In the Darkest of Times Chapter 1: In the Darkest of Times, a harry potter fanfic

A/N:

this fic is a grand departure from my regular catalogue (been doing that quite often lately, ha) and as such covers a lot of content that definitely earns an explicit rating and then some.

Tags/Warnings: AU - Hunger Games, AU - Non-Magical, Underage, Mentor Tom Riddle, Tribute Harry Potter, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Age Difference, Grooming

harry is 16 going on 17 whereas tom is somewhere in his early 30s. even putting that aside, the relationship is questionable because harry is pretty much dependent on tom for everything the moment they reach the capitol. i try not to romanticize their relationship in this story but this is essentially my disclaimer of 'please do not try this at home'.

thank you to Sanya, light of my life, for being my #1 cheerleader and reassuring me i didn't not mess up horrifically along the way.

also no one ask me why i labelled the sections with numbers instead of my usual linebreaks. i was feeling melodramatic.

In the Darkest of Times

ZERO.

Harry sits under a green canopy of trees, listening to the wild winds and the hushed rustle of leaves. After some time, Ginny runs up to him, her sturdy boots crunching over twigs and stones. She's holding a squirrel in her hands. Its right eye socket is a bloody, gaping hole that extends clean through to the other side.

"Nice shot," he says. The sight doesn't churn his stomach anymore, but he's never liked looking at them. The limp bodies and glassy, lifeless stares. He'll never get used to them.

She grins at him, her smile all toothy and full of pride. "Think it's worth a pastry or two?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling back. She'll take it to the Dursleys and they'll haggle her down, but it'll fetch something decent. Petunia has a soft spot for the young girls of the Seam, even unladylike ones like Ginny. "Yeah, I reckon it will be."

"We'll share," she tells him. "Half for you, half for me."

"But I didn't do anything," Harry protests.

Ginny smacks his shoulder, unimpressed. "Sure you did. You're my lookout. If the Gamekeepers caught me out here, I'd get in trouble. You know that."

Harry isn't buying it. Anyone can play lookout; it doesn't make him special. He's here for the same reason she is: because they're friends.

"Besides," she adds, tongue-in-cheek, "you need to eat more, twig."

She does too, though he isn't tactless enough to mention it, but her smile tugs something loose inside him. She's hard to say no to.

"Fine," he says. "We'll share." Just this once. Next time he'll be firm.

Ginny laughs and hauls him to his feet. "That's the spirit. We're in this together, don't you know?"

"Together," Harry repeats. He couldn't see it any other way.

ONE.

"I want you to take everything you think you know about the Games and discard it. Toss it right out the window. For this year's Quarter Quell, we are changing everything."

TWO.

The skies overhead are dreary and dismal, grey clouds heavy and swollen with a waiting rainstorm. Smog floats through the air, slow acting poison that stains their faces with an ashen cast that never washes away, not fully. Harry wishes there was a breeze to alleviate the heavy atmosphere, but he figures they ought to save their luck for later.

"It'll be fine, Harry, it'll be fine." Ron repeats the words over and over, mostly under his breath. He's paler than normal, blinking rapidly. Anxious. This is Ron's first year taking tesserae. He's scared out of his wits and Harry doesn't blame him one bit.

"Yeah, Ron. It'll be fine." Just this year and one more, then they'll both be free.

Harry's not sure how badly the Weasleys need the extra grain and oil. What he does know is that no one wants to see Ginny's name entered more than it has to be, and Ron is the only other child left to bear the burden of extra entries. So this year Ron has thirteen ballots instead of five. It's a steep increase.

Harry, who has claimed four tessera every year since the age of twelve, has his name entered twenty-four times this year. Uncle Vernon had brought up the number this morning to taunt him. Harry had applauded his uncle for being able to do basic math and gotten hit for his troubles.

"It'll be fine," Ron says again as their line crawls forward. Harry can't decide if he wants it to go faster or slower. All around them are similar lines of children marching past the peacekeepers who will confirm their attendance.

"It'll be fine," Harry echoes. He rubs at his wrist, a nervous habit that he's given up trying to discard. Above him, the clouds crack open, flashes of brilliant light spilling out, and begin to sprinkle rain.

THREE.

"Harry Potter! Do we have a Harry Potter here?"

At first, there is silence. At first, Harry's thought is at least the Dursleys won't be able to use him for tessera anymore. Then a ripple passes over the crowd, bodies turning in his direction, and it starts to sink in.

Ron is silent, wide-eyed, horrified. The rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, giving him the look of a waterlogged cocker spaniel. Harry wants to laugh but he can't, he can't.

"Harry Potter?"

Harry blinks as his name is called a third time. He'd forgotten that he needed to move. Ron looks at him, mouth opening. Harry doesn't want to watch Ron try and speak so he turns to face the front.

There's Umbridge in her ugly pink dress, standing at the podium with an equally ugly pink umbrella shielding her from the rain.

Harry unsticks his feet from the muddy ground and somehow stumbles his way into the open where they can see him. The cameras, documenting his shock in high definition for the world to see. The children of the Seam, their eyes full of relief mixed with pity.

"There we are," Umbridge says sweetly as Harry joins her on the stage. She pats his damp shoulder, her nose wrinkling with distaste as she touches him. "Be a good boy and smile for the cameras, won't you? What an honour for you to be chosen."

Harry stares out at the crowd. Everything is a wash of greys and browns. Masses of tired, frightened people. He can't seem to make out any of their faces.

Umbridge clears her throat and turns to her microphone. "Now, in keeping with our Quarter Quell theme, I shall draw the name of District Twelve's young lady!"

Someone brings the bowl over to her. Umbridge's long, pink nails snatch up a rectangular slip of paper. The paper is unfolded, spread wide by her stubby fingers.

"This year's female tribute from District Twelve is… Ginny Weasley!"

No. Not Ginny.

Harry shuts his eyes and lets the Weasley family's cry of grief crash over him like an ocean wave. The protests, the pain, all of it becomes static in the back of his mind.

When Ginny joins him, her jaw is tense, strands of her flaming hair blowing in the breeze and sticking to her cheeks. Harry can't help but mirror her expression. He feels what she feels. At this moment, they are united.

"Many congratulations to this year's tributes, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley." Umbridge claps her hands together and beams at the crowd of stone-faced citizens. "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

Harry looks at Ginny, and Ginny looks back at him, her eyes blazing and wild like sunlight glancing off the surface of the open sea. He reaches for her and she reaches back. They are past the fear now. They have moved on from it.

Together, they raise their hands in the air, resolute, and offer the cameras nothing. No tears. Not a single word.

It is not defiance, but it is something. It is hope.

FOUR.

Harry does not expect anyone to come see him. Not the Dursleys, who have never cared about him, and not the Weasleys, who will lose their youngest to the Hunger Games. He expects to wait in an empty room until it is time to leave.

When the door cracks open, Harry is struck speechless, grateful beyond words to see his best friend standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," Ron whispers, voice shaky. "I'm so sorry, Harry." He steps forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach out, then stops a pace away.

"I'm sorry, too," Harry says, because he is, he feels worse about Ginny's name being drawn than he does his own. His name was entered more times than most; his name was reaped. That makes sense to him. Ginny being chosen does not make sense to him.

Ron glances around the cramped, dusty room. His eyes are rimmed red, puffy from rubbing. "You know what Dean said? Dean said we might finally have a winner this year."

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, that Dean doesn't mean him, of course he doesn't, he means—

"Right," Harry says.

"I know. I don't know. I'm sorry." Ron stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You'll—you'll look out for her, won't you? You'll help each other out."

"Yeah," Harry says, "yeah, of course I will. You know I will."

Ron nods. "Good. Yeah. You might—you might stand a better chance if you stay together."

Harry can only hope that's true.

"Thanks for coming," Harry says instead.

"Yeah. I'm—you know mum and dad wish they could have but—"

"No, I understand. Tell them I understand."

"You're like family to us, too," Ron says, strained, sounding close to tears. Tears are the last thing Harry wants. He doesn't want this to be his last memory of his best friend before he goes off to die in the Games. "You are, but just—no one thought—mum's been crying ever since—"

"I get it," Harry says. "I don't blame them." Him or Ginny. He knows who they have to choose.

"Sorry," Ron says.

Harry exhales slowly. "Aren't we all."

A peacekeeper comes in to tell them their time is up. Ron doesn't say good luck and Harry lets the door click shut behind him.

The room is smaller without Ron to fill it. Suffocating, like the walls are closing in. Harry shakes it off and steadies himself by placing a hand against the doorframe. All that's left is to wait. Wait to be taken away, wait to die.

He's going to die.

Dean is right. Harry doesn't expect to win. He has no one to come home to, anyway. Living with the Dursleys in the Victor's Village sounds like a nightmare. He would have to mentor new tributes, watch them die. He would be all alone.

But Ginny, she can win this. She can win the Hunger Games. She is the only one from their district with a chance at winning.

Harry pulls away from the door and collapses into the room's singular wooden chair. Ginny can win and come home. If she wins, the Weasleys will be provided for. So Harry will help her win. He will make sure she has every possible opportunity to win. Dying is now the best thing he can do for the Weasleys. It's the best thing he can do for anybody.

FIVE.

Harry and Ginny sit awkwardly at the same table while their train speeds along. The train's progress is so smooth and silent that the motion isn't noticeable unless he thinks to look at the window.

The table is full of food, plates and plates of it. Platters of meats and vegetables and fruits. Gorgeous powdered pastries and tiny little clumps of things that Harry doesn't recognize. More food than he or Ginny has ever seen before, certainly.

But Harry isn't hungry. His stomach feels nauseous, full of lead. Everything is happening so fast and he's only begun to accept his self-assigned fate.

Harry glances to his left. Ginny is a spot of familiarity in this vast expanse of strangeness. Her smattering of freckles, her hair pulled into a thick braid. He should say something to her. He had promised Ron he would look after her.

"Sorry," Harry says. "I'm sorry, Ginny. You shouldn't be here."

Ginny's eyes slide shut. She inclines her head. "Don't be. I knew there was always a chance. That's how it is."

Any of her brothers would have taken her place in a heartbeat. Harry can't imagine how she feels knowing that. Bitter or relieved. Bitter that her freedom has been taken from her, or relieved that it is her and not one of them. Not Ron.

"At least—" She stops, blinks her eyes open. Her hands ball into white-knuckled fists. "At least we're together. We're in this together. Harry, I—"

At the end of the compartment, the door slides open, revealing an older woman and an older man. Harry and Ginny turn in unison to see the new arrivals.

The woman—dressed in luxurious Capitol fashion, a ruby-studded gown that clings to her every curve—bats smoky eyes framed with long, thick lashes at them. "Tributes of District Twelve, how lovely it is to meet you!" Her hips sway with confidence as she steps forward. This is a woman used to commanding the attention of a room.

Ginny is the first to leap to her feet. "Where's our mentor? Isn't he supposed to meet us here? Aberforth?"

"Change of plans," says the man briskly, hands folded neatly in front of him. "New Quarter Quell rules."

Harry recognizes the man. Tall, broad-shouldered, eyes as dark as the devil's. Face composed of angles, his skin flawless and pale like alabaster. Harry remembers this face projected on the screens, splattered with blood, handsome and unforgiving like so many Careers before him. Devoid of emotion as he cut down his opponents with distressing efficiency. Deadly.

"You're Tom Riddle," says Harry. He states this as a fact.

Tom's gaze narrows in on him, raking over his face and body like Harry is a tiny moth pinned to a board. "That I am. District One. I will be your mentor for this year's Games."

Ginny swivels to face the woman. "And you're—"

"Bellatrix Black, lovey." She wiggles her fingers at them, a smirk teasing the corners of her mouth upward. "Tom and I are going to have so much fun with the two of you!"

SIX.

Bellatrix insists on pulling Ginny away for 'girl time', leaving Harry and Tom to enjoy the entire table of lavish, untouched food.

"Eat," Tom instructs as he sets a table napkin on his lap. "You'll need your strength." He glances at Harry, his stare less invasive than before, and Harry is suddenly hyper aware of his own skinny, malnourished form. "I've little more than a week to get you into shape and we can't be wasting a single meal."

"Right." Harry breathes out, unsteady. He sets his hands on the table where the utensils lay. "Right, okay." On some level, he is relieved to be told what to do, but he can't seem to make his hands move.

Tom watches him for another long moment, then reaches across the table and uses a pair of tongs to snatch up several pieces of food, depositing them onto Harry's empty plate. A ring glitters on his finger, smooth black stone set into gold. "A balanced diet will do wonders for your physique. We'll start small for now, get you used to the portions. I'll expect you to be eating properly-sized meals before the Games start."

"Okay," Harry repeats. He needs his strength so he can help Ginny.

Harry lifts his fork and scoops food into his mouth. The flavours are rich and heavy. Too salty, too sweet. He chokes on his third mouthful of pasta, gagging, bile rising to the back of his throat before he can stop it. Tom moves to his side, slides the fork from his hand and settles a large hand on the back of his neck.

"Breathe," Tom instructs sharply. "Spit out the food if you must, but breathe, Harry."

Harry does his best. He swallows down the sour taste of acid until he thinks the worst of it has passed. He's panting, then, flushed and embarrassed, a fresh wave of unrelenting despair crashing down on him. There is every likelihood that he and Ginny are both going to die in the arena. He is going to die in the arena.

"Sorry," Harry croaks.

"Don't be." Tom slides his hand down Harry's back, slender fingers trailing down the bumps of his spine. The sensation is oddly soothing and makes tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Harry blinks them back and coughs so he has an excuse to lower his face and shield it from Tom's gaze.

"This is my first year as a mentor," Tom continues, his hand settling somewhere on Harry's lower back, "and I am going to help you. I do not lose, which means you are going to win. I wouldn't have agreed to this job if I thought otherwise."

"I'm not going to win," Harry says shakily, because it's best they get that out of the way. He is here for Ginny and she is all that matters now. "District Twelve has one victor and he's a drunkard who fucks goats. I'm not going to win."

"They told me you had your name put in twenty-four times," Tom says calmly, unfazed. "That tells me you're very brave."

Harry laughs, half-hysterical. "It tells you I'm desperate, that's what it tells you. There's a reason we're slaughtered every year and it's not because we're good at surviving."

District Twelve houses the poorest of the poor. The bone-weary coal miners, the forgotten and the wretched. Their district is where the skies are always grey and the water is always murky. Harry has only known clean air in the forests beyond the fence, the place he goes to escape the Dursleys. He has not known peace since his parents died over five years ago and now he never will.

"Don't give me that nonsense," Tom snaps. "Everyone is good at something. What are you good at, boy from District Twelve?"

"I—I don't know," Harry says slowly, honestly. He doesn't think he's good at much of anything.

Tom's smile curls up on one side, off-kilter and eerie on that perfect, symmetrical face. "Then we'll have to find that out, won't we?" Then he slides a hand over Harry's shoulder and curls his fingers into the hollow of Harry's collarbone, blunt nails biting down through the thin fabric of Harry's cotton shirt.

Harry stiffens, the sudden pressure catching him off-guard. His stomach flips, but it's not an uncomfortable feeling, just strange. He's not used to being touched. He's not used to touches that are kind.

After a second, Tom removes his hand. "Try the food again. Slower, this time," he instructs, like Harry hadn't frozen up for no reason.

Harry picks up his fork with an unsteady hand and resumes eating.

SEVEN.

At the Capitol, Harry and Ginny are separated and shuffled off to be polished, plucked, and painted.

Harry stumbles from place to place all morning, guided by strangers, and is eventually deposited into a final room to wait. The stylist from District One shows him a black bodysuit composed of interesting, shimmery fabric textures. Harry is told to 'not worry when the fire turns on', which is highly concerning at best and downright terrifying at worst. Then Harry is left alone again when the stylist leaves to make some last-minute alterations.

Suffice to say Harry is very relieved when Tom comes to check on him.

"Tom," he says, some part of him lighting up at the sight of his mentor. He nearly scrambles down from the tabletop he'd been told to sit on and not move before he thinks better of it. "You came," he finishes, feeling suddenly shy.

"Of course, love. I wouldn't leave you on your own for long." Tom places his hands on Harry's biceps and examines him with great care, sharp gaze dragging and lingering all over.

Harry struggles not to fidget. A great deal of makeup sits on his face like a second layer of skin, smoothing his flaws away, and his features are now angular and aristocratic instead of gaunt and malnourished.

His hair has been tamed into neat waves that look out of place on his head, his brows tweezed into what he's been told are handsome shapes, his glasses replaced by contact lenses that make him blink more than usual.

Without his glasses to distort them, his eyes look wider and greener. They've told him his vision will be fixed shortly and he doesn't know what to make of that information. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't recognize his own reflection.

"Excellent," Tom comments when he's done with his perusal, and Harry feels his face heat all over again, pleased by the praise despite himself. "They're going to adore you."

"I feel stupid," Harry mutters. Alone in this room, he feels he can trust Tom with this information. "I don't know what's going on half the time and everyone's talking about me like I'm not even here."

"Don't worry about that," Tom says soothingly. He touches Harry's forearm and cups his elbow, thumb rubbing over the bone. "I have everything under control. Your job right now is very simple. All I need you to do is look gorgeous and make them love you."

Harry grimaces and looks away. "I don't know how to do that."

"Harry," Tom says, leaning close, so close that Harry can see tiny flecks of amber in his eyes, "listen to me. You are positively beguiling." His hand rises to cup the side of Harry's cheek. "The Capitol will love you, but only if you let them. I have faith in you."

Harry says nothing. He knows sponsors are important. He wants to believe that Tom is right, but it's difficult.

Tom sighs. He tilts back, fixes Harry with a piercing stare. "You are not a killer. I knew this when I laid eyes on you. But you are a survivor. I can work with that." The curve of his mouth softens slightly as he asks, "Do you trust me?"

Harry rubs nervously at the inside of his wrist. He bites down on his lower lip. For Ginny, he reminds himself. For the Weasleys. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I do."

"Good." Tom smiles. He lays a delicate hand against the side of Harry's head, smoothing down his hair. "Let me take care of you, Harry. I promise you won't regret it."

EIGHT.

For the first time in seventy-five years, District Twelve leads the way into the Capitol. The crowds are loud, colourful, and terrifying. The cheers and screams are deafening. Harry is bewildered by it all and he's sure it must show on his face.

By his side, Ginny is beautiful. A phoenix rising from the ashes, smoky-eyed and fiery. She has always been this way, incandescent and glowing, but the Capitol has sharpened that aura into flawless beauty that is fit for television screens. Harry feels small in comparison to her.

When their outfits burst into flames, the spectators go wild, and Harry recalls Tom's words. The Capitol will love him if he lets them, if he waves and smiles like a tribute should. Not only that, but Tom thinks him beguiling. Tom thinks he can win.

Surrounded by a sea of adoring onlookers, Harry feels brave. He can be the survivor that Tom believes he is.

It is this confidence that urges him to take Ginny's hand and raise it to the sky. They are a united district. They rise and fall together, at least until one of them dies.

The citizens of the Capitol, full of worship for their beautiful Quarter Quell tributes, roar wildly in approval.

NINE.

Dinner is subdued. Harry feels uneasy around Bellatrix, and his friendship with Ginny has changed since their names came out of the Reaping. He struggles with looking her in the eye for longer than a few seconds. She will have noticed by now if she hasn't already.

Tom is the one who brings the group's focus back to the Games. "If we're selling you together, then we'll need to know your strengths. Both of you."

"I don't really have any strengths," Ginny says as she fills her plate.

"That's rubbish," Harry says, setting his utensils down with an ominous clank. "Ginny is brilliant. She hunts game. Shoots birds down mid-air. Shoots squirrels right in the eye every time. If either of us wins, it's going to be her."

"I'm not—that's nothing," Ginny protests. "You're fast, the fastest runner we've got in District 12. No one's even going to be able to catch you—"

"Fast? What good is fast going to do me when everyone else in that arena is a trained killer," Harry hisses at her. "Don't be stupid, Ginny."

It takes a moment for her to realize he's including her under that umbrella. A trained killer. The shock hits her first, then the hurt. She doesn't flinch, she never does, but as he sees the light in her eyes dim and wishes he hadn't said anything.

"That is enough!" Bellatrix says to them in a sickly-sweet voice. "I won't tolerate in-fighting. If we're to work together, then everyone must get along." She pauses to smile at Tom. "Isn't that right, my dear?"

"Of course," Tom says, tone perfunctory. "Let us put the subject to rest for now."

The reprieve isn't much of a reprieve. Harry feels awful for the rest of the night. Ginny doesn't want him to die for her but he's going to do it anyway. He can't tell Tom about his plan either. Somehow, that makes him feel immensely guilty for reasons he can't quite put into words.

The evening ends early when Ginny goes to bed, citing exhaustion. Bellatrix follows soon after, leaving Harry and Tom alone in the common area.

Tom lounges on the long white couch by the wide glass wall, wine goblet in hand. "The penthouse is a nice change," he says idly, like he's talking to the ceiling. "District One typically resides on the first floor."

"Oh." Harry tries to stuff his hands into his pockets then remembers he doesn't have any in these trousers that aren't his.

"Come," Tom says, gesturing with a lazy hand. "Sit."

Harry goes over to the couch and sits down. The cushion beneath him is excessively soft; he sinks into it right away even though he doesn't weigh much to begin with.

Tom's eyes drift over his face like usual, cool and discerning. "So you can run fast."

"Sometimes."

"What did you do back in your district?"

"I lived with my aunt and uncle," Harry says. "They own the local bakery."

"Heavy lifting?" Tom asks. He eyes the line of Harry's arms, thin but lean and muscled. Built off years of hauling around sacks of flour and piles of firewood. Years of being beaten blue and told he should be grateful he's even given scraps of stale bread to eat.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Strength is strength. It's all the same in the end," Tom says. He sets his glass aside and steeples his fingers. "I need to decide how I'm going to pitch you. People do like an underdog, but I have a feeling that 'ambitious orphan boy' isn't the angle you want to play."

"It worked for you, didn't it?"

Tom laughs, and maybe it's the alcohol that's loosened him up more than usual, but it's a handsome laugh, a real one that sends warmth pooling low into Harry's stomach.

"It did work for me," Tom says after a moment. "It worked very well. A charming young Career without parents? The Capitol adored me. Still do, in fact." He reaches for his glass, takes a sip, then offers it out to Harry.

"No, thanks."

"Suit yourself." Tom drains the rest, licks his lips. "You know, I meant what I said earlier today. You are very beautiful, Harry. It is a unique, fragile sort of beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. Graceful." He hums softly, smiling. "And your eyes… Absolutely stunning."

Harry tugs at the collar of his shirt, face and neck heating up. "Good for sponsors, then."

"Mmm. Yes. Very good for that." Tom slides closer and tilts his head to the side. "Tell me, Harry, any special girl waiting for you back at home?"

"No," Harry says. "No girl." His skin is prickling all over, extra sensitive to Tom's proximity.

"No? Colour me surprised." Tom scrubs a hand over his jaw, shadowed now that the day is nearly over with. "No boy either?"

"No. Just me." His leg starts to jump up and down. With some effort, Harry makes it go still. Belatedly, he wishes he'd taken up the offer of alcohol to ease his anxiety.

"You're not like the others," Tom continues, dragging the syllables out one by one. "Frightened, jittery little creatures. Prey." The way he spits the word, like it's a slur of some kind, makes Harry's heart jump in his chest. "You are not just prey, and that is why I know you can win."

Harry nods, lump in his throat, hoping he comes off as resolute rather than naive and out of his depth.

Tom's eyes narrow as if he knows what Harry's thinking. "Whatever the girl can do, it only matters to me so long as you're aligning yourself with her. The moment that usefulness ends, she is a liability."

Harry blinks, thrown by the sudden tone shift. "Ginny is my friend."

"Which is loyal of you to say, and will see you dead in the first hour if you're not careful," Tom says grimly. "My job is to keep you alive. You are the most important person to me, not her."

"She's my friend," Harry repeats, irritation bubbling up in him. He'd forgotten that Tom was a Career. Tom had trained for his whole childhood to kill other tributes and he expects Harry to do the same. "I'm not going to hurt her."

"And I'm not telling you to," Tom snaps, his lips twisting into a scowl. The weight of his attention feels heavier than before. "What I am attempting to tell you is that her skills do not lessen the value of yours. She could die from any number of causes. What will you do then? Give up?"

Thoroughly shaken, Harry tears his eyes away and stares at the far wall. He doesn't like hearing it, but Tom is right.

If Ginny dies, Harry can still try to win. He's been content to ignore that possibility ever since leaving District Twelve, but Tom is forcing him to face it.

"Look at me," Tom demands.

Reluctantly, Harry meets Tom's gaze. Tom examines him so intently it's unnerving. Harry doesn't understand why Tom finds him so interesting. Ginny is the one to watch; Harry will die long before she does. If he's lucky, he'll die keeping Ginny safe. It's unthinkable to him that events will go any other way.

"I told you that I would take care of you," Tom says finally. "For me to succeed, you must also take care of yourself. Can you do that for me?"

"I—I can try." Harry resists the urge to drop his eyes again. He already knows he doesn't sound convincing.

"Trying is not good enough," Tom says sharply. Harry flinches, then, and Tom's face softens. He reaches for Harry's hand and holds it tightly with his own. "I want you to swear to me that you will not give up. Even if the entire arena is burning to the ground, you will do everything in your power to stay alive."

Harry wants to shrink back, but Tom's serious expression stops him. He isn't used to people other than the Weasleys being adamant about his well being. Aside from Ginny, Tom is the only person here who cares if he dies.

"I will," Harry says hesitantly. "I promise."

Tom rewards him with a gorgeous smile that renders Harry mute. "Thank you, Harry. On that note, I believe it's time for bed." He rises to his feet and stretches his arms out, muscles flexing visibly through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt.

Harry is rooted to the couch, transfixed. He doesn't feel tired at all anymore. He feels—he wants—

Tom lowers his arms and pauses on his way past Harry, glancing down.

"Good night, little lion," Tom murmurs, the endearment sweet like sugar as it falls from his lips. "I shall see you in the morning." His eyes are half-lidded as he lays a hand on Harry's knee and squeezes.

The heat of desire sinks into Harry like a stone, but it evaporates just as quickly as Tom pulls away. Harry's breath hitches in his throat as he watches Tom go.

Once Tom is gone, Harry rubs absently at his knee, chasing the lingering warmth of Tom's touch. "Little lion," he mumbles, cheeks pink. He's never had a pet name before, but he thinks he likes this one.

TEN.

Harry soon discovers that Tom's investment in him extends beyond fierce promises.

Tom had won the Hunger Games because he was the very best. His drive and ambition had kept him alive. Even now, he follows the games every year. He examines and dissects the plays. He has schemes and strategies for everything: finding shelter and water, setting traps, and sneaking up on enemies. Harry swears to himself he'll learn as much as he can in the time that they have.

"After the initial bloodbath, most tributes die from causes other than combat," Tom instructs during their first private session together. "Dehydration, infection, and other environmental causes. Your top priority is to keep yourself healthy and alert. Today we'll cover those basics. Tomorrow I plan to teach you some sparring."

Sparring sounds like something he'll need to know, but Harry can't imagine himself rolling around with Tom on the gym mats. He'd watched some of the tributes spar today, some with weapons and some without. Tom's presence already flusters him—close quarters won't help that fact.

"Harry," snaps Tom, wrenching Harry out of his preoccupations. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," Harry says quickly. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else."

He knows he ought to tell Tom his plan. His plan to help Ginny win. But Tom has so much faith in him, Harry can't bear to let him down.

"Then let us continue…"

When Harry gets a moment to himself that afternoon, he imagines Tom pinning him to the ground, trapping Harry like the prey he claims to despise. Their bodies pressed together… It stirs an unwanted arousal in him. It's just that Tom is so handsome. He's smart and strong and so fit it's fucking unfair.

Flustered, Harry heads to the bathroom. He soaks a cloth in cold water and wipes his face down with it. He does his neck and arms too, just to be thorough. The act of cooling himself down helps distract him.

Harry sets the cloth aside to dry and examines his reflection. Without all his makeup on, he looks plain. Normal. He certainly doesn't look beautiful. Tom is being kind, that's all there is to it.

Harry runs his hands through his hair, distressed. He has to get a grip on his emotions before he lets his imagination run away from him again. Tom is his mentor, not his schoolboy crush. The Games are what he needs to focus on. He needs to remember that.

ELEVEN.

Tom and Bellatrix demonstrate a number of different holds and fighting styles while Ginny observes, fascinated, clearly intent on soaking in every detail. Harry, on the other hand, is undergoing an internal crisis.

The two Victors from District One are trained killers. This is unmistakable. The fluidity of their movements, precise and well-timed. The calculating look in Tom's eyes and the feral snarl that curves Bellatrix's lips. Those things aren't entertaining or even wholly educational.

They're frightening.

Now, Harry is no stranger to a beating. The pain isn't what he's afraid of. He's afraid of not having what it takes to play the Games at all.

If he was the one with his hands around someone else's neck… He wouldn't be able to do it. If it was between saving Ginny and killing someone else, he would hesitate and she might die because of that. That thought is sickening, it sickens him.

Harry has never wanted to hurt anyone. He doesn't want the Games to change him.

"Harry." Tom snaps his fingers to catch his attention. "Let's practice. Come here and try to break my hold."

Obediently, Harry moves forward and lets Tom wrap an arm snug around his neck in a mock chokehold. The skin-on-skin contact draws Harry's nerves taut and stresses him the hell out.

"There we are," Tom says, gentle as ever, but when Harry looks up at him, his pupils are so dark they're nearly black.

Harry lets out a soft noise against his own will and feels his face redden.

Tom adjusts his grasp, holding firm against Harry's throat. "You like this?" he murmurs, low enough so that only Harry can hear him.

It's meant to be a lesson, an example of a dangerous situation, but Harry's body doesn't seem to know that. His palms sweat and his heart rate picks up, making this a dangerous situation for other reasons.

Tom hums and tightens his grip ever so slightly, squeezing down on Harry's windpipe just enough to strain his breathing. Harry can feel the metal of Tom's ring biting against his hot skin.

"How does that feel?" Tom asks at normal volume.

"Great," Harry wheezes, as cheerfully as he can, aiming for sarcasm, but his voice falters in the middle and he knows, he knows Tom doesn't miss that.

"Oh, funny boy," Bellatrix cackles, thoroughly ruining the moment. "Best keep that attitude for the interview, ickle baby Harry."

Tom laughs, but it isn't his nice laugh. It's the one he puts on for show, too light and airy to be genuine. "I'm sure he will, Bella dear." To Harry, he adds, "Let me show you how to break out of this before you get all excited."

Harry breathes out, throat bobbing against Tom's arm, heartbeat fluttering in his chest like a caged bird. "Alright," he says. He presses the palm of his hand down over Tom's, feels the skin and bone there. "Show me."

TWELVE.

Harry's grabbing a glass of juice before bed when Ginny comes over to him. They've been little more than strangers recently and Harry is worried that she's come to confront him. He's not ready to talk about why he's been avoiding her.

"I see him looking at you," Ginny says slowly, inching closer to him like she's sneaking up on a deer in the woods. "Tom. I see how he looks at you."

A jolt of fear trickles down Harry's spine. It's just like her to get right to the point, he doesn't know why he's surprised, only—

He does. He does know why. This has nothing to do with the two of them. This is about Tom.

"What about it?" he asks, careful not to tense his body or respond too sharply.

"It's creepy. Do you even know how old he is?"

Harry shuts the fridge a little more firmly than he'd like to. The judgement in her voice annoys him even though she's not directing it at him. "No, I don't. And I don't see why it matters." He'll be dead in a week, if not sooner.

"If he tries anything, you need to tell someone," she insists. "Tell the Gamekeepers."

Harry whirls to stare at her. All the anger he's held back since the Reaping comes to him so easily. Anger at the sadism of the Capitol, anger at the Dursleys for putting him here. Tom is a part of the Games, but at least he doesn't pretend to be someone he's not. He cares. He wants Harry to live.

"The Gamekeepers?" Harry says heatedly. "What are they going to do? What would they fucking do? Everyone here wants us to walk into that arena and die. If they care, it isn't for the right reasons."

Ginny blinks, taken aback by his sudden aggression. "Harry—"

"I'm going to bed," Harry says stiffly, suddenly exhausted. He doesn't want to have it out with her here in the kitchen. "Good night, Ginny. See you tomorrow."

THIRTEEN.

Harry jolts up, his forehead soaked in sweat. There's a sharp cry trapped in his throat and explosions flashing behind his eyes. He's never been down in the mines because they don't allow children inside, but that never stops his nightmares from taking him there anyway.

It's the same scene every time: seeing his father go in and never come out, seeing his mother run after him, her body withering to dust when she never makes it past the entrance.

Unnerved, Harry slides out of his bed—too large, too soft, he'd started sleeping on the floor every night but then the Avox had caught him and he couldn't handle the thought of anyone else seeing him like that—and stuffs his feet into his slippers before padding down to the living room.

Ginny keeps staring after him with this conflicted look in her eyes. She hasn't brought up Tom again since their argument. Harry wonders if she regrets agreeing to team up with him. If his potential value as a human shield isn't worth the liability anymore.

He wouldn't blame her if she thought that. They have their interviews soon and he doesn't feel like a survivor. He just feels empty.

Arms folded loosely around his torso, Harry exits the hall and turns the corner. Maybe he'll turn on the large screen and watch the stars until he calms down.

It turns out Tom is also awake. He's next to the window, his face illuminated by the projected image of a large, milky-white moon. He's wearing his usual trousers and a plain white shirt.

It's laughable, but just the sight of him makes Harry feel better.

"Tom?" Harry asks, voice whisper soft.

Tom's head dips slightly, but he doesn't turn around. "Harry," he greets. "Couldn't sleep?" His voice is rougher than usual, maybe because of the late hour. It's probably unintentional, the deep rumble, but it gives Harry's over-active imagination all sorts of terrible ideas.

"Something like that." Harry shuffles in place. He doesn't mean to intrude if Tom doesn't want him here.

"Come here," Tom says kindly. "We can keep each other company."

Harry unsticks his feet from the floor and goes to Tom's side. They watch the fake moon and the fake stars. Tom's arm comes up to hold him, curling around his shoulders like a cape, and Harry leans into the embrace, gravitating towards Tom's solid warmth.

Tom's hand rubs comforting circles over his shoulder. "Nervous?" he asks.

"A bit." He doesn't think it's possible not to be.

Tom shakes his head. "You'll do well. Just remember what I've taught you."

Harry swallows. "I'll try."

Minutes pass. The tension seeps out of Harry in dribs and drabs until it's all gone.

"You ought to be resting," Tom says. His fingertips dance along the back collar of Harry's nightshirt, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. "But I understand. I'm more of a night owl myself. Would you like to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Harry asks, distracted by the touching.

"Anything. Whatever's on your mind."

There is a lot going on in his mind at the moment, none of it good. "I'm not much for talking," Harry admits quietly. He's exhausted and angry and lonely. How could he put all of that on Tom?

Tom turns to face him, eyes dark like the night sky. "Then how about something else?" he murmurs as his mouth lowers to the side of Harry's head, lips close enough that Harry can feel the heat from them against the shell of his ear.

"Like what?" Harry asks, voice quavering.

"I can help you," Tom whispers. He threads his hand through Harry's sleep-mussed hair, grazing his scalp. "Distract you."

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. This is the only thing he lets himself dare to hope for. This is the only good dream he has left. Not to win the Games, but for Tom to kiss him.

Gently, Tom touches his chin and tips his head back. Giving him time to say no. Giving him time to pull away.

Harry lets his eyes slide shut and submits.

Tom's lips are impatient, greedy. They eat him up, teasing out noises he's never made before. Harry whimpers as Tom crushes him flat against the glass, large hands grasping at the slimness of his waist, the bony jut of his hips, the delicate column of his throat. Then Tom's shoving him up the wall until Harry has both legs wrapped around his waist and hips, the two of them slotted together like it's easy as breathing.

Harry feels desirable in Tom's arms. He feels safe. He wants Tom to squeeze down until his body is nothing but heat and pressure and pleasure, and his wish is granted as Tom lifts him from the floor, squeezing his ass and dragging slow kisses along his jaw and neck.

"Tell me," Tom breathes against his cheek, his soft mouth a balm on Harry's fevered skin, "tell me what you need."

Harry shakes his head, white noise bursting in his ears, heart slamming in his chest. Distantly, he's aware that Tom is older and more experienced whereas he is a tribute destined to die in the arena. But right now, he is more than that. Right now, every inch of him is burning with need.

Tom's hips roll into his, the swell of his cock pressing insistently against Harry's ass. Harry gasps, a stuttering cry that Tom swallows down, his hands sliding underneath Harry's shirt to palm his chest and roll his nipples with clever fingers.

Harry feels his heart squeeze in his chest like someone is choking it. "Tom," he gasps, not sure what he's asking for, but he knows he wouldn't ever forgive himself if he died from heart failure before the night was over. "Kiss me," he pleads instead, because that seems safer, easier.

Tom kisses him again, licks into his mouth and steals Harry's breath away, literally and figuratively. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown; Harry can't make out anything other than how much Tom wants him. It's a heady feeling, a rush of power that burns through him like wildfire.

"Look me in the eye and tell me," Tom purrs, stroking his hand slowly down Harry's chest like he's going to slice the buttons of his shirt off one by one. "Tell me what you want. Who you want. What do you need, lovely boy?"

"Everything," Harry says dizzily, head clouded with lust, "everything, please. I need you, Tom, I need you—"

Tom bares his teeth and nips sharply at Harry's neck. "My darling, I'm going to give you everything you need and more," he promises in a low voice, scooping Harry into his arms like he weighs nothing at all.

As Tom walks them down the hall, strides hurried and purposeful, Harry feels like he's melting away.

FOURTEEN.

Tom takes him to bed and shuts the door. Orders him to strip. He surveys Harry's nude body with dark desire, with spit-slicked lips and hooded eyes that make Harry flush to the tips of his ears.

Harry's had a few fumbles before with blokes and birds alike, nothing too far and nothing too serious. When he drops his eyes to Tom's tented trousers, he swallows, goosebumps breaking out all over him. This is very serious.

"Sweet boy," Tom croons. He beckons, crooks a finger. Harry goes to Tom like the willing lamb he is, lets Tom caress and kiss him all over, touch his cock, touch his ass. "My sweet boy."

Harry shivers and buries his face against Tom's neck. Tom spreads him open with slick fingers, pumping in and out. It burns and feels good at the same time. It feels so full. One finger, two fingers, three fingers—then Tom twists his hand and hits some spot that floods Harry's vision with explosive fireworks.

"Ah, Tom—" Harry whimpers, working his hips on Tom's hand, positively undignified yet more aroused than he's ever been in his life, his cock filthy and dripping between them.

Tom hasn't even taken off his clothes yet and somehow that makes it better, Harry stark naked on his lap and quivering like he's going to tremble out of his skin.

"You like that?" Tom asks breathlessly. He's holding painfully still, not moving his hand at all. "Tell me."

Harry nods rapidly. "Yes, yes," he chants. He squirms around the wetness, the thick spread of Tom's fingers that makes his body sing with pleasure.

Tom resumes fucking Harry open, coaxes more broken sounds out of Harry's throat, punctuates each wicked crook of his fingers with tender praise.

"You're fucking gorgeous," Tom says roughly, veil of chivalry vanished now that he's buried his hand knuckle-deep in Harry's ass. "Taking my fingers so well. Giving me those delicious sounds." He groans, runs a large palm up Harry's spine, possessive and hot. "You're going to look beautiful on me, darling, your sweet hole stretched wide on my fat cock."

Harry moans louder and shoves his hips down. There are no words in his brain, only a profound, delirious ache to have Tom as deep inside of him as possible. When Tom finally withdraws his hand, Harry sluggishly tries to follow, legs shaking, but Tom only chuckles and pets his head.

"I'm going to take you now," Tom says, pushing Harry's body up the bed so quickly it feels like he's floating. "Going to fill you with my cock and claim you. My good boy." He nuzzles Harry's cheek then pulls away again.

Harry hears rather than sees Tom shed his clothes. The heavy slide of leather, the tug of the metal zipper. The dull sound of his belt and trousers hitting the floor. Harry whimpers. Without Tom to warm him and touch him, he feels colder, emptier. His arse clenches around nothing, muscles lax and needy.

"Shhh, I'm here." Tom crawls up the length of his body and kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, swallows Harry's cries down like nectar.

Harry writhes restlessly on the bed, trying to press himself up against Tom's erection. He's too embarrassed to beg, but he wants this so badly.

Tom palms his balls, the swell of his ass, traces the line of Harry's cock with his finger. "Good boy," he says softly. "How I've waited for you." He smiles and taps one of Harry's ankles. "Up you go, lovely boy," he murmurs. "Spread yourself for me."

Harry holds his own legs open, trembling. Tom smooths a reverent hand over his thighs before he positions himself at Harry's entrance. Harry can feel all the wet, all the lubricant that Tom's poured over them. Harry blinks as Tom looms over him, heavy and thick and rubbing at his hole.

"Yes," Tom murmurs, lips touching Harry's temple. "Relax for me, that's it."

Then he presses his cock in, the blunt head large enough that it feels like it won't fit, and Harry goes rigid, mouth dropping open in shock.

"Tom," he gasps, suddenly panicked, "Tom—"

Tom stills right away, shushes him and kisses the tip of his nose. Strokes his cock with a loose grip, his touch gentle, gentle, gentle. Harry squirms and pants, loses himself in the pleasure. He wants to be good. He wants Tom to fuck him.

"You're ready," Tom promises, voice threaded with thick arousal that stirs pride in Harry's chest, "ready for me. Breathe. You're doing so well."

Harry relaxes enough for Tom to sink in, inch by inch, until Tom is bearing down with so much weight that Harry's breaths grow long and laboured. It's almost too much, but his desire to have this, to take it, outweighs any discomfort or pain he feels at being split open on Tom's dick.

Slowly, Tom grinds him into the bed and whispers in his ear about how tight and hot he is. How fantastic he feels. How perfect he is. Harry whines at the overwhelming mix of sensations, strange, pitched noises bursting out of him with each deep twist of pleasure in his gut. He is so full of Tom that he can barely think. When Tom asks if he's ready for more, he blindly jerks his head up and down.

They start moving. It doesn't take long before Harry is a wailing mess, clinging desperately to the bed sheets as Tom fucks him in earnest, gripping Harry's hips with enough force to bruise.

"Fuck," Tom groans, pushing deeper with each thrust, bouncing them both on the bed, "look at you, look at you. So beautiful."

Harry comes three times before the night is over. Once on his back with his legs held open for Tom to fuck him into the mattress. Once on his stomach while Tom squeezes their bodies together—one arm clenched possessively around Harry's hips and one hand holding the back of Harry's neck—and slams in and out at a punishing pace.

He comes the final time while sobbing and overstimulated as Tom sucks him off, slender fingers abusing his prostate. Harry sobs and pleads, but he never tells Tom to stop. His resulting orgasm is so intense that his vision actually blacks out for a moment—he opens watery eyes to see Tom's satisfied smirk and the spurts of his own semen smeared between them.

Tom cleans his body with a damp cloth before he wraps them both up in the blankets and settles behind Harry like a proper lover.

For the first time since arriving at the Capitol, Harry sleeps well in the too-soft bed, his body bracketed by Tom's larger one, Tom's arm tucked protectively over his waist.

When Harry wakes the next morning, alone and aching, he knows it isn't personal. They are mentor and tribute. Soon enough, Harry will be in the arena, fighting for his life. Still, that doesn't stop the sight of the cool, rumpled sheets from sending a white-hot stab of pain right through his chest.

His plan to die in the arena makes sense because no one needs him, but—

He wants Tom to need him. He wants it even though it is a stupid, selfish want that will ruin them both because in the end, none of this matters. Regardless of what happens between them now, Harry will still march into the arena prepared to die.

FIFTEEN.

Sparring with Tom is nothing like Harry's fantasies. Tom flips a switch and morphs into a deadly weapon. He is brutal and efficient and unfeeling. He knocks Harry to the ground again and again without hesitation. He barks orders like a drill sergeant.

Harry is sore from last night, and by the end of their first practice fight, he's even worse off, but he is uninjured. Tom never hurts him. He shoves Harry down or strikes just hard enough to knock Harry away. His control must be incredible for him to be capable of such restraint.

So Harry is uninjured, but he is miserable. Tom has been treating him the same as always. Nothing has changed, and so Harry can only wonder: had their night meant nothing? Tom must have his pick of lovers at the Capitol, but he'd chosen Harry, and Harry had foolishly hoped that it meant more.

He isn't supposed to hope that it means more. He's supposed to ignore it now, only he can't. Not when they're spending all their time together. Sparring makes it even harder, because Tom is close to him, touching him, and Harry has no idea what to do.

Tom had given him something special then taken it away. Harry wants it back and he feels guilty for wanting it back. And so Harry grows increasingly frustrated, both with himself and with Tom, until he finally snaps.

"I'm weak," Harry says furiously, picking himself up from the mat and staggering away. His arms hurt and his legs hurt and Harry is no stranger to pain except—except this very real pain raging inside him is finally breaking out. "This is pointless. I'm going to die in there because I'm weak," he says, disgusted. "I'm prey. If you want to win, you'll be better off helping Ginny."

There. Now he's said it. He's told the truth. He can't even bear to look Tom in the eyes, but he does it anyway, some stupid, desperate part of him still craving the older man's approval.

Tom's entire expression is disconcertingly blank.

Then he shoves Harry into the wall and kisses him, all teeth.

Harry yelps against Tom's mouth and thrashes like a cornered animal. He struggles and hits and kicks until Tom pulls back, glaring at him.

"You are not prey. You are not going to die in the arena because I am not going to let you, do you understand?"

Harry shakes his head, obstinate as ever.

"Do you understand?" Tom repeats viciously, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and jostling him. "You are a boy from District Twelve. You have no skill with physical combat. This is the most important skill you can learn from me. Not how to smile guilelessly, not how to ace an interview. Fighting is how you stay alive," he snarls, deadly hands fisting in Harry's uniform. "You cannot let your emotions get the better of you."

Tom's chest is heaving by the end of his speech. His hands tremble as they release Harry's clothing and smooth down the wrinkles, his eyes dropping to watch the motion.

And Harry—

Harry understands.

"Okay," Harry says. He lays a hand on Tom's chest, over the man's heart. Feels the volatile pulse of it under his fingertips. He nods. "Okay."

Tom relaxes. The agitation, the fear, drains out of him. He tips forward, rests his forehead against Harry's. It feels very real. Very human. They both hold still for several minutes, listening to each other breathe. Harry wraps his arms around Tom's waist and hopes his embrace conveys a fraction of what he feels.

"Good," Tom says eventually, straightening up and stepping back. He rolls his shoulders like he's releasing the tension in them, stretching out the kinks. "Let's take a break," he says lightly. "We'll switch to something else and return to fighting tactics later."

Harry nods, more determined than ever to excel at training. When he dies, Tom can't think that it's because he failed to prepare Harry for the arena.

The rest of the day goes well. After dinner, Tom settles his hand on the back of Harry's neck and curls his fingers there. "Leave your door unlocked tonight," he mutters while Bellatrix pours them a round of Capitol concoctions meant to soothe their sore muscles and parched throats.

"Alright," Harry says. He was going to do that anyway.

SIXTEEN.

Tom comes to his room. He seems to materialize in the doorway, his silhouette illuminated by the dim hallway lights. Harry peels back silk sheets and lets Tom into his bed.

It isn't kind or tender. Harry begs for it, for Tom to take him roughly. He begs for Tom's hand around his throat and he gets it, he gets Tom's steady grip like an unyielding collar, squeezing the air out.

Tom bends him in half, driving in and out while Harry twitches and gasps beneath him, a writhing, needy wreck. The heat and weight of Tom on top of him, inside of him, is utterly perfect, and it's not long before Harry comes all over himself.

Afterwards, they cuddle for a while. They don't speak and Tom kisses his shoulder before he leaves at some time past midnight. Harry rolls onto his stomach and sleeps through till morning, boneless and exhausted. If there are extra bruises on his body, people will attribute it to training. They'll attribute it to Tom, but not for the reasons they should.

The next day, Harry rubs absently at his wrist and his neck. Ginny stares at him and says nothing.

SEVENTEEN.

When their scores come back, Harry is surprised with his large, flashing eight, but he hardly has the time to celebrate that before Ginny's eleven is announced.

Bellatrix shrieks in delight. She dances wildly around the sitting room and swings Ginny around and around in circles.

Harry smiles and cheers and claps, knowing that Tom's eyes are on him, knowing that Tom worries about him. But Harry can't worry about what this means for his own odds just yet, not in front of Ginny. Ginny is their shining star, the girl on fire, a force to be reckoned with. She deserves this moment in the spotlight.

"An eleven," Bellatrix says, cackling with laughter. "Not even Tom or I scored that high! You must have impressed them. Think of the sponsors we'll be able to get you!"

Ginny chats and laughs along with everyone, but whenever the conversation lulls, Harry notices her eyes slide to him. He can't bring himself to talk to her, to pretend, so he doesn't. He sticks close to Tom and Bellatrix, lets them do the talking.

Later on, Tom pulls him aside, into his room. He takes Harry's face in between his hands and searches his eyes like they hold the answers to everything.

"I will make this work," Tom promises fiercely. "An eight is very good. It is a strong showing."

Harry nods. His neck feels stiff, his head too heavy.

"Eleven makes Ginny a threat in the eyes of the others," Tom continues. "A double-edged sword." His mouth flattens momentarily, the corners twitching downward. "You'll have to watch yourself while you're with her," he says finally. "The others will come for her, and by extension, you."

"I'll be careful," Harry says. "I promise." He is grateful that Tom isn't telling him to abandon Ginny. He wouldn't ever promise that and he has the feeling that Tom knows it.

Tom sighs and pulls Harry into his arms, hugs him close.

"You've done so well," Tom murmurs against his head. "I'm going to get you through this. I will get you the sponsors you need. You just have to stay alive. For me." He presses a quick kiss to Harry's forehead, a show of affection that pours warmth into Harry like a cup of hot cocoa.

Harry clings to Tom's forearms like they're lifelines. If it weren't for the Games, they never would have met each other. Harry's not sure how to feel about that.

Tom touches his cheek with the tips of his fingers, tiny pinpricks of warmth that deepen Harry's blush. "Do you still trust me, darling?"

"Of course I trust you," Harry says. He tugs Tom closer to him. He needs Tom to understand. "I trust you with my life."

Tom smiles wanly and kisses Harry's forehead a second time. "That's my good boy. We'll practice interviews tomorrow," he says encouragingly. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

Harry smiles shyly at the term of endearment, ducking his head so he has an excuse to drop his gaze.

That night, Tom takes him to bed for the third time, and it feels so good. Harry's pretty sure he loves Tom, and he thinks that Tom must love him too, in his own way. After all, Tom will stop at nothing to see Harry crowned as the winner of this year's Games.

His life is safe with Tom. He is very certain of that. It is Ginny's life that Harry doesn't trust to stay safe in Tom's hands, but there is nothing he can do about that now. He's in too deep. To explain his plan now would ruin everything. Tom would be so mad at him and he can't have that.

Harry will do what he can and hope that it all works out in the end.

EIGHTEEN.

Harry's interview is awkward at best. It's bad enough that he has to go first. He doesn't get to see anyone else as an example.

Tom had advised him to present himself as humble and honest, a small town baker's boy with plenty of determination and cunning. Harry tries to keep that in mind, but despite Tom's expert advice and first-rate mentoring, he flounders his way through each and every question.

Gilderoy Lockhart, for all his faults, does a great job at making Harry seem less like a mumbling idiot and more like the small town boy that Tom has tried to mold him into. It is the barest of silver linings as Harry leaves the stage, his self-esteem in tatters and his nerves shot to hell.

Harry Potter is mediocre at best, from his score to his interview. No one is going to think of him as a frontrunner. No one will think of him as notable, especially with Ginny standing opposite.

"Forget about it," Harry says when Tom tries to comfort him. "Just forget about it. What's done is done." He feels horribly guilty. Tom has a lot of work laid out ahead of him, finding sponsors willing to shell out obscene amounts of money to fund gifts for keeping Harry alive. Gifts that Harry doesn't even plan to use for himself if he can help it.

Tom regards him for a long moment, then nods stiffly. They'll revisit this later, Harry's sure, but for now they will leave it be.

Ginny's interview is next. Her new dress burns as beautifully as the one she'd worn on the chariot. She talks about her enormous family, her plethora of friends. She makes the audience laugh and smile.

Lockhart is the one who turns the topic to romance.

"Come now, there must be someone! Gorgeous girl like yourself? They must be knocking down your door back at home!" Lockhart exclaims brightly. His patented smile flashes pearly white.

"There is a boy," Ginny says quietly, like she's reluctant to bring it up at all, "a boy that I like. I've liked him for as long as I can remember. But he'd never look twice at me. He doesn't see me like that."

"Ah," Lockhart says. He tuts, wags a finger. "Ah, but there you have it then! You win the Games, you go home to him, there isn't a chance on earth that he'll turn you down." He looks at the audience and adds, "Isn't that right?"

The masses of the Capitol scream agreement, their fancy costumes shimmering and glistening like thousands of stars under the blinding studio lights.

"I'm afraid it's not that easy," Ginny says. She digs her teeth into her lower lip and offers up a sheepish smile. "Winning won't help me."

"Oh? And why might that be?" Lockhart sounds genuinely curious.

"Well," she says, glancing down at her clasped hands, a curious display of bashfulness that Harry doesn't get to linger on because of what she says next.

"Winning won't help because he's the one who came here with me."

NINETEEN.

Ginny is wary as she steps off the stage. Her smile is forced. She comes to a halt in front of Harry and looks up, expectant. There is a painful hope in her eyes that he can't bear to extinguish, but he can't give her what she wants. He can't lie to her.

They've been friends for so long. They've known each other for so long and he's never seen her as anything other than a little sister.

"Good show," he says eventually, because that's what the crowds want, isn't it? That's all the Capitol wants: a good show.

Ginny inclines her head. "Good show," she agrees, accepting, and he wishes it could be different but it can't, not now, not when they're headed into the arena tomorrow. Not when Harry only thinks and dreams of Tom.

"Star-crossed lovers," Bellatrix declares happily, scooping him and Ginny into her arms and squeezing tight. "Absolutely brilliant. I couldn't have done it better myself!"

Harry glances at Tom for his reaction. The man's uncharitable, inscrutable gaze rests solely on Ginny. He is assessing her, Harry notes. Does Tom think of Ginny as prey?

"We'll be able to get you both sponsors with this," Tom says when Bellatrix releases them. His pleasant countenance has returned, boundless charm firmly in place. "This will help us a great deal," he adds for emphasis. Then Tom turns to Harry, and his inauthentic expression fades, replaced by a tender one that Harry's come to associate with Tom's assessment of his person.

"Excellent," Ginny says with obligatory good cheer. "Excellent. I thought it might. Thought it would help. If—if you'll excuse me a moment, I just have to—"

She leaves the room.

Bellatrix chatters on about their new 'angle'. Harry listens without really hearing her, trusting Tom to hold up the other end of the conversation.

Harry loves Ginny, but not that way. She loves him, and now that fact is a weapon, a tool, an advantage that Tom will exploit for all that it's worth. This knowledge makes it worse. Ginny had made this choice knowing the pain it might cause her, and that makes this so much worse.

Harry doesn't eat much during dinner. It is Tom's concerned prompting that convinces him to swallow down a few tasteless bites of bread and spoonfuls of soup.

Of course, Tom thinks it's nerves for tomorrow that are getting to him. He keeps close to Harry for the rest of the evening and doesn't let Harry out of his sight for more than a few minutes.

Harry lets him believe that. The truth is by far a worse pill to swallow.

TWENTY.

"You'll stay alive," Tom commands that evening as he pushes slowly into Harry's pliant, willing body. "Stay alive for me."

Harry moans as Tom slides in. Tom is large enough that Harry feels like he's being speared open every time.

Tom scrapes his teeth along the side of Harry's neck, breaths ragged as he guides himself deeper in. Then with one final thrust, they're pressed flush together, Tom buried all the way to the hilt. Harry jerks his hips to get them moving, whining and clenching down on Tom's thick length, but Tom pins him to the bed with his free arm.

"We're taking our time tonight," Tom snaps, irate. Then he appears to regret his callous tone; he leans in to nibble Harry's earlobe and kiss away Harry's resulting protests. He presses kiss after kiss into Harry's skin, leaving invisible marks everywhere he goes until Harry is too overwhelmed to do anything but take what Tom gives him.

Then they go gently, like Harry is made of porcelain. Tom doesn't want to exhaust him before the Games, doesn't want to hurt him, but Harry wants it to hurt. He wants to feel it so he knows it's real.

"More," Harry pleads, begs. He digs his blunt nails into Tom's back, drags them down. Hooks his heels in and urges Tom to move faster. "More, please, I need it, I need you—"

Tom groans, because Harry is testing his exemplary restraint with all this shameless begging, and shakes his head. Instead, he rolls his hips in a leisurely way that blazes up Harry's spine with tiny sparks of electric pleasure. Harry pants and swears loudly enough to take someone's ears off, but Tom doesn't relent. He pushes into Harry with steady, deliberate thrusts, building Harry's pleasure up like a tower of blocks.

When Harry finally comes, crying Tom's name over and over, he arches clean off the bed and into Tom's waiting arms. Tom fucks him through it, praises him so sweetly that Harry is reduced to clinging and whimpering, too far gone to even be embarrassed by his own reaction.

Then Tom chases his own pleasure, hips stuttering erratically as his pace increases just enough for Harry to moan, red faced and rapturous, against Tom's neck. He loves it when Tom comes undone: coiffed hair falling into loose, messy curls and impeccable composure shattered by the pleasure Harry provides.

"You're being so good," Tom slurs into his ear, rolling his body forward, fucking Harry open with wet, filthy sounds, "so good for me, my sweet, my gorgeous boy—"

Harry keens, nuzzling close, and thinks if he wasn't already absolutely blissed out and on the brink of exhaustion he would have come a second time just from Tom's honeyed voice.

It isn't long before Tom empties himself inside of Harry with a low, breathless moan. Afterwards, he holds Harry so tightly that Harry can barely breathe.

Maybe it'd be better like this, to die in Tom's arms.

Tom rolls off. He tugs Harry to his side even though they're both sweaty and gross. Harry curls his body over Tom's, tangles their limbs together and rests his head on Tom's chest.

Harry tries to relax as Tom cards a hand through his tangled hair, smoothing out the knots. He wants to say something, tell Tom that he loves him, but it feels stupid and cliche and wrong, so he doesn't. He keeps it all inside and knows that it's probably better this way, to say nothing, to protect Tom from the worst when the peacekeepers arrive in the morning to take him away.

"You'll stay alive," Tom instructs, arm tightening around Harry's waist. "You won't go near the Cornucopia."

There's been plenty of talk about strategy and what the Quarter Quell theme of reversal means for the Games. Harry doesn't want to think about any of that. He wants to pretend that it's just the two of them lying here, sharing the night together.

"Not now," Harry whispers. He turns his face into Tom's neck and hides it there. "Not when it's tomorrow."

Tom goes silent for so long that Harry feels a wretched tug of anxiety in the back of his mind, but then Tom's hand comes to rest on the small of his back and the anxiety fades.

"After," Tom says quietly, "after it's over, you'll come and stay with me. In the Victor's Village of District One. I'll take care of you, my sweet boy."

Harry shuts his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that." He listens to the sound of Tom's heartbeat, steady and faithful. "Could you—could you tell me? What it's like there. In the village."

Tom brushes his lips over Harry's forehead. "Of course I can, darling."

Tom's low tenor lulls Harry right to sleep, right into dreams of glittering emeralds, gardens full of lilies, and a palatial manor made of marble.

TWENTY ONE.

Tributes are permitted to wear a token from their district into the arena. Ginny has a bright blue hair tie knitted by Mrs. Weasley holding the end of her braid together. Harry has Tom's ring hanging from a chain around his neck, tucked underneath his uniform where no one can see it.

TWENTY TWO.

As Harry rises into the arena, the artificial sunlight blinds him. He can't step off his pedestal until the gong sounds or he'll be blown up by the mines, but he can take stock of his surroundings. When his eyes adjust, he sees everything at once.

They are surrounded by forest and Ginny is all the way across from him. Between them is not the typical Cornucopia; the large metal horn is home to a haphazard pile of weapons.

Only weapons. No gear, no food. Not as far as Harry can see, anyway. By the far wall there is a silver bow and quiver of arrows for Ginny.

Tom had told him not to run for the bloodbath, but if he and Ginny are going to hunt, they need weapons. Or else they're going to have to forage, and there won't necessarily be edible plant life in the arena, either.

From across the clearing, Ginny makes eye contact with him then glances to her left. Harry blinks twice instead of nodding and sees her jaw firm. Right, good. Next, he scans the field. There is a bundle of knives not too far away from him. He is fast. He can run over and grab it.

The gong sounds. No time to second guess his choice. Harry breaks for it, ignoring Tom screaming in his head for him to stop.

Harry scoops up the knives and barrels towards the side of woods that Ginny had indicated. He hears the cannons in the distance. He hears the cries of terror and hopes Ginny isn't one of them.

His heart pounds as he crashes blindly through the undergrowth, intent on putting plenty of distance between himself and the center of the arena before he finds a tree to scale. Tom's ring hangs heavy against his chest, but Harry doesn't dare touch it, not even after the sun sets and all the light is gone. Knowing it's there is more than enough.

TWENTY THREE.

Three days later, Harry has not found Ginny. He has, however, been attacked by several large birds and narrowly avoided slaughter at the hands of the Career pack when he'd gone to get water from the arena's singular lake.

Cormac from District One has a particular liking for bloodsport, slaughtering tributes with a savage glee that ensures there are cannons going off every day.

Harry has one half-empty bottle of water left in his bag but rationing it won't last forever. Yesterday, it had rained, but rain isn't enough and he can't risk going near the lake again on his own. He has a deep gash in his dominant arm; Tom had sent him a little pot of medicine for it, but it hasn't healed completely and Harry suspects that the medicine isn't the correct kind. Tom must be saving funds for later.

On the plus side, Harry now has some understanding of how the arena works.

Pile of weapons in the center. The further out you go, the more supplies you find. The further out you go, the more danger there is. He suspects that water only lies around the perimeter of the arena, or else in the hands of the Careers.

Which means his latest plan is that he has no plan, because Tom had given him instructions for finding water and rationing water but not what to do when seeking water meant probable death. Several more tributes have died since the first day and some of them must have been from dehydration.

Harry is resigned to doing nothing until Ginny almost barrels past the cave he's camped out in. She has another tribute with her, Luna from District Ten, and they're both nursing bad burns.

Later, Harry will hear how they were attacked by fireballs in the forest. For now, all he knows is immense relief as he pulls Ginny into his arms.

It takes her by surprise. She doesn't move right away, like she can't quite believe he's real, but then her arms come up to hold him and she whispers, "I was so scared every night. When they showed… showed the faces."

"Me too," Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Me too."

"I'm glad you're both still alive," Luna interjects brightly. "Your romance is very touching."

Their romance, yes. He feels Ginny go still, then withdraw to look him in the eyes. She touches his cheek once and smiles. Harry is conflicted, but he knows what he has to do.

He kisses her.

It's warm and awkward and both of their lips are chapped from lack of water, but it's nice. He can think to himself that it's nice and ignore everything else that this kiss is supposed to mean. Everything that it doesn't mean.

TWENTY FOUR.

Harry gives the girls the rest of his medicine to treat their injuries while he relates what he's learned so far about the arena.

"They're hungry," Ginny tells him. "The Careers. They have water but they don't know how to hunt or forage well. They can only camp for so long before they run out of supplies. Then they have to head out for more. Thing is, they've got a good pile going from what they've found and stolen so far."

"They take turns keeping watch," Luna adds. "Some head out while the rest stay behind. Ginny and I have been skimming the lake when they're not paying attention."

Harry mulls that information over for a moment. What would Tom do in this situation? What would he tell Harry to do?

"We need to go after their supplies when they're separated," Harry decides, "but before the dehydration gets to us." With three of them, their odds will be better.

"Hey," Ginny says, frowning as she cocks her head towards the entrance, "hey, d'you hear that?" She gets to her feet and leaves the cave before Harry even thinks to stop her.

Seconds later, she returns with a large silver container in her hands. "It's a gift," she says in awe, turning it over in her hands.

Inside is some bread and two bottles of orange liquid. The bread is full of nuts and raisins. A District Twelve specialty that Harry is very familiar with. A gift from their district? Harry can't imagine the Dursleys wanting to send him anything, and they are unfortunately the first association he has with this particular bread. Tom must have a reason for it; Harry just hasn't figured it out yet.

"Orange juice?" Ginny asks. She gives one of the bottles a swirl. "Do you think they couldn't afford to send us water?"

"Better than water," Harry says, snatching the second bottle up. He recognizes the colour, too bright to be normal juice. "It's got stuff in it that helps with dehydration."

"There's a note in here," Luna says softly, leaning over to pluck a scrap of paper from inside the silver container. "I think it's for you, Harry."

The note is a single row of typed letters that say: STAY ALIVE. Harry stares at the words then folds the note up and tucks it away.

"This is our chance," he says slowly, the plan coming together in his mind like Tom had put it there himself. The Careers are arrogant and rely on brute strength to let them dominate the arena. They can be outsmarted. "We use this to get our strength up and hit the lake. Set up some distractions to lead them away, then grab or torch whatever supplies they have. Even with water, they won't last long without food."

Ginny nods, resolute. "They'll have to go back out to the perimeter and the traps out there might finish some of them off for us."

Harry tears the bread into three pieces and hands the chunks out. This might be their last full meal. While they eat, they decide to make their move a few hours before sunset. That way they'll have the darkness to cover them if things go wrong.

As the time draws near, Ginny is bristling with confidence, but Harry is nervous. This is his first major play in the Games. He can't afford to mess it up.

TWENTY FIVE.

Ginny and Luna set up bonfires around the lake. Harry is positioned by the lake, ready to strike. Ginny had argued with him over who would do what, but with her burn injuries and no bow, she doesn't have the strength or the speed to fend off close-range combat.

When the first fire sends smoke drifting into the air, the three Careers peel off from the pack, leaving the boy from Three behind. Harry swears under his breath as he watches them go. The Careers must be desperate to finish things. He had expected more of them to remain behind. Hopefully the girls make it through alright.

Harry creeps up to the edge of the forest. There are bags and boxes of supplies piled up a couple hundred meters away. Too many things. He won't be able to carry it all with him or set it all on fire. He could dump the contents into the lake, but there isn't enough time for that.

Then his eyes focus on the mounds of dirt spaced out around the miniature pile. What are those for?

As if he's answering Harry's question, the boy from Three rises to his feet and approaches the supplies. He takes care to watch his feet as he walks, and Harry is hit with sudden insight: the Careers have transplanted the mines from the Cornucopia. The mines are meant to catch thieves and those desperate for water.

Harry grimaces. One mine going off won't be enough to blow up the pile and he can't risk getting caught in the explosion. He needs to trigger enough mines to set off a chain of them.

The lake is littered with rocks. He could run up to the shoreline, grab the heaviest ones, and toss them. That sounds like a viable plan if he doesn't get himself blown up in the process.

No, it's a decent plan. He just has to stay on the grass and avoid stepping on the dirt clumps. Harry waits for the other boy to be occupied with the bags then makes a mad dash for the lake, side stepping every pile of dirt he sees.

Harry doesn't think the boy from Three has good aim, and he's proven right when a thrown spear goes wide, so wide he doesn't even have to dodge it.

Dropping down, Harry scoops up his first rock, one hefty enough to make an impact, and tosses with all his might. The rock lands, setting off an explosion a short distance away from the pile. The boy from Three shrieks in panic.

Harry tries again, aiming for the pile itself. His throw hits—a bag of apples tumbles off the top and snags on the corner of a box. The netting of the bag tears, spilling apples onto the ground.

The resulting chain of explosions knocks Harry back several meters. It's sheer luck that he doesn't bash his brains out on some rock, but his hearing is instantly shot to hell, ringing and ringing and ringing.

Harry moans, clutching his head. It takes him far too long to scramble to his feet. His vision spins, but he can see the pile of supplies is utterly ruined. Success.

A cannon goes off, the violent boom like hot knives in his ears. Harry startles badly and almost bites his tongue off, his heart leaping into his throat.

Ginny. Luna.

Teeth gritted through the pain, Harry stumbles back into the woods, slashing through branches with his knife as he runs. He has to find them.

TWENTY SIX.

A second cannon goes off not long after the first. Half-hysterical with fear, Harry staggers around for what feels like several years before he hears the screaming. Definitely female screaming. His right ear throbs as he spins in place, trying to locate the source of the sound.

"Ginny! Ginny, help!"

Harry launches himself forward, tripping over tree roots in his disoriented haste to get to them. He has his knife in hand, and he could try to throw it, or he could get close enough to—to stab someone with it.

When he crashes into the clearing, Ginny is the first person he sees, silver bow in hand, quiver of arrows slung over her back. He follows her line of sight to the body of the boy from District Two. An arrow protrudes from his throat.

Ginny drops to her knees. "Luna? Luna! No, no, no."

There's a spear buried in Luna's chest. Her legs are tangled in a rope trap. Ginny wrenches the spear out, places her hands over the wound, pushing down. "Luna, please, stay with me, come on—"

Harry steps over to them. He kneels in the dirt and takes Luna's hand in his. She is so young, so fragile. Dirty blonde hair and dreamy eyes. He doesn't know her very well, but now she's dying and he feels responsible for it.

"Hold on," Ginny whispers frantically as she tugs the remnants of the rope trap away. "Hold on…"

Harry's ears ring distantly, his focus not altogether there as he listens to Luna murmur reassurances to Ginny.

And then Ginny starts to sing, off-tune and warbling, her voice choked by tears. Harry holds Luna's hand until the very end and shuts her eyes when the cannon goes off.

"I'm sorry," Harry says to Ginny's dull, haunted expression. "I'm sorry." If only he had been faster.

After a brief second, Ginny shakes her head and rises to her feet. Her lower lip is quivering as she speaks. "We—we have to go. We have to get out of here before they find us."

Harry picks up the spear and searches the body of the boy from District Two. The boy has a bottle of water, which Harry puts in his bag. Then he shuts the boy's eyes and takes a heavy step back.

He and Ginny return to the cave. Only then does Ginny allow herself to cry. Pitched, wounded sounds are torn from her throat, her body wracked by ugly sobs that Harry holds her through. As she cries, he remains silent. He shoves down his own wave of grief to make room for hers. He feels responsible for this, too. He will bear it.

TWENTY SEVEN.

That night, Harry watches the skies. The girl from District One who had owned the bow, the boy from Two that Ginny had killed. The boy from Three who must have died from the mines that Harry had set off. Then Luna from Ten.

Harry counts the numbers. Four dead today. Six tributes left. They'll start doing interviews with friends and family back at the districts if they haven't already.

"Six of us left," he tells Ginny when he re-enters the cave.

She nods tiredly. Harry goes to her, wraps an arm around her shoulders. The images of the fallen have reminded him he has a part to play.

"When the cannons went off," he says quietly, letting his voice quaver as he reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together. "I was terrified. I thought it was you."

Ginny curls against him, soft and warm. Her eyes are closed and he supposes it must be easier for her that way, to not look at him. "It wasn't," she whispers. "It wasn't me."

Her voice sounds off. Harry doesn't know what to do, how to make it better. Luna is gone but the Games aren't over yet. He will stay in the Games as long as he can for Tom, but he has to keep Ginny alive for his own selfish reasons. If she dies and it's his fault, he'll never forgive himself.

"Harry?"

Harry glances down at her. Her eyes are open now. Blurry ocean blue scanning his face. "Yeah?"

"Kiss me." There is fierceness underlying her demand. Harry recognizes it. She is fighting to stay alive, just like he is. She is fighting to bury her grief, just like he is.

Harry tilts her face to his and kisses her. There is no romance in this kiss, pretended or otherwise. There is an understanding between them that they must stay together and stay alive.

Ginny gasps into his mouth and pulls him closer, seizes him by the folds of his jacket like she can't live without him, and maybe that's true, maybe it's too true because all they have in this arena is each other and if Harry dies then she'll be all alone.

"Don't leave me," Ginny whispers, tears trailing down her face as she holds him tight. "Don't leave me, Harry."

Harry kisses her hair and doesn't dare say a word. He holds her close until she slips into an exhausted slumber. There are too many promises weighing on him and this is one he cannot keep.

TWENTY EIGHT.

Harry, Ginny, and Cormac are left when the Capitol's creations come for them. The mutts are enormous, snarling and snapping at their heels, rushing forward with alarming speed on two legs. Ginny's pale, horror-stricken face is prominent in Harry's mind even as they run for their lives.

Later, when the mutts are lurching up at them, he'll see their collars have numbers on them, one to eleven, one for each district that has dead tributes. He'll see one of the mutts is blonde with blue eyes and has a dangling number ten hanging from its neck.

For now, they run. Harry runs faster than Ginny does, but he has the sense to keep his lead. He can't help her if the mutts get him. Harry slams into the side of the Cornucopia and scrambles up as quick as he can, then spins around to grab Ginny's outstretched hands as she barrels into the metal surface. He hauls her up and steadies her, then gets shoved aside for his troubles as she knocks him out of the way.

Cormac's blade whizzes past his head, missing him by a hair. Harry tumbles to the ground and clumsily rolls with the motion. He hears Ginny's arrow release and miss its mark.

Harry pulls to his feet and raises his knife and charges. His opponent is stronger than he is which means he has to be faster. He will be faster.

TWENTY NINE.

Harry's head slams into the ground with a violent crack that threatens to rupture his eardrums. Distantly, he notes his wrist feels broken and his leg feels broken and is slowly but surely bleeding out. The growling of the mutts serves as the horrific backdrop to his failure as he blinks black spots out of his vision, staring distantly at the dark night sky.

It is Ginny's cry of pain that shocks him out of his stupor and forces him to heave his torso up.

Cormac has her trapped in a chokehold. He's bleeding heavily from his head and chest which means he won't last long, but he'll last long enough to kill Ginny before Harry can save her.

"One more kill," Cormac hisses through bloodstained teeth, entire body swaying, "to bring honour to my district." Then he barks a laugh, sharp and deranged. "Happy Hunger Games, everybody!" he croaks, breath rattling, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Happy fucking Hunger Games."

Harry is horrified. He has nothing. His hands are empty of weapons and he can't stand and he can't do anything but watch as Cormac prepares to snap her neck.

Ginny slumps, gasps for air. Her eyes meet his. A beautiful cerulean, as blue as the clear, smoke-free skies of the Capitol. Then she smiles at him and he knows.

He knows, because Tom had taught them how to break a chokehold but Ginny won't do it, she won't do it because her plan is the same as his and it always has been—

With the last of her strength, Ginny pitches her weight backwards, sending her and Cormac careening over the edge of the Cornucopia and into the throng of howling, screaming mutts below.

THIRTY.

"I am pleased to present the Victor of the 75th Hunger Games, Harry Potter of District Twelve!"

THIRTY ONE.

Harry wakes screaming and thrashing—desperate to claw out of his restraints because he was supposed to have died, he was supposed to die but all he can hear is Ginny's broken, sobbing screams as the mutts tear into her while he does nothing—

Someone jabs him in the arm with a needle and the world goes black.

THIRTY TWO.

Tom is by his side when his eyes crack open for the second time. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity before Tom rises from his seat and comes to sit on the edge of his bed.

"You're alive," Tom says quietly.

Harry tries to swallow and form words, but he can't. He looks down at his body, now free of restraints. His leg, fully healed without a single scar left behind. Tom's ring still hangs from its gold chain, loosely looped around his neck.

Tom takes his hand and holds it with his larger one. Harry wants to relax because Tom is safe. Tom means he is safe. He should feel relieved that Tom is here with him, whole and alive and handsome as ever.

"They'll be expecting a final interview before you're allowed to go home," Tom says, brushing his thumb over Harry's knuckles.

Home. District Twelve. His memories of District Twelve are from a lifetime ago. The idea of seeing the Dursleys holds no appeal. The idea of seeing the Weasleys—he can't confront that right now. Then he remembers. He remembers Tom's promise to him.

Harry's throat is croaky, hoarse as sandpaper as he asks, "Aren't I—aren't I going with you?" To Tom's home in District One.

Tom's expression softens. "Of course. Of course. Soon, I promise. But not yet, my sweet." His hand smooths over Harry's forehead, brushing back his messy bangs. "They'll want to televise your homecoming."

Harry's heart rate spikes. He jolts upwards and seizes Tom by the shoulders. "No, I—I'm not ready. I can't. I can't."

Tom's eyes widen in alarm. "Harry, please, breathe."

"Can't. I can't." Harry swings his head back and forth, trembling from head to toe. He only goes still when Tom seizes his waist and hauls him into a firm, crushing embrace.

"I'm sorry," Tom murmurs, rocking them back and forth as Harry breaks down into tears, his mouth spluttering wet, heaving gasps. "I'm so sorry, darling. There could only be one and it had to be you." He kisses the top of Harry's head, feels Harry shiver and shake in his arms. "It had to be you."

THIRTY THREE.

Harry dons a new, clean version of his arena outfit for his final interview. Only, it won't be his final interview. It will never be his final interview because every year they will do this again and again and again.

Next year, they will ask him about how he won the Games. They will ask him how much he misses Ginny Weasley, who is supposed to be the love of his life. They will ask how he plans to mentor his tributes because District Twelve now has two Victors and one of them is him.

Lockhart walks the audience through the highlights. Each exciting, notable death in the arena. They follow Ginny from the moment the first cannon went off, to when Harry met up with her in the cave. She was so brave, he thinks, braver than he ever was, but he can't let himself cry too much, not too much because no one wants to see the winner in tears, they want to see him smile and reminisce and celebrate his victory like a hero. Celebrate the deaths of his fellow tributes like a hero.

So Harry lets a few tears slip out and tells Gilderoy Lockhart that he'll love Ginny for the rest of his life because that's what Tom told him to say, Tom told him to say it because it will grant them an advantage going forward if they have the sympathies of the Capitol citizens.

The large screens show the boy from Three that Harry had blown up—"Clever! So very clever, I think we can all agree. There's a saying that comes to mind here, very apt for this situation and I think Harry would support me here, wouldn't you? Yes, absolutely, this was a 'two birds with one stone' situation, very brilliant indeed!"—on purpose, then, not by mistake because the Victor of the Games can only be a calculating, coldblooded killer.

After his interview, Harry is taken to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet. Bellatrix and Tom shield him from the onlookers, from the well-wishers, from everyone who isn't the president because that's the one person they can't protect him from.

The night is long and Harry barely eats anything. He smiles so wide his face hurts and he shakes hands with President Grindelwald, who smells like death and roses. Harry spews out nonsense about being happy to return home to his family and being grateful for all that the Capitol does for him. He hopes it's enough.

Then, finally, Harry returns to the Training Center. Tom leads him to the bedroom and strips him of his clothes, cleans the makeup off his face, and dresses him in soft pyjamas. He lays Harry down on the bed and lines their bodies up together. Harry doesn't have the words to express how he feels because he doesn't feel anything. There's a pit inside of him, collapsing in on itself like he's constantly crumbling to pieces and won't ever stop.

Tom tucks Harry under his chin and holds him through that first awful night, through the terrible nightmares where Harry wakes, twisting and thrashing, sobbing and beating weak fists against Tom's chest.

"It should have been me," Harry whispers brokenly when he's calmed enough to hear Tom's tense breaths pass over his head. "It should have been me."

Tom says nothing. If he had to choose, if Tom had to do this again, he would still let Ginny die. He would always put Harry first.

Harry knows he ought to ask what happened here at the Capitol while he and Ginny were fighting for their lives, the decisions Tom had to make to keep him alive, but he's afraid of the answer. He doesn't want to know what Tom did and maybe it's better he never does.

THIRTY FOUR.

"Her family will be protected," Tom says once they're on the train. "I've made sure of that. The percentage of your winnings meant for your family will go to them."

The interviews here at District Twelve had been meticulously planned by Tom and Bellatrix. The story is set, the narrative clear. Harry is a shy, likeable orphan boy trapped in an abusive home. A boy who had found true family—and true love—with the Weasleys.

And Ginny—sweet, brave Ginny—was his best friend's little sister, forever doomed to hide in plain sight until the Games shoved her into the spotlight.

Umbridge had interviewed the entire Weasley clan and spent extra time with Ron in particular, who somehow managed to romanticize Harry and Ginny's relationship to the point of nausea. Ron has never been a very good liar and is even worse when under pressure, but of course the Capitol has eaten it up anyway.

"How long do I have to stay?" Harry asks quietly. "When can I leave with you?" It's all he has to look forward to.

Everyone now knows that Harry was mistreated for years following his parents' deaths. If Harry isn't mistaken, the Dursleys are now the most hated family in Panem, all because of Tom's clever plots. Harry doesn't look forward to seeing them.

But he isn't upset that Tom has exposed the tragedy of his childhood for the world to see. There are too many other things to be upset about that this one hardly matters in comparison. Tom did this to keep him alive and Harry can't fault him for that. It would be hypocritical of him to.

Tom reaches for his hand; Harry offers his own up right away. Palm to palm, fingers linked together. Warmth and safety.

"Not right away," Tom says, voice full of regret, and Harry's heart drops.

On some level, he knows it's not as simple as up and leaving. There is no such thing as winning the Hunger Games. Still, Harry can't help but feel like rose-tinted glasses have been wrenched from his face and shattered on the ground.

"I'll stay with you in Twelve," Tom promises quickly, squeezing Harry's hand tight. "Even after the fervor dies down. We will prepare for your Victory Tour in January, and if all goes well..." The side of his mouth flips down in a strained grimace. "I won't lie to you, Harry. This will be very difficult. What we have is unconventional in many ways. But if all goes well, I may be able to take you home with me when the tour is over."

Harry does not feel relief upon hearing those words. The Victory Tour is months away and will take weeks to finish. During that time, he'll have to relive the horror of the Games while not knowing if they'll have any respite, however short lived, by the end of it.

"But in July," Tom continues, and his voice is painfully steady as he says, "in July, you will have to return to Twelve and I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that."

Harry stares at their joined hands. He'll have to return for the 76th Hunger Games. To mentor the new tributes. Not just that, but he'll be mentoring tributes that will be up against Tom's tributes.

Tributes turned into mentors, mentors turning out new tributes. The game that goes around and around. The game that never ends, not really.

"Harry, love, please look at me."

Tom tips his chin up with a gentle touch. Harry lifts his eyes to Tom's. The sudden clench of his heart in his chest feels like death's sweet embrace, a righteous fist closing down on his vital organs one by one. If he could, he would tear his heart out and give it to Tom. It would be better off in Tom's hands.

"I won't leave you," Tom says fiercely, his grip on Harry so tense it's painful, "I won't ever leave you alone."

Part of Harry wishes he'd never fallen for Tom. If he hadn't, surely he would be dead and Ginny would be sitting in his place, speeding back to her family.

But he had, he'd fallen hard and Tom is all he has now.

Harry says, "This isn't going to get any better, is it," and it isn't a question.

Tom's composure flickers for a second, control cracking around the edges. It is a vulnerability that Harry sees because he understands it.

Harry will carry his lies to his grave because he has no other choice. It's either he lies about loving Ginny or he risks losing everything he has left. He risks Tom.

If Harry fails, he will lose the support of his district and his tentative popularity with the masses. He will lose his safety from the predators of the Capitol.

Tom has warned him of those young, beautiful tributes whose bodies are sold to the highest bidder. While Harry grieves, he has time. They have time.

"It will get worse, first," Tom agrees quietly, dipping his head. He lifts his free hand to trace Harry's jaw with his fingertips. "But I swear to you that it won't always be this way. Do you trust me?"

Harry trusts Tom with his life. He trusts that Tom has a plan to keep them both safe. They are in this together. Everyone he loves is may be in danger and Tom—Tom is—

Tom is all he has.

"I love you," Harry says, letting the words surround him like a cocoon, a soft shield from the cruelty of the world that awaits him outside this train. "I love you, Tom."

Tom tracks his gaze with clear eyes and kisses Harry gently, like he's precious and delicate. He kisses the corner of Harry's mouth, tucking his promises there. Kisses his cheek, his forehead—proof of devotion.

"I'm yours, little lion," Tom says, and it's not the same thing but it is, it is.

The Games are not over yet. Harry still has a life to give and people to give it for.

As the silver train speeds towards District Twelve, Harry accepts his fate, however uncertain it may be, and tries to enjoy the time he has with Tom before it is taken away from him.

When they arrive and the main door slides open, silent and shining under the smog-covered sun, it is not defiance that keeps him resolute in front of the cameras.

It is hope.

END HARRY'S POV.