"Do or die, Granger."
The chilling, slow voice caught her attention, startling the already fragile girl. Clinched fists faltered for only a second before once again her nails were threatening to cut into the palms of her hands. Fragile as she might have been, she refused to show weakness. But it was important to realize that she hardly cared how others saw her. In these games you couldn't worry about the emotional state of the other players.
The only person she was afraid of showing just how much fear she was withholding was, in fact, herself.
A long pause passed before she finally ripped her gaze from the wall to her mentor, but words were failing her in her in this moment. She was only able to warrant a nod towards the last comfort she had, but Snape only stood there, arms crossed, and face as expressionless as it always was. How many times had he stood in place to watch a tribute before they were sent to their death? How many times had he told a tribute the only options that they had while in the arena?
"I'm scared," she stated, deciding that it was only fair to be honest with one last person before departing. Whether this honesty was with Snape or herself she wasn't exactly sure, but the words had already been said. "Naturally," he drawled.
Her face contorted into a pained expression, only briefly, and she looked away from her mentor as it did, but she quickly refused to allow herself anymore weakness, and composed herself as fast as she let herself falter. When her eyes once again landed on the dark figure in the room she swore she could see a flash of sadness in his eyes, maybe pity was the better word, but it was gone quickly as well.
Another pause, until Snape broke the silence.
"You're the brightest one out there."
That certainly caught her off guard, a compliment from Severus Snape?
The suddenly shifting ground underneath her did nothing to improve her state. She let out an audible gasp, her fists unclenching themselves in another moment of weakness, except this wave of fear didn't show any signs of disappearing into the back of her mind.
"I have... faith in you, Miss. Granger."
And with that he turned on his heel, not even bothering to give her one last look as she slowly rose up on the metal plate towards an intrusive light that shined overhead.
A light that held no promises.
The heartbeat in her chest threatened to kill her before anything else. It was beating its head against her ribcage, begging for release before someone else granted it freedom in a violent attack. "No, no, no," she whispered, pressing sweaty palms against the receding glass. "I'm not—I'm not."
Failure was rearing its ugly head, and it was even more monstrous than it usually was, because now failure was death in the games and an unimaginable expression on her parent's and friend's faces.
She closed her eyes, unprepared to look at the faces of her opponents, unprepared to look at the arena, and unprepared to face the only thing that lie ahead for her. She could feel the light against her eyelids now, and feel a small breeze prick against her skin. Soon the plate came to a stop, and silence filled the air around her. Whether she liked it or not, it was time to play.
As she opened her eyes, she asked herself one unspoken question. A question that had plagued her mind in the past few days, hours, and seconds that had lead up to this very moment.
Hermione Granger, are you ready for The Hunger Games?