In writing Chapter Seven I realized that Lavender is a LITTLE (lot...) out of character so please forgive me! I do not think of her as a terrible she-demon from the pits of hell. She's a neat character. But for the sake of the story she's a bit... evil? Sorry to anyone who loves Lavender's character.

Chapter Four

Hermione's POV

A bit more mud here… no, no that's all wrong! How does it look so unnatural-?

"Uh, excuse me."

My head whips to the side and I blink in surprise as I see a pale, freckled face smiling tentatively at me, one large hand extended toward me. It takes me a few seconds to recognize his hair and realize he's the boy from 2. I try to think of a coherent thing to say, but my thoughts become muddled as my brain goes into overdrive examining him. That's curious; he seems almost friendly. Why? Why is he so happy? Especially now? And why is he talking to me? And why… why are his eyes so blue?

Realizing he is waiting for me to answer, I briskly say, "Hello," and move to shake his hand. Too late I remember I was just painting, and I end up getting mud and berry juice all over his hand. "Oh dear! I'm so sorry-"

"Oh, that's – it's alright," he mumbles, and his ear tips glow bright pink. He looks from his hand back up to me, a crooked, half-embarrassed smile crossing his face. "I – I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Ron Weasley, from District 2."

I narrow my eyes. That's odd. But, unfortunately, I don't have time to question his motives – there are still a lot of stations I need to look at. I look away from him to wipe off my hands, saying, "Hermione Granger, District 7."

"Hermione?" he asks in astonishment.

I nod, starting to grow irritated. "Yes, and I suggest you stop gawping and get to the point."

There's a pause. "The point?"

"Obviously." I roll my eyes, not even trying to hide my annoyance. "Why are you speaking to me, District 2? What's your reason?"

His eyes narrow slightly and I can tell he's not happy with my attitude. Great job, Hermione! First person you meet and you've made an enemy.

"I don't know, really. But that blonde guy over there – Malfoy – he told me to come tell you off for watching us."

My eyes widen and my face heats up. "I was not!" I say hotly, ignoring the little bug inside my head that tells me I am lying. I was not 'watching' them; I simply glanced over from time to time.

And suddenly I remember why I was looking at them, and all I want to do is ask him why he seems so laidback – how can he be so happy and relaxed at a time like this because, even now, I can see it. It's as simple as the way he's standing – his arms crossed, shoulders hanging loosely, even in the way his eyes glow indignantly. If he was any other tribute, he wouldn't have approached me to begin with, but instead he is here, beside me, telling me that some guy named Malfoy is upset with me. This gets more and more confusing every minute…

He shrugs as if it isn't that big a deal. "Honestly, I don't care what you were or weren't doing. I'm just passing the message."

"Oh, I see. Following the leader, aren't you?" I really shouldn't be so rude, but my growing frustration and curiosity of him are making me irrational.

If anything, Ron Weasley from District 2 only seems bemused by my remark. His eyes narrow and he raises his brow at me, his lips curving delicately in the faintest trace of a smile. "What, not a good enough strategy for you? Too noble to partner with the strong guys?"

"If I'm going down, I'm taking my dignity with me," I say with a slight smirk.

Ron shrugs again, not seeming to disagree with my statement. A moment of silence passes before he says, "I've never really been the artistic type. Could you give me a hand with this camouflage thing?"

He sits down beside me and half of my brain screams Yes! while the other counters No! On one hand, I could get to know him; figure out why it is this whole process seems like another day at school to him. But, on the other, he's an enemy. Next week he's going to be trying to kill me; is it really that wise an idea to let him get too close?

"Why should I help you?"

He looks at me, slightly taken aback. His mouth opens slightly and his brow furrows as he tries to come up with a reason. "Well, I guess there isn't any good reason. But hey, if we're going to die, why not make a few friends while we still can?"

I gape at his bluntness. "If we're – why would you say that?!"

He blinks at me, as if it was the most obvious thing. "Because it's the truth."

"The truth?" I splutter. "Just because it's the truth doesn't mean you should go around saying it!"

He just shrugs at me again and I can feel the puzzle pieces beginning to fall into place. So that's it… he simply does not care. But he can't do that! He's literally walking into the arena with a neon target painted on his chest! He'll be dead before the bloodbath begins!

But, once again, the thought occurs to me: Why do I care?

I don't.

He clears his throat and I'm forced back into the present. "Right," I say. "Okay, fine. I'll help you." He can't be going in without a fight – he must have some sort of strategy.

I lose my train of thought as he beams at me. "Great! So, how do I start?"

"Well, let's pretend we're in a forest setting," I say, forcing my gaze away from him. "There'll be a lot of browns and greens in that environment, so we should probably start there."

He leans past me to grab the dirt and water and I look away. "Okay, so I just mix it to get mud, right? Easy as that?"

"Not quite," I say, and I explain to him the different textures he would have to look for and which one would be the most realistic. After all, I figure, a little bit of camouflage training won't really do him much; even if he is good at it. He's much too big – it would take forever for him to find a place to camouflage himself, and that's considering a forest environment! Who knows what'll happen if we get landed in the desert!

"So like this?" he asks, presenting me with his mixture.

"Too much water," I say, adding another fistful of dirt for him. "It'll all just run off and leave you a filthy mess. Remember, texture is key."

"Texture is key," he mutters, stirring the dirt into the brown water. After a moment it gains a sandy, more saturated look. "How about now?"

"That'll do," I say, and he looks slightly put-off. "Now you'll just want to spread it over your skin." He begins taking dabs and putting it on his arm. "Not like that!" I groan. My natural impatience takes over and I forcefully push his hand aside and pull his arm closer. "You're trying to blend in with your surroundings, not stick out! You need to make it at least look realistic. Try wiping it, but not too roughly; you'll want a thicker layer to efficiently hide your skin, especially considering how pale you are."

I scoop a large dab of his mud onto my hand and begin running it over his arm, leaving a good layer of mud covering a large patch of freckles. As I look closer at his arm I see more freckles, sprinkled on his arms in such a manner that a chef might use when decorating his dessert with cinnamon.

Pay attention! I scold myself, angrily taking another dab of mud and covering the offending freckles. They are freckles, just like the ones everyone else has! There is nothing special or different about these freckles.

"Er – should I – uh – should I try it, now?"

My head snaps up. Ron's ears are red again, the blush creeping down to his cheeks. "The painting," he says, as if he needs to clarify. "Should I try the painting, now?"

"Of course," I say hoarsely, suddenly releasing his arm from the fierce grip with which I had grabbed it. "I'm sorry, I just get really impatient-"

"Yeah," he says. His lips turn upward and he looks intently down at his arm, apparently giving all his attention to his current project. I feel my face heating up and try not to think about it; how I reached out and grabbed his arm as if he were just anyone.

But he's not just anyone! He's a tribute – a career, for that matter – and he doesn't even care! That makes him not only dangerous for himself, but for everyone even remotely close to him!

And that is why it hurts to make friends, even if I do have a few days left to live. He may be going down but there's no way he's taking me with him!

"How's this?" He holds out one completely mud-covered arm to me and I offer him a small smile.

"That's very nice, Ronald."

His ears – having just started returning to their normal color – redden again. "Er – yeah. Ronald. Yeah. It's just – just Ron. But thanks."

I open my mouth to apologize when a loud ringing is heard, and a voice comes over the intercom telling us that it's time to start wrapping things up. "Well, good luck," I say instead, rushing off before he can offer me a farewell.

/

As I lay in bed that night, I can't help but feel slightly disturbed.

He doesn't care, I keep thinking. He legitimately does not care if he makes it out – if he ever sees his loved ones ever again. How selfish must that make him? That he just wants to die without a second thought! That he doesn't even want to try! Not even for his family…

Or maybe I'm the selfish one? I wonder, my head starting to ache with all this thinking. Maybe because I'm still trying, I'm giving my family hope that can lead to nothing but hurt? Wouldn't it be worse? I told them I would do everything I could to make it out, so what if I don't? They know what I'm capable of when I set out on something, so if I don't make it back, won't that just hurt them more? Will it be worth it if my all just isn't enough?

I curl more tightly under the blankets, trying to push the horrible thoughts out of my head. No, Hermione, I tell myself. Stop thinking, go to sleep. You do not care what happens to Ron and you can't let any sort of worry for him get in the way of you being healthy.

I can't.

With the day's exhaustion echoing in my mind, I settle myself into an uneasy, nightmare-ridden sleep, sure that when the next day comes, everything will make a little more sense.