A/N:
Chapter title inspired by Maliha Kazmi: "I am both the calm before the storm and the storm. I am, what you wait to be destroyed from."

Endless thanks to my betas supernovanox, zara._anna, and megsivvy. All remaining mistakes are my own.

The training grounds held a tower that housed all the tributes and their teams. The lobby was vast and spacious, with a soaring ceiling five times the height of the tallest building back in District 12. Each District was assigned their own floor, and the levels wrapped around the lobby continuously until coming to an end at what Hermione counted to be the thirteenth floor.

When she entered the elevator, she only had to press her District number. Not only were the elevators fast, but they were made entirely of glass. She could do little else but watch in awe as the people on the ground floor shrank before her eyes as she rode to her floor.

Rita escorted her from the moment she arrived back in her carriage and Hermione came to the conclusion that the woman would likely be overseeing her right into the arena of the Games, when the time for that came.

In a way, she didn't mind. She hadn't seen Moody since he shoved her into the room with her stylists and assumed she wouldn't be seeing him any time soon. With the pace of his drinking, he had likely passed out in an inconspicuous place.

Rita, on the other hand, had been pulling out all the stops. It was as if she had never had a tribute to be excited about before. She had complimented Hermione's dress, had praised her for how she conducted herself during the ceremony, and had raved about the crowd reaction. She had made it seem like she knew everyone who was anyone in Pure Capital and had committed to talking Hermione up at any opportunity that presented itself, trying to win her sponsors.

As they rode up to their floor, Rita confessed, "I of course don't know what your training strategy is, since Moody won't tell me, but I've done my best to work with what I've got."

Hermione nodded. She too didn't know what her strategy was.

"I've focused on how composed you are to have come from a savage District like 12. Some people have their reservations, of course -" she prattled on, "- but I just tell them that coal can turn into diamonds if you pressure it hard enough!"

Hermione chose to ignore the comment about savagery. She could easily argue the same thing about the people in Pure Capital.

She wasn't sure if Rita knew that they didn't mine the type of coal that turned into diamonds, but she let her believe that they did. If any of the people she spoke to bought the story, then she wouldn't be worse off because of it.

Maybe one of those idiots would even sponsor her.

"Unfortunately, as you know, only Moody can seal the deals for you," she said grimly. "But don't you worry! I'll hold him at wand point if I have to!"

She lowered her voice to a volume that was meant for only Hermione to hear. "No unforgivables of course, but I know a few spells that are just as unpleasant." She winked at Hermione as the doors opened on their floor and departed to her wing.

Hermione's room was larger than the entire Burrow. It was lavish, even more so than the train car, and had buttons near every appliance, plug, and switch. The shower had a dozen different settings for temperature and pressure, and the soap dispensers could mix a concoction of every conceivable scent. As she stepped into the shower, she chose one that closely resembled the smell that Viktor and Cedric had used on her skin.

When she exited, she sunk her feet into the plush bath mat and was dried instantly by a clever charm embedded within the bathroom walls.

She hung the dress Fleur had created for her in the closet, and chose an outfit that was more subdued – Khaki pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. She remembered the phoenix pin that she had transferred from her shirt, to the pocket of her robes, to the lining of her bra during the styling, and pulled it out.

Looking at it, something about Malfoy's comment again made her feel uneasy – what about this pin was so special for him to point it out? Phoenix birds may have been a bit controversial, but speaking about them wasn't outlawed.

You weren't deemed a rebel just for mentioning one, or adorning one on your clothes, so what gave? She traced her fingers along the shapes beneath the golden bird but came to no conclusion.

A knock on the door broke her train of thought. Rita had come to collect her for dinner. She pocketed the pin, opting to keep it out of sight for now, and made her way to the door.

When she and Rita entered their designated dining area, Viktor, Cedric, and Fleur were already seated on a couch in the corner of the room. Hermione was all the more glad to see them there when Rita mentioned that Moody would be joining them for dinner.

She knew that dinners at that point would be less about the food, and more about the strategy. At least she hoped. Her styling team had already proven their value to her so she wanted them to be part of the discussion either way.

A server approached them and wordlessly offered wine. Hermione thought to decline but quickly changed her mind. She had never drank wine before. The server poured yellow liquid into her glass and she fought to suppress a cough at her first taste.

Moody walked into the room as the first plate of food appeared. It looked like Cedric and Viktor had had their way with him too because he looked clean and impeccably well groomed. She wondered if he had heeded the advice he gave her and had kept his mouth shut about what the stylists did to him.

It was hard to believe he would have.

Fleur made small talk with Moody while Rita laughed obnoxiously at something either Cedric or Viktor had said. If Hermione hadn't known better, it would have looked like Rita was flirting with them. She smiled to herself at the thought and concentrated on her meal.

What the woman didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.

The courses of food came one after another, all delivered by quiet servers who kept the plates full and the glasses filled. Hermione nursed her wine when her head started to feel muddled, switching to water every other time to try and gain back some semblance of clarity.

It was unfathomable how Moody went about his days in a constant state of fogginess. She figured alcohol had less effect when you used it like an IV.

She tried to focus her mind on the conversation, which had quickly turned boisterous and animated, when a young girl came through with a white cake and set it down lightly on the table. As Hermione turned towards the girl to ask what kind it was, she stopped, her mouth dropping wide in awe.

It was a peculiar feeling to recognize a face, but not quite place from where. The girl had long black hair that went past her shoulders and a set of blunt bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were dark brown, her skin porcelain, and her entire demeanor projected innocence.

Hermione felt her insides tighten at the odd sensation. When the girl noticed her staring, the kind smile from her face disappeared. She shook her head at the look in Hermione's eyes and quickly backed away from the table before scurrying out of the room.

When Hermione looked back at the table, everyone was watching her with furrowed brows.

"Granger, what are you on?" snapped Moody.

"I think I recognize her."

"Don't be silly," Rita said. "You can't possibly know a squib."

Her words made no sense. "A squib?"

"Someone who committed a crime," Moody eyed her suspiciously. "They get their magic taken away and are silenced. She's most likely a traitor or a rebel. Unlikely you would know who she was."

"And even if you did recognize her-" Rita cut in, wringing her hands on the napkin in front of her "-you don't address squibs unless you have an order for them." She paused, before adding, more so to herself than anyone in the room. "There's no way you would have known her."

Hermione nodded, hoping it would ease the tense interrogation. But she knew that Rita was wrong. She did know her. Moody's mention of the word rebel had dawned recognition on her. She didn't care to admit her revelation out loud though.

"You're probably right, I don't know her," she said.

The mood at the table relaxed instantly and they all dug into the cake.

But Hermione's thoughts didn't rest. The girl couldn't have been much older than she was. A pit settled in her stomach as the pieces came together in her mind.

When they'd eaten all the cake, they moved to the sitting area to watch a replay of the opening ceremony. She noticed a few of the other entries that she had had missed during the day and had to admit that she wasn't the only one that had made a good impression.

Rita proclaimed loudly that nobody even held a candle to Hermione's entrance, but Hermione could tell that was a far-fetched statement. Yes, she had looked good, great in fact. But there were other Districts that seemed to pull out everything they had. She stood out on the mere fact that she was alone, like a sore thumb amongst 11 other District pairs.

But of course, she was not the only lone wolf. She didn't really count Pure Capital in her mental tally of Districts, but figured at this point she should. They had a tribute, and he seemed to think he had her figured out.

She watched as his entrance got the least air time, cutting to him for mere moments before panning out to show the rest of the parade. Though he had been standing at the front railing of his carriage when Hermione last looked at him, he had seated himself sometime after and had remained seated for the duration of the showing.

He didn't smile or wave. He simply sat and looked out into the distance. He had an air of boredom to him, almost as if he was being inconvenienced – like he had bigger and better things waiting for him after the parade ended.

"That one looks like a real piece of work," Moody muttered as the camera panned to the Pure Capital carriage again.

Rita scoffed at him and stuck her chin out. "Pure Capital has never had a tribute, Moody," she said, taking the time to enunciate his name with spite. "Give the boy a break."

Moody waved her off and pretended like he didn't hear her. "I do commend him though. Sitting on your ass is a nice touch of rebellion."

At his words, Hermione balked. She hadn't considered that angle. She had looked at his actions as careless, even somewhat stupid, but then remembered how the other Districts looked and figured Moody might be on to something.

The other tributes all stood triumphantly, engaged with the crowd, as if they regarded the Games as what the Pure Capital regime wanted – a celebration. Malfoy hadn't done anything of that sort. He had presented himself as someone who looked like he didn't care, a prominent but unwilling figure in the send-off parade.

Him sitting, staring off into the distance, might as well have been a big middle finger to everyone responsible for putting on the Games.

As the recap ended, Moody's voice cut through as he addressed Hermione. "Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Be ready at breakfast and we'll talk strategy for how you should play it."

She nodded. She would have much preferred to talk strategy today, so she could think about it before bed, but he looked like he had already become inebriated.

"Go get some sleep. The grown-ups need to talk."

She rose to her feet and walked down the hallway towards her wing of the floor. As she approached her room, she spotted a sign further down the hall that pointed to another door. The symbol on it was that of stairs. She wondered if they reached the roof, and her feet were already carrying her to them before she could give it a second thought.

Only two flights divided her floor from the door that led outside. As she stepped out into the open space, she was met with a cool breeze and the sight of Pure Capital at nighttime.

It was strikingly beautiful. The lights of the city twinkled like stars, reminding her of her dress from the ceremony, and she was awestruck at how much life seemed to be emanating from it. There were people in the windows of the buildings all around her, some on their own, some gathered in small crowds, cooking or watching television. She walked to the railing at the edge of the roof and looked down. There were residents walking dogs, honking cars that stopped to pick up passengers, and voices filtering up to her from the street.

As she looked out onto the city, which more and more resembled fireflies in the dark, a solemn thought passed through her mind. She wondered why the roof was even accessible. She could imagine any year there could be tributes desperate enough to end it before their time in the Games even began.

She picked up a rock and tossed it over the edge. It zapped as it hit an invisible barrier and bounced back onto the roof. She tried again from a different spot to the same result. She walked around the perimeter tossing the rock over and over again and each time it landed back at her feet. What may have looked like the possibility of freedom, was simply a cruel illusion.

She wished she had someone with her that she could talk to. Really talk to. Ron would probably be her first choice given the circumstances, but she was no fool to think that she would ever see him again.

However, he would know what to say, he would know what to do, and he would know how to ease Hermione's worry, even if with temporary words of encouragement.

Her feet took her to a secluded part of the roof with a small garden that wasn't maintained, with rough weeds and wild plants sticking out in different directions.

They reminded her of the forest. The forest reminded her of Ron. But just as quickly as her mind landed there, he morphed into the face of the girl she saw at dinner.

Seeing her had reminded Hermione why she was there. Not to play dress up and eat decadent food. She was there to kill, and if the odds went against her, be killed, while the city cheered on her assassin.

She wondered in that moment if she was being watched. If there were cameras hidden somewhere on the roof that were taping her every move. She figured there probably were.

Hermione wasn't a guest there – she was a prisoner. She was always being watched. She sat down at the edge of the flower bed and let her thoughts take her to the girl from earlier.

She remembered the day much clearer now that she had given herself permission to finally dwell on the details. Her and Ron had been hunting. They had been hidden in the trees, waiting for an animal to cross their path, humming melodies to each other, when all the birds suddenly stopped singing.

All except same bird that sang back to her, the one that felt her nerves and could ease her tensions with a simple melody. That time, its song was a warning call.

The next part of the memory was the hardest to relive. Through the bush that her and Ron were hidden behind, they saw her. She was in tattered clothes, running as if her life depended on it, further and further into the pits of the woods. From their vantage point, she remembered thinking that those parts of the forest were too deep and too far from the fence to be safe. Her and Ron had never dared to venture out that far. But it didn't look like she was running with the intention of returning.

The men on brooms had appeared out of nowhere. One moment the sky was clear and devoid of anything but a few straggling clouds, and the next moment, the girl was trapped. The seconds after that were nothing but flashes in her recollection. The girl's scream. Her body falling over, petrified. Her rope-bound form being magically lifted from the ground high into the air towards her captors. And then they were gone. The sound of birds rang out amongst the trees as if nothing had happened.

All-consuming guilt flushed through Hermione as a sob escaped her throat. Her and Ron had stood by. They had done nothing. If they had moved quickly enough, maybe they could have concealed her or helped her escape. But they had stayed hidden behind the bush and just watched.

Hermione wanted to believe that they remained unseen, but that was untrue. After the lone bird sang out, but only seconds before the men on brooms appeared, the girl had locked eyes with her. She looked like she wanted to call out for help.

The scream Hermione had heard – had it been her last? Knowing what she knew now, she presumed it was.

Where had the girl come from? She certainly didn't recognize her from District 12, but she also didn't look like she was poor enough to be from any neighboring Districts.

What had she been running from? Where was she running to? There wasn't anything beyond the barrier of the District 12 forest. Just wilderness. At one point, the 13th District did exist somewhere, but not anymore. The smouldering remains of it were shown on television often.

There was nothing to run to if you wanted to escape.

As the busy hum of the city gradually fell to a hush, she rose to her feet to make her way back to her room. She would wake the next day to her first training session and she needed all the rest she could get. Prisoner or not.

Stepping back into the stairwell, she narrowly missed the ripple of space behind her before the door clicked closed and she was out of sight.

When Hermione opened the door to her room, the same girl was collecting the towel that she had left on the bathroom floor. She thought about what Rita had said earlier: You don't address squibs unless you have an order for them.

Hermione wanted to apologize. For dinner mostly, but she also knew the apology would run much deeper. Seeing the girl filled her with shame. She felt responsible for her silencing and her loss of magic.

The girl looked at her briefly, expression unreadable, before she turned and left the room.

Hermione kicked off her shoes and climbed into the bed still in her clothes. Every part of her hoped the girl didn't remember her. But she knew life didn't work that way. She couldn't imagine herself forgetting the face of someone who was once her last hope.

She pulled the covers over her head and willed herself to fall asleep. But every time she closed her eyes, she could see the girl's face. When it wasn't her face, she could hear her scream.

The last thought she had before sleep consumed her was if the girl would be watching the Games, cheering on Hermione to die.

A/N:

Any guesses as to who the squib is?