…I've had chapters 3-6 waiting in google docs to be published and I'm really feeling like writing… please don't judge me…
Chapter Three
Ron's POV
"Godammit!" I yelp as hot water sprays down from the shower, burning my skin and making me want to crawl into a bucket of ice. Trying to tactfully read the many buttons from the wrong side of the bath and evade the scalding water is not working. Scowling, I grab hold of the railing on either side of me and lean as far forward as I can, pressing random buttons and hoping that one of them will cool it down.
The heat misting into my face becomes a little less intense and I take the opportunity to dodge to the other side to get a good look at the controls. There must be a hundred buttons! I think in exasperation, trying to read them all at the same time. And we could only afford a bath at the Burrow!
Remembering my old home on the outskirts of District 2 makes me feel homesick and I try to push it out of my mind. This works out much better once the shower starts to cooperate and I allow myself to settle beneath its warm, calming stream. And the best part is I don't have to hurry. I can stay in here all night if I want to, no one can stop me!
I take my sweet time until half an hour later, when a knock on the door rouses me from my blissful thoughts. "Dinner," Peter squeaks, and I curse under my breath. Why do they want me at dinner? Can't they just let me get gutted and get over it like everyone else?
I jump out of the shower and dry off with one of the towels, which just happens to be fluffier than anything else I have ever felt in my entire life. I must admit, if they're going to make me fight to the death, they're doing it right – good food, good shower, good flat, good everything! Almost makes it worth it, as far as I'm concerned.
I find a good-fitting jumper and a pair of jeans in the wardrobe and throw them on before casually strolling out of my quarters and into the dining area. There's a window just beside it that allows us to see the city. We are close enough to the bottom that I can almost make out the separate people walking down on the sidewalk below; I smile slightly.
I sit next to Lavender at the table. We are joined by our mentors and stylists. Ignoring the rest of the group, I eye an expensive-looking platter of dark meat. After everything that happened today, it's no surprise that I'm absolutely starving. What is a surprise, however, is when a pretty girl in a pure white suit sets a glass of Firewhiskey in front of me. I stare at it for a moment in shock, wondering what my mother would say if she saw this, but then I remember she can't. Chances are she won't really ever see me again; at least not up-close until they're delivering whatever's left of me back home for her to mourn.
With that pleasant thought I gulp down half the glass, trying not to choke as it burns in my throat and stomach. Just have to get used to it, I tell myself. Hoping to wash down the bitter aftertaste, I take a few slices of meat and ask Lavender to pass me the potatoes and bread. If I'm going to die next week, I'm sure as hell not doing it on an empty stomach.
/
"And be sure to be up by breakfast!" my stylist – a barmy bird named Bellatrix LeStrange – barks from the end of the hall.
"No problem!" I say, my voice slightly slurred and interrupted by a hiccup as I smile back at her and Barty. "G'night!"
I stumble into my room, feeling dazed and giddy and finally understanding the meaning of the word 'tipsy'. I slump into my bed, not even bothering to put on pajamas, and grin up at the white ceiling above me, basking in the glow of my comfortably full stomach. Maybe a little less on the Firewhiskey tomorrow, I think, giggling slightly to myself. Yeah, don't wanna lose my edge. My sharp, cutting edge and stuff… like a knife. Yes, that's it! I'm a knife! Gotta remember that… the knife!
I sigh and crawl under the blankets, pulling them up to my shoulders and curling beneath them. It's so warm that I can't help but feel sleepy. Training tomorrow, I think, my thoughts almost sing-songy in a drowsy sort of way. 'M finally gonna meet all the other careers… and maybe the brunette bird, too. That crazy one who think she's got a chance. I wanna meet her.
I had seen her at the tribute parade and had been having trouble keeping her out of my mind ever since. Of course, with my guards down, I could admit it wasn't only her hope I found intriguing – but she was absolutely beautifulin that costume. I mean, not in the kind of 'I would like to snog you as my dying wish' beautiful (though I wouldn't object) but more like an 'I want to stare at you' sort of.
Besides, even if she is snogging-beautiful, I can't let that distract me from what's going on right now. I'm going to die and even I'm not low enough to sink to the 'end-of-the-world' speech. And what good would it do in the end? None. Because either way we're going to be trying to kill each other by the end of the month. In fact, that's exactly why it would be most harmful to even think about her as beautiful, because I can't afford to feel something for these people. It's too risky and it's most certainly not worth the pain.
But, as I drift off to sleep, I can't help the goofy grin spread across my face as I remember her: stood upon her chariot like the goddess she looked to be, and I feel a glow in my chest. It takes my Firewhiskey-influenced mind a moment to extinguish it, but not quickly enough to smother the hope before it has a chance to grow into a flame. Not today, not ever, I tell myself.
/
I wake up slightly distressed the next morning, my dreams having been filled with shimmering green mists and soft, brown eyes blinking at me from the shadows. Now that any last traces of alcohol have left my system, I have time to scold myself for what I was thinking last night.
You bloody idiot! Beautiful? Snogging? Why would you even consider that? You don't know this girl! You might have to fight her! Kill her! What's the matter with you?
A lot of things, I realize, as my stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of fighting her. Or maybe that's its way of scolding me for eating such rich food last night? No, probably the first – come to think of it, I'm getting pretty hungry.
I get up and take a quick shower, pleased to figure it out a bit quicker this time. I brush my teeth and leave the bathroom smelling heavily of shampoo, and find an outfit of black pants and a burgundy shirt on my closet door. Putting them on, I leave my room. I am the first person out – one of the suited servants fills me a glass of pumpkin juice and offers me a variety of trays that could compete even with my mum's skill of cooking (though I wouldn't dare admit it out loud). Taking a large stack of pancakes and a scoop of scrambled eggs with bacon, I begin devouring the meal. After all, I have a long day ahead of me.
Lavender and Barty join me as I'm on my second plate of bacon and Rita comes along once I've gotten myself some toast. As much as I wish I could keep eating, I'm getting really full, and I'm forced to listen in on the conversation going on.
"Now, you know your main objectives," Barty is saying in his deep, scratchy voice. "Meet the others – learn your enemies. Buddy up with your other careers – it's the best chance you've got, trust me."
We acknowledge his words and I give my undivided attention to my once again full glass of pumpkin juice and help myself to one last pasty. Whereas some tributes from the other districts may be getting constant advice from their mentor's, Lavender and I have been training for this moment for years. We've been taught how to deal with this – what to expect; we've discussed strategies and meeting other people and making them trust you so often that there's no need to do it again. Frankly, we're about as prepared as anyone can get.
And that still leaves us with a 16% chance of survival, if we aren't counting all the other dunderheads in the arena.
Lavender and I finish our meals and head down to the training center where a woman pins the number 2 to our backs. Not acknowledging any of the other tributes, we make our way straight to where a pair of tributes with the number 4 on their backs are standing. "Hey," I say, going for an outward approach as Barty suggested. "I'm Ron and this is Lavender. Who are you?"
The boy from 4 looks at me curiously. He is a good few inches shorter than me and must be several pounds lighter, but he's still got a look to him that tells me he could knock me out before I realized what was happening. Straightening his round-rimmed glasses, he offers his hand hand. I extend mine to shake it. "Harry, Harry Potter, and this is Fleur Delacour." He motions to the girl beside him and she smiles at me, making butterflies erupt in my stomach.
"Well it's – er – it's good to meet you, Harry," I say, slightly astonished at my own stuttering. "So, where do you want to go first?"
Harry shrugs, looking around cautiously. "My mentor said - I mean, I think we should wait for District 1," he says, his face burning slightly. I don't understand what's so bad about letting it slip that he's taking advice from his mentor, but hey, it's not my place to judge.
A few moments of silence later, we are approached by a pair of tributes that so obviously hold the aura of careers that it is actually revolting. The boy is long and pointy, with sleek blonde hair, grey eyes, and a jutting chin. The girl is slightly more tan but still extremely arrogant, looking around at everyone as though she thinks she is better than all of them. It makes my stomach flip over and the food inside it feels bitter.
"You must be from 2 and 4," the boy drawls. He extends his hand, not like Harry did in a polite invitation, but as if he wishes to do us a sort of honor by allowing us to shake his hand. "I'm Malfoy. Draco, Malfoy."
I hide a snide comment under a large exhale as I introduce myself. "Ron Weasley."
Draco Malfoy raises an eyebrow, as if he is looking down upon a dead animal in the street. "Fascinating," he says, and it's probably the most sarcastic thing I've ever heard. He continues to introduce himself one-by-one to the others as the girl – Pansy Parkinson – follows suit with a disgusting sneer on her face.
There is a hushing from the middle of the crowd of tributes and a woman begins to speak – telling us all about the available resources and training activities that will take place here. I don't really listen; Barty's already told me what to do.
When we're dismissed, Malfoy looks around. "Girls will go with Pansy," he says sharply, as if he has some sort of authority over us. "Weasley, Potter, you'll come with me."
I glance at Harry and he shrugs in a 'who cares' sort of way. I nod at him, acknowledging his point, and we follow Malfoy over to the knife-throwing area.
As it turns out, Malfoy also really knows what he's doing. With every painfully accurate blow he gets at the stuffed dummies, the more I begin to feel like a stuffed dummy. It will definitely be better to have him as an ally, I admit to myself begrudgingly. No matter how much of a conceded pain-in-the-arse he is.
It's nearly half-an-hour till lunch when Malfoy points it out. "Who's that?" he asks.
"Who's who?" Harry and I say, almost together. I feel my ear tips burning.
"That girl – the ugly one that's staring at us."
Harry and I turn around almost in sync. The girl from 7 glances quickly to the edible plants station, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. "I'd reckon that's 7's girl," I say, hoping my ears aren't as red as they feel.
"Hmm. That's interesting. She was staring at you, Weasley."
I blink rapidly in surprise. "Me?"
"Yes. Why is that?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," I admit truthfully. "Never seen her before today."
Malfoy narrows his eyes suspiciously and, with a little "Hmph!" turns away to stalk to the archery station. Harry and I follow him, but not before I cast one more glance at the 7 girl.
She's entirely consumed in her edible plants thing now, and I wait for a moment. Maybe it's just me, but was she looking at me from the corner of her eyes? Don't be ridiculous! I scold myself. Probably just a happy coincidence.
We join up with the girls for lunch. The District 1 kids' attitudes are so snobbish that I barely have any appetite (though I'm sure my extra-large breakfast also had something to do with that). After a long meal, we split up again and start looking for another section to dominate.
"She's still watching us," Draco growls half-way through Harry beating up a punching bag. I glance back to see the girl focusing on the camouflage station, her brow furrowed deep in concentration. "I don't know about you, Weasley, but the second we're in the arena," he slides a finger across his throat and I gulp. I'm not so sure… she looks pretty involved in what she's doing…
"I don't know, Malfoy. That's nearly a week away. How about I go over there and ask her flat out what her problem is?"
"Great idea," Malfoy says with the air of a father praising his young son. "You go do that. Potter and I will work on this. But I don't want to see you back here until you get that filthy dirt off our trail – it is rather distracting."
I nod and, feeling a strange mix of excitement and revulsion, make my way over to the girl from District 7.