Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Hunger Games, they are owned by the wonderful J.K. Rowling and Suzanne Collins.

Chapter One – We're All Hungry

The market on the square of District 12 was loud and busy. It was a scorching day: the heat caused buyers to move slowly around the stalls, fanning themselves with their hands, rolling up their sleeves. The Seam citizens were purchasing as much as they could, since the food was as tasty as it could get in this climate. Thin cotton clothes, which would struggle to sell during any other time of the year, were being distributed haphazardly, as were sandals and cheap straw hats.

A young boy was shifting carefully down the aisles, hands deep in the pockets of his bronze shorts. He couldn't be much older than fifteen or so. His hair was matted, a deep earth-brown colour, as were his eyes; he was slim but not particularly tall. There was something purposeful in the way he skulked past shops and stalls, eyes down but watching. Barely any other customer or stallholder registered him: they were too occupied in business with each other. The inside breast pockets of his brown jacket were bulging with food. He was indeed sweating slightly in the jacket but he had no choice but to wear it because he had no other place to store his daily grub. It was essential he kept this food hidden.

He spotted a Peacekeeper ahead and resultantly turned into another aisle; it wouldn't do to be checked by one of them: he had his mother's hungry mouth to feed at home and his food would surely be taken away if they knew what he was up to. No, he had to be careful. Sundays were always the busiest, always provided the best food. Every week, the market was full of hungry customers buying their rations – except for this boy.

True, he was a customer. But he wasn't buying his rations.

He continued down the rows and columns, all senses alert. His technique remained unchanged: keep moving. Slowly. Wait by a stall selling stock foods. Perhaps apples, packs of grain, nuts or the wing of a bird. Then wait for an item to fall from the stall and just help it into his hand. By help it in, that meant – well, even he wasn't sure what it meant, or how he did it. He knew he simply had this ability to make a falling item of food float like a cork in mid-air and drift into his hand. The process took seconds. He wasn't sure many people in District 12 could do this, else there would be chaos. Thieves roaming everywhere, none of the stallholders making money, the whipping post being occupied daily. But this boy was one of the poorest in the Seam, so could anyone really blame him for taking food to stay alive?

Yes, they probably could actually.

Not that it mattered. He hadn't been caught in seven years of it. But that was no reason to keep his guard down today.

This was certainly the busiest the market had been in weeks, months even. This weather seemed to put everyone in a better mood, though even the bright sunlight couldn't hide the fact that they were all hungry, always. Every single citizen of District 12, and probably several of the other districts too. And besides, the smiles would be wiped from all their faces in a month's time or so. The thirty-third annual Hunger Games would be taking place then and there was nowhere to hide from that. The reaping, as well as the Games themselves, was always a traumatic experience for the Seam citizens. One boy and one girl from the district are stolen to compete and fight to the death. And it was always unlikely that Twelve's competitors would return: the district hasn't won once yet across thirty-two Games.

'Hey, I saw that!'

The boy jumped out of his skin and looked up. His thoughts about the Hunger Games had cost him his attention of what he was trying to steal. And even a butcher will notice if half a pig slides across the dusty ground. The butcher obviously thought the boy had pulled it away with string. Their eyes locked. The butcher's were small and beady, the muscles in his chubby face twitching.

The boy didn't hesitate: he sprinted down the aisle just as the huge butcher yelled, 'STOP THAT BOY!' Although the boy obviously didn't take the pig with him, stealing was punishable by a good whipping outside the Justice Building. He cursed himself for his foolishness, while others did the same as he barged them out his way impatiently. A crate of oranges was knocked from a table, its contents rolling away in every direction. He soon escaped the confinements of the square and shot down a street, leaving nothing behind but small billows of dust as his feet pounded the dried roads. Noises of irritation from the shopkeepers and women sweeping the outsides of their houses sounded behind him, but he didn't look back. Running was another gift of his. When he'd attended school, he was easily the quickest of his age, but he had had to drop out to care for his weak mother. Oh, he hoped she would still be getting food tonight. She was dependent on him.

He kept turning random corners to try and shake his pursuers off, but to no avail. He was reminded that the market wasn't just full of boring middle-aged men and that the more athletic generation could give him a run for his money.

Or a run for his food.

He couldn't help but grin. These were the real Hunger Games: getting chased for your food. He just hoped his young legs put the odds in his favour.

Adventure and running were two things that kept him alive here in District 12. He couldn't think of any better feeling than having adrenaline flooding through his bloodstream. But maybe it was a good thing it didn't happen too often, or Peacekeepers may have put his life to an abrupt end by now.

It then dawned on him that he might have just done a complete circuit of the inner part of the district because he could see the Goat Man ahead with his little clan of white, horned goats. The boy expected to get another moan or curse aimed at him but what he certainly did not expect was for the Goat Man to beckon him into his small concrete house which he stood outside. The boy was very surprised, yet gratefully accepted because he was panting heavily by now, and had probably put enough distance between him and his chasers for the latter to notice this disappearance. He ducked through the door, entering a small and dingy house.

Well, it wasn't much of a house. The essentials were here: a bed, a stove and scraps of food. Old books were stacked in a corner collecting dust; chipped crockery and rusty-looking cutlery sat on a wooden table in the middle of the room. Spiders had strung up cobwebs wherever they could. The boy was surprised anyone lived here at all.

'That way, I said,' came the Goat Man's gruff voice from outside and the boy saw him pointing down a random narrow alley. One of the chasers slipped in their eagerness to catch their 'victim' and the boy had to force back a snort of laughter. When the crowd were out of sight, the Goat Man entered, swinging the front door shut behind him.

'What was all that about?' he asked.

'I – never mind.'

The boy took to opportunity to study his saviour. He was old and thin, made worse by the hunger that everyone in the district faced. His hair and beard were long and grey, but patched with dirt. What was left of his face was wrinkled like a prune. His eyes were astonishingly blue and easily looked the sharpest part of his body. The clothes were ragged and torn.

The boy reconsidered whether he really was the poorest person in District 12.

'Well, I do mind,' said the man. 'What's your name, anyway?'

'Hamish, sir. Hamish Woodburn.'

'Hamish. You can tell me what happened. I've never seen a chase like that before. I've only ever seen people getting chased by the Peacekeepers, and how long do you think they last with the weapons they have – but it's never a good sign when the citizens turn on each other.'

Perhaps it was just his rough tones, but Hamish couldn't help but think how different the man's accent was: it certainly wasn't Southern. Based what he could remember from last year's victor's accent from District 5, it wasn't Western. If anything, it was most similar to the Capitol accent, just without the flowery words and terrible high pitch.

Hamish hesitated. There was no reason why he shouldn't trust this man. He had saved him from a public whipping, at the least, and ensured that Hamish and his mother would eat safely again tonight. He spoke to his shoelaces however, while his fingers interlocked nervously behind his back. He felt like a little schoolboy in front of the Headmaster.

'I got caught stealing from the market.'

It sounded bad, and he knew it. The Goat Man appeared indifferent, however. There was a long and horrible pause during which Hamish wished the dusty ground would simply swallow him whole. It was a cloudless day but something of a cold shiver shot down him.

'Don't worry, kid. You were hungry. We -'

He broke off abruptly as a coughing fit attacked him, and quite brutally. Hamish counted eleven coughs.

'Bless me - as I said, you were hungry. We're all hungry. I'd do the same if I had the legs.'

Hamish looked up, his unease quickly vanishing. Those eyes, those bright blue eyes ... they must know a lot, must have seen a lot.

'You would?'

'Of course, boy!' he boomed. He hastily realised how loud he'd been and quickly glanced outside to see if anyone had noticed. Apparently they hadn't, because then he said, 'Anything to get one up on the Capitol, eh?'

Hamish laughed, partly relieved that someone had finally voiced his thoughts for the last fifteen years, that someone else had the guts to publicly state their disgust at the Capitol. It seemed a bit odd though – why had this old man, the ancient goat-seller, had an impulse to save him and talk to him almost like an eccentric uncle would to his nephew? This was their first formal meeting: Hamish had never had the money to buy a goat from him. Perhaps he had been watching Hamish?

'Yeah, I guess,' agreed Hamish airily, still smirking.

'How do you get away with it, anyway?' the Goat Man asked.

Hamish opens his mouth, then hesitates.

'But – I didn't get away with it. That's why I'm here,' says Hamish cautiously.

'Yes, but it can't be the first time you've done it. And besides, your pockets are full! Tell me, boy – I won't judge you.'

Again, Hamish falters.

'It's fine,' said the man.

'I – I just – Look. There's this thing I can do with my – with my mind, or something. It's hard to explain. I can just – move things without touching them.' That was it. Move things without touching them.

For a full five seconds, they simply stood there gazing at each other in silence, the old man piercing Hamish with those electric-blue eyes. And then his face split into a grin.

'Now this is getting interesting,' he said. 'I knew we had something in common.'

A crease appears at Hamish's brow as he wonders whether he thinks what the man means by those words is true.

'It's magic, Hamish, what you can do. Move things without touching them. Perhaps hurt someone that provoked you? From here on out, you can call yourself a wizard, lad.'

'A wizard?' repeats Hamish blankly. He had come across the term in History at school once but hadn't realised they actually existed. 'Wizard? But – are you a wizard as well then?'

'Certainly,' says the Goat Man.

Hamish swallows.

'But there aren't many wizards in District 12, are there? I think I'm the only person that can do what I can do ... 'cept for you, of course. But – how have I got these – these powers? How is it that –?'

'Hamish, Hamish, please, just calm down a moment,' says the man patiently, followed by another set of throaty coughs. 'Listen, my name is Aberforth. I want you to sit down, I'll make some tea and I can talk to you about it all. About everything. Ask me any questions you like after that, OK?'