XXXV.

She examined his shoulders as he lazily parted the sea of vines to let them through. He was lean, and a small part of her thought he would fit well among the people of District 12. Then again, she thought he was the kind of person who could fit in anywhere. It took a lot of will not to smack Rita Skeeter in the nose for being her pompous, annoying self. Hermione had chose to talk over Skeeter; Tom played with her out of his own amusement. Slipping back into her memories of that interview, she was quite certain from the way he was rubbing his fingers together was only a sign of an urge to curse Skeeter.

She whispered, "If you were not here, what would you be doing?" They both knew too well what here was. It was impossible to forget.

"Training for the next Hunger Games," he answered flatly. "If I wasn't picked this year, I would had volunteered the next."

"How did you become this?" She gestured up and down. "A Career?"

He paused. "Isn't it obvious?" He turned his head to her. "I was chosen."

She didn't know what to say to that. From all the things she had heard about Careers, she never thought that they were picked, selected. Just like how the reaping chose its victims.

He stopped, and Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him. He commented, "Good place to set up camp. You know how to cast wards?"

She nodded, trying to examine why this place was good. Sure, there were thick vines spilling from trees and the trunks of said trees were thick. But they were in a small clearing, and Hermione didn't feel comfortable with that. After a moment of hesitation, she voiced her concerns to him.

He smirked, his wand tip flashing a deep navy hue as the ward flexed and then strengthened at his command. "We outnumber her."

"Arrogant ass," she muttered.

His smirk widened, and he leaned towards her. He clearly heard every soft word. "What did you do? Hide in the bushes? You'll blend right in." He nodded to her head, to her hair. Tauntingly.

"Trees," she answered, rolling her eyes.

"We here from District 2 know how to act like predators." A pause. "It seems you have yet to learn how to act like one."

She bristled.

He raised his eyebrow. "Or even know that you are one. Or did the four Careers you knocked off slip your mind?"

Shaking off the surprised faces in her memories and trying to erase the fact that she had killed four people, she quickly changed the topic. She seized upon their current little survival situation. "So what are we doing? Sleeping on the dirt?"

Thankfully, he let her go, not pushing any further about her kills. "No, we are more sophisticated people than that." He snapped his finger, and his backpack on the ground unzipped itself. A dark green object flew out and quickly unfolded itself. Strings zoomed this way and that, and metal sticks clicked into position.

A tent. It was small, barely reaching the bottom of Hermione's shirt in height, and it would be lucky if it could even fit the two of them.

Raising her nose to the sky, she snarked, "I thought you said we were more sophisticated than that. It can't fit both of us unless I sleep on top of you."

Bending down, he raised the tent flap. "Not a bad idea, Hermione."

Flabbergasted, she stared as he disappeared from her view. She was not certain if there was a single drop of sarcasm in his words. The tent shook once, and then he called out, "You coming or staying out in the cold?"

"Small," she commented one last time. She took in the careful wards he set up, a second line of defense after her first line. The Career would find trouble if she tries to break through. So they were safe.

For now.

She lifted up the flap of the tent, puzzled when she saw Tom sitting cross legged on the ground. His back was bent to the slope of the tent, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yes. Enough room for us," she said, calmly. Really, they needed to sleep on top of each other to be comfortable in here. She did not look forward to it.

She closed the tent flap behind her. Then the tent changed. It was as if the space inside had increased dramatically in height, weight, and length. Had she escape to another dimension or something?

Hit her head too hard?

She stood up, her mouth dropped as she spun herself around. There were rooms, sections in the tent. "Is this. . .?"

He sauntered over to little armchair in the corner next to a glowing fireplace. Smugly, he told her, "An undetectable Extension Charm. All the cameras would see is the tent jolting around but no sound. And yes, no way they can hear us inside, but we can hear what is outside."

"Brilliant," she whispered in awe.

He got up and pressed against her back. She shivered at his presence, at how close he was to her. A little inch back, and she would be pressed to his front. Gently from someone who was trained to be a killer, he purred, "Allow me to demonstrate something." He took a hold of her right hand and then lifted it up in front of them, palm up. "With this, they can't see us, but we can see out. Show me."

The dark drapes of the tent disappeared, and Hermione gasped. It was as if the tent had become invisible as they stood in a small clearing of a jungle.

"This is. . ." She was speechless for once.

He drew their hands into a fist. "Hide." Then the tent became visible again. He still held her hand, the dark stone of the ring on his finger winking at her. He lingered over her four seconds too long, and when he swept away, she missed the closeness he offered.

"You asked me what I would be doing if I wasn't here. I hoped for teaching students magic."

"Teaching? You don't seem the type."

He shrugged. "And what would you be doing, Hermione? If you weren't here."

She bit back her answer. AC12. The club. The resistance. It was what she would be doing. Building their independence outside of the Capitol. Due to the magic binding nature of the document, she was unable to tell him the truth.

"S.P.E.W," he answered himself. A pause. "That was when I knew you are anti-Capitol."

She froze.

"They can't hear us. Anything we say. In fact, I can tell you that I personally think our so-called beloved Panem President Umbridge should be called Umbitch." He settled back into his armchair, leaning back and soaking in the warmth of the fireplace. "That comment alone should be worth an execution by a squadron."

She nearly cracked a smile at that. That was what the AC12 thought as well. Fred even made one of those glamored buttons saying, President Umbytch must die.

He examined her as he said, "I hate these Games."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She was careful in her response. "Why do you hate them?"

"It's a cycle, Hermione. The Capitol oppresses us, forces us to send more people to die for them, and they hunt for our children. It'll never end unless someone stops it."

She paused. "What would that person be?"

"A revolutionary."