These Games We Play

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

Summary: In another life, she voluntarily walked to her death for her loved ones. She can't decide if surviving the Hunger Games is better or worse. OOC AU. fem!HP/Finnick

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

Author: tlyxor1.

Book One: The Tribute

Part 1: The Tribute:

Chapter One: The District

It's sort of embarrassing, how fast Cray finishes, but I don't think on it too much. I take the coin he offers me instead, show myself out, and make my way home. I'm not a regular bedfellow of Cray's, but I'm familiar enough with the routine by now, and as far as such things go, I can appreciate how simple he keeps things. Admittedly, Cray is my only experience in prostitution, but He doesn't drag it out, doesn't care to wine or dine anyone, doesn't expect us to linger afterwards. In all, it's an impersonal transaction that lasts half an hour, tops, and I make it home in time to enjoy the last dregs of hot water in Primrose and Katniss' bedtime bath.

Before I do, though, I pull a small, hand-carved chest from beneath the bed I share with my middle sister, and carefully deposit my earnings from Cray within. It joins the rest of the money I've managed to set aside over the last six months - to get my family through the winter - and without ado, I return it to it's hiding place, sure of it's security beneath the protections I've crafted for it.

Satisfied, I retreat into the kitchen to clean myself off of the stench of sweat and sex. The bath tub waits for me there, the water lukewarm and infused with lavender. I use it to scrub myself raw, to wipe away the touch of Cray, the memory of money exchanging hands, of the anger and shame and embarrassment. No matter how hard I scrub, though, I can't escape the feeling that I'll never be clean again.

"I made you some tea," Lily says from the dining table. While I bathed, she's been refilling her herb jars with what Katniss and I have gathered for her, and I can't look at her for the shame.

"Thanks," I say instead, dry myself off with a thin towel, and tug on my threadbare nightshirt. I sit down across from her, cup my hands around the mug of tea in question, and am entirely unsurprised to find that it's one of her contraceptive brews.

My mother knows exactly where I've been tonight, but we don't talk about it. Ignorance is bliss, and so long as I don't vocalise it, she can pretend that I've just been visiting the slag heap with one of my classmates. With that in mind, I drink without protest.

"Did you have your tea?"

In the wake of my father's death, I've had her drinking teas I'd blended myself, designed to minimise the depression she wears like a well-loved cloak. She hasn't coped well, but with the tea, she's at least working, helping to put food on the table, to take care of Katniss and Primrose. She's still grieving, desperately unhappy without her husband, but she's no longer wasting away, and it's all I can ask of her.

"Yes," Lily confirms. She smiles, but it's feeble, "Your sisters made sure I did."

I nod my acknowledgement, pleased. I sip my tea, too, ignore the bitter taste on my tongue, and watch absently as my mother continues organising her stock of herbs. It's therapeutic, in a way, watching her hands, her familiar, fluid confidence as she organises everything. "Did Katniss get to sleep all right?"

"It took her a while," Lily informs me, "But you know your sister. She wasn't about to admit she's afraid."

I'm not surprised by Katniss' fear, of course. It's Reaping Day tomorrow, for the 70th Hunger Games, and at 12, it's Katniss' first year of eligibility. It's a day every person in District 12 dreads, and not even stubborn, proud Katniss Everdeen is an exception to that rule.

"I guess I should join her," I concede, and drain the last of my tea, "It's getting late."

"You should," Lily concurs. She pauses in her work to hug me when I round the table, and I take the time to return her embrace, to press a kiss to her cheek, to memorise the scent of her hair, "Sleep well, Thalia."

"Goodnight, Mama," I reply, retreat to the bedroom we all share, and I try to do just that.

Between my own and Katniss' nightmares, I fail spectacularly.

-!- -#-

After a restless night, dawn arrives earlier than I would like. Katniss is wide awake, curled up against my side, shivering, and completely silent.

I sigh, comb my fingers through her hair, and contemplate foregoing that morning's hunt. One glance at Katniss though, and I make a different choice entirely.

"Are you coming with me today?"

Katniss looks afraid to hope. "Can I?"

"Of course," I answer, "But you know the rules."

Do as I say. Don't argue. Don't do anything stupid, and Don't get hurt. Most importantly, don't ever let yourself be seen.

Katniss nods emphatically. The rules have probably carved themselves into her skull, they've been repeated so often. By me, by our father, by Katniss herself. They're rules neither of us will soon forget - not for anything.

"Better get ready, then. Last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg."

And as silently as we can, we hustle. I let Katniss win - the bright, unfettered smile on her face is entirely worth the accompanying gloating - and I make us each a cup of tea. We share a couple of crackers between us, lathered with homemade jam, and I wrangle Katniss into our father's hunting jacket. She drowns in it, but the weather's been rather dreary of late, and I don't need her catching a cold when things are finally looking up.

"Are you ready to go?" I ask.

Katniss nods enthusiastically. I wonder if she's thought about the Reaping at all since she's been out of bed, but I dare not ask. Just in case.

"Let's go, then."

The trek to the boundary fence is uneventful. Most of District 12 is still sleeping, soaking in one of the few lie-ins they'll receive all year, and the only people up and about are the same people who won't report us for poaching beyond the confines of District 12's borders. They're fellow hunters and gatherers, regulars to the Hob and what have you, and they'll leave us be so long as we do the same in return. It's a familiar system, one that's carried over since my father's time, and my grandfather's before him, and I imagine it'll remain as such so long as we're granted the (relative) freedoms we are. NO one gives a shit about District 12, after all.

"You first," I say to Katniss, crouched under the bush that lines the fence, "And don't dawdle. I'll meet you in the trees."

Katniss nods wordlessly, and does as she's told. She shuffles under the fence, rises to a crouch, and then darts for the trees. She's swift and graceful, like a doe - or perhaps a tigress - and I spare a moment to be grateful for my sister's fleet-footed steps, for the seriousness with which she treats our sojourns beyond the fence, for the skill with which she does so. Even at the age of 12, she's an excellent hunter and forager - a survivor if I've ever known one - and I can trust that if the worst happens, she'll at least be able to provide for our family.

It's an unpleasant burden, but it's an unpleasant world, and I can only pray it doesn't come to that.

Would that I was so fortunate, but in all of the lives I've lived, Lady Luck has ever been a fickle friend.

-!- -#-

Between Katniss and I, we gather a decent haul. Even before we approach our various snares, we have 4 hares, 6 squirrels, 2 turkeys, and a surplus of fruit, wild vegetables, herbs and plants. I'm certain District 12 neighbours what was once an orchard - or at the very least, our forbearers were rather forward thinking - because every Spring, the forest is full to bursting with apples, pears, oranges, peaches, lemons and limes - practically every fruit and nut bearing tree, bush, or vine imaginable, really - and although I can't fathom how they can all possibly grow in this climate, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Instead, I mentally thank the memory of Hermione Granger and Molly Weasley for teaching me the undetectable expansion and stasis charms, respectively, and go to town.

I don't take it all, of course. It'd be easy to do so, but we're not the only people to rely on these woods for sustenance, and I try not to be greedy. Instead, I take enough ripe fruit to sell, to preserve, to eat without risking any going to waste. I do the same with the vegetables - the wild onions, carrots, potatoes, turnips, spinach, broccoli, and cauliflower - and I make sure Katniss does the same. It's hard, to voluntarily leave food behind, but we're both familiar with the drill at this point, and neither of us mention it.

"We'll hit the snare line and then head back," I say, "You start from the East end, I'll take the West, and we'll meet in the middle?"

Katniss doesn't protest, and we hustle as best we can. We're not cutting it close - not quite yet, anyway - but if we want to hit up all of our stops along our trade route before we can get ready in time for the Reaping, we have to get a move on.

And so we do, and we return to District 12 in time to complete all of our trades.

A turkey goes to Cray, who hands over his credits with a lascivious once-over of my figure, and I try not to roll my eyes. He might let us get away with poaching, he might let us get away with prostitution and black market trading and all the rest of it, but I highly doubt he'd appreciate any indication of disrespect on my part, and I'd rather not test my luck.

Greasy Sae takes a hare and a couple of squirrels. A few more squirrels are traded with the baker, Mr Mellark, and a bundle of herbs are traded with the sour-faced apothecary, Mrs Bay. Mayor Undersee takes a linen bag of strawberries, blueberries, and blackcurrants, and Ruba, the butcher, takes the second turkey.

We leave the hares and squirrels remaining for ourselves, for dinner, and also to preserve and add to our winter stores, and we do the same for most of the fruit and vegetables. The herbs and plants are for our mother's stores, her teas and tinctures and what have you, but the credits we've accumulated go towards purchasing salt, tallow, thread and oil and everything else we need, and we return home burdened with our purchases, and with very little time to prepare for the Reaping.

Katniss jumps into the bath, and I hide away the change from our trades that morning. Our mother is already organising our spoils, Primrose is busy laying out our best clothes, and I find myself at loose ends, fretfully sweeping coal dust out the front door while I await my turn in the tub. It's a futile endeavour - coal dust covers everything in District 12 - but it keeps my hands occupied, gives me something to focus on, and I embrace the chore wholeheartedly.

And then it's my turn in the bath, and I can't distract myself any longer. Instead, the dread wells up inside my chest, makes it hard to breathe as I don one of my mother's old dresses, and allow her - my mother, that is - to twine my hair into an intricate braid. It makes my palms sweat, my hands tremble, causes something heavy to lodge itself inside my throat as we approach the town square.

As we do, as I guide Katniss through the check-in process and walk with her to the 12 year old section, I hold her hand, and I have the unshakeable, unequivocal feeling that whatever luck I possess is about to run out.

I just pray my family isn't about to be dragged down with me.

-!- -#-

Author's Note: I can't seem to drop this idea. This is, like, the millionth incarnation of it. Let's see if it goes anywhere…