand, but he wasn’t as small as some of the others. Gellert’s district partner, Sabine, was… an option, maybe. The boy with the horrid teeth from seven wasn’t an option, Gellert hoped he wouldn’t make it to the arena. 

The red-headed girl wasn’t going to last two minutes, Gellert almost felt bad when he wondered if she even understood why she was there. The boy from eleven was a choice… if needed. 

“A team?” Issa scrunched her nose up. “But only one person can win, Gelly?” 

“Think about it, we team up with a few others and then we fight together, have them help us take down the rest. Then we only have to get rid of them.”

“And each other.” Issa looked up at Gellert and her eyes were uncomfortably grey, uncomfortably like her uncle’s. “Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

It wasn’t a taunt, there was no malice there. There wasn’t even judgment. It was only the innocent question of a child. 

Could Gellert kill her? Could he really look in Issa’s eyes and take her life? Spill her blood on his hands? Carry that weight for the rest of his life? 

“I won’t,” Gellert told her. It wasn’t a lie, there wasn’t a mask up. Issa asked Gellert an honest question and he gave her an honest answer. Gellert knew he could, and would, kill the others. Maybe not the red-headed girl, but the rest of them? For his own life? Yeah, Gellert could kill them. 

Issa Peverell? Not her. 

“Then I hope we aren’t left in the end together,” Issa said. “Because I can’t kill you either.”

“In that case…” Gellert booped Issa’s nose, just to wipe away the tension between them. “Let’s go make some friends, Mrs Grindelwald.”

Gellert jumped to his feet and walked quickly, smirking when Issa howled at how she would never ever marry him. 

With everyone starving and Gellert having two goals before night fell, he pulled one of his slices of bread and approached Garrick first. It wasn’t hard to sell him on the idea of being allies, it was even easier to be sure that Herpo from Seven heard him. 

Gellert sealed the deal with Garrick, slipping him a corner of his bread, then moved on to the next tribute. One slice of bread could only stretch so far, so Gellert saved it only for the tributes he wanted to work with. Garrick and Sabine seemed honest in their agreement, Elphias was a little desperate when he agreed. Nobody else was made an offer, but Gellert made sure to pause and speak with each of them. 

Some of the little ones, like Wovey and Fidelius, were easy to charm with a bit of magic, some silly jokes. 

Gellert leaned toward all of them, whispered, sent looks to Herpo in between laughter shared with the others. Nobody questioned it, they were happy enough to swap insults about the Capitol kids ‘mentoring them’. And when Gellert finished with the last of them, he walked slowly back to where he started. 

“Go sit by the gate,” Gellert told Issa from the corner of his mouth. There were footsteps behind them and Gellert knew who it would be. “Go, now.”

Issa trusted him enough not to question him, she ran ahead and sat with her knees to her chest while Gellert made sure the guards could see how casual and nonchalant he was. 

“Hey!” Someone grabbed Gellert’s shoulder and pushed him to spin him around. Gellert adopted a look of shock - wow, what could Herpo possibly want with him?

“Evening,” Gellert said. “How’s your stay been?”

Someone laughed, Gellert ignored them. Everything he could see behind Herpo was rocks and a dried up waterfall - there were no guards on that side, only behind Gellert’s back. They would never see Gellert’s face, only hear how friendly he was. 

“That’s not funny.” Herpo shoved Gellert’s shoulder and somehow the red rage on his face made him even less attractive. 

Gellert didn’t know it was possible. 

“I’m sorry,” Gellert said clearly. “I don’t want to fight. It’s not allowed.”

“What were you telling everyone?” Herpo asked angrily. “I saw you talking to them about me.”

As Herpo spoke, Gellert pulled his upper lip back so he could jut out his top teeth and work his jaw in a dumb and deliberate mockery of every word Herpo said. 

“Don’t - the fuck are you doing?!” Herpo snapped, clenching his fists at his side. “Quit!”

“I’m sorry,” Gellert said again. Then he screwed up his face more, silently mimicking Herpo. 

“I said QUIT!” Herpo took a step toward Gellert. They were almost there. 

“Please, I’m sorry!” Gellert cried. 

Then he did it again. 

And Herpo, poor kid, snapped. 

Herpo lunged, fist swinging, and Gellert let his knees go out from under him before it could land, not that the guards would see that from where they stood. From their angle, it would look like a clean, unprovoked attack. It was safer to be on the ground anyway, it kept him well out of the way when one of the peacekeepers took the shot.

Herpo’s blood sprayed on Gellert as his chest rocked with the force of the bullet. Herpo’s eyes were shocked, pained, and then they were nothing at all. 

Gellert backed away from the body without standing and stopped only when his back hit the bars. Issa gave Gellert a strange look, but there was nothing to talk about then. 

Two down, twenty to go. 

Before the sun rose again, Gellert had at least three more games to run before they went into the arena. With every tribute who died before the arena, Gellert’s odds improved. There were plenty of tributes Gellert could win in a fight against, then some that could kill him too easily. 

For his next trick, Gellert needed to find out if Albus set up interviews of the tributes or not. 

Some of the tributes ignored their mentors and chose to nap in the enclosure, it was a bold choice. They were spitting in the face of the Capitol, but only in private. 

Gellert had no problem strutting down the gate line to meet Albus. He told Issa she should talk with her mentor too, mention her hunger and any other little things she could think of. Albus might help Gellert to make himself look good, his brother seemed like he might help Issa for the sake of helping her. 

“What is that horrifying smell?” One of the girls near Albus looked around wildly, her face reflecting absolute disgust. 

“It was a gift, from the Capitol,” Gellert said, smiling faintly when Albus noticed him. Gellert pretended to not see him yet, focusing all of his attention on the girl. “It was the best they could do,” he explained to her as patiently as a mama might talk to her kids. “We’re grateful for it.”

“Ugh, that’s the best they could do?!” The girl pinched her nose dramatically. “No wonder so many of you die quick.”

“Times are hard for everyone,” Gellert shrugged. “We’re grateful for it, and for you all of course.” Gellert swept his cap off his head and bowed lowly to the girl. “Which tribute for a pretty mentor like you?” 

“The dead one,” Albus said, making himself central and seen. Aww, he seemed jealous. Albus pointed in the enclosure to where Herpo’s dead body lay. “So you’re out, Bagnold.”

‘You’re out’. 

It was an odd way to word it, unless there was another layer to the mentor program. Gellert didn’t consider it at first, but there must be or else the most spoiled children in the country wouldn’t dare associate with district kids. It wasn’t worth thinking about, not yet. There were plenty of other issues Gellert needed to focus on. 

“Hey, you.” Gellert softened his voice and stepped toward Albus after the girl left in a huff. Again, he let his fingers trail on the bars that separated them. “I was worried you weren’t going to come back.” 

Couldn’t Albus see? Gellert played with the girl, but he was so real with Albus. There wasn’t a game between them, only a set of bars. All that divided them were the bars. 

“We’re doing the interviews,” Albus said quickly, his eyes only lingering on Gellert’s hand for a second. “The parade is today, the interviews will be tomorrow. We need to discuss your strategy.” 

“Great thinking,” Gellert said, nodding as though he had never considered it. “You’re on the inside, what have people been saying? What do they want to see?”

Albus whipped his head around to check on the guards before leaning closer to Gellert and very nearly smiling at him. He grabbed the bar, for balance of course, and his hand was just above Gellert’s. “They like you,” he whispered. “They’re saying you can do magic, speak with the dead, and see the future.”

Gellert continued to nod, thinking so hard about all Albus shared while he looked beyond him. And, whoops, his hand slid up a bit, brushed against Albus’s. 

Albus didn’t pull his hand away. Gellert kept his right where it was. 

“I can’t predict the entire country’s future,” Gellert said, considering and disregarding multiple options. “Speaking with the dead won’t earn me any goodwill…”

“So you’ll do magic?” Albus asked. There was some hope in those cold dead eyes, a tiny sparkle of hope and excitement. Albus hadn’t lost all his joy, it was close though.

“For you?” Gellert brushed his fingers over Albus’s and pulled his glittering rock from thin air. “Anything.” 

Albus did smile then. And, better than that, he snuck a sandwich and a peach through the bars to Gellert. It could have been a polite picnic if Gellert didn’t have to pretend to care about Albus’s life as he pulled as much information as he could from him.

It was the layout of the place where they would hold the televised interviews that interested Gellert, that was all. 

The ‘parade’ would have been humiliating if Gellert allowed it to be. They were all returned to the cage on the back of a truck and it was sick - some of the tributes were so weak they could barely lift their heads. Garrick closed his eyes and curled up small, Gellert wouldn’t allow Issa or Wovey to do the same thing. 

“Every good magician needs beautiful assistants,” Gellert told the girls, carefully cleaning their faces before the truck left the underground tunnels they were moved through. “Let me see a smile.” 

Wovey smiled at him, poor girl, and he winked approvingly. 

“You’re perfect,” he told her. “They’ll love you.” 

“And that’s somehow going to help her?” Twinkle scoffed. Despite her biting comments, Twinkle stood tall and proud by the bars, her arms crossed and her eyes ready to cut any citizen who gave her half a chance. 

“Well it certainly can’t hurt,” Gellert said. “Alright, ladies, it’s showtime.”

The instant the truck turned on a city street and the crowds were visible, Gellert went to work. In the past, Capitol citizens had thrown rotten food at the tributes, treating them as something less than the fussy pets they had. Gellert was not going to have a single bit of food thrown at him. 

Ma would cry if she saw that, they didn’t get to do that to her. 

“HELLO, PANEM!” Gellert didn’t need to look to know he was being featured on the cameras. Gellert knew he was on all their screens when the bloodthirsty shouts changed, twisting into cheers. It was the most massive stage Gellert had ever performed on, the stakes couldn’t be higher. 

Gellert waited to reach the center city before beginning his act, not wanting to run out of material before he could be sure every eye was on him. While they drove, Gellert smiled and waved, he ran his tongue across his teeth, winked. Gellert danced with Issa, did a showy dip with a giggling Wovey. 

The other tributes could die in silence, Gellert would carry the applause to his grave. 

As soon as the truck met the paved street that led to the President’s Mansion, Gellert began his spiel. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CAPITOL, IT FEELS GOOD TO BE HOME!” Gellert cried, his voice echoing back at him from the screens where he featured. There was some confused feedback, nothing Gellert needed to concern himself with. 

“IT IS AN HONOR TO REPRESENT DISTRICT TWELVE AND FIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF OUR NATION!” Gellert clapped his hands and coal dust exploded, setting the crowd off further. “ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MY LOVELY ASSISTANTS. FIRST, ALL THE WAY FROM DISTRICT EIGHT, IT’S WOVEY!!” 

The others could seethe all they wanted, as long as they waited until they were back in the zoo to make a move, Gellert wasn’t concerned. Wovey beamed as she waved and there wasn’t rotten food thrown at her, there were shouts of her name, kisses blown to her. 

It would be a better memory for the girl to carry, if nothing else. 

Gellert performed a couple of tricks with Wovey, dazzling her as much as he did the citizens who clamored for his attention on the sidewalks. When they were halfway to the tower, Gellert pulled Issa to his side and raised their enclasped hands together. 

“And the prettiest Peverell in all the lands…” Gellert winked and the citizens could interpret that however they wanted, he knew how it would be received at home. “ISSA PEVERELL FROM DISTRICT TWELVE!” 

Issa arched an eyebrow, smirked instead of smiled, and Gellert loved her all the more for it. The Capitol Citizens did as well, they wanted to earn her smile, her favor. Someone threw a flower to them and Gellert snatched it between the bars then made it disappear and reappear twice. 

Nobody could look away from Gellert, he was the show. 

“They loved you,” Issa whispered to Gellert that night, the two of them laying near Garrick and Sabine. Herpo’s body had been moved while they were gone and someone took out the decayed animal sludge and replaced it with a bucket of bland oats. 

If there was a message there, Gellert was sure he understood it. 

“Everyone loves you,” Issa went on, just a little kid whispering their thoughts when sleep evaded them. “Maybe you can talk to them, Gelly, get them to cancel the games? Because - because I don’t want to die. Gelly,” Issa’s voice broke and Gellert felt it in his own chest, that fracture… that loss. 

“I don’t wanna die,” Issa cried. Gellert opened his arms, made a safe space for her to crawl into. Gellert couldn’t say anything, he was as doomed to listen to all the sorrows of Issa’s soul as she was to die young. 

“Nobody’s going to remember me, Gelly,” played on repeat in Gellert’s mind long after Issa cried herself to sleep. Gellert could let a tear fall that night, in the dark, because when the sun began to rise there was a new show to put on. 

A new stage. 

A new assistant. 

A new audience. 

Gellert didn’t want to put pressure on Issa, but there weren’t many choices and there was no one else he could trust as deeply. Gellert filled her in as they washed themselves and their clothes in the thin stream of suspiciously grey water. Gellert let Issa braid his hair back when she offered and she let him use a bit of coal and some grease off the chicken bone to dress up her face. 

Albus arrived before the truck did and Gellert was grateful for the clear water he offered him to drink. 

“I’m surprised you have any voice left,” Albus said, his eyes locked on Gellert’s face, his eyes, his lips. Gellert licked his lips, Albus unconsciously mirrored him. 

“I’m a performer, Al,” Gellert said with a sly smile. “I can go for hours.” 

Albus, naughty boy, turned a dusky red at the banter. Gellert let it linger between them, too focused on tying his tie from memory to notice how his words could have been interpreted. 

“Impossible.” Gellert sighed and stepped closer to the bars, closer again until he could breathe in Albus’s air. Gellert smiled softly, “Will you do me?”

Albus sputtered and his mouth fell until he zeroed in on the tie Gellert innocently offered him. Poor boy was speechless, he could only jerk his head in a nod before taking the ends of Gellert’s tie. Gellert tilted his head back, kept his eyes locked on Albus, and never once dropped his half smile. 

Even if it took Albus three tries to get his tie tied. For some reason, he was just so clumsy. 

“There.” Albus’s voice was gravel and he had to clear his throat as he seemed frozen with his hand on Gellert’s chest. 

“How do I look?”

Gellert was a little taller than Albus, not by much. It was only enough that Albus had to look up at him and feel the way Gellert gazed at him. 

Widen the eyes, soften the muscles around his mouth. Wonder and awe, and hope - blessed, blessed, hope. 

“I wish things were different,” Gellert confessed in the softest of secrets. “I wish…”

Too overtaken by emotion to finish his deepest wish, Gellert looked away in frustration and shame. Poor lowly Gellert, filled with longing for the boy who lived in the President’s mansion. Someone might one day write sonnets about the love they could never share, the one that could have changed the world. 

It was a sin when Albus turned Gellert’s chin with his hand and leaned in to him only briefly. 

“Me too.”

They could call Gellert a beast all they wanted, it was their golden boy who had learned to heel at his command. 

It took Gellert less than ten minutes to set his plan in motion after arriving at the theater where they would be interviewed. Gellert found the window that led out to the alley and reminded Issa that as soon as he was finished interviewing, they were leaving through it. 

They could reach it, as long as they worked together. It would be too difficult to climb alone and they would need to work together to navigate the Capitol and find their way back to the tunnels that connected the districts to the Capitol.

That was what Gellert told Issa anyway. 

That was what Gellert told Issa in a whisper that carried around backstage. 

That was what Gellert told Issa before settling in as the last tribute to be interviewed that night. 

It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Gellert to escape after his interview. If anyone else, or several anyone elses, were to attempt it… well, Gellert was a showboater, wasn’t he? Gellert obviously enjoyed an audience and he was a perfect distraction. 

One at a time, they were each called to the stage. The interviews lasted less than a minute each, some of the tributes didn’t bother to speak. Their mentors went on stage with them and tried to cover the silence for the ones too stupid to see what they were being offered. 

They werebeing used by the Capitol, but they could use them in return if they played the game just right. 

Gellert planned to use them as much as he could. 

When Issa was called, Gellert stood up and moved away from the window and to the edge of the stage so he could watch her. The younger Dumbledore, Aberforth, smiled kindly at Issa and took her hand to lead her on stage. 

Gellert counted slowly while Issa confidently introduced herself and sent a message of love to her family. As soon as she had five seconds left, Gellert walked confidently out on the stage. 

It took only a smile and the colorful Capitol citizens filling the seats went absolutely wild with cheers and cries toward him. Albus walked briskly on the stage opposite of Gellert, his head high even in the face of the unexpected. 

“Let’s hear it for ISSA!” Gellert cried. They were puppets, puppets at the end of his strings. Issa’s name was chanted again and again while Gellert stood beside her and raised her hand high. Issa’s eyes glistened with tears she never shed and Gellert hoped Antioch could see his little girl. 

Aberforth tried to take Issa off the stage and Gellert wouldn’t let her go. 

“I need my assistant,” Gellert laughed, knowing they would let him keep her. Issa needed to stay on stage, safe and in the spotlight. Issa Peverell? The girl from Twelve? She was on the stage with Gellert when the others tried to escape. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls!” Gellert had Issa in front of him, his hands on her shoulders. “I, Gellert the Great, have seen the future! And tonight, I invite you all to see the fate of Issa Peverell!” 

Gasps. Screams. Someone threw a roll on the stage. 

Which… was probably a gift. 

Gellert began his spiel about the gift he had, the powers that were within. He walked them through it slowly, hitting on events that already happened reframed as proof he had known of them. When his minute shrunk, Gellert covered Issa’s eyes with his and grinned to the audience. 

“And now, shall I reveal to you all what I’ve seen in Issa’s future?” Gellert waited for them to scream agreement, for Albus to inch closer in interest. “Albus! If you would, hold my jacket.”

Gellert took his suit jacket off, handed it over to Albus and showed him how to hold it just in front of Issa while Gellert stayed in view of the audience. “And now… on the audience's count of three…”

Gellert straightened his arms out, pointed at Issa. The crowd counted…

One…

Two…

“THREE!”

Albus dropped the jacket and Issa stumbled forward, a golden crown on top of her dark hair. 

“Issa Peverell,” Gellert looked at her and wanted her to know, he needed her to know, that she would never be forgotten, “when the country cheers for their victor, it will be your face in their minds.”

Because they would remember that night, Gellert ensured it. And when they cheered for whoever won, they would remember the little girl in the fake golden crown standing before them like a frail princess. They would see her face. 

They would because Gellert demanded it. 

Aberforth walked Issa off the stage while Gellert led the audience through a chant —

“GELLERT!”

“THE GREAT!”

“GELLERT!”

“THE GREAT!”

And just before Issa disappeared from view, back behind the stage curtains, the gunfire erupted. 

Five tributes attempted to escape that night, five of them climbed through a window. A sixth only stood too close to the peacekeepers when they began firing. 

Gellert and Issa? They were on stage. They were horrified to learn that anyone would dare try to escape. 

And on the morning of the games, they were down to sixteen. 

Fifteen more would die and one would win. 

The mentors arrived before the tributes were to be led from the holding cell directly into the coliseum where they would fight. Gellert paced the small cage irritably, unhappy with the gender division. 

Issa was a star, she was pitifully small. There were eight others in her cell, eight others who could attack her simply for something to do. The mentors arrived for one final meeting with their tribute and Gellert searched for Albus and the unease fluttering in his stomach tripled when he didn’t show. 

Why wouldn’t he show? Was Issa okay? Would Garrick kill Gellert the instant they touched the sand in the arena?

Only a few minutes late, Albus did finally show up and Gellert forced himself to calm down, to milk his last bit for all he could. 

“Al…” Gellert feigned as if he wanted to reach out and only pulled himself back at the last second. Albus had a peacekeeper behind him and he still stepped in close to Gellert. 

“Are you ready?” Albus whispered to him. “You know what to do?” 

“Kill them all and return to you?” Gellert breathed, only a scared boy embarrassingly enamored by the golden boy of Panem. 

“Exactly.” Albus smiled and even if he was rotten on the inside, as disgusting as the rest of the Capitol, he was an attractive young man. That smile would charm as many as Gellert’s words did for him. 

“I’d do anything to come home again,” Gellert murmured. It was a subconscious thought he wanted to plant, one he added some pretty banter to. “Your smile feels like home.” 

Albus’s eyelashes fluttered and he was the one to smash himself against the bars opposite Gellert, to reach up and pull Gellert’s head toward him. Gellert’s stomach flipped, he really hoped that Albus wasn’t about to put his taste on Gellert’s lips, but it was only the reward Gellert had been hoping for. 

“The weapons are under the animals, the bodies are a trap,” Albus breathed. Gellert couldn’t make sense of it, not as quickly as Albus released him and stepped away. 

Gellert stayed where he was, hands still curled around the cold iron, his eyes locked on Albus like he could pull the rest of the secret straight out of him. Albus’s gaze didn’t waver, sharp and unblinking, until a Peacekeeper’s shadow fell between them.

“Be great, Gellert,” he said quietly, and then Gellert was being dragged toward the light

In the first game, the Capitol made the mistake of allowing a live audience around the coliseum. It ended the life of Albus’s father and the Capitol learned their lesson. 

Angry tributes with weapons shouldn’t be mixed with citizens who actually mattered. A caged animal would always bite. 

The boys were put in a dusty coliseum that still had the blood of prior games staining the sand. Gellert blinked in the sunlight and squinted across the grounds until he saw Issa between Sabine and Wovey. There was a glint of metal reflecting from her, the locket Gellert once stole on her chest. 

It took one second for Gellert to see Issa alive and well before he was hit with dual horrors: 

The tributes that had been killed were alive. 

And the mountain of animal carcasses that had melted into sludge and rot had been moved into the arena. 

Four bodies on Gellert’s side, he assumed there were four bodies on the other side, and they all twitched in place under heavy chains holding them down. Gellert was struck by disgust, disgust so strong he could have vomited, when an announcer’s voice filled the arena and Albus’s warning made sense. 

“MAY THE FIFTH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES BEGIN!”

“The weapons are under the animals, the bodies are a trap.”

Gellert locked eyes with Issa as the others ran and he couldn’t shout, his voice was stolen for the first time in his entire life, and he could only shake his head. 

“BOBBIN!” Wovey, the smallest of them all, was the first to reach the bodies. Gellert finally had the sense to move and he ran away from the bodies, circling the arena to get Issa before whatever the Capitol had planned was enacted. 

It all happened quickly, as Gellert’s breaths fell short and his fear fueled his body. Issa saw him running to her and met him part of the way there. Gellert grabbed her body and sprinted with her over his shoulder, as far from the others as he could. 

“Gelly! What —”

There was an explosion - one, two, three. 

The arena that had been silent beneath the blood pounding in Gellert’s ears exploded and he was knocked on his face, barely able to move his body over Issa’s. Issa looked at him with huge eyes, so grey like Iggy’s, and her lips moved… Issa’s lips moved and Gellert couldn’t hear her, he couldn’t hear anything under the ringing and the screams and the fourth bomb that went off. 

Something struck Gellert in the back, something hot and sharp that ripped at his shoulder. Gellert grit his teeth together and ducked his head, waiting for the smoke to clear before he could move. The pain in his shoulder helped, as did the fire that tore down his arm. 

Issa’s scream, sharp and horrified, helped the most when Gellert turned his head and saw that it was the head of a tribute that burned hotly, that seared Gellert’s arm and shoulder. 

Silver eyes wide, mouth forever open, scraggly hair singed and burning…

Garrick Olivander was apparently not going to be Gellert’s ally in the arena. 

“Gelly, move!” Issa pushed on Gellert’s chest and he fell to the side, all of his muscles were frozen in place. Smoke clawed at his lungs and the fumes filling the air were morbid, a mixture of dead bodies beyond their expiration date with the sour scent of meat gone soft and wet. There was waste in the air, screams from tributes injured, and Gellert could only hear Issa yelling at him. 

Not for his protection, but for his own good. 

Gellert was still struck by the sight of Garrick’s head and the pain in his arm had faded somewhere very far down on his list of concerns. Issa smacked him, over and over, and it was an eternity when he realized that his arm had been burned by Garrick’s body parts. 

The first gong ringing out in the arena and the sight of the cameras that would be playing across the country dropped Gellert back into the arena and in his own mind. He pushed himself up gingerly, his right shoulder screaming in protest, and used the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth while he searched through the haze and smoke to make sense of what happened. 

Most of the smoke and flames were in the center of the arena, the pile of animals shockingly didn’t improve in smell with the addition of flames from the explosions. There were body parts littered across the ground, too many tributes to separate who lived and who died. 

Weapons. 

There were weapons under the pile of animals. 

Gellert took a step forward, planning to take one for himself, when he thought of Albus’s warning and how Gellert shouldn’t know where the weapons were. 

Except Gellert was psychic and it was second nature to touch his forehead and wince theatrically before widening his eyes and staring off toward the stands, captured in a vision. 

Then Gellert ran, he ran like his and Issa’s lives depended on it. Gellert slid through the sludge, through the rotted organs that were either animal or human. Gellert slipped in someone’s blood, caught himself with the shoulder that he was sure was dislocated at best and broken at worst. 

The closer he got to the center of the arena, the worse the smells and sounds became. Gellert couldn’t think about it, he couldn’t let himself think twice before plunging his arms in the wet and hot pile of death to root for… for…

Gellert pulled out a sword as the gong rang for the eighth time. Gellert held it high, knew the flames reflecting off the silver would make for excellent viewing, and had the math figured out before he made it back to where Issa waited for him. 

There were six tributes remaining, aside from them. There had once been a 0.25% chance that Gellert Grindelwald would be reaped and there was a 25% chance that the victor of their games would be from District Twelve. 

With Gellert holding a sword and Issa finding an entrance they could use to climb up in the stands, Gellert was sure their chances grew greatly. 

Issa coughed as they climbed the stairs and Gellert urged her forward until they were in the very top row. Issa sank down to sit with shaking legs and Gellert shed his burned jacket so he could look at his arm. His skin was blackened, turned rough by the burns. There wasn’t any blood though, no skin had been torn, only burned. 

“Gelly?” Issa coughed again and started emptying the pockets of Gellert’s jacket. The liquor he saved was gone, it had probably been used against him when the explosion happened. The chicken bone was still there, sharpened down into a weapon when Gellert couldn’t sleep. The salt was still in a sealed packet and the roll from their interviews was charred, but not unusable. 

“Eat,” Gellert told Issa after he saw what he had left to him. He went back to scanning the arena, searching to discover who was left. 

Twinkle was hurt, curled on her side by the doors she had been led through, but still breathing. Sabine could be seen crawling toward Garrick’s torso, tears streaming down her face. Most of the others must have fled, hidden themselves away. 

“I’m not hungry,” Issa said, holding the roll up for Gellert and dropping her voice to a whisper. “Albus brought me food.”

Gellert didn’t scoff, though he wanted to. If Albus thought feeding his partner would make Gellert see him as some soft-heart, he was wrong. Gellert was distracted by the sight of the boy that climbed the stairs, too close to where they were. 

Elphias Doge, coughing up the fumes he had inhaled, and waving a hand at Gellert. Elphias said something, nothing Geller could hear, and the closer he got the more sure Gellert became in his plan. 

“Gellert!” Elphias was three rows away when Gellert stepped away from Issa to meet him. Elphias’s eyes streamed and there was blood on his chest, probably someone else’s. He smiled faintly when Gellert offered him a hand. “I wasn’t sure if —”

Gellert pulled Elphias toward him, his arm screaming at him for the jerking movement, and slid the sword through his stomach in the same movement. Gellert shoved him away then, watching as his body tumbled down the stairs, blood spilling as his mouth opened and closed. 

When Elphias hit the ground, dead, Gellert or Issa had a 28% chance of success. 

Issa curled in one of the seats and Gellert covered her with his jacket. It wasn’t much, but her body shook and trembled so much that he was afraid the shock of it all would kill her. Gellert kept a watch out for the others, making sure none of them thought to dig through the rotten pile to find any other weapon. 

“How…” Issa coughed and there was blood that spritzed her arm, bright red blood. “How many, Gelly?”

“Five,” Gellert told her. There would be many screaming for Gellert to fight, to use the sword to finish the games. The anticipation would have to keep them satisfied, Gellert didn’t want to leave Issa while she shook and coughed. 

“Ugh!” Issa cried out and bent at the waist with a sudden pain and Gellert didn’t understand… she wasn’t hurt. 

There were no injuries. Gellert pulled her clothes around, ignoring her weak protests for privacy, to find an injury, any injury. 

“Gelly.” Issa was struggling to breathe and she clawed at Gellert, at his shirt, to pull herself closer to him. Gellert pulled her all the way in his lap, pushing the sword away for the moment, and tried to rock her. 

Was he losing her? Why? How?

Gellert couldn’t lose her, he wouldn’t. 

“Shh, it’s - you’re okay,” Gellert whispered. “You’re okay, Issa. You’re okay.” 

“Uncle Iggy…” Issa coughed again and her head rested weakly on Gellert’s shoulders, her eyes shining up at him despite the blood vessels that were burst, surrounding the grey with horrible red. “He’s sweet on you,” Issa whispered. “I - I wanted to…”

Issa coughed again and her blood came out in clumps, horrible clumps that sprayed Gellert in the face. A broken sound ripped from Gellert’s throat because Issa shouldn’t be dying, she shouldn’t. 

“Don’t talk, baby,” Gellert whispered, wiping the rain that mixed with blood off Issa’s face. “Can you hold on? I’ll - Issa, I only have to kill five of them, okay? Just five. Then you can go home.”

Issa smiled, a soft smile, and she put her hand on Gellert’s cheek. “I did wanna marry you, but - but Iggy said no.” 

“You can do better,” Gellert told her. “You should marry a man like your Pa, someone just as strong as you are.”

“Gelly...” Issa’s eyes fluttered and her chest moved so slowly. “I know - I know you love Iggy, but… I… I’m never gonna…”

Gellert didn’t know how he knew what she wanted, maybe he was wrong. All he knew was that he held a little girl in his arms who was never going to get married, never be loved by a partner. Gellert brushed her hair off her face and pressed his lips to hers, taking the last breath of the prettiest Peverell. 

When the gong sounded, when Issa Peverell was freed from the arena, Gellert placed her gently on the seats, laying her head on his magician's jacket and shedding his shirt to cover her with. 

Somewhere, Antioch Peverell was crying. Somewhere, Ignotus Peverell had his first heartbreak. 

They weren’t who Gellert thought of while he looked at Issa’s body, so much smaller in death. No, Gellert thought of cold blue eyes that had twinkled with lies and deceit. 

Gellert thought of Albus as he killed Sabine, as he killed Mafalda. Gellert thought of Albus offering Issa food before she entered the arena as he chased Twinkle, as he blinded her eyes with salt before finally slitting her throat. Gellert thought of Albus telling him to be great when he faced off against Fidelius and Griselda together. 

They were strong, they fought Gellert with everything they had. They couldn’t win though, they didn’t have what Gellert had burning through his body, controlling the weapon he carried:

One last tribute to face off against outside the arena. 

Gellert Grindelwald was crowned the Victor of the 5th Annual Hunger Games and when the country cheered for him, it was Issa Peverell’s grey eyes and bloodied kiss that played in their minds. 

Panem loved Gellert, they cheered his name when he was taken on a stage again, the day after the games, to celebrate his win. Albus met him on stage and when he held Gellert’s hand in the air, Gellert looked at him and wondered how he had missed it. 

Albus met his eyes square on and there was triumph in his eyes, triumph as he had ensured that Gellert would win. Albus warned Gellert of the bombs; he had told him how to find a weapon. Albus poisoned the girl who Gellert would have died for. 

The boy who could see the future… never noticing the strings that had been tied to his wrists. Gellert had become the show, not the showman. It was Gellert who had been the shining distraction so the audience never noticed Albus manipulating them all from behind the scenes. 

“You poisoned Issa.”

“I did.”

Albus stood on the platform for the train, the only one who knew when Gellert was being sent back to District Twelve. Gellert appreciated that he didn’t lie, that their last conversation would be filled with honesty. 

“Are you here to kill me?” Gellert asked him. 

“Why would I?” Albus asked, stepping closer to Gellert and smiling so sweetly. “Maybe I only wanted you to live, to come home to me, Gelly.” 

Gellert didn’t flinch, he didn’t let Albus see the name cut him to the quick. “When did you figure it out?” he asked. 

“After the parade,” Albus said, shrugging casually. “I saw how you turned the crowd in your favor. You never stopped performing, not for me.”

Gellert wouldn’t deny it, there was no reason to. Gellert curled his lip up and let Albus see how he really felt, the disgust that he harbored from the moment they first met. 

“Do you think anyone will ever be real with you?” Gellert laughed, cold and cruel. “You’re nothing, Albus. You’re the rotten smell that haunted these games. You’re filth, dirtier by far than any of us. And anyone who tells you otherwise? They’re lying, they’re lying so they can use you. Because you’ll only ever be worth what people can take from you.” 

Albus smiled, though he couldn’t hide the tightening in his lips or the rage that shined unfiltered in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Albus snapped his fingers when Gellert’s own hand locked around the bone he had saved just for Albus. Gellert lunged and only scraped it down Albus’s face, spilling his blood, before hands locked around Gellert’s arms. Gellert struggled and twisted, all for nothing. 

“Corvane Fudge will meet you at the Genetic Arts Division,” Albus told his men, the peacekeepers that had Gellert in their grip. “Nobody must see you,” he stressed. 

“I thought you weren’t here to kill me,” Gellert snarled, spitting and kicking as he thought of his Ma, Iggy, the locket he carried in his pocket to return to Antioch Peverell. 

“Kill you?” Albus laughed and stepped so close that Gellert could smell him, he could smell that rotting flesh that would always be attributed to Albus Dumbledore. “No, I’m performing my own act of magic. Ladies and Gentlement, for my next trick: I will make Gelly the Great disappear.”

The peacekeepers pulled Gellert away and Albus’s eyes followed, shining with the seventh emotion Gellert Grindelwald could never remember:

Contempt.

Chapter Text

The power went out and it always made the house haunted. If there weren’t any lights on, then Newt couldn’t see the monsters that tried to eat him as he ran from his bed to Theseus’s. It was too dark, too dark, too dark, too dark, but Theseus kept a candle under his bed for nights when the power was out. 

As Newt climbed in Theseus’s bed, his brother was already reaching for the candle and placing it on his little table to light. The smell made Newt’s nose itch, but the flickering light kept the monsters with too many teeth from getting him. 

“Alright there, nugget?” Theseus asked sleepily, dropping his head back on the pillow while the candlelight made a show appear on his tired face. 

“Baa can’t sleep,” Newt said, showing Theseus the little lamb that had been Newt’s second best friend. Their mama gave it to Newt before she died, Theseus said she made it in a factory. Baa cried when it was dark though, she didn’t like when there wasn’t any power. 

“The lights will be back tomorrow night,” Theseus said, Newt repeated it in a whisper to Baa, Baa didn’t listen to anyone except Newt. 

“For the games?” Newt asked. Theseus opened up his blanket and Newt squished in with him. Leta was at work, she worked all night long in the factory, so there was room for Newt and Baa. 

“Yeah.” Theseus covered them up so the lights danced on both of them. If Newt stretched his arm out, there could be a show on his arm. But it might burn, so he didn’t. Theseus looked down at Newt and he needed to sleep, he was too tired. “You remember the counting game we played last year?” Theseus asked him. “We’ll play it in the morning and then we’ll come home and have dinner together. Leta got a ham, you like ham.”

Newt didn’t like ham, it felt bad against his teeth and it made his stomach hurt when he found out that Mister Jorkins killed his pigs to make hams. 

“Baa likes potatoes,” Newt said. “Can we have potatoes?”

“If you count real good tomorrow, then we’ll have potatoes,” Theseus promised. 

Newt nodded and scrunched down in the bed, holding Baa tight to his chest. The counting game wasn’t very fun, but Theseus said he had to play it. The games that would start after the counting game were better, they were less scary. 

They were scary but they couldn’t eat Newt with their sharp teeth. Newt liked the games better than he liked seeing videos of the President and news specials when something happened in another part of the country. The games always had kids in it and they would fight and scream and then pretend to die. 

Newt was scared the first time he had to watch them, but then Leta explained that it was all make believe. Leta helped Newt see when the kids were pretending to be hurt and she would smile when Newt laughed - sometimes it was too silly. It was nice last year because the games lasted for five days instead of one and Leta and Theseus didn’t have to work so they could all stay home and watch them together. 

One time, when Newt was little and Mama was still there, one of the kids from the TV came back from their game and everyone got to have fruits and vegetables and fresh bread. That was the best. Newt even got to say hi to the boy and tell him he liked his show. 

The counting game happened first then potatoes then the other games. 

Newt kicked his legs until Theseus’s blankets weren’t covering his feet anymore and then he scooted closer to Theseus and watched the lights on his eyes until he finally fell asleep. 

Leta tried to make Newt take a bath the next morning, but his stomach hurt. 

“Baa doesn’t want to go,” Newt told Leta, pushing the clothes she wanted him to wear off the table. They were scratchy. They were always scratchy. Newt only liked Theseus’s old clothes. They weren’t scratchy and stiff like the clothes from the factory. They were soft and fit right, they smelled right too. 

“Does Baa want a…” Leta opened a little box and Newt peeked toward it. “Chocolate chip cookie?”

Baa didn’t, Newt wanted one though. 

“One for putting on the outfit, then one if you and Baa stand with the other boys today,” Leta said. “You have to do it, Newt. It’s not our rule.” 

Newt got dressed quickly and then took one of the cookies in the box to eat before they had to leave. 

There were a lot of rules at Theseus and Leta’s house, then the Capitol had a lot of rules too. The Capitol said Newt had to go to school every day, but Leta made the rule that Newt had to wash his hair every week. They didn’t have a rule about clothes, the Capitol did have a rule about Newt standing with the boys from his school while he played the counting game. Theseus was too old, he had to stand with the adults, so Newt had to count as high as he could and then tell Theseus what number he reached. 

If Newt’s number was higher than Theseus’s, then Newt could visit the farms where the animals were one day instead of going to school. Last year, Newt won.

Newt scratched at his neck when they left their house, falling in line behind the others going to the square. Theseus had a friend chatting to him and Newt kept a tight hold on Baa, making sure he didn’t drop him. There were a lot of people, Baa would get trampled. 

“It’s hot,” Newt told Leta. 

“I know.”

“Leta, it’s hot.”

“I know.” Leta looked down at Newt and she put her hand on his shoulder, only for a second. “I got butter for your potatoes.” 

“Real butter?” Newt asked. They could only get real butter from the farm and it was expensive. But the fake butter slid around on Newt’s tongue and left oil on the inside of his cheeks. 

“Real butter,” Leta said. 

Newt was happy Theseus was marrying Leta. Theseus had another girlfriend before, Grenadine Dukes, and Newt didn’t like her. She made angry faces at Newt all the time and she never remembered which fork was his so she would use it and Newt would have to wash it five times when she wasn’t there. 

Leta was much better, Leta didn’t use Newt’s fork and she didn’t mind when Newt needed Theseus and her smiles didn’t look fake. Theseus was happier with her too, Newt could tell. They made a good couple and they were going to get married and Leta said she didn’t want to have any other children ever so it could always be the three of them. 

Four of them, because Baa there. 

The square was loud and Baa didn’t like it, neither did Newt. Newt tapped the side of his leg with quick flicks of his hand, not stopping until the noise in the square blurred. Theseus took Newt’s arm and walked him to where he had to wait, reminding Newt to start counting. 

One. Two. Three. 

Someone bumped Newt and he had to bite his tongue because yelling was against the rules. It was Theseus’s rule: no yelling in public. 

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. 

There was a lady on the stage and Newt didn’t like her, she had a sharp voice and her clothes hurt his eyes. 

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. 

“Ladies first!”

That was polite. Theseus said that when he made dinner and Leta got her plate first. Newt didn’t mind, Leta had to work after dinner so she had to eat fast sometimes. 

Thirty-nine. Forty. 

“Tina Goldstein!” 

Newt knew her, they went to school together. Tina’s parents had a goat and a dog and Tina let Newt pet them when he walked past her house. 

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. 

“And now for our lucky boy!” 

Fifty-two. 

“Newt Scamander!” 

Theseus broke his rule when he screamed, louder than Newt ever heard him scream before. Newt knew it was Theseus because everyone stepped away from Newt and he could see Theseus. 

“NO!!” Theseus screamed. “Please, no, let me go! I’ll take his place! NEWT! NEWT!!” 

Fifty-five. 

People were staring at Newt and it was so hot outside and his neck itched and then there was a peacekeeper stepping between Newt and Theseus. 

“On the stage, son,” the man told Newt. Newt wasn’t his son and he wasn’t allowed on the stage, that was where the TV kids went. Newt tapped his leg, tried to lean around the peacekeeper to see Theseus. 

Fifty-nine. Sixty. 

Another peacekeeper got close to Newt and he grabbed his arm and Newt didn’t like that, he grabbed it hard, and Newt didn’t know if Theseus screaming meant Newt could scream?

Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three. 

“Stop! Please! He doesn’t understand! Don’t hurt him!!”

Tina was there and she grabbed Newt’s arm too, nicer than the Peacekeepers did. Tina was nice, Newt liked her. Theseus called her Newt’s girlfriend, but Newt wasn’t going to marry her like Theseus was Leta. Newt was going to have a farm and he wasn’t going to kill any pigs. 

“Newt, come up here with me,” Tina told Newt really quickly. “Don’t fight them, okay? Come up here.”

Newt’s hand hurt, it hurt when he tapped his leg and tried to find Theseus. Newt wasn’t going to fight, Newt didn’t like to fight. Newt didn’t like to fight. “I want to go home.”

“Newt, please.” Tina sounded sick, or like she was going to cry. “Come up here and stand with me for a minute and then you can see your brother, okay?” 

One of the peacekeepers pushed Newt in the back and he almost fell, but Tina was stronger than she looked so he didn’t. Newt didn’t want to be on the stage with people looking at him in his itchiest clothes, but he could see Theseus from the stage. 

Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine. 

Newt held up Baa so Theseus could see she was okay. Theseus was crying, Newt could tell from how his shoulders shook and one of his friends had to help him stand up. 

Leta wasn’t there anymore and Newt wondered if that was why Theseus was crying. Newt hoped she got back soon, she was the one who they had to tell their numbers to so Theseus couldn’t cheat. 

Seventy-four. Seventy-five. 

Tina told Newt he had to follow her to the train station behind the square. Newt didn’t like the trains, he didn’t like the smell they made or the awful sounds, but when he tried to get back to Theseus there were peacekeepers blocking the way. Newt tried to bite his tongue, but he could feel a scream bubbling up from his stomach. 

“It’s hot,” Newt told Tina. He went to scratch his neck again and she took his hand and squeezed it too tight in hers. 

“It’ll be cool in here,” she said. “Come on.”

“Is the counting game over?” Newt asked her. Tina was older than Newt, smarter too. Theseus and Leta weren’t there and Newt wasn’t sure if the game was still going on. 

“The counting game?” Tina tipped her head to the side when she looked down at Newt. “What counting game?” 

A peacekeeper opened the door for them and Newt told him thank you, it was polite, in between explaining the counting game to Tina. It was cooler in the building, so cold that Newt’s skin finally stopped itching and he could breathe easier. 

“Newt!” Theseus burst in the big empty room and he ran toward Newt to snatch him up in a tight hug. Newt squirmed and pushed at his brother, getting hot all over again. A lady followed Theseus and she kind of looked like Tina, except her hair was long and she was old.

“Where’s Leta?” Newt asked Theseus, still trying to get out of his hug. Baa was being squished. “I think I won again.” 

Newt had one hundred and thirty six. Last year he only had eighty-four. Theseus had seventeen, he counted really slowly. 

“Nugget….” Theseus smoothed his hand over Newt’s head and he was crying as he kneeled down in front of him, making Newt the taller of them. Theseus slid his hands down Newt’s head and they rested on his neck for a second. Theseus stared silently at Newt before he exhaled shakily and moved his hands to Newt’s shoulders. 

“We’re going to play a new game, okay? I need you to- we have to play a new game where we aren’t together for a little while.”

Newt clamped his teeth shut so his scream didn’t bubble out, only a little bit of a whine. 

“You’re going to go with Tina and you’re going to do everything she tells you, okay?” Theseus said quickly. “And you’re going to make a list of all the colors you can find while you’re gone.”

“What about orange?” Newt asked. 

“No, you don’t have to include orange.” Theseus smiled and it was sad, it wasn’t real. “You try to find all the colors you can and - and one day I’m going to see you again, Nugget. I am. And you can tell me how many colors you found.”

The lady that looked like Tina left and Newt wondered about the game when Leta ran through the doors. One of the peacekeepers tried to block her, but Leta darted around him and Theseus told them it was okay. 

“You did so good,” Leta said, but she didn’t look like Newt did good. Leta looked sad, like Theseus did, and she tried to give Newt five cookies. 

Newt couldn’t take five. Newt got one for wearing the itchy outfit then he got another one for standing with the other boys. Then three were for dessert so they could each have one. Cookies were expensive. 

“These are for after potatoes and ham,” Newt said, giving Leta back the three extras. “Can I count blue?” he asked Theseus. 

Blue was Theseus’s favorite color, but there were a lot of blue things in the world. 

“You can count blue, but only once,” Theseus said. “Just… just once, Newt.” 

“Baa can come with me?” Newt checked. Baa used to be allowed in school until Newt was moved to the middle school, then Theseus said Newt couldn’t bring her. Baa didn’t like to stay home all day, but Leta took care of her while Theseus worked and Newt sat through class. 

Theseus looked to one of the peacekeepers who nodded and didn’t seem very happy at all. 

“Tributes are allowed to bring a token from home,” he told Theseus quietly. “I’ll make sure it gets approved.” 

Tributes?

“Like… in the games?” Newt asked Theseus. “Theseus, like in the Hunger Games?” 

Newt’s breath hitched because the Games were loud, they were loud but they could lower the volume on the TV. There wasn’t a volume button in the world and they were loud. Newt didn’t want to go. Newt didn’t want to hear his hand hitting his leg over and over and over and over. 

It was too loud. It was going to be loud. Too loud. 

Leta grabbed Newt’s hand and dropped to her knees beside Theseus but squeezed Newt’s fingers hard until her knuckles were white and Newt’s chest burned. 

“You take Baa and your cookies and you go with Tina, okay?” Leta said while the tears dropped from her eyes, looking like monsters with teeth when they glistened on her cheeks. “You play this silly game and when you - when you get home we’ll have potatoes and cookies and I’ll make you a blackberry pie.”

Newt tried to breathe and he tried to remember that blackberry pies were really special and he only ever had them on his birthday. Then he shook his head because it wasn’t worth it. 

“Theseus, come with me,” Newt said. “Come play with me.”

Theseus shook his head and then he was grabbing Newt and Newt didn’t care so much about Baa being crushed because if Theseus let go then Newt was going to have to leave. 

“I can’t play this one, Nugget,” Theseus murmured with his face smushed against Newt. “You have toplay with Tina, but I’ll be here, Newt. I will. I will be right here, waiting to hear about all the colors you find.”

Newt’s leg twitched and Theseus had him tightly, Leta had his hand, and he didn’t want to go. Newt was twelve, he was too big to take Baa to school, he wasn’t allowed to scream in public. 

There were too many rules. 

“Can - can we have real butter with the potatoes?” Newt asked Leta. 

“Yeah, Nugget.” Leta smiled through her tears and cupped Newt’s face gently. “We’ll have potatoes with real butter.”

“And cookies.”

“And cookies.”

“And blackberry pie?”

“And blackberry pie.”

“Okay.” Newt didn’t want to leave Theseus, but there were too many rules and Newt had to find new colors. The peacekeeper with the sad eyes stepped toward them and he put his hand on Theseus’s shoulder. 

“The train’s going to be here soon, you have to wait outside,” he told him. “I’m sorry, Scamander.”

Leta brushed Newt’s hair off his forehead and kissed his head for a long moment. “I love you, Nugget,” she said. “I - Newt, I’m so happy to get to be a part of your life.” 

Newt was happy she was there too. Leta was good for Theseus and she was good for Newt. 

“I like you more than Grenadine,” Newt told her. It was true, he didn’t like Grenadine at all. 

“And I love you more than Theseus,” Leta told him. That wasn’t true, she should love Theseus as much as Newt did. 

“Stay with Tina,” Theseus told Newt. “She’s in charge, okay? And… and I love you, Nugget. I’ll miss you more than anything.”

More than food? More than water? Theseus couldn’t live without food or water. If he didn’t have those, he would miss them more than he would Newt. 

“I’ll take care of him.” Tina was there when the train blew its whistle and Theseus covered his ears to protect them. Theseus said something to Tina, the train blew its whistle again, and then the peacekeepers grabbed Theseus’s shoulder and Newt didn’t make a sound when his ears were uncovered and the squealing wheels of the train filled up Newt’s brain. 

Newt screamed just a little bit because Theseus couldn’t hear him and it was the worst sound in the world. 

“Wait!” Newt turned around to find Theseus because they didn’t tell Leta their numbers. Theseus wasn’t there and Newt’s chest tightened. Baa was there and Newt had a crumbled cookie in his hand, crumbs fell with every tap on his side. Theseus wasn’t there. 

*****

Leta shook beside Theseus, her entire body shook with shock at how quickly the day had turned into a nightmare. 

It was their worst nightmare, their very worst. 

Leta thought… she thought that Theseus made it through the reapings, seven years of them, with luck. Every year he made it through the reapings and so when Newt had to join the eleven year olds the year before, Leta thought he would get through it too. 

Newt… God. Newt was so young, so innocent. Leta didn’t know if it made it better or worse that he didn’t understand the Hunger Games at all. Did Leta doom him by telling him it was all make believe? All she had wanted to do was keep him from being scared when the orders came down that viewing of the Games was mandatory. 

Leta’s lips moved in a silent apology as the people from Eight, the people they worked with, they lived with, the people who knew Newt wasn’t like them and they loved him anyway, stepped forward as the train whistle blew. 

The whistle split through the air, masking the gasping breaths of Theseus beside her. The train lurched forward, out of the station, and it only took Leta a second to find Newt through one of the windows. 

Newt was so small, so scared. Leta saw one of his hands hitting himself over and over as his mouth moved around words Leta couldn’t hear. Leta’s breath felt stuck in her throat, Theseus’s legs collapsed at the sight of Newt as distressed as he ever acted. 

The last sight of Newt Scamander that Leta had was him scratching at his neck from the shirt she made him wear. Newt didn’t want to, he didn’t like the stiff and starched shirts Leta brought him from the factory. 

Leta made him wear it. Leta bribed him into wearing it because she knew Theseus liked Newt to look nice on occasion. 

Leta sent their baby to his death in a shirt he hated. 

“Forgive me,” Leta whispered as the train end disappeared and the truth struck her hard in the chest. 

The boy she loved for years, the boy who she saw as her own child, the boy that turned Leta and Theseus’s world was never going to return to them. 

Leta turned, her throat raw and her chest ripped to shreds, and saw them. 

The people of District Eight. 

Their people. 

The factory workers who laughed when Theseus told them about Newt ripping the buttons off his shirt then crying when his shirt wouldn’t close. The weavers with the calloused fingers who shared advice on how to handle it when Newt would only eat one food for months at a time.

The neighbors who watched Newt grow up. The classmates who used to show up to all of Newt’s birthdays when he was little, even though Newt didn’t want them there and told them so. The strangers who saw Newt on the streets and told him that his stuffed lamb was absolutely a wonderful friend. 

They didn’t just tolerate Newt, they loved him. And as the train took Newt from Theseus, from Leta, from their home…

The people of District Eight were ready to ensure that Newt didn’t face death alone.

*****

Silver. Brown. Yellow. Blue. 

No, that wasn’t right. 

Platinum silver. Chestnut brown. Golden yellow. Cobalt blue. 

Four colors. 

Baa was soft grey. Tina’s hair was raw umber. 

The building they had to stay in was glittering black. 

Newt’s skin was madder rose after his mentor told a strange man to put Newt in the bath and scrub his skin clean. The man had olive drab eyes and he didn’t talk either, he made glub-glub-glub sounds as he tore Newt’s skin and made him bleed crimson. 

There was always a parade and that was when Newt would meet the kids playing the Hunger Games. Newt’s mentor, the girl from the Capitol with lime hair and mean eyes, told him they had to wear costumes in the parade and Tina told Newt to hold her hand when they had to wear the itchiest clothes ever made. 

Tina didn’t tell Newt that there were going to be horses. There were never horses in the parade and then there were twelve horses. 

Sienna. Ivory. Carmine. Ochre. Ashen. Ebony. Tawny. Pewter. Fawn. Russet. Sorrel. Slate.

Newt had Baa and she wanted to pet each of them. They went from horse to horse, petting their noses and telling the tributes about the horse they had. 

“Horses can’t throw up,” Newt told the boy who had the very front horse. Newt didn’t want to look at him, there were jewels glued to his skin that made Newt’s stomach hurt. The horse was lovely though, so soft and so nice. 

“Really?” The girl in the chariot laughed and Newt could hear her even if he pretended not to. The boy was nice though, he didn’t laugh and he didn’t use the jewels glued to his body to blind Newt. 

“Yes.” Newt stroked the horse's nose and then touched its hair, it was silky and smooth. “If they get sick they can die because they can’t throw up.”

The girl stopped laughing and her lips pinched shut. She looked away from Newt and the boy pressed his lips together hard. 

“What’s its name?” Newt asked the boy. The horse didn’t sparkle and Newt liked its dark eyes, so he kept watching it even if Theseus said it was more polite to look at someone when speaking to them. 

“Who? The horse? He doesn’t have one.”

“That’s sad,” Newt said, frowning for a moment. It was Baa’s idea, but Newt decided to name the horse. “I think you should call it Theseus. That’s my brother’s name.”

“Theseus is - that’s a fine name.” The boy cleared his throat. “What’s yours?”

“Newt.” It was polite to ask the boy for his name, even though Newt would hear it when it was announced during the parade. 

“It’s… it’s nice to meet you, Newt,” he said. “I’m Percival.”

Newt said it silently: Percival. Percival. Per. Civil. 

“And this is Baa,” Newt said, holding Baa up to meet Theseus the Horse and Percival. He had to see the girl again and he was polite when he asked for her name, even if her face was pinched and her skin shouldn’t sparkle. 

Her name was Lysandra. 

Newt went to the next horse and the tributes there didn’t name their horse either, though they were Sabin and Marcus. Each time it was the same thing and it was terrible to not have a name, but Newt liked getting to name all the horses himself. 

The girl in the back, Maxwell, cried when Newt told her that Maxie was a fine name for a horse. The black powder she had all over her face smeared and Newt heard her telling the boy with her, Jacob, that she had a cousin like Newt. 

Tina fetched Newt when it was time for the parade to begin and the horses were all named. Newt was glad everyone had gotten quiet, but he wasn’t going to be able to make the crowd be quiet once they were on the TV. 

Theseus could turn it down at home and Newt could if he were there. 

“Newt, listen to me, okay? I want you to count while we’re out there, okay?” Tina had Newt’s hand in hers and Baa was frightened. “You cannot scream. You have to stay quiet.”

Newt’s legs were shaking and he looked to the side, to the doors that would take him back to the room he shared with Tina. It would be quiet there, everyone would be at the parade. 

“Newt? Hey, Newt.”

Newt whipped his head around to the red-headed boy in the chariot behind him. The horse for that chariot was Biscaroo, it had four colors of fur. 

“Do you like to play games?” The boy, Al, asked him. Newt nodded, everyone liked to play games sometimes. “Yeah? Me too. We’re going to play a game, you and me, okay? It’s called Statue. Have you played Statue before?” 

Newt tried to answer him, the word was stuck in his throat when Theseus began clopping his hooves against the stone floor, echoing down to Newt like a scream. 

“Statue is where we stay perfectly still,” Al said. “I bet I can stay more still than you.”

Stand still? That was it?

Newt smiled slowly because that was an easy game. Sometimes people treated Newt like a baby - the lady downstairs would peel oranges for Newt because she thought he couldn’t. The teacher would put a C on Newt’s homework because she didn’t want to read it. Theseus said that people were being accommodating, but it was the same thing as acting as if Newt was a baby. 

“Game on,” Al whispered to Newt when it was Newt’s horse, Smokey, starting trotting behind the others. Newt held Tina’s hand tightly and he closed his eyes with Baa clenched to his side. 

Newt had to count because Theseus said to listen to Tina and counting was better than hearing all the screams and the buzzing sound of electronics zapping through the air. 

One. Two. 

Newt didn’t move at all, he stayed perfectly still. Theseus might see him on the television. There was sweat on the clothes Newt had to wear that made the rough threads stick to him, slicing him up in tiny shreds. 

Four. Five. 

*****

There were never power shortages during the Hunger Games. 

Theseus used to pray for them, he would beg someone to kill the power so he didn’t have to watch his classmates, his friends, dying in pools of blood and dirt. It was a curse, a curse turned blessing on the evening of the Tribute Parade. 

All of District Eight watched together from the factory square, all of them were united in a way that would touch Theseus any other time. If all of District Eight were there, maybe he would care at all. 

The parade rolled forward and the announcer gushed about the costumes that were being introduced that year and Theseus’s leg jumped in reaction. Because it wasn’t enough to take his brother, his brother who was so very particular, and put him in an arena. 

No. 

They were going to put him in a costume. A fate that Newt would surely rate worse than death. 

Nobody made a sound in Eight as the children from One were shown on screen, covered in jewels that were blinding. They remained stoic and strong until the chariot for District Eight could be seen. 

There stood Tina Goldstein, a sweet girl who Theseus had always liked. Tina and her family had been at Mom’s funeral. Theseus had spent a lot of the day drinking with his classmates and friends, unfairly angry at his Mom for leaving him and Newt behind. Tina sat with Newt and Theseus could still hear her quiet snorts every time someone gave Newt their condolences. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

When Newt shrieked because one of Mom's pictures fell against a candle, burned the edges and ruined it in Newt's eyes, Tina found a replacement.

She was a good one.

As the chariot moved, Theseus could see Tina had her head high, even in the stitched together sack she wore that must have been designed to humiliate her. And… and beside her…

Newt. 

Theseus’s stomach flipped and there was bile climbing his throat, bile he couldn’t expel until after Newt was off the screen. Leta moaned, low and devastated, and Theseus couldn’t make a sound. 

Newt had his stupid, stupid, lamb clutched in one hand, Tina’s hand clasped in his other hand. His eyes were closed, his lips moved repetitively, and sweat had his costume sticking to his skin. 

The screen cut to the President while the names of the tributes were announced. 

President Dippet sat slumped in his high-backed chair, his skin waxy under the lights, his lips barely moving when he leaned to whisper in the ear of the boy beside him.

Not a boy, really. A man, a handful of years older than Theseus. He was a rosy comparison to the sickly President, though he should be just as sick, just as pained as Dippet was - as Theseus was.

Theseus hoped President’s Dippet death was slow, agonizing. Theseus hoped that he suffered ten times as much as Newt was - as Newt was going to. 

Maybe Theseus would get lucky. Maybe President Dippet would die before Newt had to enter an arena. 

Maybe Dippet would die before Newt.

As if they heard Theseus’s wishes, the camera swung back to the chariot as Newt and Tina were announced to the county. Newt didn’t move a muscle, nothing on him moved at all except for his lips. Theseus didn’t know if he was counting or repeating his list of colors. 

Theseus didn’t want to watch, he didn’t want to see Newt like that. Because when Newt died, Theseus wanted to remember the times he irritated him, the laughs they shared, the memories they made. Theseus couldn’t look away though…

Newt had to die and Theseus had to watch it happen. 

That was the burden Mom left her sons to bear. 

*****

Newt was screaming. His throat hurt, his chest ached, but the words tumbled out over and over again as if louder might make them come true.

“I want to go home! I want Theseus! I don’t want to play anymore - I don’t want to! PLEASE! I DON’T WANT TO PLAY!”

Newt kicked his legs, heels thudding against the chair, his fist pounded in his leg over and over and over. The clothes smelled sour, they were sour, Newt didn’t want to play anymore. 

“SHUT UP!” Newt’s mentor shrieked and Newt screamed when she slapped him in the face, sending his head back and his pleas to fall faster. “WILL YOU DO SOMETHING?” she screamed at the man with the olive eyes. 

Hands clamped on Newt’s arms, hard and calloused hands that burned on him. Burning. Burning. Newt was burning. 

The girl snatched Baa from Newt’s arms and he was on fire inside and out. Because Baa didn’t like it. She didn’t. Baa only liked Newt to hold her because he didn’t squeeze too tightly. 

“DON’T HURT HER!” Newt’s voice ripped his throat on the inside. The girl’s nails were scarlet red against Baa’s soft grey fur. 

Baa cried - cried for Newt and for herself. 

“Don’t hurt her.” Newt couldn’t see anything else - scarlet fingernails, soft grey fur. 

Scarlet. Grey. 

Sharp. Soft. 

“If you do not put that suit on, I swear to God I will throw this pathetic scrap in a fire,” the girl hissed. “Do you understand me, you absolute cretin?”

The air burning Newt froze all at once. It felt like a saw running back and forth, back and forth, as he struggled for breath. Newt nodded quickly though, he did understand. 

“I’ll wear it,” Newt said, reaching for Baa. “Don’t hurt her. She isn’t dangerous.”

The girl brought Baa closer to Newt, then yanked her away. Newt’s fingers were shaking and Baa was scared, she was so scared and Newt swore he would never let her get hurt.

“Apologize to me,” the girl said, dangling Baa by her ear. 

Newt opened and closed his hands, trying to reach Baa before her ear was ripped off. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Newt shook his head, he didn’t know. 

The girl dropped Baa close to Newt’s hands - then yanked her away. The hands holding Newt’s arms twitched and everything turned ashen - everything except for Baa. 

“Say ‘I’m sorry for being a dumb, dirty, sniveling brat’,” she said.

It didn’t matter if Newt didn’t want to say it, Baa couldn’t see him in front of her with the water fogging up her eyes. If she couldn’t see him, she might feel like Newt put her on a train and didn’t love her anymore. 

“I’m sorry for being a dumb, dirty, sniveling brat,” Newt said. “Please, Baa’s scared.” 

“Sure.” The girl let go of Baa’s ear, then her hand swiped Baa back just before Newt’s hands closed on her. “After you get dressed,” she said. 

Grey and Scarlet. 

Newt couldn’t look at the orange wool, he couldn’t. If Newt looked at the orange wool then he might never get Baa back. He had to rip his clothes off, hop on one leg - one leg, one leg, one leg - to pull on the horrible outfit. 

If Newt let the sharp teeth in the threads rip his skin open and spill blood everywhere then Baa was going to be alone. 

“Please,” Newt said again. “I’m dressed. Please, can I have her?”

The girl held Baa up and dangled her side-to-side - side-to-side, side-to-side, side-to-side… her wrist flicked and there were nails digging in Baa’s wool. 

“No!” Newt lunged for Baa and her skin ripped with the worst sound Newt ever heard. 

Shriiiiiip - sharp and loud. 

Newt’s scream ripped out with it, and the olive-eyed man caught him mid-lunge. His arms clamped around Newt’s ribs, hauling Newt back as his heels scraped the floor.

“LET GO! SHE’S BLEEDING!” Newt wailed, thrashing and clawing at the air, trying to reach her. 

White. Dusty white. Baa’s insides were dusty white and Newt wasn’t supposed to know that. Newt wasn’t supposed to know that. Baa was dying and maybe Newt was too. 

“Pathetic.” The girl threw Baa on the floor and turned on her heel with a snapped command at the man to have Newt on stage in an hour. 

Newt sagged when she stepped on Baa, stomped on her like she wasn’t Newt’s second best friend. When the girl was gone, the man let go of Newt and he scrambled to scoop Baa up and hold her to his chest. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” Newt rocked Baa in his chest and she was all wrong with her ripped ear. She wasn’t dangerous, the girl didn’t need to hurt her. Baa wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her. 

Soft grey. Scarlet. Dusty white. 

“I wanna go home.” Newt wanted Theseus and Leta and he wanted to watch the Games on the TV where Baa would be safe and there were potatoes. 

It wasn’t a fun game. It wasn’t. Newt didn’t want to find colors and he didn’t want to count. Newt wanted to tell Theseus that monsters with sharp teeth were real and they had hurt Baa. 

Newt promised to protect her and he failed. 

Over and over, Newt asked to go home. Newt told Baa he was sorry. He asked for Theseus, he was done playing the games. 

The man crouched down by Newt and Newt scooted away. There was a hot pain on Newt’s face and hot pain in his chest and it was hard to breathe with the snot and the tears choking him. 

Glub. Glub. 

The main pointed at Baa’s ear then he pinched his finger to his thumb and wiggled it. 

Glub. Glub. 

Everything was a nightmare, a nightmare filled with sharp teeth and hard slaps, and Newt shook his head to the man, not understanding. He held up a finger and then walked away, only to return a minute later with a tiny silver tin in his hands. 

The man folded his legs and sat down before sliding the tin to Newt for him to peek inside. It wasn’t anything bad or scary, it was a needle and tiny spools of different colored thread. 

“I’m sorry,” Newt whispered to Baa as he chose blue - bright blue, blue like the sky. It was going to hurt, but she could die from the pain if he didn’t try to fix her. Newt wasn’t good at stitching, he wasn’t old enough to work in the factory yet and Newt had been moved out of the factory skills class after Theseus told the school that Newt didn’t need the class. 

Baa’s ear still looked a little bit better after Newt stitched it back on. There wasn’t any dusty white stuffing spilling out and Newt could breathe just a little bit better. 

One day Newt really hoped that Baa would forgive him, that he only put her through the pain so that she wasn’t hurt worse. 

“What’s your name?” Newt asked the man, sliding the silver tin back to him. The man shook his head and pointed at his mouth. “You - you can’t talk?” Newt asked. The man nodded. That was sad. There was a little piece of paper in the tin and Newt pointed to it. “Can you write it down?” he asked. 

The man tilted his head at Newt and Newt sighed. 

“I can read,” he told him. “People think I can’t. They think I’m dumb. They think I’m a baby.” 

Newt’s throat pulled tight again, the words got stuck getting out. He looked down at Baa, the sloppy blue stitches across her ear. “I’m not. I just… I just don’t like the things they like. That doesn’t make me dumb.”

The man’s eyes softened, and slowly, he wrote on the scrap of paper in small, neat letters:

Aion

Newt read the name carefully, whispering it under his breath to memorize it, the same way he remembered colors. “Aion,” he repeated, and his chest didn’t hurt as much.

Aion nodded and his smile was wrong, Newt didn’t like it very much. 

“Do you want to be friends?” Newt asked him.

Glubba. Glub. 

Newt held Baa tighter against his chest and dropped his face into her fur. Aion couldn’t answer him and Newt didn’t want to ask again. 

*****

The interviews were supposed to be the easy part, the part that couldn’t hurt Newt and wouldn’t hurt Leta or Theseus more than they already were. 

Then Leta saw Newt walk out on stage after Tina finished her sixty seconds and ice couldn’t have frozen her as fully as Newt’s appearance did. 

Not only was he wearing an outfit that was something directly from his deepest dislikes (wool and orange), but Baa had been torn. 

“Who did that?” Theseus yelled at the projected screen playing for the district. Leta had been so distracted by Newt in an orange wool suit with his most prized possession damaged that she didn’t notice the mark on his face until someone else howled about it. 

Someone hit him. 

Someone hit Newt. 

Someone hit her baby. 

Leta shook with rage, more rage than she ever felt before. How dare they? How dare they?! They took an innocent boy from his home, his family, to kill him as sport and subjected him to abuse on the way? 

How could anyone who ever met Newt hurt him? Newt was… he was… there wasn’t a more pure soul on the earth than him. Newt didn’t know how to be mean just as he didn’t know sarcasm or dry jokes. 

“Newt Scamander!” The man who ran the interviews yelled Newt’s name and pulled Leta back to the screen. Newt shuffled on stage, froze in place, and then threw his hand up to cover his eyes from the lights. The man called Newt’s name again and it was horrible to see Newt so frozen by fear of all the things he worked so hard to avoid. 

The camera cut away, not before Leta saw a peacekeeper walk on the stage behind Newt. Theseus growled, too furious to even make words, and Leta wondered if the Capitol knew how lucky they were?

If Theseus could be there, he would kill every single one of them. Theseus could be an absolute pain sometimes, as all men were, but he was fierce about his brother. 

President Dippet was so frail, frail enough that his older son sat beside in the audience to give him sips of a dark drink he didn’t seem to have the strength to do for himself. Theseus would be able to finish him before anyone else even knew he was there. 

The camera swung back to Newt and Leta ached to see a spit second where the peacekeeper’s foot had been connected with Newt’s backside, literally kicking him into the spotlight like a bad dog while all of the Capitol laughed and jeered. 

They were treating him worse than a dog, as if he wasn’t a being at all. The interviewer made a joke about Baa and Leta’s fingers twitched with how badly she wanted to reach through the screen and grab Newt. 

“Introduce yourself!” the man cried, offering Newt the microphone.

Newt bent down to it and pressed his lips directly on it, causing his voice to be muffled. It was still clear enough to Leta, clear enough for the tears she tried to hold back to spill over. 

“My name is Newt and I want to go home, please.”

The Capitol laughed loudly, a pack of horrible and vicious people. District Eight, in comparison, was completely silent. 

“You can’t be a scared little lamb already!” 

More laughter. Newt smiled automatically, he never understood when he was being laughed at, and Leta could feel the loss of Newt like her own limb. 

“I’m going to kill them,” Theseus muttered, his eyes burning with anger. “I will kill them.”

And Leta would help him. Especially as the interview continued and instead of asking Newt a single question, the interviewer ran the clock down by making jokes at Newt’s expense. At one point he actually knocked his fist on Newt’s head, asking if anyone was home. 

Theseus flew out of his seat and lifted it above his head to throw at the wall where the live feed projected. 

Someone screamed as the chair cracked against the stone wall, splintering into pieces at the foot of the projection. Theseus didn’t sound human with his rage, it was pure animal fury because they were useless. 

“Theseus!” Leta grabbed his arm, but he was trembling too hard. His chest rose and fell heavily, and his eyes were still locked on Newt, still locked on the boy being prodded like an animal.

Onscreen, Newt tapped Baa against the microphone, tilting his head as if the lamb might be the one who should speak. The Capitol audience howled with laughter, vicious and merciless.

There were invisible hands squeezing Leta’s throat and choking her. Because she could see it now, how it would end. Baa’s stitches showing. The bruise on Newt’s face gleaming purple under the lights. Every part of him would be branded by cruelty before the Games had even begun.

If they could do that to Newt before the games even began, what would they do when he was in the arena?

The interviewer made a final joke before Newt left the stage. Each child had a card flash on the screen - a picture of them in their horrible parade costumes with their names and district on it. 

“I think it’s safe to mark this one off the list, folks!” There was laughter as the photo burned, crumbling to ash under the flames. 

Nobody in District Eight was laughing. 

*****

One time Newt got sick. It was after Mama died and Theseus was in charge of Newt. Theseus made a rule that Newt had to go to school with the other kids his age, he couldn’t stay home like Mama let him do before. The only time Newt was allowed to stay home was if he was sick. 

Newt didn’t have to go to school if he was sick, that was the rule. Newt wasn’t stupid, he knew that an arena wasn’t the same as a school, but he thought the rules could be the same. 

If it was only Newt, he wouldn’t tell a lie, it wasn’t allowed. But Baa couldn’t go in the arena, she didn’t want to play the games or listen to the laughter ringing in her ears anymore. The Capitol had too many colors, too much laughter. It didn’t feel like a game anymore. 

Aion lifted Newt from the bed even though Newt told him his stomach hurt and he had a fever. Aion made his horrible glugging noises and pointed at the clothes folded on the little table by Newt’s bed. They were stripes, brick-red and dandelion stripes. 

Newt shook his head and hid Baa behind his back so Aion couldn’t take her from him. 

Aion picked up the shirt and held it out for Newt. He shook it when Newt didn’t take it and then raised it to his own face to rub the fabric on his cheek. Then he offered it to Newt, who was curious what the silk-but-not-silk fabric would feel like. 

“Oh!” It was soft, it was really soft. It was softer than any of Theseus’s clothes were and Newt wanted to wear it. He stripped off his sleep shirt quickly so that he could pull on the new outfit and feel the softness on his entire body. 

“It’s perfect,” Newt said, rubbing Baa down his arms so she wasn’t left out. Aion tapped Newt’s shoulder and spun his hand in a circle with his eyebrows mashed down. 

“You… scrubbed it?” Newt asked. Aion nodded. That was nice of him. “Thank you,” Newt said. “I’m sick though and when you’re sick, you can’t go around other people. You’ll spread germs and make them sick too. So I’m going to go back to bed now…”

Aion shook his head, pointed to the door. Newt rocked on his feet and Baa reminded him what happened last time Newt didn’t listen to someone from the Capitol. 

Platinum silver. Chestnut brown. Golden yellow. Cobalt blue. Raw umber. Glittering black. Olive drab. Sienna. Ivory. Carmine. Ochre. Ashen. Ebony. Tawny. Pewter. Fawn. Russet. Sorrel. Slate. Soft grey. Scarlet. Dusty white. Sky blue. Brick red. Dandelion. 

Newt whispered the colors to himself, memorizing them all to tell Theseus when he got home. Tina met Newt at the elevators with another man dressed just like Aion. 

“We all match,” Newt told Tina, pointing at her outfit and then his. “Is yours soft?” he asked. “Can I feel?”

Tina’s outfit wasn’t soft, it felt thick, rubbery. Newt made a face and yanked his hand back quickly. Maybe Aion scrubbed his into softness. Maybe Aion didn’t have to speak to be Newt’s friend. 

“We’ll sit together,” Tina said when they went outside and there was a truck waiting. A peacekeeper opened a cage on the back of it and Newt reeled backwards. 

Rusty brown. Rusty brown. Rusty brown. 

“Close your eyes, Newt,” Tina said. She took his hand and made him walk with her. Newt had to climb, but if he kept his eyes closed then he wouldn’t see that he was inside of a cage. 

If he kept his eyes closed, he couldn’t find as many colors as possible. 

Maybe Theseus didn’t know, when he said Tina was in charge, that Tina wasn’t very good at it. Theseus probably wouldn’t make Newt climb in a cage… except he did make Newt get on a train. 

Newt’s lips moved as they drove, counting how long he was inside of the cage, and he kept track of all the colors he found. The other man dressed like Aion had hazel brown hair. The building they passed was painted magenta. A bird on a lamppost was forest green. 

It took one hundred and six to arrive at wherever they were. It was dark, Newt could feel the sharp teeth waiting to bite and slap and rip in the shadows. Aion had a hand barely on Newt’s shoulder to guide him down a long hallway. There was a door that had a big ‘12’ painted on it. 

Orange. 

Why was it orange? 

There were tubes inside the room and Newt wasn’t going in it, he wasn’t. Newt should be at home with Theseus, not in a cage or a tube. 

Glub. Glub. 

Aion stepped in one of the tubes and waved his hand at Newt. He pointed upward and maybe it wasn’t a tube, maybe it was a secret tunnel?

Newt walked toward him slowly, ready to run with Baa if needed, and had to squint to see what was above Aion’s head. 

“It’s going to put us in the arena,” Tina said. “Then - then the Hunger Games are going to start, Newt.”

Newt licked his lips because they were dry and shifted from side to side. “It’s not real,” he told Tina. “Right? It’s pretend? It’s not real.”

Tina stared at Newt so long and so hard that her eyes watered up and a tear zigzagged down her cheek as she nodded. “Yeah, it’s just pretend,” she said. “It’s - it’s not real. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Why are you crying?” Newt asked because it couldn’t be both. Everything couldn’t be okay if Tina was crying. 

“I miss my mom, that’s all.” Tina wiped her tears away with her thumbs and then smiled at Newt. “See? I’m okay.”

Aion left Newt’s tube and Newt tiptoed inside of it - clear wasn’t a color. The part Newt walked through slid shut suddenly and Newt was trapped. He slapped his hand on the glass, tried to ask Aion to let him out, but Aion only put his hand on the glass opposite of Newt’s. 

Above Aion’s head, a clock appeared. Large neon yellow numbers started at sixty and counted backwards. That was good, that was something to watch, to have Baa focus on so she wasn’t afraid. 

It wasn’t real. Forty-four. Platinum silver. Forty-two. 

Newt held Baa tightly when the numbers became single digits. If the tube was going to lift him up in the arena, he didn’t want her to get left behind. 

Three. 

Scarlet. 

Two. 

Soft grey. 

One. 

Sky blue. 

The numbers hit zero and Newt’s tube didn’t move. Tina shook her head at him from her tube and Newt didn’t think it was supposed to be like that. 

Dark orange. Scarlet red. Soft grey. 

“I miss my mom too,” Newt told Tina. He should have said it sooner, but he forgot and it was too late because she couldn’t hear him. If Newt was louder, she might have. He heard the next words spoken in the room just fine.

The door behind Aion was thrown open and everyone turned to the peacekeeper who stuck his head in, barking at Aion.

“President Dippet is dead.”

*****

“We interrupt these games for a special announcement from the President’s Home in the Capitol.”

Theseus’s stomach flipped on an endless loop when the images of the new arena being used for the Twelfth Games were cut away to Albus Dumbledore behind a podium. 

Theseus’s hope couldn’t be quelled when the images of the new arena - the first time in twelve years that the Games weren’t in the old coliseum - were cut away. The screen showed Albus Dumbledore behind a podium, his hands folded with ease, his expression solemn.

For a half second, Theseus’s chest lit with hope. Maybe - maybe if Dippet was dead, if the President was finally gone, then the Games would be canceled. Maybe Newt would be sent home. Maybe there would be mercy in the world.

But Albus’s voice was smooth as silk, not a trace of mercy to be heard. “I regret to inform the nation that the great President Dippet passed peacefully this morning. Out of respect for his memory, the nation will mourn him together. The Twelfth Hunger Games will be brought to their conclusion with all due haste, so that the Capitol and districts alike may unite to commemorate the President’s funeral and crown his successor.”

It wasn’t cancelation. It wasn’t salvation. It was just another promise of cruelty, finish the killing fast so they could dress in black and pretend to grieve. Theseus didn’t doubt who would take over, nobody did with the authoritative tone Dumbledore used. 

Leta squeezed Theseus’s hand while others in the district kept carefully silent. 

“At least… at least he won’t suffer so long,” Leta whispered, her voice cracking in half of Theseus’s own pain. 

Was that the best he could hope for? 

The camera panned back to the old zoo they used to show on screen before games began. A new timer appeared with ten seconds on it. 

Theseus’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his knees were bouncing. It felt like his lungs were too full and not full enough at the same time. Theseus wanted to claw his skin off when the timer struck two and a thought made itself known to him when it flashed a one. 

That must be what it felt like to be Newt all the time. 

The one disappeared from the screen and the tributes appeared in a circle around a golden cornucopia all at once.

*****

Everything was too bright, too hot. The colors were melting together, laughing when Newt’s head whipped around and he couldn’t pick one from another. 

Baa didn’t want to be there and it didn’t matter if Newt told her it was just a game, they’d go home soon, she didn’t like it. It was worse when a crackling in the air happened and there was a voice screaming:

“TRIBUTES OF THE TWELFTH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES… BEGIN!”

Another voice screamed at Newt, too close, and he had to listen to them. 

“NEWT! RUN!” Tina yelled. 

Newt didn’t look around for colors, he didn’t count. Theseus told him to listen to Tina and the entire time they had been away from home, Newt waited for a chance to run away from it all. 

Tina said to run, Newt ran. 

Newt ran. His legs hurt, sharp scratches that stung red when sticks cut him. His chest burned hot, too hot, and he couldn’t breathe right.

Bars flashed past him, charcoal grey, and behind them was only black. Pale yellow light cut through broken glass around him, too bright, and Newt ducked because teeth could slap him in the daylight too. 

There were cages and animal sounds - Newt couldn’t look for the animals yet. There might be elephants or giraffes like the fair that Theseus took him to once, but Newt had to run until his foot slipped and he tumbled down, down, down.

Orange dirt stuck to Baa and she screamed when Newt hit his head on a rock, setting off an explosion of white stars. 

Bright white. Pure white. 

Everything was black then, shadows swallowed Newt whole and for the first time since the counting game began, Newt could breathe just right. 

Newt blinked when he was lifted up and the black that surrounded him streaked with red, gold, sharp silver. It was too bright. Newt closed his eyes again. 

“I got you, buddy.” 

They sounded brown, like potatoes and bread and Leta’s eyes. Newt made a sound when he was lifted again until he heard someone else. 

“We’re getting somewhere safe, Newt,” they said calmly. It was navy blue, navy blue with twinkles in it. Theseus’s favorite color was blue. 

“Hey, don’t forget - Bob?” Someone put Baa in Newt’s arm, someone with a rough voice who made Newt think of firewood. 

“Don’t be stupid. Her name is Baa.”

“Of course, my mistake. Hey! I’m teasing! My sister named one of our cows ‘Moo’ and it was a fine cow!”

“In here.” 

Tina. Tina was the navy blue with calming twinkles attached. Newt was supposed to do as she said, but his arms and legs felt funny and he didn’t think he could run anymore. 

“Oh, God. It smells like poop,” the one carrying Newt groaned. Newt took a carefully sniff and it smelled like ham against his teeth.

Newt felt himself lowered, stone scraping against his legs through the soft clothes. He didn’t open his eyes, not until it was too bright behind them, colors smashing together and making his head hurt worse.

Something heavy let go of him and Newt ran his fingers across Baa, touching her soft — no. 

Orange.

Neet’s eyes flew open and the world split in pieces: sharp shapes pressed down over him, someone’s breath rattled close, shadows were made in navy, brown, hot red smeared with darker lines. He couldn’t put the pieces together, couldn’t count them.

Baa… Baa had orange clay stuck on her fur. Thick, ugly, orange like the wool that scratched his skin, orange like fire.

“No,” Newt gasped, fingers clawing at the dirt clumps to scrape them off her. “No, no, no, she doesn’t like orange, she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”

Baa was ruined.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright.” Someone tried to take Baa again and Newt wasn’t going to let them. “She’s not ruined,” he said. “She just needs a bath, right? Like if you get dirty, you don’t just become ruined. You can get clean again.”

Newt’s fingers slowed and he looked over to see Jacob, the boy from Twelve, smiling at him. 

“I’ve got some water,” Jacob said, pulling a chrome thermos from a lilac bag. “Want me to do it?”

“Don’t hurt her,” Newt told him. “Please. She really isn’t dangerous. She won’t hurt you.”

“Uh, Kowalski?” The boy with the statue game and the red hair, Al, was crouched down behind Jacob with Tina. “Maybe we don’t waste our water on a toy?”

“Why?” Jacob was already washing Baa slowly, only using a little bit of water at a time so she didn’t drown. “Did you see those freaking mutts? You think any of us are going to see the sun rise again?”

They were in the Games, but Jacob didn’t know they weren’t real. 

“It’s just for pretend,” Newt told him quietly, his eyes glued to Baa. “It isn’t real.”

Jacob’s hands froze on Baa for a moment and Al made a loud gulping noise. Then Jacob smiled at Newt and he was really nice. 

“Yeah, I know,” Jacob said lightly. “It’s easier when it’s for pretend. But this little lamb here?” Jacob clicked his tongue. “Dirty, dirty, little lamb. Now that’s real, really dirty.”

Newt grinned and then Jacob winked and he laughed. “I bet people like you,” he said. Newt liked him. 

“Me? Pft.” Jacob used a little bit more water to clean Baa’s ear carefully, cleaning the horrible burnt orange off her blue stitches. “I bet people like you,” he said. 

“No, not really,” Newt said. “I annoy people. They think I’m stupid.” 

“You know who doesn’t?” Jacob used his own shirt to dry Baa off before holding her out to Newt, almost just right. “Baaaaa,” he said, making her name a sound. 

Newt took Baa back and - and she was still dirty, her white fur was streaked with brown, but it wasn’t orange and Newt told her he was sorry. Baa wasn’t mad, she was never mad, and Newt rocked her while the others ‘made plans’. 

That’s what tributes did on the TV: they made plans for how to win. Newt didn’t really care about winning, he just wanted to get Baa home. 

Jacob had another bottle of water in his bag, chrome like the first one. There was a knife, basil green handle. A scarlet bag that Newt didn’t like, filled with eggshell bandages. 

Al had a cut on his arm, cedar brown and crimson red, that Tina wrapped up in one of the bandages for him. 

“Now what?” Jacob asked, looking around the damp little cave where they hid. “Do we just wait for those filthy mutts to destroy the others?”

“I don’t think it’ll take long,” Tina said. “They - they got everyone who stayed to fight.”

“Who all ran?” Al asked. He raised his hand up and counted. “Us four, Grawp, the boy from one?”

“And Max,” Jacob said. “How many deaths?”

“Sixteen,” Tina said. “We’re forgetting someone.”

It wasn’t real. They weren’t really dying. When the cameras moved, they had to leave the arena because they lost the game. 

Newt’s hand tapped his leg while he reminded himself of that: it wasn’t real. If it was real, Theseus wouldn’t make Newt play. Newt’s stomach hurt and Baa was hungry, but Newt didn’t want to make anyone mad if he asked when they could eat. They looked tired, people didn’t like being bothered when they were tired. 

Theseus growled sometimes. Newt was allowed to eat as many apples as they had if he didn’t wake Theseus up. 

Just as Al’s eyes closed, a static fuzzy sound filled the cave. Newt clamped his hands over his ears, but nobody else acted like it was the worst sound ever. Not until there was a roar, like thunder with teeth, that filled the cave. 

Was it… a tiger? A real tiger? Newt’s eyes flicked to the entrance of the cave and his foot jiggled. What would a real tiger look like? 

Someone screamed and Newt pulled his knees up to his chest so he could duck his head and block it all out. 

The tearing. 

The wet scream that broke off. 

BOOM! 

Newt shrieked at the sound, that wasn’t the right sound. There was a deep musical sound when one of the tributes lost the game. It wasn’t real. 

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. 

They had to pretend. 

Tina scooted around the cave until she was beside Newt and then Jacob scooted closer and Newt didn’t know if he could breathe in between them, but… but it got quiet again and he could. 

“Tina…” Newt tugged on Tina’s sleeve nicely. “Can we eat? Baa’s really hungry.” 

Tina started to shake her head at Newt, but there was a good sound off in the distance. It was the right sound. Newt knew what it was as soon as it beeped the first time and he crawled to the opening of the cave to search the sky for it. 

“Jacob!” Newt turned to find Jacob and beamed at him, sure it was a gift for him. “Someone’s sending you a gift!” 

It was a pebble grey drone with a tan sack dangling from it, swaying in the sky. 

“What?” Jacob crawled up to the mouth of the cave with Newt and he laughed when he saw the gift flying toward them. “How do you know it’s mine?”

“People always send gifts to tributes they like,” Newt said. Everyone knew that. Sometimes it was food or medicine and once it was a weapon. Newt really, really, hoped it was food and he really hoped Jacob would share it with him. 

The drone flew closer, right to the mouth of the cave, and Newt’s chin fell when it dropped the sack in front of him. 

“It’s for me?” Newt asked. “Is… oh! I bet it’s from my brother!”

*****

Everyone on Leta’s factory shift chipped in for it, Leta sold her mother’s pearls for it. 

It wasn’t much, though it was already expensive with how quickly the terrifying mutts were destroying the tributes. It was worth every single cent though when Leta got to see Newt light up on screen, thrilled to have gotten a gift of his own. 

People liked him, so many people liked him. 

“Potatoes!!” Newt laughed on screen and the crowd watching the show together cheered as he dumped out the bag and found the two potatoes and single pad of butter they were able to buy. 

“Look, we can share,” Newt told the others. Leta bet that the thought of keeping them both for himself never even crossed his mind. That was just who Newt was, who he really was. 

The Gamemakers didn’t want to show them four kids hiding in a cave, sharing potatoes. The cameras panned to the boy from Ten as he climbed up in a tree, trying to get away from the horrible mutts that were released less than a minute after the game began. As soon as the boy was secured in the tree, the screen flashed to the boy from one who sat to rest against a tree, a blood-soaked sword on his lap. 

If Tina hadn’t yelled for Newt to run, he would have been torn apart immediately. 

In less than five hours, the Capitol had killed seventeen children. With as frequently as the channel changed to the Capitol, showing the mourners in the streets and those who cheered for Dumbledore’s promotion to President, Leta didn’t think the games would last another five hours. 

It was a blessing, in a way. The Gamemakers would release more and more mutts to finish the games quickly and… and Newt would be freed. 

Back to the cave. 

Newt laughed with his stuffed lamb on his lap and a drip of butter on his chin. The boys that helped him seemed to be making a game out of throwing bits of potato in each other's mouth. Tina shook her head at them, Leta smiled. 

There was a Great Thereafter and Leta had to believe that Newt was going to have friends with him there while he waited for Leta and Theseus to join him. 

*****

The light that burned through the cave didn’t get dim, even though it should have. Newt was tired, Tina was asleep, and it should be dark. 

“Creepy isn’t it?” Jacob whispered when Newt crawled back into the cave where it was dark. “It’s like the sun wants to burn us all like ants.”

“You shouldn’t burn ants,” Newt frowned. “That’s horrible.”

Jacob chuckled, Al grinned with his eyes closed. 

“Is there an animal you don’t like?” Al asked. 

Newt shook his head and rubbed Baa on his cheek, over and over. The warm potato with real butter had him feeling heavy, tired. 

“Animals do things because they’re animals, they aren’t mean for no reason,” Newt explained. He yawned and Baa slowed. “Animals don’t care if you’re weird or annoying, they just like people who are nice to them and feed them food they like. Rabbits like potatoes. So do pigs.”

Goats like potatoes too, but Newt slipped sideways against the wall and his head fell on Jacob’s shoulder. It was a comfortable shoulder, even if his shirt was rough. Newt closed his eyes, even if it was daylight. And then he fell asleep, even if he wanted to go home. 

In Newt’s dream, he was at home with Theseus and Leta. There weren’t any power outages and the Hunger Games were on TV. It got loud and Newt clicked the buttons to turn it down, then he saw who was on the TV. 

It was Baa, running and crying. Newt screamed for her to run faster - BAA! RUN! - get to safety, and she looked at him through the TV screen. Baa opened her mouth and —

“Ugh.” Newt covered his ears again when the static buzzing woke him up. It was like a million buzzing flies in the distance, Newt hated it. 

Newt hated it almost as much as he hated it when the floor beneath them groaned and woke the others. Al jumped to his feet and hit his head on the top of the cave and Tina’s eyes flew around, searching for what was causing the shaking. 

It was where the buzzing came from, the back wall. Newt pointed to it for her just as a crack fissured down it - craaaaaaaack - and dust began raining on them. 

“Get out!” Tina yelled, shoving Newt toward the cave mouth. “It’s caving in!”

Baa fell and Jacob nearly trampled her before Newt squished between him and Tina, grabbing Baa’s hand and pulling her with him. 

Al slipped on the rocks outside of the cave and Newt fell with him, both of them scraping their arms on the stones and hitting the ground harshly. Jacob was next and Tina screamed. 

“TINA!” Jacob scaled back up the rocks as they slid down in an avalanche and tried to bury Newt and Al. Al pulled on Newt, strong enough to get them both away from the rock that wanted to hurt them. 

One of the rocks sliced Newt’s arm as Jacob pulled Tina from the cave and slung her on his back. Newt’s blood was scarlet. soft grey. orange. 

Why… why did it hurt so much? Newt’s heart raced as he tapped his hand on his thigh and the others caught their breath. It shouldn’t hurt, things that weren’t real couldn’t hurt. 

Everything around Newt swirled in scarlet, soft grey, dark orange. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t hurt. 

Scarlet blood. Soft grey stuffing. Orange fur. 

It was a little sound, just a shift of fur, but it made Newt look across the dry pond they sat in to see them. 

They were massive. They were orange. They pounded their fists on the ground and bared sharp teeth at Newt. 

Baa whimpered at the sight of twenty monsters from Newt’s worst nightmares.

Jacob swore loudly, too loud. Tina whispered something with her hand searching out for Newt, scratching his neck when she fisted his shirt collar. Al had his arms out, backing up in front of them all. 

The monsters roared and… and it sounded real…

One of the monsters seemed to be staring right at Newt and when Newt shifted Baa behind his back, it tilted its head up and roared. 

The roar cracked through Newt’s bones, too loud, and he didn’t want to move, but Jacob was pushing him.

“RUN!” Jacob screamed shrilly. 

Tina ran and Al ran and Newt ran as fast as he could in a blur of colors that laughed at him. Newt needed to count, he needed to count, and Baa helped him when something scratched his cheek. 

What came after six? 

Newt’s foot slipped in a patch of crimson mud and then he screamed.

Seven.

No. Newt didn’t scream. Baa didn’t scream. 

Newt’s head whipped over his shoulder and the monsters had Jacob in their grip. Two of them pulled and pulled and Jacob’s scream gurgled as a wet squelch ripped his arms off his body. 

Jacob’s eyes were steel blue and then they were scarlet as his body fell to the ground. 

There was the horrible BOOM! again and Newt’s chest made a noise he never made before as he tried to catch up to Al, to Tina. 

It was real. It was real. It was real. 

The monsters had teeth and orange fur. They - they didn’t like Jacob, and he didn’t do anything bad. Jacob wasn’t dangerous and he was scarlet. 

Scarlet. Scarlet. Orange. Real.

Newt tripped and his knees smashed the stones as the horrible yellow sky flipped around. Newt’s teeth rattled, cracking on each other, and all the air in his body disappeared at once. 

“NEWT!” Tina was shrill, sharp. Newt couldn’t lift his head to find her, not when the monsters thudded closer, howling with excitement to kill Newt. 

It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t fake. 

“Theseus!” Newt pushed Baa’s face in his chest so she couldn’t see and raised his shaking arm up to block the monsters. 

Where was Theseus? Where was he?

“Theseus!” Newt’s voice broke in half with a sob that ripped out of him. All he wanted was Theseus. 

There was scarlet and orange and soft grey. 

Then there was black and flashing silver. 

A whoosh tore through the air and cut a roar off. Newt couldn’t even scream again when he was sprayed with hot blood or when the monster fell and its orange fur arm landed on Newt’s leg. 

Theseus was there, his back to Newt, his black curls sweaty as he fought the monsters with a sword. Newt pushed the orange monster off him and slid backwards on his back, only breathing because Theseus was there. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know it was real. He must have figured it out when Newt did and maybe he ran all the way there to take Newt home. 

Theseus turned when more monsters ran on him and his face was wrong, all wrong, all wrong, all wrong. It wasn’t Theseus’s profile but the sharp one of the boy from the parade, the one who sparkled and didn’t laugh. 

Per. Civil. 

“Go!” Percival barked at Newt, slashing the monsters with his sword over and over. “Get out of here!” 

Newt couldn’t… he couldn’t leave him there. 

An orange monster lunged for Percival and Percival slammed the blade in its skull, but its sharp claws ripped open his stomach. 

Garnet. Cherry. Crimson. Scarlet.

It wasn’t soft grey stuffing that spilled from Percival’s stomach, but coils and ropes of thirty-four different shades of red that squelched and slipped through his fingers. 

The monsters grabbed the ropes and pulled, holding them above their heads like trophies as they screamed and jumped. Percival dropped to his knees and the monsters took his insides, running after the others with blood staining their steps and splashing back on Newt. 

“P-Percival?” Newt’s voice shook and he didn’t want to touch him, but Percival was alone and he was scared and - and he saved Newt. “Percival?” Newt tucked Baa in his shirt and crawled to Percival. Percival’s mouth had blood oozing from it and it was mahogany, so dark. 

Newt touched his cheek and he hoped the pain wasn’t real for Percival. 

“I didn’t know,” Newt told him. “I didn’t - I didn’t know it was real.” 

Percival’s fingers twitched toward Newt and there was a croak when he worked his jaw around the raspy breaths falling out of him over and over and over. 

“L- lamb,” he whispered. 

Lamb? Baa?

Newt pulled Baa out of his shirt and he didn’t want to, he didn’t want Baa to become scarlet again, but he rubbed her on Percival’s cheek for him. “She’s soft,” he whispered. “She’ll keep you safe from monsters.”

Percival’s eyelashes fluttered and there was a long pause before he said just one more thing. 

“Not real.”

BOOM! 

Newt walked for a long time, tripping over rocks and trees. His legs didn’t listen, his head was too loud. Every sound crashed on him; roars, cannons, leaves crunching, his heartbeat hammering. 

Too much.

The colors were worse. Scarlet on his arms, orange fur stuck to his knees, navy shadows twisting at the edges of his eyes. Each blink shuffled the world wrong, ground in the wrong place, sky too bright. 

Monsters with teeth didn’t have to wait for the dark anymore. 

Newt pressed Baa hard to his chest, rubbing her soft fur until his fingers hurt. 

Safe. Soft. Safe. Soft. 

A cannon boomed and Newt dropped, teeth biting his tongue. Blood tasted like rust, rust was orange. 

Orange.

He curled tight, clawed at his hair, and whispered the same thing over and over as screams surrounded him. 

“Not real. Not real. Not real.”

There were screams. Not Tina, but navy. Navy blue screams. 

Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. 

Aion’s soft clothes were stiff and rubbed Newt’s skin until it bled, until he clawed at it and ripped it off him. The ground itched, it was better than the clothes though. 

The buzzing returned and something snuffled, something growled near Baa’s ears. A wet snout nudged Newt’s leg as he pulled his hair and rocked. It wasn’t real. 

Was it?

BOOM!

Newt always wanted to meet as many animals as he could. They weren’t dangerous, they weren’t. They didn’t want to hurt anyone. Newt curled up small and leaves stuck to him, glued on with scarlet and orange. 

There were screams all around Newt. 

Too much. Too much. Too much. 

The sounds didn’t end and the sun never left. 

The monsters with sharp teeth tore through the arena and Newt knew they were real. 

When the screams ended, the monsters reached Newt and turned off all the ilghts.

Black.

   Black.

      Black.

*****

*****

“And cookies!” Leta placed a pink plate on the table, covered in cookies. 

Baa didn’t want cookies. Baa never wanted cookies again. 

Newt counted the cannons: one, two, three, four. 

“Nugget?” Theseus reached slowly for Newt’s hand and Baa checked, there weren’t any teeth. “Nugget, can you eat something? For me?”

There were potatoes and butter, real butter. The man with blue eyes laughed when he put a crown on Newt’s head and said he could buy all the butter he wanted from then on. There were cookies and no ham. A blackberry pie sat in the center of the table, steam rising up in the air. 

Baa reached for a cookie for Newt and yanked her hand back. 

Not safe. Not real. 

Theseus stayed at the table with Newt until the sun was gone and the shadows returned. Theseus stayed at the table with Newt until Newt had to close his eyes and quickly swallow a bite of the pie, anything to fix the pain in his stomach. 

“Baa - Baa doesn’t want to go back,” Newt told Theseus, holding up his only friend. Baa was stained with scarlet and orange, sky blue stitches that would never leave. Baa couldn’t go back, she couldn’t. 

Theseus reached for him again and Newt didn’t pull away, he made his skin stop crawling under his brother’s fingers.

“Newt, you and Baa never have to go back,” Theseus swore. “You’re home, Nugget. You’re safe now.” 

Safe? 

Newt rocked in his chair, his eyes searching the shadows for teeth and screams. 

It wasn’t safe as long as there were shadows or sunshine. Everything was scarlet and orange and soft grey. 

Scarlet.

Orange. Orange. Orange. 

Everything was orange.

Chapter Text

Trigger Warning:

Sexual exploitation of a minor. 

Sexual assault of a minor. 

“THE VICTOR OF THE EIGHTEENTH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES IS ABRAXAS MALFOY!”

Abraxas Malfoy stood on a stage before the country and dipped his head as President Dumbledore placed the crown on him. The interview had passed in a blur of scenes from the arena, inquiries on his thoughts during key moments. Abraxas spoke slowly, carefully, ensuring that his gratitude to the Capitol was not missed. 

There was still adrenaline coursing through Abraxas as he held his victory interview, as he posed for photographs with the President, and signed belongings for the Capitol citizens. It would crash eventually, when Abraxas was home and his family saw the reward for his victory. 

They would have one of the finest homes in the District. Abraxas would have more gold than either of his parents had seen in their lifetime. Abraxas would be a citizen of worth, of respect. When he returned home and purchased a diamond she deserved, Viper Flint’s father would surely not refuse him. 

Abraxas still had a final meeting with President Dumbledore and Gamemaker Scrimgeour to get through, then a final party at the President’s Mansion where he would be introduced to the most respected citizens in their country. 

It was an honor. 

An honor Abraxas earned with blood and sweat. 

It was an honor. 

Abraxas was dressed in a fine suit for his meeting with the President and the woman from his post-victory interview returned again to polish his face. 

“You look tired, angel,” she tutted, patting powder on Abraxas’s face. She had called Abraxas ‘angel’ after his victory as well, claiming he looked like an avenging angel on screen with his fair looks and fierce tactics. She traced the edges of Abraxas’s eyes with gold ink. “What’s keeping you awake?” she asked. 

“If it comes down to us, I will have to kill you.” Celeste spun in the bejeweled gown she was to wear during the parade and she smiled wickedly at Abraxas. “No hard feelings.”

Abraxas snorted as he ran his hand down his matching vest. “If it comes down to us, I will kill you,” he corrected her. “You can feel that however you wish.”

“I can’t decide what I’ll buy first when I get home,” Abraxas said smoothly, watching as he was once again transformed into someone else. “What would you recommend?” 

The woman was vapid, silly, Abraxas had plenty of experience with women like her. One question set her off for the rest of their time together as she chattered on and on about different luxury items. Perfumes and jewels and clothes made of silk, Abraxas hummed in feigned agreement until she declared him ready. 

There was a tribute tower being built within the Capitol, one that would be used with the next round of tributes. It would be there that they would stay in the days leading up to their games. Abraxas was driven there by an avox, as the President and Head Gamemaker requested they meet there. 

It was an impressive building, thirteen stories high. Each floor would be for a different pair of tributes, with Twelve at the top. The first floor would have a theater built into it, a place for interviews to be hosted instead of the tired theater where Abraxas was introduced to the country. 

President Dumbledore and Gamemaker Scrimgeour were in the new theater when Abraxas arrived, both of them gazing around at the polished place where all future tributes would eventually be. 

“There he is,” President Dumbledore said, his eyes assessing Abraxas from head to toe. “Our newest victor.”

“The people are calling him Angel,” Scrimgeour said. It was… disconcerting, meeting the man who controlled Abraxas’s arena. He had only been something of a shadow in Abraxas’s thoughts, not a man with untamed brunette hair, sharp eyes. 

“Fitting,” Dumbledore said. 

President Dumbledore had been well-known before he even took his role. It was surprising at first when he took over for the late President Dippet, he had been so young, but he never let his age slow him. If anything, Dumbledore had been the one to enact a great many changes in just a few years. 

More than Abraxas even knew, apparently. 

Abraxas stood tall, locking his hands behind his back as the men stared at him. At fifteen, Abraxas was as tall as his father and he was nearly the same height as the men before him. Even as a victor though, Abraxas knew they were leagues above his station. 

“We are beginning a new tradition,” President Dumbledore said calmly, his blue eyes chilling Abraxas. There was something so lifeless about them, frozen. “To keep the Games alive, there will be a victory tour at the halfway date. The most recent victor will go from district to district, speaking to them and inspiring them with their win.” 

“Excellent, sir,” Abraxas said with a tip of his head. “Will that begin this year?”

“It will,” Scrimgeour said. If Dumbledore’s eyes were frozen, Scrimgeour’s eyes were searing as they burned into Abraxas. “You will have a handler with you, a man trusted by the President. He’ll ensure that you make your timings, that you’re presentable for the country.”

“I understand, sir,” Abraxas said. “Thank you for the honor.”

Abraxas would be nationally known, the first tribute to travel the districts and encourage them all to see the Hunger Games not as a punishment, but a career that would bring them riches and prestige. 

President Dumbledore stepped closer to Abraxas to study him, it seemed. When he raised his hand, Abraxas twitched. 

It was instinct. Pure animal instinct. President Dumbledore was the predator, Abraxas had been the prey. He wasn’t anymore though and he was grateful that the President didn’t seem to notice. 

“Rufeus, prepare an announcement to be released next month.” Dumbledore touched the fold of Abraxas’s vest, the golden tie he had been told to wear. “We need stylists, a group of people who can be sure these tributes are representing Panem properly.”

Abraxas stayed silent with his chin up and eyes staring unseeingly beyond Dumbledore. Dumbledore flatted his hand, smoothed it over Abraxas’s chest. 

“Return to your quarters,” Dumbledore said abruptly, turning away from Abraxas. “I’ll have something sent for the revel this evening, something more suitable for our angel to wear.” 

Abraxas thanked both men again and then left the theater as quickly as he could, reminding himself that it was an honor. How many others could say they met the President personally? How many would say the President himself chose their outfit to wear as they mingled with the highest of society?

It was an honor. 

Abraxas had to remind himself of that when his ‘suitable’ outfit arrived over the arm of the same woman who made his face up before. She laid it out and told Abraxas to get dressed in a clipped tone, a far cry from the silly chattering from before. Abraxas’s fingers trembled as he pulled the garments from the bag and saw what he was expected to wear. 

The pants were tight leather, they hardly looked big enough for Abraxas to fit into, not that he would have chosen to wear them if he had the option. The shimmering gold was gaudy, the way they would fit would be nearly obscene. There was no shirt included, which confused Abraxas until the woman told him he was meant to only wear the white vest. The golden boots with the tassels were an insult, with thick heels that would add 2-3” to Abraxas’s height. 

Abraxas was going to be half dressed as he met high society. It wasn’t respectable, he would look like a gimmick, a joke. 

It was meant to be an honor. 

The Capitol citizens dressed strangely, it didn’t have to mean anything. 

Abraxas was dressed and prepared in plenty of time and the woman whose name he never bothered to learn offered him a small vial before he was escorted to the revel. 

“It’ll help you relax,” she said. 

Abraxas curled his lip up and politely pushed the vial away from him, back to her. “I’d rather not,” he told her stiffly. 

There was a strange moment where she stared at him, judging him perhaps as oddly dressed as he was with his makeup on and hair brushed back until it gleamed. There was something she wanted to say, Abraxas sensed there was something just on the tip of her tongue. 

“Okay then, Angel,” she said evenly. “Then you look fine. Enjoy yourself.” 

The revel was already in full swing when Abraxas was ushered inside by the President’s security staff. Music, sharp and glittering, rang against the vaulted ceilings beneath the storm of voices and laughter. Abraxas hesitated when it seemed as if all eyes turned to him, then he forced himself to step in confidently, with a smile of gratitude and the honor of a victor. 

It wasn’t an arena. There were no mutts there, no tributes turned violent from desperation. 

The crowd surged on him and Abraxas had to lock his muscles, lock his smile. He was pulled this way, then another way. People told him their names with liquor scented breath. They pawed at him and with so much skin exposed, each touch set off a fit of goosebumps. 

A woman told him how handsome he was, as if he weren’t young enough to be her son, before her fingers slipped under the silk vest and a fingernail scraped across his nipple. 

Abraxas flinched from the touch and she laughed before melting back in the crowd. Abraxas tried to distance himself, not allow the group of adults to overwhelm him, but every time he tried to step away, someone pulled him back in. 

“When you killed Charlus?” A man, at least seventy with papered wrinkles and white hair, fanned himself. “I’ve never seen a boy look so fine.”

“Please…” the boy from twelve was bloodied, weak, gripping his injuries to keep his blood from spilling further. “Have mercy,” he asked. 

There couldn’t be mercy in an arena, not from a tribute who hoped to become a victor.

“Thank you, sir,” Abraxas said. He was yanked toward the man by his wrist and pulled away with his heart racing when the man licked his jaw. 

“Sweet like honey,” the man laughed with everyone who saw it. 

“Soft like an angel too,” a woman’s voice said just before sharp nails gripped Abraxas’s buttocks, squeezing and kneading for anyone to see. “Mm.”

Abraxas’s muscles twitched as he tried to find an escape from the crowd of mutts that circled him, each one barking with laughter. Drool fell from their lips, their eyes were hungry. They looked at Abraxas as if he were the full course meal they had been waiting for. 

The smell of blood struck him, thick and choking. There would be a cannon, someone was dying. 

“There’s our guest of honor!”

The crowd parted as one, allowing President Dumbledore to walk to Abraxas with a wide smile. Abraxas could have hit his knees in gratitude at the sight of him. Even Dumbledore’s arm around Abraxas’s shoulders felt like a shield against the hands of others. 

“The Angel of Panem, everyone,” Dumbledore said, setting off cheers and drunken cries from the crowd around them. Abraxas smiled and nodded his head gratefully. 

A man with beady eyes leered at Abraxas, fearlessly stepping up to stroke his finger on Abraxas‘s cheek. 

“I bet our angel could sin like the devil,” he purred. Abraxas recoiled from the touch, the implication, and the President’s hold on him tightened. 

It was crude. It was a crude statement to make in front of —

“A sweet face like his?” President Dumbledore’s hand curved in and his nails were sharp in Abraxas’s upper arm. “I doubt if he’s ever been touched.”

Sweat began to bead on Abraxas’s neck as they laughed at him, laughed at his red face, laughed as they debated how pure of an angel he was. 

“Tell us, Angel,” Dumbledore said the name sardonically, mockery dripping from the name Abraxas had never asked for. “Are you a virgin?”

The heat climbed to Abraxas’s face as the mutts waited hungrily for a response. Abraxas didn’t - he wasn’t prepared for —

“Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered, humiliating himself nearly as much as the laughter did. Something cold and sharp coiled in Abraxas’s stomach and he tried to push back, just enough to stop whatever tide was threatening him. “I have a girlfriend,” he said quickly. “We’ll - we’re getting married.”

More laughter, loud and vicious. Abraxas’s blood pounded in his ears and he couldn’t move, he was frozen by the nails in his shoulder, the cold chill coming from the man beside him. 

“Ah, yes, that would be Viper Flint, right?” Dumbledore turned and his eyes locked on Abraxas. “She’s in class with your sister, isn’t she? Lucretia?”

Dumbledore was the President. Abraxas was a victor. The shared information shouldn’t have him shrinking down and imagining a threat in Dumbledore’s eyes. 

“Yes, sir,” Abraxas said, his voice thickened by a throat that forgot how to function. 

“Lucretia Malfoy… now, isn’t she a beautiful girl? What is she, fourteen?” Dumbledore’s tone was indulgent, almost fond, and the mutts around them chuckled, eager for the next attack. “Perhaps we shall be lucky enough to see her in the arena next year. Or…” 

His nails pressed deeper into Abraxas’s shoulder. Blood broke through his skin and Abraxas could feel it sliding down his bare arm. 

“…perhaps young Miss Flint will prove whether she can fight for Mister Malfoy as fiercely as he fought for her.”

The laughter rose again, sharp and merciless. Abraxas’s mouth was dry, too dry to function. There was a threat in there, as clear as a cannon blast. Abraxas shook his head, unable to imagine Lucretia or Viper in the arena. 

Abraxas didn’t let himself look at her as a child, a human. Abraxas made her into a mutt, only an opponent to strike down. When the mutt was lifeless, unmoving, did Abraxas see her eyes… her eyes that dimmed with death. 

“Either way,” Dumbledore leaned in, his face in Abraxas’s and every syllable softly spoke just for him. Abraxas couldn’t hold his eyes, his frigid eyes, and looked at the scar on his cheek instead, “I will get a performance. If you’d prefer it to be from another…”

Lucretia’s kindness being taken by the arena. Viper’s smile stolen by the sound of the cannon. 

It was a threat that sliced down Abraxas’s spine like a blade and had him straightening, fixing his own expression like the crown he had earned. 

“No, sir,” Abraxas said. “I’ll perform.”

It was an arena, filled with glittering mutts, that was all. It wouldn’t last as long as the four days in the Hunger Games. It was one night only, one night of letting himself be pawed at like a whore. 

And it was supposed to be an honor. 

Dumbledore led Abraxas forward, steering him into the pit of mutts. They had no restrain, no courtesy, no respect. Abraxas kept a smile on his face, though his skin crawled with every hand trailing across his abdomen, every set of lips that touched his body. 

They treated him like a toy, something provided to entertain them. 

A man spoke with Dumbledore, not so much older than him, and his hand was the most bold yet as he groped at Abraxas and laughed when he felt Abraxas’s lack of response. 

“What would a night with the Angel cost, Albus?” he asked, his breath too hot on Abraxas’s clammy skin.

Abraxas’s own breath stuttered, shaken by the implication. Abraxas wasn’t a steed for sale, he was a person, a victor. 

“I think you’d fare better with one of the kitchen girls,” Dumbledore said, easing the band around Abraxas’s lungs. Of course he wasn’t going to…

Silly to think otherwise. 

“Our angel is going to need a firmer hand to clip his wings,” Dumbledore went on casually. “Dilys has a stronger reputation.”

Another man, the ‘Dilys’, stepped out of the crowd and he didn’t look at Abraxas, he looked at his body. Abraxas didn’t have to imagine drool flecking from his lips, he could see it as Dilys smirked. 

“If you want a broken angel,” he said casually. “I’d be happy to show a district beast his true place.”

Abraxas’s knees shook as the three men debated the matter, as easily as his own father would talk about the economy over breakfast. The first man, Phineus, argued loudly about the - the things he would do to Abraxas if given the honor. Dilys offered to finish funding the Tribute Tower. Phineus offered twelve new chariots for the tribute parade, gleaming gold to show the Capitol’s wealth. 

Abraxas’s stomach turned inside out as he waited, desperately, for someone to laugh. For someone to admit it was a joke. For someone to embarrass him by saying he had fallen for it. 

But the men only carried on their haggling with the eyes and ears of all of the country’s highest society on them. They all witnessed as Abraxas was the prize of a sick bidding war. 

When Phineus’s final offer was met with Dumbledore’s declaration of approval, Abraxas stumbled backward. He shook his head, ignored the hands of those behind him crawling up his back, fondling his skin. 

“No,” Abraxas blurted, his voice unsteady and thin. “I’m - I’m a Victor. I won. You - you can’t…”

The mutts laughed, uproariously as if anything Abraxas said was a joke. Dumbledore’s smile never wavered either, he only waited like a parent for their child to finish their fit. 

“He’s spirited,” he told Phineus, though his eyes stayed locked on Abraxas. “He’ll learn.”

Abraxas could taste copper in his mouth, the blood of the children he killed to be there. There was smoke in his lungs, pleas for mercy ringing in his ears. And beneath that was Dumbledore’s words, replaying in Abraxas’s mind…

“I will get a performance. If you’d prefer it to be from another…”

Phineus reached for his prize and Abraxas searched through his memory before the arena, before the Capitol, for a safe place to land. As Phineus’s bony fingers wrapped around Abraxas’s arm, his mind rested in the courtyard in front of his school. 

There was a fountain, beautifully crafted of onyx, that ran nonstop, giving it a sense of peace as well as beauty. Abraxas imagined himself there again, sitting alone and able to breathe. 

When did he last breathe?

Was it only a week ago?

Was it only a week ago?

Abraxas spent three more nights in the Capitol, passed from bidder to bidder. Apparently a full day with the Angel of Panem was too mighty of a cost as Abraxas spent the morning on his knees for a man, his afternoon inside of a woman he didn’t know, his nights ripped apart by another man. 

It left him shaken, torn, bleeding. 

Some paraded him to luncheons, holding him on their arm to flaunt over their associates. Some took photos of him, recorded him in humiliating positions. Some left marks on his body that had to be healed before he was passed on to the next buyer. 

Abraxas couldn’t live in his memory then, he could only put himself back in the arena. In the arena, the pain made sense, it kept him alive. Abraxas fought and fought to live, only to die anyway. 

District One held a dinner for Abraxas when he returned home. It was held in the manor built for victors, a new addition to their district. Abraxas’s sister ran at him when he stepped off the train and lunged —

“Beg me, boy. Beg like the dog you are.”

“ABRAXAS!” Lucretia beamed at him and Abraxas forced a light laugh as he swung her around. “I’ve missed you terribly,” she said. “I - there were so many… oh!” Lucretia threw her arms around Abraxas and squeezed.

Wheezing. Hands around his neck. A slap to his face when his eyes rolled backward. 

Abraxas removed his sister’s arms from him and stepped back quickly, replacing his smile when she looked hurt at his rejection. 

“My ribs are still sore,” he said, not quite a lie. “I can’t be killed off now by a little girl, what would Panem say?”

Lucretia laughed and behind her were their parents. Their mother dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, smiling so proudly that the acid inside of Abraxas’s stomach burned him. Their father stood beside her and offered Abraxas his hand, the standard greeting for men in the same station. 

“Our boy,” Father said, pride radiating off him in nauseating waves. “My God, you’ve made us proud.”

Did he? Would they be proud if they knew? If they knew what Abraxas had faced in the arena he hadn’t counted on?

The next person Abraxas saw was the one he had thought of the most the last three days. 

Viper Flint, Abraxas’s truest of loves. 

Viper waited outside the door of Abraxas’s manor and she turned as his carriage approached and Abraxas was able to take her in all over again. Tall, with long blonde hair that curled down to her waist, Viper looked much like the jewel that Abraxas called her. Her smile was effervescent when it was turned on Abraxas and instead of healing the wound inside of him that wondered if they would ever see each other again, it made it throb. 

Viper was beautiful, pure. 

Abraxas was disgusting, nothing more than a beast. 

They were to wait, wait for each other on the night they would be married. It was how Abraxas was raised, an ideal Viper stood firm on the few times when Abraxas had teased her. 

It would have been wonderful, entering something new together - taking their time to figure it all out. 

It would have been wonderful. 

Mother clicked her tongue at father and Lucretia, ushering them to go around to the side entrance of the manor, leaving Abraxas to greet Viper alone. 

It should have been beautiful, it should have been one of the brightest moments in Abraxas’s life. He won, he won and their life would be one of ease, of comfort and peace. 

Abraxas’s palms sweat as he walked slowly down the walkway, unable to hold Viper’s clear grey eyes. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t, but Viper’s eyes on him brought memories of skin, laughter, humiliations and shames. 

“Viper,” Abraxas said her name in a whisper, too much emotion simmering under the surface. It felt as if his heart was breaking in his chest as he took a full count of everything the Capitol had taken from him. 

“Braxy.” Viper said his name like a caress and raised her hand —

Abraxas turned his face away, ducking from the contact, then tried to correct himself as Viper lowered her hand and smoothed it over her skirt. 

“My nerves,” he said weakly, an easy excuse to fall on. “I’m sorry, my jewel.”

“You’re home.” Viper slowly took Abraxas’s hand in hers and smiled so sweetly that it crushed him. “That’s enough.”

Abraxas swallowed and looked at the manor behind her, the home where his family could live for the rest of their days. It was beautiful, on the surface. 

But it didn’t come cheaply, did it?

“Home,” he agreed, his voice falling flat as he imagined sleeping inside the reminder of what he lost for the rest of his days. 

It was an honor and it was enough. 

The days passed, empty and endless. 

At first, Abraxas tried to find comfort in a familiar rhythm. He walked Lucretia through town, he watched his mother tend to her gardens, he listened to his father discuss trade quotas.

It was a familiar rhythm that he no longer fit in. 

When a boy aged out of the reaping, he was to join a workshop and learn a trade. Abraxas attended a few of them, but it was the heat rising from the molds, the smell of smoke as jewels were crafted, even the scent of perfume set his heart off in erratic patterns that left him breathless. 

It didn’t matter, Abraxas didn’t need to learn a trade. 

Abraxas knew before returning that he wouldn’t attend the Academy again. It would have been difficult regardless, a part of him would wonder which child would be in the arena next. It was impossible when every child in the halls became a body that Abraxas could see being used, abused, discarded. 

Nights were the hardest. When the sun began to set, Abraxas would become restless. Shadows would grow and Abraxas saw the tributes falling, he saw himself falling. 

Over and over, until he was drenched in sweat and forced to his feet - to try and flee what he didn’t want to face. 

It was on a night such as that where Abraxas found himself outside, wandering about the Victor’s Village. Each manor was as glamorous as the last, each garden was manicured and the cobbled roads were flawless. It was a beautiful village, not a place where Abraxas fit.

The lanternshanging on the posts were dimmed low, providing just enough light that Abraxas didn’t trip as he walked around the loop of houses. As the villages were only finished last winter, Abraxas was the first victor to live inside of a home made solely for victors. 

Abraxas was the first victor to live in Victor’s Village. 

Abraxas was to be the first victor to have a victory tour around the county. 

Abraxas wondered if he had been the first victor to be passed around like a toy to be used and ruined. 

Perhaps Abraxas was the only one. Perhaps he gave off some signal that he was brave enough for the arena, too cowardly to fight a second set of mutts. 

Abraxas shivered and rubbed his hands on his arms to warm himself before pausing as he turned the corner. The Malfoys were the only ones who resided in the village, there shouldn’t be anyone else there. But there was…

A woman stood before a house, her hands clutching the stone fence that stretched across the front. With her hair and part of her face covered with a black shawl, Abraxas didn’t recognize her until he walked closer and she noticed him. 

Once he recognized her, he froze in his tracks, plenty of distance between them to protect himself if need be. 

“Mrs Lestrange?” 

Celeste Lestrange’s mother tipped her head in Abraxas’s direction before turning back to the house and speaking as if he wasn’t there at all. 

“Celeste loved this house,” Mrs Lestrange said softly. “They used amethyst on the walkway, she - she said that she would have the front windows remade with the same jewel.”

“Scared, Lestrange?” Abraxas had a knife and a fierce wish to honor his district and family with a win. 

Celeste grinned, fearless and arrogant. “I’m scared you’ll cry like a bitch when I kill you.”

Abraxas scoffed and brushed his hair off his forehead, many of the strands were glued down with his blood. It wouldn’t matter though, it would all be over soon. 

Abraxas stepped closer, slowly. Mrs Lestrange didn’t sound infuriated, but Abraxas had avoided the family since returning home. If Celeste had beaten Abraxas in the end, it would have been Abraxas’s mother staring longingly at a house, Celeste the victor living in the village. 

If Celeste won, it may have been her skimpily dressed for the Capitol, her body being possessed and attacked over and over. It would have been Celeste’s black hair yanked by rough hands, it would have been Celeste washing the memories from her body in the shower as soap suds mixed with blood. 

Abraxas stood beside Mrs Lestrange as his body shook and his chest burned. He gripped the same small fence she did and he imagined Celeste inside the grand manor, screaming when she couldn’t sleep and crying when it replayed in her mind over and over. 

“Celeste was lucky,” Abraxas whispered. “We - she didn’t know what victory would look like behind the crown.”

Mrs Lestrange gazed at Abraxas for a long time, her eyes sharp and still haunted. Abraxas didn’t look at her, he couldn’t, and eventually she sighed lightly. 

“Maybe you’re right,” she agreed quietly. Her hand slid over slowly to where Abraxas’s rested and he didn’t pull away as her fingertips landed on the back of his hand. 

When the sun began to rise and Abraxas startled, surprised to have somehow lost himself for hours, he recalled something Mrs Lestrange said. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “Celeste wouldn’t have been able to choose which house she wanted.”

Celeste wouldn’t have been able to choose anything. 

The closer the midway point came, the more that clips from past Hunger Games were played as reruns. Abraxas’s games, as the most recent, featured more than most. 

Without a trade to learn, job to perform, or classes to attend - Abraxas found himself watching the footage again and again. At first, he only thought about his own form, that and the form of the other tributes. 

It was clear that not a single one of them had ever so much as seen the variety of weapons, to say nothing about their inexperience at using them. There had been a bow and arrow offered at the cornucopia that Abraxas had to pass despite the advantage it brought because of his lack of knowledge in shooting it.

If he learned more before entering the arena, could it have changed anything? If Abraxas proved from the start that he was deadly, would anyone dare touch him against his will? 

Abraxas began writing then. He watched every clip of the games and took note, nitpicking his mistakes and the mistakes of the others. There were ways they all could have gotten food in the arena outside of sponsors, but they didn’t know how. 

They didn’t know anything.

Lucretia griped at Abraxas, annoyed that the reruns became a constant noise in their home. Mother fretted over him, worried that something had been permanently damaged during his time in the arena. Father told the women to leave him be, then sat silently beside Abraxas while he worked. 

Once Abraxas filled three notebooks with form corrections, strategies, life-saving information, he watched the scenes again. 

Every time a victor was announced, Abraxas wondered if they suffered outside of the arena. Did the woman who had her front teeth knocked from her mouth attend a revelry? Did the boy with the stuffed animal and scared eyes meet Dilys?

Could they sleep? Was their skin too tight on the bodies?

Did they ever leave the arena?

A week before he was meant to leave for the Victory Tour, Abraxas was awake again and freshly showered after sweating his way through a nightmare. He quietly went downstairs and settled in the living room, flipping the television on and muting it so as to not wake his family. 

It was the final scene that he watched, again and again. It was when he struck Celeste down and was announced as the winner of the Hunger Games. Abraxas watched and he wondered what the rest of the country had seen. 

Abraxas’s clothes had been torn then, did that signal something to the Capitol? Did the way he tensed and his abdomen could be seen say something about him? 

A shadow moved, the groan of a mutt, and Abraxas threw his arm up instinctively to protect his face. A beat of silence, a ragged breath, then —

“I would think that your organs would be more vital to protect than your face.” 

It took Abraxas an extra second to register that, to put the voice to a name. 

Home. 

Abraxas was home and there wasn’t a mutt in the shadows, it was Father standing before him in his robe with eyes more solemn than Abraxas had ever seen before. 

“I’m sorry,” Abraxas said, his voice croaking. “I thought…”

Abraxas shook his head, he didn’t know what he thought. He wasn’t thinking, perhaps that would have been more appropriate to say. 

“What did you think?” Father asked, sitting beside Abraxas on the sofa, much too close. Abraxas choked on his air, unable to say anything at all. 

“Very well.” Father took the remote from Abraxas and paused the television, freezing it on Abraxas’s face when the final cannon sounded. “I’ll share my thoughts with you, shall I? I’ll tell you that my son, my boy, who fought his way through an arena should be different, I expected that.”

The boy on the screen? The one who saw winning as the highest honor there could be for a district boy? He did change. 

“What I expected were startle responses, I expected you to see an enemy in the shadows, to forget where you were on occasion.”

Abraxas didn’t expect that of himself. Abraxas knew some of the deaths would cling to him, he didn’t expect to be suffocated by every memory. 

“I expected you to swing a fist, to kick out, to fight,” Father said, his voice low and gruff as he stared at Abraxas and Abraxas refused to look at him. “Instead, I now have a son who cries in his sleep, who defends himself. And I don’t know what to make of that.”

The shame that burned inside of Abraxas grew so hot that it felt like it should consume him. Abraxas had been made weak, pathetic, an embarrassment to his family. 

Abraxas clenched his jaw and the taut muscles in his shoulders ached. “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it wasn’t enough. 

“Sorry?” Father sighed and they so rarely were at odds that Abraxas didn’t know what to say, what to do. He wasn’t eight and pulling pigtails on the playground. Abraxas was a blight on the Malfoy name, hardly a son at all. 

For a second it was only the two of them with the son Father wanted glowing on the television screen. For a second, Abraxas had to be a man, listen to his father’s disappointment in the man the Capitol returned to him. 

For a second, Abraxas was at home. 

And then a hand raised in the edge of his vision and Abraxas could hear laughter ringing in his ears, perfume assaulting his nose, the sour taste of salt in his mouth. 

It did no good to beg, no good at all. They laughed when he did it, amused by the vicious killer from the arena reduced to a sniveling lump of flesh and fear. The words still tumbled from his mouth, fast and desperate —

“Please. Please don’t - please don’t touch me.”

Abraxas ducked his head down with both arms protecting it, covering his ears and muffling the sick things they said, the things they wanted to do to him or have him do to them. 

Pleading did nothing but humiliate him —

How many begged for mercy that Abraxas couldn’t give? Did they know that he would face his own tormentors? Abraxas didn’t draw out a kill, he wasn’t a savage. All he wanted was to go home. 

— and the hand gripped the back of Abraxas‘s neck tightly. 

“Breathe,” they said, shaking him with their firm hold. “Abraxas Malfoy, breathe right now.” 

Abraxas sucked in air that burned, that seared his lungs. There was no perfume in the air, only the faint smell of clover. Abraxas did it again, then again. Abraxas sucked in air until the clover was the faint trace of a cigar, he did it until the hand on his neck was his father’s. 

Even as the realization leaked through his awareness, Abraxas kept his head ducked. The tears he didn’t want to shed started as a pressure in his eyes, then a prickle. When Father rubbed his thumb on the back of Abraxas’s neck, they broke through

The sound that tore from Abraxas wasn’t a word, it was hardly a sound at all. It was a strangled rasp that ripped at his throat, betraying him as he had betrayed himself. 

When his shoulders heaved with sobs, Abraxas bit his knuckles to try and silence himself.

Be a good angel. Behave now, perform now, or we’ll take your sister. 

Every sob tore at him like the sound of a cannon, every painful breath was soothing in its own way. It was pain he could nearly understand. Pain that came from the cursed honor he fought so hard for. 

Through it all, all the way to when Abraxas felt limp from the fight, his father’s hand rested on his neck. When Abraxas sagged in his seat and felt his hair sticking to him with tears and snot and the blood… his father spoke. 

“What did they do to you?”

Abraxas might have been his father’s father, that was how aged he felt when he looked over and saw his father’s damp eyes. “Don’t make me say it,” Abraxas told him. He wouldn’t lay that on his father’s shoulders, he couldn’t. 

Father’s face tightened and there was an understanding between them that some horrors could be aired as entertainment, others couldn’t be spoken. 

“I told you it was an honor,” Father said. “I’m sorry, son.”

An honor, it was all such an honor to bear the scars of cruelty inside of him. 

Abraxas reached over and placed his hand on his father’s knee. “We didn’t know.”

Father bowed his head, Abraxas leaned his head back against the sofa, and neither of them spoke about Abraxas‘s impending return to the Capitol. 

On the day that Abraxas had to leave District One, he visited Viper first, catching her at her home so she didn’t have to travel to the train station. 

“Braxy!” Viper lit up like the jewel she was when she saw Abraxas walking slowly up her walkway, weighed down by what he knew must happen. 

It was a terrible pain, a horrible part to play, but Abraxas survived much worse performances. 

“Viper,” Abraxas said politely, holding his mask firmly in place. There wasn’t time to explain, there weren’t words for the position he held regardless. Abraxas offered Viper his arm and a polite smile. “We need to talk,” he said. 

Viper was young, the same age as Lucretia, but she was smart, smart enough to know it wasn’t a marriage proposal Abraxas arrived with. 

“Talk to me,” Viper said as they walked together, just to the laneway for privacy. “We haven’t talked in so long. Are you well?”

Was he? Abraxas felt feverish, weak. It was his nerves, his shattered nerves anticipating what was going to happen. 

“I am,” Abraxas said, cold and detached. Abraxas looked at the veranda behind Viper, the one where he first felt someone else’s lips on him. It had him walking on air for weeks after, knowing that the beautiful jewel of District One fancied him. 

It was a pure memory, one that Abraxas would cherish for the rest of his life. 

“Forgive me, but you don’t seem well,” Viper said, nearly bringing a smile to Abraxas’s face. 

Abraxas lowered his arms slowly, letting her hand slip from where it should have been for the rest of their lives. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing tall and aloof. 

“The time I’ve spent with you has been wonderful,” Abraxas said, meaningless words he rehearsed through the night. “However, our paths have diverged now and I think it’s best we leave this relationship behind us.” 

“Braxy?” Viper’s head tilted, her golden hair brushed her cheek as she frowned at him. “This - this doesn’t sound like you,” she said. 

Abraxas wouldn’t meet her eyes, it was easier to look past her. “It is me.” 

Viper studied him, though Abraxas was safe in knowing that his jewel would never guess at something so dirty, so horrid. Viper wouldn’t see the worst in him, not immediately. 

“Something happened,” she said slowly, reaching out for him. “Something outside of the arena?”

Abraxas jerked his arm away and couldn’t help but let his eyes fly to hers, just in time to see them widen in surprise, then narrow in thought. There were many things Abraxas wanted to say, so many things, but he couldn’t. Abraxas only stepped backward, out of her reach, and shook his head softly. 

“You deserve better,” he told her. “And you’ll find it.”

“Maybe.” Viper’s chin wobbled and her eyes shined like glass. “But I choose you.”

In another life, Abraxas would have dropped to one knee and proposed marriage to the girl he loved above all others. In another life, it would be a diamond ring in his hands and words of love on his tongue. 

“You chose wrong,” he told her. 

“How can love be wrong?” she asked, Abraxas didn’t have a response. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping away further. “Be happy, Viper.” 

Be safe. Be safe away from Abraxas, away from the danger he brought her when he only ever wanted to give her peace. 

The Victory Tour started the second that Abraxas stepped on the train and met his handler and stylist. Arcturus Black, a district peacekeeper who told Abraxas that he was the man Dumbledore trusted with ‘unpleasant tasks’. His wife, Selene, told him that she would be handling his makeup and attire for each speech he gave. 

Abraxas nodded briefly before sitting at the table beside the window, gazing out at his family on the platform. They couldn’t see him, the windows were tinted darkly, but Abraxas saw the unhappy curve to his father’s shoulders, the guileless smiles on his mother and sister’s faces. 

As the train slowly began chugging away, Abraxas saw Viper running up the stairs to the platform, heartbreakingly lovely in her fire. Then just heartbreaking as she saw that he was gone. 

Father went to her and Abraxas watched them speak until the train picked up speed and Abraxas longed to have been left behind, at home with his family. Maybe before then, back to the arena… Abraxas didn’t know precisely what he longed for, but he knew it wasn’t to be on the train. 

Arcturus joined him at the table after a fashion. He stood tall and imposing with hair as black as his eyes were dark. Abraxas traced the wooden grain of the table while his stomach sank. 

“‘Angel’.” Arcturus scoffed at him and Abraxas lifted the corner of his lips in a sardonic grin. It was ironic, wasn’t it? There was nothing holy about him, no pearly gates that would open for him. 

“Come on then.” Arcturus grabbed Abraxas by the shirt collar and lifted him to his feet with an iron grip. “Let’s see if you’re as angelic as they say.”

Abraxas went still, frozen with fear, and he looked for the man’s wife who surely - surely…

Arcturus shoved Abraxas down a hall and when he passed Selene, she looked away from him. As if by not looking she could feign that it wasn’t happening. 

How could Abraxas blame her when he kept his own eyes closed? How could he blame her when he only opened them when Arcturus demanded it in a growled threat? 

Arcturus was a brute with sick inclinations. If Abraxas stayed silent, he stroked him until he cried. When he cried, he hit him over and over until Abraxas didn’t know where he was or who the enemy had become. 

After he finished, Abraxas had to clean himself for dinner. There were platters of food that Abraxas couldn’t possibly eat, but instead looked at while Arcturus and Selene discussed their lives, their children. 

Abraxas shouldn’t know that the man who used Abraxas’s own blood as lubricant also played kickball with his sons. Abraxas didn’t want to wonder about the safety of the children, he didn’t want to wonder if they were safe in their home. 

The first speech Abraxas gave in District Two didn’t seem real, it had a hazy quality to it that had him questioning if he had truly survived the Hunger Games or not. The faces blurred as Abraxas shared his message of triumph, of victory. 

Of the honor of being a Victor. 

Abraxas drifted through the tour, through the time spent beneath Arcturus, through the moments he was pushed on a stage. Selene hid the evidence of sleepless nights with makeup, she hid the evidence of her husband’s cruelty with clothes. 

When Abraxas accepted her offers of liquor and clear vials meant to relax him, she hid that evidence as well. 

“He did that,” Abraxas said one day as Selene hid the bite marks on his neck. Abraxas was drunk, disgustingly drunk, and her hands shook as she dabbed the makeup on him. “Your husband did that,” he said again, wanting to be sure she understood. 

Selene’s lips flattened and her grey eyes shuttered against the emotion that had tried to break through. “Better you than me,” she whispered harshly. 

Yes, better Abraxas than her. Better Abraxas who didn’t know what killing his friend would truly earn him. Better that Abraxas was the one who suffered, who hadn’t been prepared for life after the arena. 

Better him than Lucretia, Viper, Celeste. 

The tour lasted nearly two weeks before Abraxas gave a speech in District Twelve. Each speech was meant to be followed by a dinner with the citizens of importance in that district. Abraxas sat through ten of them, Twelve should have been his eleventh. 

Abraxas was having his hand shook by the mayor, by the peacekeepers, by the family of the boy he killed. It was all a part of the new arena, being around so many while his mind drifted far away. 

Then Arcturus was there and he had his hand on Abraxas’s back while he made apologies, said something about an emergency with Abraxas‘s family. Abraxas should have been more concerned, he should have been frightened. As it was, he only stumbled as he was pushed back on the train. 

“What…?” Abraxas hit the floor and he didn’t wince, soreness couldn’t break through the liquor he consumed. Abraxas blinked up at Arcturus and saw the disgust on his face. 

He thought Abraxas was disgusting? It was so ironic that a bubbling laugh spilled from Abraxas. He tried to clamp his lips shut, he tried to remind himself that Arcturus could - could…

What would he do? Rape him?

Abraxas laughed again at the thought, high-pitched and hysterical. 

What could anyone do? Put a weapon in his hands, tell him to kill children? Would they put a weapon against his throat, take his life? They couldn’t, not when the Angel of Panem was so well liked, so very well liked. 

Abraxas laughed until something inside of him snapped and tears streamed as freely as his laughter did. Abraxas laughed while Arcturus screamed at him and he laughed until a heavy boot kicked him in the head and everything went so blissfully, peacefully, black. 

And when he woke next, they were nearly to District One where something happened with Abraxas’s family. Whatever it was, it was enough to end the tour early, saving Abraxas from having to make an appearance in the Capitol. He tried to not be grateful, but he was grateful all the same. 

Abraxas was directed not to his home, but to the Flint Manor. His walk was pained, agony had him clenching his teeth together to keep from making any noise, and he feared the worst. Abraxas had performed, he did. Every single time he performed. 

They had no reason to hurt Viper, there wasn’t a cause for her family to be in harm's way either. 

An avox opened the door for Abraxas and he was taken to the sitting room where his parents stood alongside Mister and Mrs Flint. Abraxas looked at the dark glares on the Flint’s faces, the unhappy one on his mother’s, then —

“Abraxas!” Viper stepped between their parents and she walked directly to him, taking his hands and smiling. Abraxas was confused - she was… she was fine. Was it Lucretia…?

“I’ll assume you know why you’re here,” Mr Flint said, his voice harsh. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

… thank you?

Abraxas didn’t have any particular feeling toward Viper’s father before then. He was one of the most respected citizens in the district, he attended dinners at the Capitol, he supplied the President himself with jewels. Abraxas respected him, avoided him, and was achingly grateful for him then. 

Abraxas was also confused and looked at Father helplessly, unable to so much as voice his confusion. 

“Your mother and I are disappointed,” Father said, his eyes not seeming to be disappointed at all. Father looked… he was grim, there were shadows in his eyes as he took in the man his son had become but he wasn’t disappointed. “We understand that you are a man now, but there are steps of tradition that a Malfoy must always follow.”

Abraxas swallowed with uncertainty, his voice was stolen again by the confusion that had his hands trembling. He made to clasp them behind his back, only for Viper to take them in her hands as she smiled up at him. 

“I have news, Braxy,” she said calmly, her eyes unwavering as they bore into Abraxas’s. It was as if she wanted something from him, Abraxas couldn’t imagine what it was. 

“She’s with child,” Mrs Flint said, short and furious. “Your child, Abraxas.”

The words struck Abraxas like a slap to the face and he started to pull away, to deny it. It - that wasn’t possible. 

It wasn’t… it could have been, in another life, but Abraxas didn’t - how could he have…? 

Viper’s hands tightened on his, steady and certain, and she would surely know it wasn’t Abraxas’s baby, so her smile made no sense. 

Mr Flint’s voice cut through the silence, he aimed his words at Father. “Your son will do the right thing,” he said sharply. “He will not deflower my daughter then leave her to the shame of a bastard child.”

“I understand,” Father said, tilting his head respectfully. “Unfortunately, Abraxas has duties within the Capitol that he must fulfil as a victor. Perhaps though Viper could go with him?”

“Do you think I care about his TOURS?!” Mr Flint screamed, the tone rocking through Abraxas. “I WILL CONTACT THE PRESIDENT AND TELL HIM THAT THEIR ANGEL HAS RESPONSIBILITIES! MY FAMILY WILL NOT BE SHAMED BY THIS!” 

“Oh, Abraxas.” Mother sniffled and was the only one of Abraxas’s parents to seem disappointed. “You could have done so well in the Capitol.”

Abraxas’s mouth opened, closed. There was a weight on his chest, and then… and then it disappeared. 

There was only one man in the district with the social capital to pull Abraxas out of the spotlight and return him to his district. And Abraxas apparently impregnated his daughter. 

Abraxas’s lungs filled for the first time with the sweet perfume of his jewel, with the promise not of freedom - but of a performance he could live with. 

Viper wasn’t denying anything, she was there by his side, holding his hands, offering him a gift he could never repay. 

“I understand, sir,” Abraxas said politely, hanging his head slightly in abashment. “Mother, Father, I’m sorry for dishonoring you and our family and - and if it pleases you, I would like permission to marry Viper Flint so the child - our child - comes in the world properly.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Father said. 

“Oh, Abraxas!” Viper threw her arms around Abraxas in a hug, a warm embrace that he felt himself melting in. Viper’s lips didn’t touch him, but her words were whispered in his ear, just for him. “Is this what you want?”

Did Abraxas want a forced marriage where he would give another man’s child his name? Did Abraxas want to move his jewel into his home and watch her glow with pregnancy?

In another life, it would have been different. In another life, Abraxas would be in the Capitol, sold off to mutts again and again. 

Viper gave him a new script to follow, a new performance to give. She also gave him the option to deny it though and it made all the difference. 

Abraxas dipped his head to Viper’s shoulder and nodded his head, only for her to feel. “I do,” he breathed against her. With his eyes closed tightly, the stinging sensation burning them wasn’t fear, but gratitude. “I do.”

They were words he repeated less than a month later, with Viper glowing in a white gown and Lucretia behind her. Father stood behind Abraxas and it was a small ceremony, private. They shared their vows, their promises for the future. 

Viper’s father paid a dowry to Abraxas, one he didn’t ask for or need. Lucretia purchased a beautiful blanket for their child. A gift was delivered from the Capitol, a white cake with a short card of congratulations to the Angel of Panem. Abraxas had been shaken by the gift, then distracted when his wife presented him with a gift she made herself: a thick pair of socks, one blue and one green. 

“Maybe I won’t knit for our child,” Viper laughed, affection softening every look they shared that day. Lucretia made a joke about Viper marrying a victor and Abraxas didn’t even wince. 

The ring on Abraxas’s finger felt like a reprieve. 

Viper moved in the manor in Victor’s Village and said nothing when Abraxas had a second bed added to the room they shared. They spent their wedding night hand-clasped and silent, only two children who made their life enough. 

Abraxas didn’t ask about the child, he didn’t want to know, until he woke from a nightmare one night, imagining his child being taken by the Capitol, shipped away as a pretender to the Malfoy name. Viper slid in his bed and wrapped her arms around Abraxas, soothing him while he trembled. 

“The child…” Abraxas had to breathe, to find a way to warn Viper of what would happen. “He’ll know, Viper. And he’ll - he’ll punish us all.”

Viper continued stroking Abraxas’s hair, her fingers the softest touch he had ever known. 

“Nobody will ever know,” she said, quiet and confident. 

Abraxas’s breath stuttered and he rolled so he could look up at her, at his wife, his jewel. “How?” he asked, not a confrontation, but desperation. It had been such a clean out that Abraxas didn’t question it, he didn’t think about it. Abraxas didn’t know how it came to be, but it felt like the first gift he had truly been given in so long. 

But if President Dumbledore discovered he had been duped, Abraxas would never leave the arena he would put him in. 

“The child will… they will look like you,” Viper whispered. “They will resemble you so strongly, Braxy, that not a single soul will ever question it.”

Abraxas looked at Viper, at her strength, her confidence. Abraxas didn’t let his mind drift to the day he left for the Victory Tour or the conversation his jewel had with his father. There was no shame in Viper’s eyes, only a fierce kind of love that would sacrifice oneself for another. 

Abraxas curled on his side, he pulled Viper down so that he could hold her in his arms, as she did so often for him. 

“Thank you,” he said, so raw inside that he thought he might never heal. Abraxas put his lips on her head and breathed in slowly, “Thank you.”

Viper was there, stronger and more selfless than anyone Abraxas had ever known. “I will always protect you.” 

And Abraxas would protect her… her and their child. And maybe… maybe Abraxas could do for others what Viper did for him: offer them some protection. 

If he couldn’t save them, he could protect them in his own way. 

For months, Abraxas worked on his project. The dowry from Mr Flint was spent purchasing a building across from the Academy, one that shared the courtyard with the school, the fountain divided the two different academies. 

Father arrived one evening to help him build the shelves, the racks that would hold swords and tridents, bows and knives. They hadn’t talked much, nothing beyond light conversation at the dinner table. There was tension between them, tension of all the things they didn’t discuss. 

The two of them finished the racks and Father lit a cigar while Abraxas began to hang the weapons. They were expensive, but it would be worth it. When the children of their district weren’t lambs to be slaughtered in any arena, it would be worth it. 

“Are you going to train them all? Tell them about the honor in victory?” Father asked. 

“No.” Abraxas placed a bow on a rack, a gleaming weapon that would save a child’s life one day. “I’m going to tell them about the honor in survival, in protecting themselves.” 

“Abraxas…” Father reached for him haltingly, slow enough to Abraxas didn’t twitch, he didn’t shrink away. Father gripped his arm, his face solemn and lined deeply. “I should have protected you.”

Abraxas’s eyebrows twitched at the guilt on his father’s face, the deep well of sorrow in his eyes. Abraxas thought he knew… he didn’t think it was a thing that needed to be said. 

“You saved me,” Abraxas said lowly, earnestly. He grabbed his father’s hand and wouldn’t look away, not then. “You pulled me from their arena.”

And Abraxas Malfoy, with his academy for students who would one day face a reaping, couldn’t keep them from the arena, but he could prepare them for it. Abraxas would prepare them and would build them up, strengthen them. Never again would a child from District One go to the Capitol unaware of what it meant to be a victor. 

Never again would a child from District One misunderstand the honor that was bestowed with the crown. 

Chapter Text

Another door, another neighbor who needed to sign the petition. 

Minerva McGonagall straightened her jumper and pasted a serious look on her face before the door was opened by another woman looking harried to see her. 

“Good evening,” Minerva said politely. “My name is Minerva Mc—”

“I know you,” the woman sighed, rudely. “What d’you want now?”

“Ahem.” Minerva cleared her throat and straightened up, politely not lecturing the woman on her horrid manners. “As I was saying, my name is Minerva McGonagall and I would like it if you would take a look at my petition and sign it.”

Minerva offered her the clipboard and paper attached to it, everything was explained there. It was all carefully penned, neatly laid out so there was no arguing against her. The woman read it and Minerva saw her eyebrows fly up when she reached Minerva’s request. 

“You’re joking,” she said. The woman narrowed her eyes at Minerva and seemed needlessly aggravated. “It’s not funny.”

“It isn’t a joke,” Minerva said primly. “I would appreciate your signature as proof of your upcoming support.”

“You suicidal?” 

“I am not.”

The woman could stare down Minerva all she wanted, she wasn’t the first to do so and she likely wouldn’t be the last. 

“Fine.” The woman scrawled her signature on the sheet before thrusting the clipboard back to Minerva. “Your funeral, girl.”

The door was slammed in Minerva’s face and when she looked down at her clipboard, she saw that she had over two hundred signatures. Each signature represented an adult within their district who agreed to submit Minerva McGonagall’s name in the upcoming reaping. 

Two hundred wasn’t anywhere near the majority of their Districy, but Minerva assumed most people would vote for a child at random, meaning the boy who would chosen would probably have less than ten votes. Two hundred votes would be a sure thing. 

Minerva competing in the Hunger Games would be a sure thing. 

It started two months ago with the announcement of the upcoming Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games. President Dumbledore stood on the stage and opened a box filled with cards - with dozens and dozens of cards. 

Twelve cards represented three hundred years. Twelve cards represented 6,900 children slaughtered. And there were dozens inside of the box. 

Minerva bubbled with rage as President Dumbledore addressed the nation and told them all that in honor of the upcoming Quarter Quell, there would be a twist to the usual games. 

“Our first Quarter Quell!” Dumbledore pulled the card and opened the flap slowly, pulling out a simple sheet of paper. “To remind the districts that it was their betrayal that set the Hunger Games in motion, the tributes for the twenty-fifth Hunger Games will be chosen by the adult citizens in their district.”

“Garbage!” Minerva’s father threw a tomato at their screen, coating the President’s slimy face in red juice. “Can you believe this, Minnie? Can you? He wants us to choose which poor kids get sent to the slaughterhouse?”

Minerva looked in the cold eyes of the President and she could believe it. Minerva could believe that he would happily sit back and let hundreds and hundreds of years of games pass by, eternally punishing the districts for a war they already lost. 

There was nobody that Minerva wanted to see gone from the world more than President Dumbledore. 

So when Dad got her a clipboard for her thirteenth birthday, Minerva put it to good use. 

After all, she couldn’t assassinate the President unless she had an audience with him. 

Minerva spent two more hours collecting signatures just to be sure that there were plenty of people who knew her name. Some of them tried to talk Minerva out of it, but they only saw a skinny thirteen year old. And it wasn’t like Minerva could go around shouting about her plans, could she?

When dinner time grew near, Minerva hurried home to finish the beans and cornbread. It was one of her and her dad’s favorite meals and Dad was going to need a hearty dinner for when she broke the news to him. It was surprising that nobody told him yet, but Minerva assumed nobody was brave enough to look in her dad’s eyes and tell him they were voting for his daughter to be reaped. 

Minerva fired up the stove for dinner then swapped her clipboard and petition for the schedule she made for herself. If she wanted to survive the arena, she was going to need to be strong, fast, likable. 

Historically, Minerva was not exactly ‘likable’. But that was because most people were fools and she suffered for it. 

Minerva set a timer, kneeled down, her eyes on the mile marker flag she set up months ago. 

Three, two, one…

Minerva started running, determined to break her own time. She rehearsed as she ran, keeping a sweet smile on her face…

“Hello, my name is Minerva McGonagall. I am thirteen years old. I live in District Ten and I’m so happy to be here.”

No, that was no good. How could that possibly be memorable?

“Hello, my name is Minerva McGonagall. I am thirteen years old and I live in District Ten. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of this day.”

Unless the audience saw the same thing her neighbors did and mocked her….

“Hello, my name is Minerva McGonagall. I am thirteen years old and I live in District Ten. I volunteered to be here so I can kill the president.”

Minerva laughed at herself a little breathlessly as she touched the flag and ran back. All that would guarantee would be Minerva getting shot on screen. It was so hard to find a way to be memorable though. She wasn’t some beauty queen, she wasn’t big and strong. She didn’t know how to make jokes…

There had to be an angle that would work for her, she just knew it. If there was an angle she would find it. Just as she finally broke the thirteen minute mark for a two mile race. 

Maybe that would be her angle:

“My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am thirteen years old and I live in District Ten. I will win the Hunger Games because I say so.”

Because never had she put her mind to something and failed. 

By the time Dad returned from the slaughterhouse he worked at, Minerva finished her afternoon exercises and had dinner ready to serve. Dad smiled tiredly as he dropped in his seat and Minerva began serving them both. 

“What would I do without you, Minnie?” he asked. “Old man Zabini was grumbling today about his girl and how she forgot to feed their dogs again and I told him that you were ten times as responsible as that girl.” 

“I had a good role model,” Minerva said fondly. “Maybe Zabini should spend less time at the pub.”

Dad roared with laughter, the deep belly laugh that he had sometimes. It was the one that made him look so much younger, the one that made Minerva wonder why on earth her mother had ever left him. 

Hamish McGonagall was handsome, hard working, kind. There were plenty of women who probably would have been happy to be the stepmom to the baby left on his doorstep, but Dad did it alone. It meant Minerva didn’t have any siblings, like so many of the other kids in the district had. But Dad said that Minerva was the only lady he needed in his life. 

Minerva suddenly wished he had someone else around, anyone to help him after she left for the Hunger Games. She was going to win, but she didn’t think that she would make it back to Ten either way. 

One of the kittens, Snowball, meowed at Minerva’s ankles and she reached down to pet her while she steeled herself to explain to Dad what would happen the next day. 

“Dad?” Minerva made herself sit up tall and look her dad in the eyes. Hamish did not raise a coward, even if Minerva suddenly had no appetite for the bean soup and the cornbread sat like a brick in her stomach. 

“Hm?” Dad smiled across the table at her and Minerva took in his plaid shirt, his tired eyes from long days at work. Minerva took a final snapshot of her dad looking relaxed and peaceful, then she broke it. 

“I’m going to be part of the Quarter Quell.”

Dad froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. The spoon fell back in the bowl with a quiet clatter that echoed in their small cottage. 

“What?” he asked, his voice cracking like a whip. 

Minerva swallowed hard and raised her chin. “I’m going to be one of the tributes chosen tomorrow.”

“No.” Dad stood so quickly that his chair toppled backwards. “Don’t joke like that, Minerva,” he said sternly. “Don’t you ever joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.” Minerva lifted Snowball in her lap, petting her fur to keep herself steady as she looked at her dad. “I’ve been going door-to-door since the announcement to collect signatures. I have over two hundred of them.”

Dad’s mouth opened and closed, open then closed. He blinked hard and fast as he tried to find the words. “You…” Dad pushed his hair back and his fingers wrapped around the greying hair just as Minerva’s did in Snowball’s fur. “You asked people to send you? My God, Minerva! You’re a child! YOU ARE MY CHILD!” 

Minerva’s chest ached. They never fought. And Dad wasn’t angry, he was scared. “I’m thirteen,” she reminded him. “I’m old enough to go, I’m old enough to win. I’m old enough to take a stand, Dad. You have to understand.” 

“Take a stand?” Dad slammed his hand on the table, scaring Snowball away. “Minerva McGonagall, you can’t ’take a stand’ against the Capitol with - with a clipboard and some grit! This isn’t bravery, it’s suicide!”

“No it isn’t!” Minerva stood up and she slapped her hand on the table too because Dad knew someone had to do something. She pointed at the television behind her and raised her voice. “They are going to kill THOUSANDS, Dad! They’ve already killed 552 kids! INNOCENT KIDS! I will win and I will stop them!” 

Dad stared at her with his chest heaving and his face red. He looked so old then, so terribly old. 

But there were thousands of lives at stake. 

“I won’t let you go,” Dad said raspily. “I won’t.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Minerva said, the blunt and unkind truth. “Tomorrow they’re going to say my name and I’m going to go. I - I’m sorry, Dad.”

She wasn’t sorry for what she was going to do, she was sorry that the last night she had at home with her dad was spent with them having a screaming fight. 

Minerva crept around the table and she didn’t really - they didn’t — Minerva kind of twitched her arms at her side, unsure how to ask for what she wanted. Dad knew though, he always knew what to do with his willful, stubborn, proud daughter. 

“I’m going to stop them,” Minerva swore as her dad held on her and she was wrapped up in his warmth and his smell. 

“If anyone could… it would be my girl.” Dad pressed his lips against the top of Minerva’s head and she almost missed his next words, “My stubborn, stubborn girl.”

Minerva laid in bed that night and pretended she couldn’t hear her dad crying as she rehearsed again with a forced smile and hushed whisper. 

“My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am thirteen years old and I live in District Ten. I am going to be your next victor.”

And… she’d come up with something memorable, hopefully. 

Minerva dressed carefully the next morning, knowing it would be her first impression on the people who might choose to sponsor her. There was no reason to try to look fancy, but strong would be acceptable. 

Dad had given her several of his old flannels, he told her to use them for scraps and rags, but Minerva saved the ones she liked. There was a red and gold one that was only a little too big on her, it was easy enough to tuck into her jeans and top off with a neat bun. 

Minerva grabbed her clipboard, pulled out the list of reminders she made, and pinned it to the fridge with a note for Dad to hold on to. Dad already left, everyone had to work the morning shift since they would be off the rest of the day for the reaping. The cats food and water dishes were filled, the ham bone was tossed out back for the dogs. Minerva looked at the barn and considered getting in one more training session… no, best not to be sweaty when potential sponsors saw her. 

Their house was quiet, most of the animals were still sleeping, and Minerva walked through it slowly, committing every detail to memory. She would probably be executed after killing the President, but it would be an acceptable death. Especially if the next president saw that there were consequences for his actions. 

Killing thousands of children was not a choice that carried no consequences. School would remind the districts of their history and the war, forcing children to kill each other was a sick punishment. It didn’t even punish the rebels, it punished children. 

Five hundred and fifty two children had already died. Twenty-three more were going to. 

And then President Dumbledore would. 

Minerva left her house with a nostalgic twinge in her chest; not hard enough to deter her, but enough that she wasn’t exactly skipping on her way to the town square. Other kids in her neighborhood were walking too and they looked so scared, Minerva couldn’t stand it. 

“What if it’s me?” a little girl with pigtails pulled on her brother’s shirt. “I don’t wanna die.”

“It won’t be you,” Minerva told her, interrupting only because the girl looked freshly eleven and had tears in her eyes. Minerva smiled at her kindly. “You’ll be safe.”

“How do you know?” the brother asked. He had a name, Minerva couldn’t remember it. And he only gave her such a rude look because he once asked her to go to a school dance together and Minerva told him no. 

She had been polite about it though. 

“Because I’m going,” Minerva told them. She showed them her clipboard with the pages and pages of signatures. “I’ve asked people to choose me. I think that with over two hundred votes that I’ll certainly be the female tribute.” 

“You want to go?” The girl scrunched her nose up at Minerva. “Wow. You really are crazy.”

… that… why would she…?

“No, you’re right, it’s crazy,” Minerva sniffed. “I’ll tell everyone to choose you instead.”

The girl wailed and Minerva smiled sweetly at the boy before skipping ahead of them. It was mean, but it would only be mean until the girl heard Minerva’s name get announced. And maybe she would remember to not call people crazy when they weren’t even a little bit crazy. 

Well, maybe a little bit. But Minerva was crazy with a purpose. 

Town Square was already packed with people and Minerva knew she wouldn’t be able to find her dad in the crowd, they would have a chance after the reaping for a final goodbye. Instead, Minerva gave her name to the peacekeeper manning the sign in table and was pointed to the section of girls her age. 

There must have been some kids whose parents told them about Minerva’s petition because she received a lot of looks. One girl actually hugged her and cried while she thanked her over and over. Minerva wasn’t exactly doing it just for her, but she still patted her back nicely and told her she was welcome. 

Right at the stroke of nine, a man took the stage and smiled out at them all as he raised an envelope in his hands. 

“Hello, District Ten!” he cried merrily. “I’d like to welcome you all to the beginning of the TWENTY-FIFTH HUNGER GAMES!”

There were a few people who clapped, Minerva certainly didn’t. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders, ready to hear her name. 

“In this envelope I have the name of one lucky girl and boy!” he went on, beaming at them all like a moron. “These children will have been selected by their district to represent them! Isn’t it exciting?”

Oh, God. Maybe Minerva would assassinate him too, just for being such a condescending and pompous jerk. 

No. 

That was cruel. Minerva wasn’t a monster, she didn’t hurt people for no reason. 

Unlike the President. 

“Drumroll please!” The man opened the envelope slowly, drawing it out. “And the female tribute for District Ten is… Men… Miner-val McMan-goal?”

Oh, she was going to kill him. 

“It’s Minerva McGonagall, actually,” she said, stepping forward with the smile she practiced for weeks. Minerva made her way to the path between the girls and boys unencumbered by anyone and she knew the cameras could see her. It was on the tip of her tongue to comment on the man’s reading comprehension, but that might not win her any sponsors. 

“Don’t worry,” Minerva walked confidently, her head high, “you’ll hear it again when I’m announced as the victor for this year.” 

There was a ripple of laughter behind her and Minerva only gave the man a stink eye when she was sure the cameras couldn’t see her. Honestly though, he could have really ruined everything with his blunder if Minerva didn’t find a quick way to save it. 

Then she turned to the crowd and smiled brightly and waved her hand. 

“Thank you to everyone who chose me,” she said clearly, letting her voice carry. “I’m so honored to ensure that the first Quarter Quell Victor is from our district!” 

They cheered. They all actually cheered for her and Minerva’s heart swelled with pride. Minerva found her dad in a mixture with other men from his work and his slow clap with his eyes locked on her meant more than any words ever could. 

It wasn’t joy, but acceptance. 

Dad thought she was reckless and ridiculous and he would support her anyway. 

Through the applause, startling the smile off Minerva, a woman screamed, heart-achingly high pitched, “NOO!”

It was a desperate sound, horrible in its rawness. Minerva searched for the one who made it and tried to not look too confused when she found her. At the back of the crowd, a space around her as she sank to her knees, was a woman. 

A woman who sobbed brokenly and Minerva… Minerva had never met in her life. Something uneasy gnawed at her as she took in the woman’s hair, her build…

“Alright! Now there’s some energy!” The Capitol man bumped Minerva out of the center of the stage with his hip and flapped the card around again. Minerva was distracted by the woman, all the way until she heard who would be going to the Capitol with her…

“FILIUS FLITWICK!”

Minerva had two thoughts so closely made that she didn’t know precisely which came first:

How dare he act like Minerva’s name was too difficult to pronounce and then said ‘Filius’ just fine? And…

And how could they? How could they??

Filius Flitwick wasn’t just a child, he was a disabled child. Filius was the shortest in their entire class, shorter than every student in the middle school actually. It was a problem he was born with, some sort of genetic anomaly. He - he was harmless, small and kind with a squeaky voice. Filius was someone who should be protected, not pushed in an arena to be killed for entertainment. 

It was horrible, truly horrible. It was worse when Filius finally made it on the stage with his bad leg that dragged when he walked and the first thing he did was smile at Minerva. 

Minerva didn’t relish the idea of killing anyone, though she knew she would have to. But Minerva really didn’t relish the idea of killing Filius. 

So when the camera moved behind Minerva and Filius and no potential sponsors could see her face, Minerva sent the filthiest stink-eye to the crowd that she could. 

Because how could they?!

They didn’t choose someone strong enough to have a chance. They chose someone with no chance at all. 

Not that anyone else from District Ten had a chance at all, since Minerva was planning to win and all. 

As soon as the speech ended, they were ushered off the stage to the train station lobby where Filius was directed to one room and Minerva was sent to another. Dad must have been jogging the whole way because Minerva barely got inside her room before the door was thrown open and Dad was there. 

“My girl.” Dad was choked up and they must have gotten good at hugging from the night before because Minerva didn’t know who moved first or who had their arms more tightly wrapped around the other one. 

“You win, okay?” Dad told her quickly while she smashed her face in his chest. “Don’t - don’t get in your head about it, Minnie. I know… I know you have a thing about helping people, but I am telling you that those other kids? They’re animals, okay? They are dead the second their name got pulled. Just - remember Smokey?”

Vividly. 

Smokey was the horse that Minerva had saved from his horrible owner. The man had been planning to kill him, Minerva stopped him with his shotgun out and convinced him to let her take the horse instead. But Smokey was sick, Dad showed her how he could barely walk, he couldn’t eat, he was in pain. 

Minerva had resented him for it at the time, but Dad made her put Smokey out of his misery. It was the kind thing to do. 

“I remember,” Minerva said. 

“Okay.” Dad loosened his arms, but Minerva wasn’t ready to let go just yet. “I don’t like this,” he told her quietly. “I wish I didn’t raise a brave little lion, but… but you could never have been a sheep.”

“I love you,” Minerva said. “I think you did a - a really good job, Dad, okay? I’ll be fine. I will.”

“Yeah.” Dad pulled away when Minerva found the strength to let go of him and he smiled down at her with wet eyes shining with pride and grief. “I did a damn fine job. You do me a favor, okay?” Dad kneeled down and pulled twine from his pocket with a cattle tag attached. He put it over her head and Minerva saw it was stamped with their last name on it. 

“You make that man see that McGonagalls don’t run from a fight.” 

Minerva watched her dad leave and it was probably the hardest part yet. But she didn’t know that she would have another visitor. 

The woman from the reaping had slid to the back of Minerva’s mind when Filius was chosen. When she walked in the room, Minerva stared at her with narrowed eyes. 

Part of her knew, knew the moment she screamed, who she was. Dad didn’t talk about her, he once told Minerva that he wouldn’t cause her pain for her choice when she had the decency to leave Minerva with her father. 

Minerva never had any desire to meet someone who didn’t want her and in some early stage of her life she decided that she must have died. It made sense when she had been a little girl, and at some point the story she told herself became a truth in her mind. 

“It’s a poor time to choose now to meet me,” Minerva told the woman who gave birth to her as coolly as she could. “Unless you think there’s gold in it, which I assure you there won’t be.”

Even if Minerva thought she would return home and get the monthly stipend victors won, Minerva would never give the woman a single coin. 

The woman looked an irritating amount like Minerva. Tall, high cheekbones, hazel eyes. Their hair had the same mixture of brown and blonde from the sun. The woman had her hair loose in waves, which made Minerva want to tighten her bun even more. 

“You wanted to go,” the woman said to her in a rasping tone. “Why?”

“I’m not sure it’s your business,” Minerva said sweetly. “It’s private, the sort of thing I would only share with my family.”

The woman didn’t react to that, she looked like she expected to hear it with the way she nodded slowly. 

“This was my worst fear,” she said. “As soon as I saw you, I pictured you one day being chosen and - and I couldn’t…”

Clearly, Minerva inherited her father’s strength. 

“There were plenty of moments between then and now that you missed,” Minerva said. “Why are you here now? If this was your worst fear, why are you here?”

If it was her worst fear, why not try and end the Hunger Games? Why was giving up her child easier than fighting for hundreds and thousands of other people’s children?

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “I just… wanted to see you, just once.”

Minerva looked at the woman who birthed her and couldn’t find any feelings for her except for disgust and pity. She was weak, cowardly, and she gave up thirteen years only to see Minerva reaped anyway. 

“Here I am,” Minerva said flatly. 

“Here you are.” The woman stood there for a long minute, staring at Minerva like there might be a quiz on her appearance later. When she shuddered and a tear slipped free, she offered Minerva a sad smile. “I won’t watch, so I suppose this is goodbye. Good luck, Minerva.”

Minerva fisted the tag from her dad tightly while she watched the woman leave. It was pathetic, she was pathetic. And it was a good thing Minerva was going to win because it would be strange to die without even knowing her mother’s name. 

Though, when Minerva asked Filius what he told his parents to make them sob loudly on the platform as they left their home, she supposed it could have been worse. 

“I told them they should kill themselves,” Filius said flatly. 

Minerva had been toying with the idea of having a district alliance, even with the challenges it would bring her, but perhaps Filius was a bit mentally unstable. 

It took them two days to make it to the Capitol. Minerva spent her time on the train practicing for fights, running, and rewatching the reapings so she knew every single opponent there would be in the arena. 

There was a tall boy from One, Lucian, who looked thrilled when he heard his name. A girl from Two, Mitsy, had a similar smirk of satisfaction. The girl from Three was an eyesore just looking at her with her scarves and colorful trinkets, Minerva was pretty sure she would die early. The girl from Nine, Rolanda, seemed tough with sharp eyes and hair buzzed short. 

All in all? Minerva wasn’t concerned. 

The boy from One. The girl from Two. The girl from Nine. They were the only ones that Minerva thought might have any chance in a normal situation, of which it most certainly wasn’t. 

Filius watched the recaps with Minerva, he watched her do her training exercises. They didn’t talk much, not until they arrived in the Capitol and were taken to the Tribute Tower. 

“Wow.” Filius looked impressed with the elevator they were put in that shot upward and took them to the tenth floor. “This is neat.” 

It wasn’t ‘neat’, it was - it was like how the holding pen for the cows had extra fresh hay in it. It was the Capitol giving them a small bit of comfort before killing them off. Which Minerva couldn’t say because she was sure there were cameras and spies everywhere. 

“It is,” she said mildly. They continued to rise and Filius looked up at her. 

“I know that it’s going to change when we go in the arena… but until then, could we - I don’t know, maybe be friends?” he asked. “It would be nice to have a friend here, while I can.”

Minerva sighed and felt bad when she looked at Filius. They were friendly, at home. There was no reason it needed to change. Even if Filius had said some strange things before, he was a child and he was scared. Minerva was the only part left of home for him. 

“Of course we’re friends,” she told him. “Until the Games officially start, we’re friends.” 

“Because that’s when I’m going to kill you.”

Minerva wasn’t scared, but she did blink a couple of times at the very nonchalant way Filius was apparently plotting her death. Then he grinned and started chuckling at whatever look she must have had. 

“I would kill you much sooner than you could kill me,” Minerva sniffed, grinning despite herself at Filius’s ridiculousness. 

“I don’t think so,” he said seriously. “I’ve got an advantage. If you have to look down to see me, I can sneak up on you.”

“I could outrun you.”

“Unless I blow up your knees and then we’re both crippled.” 

What a morbid sense of humor. Perhaps you never really knew someone until they were days away from death. Or maybe, as she originally thought, Filius wasn’t well in the head. 

There were two people waiting for them when Minerva and Filius arrived on the floor of the tower designated for tributes. One of them Minerva knew, she used to be Minerva’s idol. The other was some guy. 

“Hello.” The woman stepped forward, Artemisia Lufkin, the first ever female Victor. Minerva was too young to remember her games, they happened the year she was three, but Minerva saw the recaps as she grew up and she thought Artemisia was a warrior, a fighter, someone who knew girls could do anything boys could do. 

But she definitely didn’t have breasts the size of watermelons on her chests when she won the tenth Hunger Games. 

There were plenty of victors who had strange things done to their bodies after they won and if they wanted to look like freaks, fine. It just felt insulting to all female tributes that the first female victor would do something as ridiculous as have overgrown breasts attached to her chest to weigh her down forever. 

“My name is Artemisia, I am also from District Ten,” she said. “During this next week, I will be your mentor. I will help you come up with a strategy for the arena, an angle for interviews, and I will answer any questions you may have about the arena. This year, in honor of the Quarter Quell, the Capitol has decided to include three days of training for you. At the end of your third day, you will be evaluated privately and given a public score. This score impacts betting odds and sponsorships. Do you have any questions about this?”

“What kind of training?” Minerva asked with her hand raised. “Will it be combat or physical training?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Will we be learning about the environment we’re being sent to?”

“No idea.”

“What exactly happens during a private evaluation?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

Minerva scowled at the decidedly unhelpful woman. “So what questions can you answer?”

“The parade is at eight,” Artemisia said. “You will be in a costume decided by your stylist. Allow me to introduce the stylist for District Ten, Aberforth Dumbledore.”

Minerva’s eyebrows flew high on her forehead when the man stepped forward and raised his hand awkwardly. She didn’t see the connection until Artemisia said his name, but that was the President’s brother. 

As in: that was the brother of the man Minerva was planning to assassinate. 

“Hello,” Aberforth said quietly. He wasn’t looking directly at them and if it was anyone else Minerva would assume they were a snob, but there was something… skittish about Aberforth. He certainly didn’t stand as confidently as his brother. 

“Have you already chosen our costumes?” Minerva asked immediately. District Ten always had the worst costumes. Usually their tributes were in cow print or pig noses for the livestock they were known for. The year before the tributes had tails attached to their bottoms. 

“Not yet,” Aberforth said in the softest voice Minerva ever heard from a man. “I wanted to meet you first.”

Oh? Minerva raised an eyebrow. “And now that you have?”

Aberforth looked at her then, a quick flick of his eyes, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips when he looked back down at the ground. 

“Now I have the perfect costume,” he said, shrugging his shoulders up. “Do you like cats?”

Honestly? Yes. Minerva actually loved cats and she surprisingly loved the costume that Aberforth Dumbledore put her in. 

“Ooh, scary!” 

The duo from twelve, Minerva couldn’t remember their names, stopped by the chariot that Minerva and Filius were in on the night of the parade. Filius puffed up proudly at the compliment, though Minerva was busy looking at the tired coal miner outfit the other two wore. 

“Do you have lions in Ten?” the girl asked Minerva. “All we have are goats.”

“Oh, yeah,” Minerva lied. “And they look like - well, Filius, why don’t you show them?”

Filius huffed, probably because Minerva put him on the spot. He still kind of bared his teeth and made claws with his hands as he growled. It was too much, Minerva barely kept from busting up in laughter over his attempt to mimic a lion. 

“N- nice,” the boy said. 

“It’s way better than our costumes,” the girl huffed, pulling at the straps of her overalls. “Who is going to remember little old me in this costume in the very back? Nobody.”

“Do something memorable,” Minerva suggested unthinkingly.

“Like what?”

“Like… throw your hat at someone, start a fight, curse really loud.” Minerva tapped her chin with the fake claws Aberforth had given her. “You could take the costume off and start singing. If you do the anthem, they probably won’t refuse to show you on the screens.”

The girl giggled a little, like she thought Minerva was joking, and was quick to pull the boy away back to their chariot.

“You’re not going to get naked and sing, are you?” Filius asked nervously. 

Minerva shrugged and grasped the handles of the chariot as the doors opened and the first chariot pulled out. If she thought it would get her sponsors? Absolutely she would. Minerva wasn’t there to play it safe - she had to be memorable from the start. 

And standing straight, smiling with as many teeth showing as she could manage, and making her waves half-growled swipes with the fake claws was plenty memorable. Though, all Minerva remembered that night when she laid in bed and held the fake mane from her costume in her hands, petting it like one of her cats back home, were the cold blue eyes of the President when she saw him in person for the first time. 

The cameras didn't show it at home on the televisions, but President Dumbledore had a scar on his cheek. Minerva wondered who gave it to him and wondered whose footsteps she was following in. 

Not that it mattered, since they failed where Minerva would succeed, but it was comforting knowing someone somewhere had faced the same enemy she did.

Training was the perfect time for Minerva to begin making carefully selected friends. There were plenty of reasons for and against creating alliances, but if it came down to it: Minerva was probably the fastest tribute there and she would run if things got dicey. The pair from Twelve, who Minerva learned were named Poppy and Quirinius, seemed interested in being allies. Minerva didn’t think much of them, until she saw Quirinius climbing a rope course they had and saw how quickly Poppy could find medicinal herbs in bushes that all looked identical to Minerva. The girl from Three, Sybil, tried to sit near them at lunch and Minerva didn’t have any issues walking away from her. 

If her district and her district partner both abandoned her, Minerva definitely didn’t have a use for her. 

Minerva tried to speak with the tough looking girl from Nine, Rolanda, when they were at a station together that held fake knives they could practice throwing. Minerva introduced herself, Rolanda looked her in the eyes as she threw a knife that stuck in the face of a dummy. So that was definitely not an option.

By the end of their training, Minerva had Filius, Poppy, Quirinius, and the girl from Eleven, Pomona. Five tributes were hardly anything, not when Minerva saw the kids from One and Two had spent all their time together - a clear alliance. It wasn’t nothing though, and Minerva could always take off if she thought they were threatening her chances of winning. 

On their final day before the arena, they started off with their mysterious ‘private sessions’. The tributes were called one at a time from a waiting room then left through the back, making it impossible to ask them what they had to do. Pomona whispered something about having to wrestle a troll-mutt, but that sounded stupid so Minerva ignored her. 

One at a time they were called in… until finally:

“District Ten. Girl.”

It immediately burned Minerva’s skin, being reduced to her district and her gender. There were thousands and thousands of District Ten girls, but there was only one Minerva McGonagall.

Minerva walked in the emptied room with her head high and her face as blank as she could make it. The Head Gamemaker, a wild looking man who seemed much more lion-like than Minerva had even in her costume, waved a lazy hand toward her, told her to ‘impress us if you can’. 

“You first,” Minerva snapped at him, folding her arms over her chest and cocking an eyebrow. When her reply got the attention of a few more of the purple robed gamemakers, Minerva repeated herself. “If you want to impress me, tell me my name.”

A few of them chuckled uncertainly, glancing amongst themselves. The Head Gamemaker drifted closer to the edge of the ropes where they were kept separated from the tributes through their days of training.

“But you don’t hold my life in your hands,” he said - not cruel, but correct. “I have no incentive to impress you.”

Minerva didn't think about it, though maybe she should have. She slapped her hand on the table beside her and grabbed one of the fake knives to throw. It sizzled in the air, sliced right beside the Head Gamemaker’s face, and smacked another of them harmlessly in the chest. It didn’t matter, Minerva had the Head Gamemaker’s attention then.

“Yet,” Minerva corrected him. “I don’t hold your life in my hands yet.”

With her heart racing and her hands beginning to shake from shock at herself, Minerva began storming for the door on the far side of the room, only pausing before leaving.

“Minerva McGonagall,” she told them. “I expect you to remember it.”

Then she left and fled to her floor, not stopping until she was beneath the scratchy blanket that couldn’t offer any real safety.

It was foolish. Brash. Bold.

It would elevate her in the eyes of the Gamemakers or it would cause a horrible death just for Minerva on day one in the arena.

She couldn’t change it, she would have to accept it. 

Aberforth arrived at the same time as lunch with an assistant who he sent off to get Filius ready for his interview. Minerva was sent to shower and changed into a simple slip dress with Aberforth started in on her hair. He didn’t pull her hair, he was… gentle, something Minerva didn’t expect from a Dumbledore. 

“Your brother is the president and you’re the stylist for District Ten,” Minerva said quietly, watching him in the giant mirror in front of her. It was a question, but Aberforth only hummed. “Why?”

“I like it,” Aberforth said, just as quiet as Minerva. His fingers detangled her hair, making it all lay limply on her shoulders. “It’s something I can do.”

For the Capitol? Or for the Districts? 

Minerva wouldn’t have believed that President Dumbledore’s brother could be a sympathizer, but…

“So we look nice for the cameras?” she fished. 

Aberforth shook his head and furrowed his eyebrows, seemingly in thought. He started braiding her hair in rows down her skull, leaving them in long tendrils, when he finally answered her. 

“For you,” he said. “I think - I think everyone should like what they see in a mirror, at least once.” 

Minerva watched him closely, she watched as he moved from section to section, braiding her hair back and making her look fierce. Not once, not a single time, did he ever look at the mirror. 

“Do you like what you see?” she wondered. She didn’t expect an answer, so she wasn’t disappointed when she didn’t get one. Aberforth only worked on her hair until every section was braided and then he moved around so his back was to the mirror and Minerva had to see his eyes while he worked on her face. 

“Am I going to recognize myself after you’re done?” Minerva asked, somehow feeling a twinge of guilt for silencing him. 

Aberforth smiled, just a soft and kind curling of his lips and he tilted her face side to side by her chin. “Maybe. Maybe you’ll be someone else while you’re here.”

“Why would I be someone else?” Minerva asked. That wasn’t good advice, Minerva was herself - why would she ever want to be someone else?

“I do it sometimes.” There was a flash in Aberforth’s eyes, a dark shadow of something that shifted then disappeared. “When I can’t face being Aberforth, I slip away where nothing can touch me.” 

There was something so raw and pained in his voice that Minerva thought of the sick animals that had to be put down, the ones that made Minerva want to cry and kick something at the same time. One girl from District Ten couldn’t help every wounded being on the earth, but maybe she could help the one that brushed powder on her cheeks with sad eyes and a gentle touch. 

Minerva apparently hadn’t used up her quota of bad and impulsive and foolish decisions because she grabbed Aberforth’s wrist, just for a second, and dropped her voice to a whisper as he twitched. 

“When I win, I’ll kill him,” she breathed. Aberforth stared in her eyes with the deep blue to his brother’s ice. Minerva didn’t look away, she held his gaze evenly until Aberforth carefully took his wrist from her grip and resumed applying powder to her face. 

“I don’t want you to die, little lion. But you won’t win either.” 

Minerva wasn’t bothered by Aberforth’s doubt in her. There were plenty of people who doubted her and they would all be wrong in the end. 

Five hundred and fifty-two children were enough. 

Each tribute was given a score that they discovered during their interview, 1-12 on the likelihood that they would survive the games based on their private session. The tributes in One and Two scored between seven and ten, no surprises there. The girl from Three somehow managed a nine, though she didn’t say how. 

Filius fidgeted beside Minerva while they waited their turn. Minerva kept track of which tributes scored well, which didn’t, and glanced at Filius in between districts. It wasn’t until it was merely their turn that she realized what was bothering her. 

Filius was taller. 

“Why…?” Minerva looked down at the shoes he wore, thick heeled boots with extra pieces attached to the bottom, adding maybe four inches to his height. Filius looked where she did and shrugged as a faint bush stained his cheeks. 

“They thought I needed to be taller so I didn’t look so pathetic,” he said. “I mean - they didn’t say that, but I know.”

Appalling. 

“Can you even walk?” Minerva asked. Filius had a bad leg, it was a sickness he was born with. Dad said he was a runt, though Minerva was sure there was a medical term somewhere that wasn’t as demeaning. 

“Not really.” 

The girl from Nine was finishing up and someone snapped for Filius to be ready. 

“I hope you win,” Filius said suddenly, grabbing Minerva’s hands and squeezing them tightly. Minerva was caught off guard by her smallest and strangest ally with his sudden surge of intensity and she didn’t know what to say - then she didn’t have time to say anything before Filius’s name was called and he tottered away on heeled boots that only served to hide the cruelty of the Capitol. 

It wasn’t until Filius was on stage that Minerva opened her hand and looked down at the metal pin he gave her. Minerva didn’t understand what it was or why he gave it to her, but her stomach churned with uncertainty. 

And since there was an explosion only seconds later on the stage, Minerva assumed her gut was a thing that could be trusted. 

For a long time, Minerva didn’t know where she was or what was happening. There were flames licking across her skin and she screamed no every time a voice filled her mind, asking questions she had no answer for. 

Did she know about the bombing?

What was her role in the plot?

Where did the grenade come from?

Why did she petition to be reaped?

It was only the last question that Minerva had any sense of, any sense to lie. A voice was there in her ear, her dad maybe, and he told her to lie so she did. Over and over she sobbed that she wanted a nice house for her dad, that was it. Only a child’s dream of giving their only parent a better life. 

It lasted an eternity, an eternity of Minerva replaying the explosion over and over, until one day she opened her eyes and saw a familiar face approaching her. 

Minerva yanked on her arms, desperately trying to protect herself, and whined like a stuck steer when she felt the chains. Every inch of her body ached, every inch begged for release from the chair she was chained to. 

The blue eyes came closer and Minerva started babbling nonsense, a final attempt at saving herself. 

“Please, I didn’t know, I didn’t know. My dad - my dad is sick and he needs a nice bed and a hot shower. Please.” Minerva broke off in a sob, as confused as she was scared. “Please.”

“Shh.” The man kneeled in front of her and she smacked her head on the metal chair when he reached for her wrists, but he only fiddled with the lock until the chains fell off. 

Minerva should have tried to run, but it was all she could do to even lift a finger. 

“Are you here to kill me, Abe?” she asked him weakly, unsure if it would feel like a betrayal or not. 

“No.” Aberforth helped her stand, holding most of her weight when her knees shook and tried to collapse. “I’m here to get you ready for your interview.” 

The word appeared in Minerva’s mind as she was all but carried down a hallway and taken in a bathroom with lights so bright she had to close her eyes: torture. 

It had been endless torture in the room where she had been. It was torture again when Aberforth lifted Minerva off her feet and lowered her in a bath filled with green foamy bubbles. Minerva screamed and thrashed and he wouldn’t let her up, though the pain began to recede after a few minutes and then Minerva was sighing and sinking down in the water. 

“Lie still, there you go,” Aberforth said quietly, her nudity not bothering either of them. Aberforth went to work on Minerva’s arms and legs, covered in scaly patches of scabs that dissolved in the foam, leaving behind shiny pink skin. “Your hands are freezing!” he said as he carefully rubbed them until Minerva could feel each digit again. When he told her to lie still and relax again, something wiggled around in Minerva’s foggy mind until she could remember right…

Lie. Lie. Lie. 

Minerva looked at Aberforth and realized the voice she heard before, when her body spasmed with pain she didn’t know it could possibly feel, wasn’t her dad. 

“Why?” she asked, not caring about anything else yet. 

Not about the explosion. 

Not about the last glimpse she had of Filius before he was blown to pieces. 

Not about the torture or the questions or even what would happen next. 

Aberforth didn’t answer her and she settled back in the bath, assuming he wouldn’t, until he finally spoke up. 

“I don’t want you to win, but… I don’t want him to win either,” Aberforth said, so quietly that she might have imagined it. 

“You want us both to die?” she asked. It didn’t make sense. 

“No.” Aberforth lifted her arm and worked the scabbed over skin off until she was raw and pink again. “I want you to live, Lion Girl.” 

“If I don’t win, I don’t live.”

“If you win… you don’t live.”

It didn’t make any sense. Aberforth didn’t make any sense. Minerva sighed and decided to focus on what was next - the immediate next. Aberforth told her what happened as she was cleaned, made up, and put in an identical costume to the one she wore the night of the interviews. 

Filius blew up the interview theater, killing hundreds of Capitol citizens, five other tributes, the interviewer, and their mentor, Artemisia. Minerva frowned and there was an ache in her head when she tried to remember if she saw Artemisia in the theater or not. She didn’t think so… why would she have been in the audience? The other tributes had their mentors backstage with them. 

Minerva had been ‘recovering’ for nearly eight days, but the others were healed and they needed to record their interviews so that the districts didn’t see any problem. 

“Won’t they notice the eight day time difference?” Minerva asked. 

“They weren’t live,” Aberforth said. “It was announced that Lotmus had a stroke, so his son is taking over for him. Hold still now.”

Minerva was obediently quiet, distracted really by the juice and bread Aberforth had on a plate by the makeup tools, so he could finish her face. It also distracted her to think of Filius and all of his oddities…

Rebel. 

Huh. 

Minerva believed anyone could be anything they wanted if they tried, she somehow never considered that Filius with his bad leg, short stature, and… and…

“I told them to kill themselves.”

Ice slid down Minerva’s spine, taking away the warmth that the bath and bread had brought her. 

“Aberforth? Is…” Minerva’s throat swelled and she almost couldn’t say it, as clearly as she could picture her dad’s face and his smile, his proud tears, his fear. “My dad,” she said in a choked whisper. “Is he okay?”

“How tall is he?”

Minerva was shivering from fear, so fully drowning in it, that Aberforth’s question managed to shock the fear right out of her for a moment. She blinked, then blinked again. 

“I don’t know?” she said. “Maybe six foot?” Why did that matter?

“They hung a man from Ten, little guy,” Aberforth said. “Nobody else. Alright, stand up, my lion.”

Minerva tried to remember if Filius’s father was short or not, but it made her head ache more. Her dad was tall though, tall and strong and protected by the truth that Minerva didn’t know about the bombing. 

Oh, but she would have helped. If Filius had trusted her… Minerva would have helped him. 

And then they would have hung her father… Just like they would do if Minerva killed President Dumbledore. 

When? If? 

Minerva’s head was a mess and if it wasn’t for Aberforth she would have tumbled down the stairs they had to take. It wasn’t the same building they were in before, the fancy Tribute Tower, though the room she was directed to looked identical to the theater from before. 

Except there were only three other tributes behind the stage and they all wore chains on their ankles and wrists. 

Poppy and Quirinius both survived. Pomona was there, her partner must have been one of the casualties. Minerva would have tried to talk to Poppy, check to see if she had been interrogated about the bombing, but Aberforth was rushing her on stage. 

A stage set before an audience filled only in the first two rows by peacekeepers. 

“And now from District Ten, the lovely MINERVA!”

The silence was so deafening, so unnerving, that Minerva looked over her shoulder to Aberforth. He made the outline of a smile with his fingers and then flicked his hand at her, urging her on the stage. 

Were they… pretending? Would the replay of her interview have an audience included? One that would be clapping if they were real?

Minerva thought maybe the guy who told her to lie before wasn’t going to lead her wrong yet so she flashed the smile she practiced so long and walked confidently to the middle of the stage. 

“My, my! A terrifying lion!” The man, the son of the one who Filius killed, had hair as black as oil and nearly as clean looking. When he stretched a hand out to Minerva, it took quite a bit for her to not sway him away. 

“Don’t worry, I only bite tributes,” Minerva said, making her smile a little sharper, more fierce. It went well with her braided hair, her slick dress. She imagined the laughter that comment might have gotten her. 

“I’ll bet you do!” 

Minerva, who struggled to find an angle before, found that she had an angle already: she really, truly, hated everyone involved in the Quarter Quell. She hated Filius for not warning her, for not trusting her. She hated that the Capitol would hang a man in Ten while pretending that nothing had happened except for a medical emergency for one of their citizens. Minerva hated them all so deeply it took nothing at all to pretend like that hate was aimed at the other tributes. 

Apparently the foolish notion of playing pretend had rubbed off on her. 

It must have been the torture. 

After a few questions that Minerva answered easily, the man gestured to the screen behind them. 

“And now we see… Minerva’s score!”

Minerva had forgotten about the score, the one she earned in a private session where she essentially just sassed the Head Gamemaker. Minerva was already prepared to laugh it off with a vague comment about flying under the radar when a bold 10 appeared on screen. 

“A ten from District Ten!” the man cried, pausing for applause, probably. Minerva cocked an eyebrow, wondered if the Head Gamemaker had liked something about her, and then smirked when she turned back to the ‘audience’. 

“District Ten is full of surprises,” Minerva said in a sickly sweet tone. 

She really hoped they let that part play in the recaps for the district. 

As soon as Minerva was waved off the stage, she felt ready to collapse. Aberforth was possibly the only person in the entire Capitol who Minerva didn’t despise as he caught her before she fell and helped her back up the long staircase they took before. 

“You’ll be in the arena tomorrow,” Aberforth told her as the climbed. “You don’t get a victor to mentor you.”

“So I don’t get sponsors or gifts,” Minerva guessed. Her own punishment for Filius’s rebellion. 

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “I - I’m not much, I don’t know… I don’t know what it’s like in there, but…”

Minerva was breathless from the energy it took just kind of climbing up the stairs and she made Aberforth pause so she could catch her breath and piece that together. 

None of it made sense. And everything always made sense. 

“You’re going to mentor me?” she asked. “Why? Why are you doing this?” Minerva pushed at him, not caring if it meant she was shot or she fell or whatever horrible punishment would befall her for pushing a Dumbledore. “What is your deal, Abe? Why are you doing this?” 

Aberforth cringed beneath her hands and there was a second where his muscles twitched, twitched in fear of her. Aberforth was a grown man, Minerva was a teenage girl who spent a week under interrogation of questionable methods. There was no reason to be afraid of her: unless that fear was beaten into him like a kicked dog. 

“I don’t know,” Aberforth said, too quickly - too compliant. It made Minerva feel sick inside. “I - I saw your reaping and you were so brave, so - so… I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

Great. 

The only person who seemed to give a damn about Minerva in the Capitol and she had his eyes watery and apologies spilling from his mouth too quickly. 

“No, I’m sorry,” she said, making herself quiet and safe - the way Aberforth did for her. “You… you thought I was brave?”

“Yeah.” Aberforth wouldn’t look in her eyes again and it made Miranda feel about two inches tall. “Brave like a lion,” he said. “I don’t - I don’t know…” Aberforth looked around the landing they were on and whatever he saw, or didn’t see, had him sliding his feet closer to Minerva. 

Minerva was taken by surprise when he hugged her, a tense and horrible hug for how anxious he acted about it. 

“Surviving isn’t winning,” he whispered directly in her ear. “I don’t want you to lose.”

Something cracked in Minerva’s chest - all of Aberforth’s warnings stacked up until she wasn’t sure what she was meant to do. 

Die with dignity or work for the thousands who the President would kill?

“Lions can’t lose,” Minerva whispered back. And then, only because Aberforth seemed so hurt and Minerva really did have something of a ‘helping people thing’ as her dad accused her of, she pressed a very soft kiss to Aberforth’s cheek. 

And then spent the entire night thinking of how haunted he looked as she wondered what it must have been like, being the brother of a man willing to kill thousands and thousands of innocent children. 

Aberforth was ten times the mentor Artemisia had been, even in the too few hours they had between him waking Minerva and taking her to the place where she would be lifted into an arena. In honor of the Quell, it would be a new arena - one that would promise more entertainment to the people watching. 

Minerva tried to hold on to the snippets of information Aberforth whispered to her while he rode in the back of a van beside her, but it kept slipping through her mind like smoke. It wasn’t until somehow she blinked and they were in a room buzzing with soft sound of electricity that Minerva realized she didn’t remember anything he said. 

“Wait. What?” Minerva grasped Aberforth tightly, looking around the room quickly. There was a stack of clothes folded, tan pants, a matching jacket, and a plain white shirt. There were a pair of shoes - the first new shoes Minerva would probably ever own - beside it. 

There was also a metal plate that had black footprints painted on it, Minerva understood that was where she was supposed to stand when the timer on the wall reached zero. 

It was double digits already. 

Aberforth didn’t sigh or scowl, he only gestured for Minerva to get undressed - something she didn’t think twice about doing in front of Aberforth since he had already seen it so often. As they worked together to get her hurriedly dressed in the new costume, he gave her more information. 

“It’s a desert, so you’ll need water,” he said quickly, his words rapid-fire and more sure than Minerva was used to hearing him speak. “Rufeus said there’s two rivers, one looks like blood and one looks like water. Don’t drink the water, only the blood.”

“Rufeus?” Minerva’s fingers were clumsy on the large buttons on her jacket, Aberforth knocked her hands aside and helped. Minerva didn’t want to think about the arena, she didn’t want to forget anything Aberforth said, and she didn’t want to see a bruise on his neck, almost perfectly hidden under a layer of makeup. 

It hadn’t been there the night before. 

Minerva wanted to go home badly. 

“Head Gamemaker,” Aberforth said absently. “There’s also trees with fruit, you can only eat the pink ones. Do not eat the other colors. Minerva!” Aberforth snapped his fingers and there was a manic light in his eyes - fear or some other emotion had him wound tightly. “What color can you eat?”

Color?

“Pink,” she said. Minerva breathed and repeated it. “Two rivers. One is blood, one is water. Don’t drink the water. Drink the blood that isn’t blood. Don’t eat fruit that isn’t pink.”

“Good. And you have to find another way to know this information,” he said. Aberforth’s hands gripped her shoulders tight and it was definitely fear that had him looking wild - fear for her or for himself?

“Do you understand?” he said. “I did not tell you this. You do not know it.” 

Minerva understood nothing, but she nodded anyway. There would be time to figure out what that meant later, but they only had 33 more seconds left and Minerva was faced with the very real possibility that she might be dead in the next day. 

“I’ll send you a weapon, don’t fight for one at the cornucopia,” Aberforth said… whatever that meant. “Run like a lion, okay? Straight for the red river. Do not let anything distract you. Say it.”

Minerva repeated the words, made herself remember them. 

Run for water. Aberforth would send her a weapon. Pink fruit. Don’t drink blood. 

No. Wait. 

Drink the blood that isn’t blood. Don’t drink the water. 

Nineteen seconds. 

Minerva threw her arms around Aberforth then and hugged him too tight for too long. She didn’t care. Aberforth was the last friendly face she was going to see for a while and Minerva was scared - scared for him, scared for herself. 

What did she sign up for?

“Don’t forget why you’re here,” Aberforth said, cupping Minerva’s face tenderly after she was placed on the metal plate and something electric stuck her feet to the black prints. “Be brave, my Lion Girl.”

The timer dropped to zero and it was beautiful because as Minerva rose in the air, the rush of purpose flew back to her. 

Five hundred and fifty-two kids, dead. 

Six more already died. Seventeen more had to. 

Then President Snow. 

It returned to Minerva and her mind felt sharp again, ready for the fight. 

Then she made the mistake of looking directly at the cornucopia and all of the fight blew out of her at the most horrifying thing she had ever seen. 

Hanging in the air, above the silver oversized cornucopia in the middle of the circle of tributes, were two flagpoles. One held the flag emblazoned with the Capitol seal, the other dangled the mutilated and repaired corpse of Filius Flitwick.

Stitched together and too horrible to describe, the smallest tribute had been flown high above their heads as the reminder of what happened to those who tried to fight back. 

And then a gong sounded and the twenty-fifth Hunger Games began. 

Before Filius blew up the theater, Minerva had five allies. Aberforth didn’t tell Minerva to worry about allies though, he told her to run. So once the gong sounded and the rush of others took Minerva’s eyes off Filius, she turned and ran. 

Everything was sandy, hot, tan. Minerva slipped in the sand twice as she ran, unsure how to keep purchase when the ground wasn’t solid. When she got far enough away from the cornucopia, there were tall spiky green trees and giant rocks covered in weird green grass that would give her places to hide if needed. 

Minerva had to hide behind one of the giant rocks when her stomach began to cramp and she felt herself dry heaving while she tried to run. The rock offered more space than Minerva first thought as she could flatten herself to the ground and roll partially beneath it. It wasn’t perfect, but she could catch her breath and still see if anyone else approached. 

It wasn’t a moment too soon because Minerva finally stopped dry heaving just as there were canon blasts to mark the deaths so far. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

That was it, only five killed in the initial fight, which was aptly coined the bloodbath by the districts. With the deaths from the bombing, it left thirteen of them in the arena. 

Thirteen living tributes and the corpse of Filius. 

Minerva shuddered and tried to think about her plan, the orders Aberforth gave her. Two rivers, drink the blood. Fruit on trees, only eat the pink ones. Aberforth would send her a weapon. 

How did she not see a river yet?

What weapon would he send?

Where were the trees with the fruit? 

Minerva inched out of her hiding place and, hearing nothing around her, she climbed up on the rock to try and see as much of the arena as she could. With everything that happened, she didn’t even get the chance to be begrudgingly impressed with the arena they created. 

It was definitely a change from the old colosseum and closed down zoo they used to use. 

In the direction Minerva had been running were small mountains made of rocks, more of the spiky trees, and a lot of dust. Opposite of her were more of the same - enough rocks to keep her from seeing anyone, but not enough to prevent them from seeing each other once they were within twenty or so feet of one another. To her left was a grove, one grove filled with lush green trees. It was probably the best place to hide, the only area with food, and Minerva was sure that at least half of the others would be in there as well. 

If the rivers were in there too… then Minerva was going to have to go that direction. 

Minerva brushed the dirt off her jacket and was grateful for the tight braids in her hair, keeping it off her face and neck, and keeping her from looking horrible while her dad might be watching. Minerva kept her head high and her ears pricked for any footsteps as she began walking… then stopped because there was a beeping coming from above her head. 

Above her head, coming from the direction Minerva ran from, a silver drone flew to her with a small box hanging from its claw. Surely it was too soon for Minerva to have a sponsor? Even if the Games were nearly halfway through, according to the numbers, there was no reason for her to think she had pulled many sponsors. 

Then the drone passed her and dropped its package about three feet behind her and Minerva hesitated again. The drones were always flown directly to the tribute, so why didn’t hers? Was it an error? Did Aberforth not know how to direct it? 

Or was there something more to the package than hopefully the weapon he promised her?

Minerva turned around and picked up the box, which melted away into nothing as soon as she touched it, leaving a small metal compass in her hand. Why…?

The grove of trees would have the fruit she was told about, behind her were only more rocky mountains and spiky trees? But Aberforth sent a compass instead of a weapon and he dropped it three feet behind her, in the opposite direction she had planned to walk?

Minerva really hoped that Aberforth wasn’t given a job as stylist then mentor-replacement because he was insane. It meant that Minerva squinting at the compass and pretending to get turned around before heading away from the grove would make her just as insane. 

On and on Minerva walked while the sun thankfully began to drop behind her. She was tired, thirsty, and had to scale a mountain of rocks when a horrible scream reached her. It sounded like a girl and it came from the direction of the grove… then a cannon blasted and Minerva had to hope that meant she made the right decision in avoiding it for the moment. 

Once she scaled the mountain and saw what was hidden behind it, she was sure she made the right decision. 

There were dozens of the spiky trees, each of them bearing fruits of different colors. As soon as a pink one caught her eye, Minerva felt some of the stress from that morning melting inside of her. 

Pink fruit.

Aberforth wasn’t insane. 

Well, not entirely, he was a Dumbledore though. 

Minerva slid down the other side of the rocks and scraped herself up, but it was nothing serious. She made herself walk slowly to the trees with a wary expression… What was it Aberforth said? She couldn’t know about the fruit, it probably was meant to be a trap of some sort - poison maybe? There were games where food was left in the arena for tributes that had been filled with poison, it must have been a big hit in the Capitol. 

How was Minerva supposed to pretend that she only wanted to eat the pink ones? Why would she ever go straight for something pink? Minerva didn’t even like pink. 

Not that they knew that though. 

It galled her, it absolutely galled her, but Minerva pasted a vapid smile on her face and clapped her hands in excitement. 

“Just like my room at home,” she said for the Gamemakers benefit as she reached for one of the juicy pink fruits. It was actually delicious - juicy and sweet, Minerva finished it off quickly. There was another pink one on the tree and Minerva picked it, though she didn’t want to eat out yet. 

The arena was beginning to get dark and Minerva’s body ached. All of her conditioning felt sort of wasted against the days she spent chained to a chair. Either way, Minerva had a decent area to rest in since an attacker would have to climb the mountain to get to her. 

With some effort, Minerva dragged a few rocks to the lowest part of the mini-grove she found. They weren’t comfortable to lay against, but they were better than the spiky trees. No sooner did Minerva close her eyes before there was a booming anthem playing through the arena. 

Minerva was on her feet again, what did that mean? Did the others die in one blow? Did Minerva win? 

There were lights in the sky, a message to them where the stars should be:

THE FALLEN

Minerva didn’t understand at first until pictures began to flash one at a time, a photo with a district number. 

It was the tributes who had died so far. 

How horrible and… undeniably useful. 

Minerva counted as they flashed by: 

The girl from One. The boy from Two. The boy from Four. The boy from Five. Both from Six. The girl from Seven. 

Who did that leave? After the Capitol symbol flashed and the sky went dark again, Minerva shed her jacket to use as a pillow while she tried to think of who had survived the bombing…

The boy from One, the girl from Two, the girl from Three. Wilhelmina from Eight. Rolanda. Pomona. Poppy. Quirinius. There were more, but they didn’t make much of an impression on Minerva and she hadn’t bothered to remember their names.

Were the kids from One and Two together? Did Eleven and Twelve stick together? Was that how they were both still alive?

Minervadidn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but it took no time at all for the questions circling her mind to become buzzing sounds…

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Minerva jolted and was disoriented by the dark sky, by the sand, by the beeping coming from a drone. It flew over her head, toward the mountain. Then it stopped and dropped a box. 

It was definitely too far away to even be a message for her and Minerva stood up silently, pulled her jacket on, slipped the compass in her pocket and held the pink fruit carefully as she traveled in the opposite direction. If it was a gift, it was to another tribute - a nearby tribute, and Minerva heavily doubted if the kids from Eleven or Twelve had sponsors yet. 

Minerva walked for hours, eventually caving and eating the pink fruit even though she hadn’t yet found the two rivers. The sun was brutal as it beat down on her and Minerva hoped that the tributes from the higher districts made the mistake of stripping their jackets to beat the heat - there wasn’t a fool in District Ten who would make that mistake. Especially not when Minerva suspected the sun and the heat was artificially created in the arena. By midday, Minerva climbed on top of the highest rock she could find and collapsed on it, telling herself to survey the field.

Dust. Spikey green trees. More dust. And…

Oh! 

Minerva sat up quickly when she saw a shimmering pool of water in the distance. It was probably another fifty feet away, just close enough for her to use one more burst of energy to run toward. The hydration she received from the pink fruit was already forgotten by her body and she had to remind herself that the clear water wasn’t safe, but maybe it was different if it was a pond, not a river? 

As soon as Minerva was close enough she should have been able to smell the fresh water, a shiver ran over her skin and her legs struggled to move. Minerva frowned down at the ground and gazed for too long at the sand… the sand where her feet had been… what was she doing? 

Minerva felt relaxed, peaceful, and part of her brain screamed at her for it. Why didn’t she want to move? Why wasn’t she more alarmed by the sand that quickly swallowed up her ankles and worked its way up her calves? 

Why…?

Minerva reached in her pocket and felt the compass, the cool metal reminding her where she was. The arena. The Hunger Games. If Minerva felt relaxed then it was…

A trap. 

Minerva had literally ran directly into a trap and that sudden understanding had her working hard to pull her feet from the sand, to unstick herself. It took too much time, too much effort, for it to be normal sand. Whatever it was, it was made in the Capitol and everything in the Capitol was deadly to a tribute. 

By the time Minerva collapsed on the dusty ground beside the patch of sand, the pond she had been running after disappeared and the peaceful fog in her brain slowly faded away. 

If Minerva felt like being generous, she would admit it was a brilliant trap. Minerva did not feel like being generous though, not when the fog that had aided the attack dulled her senses and made her miss the tribute that snuck up on her until they lunged and Minerva was flattened beneath them. There was a crunching sound in Minerva’s chest and she was sure that at least one of her ribs had cracked. 

Minerva twisted and turned while fists rained down on her and there was genuine red rage in her eyes when she saw it was the absolutely worthless girl with the scarves from District Three. Minerva McGonagall was not going to be killed by a girl who looked like she had cow eyes. Certainly not by her fists either, since the girl stupidly attacked her without a weapon. 

A snarl ripped from Minerva’s throat as she put her full body into freeing her arm from where it had been pinned. There weren’t rules to a fight in the arena, not like how there were for boys fighting back home, so Minerva grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair and yanked on it, shifting her just enough to free her other hand. 

The girl managed to hit Minerva once more in the mouth, knocking a tooth loose if Minerva felt it right, and then Minerva slammed her own fist in the girl’s throat. The girl gasped and only managed to get two more hits in before Minerva bucked her off of her and threw her by her hair in the pile of sand that she had been stuck in. The fog that attacked Minerva was gone, probably a purposeful removal of that element of the trap in order to prolong the fight, so Minerva had to throw herself on top of the girl with her hands wrapped around her neck, keeping her down until the sand had enough of her body for Minerva to crawl off her. 

As quickly as the sand moved, it still felt as if the girl died in very slow motion as she sank slowly and her buggy eyes grew larger and her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Minerva pulled her knees to her chest and breathed harshly as she watched the girl sink further and further until…

BOOM!

Until she died and Minerva had taken her very first life. 

Minerva didn’t linger in the area after the girl, Sybil, died. She scrambled to her feet and then began moving aimlessly, unsure of where she should even try to go. Back to the little grove with the pink fruits might have been her best option, but she had gotten turned around running for a pond that didn’t exist and imagining the District Three girl dying again and again didn’t help matters.

Aberforth, once again proving his worth as a mentor, sent Minerva another gift when she was beginning to think sand and dust were all she would ever see again. The drone flew over her and landed a few feet away to drop the box, which Minerva took to mean she should walk in that direction. 

Minerva knew she needed a weapon - she was stronger than the girl from Three, but she might not be the next fight she encountered and a weapon would give her an edge, but she still hoped for food or water when the box dissolved in her hands and left behind a sharp blade of some sort. Curved and with a golden tint, Minerva had to flip it around many times until she accidentally figured it out. The curves at the bottom of the blade were for her fingers to grip it in place, letting the metal curve out in something of a deadly claw.

A lion girl, indeed. 

There was a smile tugging at Minerva’s lips as she carried on in the direction Aberforth guided her to. With another tribute gone, a weapon in her hand, and a mentor who didn’t have watermelon-sized breasts for brains… Minerva really thought she would win.

Which meant she needed to decide what she was going to do once she won. 

If Minerva was willing to kill innocent tributes to get her chance at the President, shouldn’t she be just as willing to face the punishment for it? Even if the punishment put her dad at risk? Wouldn’t Dad want that? To give up his life for the good of thousands?

Minerva would… but she didn’t know if she should make that choice for her dad. He knew though, he knew what she planned. If Filius’s family had been killed, Dad was smart enough that he would run when Minerva won. 

She really, really hoped that he would run when she won. 

There were two more cannons by the time the sun began to set, leaving them with nine tributes remaining. Minerva couldn’t find her grove again, but hunger and thirst kept her moving as night creeped in. She only stopped when the anthem played so she could look up at the sky and see who had died.

The girl from Three, leaving the boy from One and girl from Two. The girls from Four and Five. 

Minerva started walking after the third picture played and only stilled when another photo flashed in the sky, a death she must have slept through the cannon in the early hours. 

Poppy from Twelve, smiling brightly in the photo they used. It struck Minerva hard - not that there were only eight of them left, but how young Poppy was, how clever she had been, what a waste her death was. 

Who had Minerva been trying to fool? Changing her plan would be cowardly and McGonagalls were not cowards. Not Hamish, not Minerva. Dad knew what Minerva’s goal was and he told her to win, he was proud of her. If they hung them from side-by-side ropes, Minerva was sure that she would go from one life to another with her father’s pride never waning. 

And that gave her the energy she needed to begin jogging through the arena, not bothering to try to be quiet. If the boy and girl from One and Two were together, it would still be two against one and Minerva had plenty of reasons to beat them in a fight.

Thousands and thousands of reasons, really. 

The night and morning of the next day blurred together in heat and hunger for Minerva. She jogged, walked, limped, jogged again. She didn’t know how large they made the arena, but surely it was too large for the shrunken group that had been dropped there because Minerva didn’t encounter anyone for most of the day.

There were screams she heard at one point, screams and the growls of something undoubtedly created in a lab by maniacs who envisioned how to best torture children. When the screams ended, the cannon blasted twice, and they were down to six. 

By midafternoon, when Minerva began to drag her feet and feel dizzy with thirst, the sand under her shoes darkened. At first she worried it was the sinking sand again, then she lifted her feet and realized the ground itself was wet with something dark like blood, but too thin to be actual blood.

Water. 

Minerva had already came up with a plan, thankfully so because her brain was exhausted by the heat and the sand, so when she saw the river of red, it was simple enough to trip over her own feet and clench a fist around her blade as her mouth fell open in surprise and she fell directly in the river. 

In the cool, cool, river of dark red water that Minerva gasped and splashed in, feigning surprise as she swallowed mouthfuls of the freshest water she had ever tasted. 

Minerva made sure to make sounds of surprise and then forced herself to slowly, untrustingly, scoop a handful of the water up to lap at. She froze, for one second… two… three… when she reached ten and there were no horrible pains in her body, Minerva let herself smile at the wonderful surprise she discovered. 

It was a shame that she had to kill Aberforth’s brother, she owed him such a gift in thanks for the tips before she entered the arena. 

There was no great rush to leave the river, not when it was the first bit of relief she truly felt from the heat since entering the arena. Minerva splashed around some, rinsed the sweat from her clothes and probably stained them permanently red. A cannon blasted and Minerva began to wonder if she could just wait the games out in the river. 

When the sun began to set, Minerva reluctantly knew she needed to leave the river. There was no reason that she shouldn’t be out looking for the others, speeding along to the inevitable conclusion when she was the last tribute standing. Minerva was hydrated, clear-minded. She had a weapon, she knew where to find food. It would be smart for her to begin hunting the others.

Minerva shook herself off on the bank of the river and started to plan out her trip - fruit, then hunting - when a sound caught her attention. It sounded like the soft cawing of a black bird… like two birds… three… Minerva twisted and turned until she realized that the shadows that had grown over the river weren’t shadows at all, but hundreds of black birds circling over her. 

They weren’t buzzards, which were mean birds in Ten that would eat any animal unlucky enough to be unable to fight it off - dead or alive. But the way they circled directly above Minerva reminded her enough of them that she gripped her blade tightly as she slowly began walking away.

No sudden movements. 

No loud noises.

BOOM!

The cannon blasted again and the birds screamed as one before plunging down from the sky toward her. Minerva began running and she was fast, very fast, but she couldn’t compete against birds created by heathens in the Capitol. The best Minerva could do when the birds started to attack her as a group with beaks made of shining razors and wings that hit as hard as a tree limb was to attack back. Over and over she slung her blade, hitting a bird every time. Each one that fell was replaced by two more, three more. Minerva was outnumbered, outpaced, and may have been outlived by the mutts if they didn’t knock her into the river and cause a huge splash. 

One of them that had been clawing Minerva’s face made a screeching hiss when the water hit it and Minerva yelped as it exploded black goop and feathers all over her. 

Water…

Minerva started splashing and laughing as the birds were too stupid to fly away from the water that killed them. Over and over Minerva splashed them until the last one flew away, Minerva’s laughter following it to the sky. The laughter didn’t end though, Minerva was hysterical with it as she tried to wash her blood and the bird’s goo off her. Every time she thought she had a hold of herself, she found another feather and a bubble of insanity burst from her mouth. 

It was foolish and Minerva knew it, she couldn’t control it though. So when an arrow sliced through the air and lodged itself in her right leg, the choked shout she made was much preferable to the laughter. 

Two sets of feet were running toward her, slapping loudly on the sand. It wasn’t a wonder how they found her, with the noise Minerva had made during her fight. Minerva’s only question as she ripped the arrow from her leg and climbed out of the river was where they found the audacity? Because interrupting a girl after she killed hundreds of mutts with water was rude. 

“Found ya!” The girl from Two, the one with the blonde hair and lean muscles, grinned when she saw Minerva running toward her. It was hubris and Minerva would need to remember that as she caught the girl by surprise with her claw, slicing it across her neck in one smooth motion. 

She grabbed at her throat and made an attempt to stop the blood with one hand as the other swung an axe toward Minerva, barely catching her in the arm with it. 

That girl wasn’t the one Minerva needed to be concerned with, not with the weak swing of the axe or the blood that poured between her fingers from her neck.

An arrow swished through the air and Minerva only barely managed to throw herself to the ground, eating some sand as she did. The other tribute, the girl from Eight, had another arrow ready to fly just as Minerva rolled quickly to avoid it. Wilhelmina turned to pull another arrow from the sheath and as much as Minerva despised rolling about on the ground, there were only two more arrows over Wilhelmina’s shoulder. The first girl hit the ground just before the cannon blasted and Wilhelmina sent another arrow toward Minerva.

Realizing then that she only had one left, Minerva had no choice but to begin running toward her and cursing herself for stupidity as she had to leap to jump on her back. They struggled and Minerva was bitten, the tooth that Sybil knocked loose was completely knocked out, and the blade Aberforth sent became invaluable as Minerva dug it in Wilhelmina’s mouth then yanked downward in one horrible burst of energy. 

It split Wilhelmina’s tongue in two and Minerva was wide-eyed with disgust when she scrambled away from the offset jaw, the blood that made it all seem almost nightmarish, fake. Wilhelmina tried to reach for Minerva even after she fell, but the cannon eventually blasted and Minerva was okay. 

Minerva was okay. 

Minerva was okay. 

Minerva killed her, disfigured her. 

Minerva was her own type of mutt, shaped by the Capitol. 

Minerva was okay. 

The sound of the hovercraft that picked up the bodies shook Minerva from her frozen shock. If Minerva didn’t want the murders she committed to be in vain, she had to get up. Minerva had to get up. 

Minerva had to be okay. 

With one more look at Wilhelmina’s face, with one more vision in her head of how her family would be crying at home, saying how pretty their girl was… Minerva turned and ran. 

Three left. Three left. Three left. 

Minerva made herself think only of that as she ran across the desert and sought out a place where she could hide, just for a few minutes. It should have been nighttime, but the sky worked in reverse while Minerva fought with the girls and the sun was once again blistering against her face. 

The cuts from the birds were sore, Minerva’s jaw felt swollen from the unexpected tooth extraction. Her muscles shook from exhaustion and she felt raw inside, completely scraped raw by everything that had happened. By the time she found a shallow opening beneath one of the massive rocks, Minerva tucked and rolled thoughtlessly. 

Don’t think about Wilhelmina or Mitsy. Don’t think about Sybil or Poppy. Don’t think. 

Minerva squished her eyes shut and hummed only loud enough to drown out her own thoughts. 

All she wanted in the moment was the one thing she would never get again: a night at home, curled by a fire, a book in her lap while Dad read the newspaper. Snowball’s mama, Georgie, would be purring as Dad occasionally scratched her ears. It wasn’t much, but it was everything. 

For the rest of her life, like an addict in search of oblivion, Minerva would crave that memory. 

After some time, some time that was impossible to track with the sun stuck unmovingly in the center of the sky, Minerva found her senses again. She squinted across the dusty horizon she could see from her hiding spot and decided that the Gamemakers must have been planning on the games ending soon. 

There wouldn’t be another night, which meant Minerva had no idea who she would face. Who was left?

Lucian, from One. 

Rolanda, from Nine. 

Quirinius, from Twelve. 

It was two of the three and Minerva, the final three tributes in the final Hunger Games. And with the way the sun seemed to grow closer to the arena, Minerva knew the games would end soon. 

Which meant it was time to finish them. 

Minerva had to guess, based on the placement of the flag, Filius’s body, and the oversized silver cornucopia, that the Gamemakers would try and push them together to finish the games where they first began. It was tempting to turn and walk the other way, but Minerva was no coward. 

Onward she walked through sand covered in someone else’s blood. Onward she walked past shredded scraps of someone’s jacket. Onward she walked past the skeletal remains of some sort of oversized lizard mutt. 

Onward she walked. 

Minerva kept her head high and paused only once to take a final pink fruit from one of the trees in the little grove she first rested in. It felt so long ago, though she knew it was only a couple of days. Minerva smiled softly and whispered a word of thanks to her mentor, maybe her friend, in case she didn’t make it out of the final fight. 

She had assumed, based on sort of everything she saw before the games began, that it would be Rolanda and Lucian that she would face in the end. Rolanda had been muscular, tough. Lucian came from District One and used weapons in the training like he had practiced with them all for most of his life. When she could see the silver cornucopia in the distance and heard screams from the grove she never explored, she expected it to be Rolanda or Lucian running toward her, driven on by whatever the Gamemakers sent to corral them together. 

Instead, it was Quirinius who raced out of the trees with Rolanda following him, one of her arms hanging at an awkward angle and blood soaking her top half. Minerva stopped where she was, before they noticed her, and saw as Quirinius turned with a large hammer in hand and lunged at Rolanda. 

Quirinius looked like a different person as he swung the hammer over and over on Rolanda’s skull. There was a wildness to his movements and a shrill scream he made with every hit. 

Even when the cannon blasted and Rolanda was dead, Quirinius continued to strike her. 

Minerva dashed forward, trying to take advantage of his distraction, and planned to hide in the cornucopia then lunge with her own weapon. It might have been a great plan if the Gamemakers didn’t decide to ruin it for her. 

In a moment of what Minerva knew had to be timed for maximum drama, Minerva was nearly to the cornucopia when something fell from the sky. Minerva only just had the putrid smell of rotted flesh assault her nose before Filius’s body hit the group and splattered into nothing but sludge and bones. 

Quirinius turned and his eyes locked on Minerva’s. 

He was covered in Rolanda’s blood with a hammer in hand. Minerva had the blood of the two girls and slime from Filius’s decomposed body covering her, her curved blade still sharp and ready to fight for the end. 

“Pathetic,” Minerva told him, irrationally angry that Quirinius with his stutter and thin limbs had somehow wound up in the end to face her. “What happened? Did Pomona carry you to the end after Poppy died?”

Quirinius’s face twisted in anger and madness, he rose on sure limbs and his teeth bared at her as they approached each other slowly, both looking for the right opening. 

“I killed Pomona,” Quirinius said. “P-Poppy too.”

The hammer came at her with a whistle that echoed Quirinius’s wild scream. Minerva hit the ground, rolled, then sprang to her feet when she was close enough to slash the blade at his side. The blade cut deep enough to spill blood, but he hardly seemed to feel it. Quirinius swung again and again, each strike closer than the last, forcing Minerva back. 

One of his swings caught her braid when she turned her head to avoid catching it in the face. It snapped her neck backward and Quirinius was there slamming her down to the slick ground beneath them. The hammer raised and glinted beneath the sun as Minerva twisted with her blade, driving it down his forearm. 

Quirinius howled and blood sprayed on Minerva’s face, filling her stupidly opened mouth. He dropped the hammer for a fraction of a second, a fraction that gave Minerva all she needed. 

She slashed again before he could bring it down on her, that time on his collarbone. Then she bucked and squirmed until she knocked him to his side, both of them bouncing back on their feet to continue their dance. 

Minerva ducked, slashed, didn’t falter when the hammer caught her and broke another bone. Every cut she made weakened him and if it was to be death by a thousand cuts, so be it. 

“You fight like an animal,” Minerva said, spitting blood at him as they circled each other. “But lions don’t lose.”

With a roar, Minerva charged forward and even as the hammer came down hard on her shoulder, bursting it into hot flames of agony, her blade caught him in the side beneath a rib. Minerva jerked it, slicing his side wide open, and the bloodied hammer hit the ground, just beside what remained of Filius’s corpse. 

Quirinius staggered, blood pouring, his eyes wide with disbelief and shining tears. Minerva crouched, ready to strike again if needed, but he collapsed on the sand. 

His body flopped - once, twice - then went still. 

The cannon blast, the final cannon blast, silenced everything in the arena. And when a voice filled the arena, announcing Minerva McGonagall as the Victor of the first ever Quarter Quell, Minerva laughed. 

“I told you that you’d hear my name again.”

Minerva McGonagall was crowned on the President’s balcony before the entirety of the country three days later. To celebrate the Quell, the Victor's interview was being delayed until after her crowning. 

It worked fine for Minerva who knew she would never again be on one of their stages. 

The blade had been confiscated from her the moment she was relieved from the arena, but she still wore the token from her father and the compass from Aberforth never left her hand. Minerva stood with her chin high, her confidence unbroken. 

It started with a petition and it would end in freedom for the others, Minerva was prepared to secure that future even if she wouldn’t be there to see it. 

Trumpets blasted the anthem of Panem as the President approached her, a golden crown held on a red pillow. Aberforth caught Minerva’s eye over the shoulder of his brother and he shook his head just lightly. 

Aberforth would be free too, he would. It didn’t matter if lingering loyalty, or ingrained fear, kept him from acting. It wouldn’t stop Minerva. 

Minerva’s heartbeat counted out her final moments with every step Dumbledore made. Every muscle in her body was strengthened with purpose and locked in place to prevent her from missing her opportunity. 

President Dumbledore smiled at her when they were finally face-to-face. “Miss McGonagall, a terrifying performance,” he said, the fond tone of a proud parent. 

Hamish McGonagall was a proud parent. 

Albus Dumbledore was nothing more than the woman who gave birth to Minerva - a coward who sealed their own fate. 

“Thank you, sir,” Minerva said stiffly. At his nod, she lowered her head so she could be crowned. 

The crown was lifted above her —

Minerva looked directly in the nearest camera —

“RUN!” she yelled, knowing that the one she wanted to protect would hear her warning —

The metal arrow from her compass was popped from its home and driven as hard as it could be into the neck of Panem’s President. 

Chapter Text

To have a sister is to have a best friend, a confidant, someone who understands your heart and your hopes. To have a sister is to have a piece of your pride and joy walking outside of your body, sharing your smile. To have a sister is a gift.

On Druella’s eighteenth birthday, her parents gave her a beautiful diamond hairpin. It was tradition, in their family, to give jewelry when a girl aged out of the reaping. Druella cherished hers, though she often had to keep it from her sister’s sticky fingers. 

“I hope I get a pin just like yours,” Walburga said, sighing in envy as Druella pinned her hair up. Druella’s hair was the same black as Walburga’s, but silky straight like their mother’s while Walburga shared their father’s wild curls. 

“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Druella sang playfully, already knowing what gift Walburga would receive in two months. Mother showed her before, it was a beautiful set of earrings, they sparkled just like Walburga’s smile. 

“Do you know?” Walburga’s chin dropped and Druella laughed at her sister as she avoided the pillow that was swung lightly at her. “You witch! Tell me! Please?”

“I can’t, I’m sworn to secrecy.” Druella inspected herself in the mirror for a moment, admiring her hair up in braids and the lipstick Mother gave for the girls to share. They shared most things, as close in age as they were. Many in their district confused them for twins, though Druella was ten months older than her sister. Walburga had just caught up with Druella in height over the spring and her feet even grew, which was actually dreadfully annoying as she stole Druella’s shoes constantly. 

“Druella…” Walburga lifted the pillow again and held it like a weapon. “If you don’t tell me, right now, I will make you regret it.”

“If you hit me with that pillow, I won’t braid your hair,” Druella countered, knowing Walburga wouldn’t resist. Walburga didn’t have the patience Druella had, the fingers deft enough to braid or knit or apply makeup just right so that her eyes shimmered and shined. Walburga knew when she was bested and she scampered into the seat before their mirror so Druella could start working through her curls to make her up for the day. 

“You’ll feel terrible if I’m chosen today,” Walburga said, her smile impish in her reflection. “I bet you’ll cry yourself to sleep, bemoaning that I’m off to die with no idea at all what Father bought for my birthday.”

“I’ll cry tears of joy to know you won’t be here to scuff another pair of my heels,” Druella said dryly, only pulling Walburga’s hair a little bit in return for her morbid jest. The odds of Walburga being chosen were minimal, she had only the minimum entries in the reaping and with the number of girls who attended the academy and longed to volunteer themselves to the arena, Druella wasn’t concerned for Walburga. 

Druella had once been one of the girls thirsting for the arena. It had promised so much in her eyes - a spotlight on her, a promise of fame and fortune, a life spent half in the Capitol where she could meet a handsome husband and live her life in the peace promised to a victor. 

It was during the Quarter Quell that Druella changed her mind, the very year before she was set to volunteer. The tribute who won that year, a scrawny thing from Ten - Minerva, had been a spirited thing at first and since winning, she had clearly lost her mind. Her mind, her spirit, her beauty - all gone. 

Whatever happened during her time in the Hunger Games changed her and Druella White was perfectly happy with who she was, thank you so very much. 

Walburga had never set her sights on the arena, as wild as she could be at times. Walburga dreamed of marriage, of having daughters that she could dote on and a husband who adored her. There was nothing at all that would drive Walburga to volunteer and her chances of being reaped were minimal. 

Which meant Walburga would be around to steal Druella’s shoes and ruin them for many more years to come. Something she was quick to point out, setting them both off in shrieks of ridiculous giggles. 

“Girls! It’s almost time!” Mother yelled, causing the sisters to muffle their laughter as they attempted to hurry along. 

As soon as Druella had Walburga’s hair finished, she took one more moment to admire them both in the mirror. 

“I’m prettier,” Walburga grinned, though they looked too similar with their hair braided the way they were. Walburga’s smile was brighter, Druella’s eyes were a tad darker. 

“You’re more hateful for sure,” Druella said, teasingly placing a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek. It left a lip stain, though Druella smirked when she rushed her sister along and Walburga never noticed it. 

Poor girl, Druella was sure her friends would have something to say about such a scandal. 

The square was filled when Druella joined her parents at the edge, watching Walburga whisper away with her girlfriends. It would be such a relief the next year, when Druella didn’t need to worry about her sister. 

A boy, too young yet for the reaping, darted in and out of the groups of watchers, collecting coins and scraps of paper. Druella crinkled her nose when he imposed upon her, she certainly wouldn’t be betting on what child was chosen. 

“A gold coin it’s an older girl and younger boy,” Father said, merrily taking a bet. Mother put her nose up, similarly disgusted, and muttered a reminder to him that his daughter was ‘an older girl’. 

“So I’ll make three coins if she’s chosen,” Father chuckled, though Druella didn’t see the humor. Three gold coins would be nothing when compared to Walburga’s life. She simply wasn’t cut-throat enough for the arena. 

“Don’t rush to marry, dear,” Mother said, patting Druella’s shoulder while the anthem played and the speeches were wrapped up. “You do want to wait for a man that possesses a shred of empathy,”

“Now that’s not fair,” Father complained. “Dru, dear, tell your mother that I am the most empathetic man you know.”

“Mother,” Druella smiled sweetly at her mother, “Father said to tell you that he believes he’s incredibly empathetic.” 

Mother laughed quietly while Father’s loud guffaws had Walburga turning her head to find them as the female tribute was being chosen. Walburga grinned at Druella, Druella smiled widely at the lipstick on her cheek, and —

“Walburga White!” 

The name cracked through the square like a slap to the face. Druella’s smile froze, her parents went entirely silent, and Walburga’s face drained of blood. Druella waited a beat, two, praying to a merciful God that another girl would take her sister’s place. 

When there was only silence, the lipstick on Walburga’s cheek could have been blood, it was how pale she became. It would be blood, if Walburga went into the arena she would bleed and she would die. 

Walburga shook her head once at Druella before a nearby peacekeeper nudged her into action with his gun. Walburga’s steps, always so gay and light, were heavy and Druella’s palms sweat as she wiped them on the dress she wore. 

It was pink. Druella wore a pink dress. 

Walburga wore blue. 

Before Walburga reached the stage, Druella was running. 

Those who saw her run would call it shock, fear, terror. 

They were wrong - all of them. 

Druella ran with purpose. 

It took no time for Druella to return to the square and head directly to the station where her sister waited to be taken. A peacekeeper allowed her entrance and gave her a generous three final minutes with her sister. 

Their parents passed her on their way out. Father’s face was swollen, blotchy. Druella wondered if there were gold coins rattling in his pockets. Mother stopped when she saw Druella, when she saw what Druella had run off to change into. 

“Dru…” Mother’s face crumpled, horrible tears welled up in her lovely eyes. Her arms opened and Druella could only spare her a moment, just one moment, to hug her mother as tightly as she could. 

“You have been the greatest joy of my life,” Mother whispered. “May God watch over you, my dearest of daughters.” 

“May God watch over us all,” Druella breathed back, a silent reminder of the stakes their entire family would be taking. 

Mother sniffled when she released her and Druella slipped in the room with her sister, instantly pulling the pins from her hair. 

“No, don’t.” Walburga backed away from Druella when she held them out to her. “I don’t want your pins,” she said, her lovely face wrecked with her misery. “I won’t die in them.”

“Stand still,” Druella ordered her, slipping just one in the intricate braid. The other went back into Druella’s hair, the exact spot where Walburga wore hers. 

“You will live in it, and when I return, I want it back,” Druella told her, as calm as the sky. It took Walburga a moment to see the dress Druella wore, the blue that matched Walburga’s, to see the looks that were so similar, so similar, they could be twins. 

“No. Druella, no!” Walburga reached for the pin in her hair and tried to rip it out, only Druella’s quick hands stopped her. Walburga tried to kick her and Druella backed her up until she could hold the girl against the wall. 

“Yes,” Druella hissed, refusing to break before she had to be on the train. “Walburga, I can win. I can,” she insisted. It wasn’t a lack of ability, only desire. “I will go, I will win, and you will be Druella while I’m gone. Do you understand me? Hey!” Druella had to slap her sister to end the head shaking and crying they didn’t have time for. 

“Do this for me as I would do it for only you,” Druella said sternly. “I can win, Walla. Can you be me?” 

The tears streaked down Walburga’s face and her eyes carried grief and anger, fear and love, rage and relief, as she nodded slowly. 

“I should be so lucky to be you,” Walburga whispered, wriggling from Druella’s firm grasp to embrace her. 

It was not goodbye, which meant Druella didn’t need to tell Walburga of the many ways she loved her, of the memories she would always cherish and the hopes she carried for her. Druella whispered a reminder of what would happen if they were caught and Walburga managed to agree to be exceedingly careful. 

“It would be best if you were overcome with fear and hid yourself away while your sister faces the arena,” Druella told her, smiling softly as she cupped Walburga’s face in her hands. “Kiss my cheek now, Walla. I’ll see you when I return.”

Walburga leaned in and pressed a kiss to Druella’s cheek, staining her visibly as Druella had Walburga. “You are my truest of friends,” she whispered. “Be safe, Dru. Win. Come home.”

Druella planned to win, she did. Druella was confident that she would have a very slight edge on the others with her age and the time she spent training for such a moment. 

It wouldn’t be Druella who won though, but rather —

“THE WINNER OF THE THIRTIETH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES - WALBURGA WHITE!”

Druella buzzed with too much energy during her victory interview as she watched the replay of her time in the arena on the screen. The interviews from her family were mixed in with her time as a tribute. It was daunting, seeing herself on the screen discussing how proud she was of her younger sister while Walburga schemed and killed her way through the arena. 

It was terribly disorienting and Druella was sure she came off as airheaded, vapid, with her answers as they covered the reaping through the moment she became a victor. 

“What’s next for you, Walburga?” Ludo Bagman, the most recent and most beloved host of the Hunger Games, asked her. 

What was next for Walburga? What was next for Druella’s beloved sister who she risked life and limb for?

“Life,” she said simply. 

Walburga was going to live her life. Druella could return to her life. It was the dream that kept Druella moving during the most difficult moments in the arena. 

After the parties and the speeches, Druella felt more herself on the day she was set to return home. Her handler told her to be in the lobby on the hour to board the train and Druella hummed to herself as she waited. 

When the hour struck, Druella wasn’t immediately concerned. Her mentor didn’t seem entirely responsible and surely the train wouldn’t leave without her. At twenty after, Druella was nervous. 

Half-past and the glass doors of the shining Tribute Tower opened, allowing entry to the last person Druella expected to see. 

“Miss White.” President Dumbledore smiled warmly at her, only his raspy voice made Druella’s pulse quicken. “I believe it’s time we officially met.”

“Of course, sir,” Druella said, polite despite her confusion. They had met before, when he crowned her as a victor. Druella took the hand she was offered. “It’s an honor to meet you, President Dumbledore.”

“As it is you, Druella White.” 

He said her name lightly, though it struck Druella like a stone. She tried to smile, to find a way to laugh about the similarities between her and her sister, then he pulled a letter from his inner pocket. 

Druella knew that letter, she wrote it before she was lifted in the arena. It was a new mercy given to the tributes, something to be delivered with their bodies in case of their death. Druella wrote hers to Walburga, and she knew she didn’t mix their names.

It had been difficult, writing a goodbye letter to herself. It wasn’t an experience she would soon forget. 

“Your sister was under a similar belief that this letter,” Dumbledore pulled another, a letter written in the messier cursive Walburga favored, from his pocket, “would be read in the event you won.” 

It was a trick, Druella knew it as soon as she saw Walburga’s letter held beside hers. Druella didn’t think about it, nothing beyond ensuring she used the correct names and referred to her as the ‘older sister’. There had been some playful jests, nothing that would have given her away. 

Unless they were suspicious and used the letters to solidify their theory. Unless the new ‘mercy’ was only a trap, one that there would have been twelve years worth of essays and assignments to strengthen. 

“What’s happens now?” Druella asked, her lips barely moving and her eyes locked on the evidence before her. 

“What happens now?” he repeated softly, sliding his fingers along the edges of the letters. “The nation adores Walburga White, they’ll be pleased to see her married to a citizen of favor.”

It wasn’t death. It wasn’t death. 

Druella didn’t know if he meant she would be married off or Walburga would be, but she hoped Walburga didn’t die for Druella’s choices. 

“And Druella White…” Dumbledore’s fingers caught in the center of the letters and Druella remained stone-faced and silent as he ripped them down the center, destroying the evidence that outed them and smiling at her as if he was doing her a kindness. “Druella will marry another citizen of worth, bear his children, keep her silence.”

Separation. 

Druella could read between the lines of what Dumbledore said - he would separate them. Marrying them to different men, sending them to different districts. It wasn’t death, but a very near thing. 

To lose half of her heart? It was a very near thing. 

“And one day…” Dumbledore ripped the papers again, quartering the halves as a vein throbbed in his neck, just below a thick line of scar tissue where someone must have been brave enough to one day attack him. “Your children will see the inside of the arena that Miss Walburga was meant to see. As will her children and any children either of your children may bear. You see, you saved your sister, you clever girl, and you’ve damned your entire family.”

It wasn’t mercy, it was lasting punishment. 

“And if I were to die before I bore any children?” Druella asked, finding just enough strength to lift her chin. Druella wouldn’t send her sister in the arena, she wouldn’t send a child she bore. 

“Then your sister will live a terribly long life having all of the children you should have had,” Dumbledore said, like a slap to her face. 

It was sharp, the sword he wielded. Druella had shown her hand, she had shown that she would face death to save her sister. And it was being used against her as a punishment for her decisions. 

“I see we are in an understanding,” Dumbledore said politely, letting the torn shreds from letters of love slip through his fingers. “Now, come, let us have the country celebrate Walburga White once more before she settles into her new life.”

Dumbledore offered Druella his arm and she had to take it, she had no choice. There was no choice but to step over the torn shreds of what had been her sister’s last words to her and face a life where her heart continued to beat, outside of her body. 

Druella was being given her once greatest wish in a newly poisoned package: life. 

Chapter Text

There were a lot of pretty things in District Six.

The train cars, when they made the change from the rusted trains with their hard plastic seats to the shining silver trains with plush interiors, were pretty. The carriages that were crafted for the districts who still used them were always a sight to see, each one uniquely shaped and painted to perfection. The cars and trucks were made piece by piece in factories then put together and shined up for the citizens who could afford to buy them. 

There was no lack of beauty in District Six, but the prettiest thing in the entire district was a boy, just a boy.

Gabriel Delacour had the softest and prettiest blonde hair that fell in delicate ringlets around his face, always carefully cut by his mother to ensure that his cerulean blue eyes weren’t hidden. When he smiled, oh when he smiled, there wasn’t a prettier sight to be seen… it turned him from a pretty face to something angelic, too perfect to be real. 

Even his voice was pretty, soft but sure, calm but confident. Gabriel could give speeches in class that would convince anyone of anything. He was smart in the way that wasn’t showy, it wasn’t loud, it was just a boy who had more gifts than any one person should fairly possess.

Gabriel Delacour was the prettiest thing in all of District Six and if he had been a girl, Alphard Black would have done whatever he could to convince his parents to allow them to marry. But Gabriel wasn’t a girl, he was only a boy, and Alphard could never ask his parents for their blessing, he could never breathe a word of his crush to anyone.

All he could do, for so long, was wait for it to go away.  

They could play on the playground together when they were smaller, before Alphard understood what it really meant to love someone. Alphard could throw the ball to him and their fingers could brush when they both ran after it at the same time. They were allowed to smile at each other then, so long as they didn’t stare too long or let their fingers linger on the other. 

When they were older and there were girls who wanted to go on dates, who wanted to see the train stations and get treats, they could go on those dates together. As long as they each had a girl with them, it didn’t matter if they laughed together or if Alphard used the money his father gave him to buy Gabriel a treat. If the girls got bored or cold, Alphard and Gabriel could lay on top of the trains together and try to muffle their laughter as they talked about how horrible girls were.

If their feet rested against each other, if their hands sometimes were warmer on the other one, it was okay. As long as nobody saw them, it was okay. 

As they grew, Alphard knew that there was something wrong with him, some sick disease that made him think of Gabriel when he went to sleep and made him want to spend all of their time together. His brother, Arcturus, didn’t share his sickness, he had no problem finding a wife in the Capitol where he worked and moving out of their district before Alphard was even born, only visiting every so often with his two boys. It was a fine life for him, it wasn’t what Alphard dreamed of though.

I want to go on adventures. I don’t want to be someone's errand boy he wrote to Gabriel in class one day on the note they slid back and forth. Alphard’s parents were in the works with Arcturus to secure Alphard a position in the President’s Army once he aged out of the reaping. Not only did Alphard have no desire to work for the frigid man his brother idolized, he didn’t want that life. 

Alphard also didn’t want to join his nephews (a funny term since they were both older than Alphard) in the armies. It was a relief when they both married off, though Alphard wasn’t thrilled when the younger of his two brothers had decided to settle in District Six with his wife, Walburga. Walburga was okay, Alphard didn’t talk with her much. She was ten times as pleasant to talk to as Orion though, he was hateful and mean and took a lot of joy in calling Alphard a queer and telling Father that he should be put down for it. 

If Alphard could design his own future like the artists designed the bullet trains and their sleek beauty, he would travel from district to district, not to push the citizens down as his brother and his nephews did, but to see what their lives were like. Alphard wanted to meet them, to hear about their districts. He wanted to travel through the woods, pitching a tent at night and sitting around a fire, just experiencing the natural world around them.

And he wanted Gabriel to sit beside him at the fire, to keep each other warm on cold nights. 

Alphard wanted his future to include Gabriel.

The fall that Alphard turned fifteen brought his brother home for a spell after the death of his wife, Selene. Their father always made a big to-do about Arcturus, enough that Alphard was hardly needed at home. For four days, Alphard was a guest in the Delacour’s home, laughing with Gabriel’s mother as she peeled carrots and listening to Gabriel’s father read from poetry books to young Florio. There was one that Alphard couldn’t help but compare to Gabriel himself –

Oh fallen love of mine,

How I long for thee.

When the world turns,

Perhaps we’ll both be free.

I’ll kiss your lips, and you’ll kiss mine.

If others find us ugly, we will both be blind.

Alphard caught Gabriel’s eyes and he knew then, in the electricity that seemed to connect them, that it wasn’t Gabriel’s disinterest that made it impossible for them, but the world around them. 

There had been a man in their district before that had been hung in the square for all to see. Alphard had been young, he didn’t understand at the time why his father said the man was a beast, disgusting and vile. The man taught at the school, Alphard talked with him sometimes and he gave him slices of his apple. Arcturus told Alphard the crime he committed, sodomy, and Alphard only looked up its meaning when he was alone and nobody could see the tears that prickled his eyes when he read it.

Alphard knew then that it didn’t matter if his friend Gabriel was prettier than any girl he ever knew or if Alphard wanted to spend all of his time with him, it was illegal, wrong, sick.

Most illnesses passed, Alphard’s never did.

After spending the day with Gabriel’s family, Alphard returned home and thought he had gotten lucky and missed his brother’s visit altogether. As much as Father boasted about Arcturus, Alphard never liked him. Father talked as if Alphard was meant to respect his brother just because they were brothers, but Alphard saw other brothers and how they acted. Even Gabriel with his youngest brother, he never treated him like Arcturus did Alphard.

Alphard had been something of an accident, Arcturus told him so himself when he was old enough to understand it. There were thirty-some years between them, enough time that Arcturus’s mother had passed and their Father found a new wife in Alphard’s mother. Arcturus was older than Mother, he called her names when Alphard had been too little to understand them. The dislike between them was mutual though.

Mother didn’t like Arcturus, not at all, though she never said so. Alphard could tell from the way she avoided him, but tried to dote on his sons. Father was Arcturus’s biggest fan and loudest supporter. Alphard didn’t say it, like his mother he kept his thoughts to himself, but he thought Father mostly liked that Arcturus made enough money to send plenty home so Father didn’t have to work in the factories making parts anymore. 

Alphard slipped silently to his room and only froze in the doorway when he saw that he didn’t miss his brother’s arrival at all, as his brother was sitting at the small desk Alphard had, reading his notebook.

“Arcturus,” Alphard tried to smile, feign an air of indifference to Arcturus violating his privacy, but his eyes couldn’t move from the sky blue cover of the notebook. It was the one he used in classes, the one that he often passed back and forth with Gabriel. “Surely you don’t need a refresher on the academy,” he joked, not moving any further in the room.

“Who is this?” Arcturus turned the notebook to Alphard, showing a page filled from top to bottom in two distinct handwritings. Alphard had neat handwriting, Mother taught him herself, and Gabriel’s was more rushed - his hand could never move as quickly as his brilliant mind. Alphard couldn’t see the page closely enough, though the recent notes they shared were personal enough that he should have burned them. 

Every word should have been fed into a fire.

“A girl in my class,” Alphard lied, forcing himself to unlock his limbs and climb in his bed with a lighthearted grin. “I think she’s sweet on me.”

“Is that so?” Arcturus stared at Alphard hard, his eyes sharper than Father’s had ever been. They were the same eyes Alphard saw every time he looked in the mirror, a million times more cruel. Alphard didn’t break eye contact, he didn’t drop his grin, but his stomach flipped over and over. 

“Why did Father say you had no interests in courting then?” Arcturus asked. It was always like that with him. There wasn’t such a gap between Alphard’s friends and their siblings at the Academy, there was nobody he could ask about it, but surely brothers didn’t act like they were each others parents. Arcturus always did, he would yell at Mother on his visits when Alphard wore something he didn’t approve of. Arcturus would berate Father if Alphard’s grades slipped.

Sometimes, too often, Alphard wished his brother died in the gunfire he spread so happily. 

“I said she is sweet on me,” Alphard said easily. There was no point in trying to take the notebook from Arcturus. If he tried, he would only know there was something private inside of it and then he would scream until every person in the house woke. 

No, the only thing that would come from fighting his brother for his notebook would be a tight rope and a short drop. 

“Truly?” Arcturus turned the page, ignoring Alphard’s twitch when it ripped, and cleared his throat. “‘I wish we could go somewhere, just the two of us.’”

Alphard’s face flamed, his brother didn’t stop there.

“‘What would we do?’ ‘I don’t care, as long as it was just us.’” Arcturus threw the notebook at Alphard, smacking him hard in the face with it. “Who is this person?” he demanded. Arcturus stood up, he was taller than Father, colder than anyone Alphard knew. Alphard held the notebook tightly and shook his head.

“Who is it?” Arcturus demanded. “TELL ME!” 

“No one!” Alphard yelled back, refusing suddenly to cower under his brother like a frightened child. Alphard stood and accidentally dropped the notebook, then kicked it under his bed as he stepped toward his brother, choosing the lesser of the two fates.

Arcturus wasn’t sane, he was a madman molded by gunfire. He could hit Alphard and they could fight and scream. Sodomy was a crime, Alphard would be hanging in the square by morning if anyone discovered the notes. It wouldn’t matter if Alphard never did anything, nobody would listen. It was a crime that would warrant death without proof needed.

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?” Arcturus demanded, curling his lip in disgust. “You wrote those things to a boy.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Alphard said quickly. “You’re making too much of this, it was nothing! A way to pass time in class, that’s all.” 

When Arcturus struck him, Alphard hadn’t expected it. Alphard knew there was a chance of it, but he didn’t expect the heavy backhand that whipped across his face, sending him backward a step either. It hurt, it hurt enough that when Arcturus did it again, Alphard hit the wall and felt dizzy as something on his shelf crashed down. 

“Alphard!” Mother ran in the room, a nightgown on that she hastily covered with… something purple Alphard couldn’t see real well. Alphard didn’t cower, he refused to cower, but there was something throbbing in his head from where it had been struck and it made the rest of the conversation hard to follow. 

Until Arcturus insulted Mother.

“You couldn’t keep your whelp in line, whore?” Arcturus spat at Mother. “He’s a damned disgrace to the name Black!” 

What Mother said, something about Arcturus and glass houses, was lost to Alphard beneath the buzzing in his ear and the scream that ripped from him as he tackled Arcturus. Alphard managed to knock him down, but Arcturus had the upper hand with his size, his weight, his training. Alphard didn’t scream, not one time, but he could hear Mother screaming as Arcturus hit him again and again. 

“I’ll ask one more time.” Arcturus got to his feet and Alphard should have been sick when there was the end of a gun pointed at him, but it was all he could do to even keep his eyes open. 

If his brother was going to shoot him, Alphard wanted him to see their identical eyes as he died.

“What’s his name?” Arcturus demanded. Alphard said nothing, nothing at all, until –

Click.

Click.

Mother’s scream was terrible when Arcturus pulled the trigger and surely Alphard died then - he died. Surely. Because there was nothing else to explain why his brother had a gun in his face that he spun the barrel of before clicking it back in place. 

How many bullets had been in it? Alphard couldn’t see, it swam before him.

“Don’t test me,” Arcturus said, his voice harsh and cold. He pulled the hammer back again –

Click.

“MAXLETTE!” 

Arcturus’s finger froze, as did the air inside of Alphard’s chest. Mother’s loud cries were filling the room as the two brothers stared at one another.

“Maxlette Macmillan?” Arcturus asked.

No. No. No. No.

“Yes,” Alphard said, broken and weak and hating himself. It wasn’t Maxlette, Maxlette was a pig and an annoyance and would never write things as poetically as Gabriel did, he would never inspire the feelings inside of Alphard that Gabriel did. 

Arcturus turned his gun toward the window and Alphard didn’t mean to, he hated himself so much in that moment though that his own shame when his trousers became wet as the gun exploded and glass shattered through the room was nothing.

It was nothing at all compared to the fate of Maxlette Macmillan the next morning. 

Everyone saw Maxlette that morning, they saw him as he was sentenced to death and they heard his crimes. They saw Alphard’s face, the dark bruising and cuts that wouldn’t stop bleeding through the night, and it wasn’t difficult to put together the wrong image as Arcturus himself tied the noose around Maxlette’s neck.

Maxlette’s last word had been a cry for his Mother, the woman who turned her nose up in disgust at her sodomite of a son. 

Not a soul in their district dared speak to Alphard Black, which he deserved. Gabriel had tried and Alphard turned him away, forced him to try and forget about him - about them. Alphard knew that he would never forget, he could remember twice as vividly for Gabriel. 

The one strange solace that Alphard had in the time after Maxlette’s execution was somehow Walburga Black, his nephew’s wife. Walburga didn’t grow up in their district, which had made her interesting just until she said ‘I do’ to Orion Black. Orion had always been the nastier of Alphard’s two nephews, it didn’t make sense to Alphard that he would end up with a pretty, sweet, kind wife. 

Truthfully, not much about Walburga made sense to Alphard. Walburga was a Victor, even if she had won for another district, she and Orion were given a house in District Six’s Village. Alphard remembered some of the year she had been a tribute, nothing that stood out to him. Walburga didn’t act like the other Victors did though, she wasn’t boasting or drinking or rushing off every year to mentor new tributes. 

Walburga was a mystery, but a sweet one all the same. 

Alphard, with no one else to talk with and with Orion off with Arcturus, terrorizing other districts, spent quite a bit of time with Walburga. Walburga was funny, kind. She let Alphard faff around her home when he couldn’t go back to his and only shooed him away when Orion was scheduled to be home. 

It wasn’t until he returned one day to see Walburga stuck in place, staring off in the distance, that Alphard was uneasy. Walburga was a nice lady and all, but she outlived twenty-three other tributes in an arena and only a fool would forget that and startle her.

“Wally?” Alphard made his steps loud, his voice pleasant. “Are you well?”

It was clear she wasn’t, Walburga had a cup of tea before her that had surely long since turned cold. Walburga didn’t blink, not until Alphard began closing windows, and her words were chilling.

“I’m… with child.” 

Alphard winced as he spun around, his eyes locking on Walburga’s and stupidly trailing down to her stomach. 

A baby? Brought into the world by Alphard’s vile nephew? A child, to one day be dangled in the reaping? 

It would have been Alphard’s worst fear and he saw that it wasn’t exactly welcome news to Walburga either. She had a handprint on her cheek, from the brute she was married to himself, and Alphard swallowed several times as he tried to find a kind way to phrase his thoughts. 

“Orion - he…” Walburga shook her head and Alphard could see the thing she toyed with, a sparkling hair pin. “Orion said it is my duty to bear his children,” she said, maybe speaking to Alphard and maybe to herself. “I wanted a daughter.”

Alphard eased toward the table, slowly taking the tea from Walburga to freshen it for her. Walburga continued to talk, haunted words from a haunted girl.

“My sister - she… Alphard,” Walburga’s voice sharpened then and she spun in her seat, locking eyes with Alphard. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

Alphard smiled with no amusement at all. “Like you wouldn’t believe, Wally.”

“My sister - she… she had a child.”

Sister…? 

“Oh,” Alphard said, ever so dignified. “I didn’t know.”

Walburga spun the pin on the table, over and over until it made Alphard dizzy to watch.

“She drowned him.”

Alphard made himself a cup of tea as well and moved to the table, ready to hear Walburga’s tale. If it was true, she would be put to death for the measures she took to share letters with her sister in District Five. If it was fiction, they could both be put to death for discussing rebellious behavior as it was. 

“She said it was an accident, the infant drowning, but I know her,” Walburga finished, her fingers clenching Alphard’s tightly. “She would rather spare him the pain than watch him die later. I think - she hasn’t… she hasn’t responded to me since then. So she’s probably… And now - now I have to decide.” 

Alphard winced, imagining sweet Walburga drowning a child. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t see it. Walburga was too sweet, too oddly pure. The fear that rolled off her was real though and it must have been her time in the arena, or her time being married to Orion. Walburga did not want the child to suffer and Alphard wouldn’t see her put to death as it sounded like her sister faced in Five. 

It took him only a day, one day with Gabriel’s unwitting assistance, to collect the herbs he needed. Each purchase was spread out, collected by them both so that no one person could say Alphard Black ever possessed the ingredients needed to kill the plague when it struck - or an infant before it breathed. 

“Alphard?” Gabriel caught Alphard by the wrist after he brought him the last of the ingredients Alphard needed. There was no one Alphard could trust more than Gabriel, though he knew it was a risk to involve him.

It was a risk and a fresh wound as Gabriel looked at him with clear eyes and a smile that God himself surely worshipped.

“I miss you,” Gabriel whispered, leaning closer in the darkness that protected them. “I know I shouldn’t, I know that you’ve distanced yourself to protect us both, but my heart doesn’t know logic, Alphard. It won’t.”

Alphard loved him, he loved him more than he should love anyone. More than his family, more than God. 

“Don’t.” Alphard warned him away when Gabriel moved even closer, his eyes bewitching Alphard. “They’ll kill us both.”

“As long as we’re together,” Gabriel swore. 

“You’re a fool,” Alphard told him, too fond - too soft. 

“A fool you feel nothing for?” Gabriel breathed, his lips ghosting across Alphard’s. “Is that what you’re saying to me?”

God save him.

“No.”

Alphard grabbed Gabriel tightly, crushing them together so that the very image that haunted him just behind Maxlette’s face as his mother turned from him came true. Gabriel was in Alphard’s arms, warm and solid and everything Alphard should never have taken. 

Because how could he put it down? 

It was fruit from the snake, the poisonous fruit that would be his ruin - he was sure of it.

Alphard helped Walburga, he helped her spare a child the pain of the cold world they lived in. Walburga passed him with screams and more blood than Alphard had ever seen before. 

If Alphard was still a child, it would have been agony to burn the remains in the fireplace, hiding its existence from Orion. Instead, Alphard felt centuries old while he watched the fire consume the stained sheets hiding yet another death sentence he could face.

Alphard had somehow become a rebel when all he wanted was freedom.

Gabriel became Alphard’s secret, one of the many he was beginning to collect. 

After the day Alphard prayed before a fireplace, it just happened. Gabriel became another visitor of Walburga’s house and they could just… be themselves there. 

Walburga crawled out of the shell she had retreated to when Gabriel was around. She would laugh, smile, share stories about her life before the arena. 

Walburga never mentioned her time in the games. Alphard never mentioned the gun in his face or Maxlette. Gabriel, the best of them all, never asked them about any of it. 

They were pretending, playing make believe, but it worked for them. It was probably the happiest that Alphard had ever been.

Twice more, Alphard burned away the remains of a child. It tore at him, stained his soul. It wore on Walburga too, Alphard could tell. 

The third child had been the worst - it wasn’t remains but a body so small that Alphard could hold it in his palm. 

“It’s a girl,” Alphard whispered to Walburga, horrified by what he had done. Walburga shook her head, deathly pale with the bruises on her neck a stark contrast, and closed her eyes. 

“I always wanted a daughter,” was all she said. 

Alphard didn’t know where God was that night, but he sincerely hoped he wasn’t watching Alphard cremate an infant while his nephew’s wife held him for comfort. 

Orion returned home early the next day, two days before he was due. Alphard had been laughing in the kitchen with Gabriel, watching Walburga with her tongue stuck between her teeth trying to braid his golden locks. 

They all froze when Orion walked in, his dark eyes sweeping over them all. 

“Nephew!” Alphard rose quickly, pasted a smile on his face. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” he said jestfully. 

“I have a job,” Orion said, cool and calm. Arcturus was like that as well, too calm until he wasn’t. Orion’s eyes passed over Gabriel’s face. “Why are your fingers in his hair, wife?” he asked Walburga. 

“He needs a haircut.” Walburga was an angel, really. The way she effortlessly slid into her role, protected Gabriel. “It’s disgraceful for a man of his age.”

“Man.” Orion snorted, but accepted Walburga’s explanation. “Leave us,” he snapped at Alphard and Gabriel dismissively. “My wife should welcome me home properly.”

Alphard managed to keep his forced grin up and it only became genuine when he and Gabriel slipped away. 

“‘Wife, why do you touch another human?’” Gabriel said, dropping his voice low and bumping his shoulder on Alphard. 

“‘Me?’” Alphard made his voice high and feminine. “‘I’m only looking for louse, my lord. Here, let me touch your cock now with my lousy fingers.’” 

Gabriel snorted and they ducked in an alleyway, both of them suddenly overcome with laughter. It was too much, Orion’s dedication to being some sort of prime species of man. 

“How lousy are your fingers?” Gabriel asked, pulling Alphard further in the alley, his eyes shining despite the shadows that protected them. 

“The lousiest,” Alphard said, turning them so it was Gabriel against the wall, Alphard’s hands sliding up his shirt. Gabriel was nearly eighteen, only a few months behind Alphard, but he was as soft and pretty as he’d ever been. It made Alphard’s face flush and his mouth to dry out, those stolen moments of time together. 

They hadn’t - it wasn’t… there were ideals about the steps a relationship should take. It didn’t quite apply to sodomites, but they hadn’t taken that step just yet. There was no lack of desire, only location really. 

Alphard would never disrespect Walburga by doing a thing like that in her home. Alphard would never disrespect Gabriel by taking him in a filthy alleyway. 

There were other ways they could enjoy one another, other ways to release the tension between them. It was risky, but they mastered the fine art of hiding in the shadows and swallowing every moan. Only their eyes - cerulean eyes that overflowed with love - could convey everything they couldn’t speak aloud. 

It was heady, being so loved by an angel. 

If God created Gabriel, how could He call their love a sin? Did God not create a plan that entwined their two paths? If God meant for it to be a man with woman, he wouldn’t have made Gabriel. 

For who could resist him? 

Alphard returned home not long past nightfall. There was half of a smile on his face, an ease to his limbs. Father had passed the prior winter, no great shock to Alphard or Mother, it meant not only had Alphard finally aged out of the reaping, but the house and all of Father’s wealth was passed on to him, giving him time to search for a life outside of a factory or army. 

It also meant that Alphard expected the house to be empty, he didn’t expect to see the kitchen light turned low or to hear his brother’s voice coming from the room when he slipped silently inside. 

“You’ve spoiled him, ruined him,” Arcturus said in his rasping gravel. “It wasn’t me who made him into what he is now.”

“I did my best,” Mother said, stiff and uncomfortable. 

Alphard drifted closer, sure it was himself that they discussed. 

“You did nothing,” Arcturus swore. “The boy is a sodomite living off my father’s fortune! The one that he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for me!”

“It’s his father too,” Mother said. Her voice was dark, a warning. “That was his father,” she said again. 

Arcturus laughed, he sounded drunk. “You can tell yourself that until you’re blue in the face, Irma. I know where that boy came from.”

What… did that mean?

Alphard hesitated in the doorway, torn between asking what Arcturus meant and not wanting to face his brother. They had only had the dubious pleasure of seeing one another twice since Maxlette’s death, neither had been an overly enjoyable experience. 

When Alphard heard Arcturus opening a fresh drink, Alphard decided against a confrontation. It had been an enjoyable day spent with Gabriel, he didn’t want to sully that by wasting any number of words on Arcturus. 

Arcturus announced the next morning that he would be staying in District Six for a few days, until after the reaping. Orion was staying as well, lending his presence to the peacekeepers. There was talk of unrest in other districts, the president wanted to ensure there were no difficulties in the upcoming reapings. 

It meant that visiting Walburga was off-limits for the time, though Gabriel had as much free time as Alphard. With so many lines between them left uncrossed, they were silly, impulsive, foolish together. 

They visited the trains and held each other under the stars. They went for sodas, laughed at the girls who danced and tried to cajole them into joining. Alphard nearly wet himself when a woman his own mother’s age waved and winked at Gabriel. el. 

“My God, she was shameless!” Gabriel cried on their walk home. They were both buzzing with the drink they shared, the dancing they couldn’t do together, and the laughter that always fell so freely between them. Gabriel’s curls were plastered to his forehead from his sweat, the heat, the fog they created when they did find an empty alley to be themselves in. 

“It could have been true love,” Alphard scolded him playfully, his eyes twinkling with repressed laughter. “How will you ever know now?”

“I think I’d rather volunteer tomorrow than find out,” Gabriel said, oh so seriously. Alphard couldn’t help it, his laughter burst out of him in loud guffaws. There was something sparking in the air that night, some sense of…

Freedom? Maybe. 

Arcturus was due back on the train with the tributes after the reaping, Orion would undoubtedly go with him. It would be Gabriel’s final reaping to wait through. When it was over, they would be free in a new sense.

Alphard wasn’t sure what they would do with their freedom, but clever Gabriel had his own idea when they paused outside of Alphard’s home. 

“Al?” Gabriel swung a hand out, lightly brushed it against Alphard’s, as he smiled sweetly at him. “I was thinking…”

“A new concept, I’m sure,” Alphard teased, drawing a laugh from his love.

“Shush, you,” Gabriel grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dark. “I wondered how you would feel about… leaving?”

“Leaving the district?” Alphard stepped closer, preferring to risk accusations against his character than have anyone overhear whispers of dissenting behavior. “Where would we go?” he asked. 

“Anywhere.” Gabriel, half a head shorter than Alphard, looked up at him and there was no trickery in his eyes, only an honest ideal. “I want to go anywhere that we can be alone, just the two of us.” 

Alphard didn’t have to think about it, he didn’t need to. Alphard swept Gabriel in his arms and placed just one kiss on his lips. One solid kiss that would have to last them another 18 hours. 

“Yes,” Alphard breathed. “Pack your bag,” he told him. “Tomorrow we’ll go.”

Where they would go? Alphard didn’t know yet. Anywhere they went, they could be together though. That was what mattered in the end - the only thing that mattered. 

Alphard went inside, relieved by Arcturus’s absence. Arcturus had been insufferable lately, harping about Alphard ‘lazing about’. Honestly, Arcturus might celebrate when Mother informed him that Alphard was gone. 

It was almost enough to stay, spiting his brother, but Alphard could only envision Gabriel’s eyes, his smile, as he drifted off to the first peaceful sleep he had in some time. 

Alphard rose early, packed a duffel bag with some basic clothes and hygienic needs. A blanket was added, a pillow. There would be more things they would need, Alphard would get them after the reaping. Their pantry had cans of goods inside of it, more than Alphard and Mother could ever eat. Alphard wouldn’t leave his mother with nothing, but she was a finicky eater at the best of times. 

Mother was still in bed when Alphard moved to the kitchen, his duffel carefully hidden beneath his bed. Arcturus sat at the table, fully dressed in his peacekeeper uniform. Even the sight of him couldn’t ruin Alphard’s mood. 

“Morning,” Alphard said politely, moving around him for a biscuit with fatty slop added to the top of it. Arcturus said nothing, only grunted, and Alphard looked at him curiously as he took in his breakfast. Arcturus seemed tired, probably another late night of drinking. 

Alphard never heard him come in, but it was a blessing as Arcturus had no biting comments or criticisms when Alphard took his food to his room, needing time to write a letter to Mother, then another to Walburga. 

The letter to Walburga was painful to write, it caused an ache in Alphard to imagine leaving her behind. Walburga was a victor though, her presence would be missed immediately. There would be constant questions, searches… no, it was better if they parted ways then and there. 

Alphard hoped she found a way away from Orion, no matter what it may be. Walburga outlived an arena of 23 others fighting for their lives, she was clever and skilled, surely. If she could, Alphard hoped she got away. 

The sun was already bright and hot when Alphard left home with Mother, the two of them weighed down by the fears of half their neighbors as they all walked to the town square. It wasn’t a pleasant walk, Alphard only had the promise from Gabriel to get through it. Alphard saw the other Delacours waiting at the edge of the ropes. 

Florio wasn’t yet old enough to join the reaping, though he would the next year. He smiled widely at Alphard and Mother exchanged a polite greeting with Mrs Delacour as Alphard swung Florio up on his shoulders.

“Woah! I’m a mountain now!” Florio cried - a little flatterer, like his brother. 

“We’re a lean, mean, mountain machine,” Alphard laughed. It was morbid, laughing at a reaping, Alphard couldn’t contain it though.  

Not even Walburga’s presence on the stage, standing stiffly between Arcturus and the Head Peacekeeper for Six, could dampen Alphard’s mood. The new marks she wore squeezed his chest and he had to fervently hope that Walburga would remember the herbs Alphard collected for her, then find a new use for them. 

Alphard’s nephew was as nasty as his father, Walburga still had a chance to find beauty in her life if she could escape him. 

The Mayor called the reaping to notice, giving the standard speech about how wonderful the Capitol was and how they all deserved to be punished by them. Gabriel turned in the crowd of the oldest boys and when Florio waved at him, Alphard winked. 

That wink could have been to anyone, if anyone cared enough to look at Alphard. The blush on Gabriel’s sweet cheeks was the only proof of recipient.

God, how Alphard loved him. 

The reaping began with the district girls, as usual. Alphard winced when it was a young girl, maybe twelve, who was chosen. Little Honor Davies held her head up, didn’t sniffle at all, and Alphard joined the others in applauding her bravado in the face of death. 

It wasn’t something Alphard would miss, seeing children being chosen for death. 

The boys were next and Florio slipped some, Alphard had to hoist him up in place, when –

“Gabriel Delacour!”

“NO!”

It was ripped from Alphard, like the huff after a hit. A few heads turned sympathetically, because Alphard and Gabriel were such good friends. Alphard Black didn’t have many friends - not since the rumors flew about him and Maxlette. 

Poor Alphard, losing his only friend that wasn’t related to him. 

Walburga covered her mouth. Florio began sobbing. Mrs Delacour went weak at the knees, and Alphard could only see Gabriel when he looked over his shoulder to him - his eyes blown wide and his curls dusting his eyebrows. Alphard couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. All he could do was shake his head, denying reality, and watch when the truest love he had ever known began a slow walk toward the stage. 

It shouldn’t have been Gabriel, it shouldn’t. Was there no God at all? Was there no God to save the most golden of his children?

Or was it the price Alphard paid for the atrocities he committed? Was Gabriel’s only sin being the most treasured soul by Alphard Black?

Gabriel stood on the stage like the man Alphard knew him to be - not hiding his fear, but letting it show on his face. There was pain there too, a lifetime of pain, and Gabriel held Alphard’s gaze, shared his agony, until Arcturus blocked Alphard’s view.

Alphard didn’t have to imagine the wicked smile on his brother’s face just before Gabriel was pushed away, pushed toward the train station. 

Oh fallen love of mine,

How I long for thee.

Alphard ran to the station, Florio bouncing along on his shoulders. They would be given five minutes with Gabriel, it would be four minutes and fifty seconds of Alphard telling Gabriel how he would survive - how he could eventually return to him. Then, God willing, it would be ten seconds of Alphard telling him exactly how loved he was, how cherished.

How Gabriel Delacour was the only golden thing in a world of rust and ruin.

Orion stood outside of the train station and he threw his rifle out when Alphard neared, aimed the barrel directly at Alphard. Florio was carefully slid off Alphard’s shoulders, pushed behind him with numb arms.

“You aren’t permitted,” Orion said, his face twisting in cold glee. “Father said there are to be no visitors for these two.”

“Really?” Alphard asked, his heart sinking while what he imagined to be the truth beat frantically inside of it. Why would Arcturus do that? Why would he enact a deviation from standard practices if it wasn’t personal? 

“He also said to put a bullet in your skull if you came near,” Orion said. The rifle barrel slid to the side, just a hair. “I think the little one might be easier to hit though, his skull’s probably less thick.”

“Let me talk to Arcturus,” Alphard said, a blatant plea. “Please, fetch my brother.”

“He’s gone,” Orion said, lifting his chin with some horrible pride. “He’s loading the tributes on the train, taking them to the arena.”

It was the most personal of attacks. Arcturus didn’t strike Alphard directly, and he wounded him fatally all the same. 

Alphard wondered why he was only beaten and Maxlette was hung. 

“I know where that boy came from.”

Gabriel a tribute, Alphard left behind.

It wasn’t mercy, it was cruelty at the hands of someone who had always acted more than a brother, more of an enemy, to Alphard. 

Alphard couldn’t fight a rifle, not with Florio behind him. How many of the Delacour boys would he kill? Instead, he moved to the side, keeping Florio behind him, and waited on the platform. 

If Alphard could only see Gabriel through a glass, it would have to be enough. 

When the world turns,

Perhaps we’ll both be free.

Gabriel’s parents had only just caught up to Alphard and were turned away from the station when the telltale signs of the train starting up could be heard. Mrs Delacour, who had treated Alphard as a son, was quick to pull Florio to her side, away from Alphard.

How could he complain? They knew what he did, surely. Maxlette had been hung, Gabriel reaped. The message there was clear as could be.

Alphard hardly had a thought while he waited for the engine to pick up steam, to take Gabriel from him for what may be only a short while and Alphard knew that it would be forever. 

Gabriel’s name being drawn wasn’t an accident, his death wouldn’t be either.

The silver steam engine, the very one that Alphard once laid upon and told Gabriel stories of the stars, began rolling from the station. The sleek contraption was no longer beautiful, no longer a thing to marvel upon. It was a cage, a giant steel cage.

It had always been a cage. 

Alphard’s heart rose in his throat, blocking his breath, when he saw Gabriel through a window. Tear-streaked, red in the face, Gabriel slapped his hand on the glass and Alphard knew it was his name he screamed. It meant nothing, it achieved nothing, but Alphard ran with the train as far as he could, unable to understand the moment when it roared away, leaving Alphard behind.

Leaving Alphard behind.

I’ll kiss your lips, and you’ll kiss mine.

If others find us ugly, we will both be blind.

There was no beauty in District Six, as the prettiest thing in the entire district was a boy, just a boy, who left on a train.

Chapter Text

“I used to to be Alastor Moody.”

I can't find the water. 

“I used to live in District Four.” 

I can't swim. 

“I used to be eleven years old.”

I can't be vigilant. 

“I am a victor.”

I can't breathe.

“I am a victor.”

Constant fucking vigilance. 

The water is harsh, I tilt my head back and open my mouth. 

All I want is a drink.

I want to not be so thirsty.

Hot. 

Tired. 

Sweat. 

I scream and let it gurgle in my mouth…

Scream.

Nobody can help me. 

Nobody can see me either. 

I can cry and scream. 

I can break the sky with the weapons they gave me. 

Can I be free?

Can I breathe?

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

I can hear them, I can. 

“Kill yourself.”

They follow me with empty eye sockets, with chests flat and emptied of air. 

If I join her, I’ll have to join them. 

And I’m scared. 

Ma? Can you hear me?

Ma? Can you hear me? I’m so scared. 

Constant. Fucking. Vigilance. 

“I am eleven years old.”

They called me shrimp. 

Shrimpy. 

Did they know?

About shrimp?

How shrimp could be poisonous?

Did they know?

About constant vigilance?

They didn’t invite me to their club. 

I didn’t want to join. 

A shark didn’t need a school. 

When sharks hunted, they didn’t need help and they didn’t need minnows around them. 

The first one I killed was quick, clean. She didn’t scream and I didn’t cry. 

They had to gang up on me to hurt me. They needed a group and I’ve only ever needed myself. 

One of them got their knife in my eye. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.  

When I pulled it out, I used it to cut them - to kill them. 

It made everything harder, but it couldn’t be too hard for me. 

Constant vigilance. 

I hunted in the dark, I picked them off when I could and fought them when I couldn’t. 

When I picked them off, they didn’t have time to scream. 

When I had to fight them, there was blood and tears and I thought I was a shrimp?

I was good at traps, at waiting in silence. 

I knew how to kick and fight and not let the waves crush me. 

I could be vigilant.

“I live in District Four.”

I loved the water, the sea, the salt. 

Then the water burned my lungs.

And things lost in the sea could be gone forever. 

Everything tasted like salt. 

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

There were fish in the sea that swam away when they sensed a predator was near. 

If I had been a fish, I would have known when to run from him. 

Ma taught me to swim.

Pa taught me to fight. 

In the water, Ma taught me the backstroke. 

In the water, Pa taught me vigilance. 

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

I knew how to swim, I did. 

I couldn’t swim when there were hands on my shoulders, holding me down. 

Pa drank when there wasn’t work for him to find. Pa liked liquor and Pa liked the water. 

I had to go with him - always. 

When Pa threw me in the water, he said it was a lesson. 

How could I learn a lesson if he held me under?

How could I learn if my body slowed and after the world went dark - hands on my chest and air blown in my mouth - he gave me only time before I went down again?

Time and time again. Around in a clock. Time and time and time. 

“Constant vigilance, boy.”

I could learn that from Pa. 

I did.

“I am Alastor Moody.”

I tilted my head back and opened my mouth. 

All I wanted was a drink. 

Ma laughed at me and told Pa I loved storms as much as he did. 

Pa tried to catch lightning in his mouth too. 

I laughed and felt it gurgle in my stomach. 

Pa slipped in the rain and I laughed again when Ma tried to help him and almost fell too.  

They laughed. I laughed. 

My lungs ached from all the laughter. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

I followed my parents around with bright eyes. I loved them with my whole heart. 

I just wanted to join them on their walks, join them as much as I could. 

Ma shelled the shrimp Pa brought back from the boat where he worked. 

He had to be vigilant on the boat. If he wasn’t, he could get hurt. 

It was a big word - vigilant. 

“Pay attention, Alastor,” Pa said when I cast out my line. “You’ll get hurt if you’re not vigilant.”

There were men who couldn’t work, men who were injured for forgetting their vigilance. 

The ocean was pretty, perfect, home. It didn’t forgive though. 

It never forgave. 

It gave me life. 

Love. 

Seagulls who laughed. 

Quack. Laugh. 

“Pa, can you hear them?”

“Constant vigilance.”

“I am Alastor Moody.”

I can find the water. 

“I live in District Four.” 

I can swim. 

“I am eleven years old.”

I can be vigilant. 

“I am a victor.”

I can breathe.

Chapter Text

"I am a victor."

I can breathe.

"I am fourteen years old."

I can hide.

"I live in District Nine."

I can perform.

"I am Gilderoy Lockhart."

I can smile.

“I am Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Gillian was my best friend. 

We were once two twins —

Gillian and Gilderoy. 

We played on the slide,

We screamed on the swings. 

We were always together. 

We cried together at Daddy’s funeral. 

We caught the flu together too.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

We were both sick —

I got better and Gillian didn’t, she couldn’t. 

We were two, then we were one. 

Mommy put me in a dress, told me to smile. 

“Smile, Gillian. Always smile.”

They called me a pretty girl,

Mommy’s girl. 

Mommy brushed my hair, told me how special I was. 

Not Gilderoy. 

Gillian. 

“I’m Gilderoy.”

I couldn’t leave the house until my bruise faded. 

Locked in with madness…

Where do I go?

“Gillian? Are you smiling?”

“I live in District Nine."

I was Gillian -

for Mommy, for school, for everyone except the reapers. 

“Over there,” they said, noses curled. 

They all laughed, called me a freak.

“SMILE, GILLIAN!”

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Maple found me after, talked me down from my tree. 

I stuttered at her questions, blushed inside of the sweater I wore. 

“Are you Gillian or Gilderoy?” 

Am I Gillian or Gilderoy?

Her brothers found us. 

Am I Gillian or Gilderoy?

“Give us a smile, Gillian.”

“They didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“They didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Mommy told me to be careful:

Girls shouldn’t be climbing trees. 

It wasn’t ladylike.  

I couldn’t scream, couldn’t speak. 

I took the yarn, held it for Mommy. 

She sighed when a tear slipped free,

“Put a smile on now, girl.”

I could do that, for her.

Like Gillian did.

"I am fourteen years old."

“GILDEROY LOCKHART!” 

I was free, freer than ever before. 

And angry,

Angrier than ever before. 

The tributes died in terror, in pain. 

Didn’t they know?

About smiling through it all?

I had an axe,

Sent in by a sponsor. 

I could wave to the cameras,

Wield it like my only hope. 

I spun stories of logging,

of playing with axes all my life. 

I could pick the others off like they didn’t matter. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

If I died, I’d be buried as Gillian. 

If I won, I could be Gilderoy. 

Smile, Gilderoy. 

The careers found me,

tried to teach me a lesson. 

I already learned it once,

so I taught them one as well. 

that time I could fight like a boy. 

I could smile too.

"I am a victor."

Fucking smile, Gilderoy.

Their hands are harsh, I think about Gillian. 

All I want is to hide Gilderoy away again. 

I want to not be so dirty.

Hot. 

Tired. 

Ruined.

I scream and disguise it as a moan…

Help.

Nobody can help me. 

Nobody can see me either. 

I can cry and scream. 

I can break the sky with the weapons they gave me. 

Can I be free?

Can I breathe?

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

I can hear her, I can. 

“Kill yourself.”

She follows me with empty eye sockets, with her chest flat and emptied of air. 

If I join her, I’ll have to join them. 

And I’m scared. 

Gillian? Can you hear me?

Gillian? Can you hear me? I’m so scared. 

Fucking smile, Gillian.

"I was a victor."

I can't breathe.

"I was fourteen years old."

I can't hide.

"I lived in District Nine."

I can't perform.

"I was Gilderoy Lockhart."

I can't smile.

Chapter Text

My Beautiful Bella, 

I miss you so terribly some days that it feels as if I can’t breathe. It’s quiet in my home, the kind of quiet where I know you couldn’t possibly be anywhere near. 

What’s it like in District Two? Are you well?

I worry for you, more than Cissa. You’re strong, the strongest star in the sky, but even a star needs others beside them.

You looked so alone in the arena, so terribly alone. 

I know that it must have cost you so much, cost you your very being as it did I. It’s ghastly, the bloodshed and the horrors. 

It was difficult for me, fighting the tributes. It seemed worse for you when they wouldn’t fight back, that soul-deep defeat of a slaughter rather than a fight.

Do not misunderstand me, sister, you did what you had to do.

Do you hear me, Bellatrix? You did what you must. You cannot hold this against yourself. 

Moving words, right? Terrific advice from your sister who sits wrapped in a blanket, using the sharp wool against my cheek to center myself. 

Enough of that - I have news. 

I married Ted Tonks. 

Don’t make that face, he is a kind man. He is kind and good and when I cannot sleep or I taste the blood in my mouth again, he makes me forget.

It's a gift, the reward for my own efforts.

Mother has disowned me, I told her that he asked for my hand and she went on one of her rants about the ‘horror of marriage and motherhood’. Truthfully, it wears on me. Her regrets will not be mine. I debated pushing her wheelchair in the pantry and leaving her there.

You would have laughed. I hope you’re laughing now, somehow.

I hope you laugh. I hope you love. 

I hope you heal.

And I hope that if God blesses me with a child, that one day they may meet their beautiful, brilliant, Auntie Bella.

All of my love,

-Andromeda Tonks

(Stop making that face, Bellatrix Black)

Chapter Text

Cissy,

Do you know what your sister did? She married Ted Tonks.

Yes, the pudgy boy who said that the Hunger Games were 'cruel' and he wanted to have a flower shop because flowers didn't know pain.

Clearly, Mother’s madness is contagious. 

If you decide that a man’s arm is the greatest place to be, I will kill you I hope you I will kill you. 

Two is exactly as boring as I feared it would be. There’s no excitement here, I have to make it for myself. There’s a girl, Rita, she made me laugh but she could be next.

I never thought I would be jealous of anything Andy did, but she got a plum place back home, didn’t she?

I can’t sleep.

There’s a surgeon here, from the Capitol, Cissy. He’s capped my teeth - you’ll see them soon when I return to the Capitol with my tributes. I bet my tributes will kill yours. They’ll definitely kill Andy’s - I see the others in every child I pass. I'm thinking about having more surgery done, something with my nails, maybe? When they come for me - I can be ready.

If you don’t hear from me again, assume I’m wonderful. My house is quiet, there’s plenty of food I can have any time I want it. I don’t have to listen to you moaning about midnight snacks going straight to your thighs anymore.

I thought you were dead, in the end. You looked dead, Cissy.

Don’t write back, I don’t want letters from either of you.

I'm alone here and I like it. This secret letter thing is crap.

It isn’t the same.

-BB

Chapter Text

Dearest Andromeda Tonks,

Married? Already? Yes, I imagine Mother is furious. You may have missed it, but she is quite against both marriage and rearing children. 

However, I have my own news to share: I too am married. 

It was terribly fast and I don’t know him very well, but his father is a fellow victor. He knew Grandfather, he said. It was something of a surprise to find out I was to be married, yet I would never go against the wishes of our President, especially as a Victor.

How soon after returning home did you wed? Was it quickly? I don’t remember Ted much, Bellatrix said he’s a wonderful man though. Lucius is kind to me, though I believe he had his sight set on another in the district. I’ve reminded him quite pointedly that I am both beautiful and deadly - I did not survive the arena to be scorned by a man. 

Lucius straightened up once his mother and I grew closer. Viper Malfoy is a wonderful woman - warm and alive and everything our mother could never be. I asked Lucius, just to be certain, and Viper never once told him that bearing children was the worst mistake of her life.

Are you shocked, Andromeda? I, for one, am shocked. (Be sure to tell Mother that)

I am in search of a hobby, something to pass the time. My ankle has broken again, the same one that was crushed in the arena. I’m walking on it, which is quite stupid of me. 

Can I still confide in you, Andromeda? Are you still the sister who slayed monsters under my bed and held me as a mother should?

I’ll hope so.

I am concerned that if I were to go visit a doctor for my ankle that they’ll change me somehow. Not mentally, but physically. It happens. Bellatrix has capped teeth now, the glittering reminder of what she was forced to do. 

I don’t want the mirror to remind me of the games every time I pass. I just want to forget, Andromeda. If I could, I would sacrifice even the most cherished memories of you and Bellatrix to free myself from the arena.

I’m sorry. I do so truly love you. 

I hope that your life is everything you deserve and that we may one day be reunited.

-your loving sister