Conflagration

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: Half a dozen lives later, and Harry's pretty sure he's got a handle on this 'Master of Death' business. Good thing, too, because as Heron Everdeen, in order to survive, he'll need every trick at his disposal. AU.

Rating: M for language, violence, character death, and adult themes.

Author: tlyxor1.

Part One: The Tribute

Chapter One

It's barely dawn, but Heron - or Harry, rather - Everdeen is wide awake. His father is, too, shuffling around their small hovel as the rest of their family sleeps, and it's a familiar routine by now.

The kettle boils, Peregrine hums quietly to himself, and Harry silently laces up his boots.

"Are you ready?"

"Always."

They both don their coats as they leave their small home, and traverse the streets of District 12 in an easy, companionable silence. The streets are deserted, most of the residents eager to take advantage of the only lie-in they'll receive all year, and father and son are undisturbed as they approach the barbed-wire fence surrounding their home. The electricity's switched off, the wire itself worn and rusted, and also unlikely to keep out the animals it's allegedly there for. As they duck under it to approach the woodland beyond, however, the sight of it behind them - and all the accompanying laws they're flouting - is an undeniable thrill.

"I'll check the snares," Harry volunteers, and gladly accepts the bow, quiver of arrows, and two hunting knives his father offers him, "Do some foraging."

"All right," Peregrine acquiesces, "I'll meet you at the usual place. Around nine?"

Harry nods. Any later, and they'll be cutting it close. "Yeah, sure. See you."

The snares provide a decent haul, with a few rabbits and a squirrel to retrieve. There are wild strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries to gather, as well as an assortment of wild herbs, nuts, and spices, and Harry gets lucky when he's able to shoot a couple of wild turkeys, as well. Most of it will be for selling and trading, but the raspberries will be set aside for preserving, the herbs for Harry's mother's apothecary, and he's in good spirits when he approaches he and his father's meeting place.

"How did you go?" Peregrine addresses him.

"I love this time of year," Harry answers.

"You and me both."

Peregrine wears a content smile on his face. As a coal miner, he doesn't get a lot of opportunities to go hunting. Most of the responsibility falls on Harry's shoulders in that regard, and it takes it's toll. Not on Harry, who honestly relishes in every opportunity to escape District 12 for a while, but on his father, who was never meant to spend his life in the abyss of District 12's coal mines. As such, every opportunity for Peregrine Everdeen to traverse the woods is embraced whole-heartedly.

With that in mind, it is with no small degree of reluctance that they return to the oppressive confines of District 12, wherein they both make a pitstop to greet the rest of their family, and also to drop off what they don't intend to sell or trade that morning. It's a pleasant respite, all told, but before long, Harry and Peregrine depart again, and beeline for the Hob. It's the district's black market, where they trade fresh game and fruit for near anything and everything they and their family require, and mercifully, miraculously, it is enough for them to get by. They're not exactly comfortable, and they live hand to mouth more often than not, but between what they are able to hunt and forage, and the meagre income received by Peregrine and Violet, respectively, they're fortunate enough to never go hungry. It's better than most Seam families can boast.

"Morning, Sae," Peregrine greets the older woman behind her usual stall. She's been a fixture in the Hob for as long as Harry can remember, with her mystery meat stew, fair trades, and no-nonsense bartering. He can't imagine the Hob without her.

"Morning, Everdeens," Sae answers. She ladles up a couple of bowls of stew, exchanged for a couple of coins, and Harry descends upon it eagerly. It's rabbit this time, liberally salted, and made tasteful and filling by the potatoes, pumpkin, and celery she's included. "Anything promising today?"

"An excellent haul," Peregrine answers. "I've even got a rabbit or two for you, if you're interested?"

"Let's have a look at them, then," Sae leans forward, indeed interested, and Peregrine produces a couple of fat rabbits from his bag. "They're looking good. I'll take them."

The two adults barter good-naturedly, and Harry wanders off to trade what he can. The three squirrels they'd caught between them are left to trade with Mr Mellark, from town, and most of the strawberries are reserved for their usual exchange with Mayor Undersee. There's a turkey with the Head Peacekeeper's name on it, as well, but everything else is up for grabs, and the denizens of the Hob, although enthusiastic for the fresh meat and fruit, are predictably cautious about it. To purchase game and what have you from Peregrine or Heron Everdeen is to be complicit in poaching and black market trading, and although none can deny the necessity of it, there are only a few people who actually relish in such rebellion (or the possible consequences therein). As is, the Hob is enough defiance for most people in District 12.

Nevertheless, Harry successfully trades for enough salt, fabric, tea, and soap to get them by for a while. His father is busy too, trading for honey, thread, needles, tallow, and coin, and all in all, it's a productive morning.

"You'd better head home," Peregrine advises him, "I'll do the town run."

"You sure?" Harry hesitates.

His father nods. "Go, get ready. Spend time with your sisters. They'll appreciate it."

Harry acquiesces without protest. It had been a rough night, fraught with restless sleep and half-forgotten nightmares, and despite himself, Harry is tired. He's worried too, about his family, his friends, and himself, and it is all courtesy of the events slated to take place that afternoon. Namely: District 12's annual reaping, and all of the trials and tribulations therein.

"You're home early," Katniss greets him as he steps through the door. She looks passed him, frowns, and demands, "Where's Dad?"

"Relax," Harry rolls his eyes, and tugs loosely at the end of one of her braids, "Dad sent me home to get ready. He's probably at the bakery by now."

Katniss' frown only deepens, and she glares at the turkey she's been preparing as though it's the cause of all her suffering. She's not thrilled by the inferred reminder of that afternoon's events, though honestly, what sane person would be? The Hunger Games are not something to be taken lightly.

"Mom made up a bath for you."

"I know," Harry answers. He'd passed his mother in their small front yard, busying herself with tending to their small vegetable garden, and she had reminded him to clean under his nails and behind his ears. "Where's Prim?"

"Mom asked her to polish your good boots," Katniss replies, nonplused.

His 'good boots' are the second ( and only other) shoes he owns, reserved for toasting ceremonies, funerals, and Reaping Day. They're dress boots, plain and black, and they'd once belonged to his father.

Presumably, the task of polishing them is to keep Primrose busy, out of their mother's hair and out of trouble, but Harry doesn't bother explaining it to Katniss. Instead, he leaves his sister to her gory task, and makes his way to the bath awaiting him. It's still warm, infused with one of his mother's few cleanser blends, and Harry sinks into it with a grateful sigh.

He washes his hair and scrubs his skin, and although tempted to, he doesn't linger in the tub when he's done. Rather, he dries himself off, and gets dressed in his best clothes, and then endures his mother's fretting in silence. She combs his hair and straightens out his collar, and then hovers as Harry shaves away the scruff along his jaw. The mess is vanished with a wordless and wandless cast of 'scurgify', and his mother clicks her tongue, disapproving.

"You shouldn't do that."

Harry blinks, guileless. "Do what?"

"It's dangerous." She casts a furtive gaze around their cramped living area, and then nervously smooths out the fabric at his shoulders, "I don't want you getting in any trouble."

"I won't," he assures her. She doesn't look convinced. "I promise."

Violet purses her lips, but she doesn't speak further regarding the matter. She's perpetually concerned about who might be watching or listening, and it's such that she never overtly uses magic, herself. She does, passively, gardening and healing and cooking, but her days of overt casting are far behind her, and neither Harry nor Peregrine have it in them to press her on the matter. District 12 is certainly not the place to, in any case, and now is definitely not the time.

"Daddy's here!" Primrose calls. She throws the front door open a moment later, greets the man with a hug around his middle, and then peers with interest at the paper bag he holds in one hand. "What did Mr Mellark give you today, Daddy?"

"Never you mind that, Prim," Peregrine answers, "I believe we've somewhere to be very soon."

Katniss, cleaned up from the turkey, and dressed in her best clothes, slumps against Harry's side. She curls an arm around his middle, and Harry wraps a comforting arm over her small shoulders. She's eleven, spared for another year from the nightmare that is Hunger Games eligibility herself, but still old enough to fear for Harry's wellbeing in the meantime.

Primrose sobers immediately, and Peregrine retreats to the family's small (and only) bedroom to clean himself up. Violet braids Primrose's hair as they wait, and Harry distracts them all as best he can with an impromptu singalong involving himself and his sisters.

It's this scene that Peregrine returns to, dressed in his best clothes, cleaned and shaved and combed. He smiles at them all warmly, joins in on the last bars of 'Wild Mountain Thyme', and then reluctantly shepherds them all outside. It's an incongruously nice day, without a cloud in sight and no humidity to speak of, but surrounded by the other residents of District 12's Seam Sector, the walk into town has all of the cheer of a funeral march.

His mother stays close to him, her hand curled around Harry's elbow, even as she converses quietly with her husband. She doesn't want to let him out of her sight.

"How many times is your name in the Reaping Bowl, Harry?" Katniss asks him.

"Never you mind," Harry answers. "There are thousands of names in there. You don't have to worry about me."

Even as he says it though, Harry's stomach churns with dread. He has a terrible feeling about today, and he had learned multiple lifetimes ago to trust his instincts. More so after his stint as a son of Apollo, God of Prophecy, because all though he'd never been a seer, he'd certainly inherited a reasonable degree of precognition from his Olympian progenitor. That trait had carried through to his most recent rebirth, alongside his skill for Music and Archery, and Harry's not about to doubt himself now.

Katniss glances at him, dubious, but she doesn't press the issue. Perhaps it's the strained look on their mother's face, or perhaps it's the resolute expression on Harry's, but either way, she sighs instead, glances disconsolately at her feet, and continues their walk in silence.

-!- -#-

Levin Mellark meets him in the 17 year old's section, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair carefully combed out of his face. He has two (out of three) younger brothers eligible for the Reaping, and his attention flickers between the two of them, Bannock and Rye, with a concern he hides behind crossed arms and an impassive face.

"You've got that look on your face," Levin greets him, "What's going on?"

"Not sure yet," Harry replies, "Just a bad feeling."

Levin frowns, concerned. He'd known Harry long enough - through several lifetimes, even - to trust Harry's judgement regarding trouble, but it's never, ever anything to be pleased about.

"You're thinking the Reaping?"

Harry shrugs. "What else could it be?"

Levin's only answer is a resigned, weary sigh.

"You'll look out for them, won't you?" Harry asks.

Excepting his life as a son of Apollo, Harry's never had siblings before. He'd been an only child in every one of his lives, but there are a lot of things different about this time around. Maybe it's because it's his last before he can finally, truly rest, maybe it's because Death had taken pity on him, maybe it's something else entirely, but either way, his sisters are two of the most important people in the world to him. He's never made an effort to hide the fact, either, but that's a story for a different day.

"That's a dumb question."

Harry huffs a laugh. "Just making sure, Nev."

Levin hums his acknowledgement, and his gaze turns towards the stage ahead of them. Mayor Undersee is already there, his thoughts somewhere far from District 12, and most certainly not on the District Escort beside him.

Somewhere, a bell tolls. Mayor Undersee approaches the podium, and the residents of District 12 fall silent.

"You ready for this?" Levin glances at him for the briefest of seconds.

Harry offers him a half smile. "As I'll ever be."

Neither of them are surprised, then, when a few minutes later, Effie Trinket calls up District 12's male tribute.

"Heron Everdeen."