The Big Day
by Rita Skeeter
The Holy Established Empire is ready for the start of the games tomorrow! If you haven't purchased your ticket, there is still time to do it. If you are visiting us from outside Britain, please direct yourself to the nearest Empire's Entry Floo. Cohorts of His Dark Authority are established at the following Entry Floo points: Paris—France, Florence—Italy, Madrid—Spain, Beijing—China, Munich—Germany, Denver-Colorado—United States of America, Moscow—Russia.
We're looking forward to welcoming you and to seeing the wonder on your faces again this year.
Restored article of EMPIRE THIS WEEK
found under the window of a child's bedroom [05.03.2017]
On November 1st, Hermione woke before the shriek of her alarm, the pale glimpse of dawn through her window. She layed on her cot, unmoving, her skull pulsating with the remnants of a bad headache. She had dozed off for maybe just a couple of hours. She had tried to go to bed early, but sleep evaded her, her restless nerves making her limbs jitter. She knew there was a possibility that she could die, but what kept her awake mostly was the certainty that people would die, even if it wasn't her.
She rushed to her water bottle, afraid the thumping in her head wouldn't stop. In lack of potions, she would give anything for an Ibuprofen.
A deafening sound tore through her room, and she dropped the bottle. This wasn't the usual alarm. This new one was longer and more melodious, reminding her of a nursery rhyme. It sounded ominous.
The only detail they had been given about today was to grab breakfast at the usual hour, and to go right outside the castle's doors at exactly 8:30 AM.
She double-laced her boots. Checked them twice.
It was only when she opened her bedroom door that the alarm stopped. She walked alone to the Great Hall, her spine straight as an arrow. Her fingernails kept digging into her palm without her realising. The atmosphere in the castle was sparkling and feverish. She noticed several house-elves, several people in crisp uniforms and ceremonial robes, and several carts being pushed.
There were hurried footsteps, last-minute conversations, capes billowing behind hasty Gamemasters.
The Great Hall didn't give off the usual ambience. There weren't many players, but those who were there were eating in silence. It was obvious that everyone was avoiding each other.
She spotted Cho Chang—number 12. They had only seen each other from a distance a few times, but had never spoken. What better day to do it than on the day they might die?
She grabbed her tray of food and, with an internal shrug, walked to Cho's table.
Cho looked up at her with round, surprised eyes. Her plate contained a generous portion of scrambled eggs with slices of slightly browned apple on the side.
"May I?" Hermione asked, tray in hands.
Cho nodded a second too late and drank a few gulps of her water. "Hi, Hermione," she said. "I, um, I'm sorry I haven't talked to you." She had tied her long silky black hair in a ponytail sitting at the top of her head, cascading above the number on her uniform.
Hermione shook her head. "No, it's fine." They both ate a mouthful of eggs before she spoke again. "How were your training sessions?"
Cho's eyes darkened slightly. "Awful. Trainer Crane, his name is Liam, is a crazy hard-to-please arsehole." Her voice went down a notch. "We call him Crazy Crane."
Hermione smiled.
"What about you?" Cho's gaze landed on her number. "Who trained you?"
"Malfoy. He's… something." She could have said anything—terrible, horrendous, a lunatic, a dick, a maniac. But the taste of lies had always felt outrageous on her tongue.
"I hope he's not too awful with you. I remember how he was in school."
There was that word again—awful. A hidden corner of herself told her she should agree with Cho. "Yes," Hermione nodded, casting her eyes on her plate, "he's the same."
More players rolled into the Great Hall. She noticed tears-streaked faces. The different and unique portrait of emotions on others—anxiety plastered on number 30, confidence on number 6, anger on number 22, despair on number 29. She registered them and absorbed them all. She exchanged a knowing look with Cormac McLaggen—number 39.
"Feeling ready?" Cho asked.
Hermione's focus snapped back to her. "Not even a little."
She hadn't seen Malfoy since the day before. When it was nearly 8:30, she grabbed her bottle, checked her shoelaces for the umpteenth time and headed out. A crowd of other players were heading in the same direction, and she found herself pressed up against everyone else's shoulders.
Stress knotted her stomach, and a nervous tic made it impossible to calm her fingers, always moving, always trembling.
She strode out of the castle and the cold air penetrated her lungs and burned her throat. In the distance, at the bottom of the hills, she could see the swarming movement of witches and wizards, people from the Empire and foreign travellers. Lots of black capes. Many coloured capes. And, faraway, the distant hum of the crowd at the Quidditch pitch.
A Gamemaster was posted outside the castle. "Players, gather with your Trainer." He repeated the phrase like a mantra as the players parted ways.
Hermione was slow to spot Malfoy. He was completely to the right, and his uniform was spotless—perhaps he had ironed or cleaned it since yesterday. Francine, Ashley and Oliver were already in front of him. She joined them, a little out of breath.
Malfoy's eyes dipped on her face as she approached, and his features softened imperceptibly.
She exchanged awkward hi, how are yous with the others. Apparently, Ashley was so nervous she was going to puke any instant, and Francine hadn't been able to eat more than a few bites of eggs. Nobody had woken up at the same time or got the same amount of sleep.
After a couple of minutes, all the players had arrived and were sorted with their respective Trainer.
Hermione's fingers were clutching her water bottle with an iron grip. She suddenly wondered if they could bring it to the game. She was going to ask, but the Gamemaster spoke above the crowd with a Sonorus charm.
"Welcome, players, to your first game." She could tell he was smiling under his silver snake mask. "You will be directed to the Arena, that old Quidditch field over there, where you'll receive further instructions. Proceed."
One after the other, each group detached and walked towards the Arena. As she got closer, she noticed several things. There were no more goal hoops. The pitch was also wider, higher, and the undersides of the stands were covered with walls that had doors cut into them.
The noise grew louder and louder. Her headache had returned, albeit with less intensity, and was pounding in her skull in sync with her pulse.
As soon as they were directly under the stands, the noise was thunderous. She had never heard such a crowd, countless voices rising, talking, shouting, laughing, jeering. The Gamemaster who had ushered them in opened a wide door and stepped inside. The Trainers, followed by their players, filed in.
She was one of the last to enter the stands.
The sound was muffled, so she guessed that there must be a spell under the stands. They were now in a very wide, barely lit corridor, and numerous wooden beams supported the ceiling on the left.
She noticed a Healer on the right. Her heart, swollen with stress, threatened to leap out of her chest. She forced herself to slow her breathing, eyes trained on Oliver's number. She could no longer see Malfoy.
They continued their progress into the heart of the stands, curving toward the middle. After another twenty seconds, the group stopped, and she was squeezed against David and Gabrielle.
David shoved his elbow in her ribs and she backed off a step.
The Gamemaster's voice rose again. "When I say so, you're going to go through those doors and head for the starting point. You'll see my colleague there. There will be a line on the ground—get behind it. For those who have brought their bottle, enjoy your last swallow, because you can't bring it in there. Leave it here or dump it, I don't care."
Her heart fell with another jolt of stress. She uncapped her bottle and shakily brought it to her lips. She drank even if she wasn't thirsty.
She didn't know what to do with it, she didn't want to lose it, unsure if they would give another one if they lost it.
Players had started talking between them like the bundle of nerves they were, and she couldn't focus on one conversation. Arthur was splitting the crowd to come to her, but he was cut by Malfoy appearing suddenly in front of where most of his band were. He was taller than everyone else, and his hardened features were back.
He folded his hands behind his back. "For those of you who will make it, I will see you Wednesday for the next training session. You'll rest tomorrow. To you all, good luck." He was addressing everyone, but his eyes had locked on hers with his last words.
She nodded swiftly.
"Trainers, you can go back to your designated box," the Gamemaster called out. "Players, you may enter. Best of luck."
The small crowd of numbers were herded towards the doors, swallowing them one by one. As the people in front of her diminished—there was no one behind her —Malfoy grabbed her arm before she could continue.
He leaned above her and reached down to retrieve the bottle from her hand. "I'll hold on to that for you."
Dumbstruck, she couldn't utter a word under the sudden proximity of him. "Thank you," she finally said, throat dry. She wasn't sure if she would be there to take it back after.
His eyes searched her face, probably noting the apparent stress, and he frowned. "Remember. Inertia." His voice was barely audible.
He released her and she walked away.
She looked back before going through the door.
Malfoy had already vanished.
As soon as she entered the Arena, the light from the sky fell on her. The roar of the crowd crashed down on them like a weight, covering them in shouts and applause. She didn't even try to spot the Gamemaster they were supposed to meet at the starting point. She blindly followed the direction of the others, observing her surroundings.
The Arena was oval-shaped, and the stands around it encircled the centre. She thought of outdoor soccer stadiums. She did a full turn, eyes darting everywhere and nowhere. There were thousands upon thousands of people looking at them. She couldn't make out the precise features of the spectators' faces, except perhaps those on the lowest level. Wizards and witches in luxurious capes, with excited features, shouting Merlin-knew-what at the players. Several of them had a pair of binoculars in their hands, others wore animalistic masks, and the majority wore extravagant and ridiculous hats. She could tell by their garments that they came from other countries.
There was no grass in the centre of the Arena like the Quidditch field used to have. It was mud-coloured, rough soil everywhere. There was a black line running around the centre, several metres away from the stands.
At the other end of the arena, but behind the stands, there were two impossibly long poles, a good deal taller than the top level of the stands. Between the posts was a huge white canvas, perhaps a piece of cloth or parchment. On it were inscriptions in bold and black ink—all of their numbers in chronological order. Five rows of 10 numbers. Each of the numbers had its own little box, the side of one being the side of the other.
Hermione stared at her little box. The first box of the last row. Then at the blackened box where 49 would be.
Looking ahead again, she realised that she had stopped. She couldn't see a line, but that was because she was surrounded by players. Gabrielle made her way over and appeared beside her. Her warm eyes were brimming with a sobering anxiety that heightened the one Hermione was feeling.
"If I can have everyone's attention!" A loud voice, amplified by a spell, rose above the Arena. Slowly, the noise died down like fire to embers. "Welcome to the seventh edition of the Empire's Games, or as some of you may have heard it called, Numberland!" A roar of applause erupted, lasting a good fifteen seconds, before diminishing.
She recognized that voice. That man was at Billston Street when they captured her. Darstan?
"Some of you have been with us for seven years now, and we are deeply grateful for your loyalty. If you are here for the first time, our only hope is that you'll want to come back and help us build this Empire even bigger. More players! More games!" Another round of applause and thunderous shouts.
"This year is a special one," the Gamemaster continued. "We had been looking for seven years for a special player, and this year, I am thrilled to announce the participation of Britain's Indesirable Mudblood Number 1, Hermione Granger!"
Her blood drained from her face, and her heart skipped a beat at the jubilant howling exploding around the Arena. Gabrielle stared, horrified, at her.
"She will be wearing the number 41, so keep a close eye on her!"
Hermione wanted to sink to the floor and curl up under the dirt. Players turned to her, staring at her, judging her, evaluating her, silently hating or pitying her. Numberless spectators had their eyes locked on her, wishing her hell, or harm, or success, or shouting insults. Her cheeks burned, receiving it all.
Before she could notice anything, a warm and bigger hand wrapped around hers. She blinked and looked at Arthur, standing on her left. His smile was the saddest expression she had ever seen.
"Now, I will explain the rules. The Empire's Games are inspired by muggle children's games. Maybe you haven't heard of them, but they are quite simple. However, their simple nature doesn't make them easy. If the players don't succeed, they will die in whatever manner the Gamemasters decide."
Her heartbeat rang in her ears, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She still felt the burn of a hundred pairs of eyes on her.
"The first game is… Red Light, Green Light!"
Other applause.
"It's pretty simple. At the sound of the green light—" A robotic high-pitched chime rang in the Arena, "the players will start running around the Arena. At the sound of the red light—" A low-pitched and loud buzz reverberated, "the players will have to freeze completely. We are looking for statues here. They can't move until they hear the green light again."
She registered the instructions, adrenaline pumping through her veins, washing away every emotion in the way. So, no, it was not a race. It was run-freeze-run-freeze.
She had played something similar during recess in elementary school.
"Now, this is very important, players. You each have THREE strikes. If you stop running during the green light, that's a strike. If you trip during the run, that is fine, but you have five seconds to get back on your feet, or that's a strike. If you move an inch during the red light, that's a strike. Got it? Statues!"
The players, huddled together, said nothing. Their backs were hunched. Number 24 was crying, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"One last thing," Darstan said, voice still echoing around the Arena. "There's no need to count how much time a green or a red light will last. The duration of each is randomly selected."
Her throat closed up. This was exactly what Malfoy had done during her jump training sessions. But a question remained in her thoughts. When would the game end? Unlike the real Red Light, Green Light game, there was no one to reach for, no goal. Nobody mentioned if they had to accomplish a precise number of laps.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the first game is about to start. If you don't already have one, you can purchase our Eagles Binoculars at the north or south booths on the last level. If you wish to place bets, there will be bidders circulating in the stands." He paused. "Enjoy the first game!"
The Arena erupted in deafening cheers. Their excitement was palpable. Hermione started dissociating. When her hand started moving on its own, she snapped back to reality.
Arthur's eyes were pinned on her. "They didn't mention anything about the pace. Don't go too fast. The important thing is to run for as long as possible, not to be fast." He glanced at Gabrielle too. Like he was talking to his daughters.
She nodded absently, even though the only thing she heard were letters. She looked at the crowd again and felt her veins turn to ice when she noticed already a lot of binoculars angled down at her.
She was on display for everyone.
They were eager to see her die or succeed, it wasn't clear.
Arthur released her and grabbed her shoulder. "We'll be fine, Hermione. Okay? Don't go too fast."
She nodded again. Her lips trembled. "O…Okay."
As the cheers faded away, Darstan's voice lifted above the Arena. "Players, on your marks. Green light starts in five…"
She uselessly searched for Malfoy in the crowd.
"Four…"
She rolled the sleeves of her uniform up to her elbows.
"Three…"
She wiped her forehead.
"Two…"
She might die.
"One…"
The chime rang loud, and the players dashed onward. She headed straight for the right to avoid the centre of the track, where the players were gathered in clusters.
She ran at a jogging pace, surprised to notice so many numbers in front of her quickly putting distance between them. Some players were going really fast.
They would burn too soon.
Her boots left a cloud of dust behind her path. Her heartbeat was already quick.
This was okay. She could keep going like this.
Focused on the thump thump thump of her boots.
Arthur was not too far behind. She could see Gabrielle's number a little in the front, alongside number 3 and 20.
She thought of Francine.
When the players finally spaced out of each other, she could notice the Gamemasters posted around the track. There were a lot of them, probably one at every 50 metres. They all wore their silver snake masks, hands joined in front of them. Monitoring them. There were only a few with a black mask.
The players completed the first lap.
A second one.
They were all spaced out now.
After what seemed like 20 minutes, the red light buzzed in the Arena and Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She halted under a millisecond, movement suspended mid-run. She was slightly bent forward, red arm bent at hip level, left foot lifted off the ground.
She could do this.
The crowd had gone strangely silent, appraising the sudden lack of movement. She glanced at the players closest to her. They all had the same position variations as her.
"Strike one for number 5," Darstan announced.
She couldn't look at the board, that would mean raising her head. She remained completely still, focused on the plant of her feet. Anchoring it. Ignoring the painful ache crawling up her calf.
"Strike one for number 22, 30 and… 8!" The last player was not so far from her. The girl had visibly leaned on the right.
The red light remained for another two minutes. Seven other numbers were called out for a first strike. Francine's number was one of them.
The green light chimed and the players started running again. Relief washed over her body as the blood pumped in her veins again.
She wanted to find Francine, maybe she was—
The red light buzzed not even ten seconds after the green light, and she swore, freezing in a completely unstable position.
She wasn't the only one.
All around the Arena, numerous players lost their balance.
"Strike one for 34, 2, 17, 24, 40."
Hermione wobbled lamentably.
"Strike one for number 41. Pity."
A collective deception groan travelled through the crowd. Clenching her teeth and engaging her core, she froze again.
The red light continued. "Strike two for 22. Strike one for 23, 46, 18 and… oh, 9."
She could now look at the board. The strikes appeared as red lines in their respective boxes.
Her single strike made her blood boil.
"Strike one for 11."
The green light chimed. She focused on her run, shutting down her thoughts. She could not have another strike.
Arthur wasn't in her peripherals anymore.
She swallowed. Her throat was getting dry.
Thump thump thump.
She soon reached Cho Chang, the large 12 on her back. All around them, the players were out of breath, panting and grunting.
They did five laps, during which numbers 37 and 42—Francine, again—had a strike for stopping their run.
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribcage.
An iron taste coated her mouth.
She needed water.
When the red light came, this time she rooted her right foot in the ground. She would use this moment to slow her heartbeat. Next to her was 9, a middle-aged woman, and a little further, number 34.
But a plethora of numbers were called and she lost count. She looked up again at the huge board, which had multiple red lines running through most of the squares. The boxes for numbers 50—Reine—, 6 and 28 were blank. David had one strike.
The voice called a few third strikes, but she couldn't look properly at those numbers, wherever they were. 30, 8 and 22. They had just been sentenced to death.
The crowd screamed insults, or some other nameless things.
She heard jinxes.
Whooshing sounds.
Gurgling sounds.
Thuds.
"Strike one for 45, strike two for 11 and 20." There was a five second pause. "Strike three for… 9."
Something whistled in the air.
The blade of a glittering knife split the air and lodged in the throat of number 9 right next to her, and hot blood sprayed across her face.
She cried in surprise and horror, losing her balance.
"Strike two for 41." Audible jeers and shouts of anger.
Number 9 crumpled to the floor, blood gushing out of her throat. She was shaking convulsively, hands at her mangled throat, and Hermione looked into her eyes as the light faded from them.
A silent, hopeless plea.
Something split open inside her.
Regain balance. Regain control.
She had a constellation of tiny specks of blood on her face, in her hair. On the left arm of her uniform. It would crust.
The arm of the woman was right in front of her path. When the green light would chime again, she would need to step above it.
A few other strikes were called out as the red light stretched on, but no third strikes.
She had no margin of error left.
She had to put distance between her and the other players so this kind of surprise wouldn't happen again.
This was the longest red light they had done.
The board showed that the players in her band had for the most part only one strike. Francine and Ashley had two. Reine still had none.
The green light chimed and she started running again, stepping over the woman's arm. She headed off to the right again to stay as close as possible to the wall. If a player ran too close to her, she speeded up to put some distance between them.
She couldn't end up at a red light next to a player who would have a third strike.
She couldn't—wouldn't—handle it.
Each of her strikes meant a strike for her parents.
She kept running, although her lungs were burning with each breath. A stitch had bloomed in her left side.
Thump thump thump.
She reached the corpse of number 22 on the racetrack. His body was pinned against the wall of the stand, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Rivulets of blood ran from his still open eyes, his ears and his nose.
She looked away, feeling sick to her stomach.
Not far from there, she came across the bodies of number 30—no marks on her body, probably a simple killing curse—, and number 8 —blue skin and purple lips, possibly a suffocation hex.
Thump thump thump.
How could the crowd not get bored of this? Worse—how could they enjoy it? The game had started more than an hour ago. And the spectators were still there, binoculars glued to their faces, like sickening bird-watchers. They were eating. Drinking. Chatting amongst themselves. They were pointing at the board, at the players, laughing, laughing, laughing, cheering, sneezing, watching, yawning, smiling.
A player tripped somewhere on Hermione's left, and it looked like a bad fall.
He didn't get up.
"Strike three for 35."
She clamped her hands against her ears.
Refusing to hear what death awaited 35.
She didn't lose her pace.
"Strike two for 48." That was David.
She kept running, and so did the other numbers.
Some were crying. Exhausted. Scared.
Flanking her left was number 15. She was about to accelerate to move ahead of him, but he cried out. "I… I can't go on." She glanced at him. It was the man she had bumped into in the corridor on her very first day, before getting scrubbed and given her uniform. His strides were wobbly. His face was red, blotched and sweating.
She looked at the board. He already had two strikes.
"Keep… keep going," she panted.
A sob escaped him. "I… c…can't."
"Slow down," she told him softly. "You don't have… to run… that fast."
"It's my… heart."
The next thing she knew, number 15 stopped completely, bending over his knees. She heard him sob as she moved ahead, leaving him behind.
"Strike three for 15."
She wiped tears and sweat off her eyes.
Thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump.
The next red light buzzed in the Arena and she planted her two feet on the ground, swift as a gushing wind. Dust rose around her soles, rising around her. Her arms weren't flat at her sides, so she had to keep them raised in their position.
It was easier with both her feet on the ground, but the strain in her biceps got uncomfortable quickly.
Other strikes were called.
Reine got her first strike.
Six second strikes. Arthur's number was one of them.
Four third strikes. Ashley was one of them.
Something washed over Hermione. It was cold. Unforgiving.
She looked at the board. There were 11 numbers completely blacked out.
Eleven souls, lost.
Her number was still visible alongside Francine's 42.
The strain in her arms flared with more intensity, and she gritted her teeth in effort.
Which death awaited her if she let them down?
A killing curse?
A knife?
Her muscles were shaking with weariness.
The sore stitch in her side seemed to spread, crushing her organs against her lungs.
Stars blinked in front of her vision.
Water—
The green light signal jolted her back and she resumed her run, arms falling limply at her sides. Her pace was dragging now. Steps heavy, like her boots were made of lead.
Maybe part of her was cement.
Maybe she could simply sink to the floor.
Slowly.
Like a melting candle.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Time lost its meaning.
Her throat was parched. Tongue scraping on the roof of her mouth.
Beads of blood on her lungs.
"Strike two for 17."
She reached out her right hand. Touched the wall beside her.
It wasn't for support.
It was simply to make her feel real.
She was here.
She was running.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Strike two for 26."
She tried to find a song to match her steps to the beat.
Her mind was blank.
Numb.
Water—
Her body was slammed hard against the wall and she collapsed with a painful yelp, her right ankle twisting with a sharp sting. Her bones rattled under her skin. Pain radiated through her ankle as she lay flattened against the dirt. She had five seconds to—
"I hope you die," David spat to her, never breaking his run.
Wincing but not losing a beat, she got back on her feet and started running again. The pain in her ankle was sharp and awful.
She whimpered.
He had broken her run.
She could run, but barely.
The weight on her ankle was crushing her.
A sob of pain escaped from her mouth.
She bit into her fist.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Didn't he cheat?
She waited for David's number to be called out, but they didn't.
He was already far ahead.
Tears of exhaustion and pain and injustice streaked her cheeks.
She was running with a limp.
If such a thing existed.
"Strike two for 12." That was Cho.
She couldn't stop.
Stopping meant dying.
She had to make sure that at the next red light, she wouldn't let her bad ankle support her weight.
They did two complete laps. There were two more deaths.
Hermione made sure not to look too much.
But Ashley's ponytail was easily recognizable.
Blonde hair splayed on the ground like a fallen angel.
She kept pushing through the pain.
The sting was now crawling up her calf.
The red light buzzed, and she anchored her left feet in the ground. Her shoulders were moving with the rhythm of her breath, but she closed her mouth.
Breathed through the nose.
Exhaled through the nose.
Engage your core.
She clenched her abdominals. Her body begged to lean on the left.
Think inertia.
She was a tree.
"Strike two for 50."
Mighty and strong and solid.
Not even the kiss of a wind could make her stagger.
Her foot was rooted on the track.
If Reine had her second strike, that was a fairly accurate indication of the general exhaustion among players.
She looked at the board.
Everyone left had two strikes, except 18 and 6.
She thought of Arthur. Gabrielle.
She thought of Ron.
Volunteering—hoping to kill the snake.
The last one.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her ankle was throbbing, hot and swollen.
"Strike three for 45."
Hermione closed her eyes.
Gabrielle.
Shut it down.
Shut it down.
But she heard the killing curse.
She heard the body thud.
She thought of the lake.
C'est tranquille.
Her mind was tranquille.
Her focus was somewhere above her body.
Floating.
Hovering.
Like a raven.
There was pain.
In the ankle and somewhere deep inside of her.
Her core.
Gabrielle was dead.
Water—
The green light chimed.
She hated the sound.
The weight was back on her ankle.
An excruciating throb.
Water—
Pain
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
"Strike two for 18."
The green light continued.
Endlessly.
She had lost all sense of time.
She had maybe done ten laps. Maybe 54.
The only thing left was the throb.
The stars in front of her eyes.
The iron in her mouth.
She wished she had cyanide.
The numbers kept running.
With the green light.
Around and around and around.
Like a roundabout.
"Strike three for 26."
What else was green?
Grass.
Mint.
Apples.
Harry's eyes.
Water—
Running in circles.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Nagini.
It wouldn't stop.
The pain.
The drumming.
Turtles. Turtles were green.
Could she do
one more lap?
He had removed the pill from her mouth.
She would collapse
in seconds
Would her
parents
forgive her?
Seaweed too.
Would
they
feel
pain?
Around. And around.
Christmas trees.
Cyanide—
A new sound echoed through the arena, three short noises in quick succession, and the crowd erupted with renewed energy. "This is the official end of the first game!" Darstan exclaimed cheerfully. "To the remaining players on the track, congratulations."
He said other things, but Hermione didn't hear.
She had stopped.
Head pounding.
Mind cleaved open.
Weightless.
Darkness.
She smacked the ground.
Kiwis
were
green
too.