Fifty But Not So Filthy
by Rita Skeeter
The Seventh Edition of the Empire's games will officially feature 50 players! Fifty players that have proven themselves to be worthy of the games. You will not be disappointed, and we promise you'll want to come back. We are delighted to announce that we have captured Undesirable Number 1, the mudblood Hermione Granger, friend of the defeated Harry Potter. Come and see her perform at what promises to be the most successful edition of the Empire's games yet.
Discount on tickets if you register using the code GRANGER41 written with grindylow ink.
Restored article of EMPIRE THIS WEEK
found in a meat freezer in Glasgow [02.07.2011]
A screeching alarm blared in Hermione's room. She opened her eyes sharply as she sat up, and a feeling of strangeness and confusion overcame her at once. She didn't know where she was. The alarm was ringing continuously, loud and aggressive. She was uncomfortable. The light filtering through the window was grey and dull. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, trying to ignore the noise.
"I'm awake!" she shouted into her room at no one.
The alarm continued for ten seconds before stopping.
Then her memories came flooding back.
Malfoy explaining the 'rules', she opening door 41 in the corridor. Discovering a small room barely bigger than a bathroom, with concrete walls and a cold linoleum floor. In one corner was a single bed with a shabby cot that was too thin. A pillow and blanket were neatly placed and folded at the foot of the mattress. A rudimentary wooden chair in the corner.
A small square window overlooked the distant mountains. The window could be cracked open wide enough to slip her arm outside. The opening wasn't big enough for her to fit through if she wanted to end her nightmare.
There was nothing else.
No mirrors. No carpet. No wardrobe.
She could cross the room in five steps. Standing in front of the window, trying to forget all the questions she'd wanted to ask Draco 'Trainer' Malfoy.
Was he sleeping on their wing?
What happened if the players were injured but didn't die? They had no magic to heal themselves.
A few minutes later, a timid knock sounded on her door. Hermione had cracked it open. Gabrielle Delacour was smiling at her with a sad expression.
"Come in," she had said softly.
Gabrielle was 19, and her long blonde hair fell below her chest, in stark contrast to her brown uniform, hiding the number 45 on her chest. She looked into Hermione's room.
"This is weird, isn't it?" she had whispered. "It looks like a prison." Her French accent was quite obvious, so a few words sounded French. But Hermione could understand her very well.
The two of them were not friends. Hermione had met her in her fourth year at Hogwarts, during the Three Wizards Tournament. They hadn't spoken. They had had a brief conversation at Bill and Fleur's wedding, seven years ago.
But last night, inside her room, they had talked.
Gabrielle had stayed in England with her boyfriend. She had been captured looking for objects to trade. She looked frail, small and frightened, but she was kind. She, too, had been looking for her sister.
The members of her band had stayed in their rooms until dinner. Hermione had figured they all needed time to themselves. To cry. To despair. To mourn the life they had been snatched from. To get used to the place. To make peace with the fact that they could very well die in two months' time. Or next week.
Or tomorrow.
At dinner, the players sat with people they knew. Hermione didn't feel like eating with Gabrielle and Arthur—both sat with number 42 in their group. She should have, probably.
Dinner was not as bad as she had expected. They had chicken with a gooey pepper sauce, white rice and green beans. As she looked at her plate, the first thought that came to her mind was that they were feeding them the way farmers feed their pigs before slaughtering them.
She had lost all appetite. But she had eaten anyway. Outside the Empire, people were looking for food. She'd had to look for food herself.
Stealing food wasn't a crime anymore—anyone could scavenge the remnants of the supermarkets. But wasting food was.
She had returned to her room quickly, collapsing onto her cot, drawing her knees up against her chest. The cracks in the concrete wall stared back at her, inviting her in. She looked at her number.
Forty-One meant nothing to her. It wasn't meaningful in any way, it wasn't a special number. It wasn't even a round number. Maybe she would have felt special if she was number 50. Or maybe 19, like her birthday.
Forty-One was her new identity, and she didn't want to learn who that person would be. Number 41 was a skin, a costume.
She would have given anything for her mother's touch. To remind her who she really was.
A joke from her father.
She missed Harry—and Ron. And Neville. And Ginny.
She missed her wand.
She missed the sense of humanity that had once inhabited her.
When the alarm finally went off, Hermione guessed it was 7am. Wake-up call. Breakfast would be served in 30 minutes. The first training session would start in one hour.
She normally took a shower in the morning, but she wasn't sure how to go about it now. They only had fifteen minutes a day, and if she was going to go through two training sessions a day... she was better off showering after training.
When she pushed open the main door of the castle at 7:56 am, the wind rushed in and lifted wisps of her hair. The air was crisp, smelling like autumn. There was no sun in the oyster-coloured sky. Bright blue skies were very rare. A few players from her band—43, 46, 48 and 50—were already at the spot Malfoy had designated for them the day before.
They formed a small circle. Everyone had brought their water bottle, just like her.
She suddenly felt embarrassed. She had made no effort so far to learn the names of the other players in her band. She knew Arthur—47, Gabrielle Delacour—45, and Oliver Wood—44.
"Hey," Number 43 greeted as she approached them. He had sleek-looking skin, and was a tad taller than her. He seemed just a little younger than her, curly brown haired and watching her with his green eyes. "You're... a witch, right?"
"Um, yes." She nodded. He certainly was a Muggle. Only Muggles asked wizards for confirmation. And he had asked about the wards yesterday.
"I spoke with Arthur at lunch. I'm Luke. Luke Keyes." His accent was not purely English. She detected Scottish touches in his intonations.
"Hi, Luke." They shook hands a little awkwardly. She didn't know if they were supposed to act friendly, considering.
Considering they were in Numberland—a death tournament.
She jotted down his name and number in a mental list, imagining a blank piece of parchment. Luke 43.
Luke pointed to the others with his arm. "This is Ashley, she's, um, normal too. I mean, like me." He began to stammer, embarrassed and flustered by what he'd just said. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. Fuck. This is all new for me."
But this wasn't new. Wizards had revealed their existence to the muggle world seven years ago, when the Empire established itself as the only authority. The Muggles separated into two categories: those who accepted that magic existed and were fascinated, and those who wanted to kill them, reacting like they were demons. The latter were called Rogues.
She brushed his muggleness aside. "Don't worry about it. Hi, Ashley." She wondered why Luke hadn't asked her her name, but maybe because he already knew it, or Arthur had told him.
Ashley wore number 46 and looked no older than Luke. She had auburn straight hair, cut evenly right under the shoulder, a tanned skin with a freckled-face and blue eyes. "Good morning," she replied. American.
Hermione added her name to her mental scroll, also trying to remember the faces. Luke 43. Ashley 46. The third player—number 48—was a man with a darker complexion, his hair cut close to his head. He had a strong jawline and dark eyes. She reckoned he must be in his forties. He said something along the lines of Hi, I'm David Morales, yes I'm a half-blood and purebloods are dicks.
By the time she was shaking hands with the last player wearing the number 50—Reine Mbona—a thirty-something Black woman with broad shoulders, a round face and curly black hair with a few blond strands, Arthur and Gabrielle arrived.
Hermione repeated the names to herself mentally.
Luke 43. Oliver 44. Gabrielle 45. Ashley 46. Arthur 47. David 48. Reine 50.
She only wished she could pronounce Reine's name correctly. She could only make it sound like "Wren". Reine had said that her name meant "Queen" in French. The others pronounced it as 'rain'.
"Good morning," Arthur said as he stood beside her.
"Hello," she said, nodding to them both.
Malfoy arrived barely a minute later, flinging open the doors with both arms, managing to startle Ashley and Gabrielle. Theatrical entrance. She rolled her eyes. His dog was there.
But then as he approached, she noticed the black circles around his eyes. His face seemed more strained, harder.
"Are you all here?" he asked his band, before frowning. "No, you're not." He looked at their numbers quickly. "Where are 42, 44 and 49?"
Nobody said anything.
He sighed. "Well, it's gonna burn for them."
She shot a sidelong look at Arthur, then at Luke and Reine. Malfoy folded his hands behind his back and stood still in front of them. His dog sat dutifully at his side, watching them all.
"Don't try to ask me what are the games," he began. "I magically can't tell you. But I can tell you what we'll be working on."
The castle gates swung open. "I'm sorry, I'm here! Sorry." Oliver Wood was running towards them. He stopped level with the rest of them, panting. "Francine and Laura are coming." He hissed in pain, pressing his hand against his wrist.
"Does it hurt?" Malfoy asked darkly, looking at the games' symbol tattooed on his wrist.
Oliver caught his breath. "Y-Yeah."
"Good."
The last two players emerged from the castle. The old lady had greying hair, she was walking fast but it looked like her maximum speed. Her face had more wrinkles than Hermione could count. A young woman with a long wet brown ponytail was running towards them.
The old lady was 42. The younger one was 49.
"I apologise, Trainer Malfoy," Number 49 uttered through her teeth. "I tried showering before the training. I didn't have enough time."
Hermione thought briefly how useless it was to shower before training. The old lady said nothing to justify her tardiness, but Malfoy ignored her completely.
"As I was saying," he continued, "I can't tell you what the first game will be about. But for the next two months, we're going to be working on your endurance and your balance. In other words, we're going to be doing a lot of running."
Discouraged exhalations coursed through her band. Ashley sneezed. Hermione kept her attention on Malfoy, catching his gaze. Scanning his features, she tried to detect something behind his eyes. She didn't know what.
He held her gaze. One second.
Two.
Three.
He looked at someone else. "We're going to do some laps around the castle. This morning we'll start by doing intervals of walking, jogging, then sprinting. Four minutes walking. One minute jogging. Thirty seconds of sprinting."
"Do we have watches or something?" David asked. The hatred directed at the Trainer was not lost on anyone.
"No," Malfoy replied coldly. "You'll follow my pace."
The old woman with the number 42 looked at Arthur, then at David. She was definitely the oldest of the group, and was searching for the older ones.
"Something you want to say, Forty-Two?" Draco called.
"Francine." She offered him her name. Her tone was soft, but quavering. Hermione tried to memorise it straight away. Francine 42. Which meant the other woman was Laura. Laura 49. David 48. Luke 43. Reine 50.
"I didn't ask."
"I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep up," she admitted. "—Trainer Malfoy," she added quickly.
"Then you count in your head."
Hermione bit her tongue, stopping herself from spilling the poisonous words she wanted to say to Malfoy. He was a prick.
"What about the dog?" Ashley blurted out. "I'm allergic." She was already sniffling, staring at the German shepherd sitting in the grass.
"And your question is?" Malfoy's voice was deadpan.
"I don't think it's safe for him to come near me."
Her, Hermione corrected in her head.
Malfoy now looked amused. Still staring at Ashley, he leaned to the side to reach for his dog, scratching the top of her head. "Right. Life will probably suck a little more for you, then."
Ashley sneezed again and wiped her nose on her arm. She swore under her breath. Luke patted her back.
"This afternoon we're going to focus on balance, resistance exercises for your legs and core strengthening," Malfoy added.
Luke raised his hand.
"Yes, Forty-Three?"
"Will all the workouts be the same every day?"
"Not the same, but the same concept. Speed, endurance. Leg and core strengthening." He dropped his gaze to Hermione, as if waiting for a question from her.
Something was burning on the tip of her tongue.
She shyly raised her hand, feigning a schoolgirl attitude. "Trainer Malfoy?" Her tone was mocking.
His gaze darkened on her, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Player 41?"
"What happens if we get injured during training?"
A few players held their breath, looking at their trainer. He kept his stare pinned on her. "You will receive medical attention if your condition has not improved within 48 hours."
"That's bullshit!" David shot back.
Malfoy's dog growled at him, low in the throat. As if she was giving a warning.
David kept gesturing wildly with his hands. "Are you saying that if we break a bone or something, we won't get checked up for two days?"
"If you're incapacitated, you'll receive immediate care." Malfoy narrowed his eyes on him. "If you have symptoms without knowing what it is, you'll have to wait two days to find out if your condition improves."
She was surprised with the rule. Truth be told, she had been surprised they had all individual rooms. Hot meals. Shower time. A pillow. And now medical care?
It's still a prison.
"What if we can't complete the training?" Laura asked.
He squinted at number 49. "Then you'll fall behind on everyone else, and you'll die at the first game."
Silence descended on them.
"That's enough questions for now," he said. "Let's begin."
Without warning, he turned left and started walking briskly, his dog following. Nobody moved for two seconds.
"FOLLOW ME," he urged.
The band moved along, like a litter of puppies behind their mother. They copied his pace. Hermione made sure to stay close, a few metres behind him. She didn't want to fall behind, but she also didn't want to walk by his side.
Arthur et Gabrielle fell into step with her, one on each side.
"Now, while you walk," Malfoy called above his shoulder, "you'll focus on your breathing and your surroundings. Inhale through your nose. Exhale through your mouth."
She did so.
"Move your neck to stretch your muscles," he added. "Move your arms back and forth. Activate your blood circulation. Prepare your body for movement."
She did so.
The pace of the walk was fast enough to slightly increase her heart rate, but not enough to make her out of breath. She looked around. The grounds were beautiful. The grass was green, not ashen like elsewhere. According to Malfoy's comment about the wards and the weather, she guessed that the fog hadn't probably touched Hogwarts grounds.
She noticed a lot of trees. Oak, birch, pines. There were dirt paths winding through the plants, hedges and trees. Songbirds were singing.
"In twenty seconds, we're going to start jogging," he said. Her focus snapped to his back. "The pace you need to have is one you'd be able to hold a conversation at the same time. It's not a race. And don't run ahead of me."
She inhaled deeply, getting ready.
"Start jogging!" He set a steady pace, his dog running several metres ahead of them, making wide circles around the band.
Her heartbeat quickened, but she focused on following his rhythm.
"Okay, I think I can handle a conversation," Arthur said on her left.
"Something you want to talk about?" Her syllables were cut with her quick breaths. She wondered if the rest of the band were following close.
Was Francine behind? Maybe she should check on her.
"Have you heard from Bill and Fleur, Gabrielle?" Arthur asked, panting. She had forgotten that Arthur and Gabrielle were now related.
"Actually—" Gabrielle started.
"Now, run!" Malfoy switched gears, bolting forward. "Thirty seconds, come on!"
She accelerated, trying to keep up with him. The cold air gushed through her throat, enflaming it, and now she wanted to cough. Her legs weren't fast enough.
Further in front, Malfoy looked briefly above his shoulder. "Faster!" he yelled at them.
They were falling behind. Luke and Reine were running side by side, the movement of their long legs in perfect synchronisation. They passed them, their breathing controlled.
"Holy shit," Ashely panted, looking at them.
Arthur had lost speed and was somewhere behind. She kept sprinting alongside Gabrielle, but if they didn't stop soon, she would collapse.
"Now walk!" Malfoy's voice was far, way up ahead.
She slowed down to a walk, coughing in her elbow. A stitch was already expanding in her side. She uncapped her water bottle, taking a few swigs. Her throat was parched, dry as sandpaper. Her legs were wobbly.
Gabrielle wiped sweat from her brow, breathing quickly through her mouth. "That was awful."
She looked back. Francine was so far behind. A pang of pity swelled within her. That poor woman. Maybe she wasn't excellent at physical exercise —understandable, with her age—, but how had she passed the Sorting Ceremony?
"I'm gonna check on Francine," she announced, turning on her heels to join the older woman.
When Francine spotted her, she waved her hand. "Oh, dear, you… didn't have to… go back to the front." She was wheezing and her face was red and beaded with sweat.
"We'll do it together." She stood at her side and walked with her. "You'll be okay."
While she was slowly getting control back of her breathing, heartbeat returning to a normal drum, she couldn't help but hear how Francine's breathing wasn't getting better.
Soon enough, they saw the band ahead, way smaller now, starting to jog.
"Come on," she encouraged, starting a slow run. "Let's take it slow."
Francine imitated her, clutching her water bottle in her shaking hand. Her steps were heavy, her knees couldn't raise high. "You should… go ahead, um…?"
"Hermione."
"Don't waste… your training for me… Hermione," Francine pleaded.
"Nonsense." She tried to sound optimistic. "This is about getting better at running. It's what we're doing."
The group, now more than a hundred metres away, started to sprint.
"I know it's hard," she huffed. "But we can do it."
They accelerated, and although she could now taste blood in the back of her throat, she ignored it. Instead, she focused on Francine's pace beside her. Her wheezing was worrying, her breath choppy. The little overweight she was carrying made her steps heavy and difficult.
"A little more," she cheered, pushing through the pain in her legs. She wasn't at her maximum sprint speed. She stayed at Francine's.
They ended the sprint but instead of walking, Francine bent down to catch her breath, hands on her knees. "This… is too hard," she said, voice quivering.
She placed a gentle hand on her back, right on her number, and rubbed gently. "Don't give up. Let's walk."
They couldn't see the others anymore. So she started counting in her head.
"Tell me about you," she asked Francine, trying to make her think of something else.
Francine was still gasping for air. "I'm… 68. My last name is… Podmore. My husband… Patrick… died last year. We were married for… 45 years. We have three children. Anne, John… and Michel. Anne achieved…her doctorate before… this all." She touched her left hand, caressing the absence of her wedding band.
"I'm so sorry for your husband," she murmured. She assumed Francine and her family were Muggles.
"And you, hun… where's your family?"
Hermione gulped down her sadness, her anger. "I had to erase myself from my parent's memory to keep them safe. And now the Death Eaters supposedly captured them to lure me into playing the games so they can be free."
Francine looked at her, horrified. "Dear, that's… horrible!"
They kept silent for a little while, until Hermione said it was time to jog. Following her rhythm and encouragement, Francine pushed through the training. Their pace was quite decent—the band didn't catch up with them from behind. It was around 40 minutes later that they caught up with the others, who had stopped at the starting point.
Francine was red as a beet, sweating profusely. Hermione was hot and clammy. As they approached, Oliver and Laura welcomed Francine with encouraging smiles and pats.
Malfoy's eyes were dark and furious on Hermione, following her every move.
"What?" she drawled to him. At the moment, she didn't give a bloody damn about her tone.
"You both fell behind," he said through his teeth. Not a question.
"What were you expecting?" she hissed back, raising her arm towards Francine. "Look at her! She told you beforehand she wouldn't keep up! You simply ignored it!"
Around them, the band had suddenly fallen silent, listening to their exchange. She wondered if they noticed the familiarity with which she was addressing Malfoy. Was she dooming herself?
His gaze clouded over, an icy haze falling over his eyes. His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer.
Instead, he looked away from the band. "We start again in ten minutes. Be ready." He moved away from them to call his dog, its shrill whistle mingling with the wind.
Malfoy had barely looked at her all day, even during the afternoon training session. Hermione didn't know him very well, but even she could tell he was in an even nastier mood. His tone was cold, clipped and short to every question the others asked. He was impatient. He was harsh. In the afternoon, they ended up in theSpar IIroom in the castle, set up mostly like the Room of Requirement. Empty and spacious, with thin mattresses on the floor and mirrors covering the walls.
They had stretched. They had practised their balance—raising one foot and keeping it tucked in their hand, trying to stay upright.
Hermione started to notice her band's dynamic. Who talked more with who. Arthur, Gabrielle and she stayed together mostly. Then Francine, Laura and Oliver. Luke with Ashley and Reine. David was a lone wolf, always simmering, always muttering under his breath. He spoke with Reine sometimes.
They did squats. Push-ups.
She couldn't do a proper push-up completely. She had to put her knees down to make one, and even then, her arms trembled with effort.
She should have focused on developing strength after the fog. But having her wand did the job. But the Scavengers were chasing them, so speed had become crucial. So she had more speed than strength. She didn't know if that was a good thing in Numberland.
She couldn't rely on magic anymore.
Before dinner, she decided to take a shower. She was glad to know that each shower had its own privacy, its own stall. The floor was a cold ceramic, and the walls were covered in cobblestones. She wondered briefly how many people had cried in this stall over the years. Masking their tears with water drops, hushing their sobs under the drizzle of water.
She washed her body under a weak trickle of hot water—at least it was hot—with the provided soap. It was odourless. The shampoo smelled a little like wildflowers at least.
She had no desire to put back on the uniform she had sweated in. But she had nothing else to wear. It would have to do until it got self-cleaned at midnight.
Leaving her hair to air dry, she headed off in time for dinner. Turkey, with potatoes and corn. Bread and butter. Water, no juice, no dessert. She sat down next to Arthur and Gabrielle, and Oliver arrived a few minutes late, and decided to keep them company. After Hogwarts, Oliver had lived underground with Seamus and the Parvati sisters. Padma had been captured. He talked fast but listened intently to others. He was kind, and mature.
After the meal, she asked Gabrielle if she wanted to go down to the lake before curfew. They headed outside the castle. The air had cooled, but as Malfoy had said, their uniforms adapted to the temperature. It kept their bodies warm.
They passed buildings that had not been there during her time at Hogwarts. People were walking by, doing whatever they were doing, and most of them didn't even glance at them. A few people stared, but nobody interacted with them.
Deciding to sit directly on the grass, they dropped down in front of the Lake, away from the hustle and bustle of the Empire buildings further north. The water sparkled in the fading light of the day, lapping on the shores.
"C'est tranquille," Gabrielle said, looking at the water. She glanced at her to translate. "Peaceful."
Hermione nodded. She brought her knees up against her and put her forearms over them for support. "I can't imagine doing more of these exercises every day."
"I know..."
"How are Bill and Fleur?"
"Fleur and I last talked three months ago," Gabrielle answered, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "They were following a trace of the Order. They're fine, I think. They were in Wales."
"How do you communicate?"
Gabrielle gave a knowing, friendly look. "Bill trained ravens to deliver letters."
"Really? Just like owls?" Her voice had drifted to an airy gasp.
"It took a while. And not all ravens. But eventually, with magic and time, they can do the same job."
Her heart thundered in her chest with hope. If she was able to communicate with her friends... Maybe she could get in contact with Neville and Ginny… Owls still existed, but since the owleries had been burned and the fog decimated their habitat, most of them had fled in the mountains and the forests, scared of Wizards and human life.
"Number 41?" A voice called abruptly from behind, startling them.
She unfolded her arms and looked back. Malfoy was standing a few feet behind them, tall and solid. His German shepherd was not sitting but standing at his side as usual.
"A word," he demanded. "Alone."
Gabrielle shifted to stand up, but Hermione rested her hand on her arm. "Don't. I'll go." She stood up, wiping her hands against her uniform. Malfoy turned away and strode off. An invitation to follow.
"What is it, Malfoy?" she called out when they were out of Gabrielle's earshot.
He turned quickly, bringing his face dangerously close to hers. "What do you think you're doing, Granger?" he hissed. His breath was hot on her face. She didn't back away.
"What are you on about?"
"I said you aren't here to make friends. And there you are, chatting with them.Wastingtraining for them."
She frowned, but her temper awoke with a jolt. "Why do you care?"
"You're dooming yourself!"
She inhaled slowly and clenched her jaw. "Again… why do you care?"
He paused, considering his answer. "Don't you want to see your parents free?"
Flames lunged in her core. "Don't youdaremention them!" She pushed his shoulders, wanting toforcehim to step back. The dog barked, snapping a bite in the air in front of her. But Malfoy hardly moved, his feet firmly planted on the ground. Immovable and strong as a bastion.
"You're not here to make friends," he said, eyes narrowed at her. "A quarter of them probably won't see through the first game. I can bet thatat leastone of them will try to kill you. You have to take your training seriously."
He paused, then looked down at her legs and up her arms and shoulders. As if he was assessing something important. "You're weak."
"It'sbecauseI take things seriously that I went back for Francine!"
The animal growled, and she ignored it. What, did the dogsuspectthat she was threatening Malfoy?
He shook his head, looking impatient and irritated. "You don't understand. The weakest, the slowest and the laziest will get killed first. It's nature's law. Don't get dragged down with them."
"No, Malfoy," she pointed at him, "I'm pretty sure it's Numberland's law."
He closed his eyes briefly, trying to gain control of his patience, or maybe the conversation. "Just—take it seriously. Train."
It was her turn to shake her head. His behaviour and requests made no sense to her. "I don't understand," she admitted, echoing his words.
"What?"
Now he was watching her intently.
She gestured to everything around her. "Any of it." He kept staring at her. "Why. Why this place got built. Why the games started. Why did Harry die. Why you remained onthisside. Why old and young can play the games. Does that sound fair to you, old and young? Why didn't you let me take my cyanide. Why he had to destroy everything outside this place. Why—"
He lunged at her in a flash, pressing his palm against her mouth. "Not another fucking word." A cloud of anxiety had fallen over his eyes, and he stared at her with command. "You forget where you are."
Stunned, she didn't move immediately. He was close enough for her to count his eyelashes. To see the bluish flakes floating in his grey irises. His scent surrounded her, lukewarm and swirling.
She jerked his hand away and pushed him back. "Just leave me alone." She glared at him with contempt. "You keep doing—" she gestured to his uniform, "whatever it is you're doing with your pretty blue costume. And I'll survive on my own just fine."
She turned on her heels to go back to Gabrielle, leaving her trainer standing behind her. She felt his eyes burn her back.