Man, writing is hard! Especially when you can just as easily spend your summer doing absolutely nothing! Anyway, here is a chapter! I feel like this is going to be one of those fics that take a while to get each chapter up…
Chapter Two
Hermione's POV
My head spins and reels in a desperate attempt to understand what is happening; it's almost as if my brain has detached from my body as it refuses to provide the information I require. I keep thinking the same things over and over again in a never-ending cycle of fear and pain. I'm shaking… I'm scared… I want to go home.
I close my eyes tightly and force myself to take a few breaths - just the way my parents used to tell me to when I would start getting too worked up about my schoolwork. The memory of my parents triggers a sour spot in my imagination and suddenly I see them, sitting on the couch, watching the old television with blank, teary eyes, and I can't handle it. I shake harder, my breaths coming fast and shallow.
"Hermione Granger?"
I look around wildly, terrified of what I might see, only to find a normal-looking woman in the doorway of the room. She enters, a polite smile on her face. I mirror it in an attempt at masking my current mental state. "Yes?" I say, shaking her hand as she offers it.
She takes the chair across from me, looking truly delighted to be in my company. "I'm Tonks, and I'll be your stylist."
I can't help but blink in surprise, looking at her skeptically. When I've seen Capital stylists in the past, they have usually been grotesquely modified to fit the newest fashion trend. But Tonks seems relatively normal for someone from the Capital - apart from her bright pink hair and a tattoo of stars and a moon on the side of her neck, she could've been just another person from District 7. The thought makes me homesick and I try to direct myself away from it.
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss-"
"Oh, please," Tonks says, blushing slightly. "Just Tonks."
"Pleasure to meet you, Tonks."
She must know I don't really mean that, but she takes the compliment without contradiction. "Right, as much as I would love to get to know you a little first, I'm afraid we have to get right down to business. It took them a little longer to clean you up than we originally imagined, so we're already a little behind and we want you ready for the opening ceremonies."
I nod silently, a dead feeling expanding to my chest at the thought of it all. I'm just about to let it consume me when Tonks stands, addressing me. "Well, coming or not, kiddo?" She gives me a real smile and I feel my own lips struggling against one for the first time since the reaping.
"Sure."
/
"For years stylists have been dressing of the tributes from 7 as trees," Tonks explains as she paces, casting anxious glances at me from time to time. "I wanted to try something a little different - something that would make you stand out to the audience. Maybe it will, maybe it won't, we can't be sure, but I am positive it will be a change from the last few years."
I try to smile reassuringly at her, wishing she would just get to the point. Usually, in District 7, it is too cold to be wearing such thin, useless clothing as the bathrobe I have on, and my skin is crawling from the uneasy feeling of being exposed like this. Whatever monstrosity of a costume she has planned for me has to be better than this.
I miss the last words of her speech but continue to nod and half-smile, hoping she doesn't notice or get offended. She doesn't and I'm greatly relieved. "So, I present to you," she says dramatically as the stylists move in to reveal a… well, I think it's a dress.
At least the base of it is a dress, put together with the illusion of many tiny leaves. It starts with a ghastly green-tan color down the middle, the tan part, I assume, to help blend into my skin. As it spreads to the arms and sides the color becomes a darker shade of green, dark enough to remind me of the trees back home in District 7. I allow myself a pang of grief before I keep looking.
The dress is held into shape by twig-looking branches that seem like they're going to work around my arms to my neck and a few vines drip from the leaves at random. Overall, I must say, it is quite beautiful, and, if anything, a little different from the average tree costume. It has more the feel of a tree goddess than a tree.
"What do you think?"
"I think it's… brilliant," I say, no other words coming to me. "It's… a lot of detail…"
"It's not finished," Tonks says, apparently pleased by what little praise I gave her. "We have a few more plans for you before we're finished."
/
Maybe it was because the makeover squad (or whatever they called it) already took a look at me beforehand, but getting myself dressed for the parade is a lot less time-consuming than ripping out every spare hair from my body.
"Tada!" Tonks exclaims as I examine myself in the mirror. "All finished! Not bad, either!"
No, it isn't bad at all. The dress is a bit revealing for my liking, but that is something I will just have to learn to live with for now. The fabric, upon closer look, not only resembles that of leaves, but has a faint glimmer to it that will give it a shimmering look in the bright lights. The twigs wrap naturally around my arms and the vines fall gracefully from my sides in such a natural fashion that I can't help but be deeply impressed.
To add to that Tonks has had highlights of green to my already brown hair, letting me to keep the wild, frizzy look as it passes off as part of my costume. "It'll wash off tomorrow," she promises as I touch my head tentatively. Oh thank Merlin…
I'm not really sure what she did with my face – due to my lack of experience of anything in the fashion world – but whatever it was she did a nice job. It's a very subtle difference, but it's noticeable that she meddled. My face is free of any blemishes and much more healthy-toned than usual. My eyeshadow is dark and green, highlighted in black, giving me a slightly menacing look. My lips are a deep color conjured from a brutish mix of brown and a hint of red. I'm busy trying to decide what this adds to my costume when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"I almost forgot," Tonks holds out her hand to show me a small, bronze locket that fits perfectly in the palm of her hand. It's made of bronze with a picture of a rose embossed on the front, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. I gasp and take it from her, my heart pounding against my ribcage and my throat tightening. I'd thought I'd forgotten it on the train.
"Thank you," I whisper, blinking rapidly – I'm sure it would be a very bad thing for me to cry right now. "Thank you so much."
"The costume is only as valuable to the audience as it is to the person wearing it," Tonks says, gently taking the locket's chain and helping it over my obnoxious hair. After a moment she finally works it over and under and rests the locket against the exposed flat of my chest. "I feel, in this case especially, that it should reflect not only who you're going to need to be in these next few weeks, but also who you really are. Sure, I can't do much about that because I don't have the time to make those adjustments for the tributes, but I always try to add in their token."
I give her a grateful, watery smile that she seems to take as a form of highest achievement. Grinning proudly, her eyes bright, she pats me on the back. "Whatever happens, I'm proud of you kiddo. I think you've got a real shot out there."
The subtle reminder of the upcoming games sends whatever happiness I had a moment ago to the pit of my stomach. But, not wishing to ruin Tonks' mood, I put on a smile and nod.
/
Everything is so loud and noisy that I can't make any sense of it. All I can hear are the people screaming, loud music, applause, and my mentor's voice – a stern woman called McGonagall – echoing inside my head: "Smile and wave, but not too broadly. You want to show them that you're pleasant, but not friendly."
I try to do as she instructed, but it's quite difficult considering the blinding lights all around us. As far as I can tell it's going well, but I can't decide if they're cheering for me, the nearly naked Viktor Krum beside me, or for the people around us.
No matter what happens in the end, I am simply glad that I'm not Viktor. It is quite obvious how uncomfortable he feels, going from bundling up for the weather to bearing skin in front of so many people. I don't get a good chance to inspect his outfit, but I can tell for sure it doesn't involve much of a shirt. Nonetheless, I can see him feigning a smile that mysteriously resembles a grimace as he waves one of his awkwardly large hands.
We reach the circle and the president – a tall, pale man with narrow eyes and a missing nose – steps out onto an overlooking balcony to address us. Even with the hushing sounds coming from the audience I still have trouble hearing what he is saying and, eventually, I just give up entirely. I eventually end up watching the screen that is flashing from chariot to chariot, taking the opportunity to see who I'm going to be up against. After all, if I want to make it out, I'm going to have to be prepared to use the skills I have to go against these people.
The screen displays two dark-skinned tributes that are looking up with stony expressions at the president. I only have time to assume they're from 11 before it switches to another pair; a fit boy and a pretty girl. They are wearing slick and smooth armor that almost resemble that of an automobile. Just as I decide that they're from District 6, the feed changes again.
This time it's obvious that they people I'm looking at are careers – they are standing tall and confident, not at all daunted by the crowds upon crowds of people fawning over them. The girl is short and is smiling in a cringe-worthy manner while they boy is the complete opposite. He is at least several inches taller than her and is not looking at the president. He looks tired – almost bored – as he sits there, tapping his fingers against the railing he's holding onto. He's wearing some sort of armor that makes me suspect that he's from District 2. The girl beside him elbows him in the arm – wants him to pay attention, I suspect – and the boy purses his lips before obediently tilting his head upward in the manner a small child might when their parent tells them to pay attention and stop slouching in church.
The screen changes and anthem blares overhead, leaving me temporarily disoriented. It's only as the chariots begin to move that I see my own face on the screen overhead and I realize that I'm smiling. Why? I wonder, and it takes me to realize that it was because of that boy. His absolute nonchalance of everything that's happening makes me feel simultaneously amused and irritated. Of course he's indifferent, he's a career! He's more likely to win on his own than the rest of us are together!
But even as I think it, I feel wrong. No, it just wasn't right. It wasn't quite an 'I'm bored' attitude as it was an 'I don't care' one. But why wouldn't he care? Doesn't he want to g0 home?
Of course he does, I assure myself. He's just a career and he wants to get this over with so he can go home.
But, as we pull into the great doors of the Training Center, I can't help but be troubled by the boy's attitude. Even more worrisome to me, however, is why do I care? I'm going to be fighting this boy in a week – whether he cares about going home or not does not matter to me, because nothing matters to me as much as making it out of these games alive.
Thank you for reading! If you like this chapter, please feel free to follow/favorite and, even better, leave a review! Hearing feedback is always a great motivation to writers so I hope and look forward to what you guys have to say!