SO MANY HARD CHAPTERS TO WRITE GURGHH!

Recently my chapters have been disgustingly short, but they're mostly so that I can 1) repay you guys for more updates - which makes both me and you beauties wonderfully happy and 2) to torture you with cliff hangers!

This is in the POV of the girl in the purple cloak - didn't want to tell you her name, it'd ruin the surpise, haHA.

Two last things:

1. I've done another story! Sirius/OC one, if you must know, so if you're interested in that sort of shit (because HEAPS of people love Sirius, obviously) you can just check that out. But you don't have to, not saying you don't have to. :P

2. I've changed the rating! It's a rated M because ... well, you'll see. It's starting to get real deep and ... yeah, I'll just let you read lol

Thanks for the wonderful reviews, favourites, follows (I didn't miss one out, did I? xD)! 250 reviews!

250 REVIEWS!

I actually do love you all. And you can ask me questions about this story if you're confused or anything - I'd gladly oblige :P

So, after that long A/N, enjoy!


Chapter 28

"HARRY POTTER!" she screamed, waving her arms about as she ran down the secluded alleyway, nearly choking at the murky atmosphere and falling over numerous of times. "HARRY! HEY, BOY! You are a bloke, right? Yeah, she wouldn't – HARRY!"

... so she was a little excited. Perhaps not the greatest impression to give the boy she dreamed of meeting ever since she was a little girl, but you know – it's what on the inside that matters.

She hoped her mother's most basic (yet complicated) advice worked in this instance.

Biting her lip, she turned the corner, hurling the excited shouts and yells at him, expecting a messy haired, muscular, large, bulky, attractive Superman-like wizard that she only heard tales about, his cloak flowing in the wind with a confident smile on his face. But when the murk cleared, she halted to a stop, nearly wanting to throw up at the sight.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen death before. In the months of living in a run-down tenement in one of the poorest places in this place, she had to adapt quickly to the popular murdering, mugging, stealing and starvation loitering the streets of District 8. But she hadn't witnessed anyone vitally important or distantly related dying yet.

Nevermind a girl who she knew her family cared a lot about.

"Oh Merlin ..." she murmured, her voice shaky, walking towards the two, her fingers twitching. As soon as she caught sight of the throat, she closed her eyes. "Aw, shit, Harry," she groaned, hand covering her eyelids. "You could've warned me, you know."

"How do you know my name?" His voice was deep, on the verge of cracking, sounding much older than he was said to be.

... and British.

It was such a long time since she heard the boring British accent that it now sounded exciting. Even her own accent had a slight taint weird District 8, which was basically a more pronounced Yankee one.

She swallowed the sick she tasted in her mouth. "Not much time. The police will get to us, and then we'll be in trouble." Opening her eyes and glancing at the way she came with alarm, she held out her hand towards Harry, pointedly not looking at the girl – Hermione.

Her deep brown eyes filled up with tears just thinking about the tales she heard of her. The ones of Hogwarts and her big bushy hair and her torturing at that mansion she forgot the name of.

The love of his life.

"I'm probably one of the most wanted people in Panem right now," she said, fumbling around her pocket to retrieve her wand. "So are you."

"What about Hermione?" he said, so much sorrow, grief and worry in his voice that made her look directly at him. His green eyes had lost its warmth a long time ago, making her knit her eyebrows; had the stories she was told false, then? Was he not as warm and determined and stubborn, but tired and weak and cold instead? His unmanageable jet-black hair stuck out on end, presumably at the many times he ran through it in frustration, blood and dirt all over his face and hands.

Suffice to say, he was not like what she pictured him to be, and not at all like the photos.

It was so depressing.

"Hermione," he repeated urgently, bringing her out of her thoughts and back to the present. "We can't just leave her!"

She opened her mouth to reply, about to snap at him for being so distraught (even though he had a good reason to) when there was a hair-raising scream behind them. Turning sharply around, she saw the little paperboy that sat outside the factories, stood frozen. His arms, still as ice, hung stonily at his sides, his sunken eyes wide with fear, looking from her, to Harry, then to the slit throat of Hermione's.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

"Listen, kid – please, we can explain –" she started, stepping forward with a desperate expression and her stomach swirling with unsteady, wary anxiety. But really, she knew she couldn't stop him – it would be far too complicated to believe – therefore she shouldn't have been shocked when he darted for the nearest exit to the busiest street in the part of the district.

Though, she somehow was – unprepared, she waved her arms and attempted to hoop her arms around his tiny chest to stop him, but he was fast, too fast, the fabric she managed to pinch slipping from her fingers and the boy scampering away, crying.

"Fuck." She turned to Harry, her eyes wide. "Fuck."

"What?" he said, his eyebrows furrowed, annoyed, his bloodshot eyes nearly ablaze. "News like this doesn't travel fast enough."

"He watches the fucking Games, Harry! He'll know you like he's known you for years!"

"I'm not leaving."

"Fine," she barked, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and Hermione's shoulder. "Then I'll make you. Don't blame me if you get Splinched."

"No –!"

The sirens started blaring, the screams and yells from the nearby streets suddenly being heard. Her breath quickening, eyes closed, she tried to calm herself, focusing on her small, crappy living room that had the wallpaper ripping from the walls, and only an extremely uncomfortably mattress for furniture.

She didn't have time to think that she never side-Apparated with a dead person before, or the fact that whoever deserted the flat might've been back by then and she would be found, or the fact that Muggles could be right behind her, witnessing the whole thing.

She just Disapparated.


She walked to and fro, her boots making the wooden, creaky floorboards let out a dignified squeal. Her arms crossed and messy curls even messier, she shot a glance Harry's way, biting her lip.

He sat on the mattress, his fingers scrunching up his hair and looking angrily across at Hermione's corpse. Out of respect, Harry had carefully knitted her open wound to a close with precise wand work, nearly falling to pieces as he did so, she could tell. It broke her heart, her stomach feeling as if it wasn't even there anymore.

Thanks to them, her flat now didn't only smell of smoke and factories, but a dead body, too.

"I am sorry, you know," she blurted, not bearing the intense silence anymore and hugging her cheap cloth around her body. "For Hermione."

He didn't reply immediately, just stared hauntingly at his best friend, his face looking almost ghostly. Empty. "You're not," he said. "You didn't know her."

She let out humourless laugh. "Well, I was supposed to," she scoffed. "Before Mr Potter got curious and fucked it all up."

Like always, she had crossed the line – she knew it when it spilled out of her mouth; Harry shot up, his fists clenched with fury. "SHUT UP!" he roared, coming over to her and slamming her body against the wall. "I know I messed up! She's dead, I know, I know!"

"I know you know," she said quietly, not fussed at all that she was held up against a disgustingly damp wall with Harry's fists clenching her purple cloak at the shoulders. "But you don't understand."

"Oh, I understand," he said bitterly, taking a step back – she almost felt sympathetic. "I understand perfectly. This place, this world you live in – it's not right. Not safe, not safe at all." His eyes were full with tears, making hers fill up, too. "This place killed Hermione. And Hermione wasn't supposed to die, I know she wasn't. Someone told me."

"Who?"

"This man," he said, his voice hollow as he stepped back. "This man called Nico Di Angelo."

She shrugged, trying to make the situation light. It always worked, after all. "I don't know him – he try to kill you or something?"

"No. He just told me to trust you, and that Hermione's dead." Knitting his eyebrows, he looked up at her. "Did you watch it? The Games?"

Shaking her head, she slid her back down the wall so she was sitting down on the floor. "Nah. I'd get caught. They know about me."

"What'd you do?"

"Didn't watch the Games," she said, rolling her eyes like he was the dumbest person in the face of the Earth. "I don't come from here, like you. I'm not really used to this yet, see."

If he looked confused before, it was nothing compared to now. His shoulders tensing, he widened his eyes at her. "The green mist? You went in it, too?"

"I'm an Unspeakable, Harry. Or was, anyway," she said, trying to gather the confidence she had left to tell him everything. "Listen, I don't want to tell you my life story, but I have to – so you know. Because you need to, we're practically related."

"Related –?"

"Just bloody sit down and stop being a stubborn dick, alright?" she said dramatically, giving a tired sigh and rubbing her palm over her face. She heard the hesitant footsteps and the mattress squeaking. "Thank you."

Gathering her breath, she opened her eyes and met his with a level, intense look. "I'm Roxanne Weasley."