Shit goes down. Prepare.

Chapter Twenty-Six

HERMIONE

It had been eight days.

Eight days in being in the arena, enclosed like a flock of birds in a cage. Eight days since she last kept comfort in a bed, eight days since she could think proper thoughts about proper things. Eight days of waking early, the mornings dark and gloomy, eight days of tiresome shifts and patrols, eight days of potentially dying.

... Yet all she could think about was how stupid she was getting.

Yes, she had a fat chance she could die in this arena, and yes, she aced her OWLS and her library was basically her sanctuary, and yes, she was told that she was the smartest witch of her age – but that was it, wasn't it? She was the smartest witch.

But not the smartest girl?

She shifted in her seat, the sickening scratch of her knife peeling the squirrel's skin, the faint rustle of bunch replicating the silence, her movements was now rigid as she placed the skinned squirrel in a separate pile, stowing it away for later.

Hermione was thinking of a lot of things.

At first she tried to not think of him, flat-out refused to talk to Harry about him after they learnt what the green mist did. But now she knew that there was no point in trying not to – it was like at Hogwarts, when they got told not to do something but did it anyway.

In willing herself not to, trying everything to not think about the littlest things like his small, bitten-off nails ... but in doing so, she was pulled to the thoughts.

She missed his way of being so thoughtless, his rocky saves after he inadvertently insulted her; she missed his red hair and how it looked like it was aflame in the sun; she missed the feel of his big hands envelop her small ones, and his wisecracking sense of humour that made her laugh but roll her eyes at the same time; his smile, his laugh; how he would relax her when she was so stressed about the SPEW by insulting her good-naturedly ...

Hermione shook her head, shaking out some loose strands of thick hair from her plait as she skinned the squirrel they caught. She needed to concentrate! She still didn't know half the rules, or half the surprises and mutts – what if there was a trapdoor that opened to an enormous lake full of alligators while she fumed with jealousy at Annabeth's talent for coming up with not even good ideas and got home/love sick?

That would be an imbecilic way to go.

Almost as a cue, the a cannon went off, echoing across the arena hauntingly. Biting her lip, she refused to believe it was some sort of sign, looking down on her squirrel as an excuse not to look at the UFO type of engine thing retrieve the body.

That was her first mistake.

Next to her, Harry let out a small grumble, sitting up from his sleeping position. His eyes darted from her face and the squirrel in her hands and independently reached towards the small pile of squirrels sitting in between them. "Where's the other two?"

"Off to get more squirrels," she replied, eyes downcast and concentrating on the squirrel. To be honest, she didn't really want to talk, in fear of letting herself ramble on nervously to avoid conversation about her behaviour – a topic Harry seemed dead-fast on having. "They left while we were sleeping – well, I was, until they told me to be on look-out."

Yawning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and started peeling with a knife they found the day before – a day when Annabeth's mood lifted into relief at the sight of two glorious blades within her grasp. Hermione wondered why she left them.

Sighing loudly, she resumed to her skin-peeling until Harry broke the silence. "You're acting weird."

"I'm not acting weird!" she snapped, glaring at the half-haired squirrel in her hands. "I'm simply aggravated at this squirrel! They're idiotic creatures that fall into dim-witted traps, and I've had enough of it! Rabbits at least have a brain, Harry. And they're rabbits."

He looked at her, amused. "Rabbits?"

"Yes, Harry, didn't you listen?" she said frustratingly, rolling her eyes, peeling the fur off with her blade with sharp movements. "I don't understand why squirrels need to eat nuts all the time. Well, I do – but you know, Harry, diets need variety! At least healthy ones, anyway, the nuts, fruit and other various foods aren't going to be enough nutrition for their brain."

"Hermione –"

"Actually, no. It's enough nutrition! And yet, with enough nutrition, they're still as brainlessas a bloody doornail! No, Harry – your arguments are invalid. If the squirrels prefer to be reduced to something worth less than a doornail, it can. See if I –"

She cut herself off, studying Harry's now concerned face and then her feet. Slightly ashamed, she tiredly sighed. "I need to go," she mumbled frustratingly, rubbing her nose and trying not to cry angry tears, which she knew she had a tendency of doing.

You know, being Ron's girlfriend wasn't exactly the most peaceful of things.

Harry frowned. For a moment Hermione genuinely believed he'd give her advice, or comfort her by grabbing her hand or something supportive or – or agree,at least. Something best friends do.

Gathering a gust of air, she prepared for a serious, meaningful moment with her best friend that she had stood aside since she was eleven, since that fateful day on the Hogwarts Express including Trevor the Toad. Or perhaps on that Halloween – involving a rather frightening troll and a wand shoved up his nose (it was still thought to be disgusting these days in any case). At this moment, this – this was what it all leaded up to (partly). All those years of going through trolls, Invisibility Cloaks, basilisks, werewolves, an innocent convict, a deathly dangerous competition, Veils, complicated love triangles, deaths of father figures, Horcruxes and defeating the Dark Lord.

"'Mione, we're surrounded by bushes," he deadpanned.

Since she didn't have a book to hit him with, she hit him with the squirrel instead. Repeatedly.

She thought it was deserved.

Just before she was about to shriek at him for being what she liked calling 'an insensitive prat' – you know, just to seal it all – she heard something.

A twig.

Breaking.

Her muscles froze, her whole body suddenly feeling cold. Crossing her eyebrows, she clenched her teeth and slowly slid her hand into her pocket. Warmth spread all over her body as her fingers wrapped around her wand. She mouthed to Harry, Stay close.

He widened his eyes when she brought out her wand and stood up, turning her head at the sound. Preferably, she would've liked to avoid confrontation – but there were less than half of the tributes left. It was either now or later, and to her it made sense to strike before she was more tired, drained or injured.

Her second mistake.

Wand outstretched, she followed the noise with cautious steps, slowing her breathing down to not gain attention from any surrounding person or thing. The trees hung over her, leaves whistling humorously as if amused, on-looking. She scowled, not knowing whether or not she was gradually going to go mad in this place.

She heard the slight crisp of leaves behind her, but with a short glance behind her she was relieved to note that it was only Harry, knife gripped in his hands. With a court nod, they silently agreed to jog – whoever it was could be killing someone else by now; fear punched through her stomach at the thought of Annabeth and Percy.

Willing her feet to move quicker, she skipped into a run – clearly not what Harry expected, for a moment she didn't hear his reassuring rhythm of feet hitting the ground –

She saw the shadows of two figure standing behind the huge oak trees before she could allow herself to turn around.

The knife of Clove's blade was slightly digging into her throat in seconds, not allowing her to breathe in the preferred oxygen for her lungs. Letting out a small shriek, she went to warn Harry, but Clove's excited pants sent shivers down her spine, her mouth inches away from her ear, and a fistful of her hair forcefully pulled Hermione's head back. The knife dug deeper, almost feeling Clove's smirk. "Scream a single word and I'll kill you."

Panicked, she studied her surroundings; Cato silently watched behind them, not being as subtle as Clove was, since Hermione could tell Harry would see his nose. In fact, she couldn't hear his footsteps at all.

Clever boy.

Her mind buzzing, frantically trying to dig out an idea that had a chance for both of them to survive, she closed her eyes and tried to focus. Focus, focus, there's no knife to your throat, focus, focus ...

And that was when she got it.

With as much subtlety that she could manage, she stuck out her wand from the tree, hopefully sticking out from the thick line of tree. She prayed that Harry knew what to do – and, swallowing her tears, Neville's convicted quote floated through her mind. What would Harry do?

Except, there wasn't much he could do except from connecting two and two together.

The knife dug deeper into her throat, making her let out a pathetic noise that sounded like a puppy dying. She delicately bobbed the wand up and down, with any luck gaining Harry's attention. There was a slight crisp of the leaves. More waving the wand about.

For the love of Merlin, Harry, use your bloody sense!

Almost as if it was telepathic, she felt Harry grab her wand quickly – a cold hand wrap around her wrist –

A sickening lurch –

She let out a screech of pain –

Black.