Mathis explains what we will be wearing in the tribute parade. We're to kind of look as if we'd been in duels. Mathis dressed me in a ripped up blue t-shirt and jeans, with muddy trainers. It was fun applying the little bit of fake blood. We walked out to the carriages, where I notice the other magical tributes are dressed similarly. Gabrielle looks like me, except she has on a purple shirt.

I search for the girl from District Twelve, Primrose. She is waiting on her chariot, next to her stylist. He is a dark haired man, who seems to be in his mid thirties. He is deep in discussion with Primrose and the boy tribute. He looks like Primrose, except he is much older, at least sixteen. The both of them are wearing black suits that cover their body from neck to ankle. There are multicolored streamers coming from it.

I walk over to talk to her.

"Hi," she says when she notices me. "You're a witch, right? From England?"

"Uh, yeah, my name's Hazel. What does your stylist intend to do with these suits" I ask.

"Oh, Cinna? He's planning on lighting them on fire before we go out. Of course, I think it's crazy, but Cinna's nice enough." Primrose says.

"Of course it's crazy! You'll be burned, Primrose!" I exclaim.

"Oh, call me Prim. All my friends do. Actually, everyone does, unless they don't know me. Of course, that's not uncommon in 12." she says ruefully.

"I suppose so," I say.

"Hazel!" calls Mathis calls. "You should get on the chariot now."

"Bye," I say, heading over to my own chariot. Since there's two from each House, they're making us go by houses. Our chariot is red and gold decorated, and two palomino horses with scarlet saddle blankets and decoration are to pull it. Marcus is dressed a little more gory than us girls are, with lots more fake blood and a fake gash across his cheek.

Just before the chariots pull out, the dark haired man who was talking to Prim, Cinna, comes up with a lighter and sets the capes and headdresses afire. District One chariot, led by two pure white horses, leads us out of the compound. As soon as the Twelve chariot reaches the entrance, Cinna yells at them to do something. Prim and the boy talk for a second, and then clasp hands, holding their hands high in the air for everyone to see. The whole crowd bursts into cheers and applause, calling their names, Primrose and Peeta. Somebody throws a rose at Prim. She catches it, sniffs it, and then throws it back into the crowd.

No one really paid any attention to any of the other chariots, but I couldn't find it in myself to be mad or envious. Not a problem for some of the other tributes.

The chariots drive all the way to the City Circle, queing up close as there are so many more chariots than usual. A man with white hair and a steely expression stands on a balcony. This must be President Snow.

"Welcome," he says to the crowd in general, "To the 74th annual Hunger Games. I know…"

His speech droned on for about five minutes. We made a final loop around the Circle and then head into a very large building. I heard Savan call it the Training Center.

Immediately, the tributes are engulfed by their prep teams. Mathis and Marcus's stylist help us off the chariots as we head up to the rooms. I look back at Prim. Her, Peeta, Cinna, and their escort are talking, along with a drunken looking man in his late thirties, of maybe early forties. But even he is smiling.

The tributes of One and Two, however, look anything but happy. They are annoyed that a mere twelve year old stole their thunder, I suppose.

Up in my room, I wash the fake dirt and blood off my face, returning to the face I recognize, scar and all. I take off the blue shirt and change into a nightgown.

That night, I have a dream. I see myself standing in a heavily wooded area. There is a giant cornucopia in front of me, filled with weapons, food, clothing. No one is near. So I race to the cornucopia. And a figure emerges on the other side. A familiar one.

"Luna? What are you doing here?" my dream self asks. She has a blank look on her face, as if she has no idea what she is doing.

"I'm sorry, Hazel," she says, no sympathy in her tone, none of her usual dreaminess. "Crucio!"

My drean self writhes on the ground, obviously in pain. "Why are you doing this, Luna? You shouldn't cast that spell!"

"No choice," says Luna faintly. And then my dream fades out, and I fall into a restless sleep.