Draco led his band of ten players to the fifth floor of the castle, in the east wing. Each floor corresponded to a band—players 1 to 10 on the first floor, players 11 to 20 on the second floor and so on. Why was this? A few years ago, Yaxley explained that they were somewhat minimising the number of murders among the players.
But there were still murders every year.
The first year had been the worst. They started with 84 players, 28 of whom were murdered by their fellow players between the games. Choked with a pillow. Strangled in the shower. Neck broken in training. Head bashed in with a glass water bottle. And dozens of variations of the same act.
So, to make sure there would still be players left at game time, they decided to separate the bands on different floors, set a curfew, lock all the doors after curfew, and charm the water bottle to render the glass unbreakable. It helped. But the murders still happened in other creative, devious ways.
And they couldn't do a fucking thing about it.
Losing a player between the games sucked in itself, so killing the murderer only made it worse.
This place.
This place was where you could get away with murder.
They had briefly debated housing the players in the common rooms, where the student body of the Hogwarts Houses was staying. But those dormitories didn't even have private rooms.
Leading the band, Draco finally arrived at the dormitory, a wide corridor with five doors on each side, and stopped, turning around.
The players in front of him watched him. Most of them with fear. Others with hatred. He was fine with that.
But Granger—Granger was the only one staring at him with defiance.
It unnerved him.
He unearthed the words he knew by heart. "First of all, you shall refer to me as 'Trainer Malfoy'. Now, here, this corridor is your dormitory. The room number corresponds to the number assigned to you," he began, his tone dry, quick, rehearsed. It was the third time he had given these instructions. "Inside, there is a water bottle that refills automatically. I strongly suggest you bring it to the trainings."
The players, like a herd of frightened sheep, had moved closer together in their state of anxiety and nerves. All ten of them, even Arthur Weasley. But Granger stood a little apart, arms crossed. Her hair, pulled back in a braid, made her sharp features even more prominent. High cheekbones, hollow cheeks. Flashing eyes, challenging him.
He didn't remember her looking this… mature. All serious and pretty in this unsettling way.
But he suspected that she would be one of the physically weakest of his band. Apart from the old woman wearing number 42.
Number 42 would probably not even survive training.
But he wasn't sure Granger would either.
And that… felt wrong.
"Wake-up is at 7am," he continued, glancing over at the players, "and breakfast at 7:30. First training session at 8am, lunch at noon, second training session at 1pm, dinner at 5pm. Curfew is 10pm. You are allowed access to the grounds outside the castle, but you are not allowed to interact with anyone who is not a player."
He immediately noticed the change of mood in the players' eyes. Confusion. Madness.
Before any of them—he assumed Granger—could ask a question, he clarified, "The Empire's inhabitants, just like the games staff, can't kill you. Most of them don't care that you're there and won't look at you. They are waiting for the games to pay you any attention."
Except those who will insult you, hoping you will respond. Except those who will follow you, taunting you until you snap.
"What are we supposed to do, after dinner and until curfew?" asked a woman in her thirties—number 49.
He cleared his throat. A warning.
"—Trainer Malfoy," she completed.
"I don't care what you do in your spare time, it's not my job to give you ideas."
He saw Granger roll her eyes. He bit his tongue to keep from scolding her, and his speech gained speed.
"Your uniforms have been charmed to self-clean at midnight, every night. You have the choice of sleeping with them or not. You will have no other garments. They'll adapt to the temperature too. You'll notice that the weather in the Empire isn't quite the same as outside. That's because of our strong wards. Winter will be cold, but not enough to kill you without gloves and scarves."
He caught his breath.
"What are 'wards'?" Number 43 asked.
"Magical barriers," Granger said at the same time as him. There was a pause, and their eyes met briefly. Her cheeks reddened, like she had been caught doing something wrong. He should probably say something that would preserve the illusion of authority he had.
"Don't answer for me, Forty-One," he told her coldly. Then, he addressed the band. "Every day, you'll each get fifteen minutes in the shower. Use it whenever you like, when your presence is not required elsewhere. The lavatory is right down this corridor." He nodded towards the back to indicate a door.
He paused, now expecting a question, or at least a comment. Maybe from Granger? She didn't. She had answered someone else's question, but had no question of her own?
"Your room is the only place you can be after curfew. If you are not in your room by 10pm, your door automatically locks and you won't be able to access it until morning. It is not our job to find you a place to sleep if that happens."
He tried not to be too obvious in the glances he slipped her, but this time the hate she breathed out didn't escape him. Her jaw was tight—the muscles twitched in her cheeks—and her nostrils flared slightly.
This was good.
This was normal.
It was easier to train the players if they hated him. Easier to watch them die.
"And finally," he continued, taking a deep breath, "unless you've misunderstood, the other players around you right now are not your friends or your allies. Yes, you'll inevitably spend time with them. You're going to train together, eat together, hell, you can shag one another. I don't give a fuck. We're simply suggesting that they don't become your enemies, because you'll need to get through all the training. It would be…unfortunate if you couldn't train properly because one of your peers is trying to kill you."
He swallowed. "And don't forget... Accidents happen all the time here." This time, hewaitedfor Granger to ask a question. Anything.
She didn't.
"Trainer Malfoy?" A soft, delicate voice rose from the group. He had the impression of having seen this girl before, but he couldn't remember. She was very beautiful, in an obvious kind of way, and very young—on the threshold of adulthood.
"Yes, number 45?"
"...Can we go to the bathroom at night?"
When Granger turned to see who was speaking, she gasped audibly. She obviously recognised the young woman. Her name was haunting his tongue. If Granger knew her, he was sure he knew her too. Someone from Hogwarts?
"Yes," he replied. "Your doors open from the inside. Otherwise they're locked for anyone trying to force their way in."
Granger moved through the group, taking a few steps sideways and a step back to join the girl who had just spoken. When the two looked at each other, they exchanged whispers.
Draco frowned. Were they friends?
This wasn't the place to have friends.
"If you have no further questions," he raised his voice to cover the whispers of the girls and silence them, "I suggest you get acquainted with the place. Dinner will be at 5pm in the same room you were just in. Training starts tomorrow."
He did not say goodbye as he split the band in two to leave. The players pressed up against each other to let him pass, like a sea of fish in front of a shark.
Don't learn their names. Not this year.
Everything is harder if you learn their names.
Dinner was over. Draco wasn't surprised that all fifty players had naturally gathered in their respective bands, apart from a few who had decided to mingle. Each year, the dynamics within the same band were different. He had seen in previous editions players that barely interacted with each other. In other editions, the players acted protective of one another. That all changed after the second game.
He shuddered at the thought of the second game.
That was a nightmare for another time.
The games staff did not share meals with the players, except for the Trainers—everyone ate before or after. He hated taking his meals in the same room as the players, so he rarely ate when they did.
Gamemasters supervised the meals, stationed at the tables and near the entrance. The benches that had been set up yesterday had been removed. In their place stood several rectangular tables, not quite as long as the ones Hogwarts had. The players sat in groups of three or four, and many ate alone.
At the time of the players' curfew, when his band had gone back up to the dormitory and Draco was sure they were all in their rooms, he headed to Town Hall for the first day meeting.
It involved only the Trainers, the four High Gamemasters and Yaxley. Voldemort was there, of course, but he remained in a corner of the room, wrapped in the black of his cloak, listening. Draco suspected that he sometimes dozed off.
Voldemort was a Dark Lord but, in reality, just a megalomaniac with old bones.
He was eating like the rest of them. Sleeping—although Draco could neither imagine him spooning with Nagini, or taking a shit.
If you could forget how he looked, you could almost fathom him like an ancient bone-white fuck with a superiority complex. He was easy to hate.
He entered Town Hall and took a seat at the meeting table, ignoring the ghostly figure of Voldemort camped in his high chair in the corner. He greeted Blaise and offered a nod to the other Trainers—he didn't like them very much.
"Where's your pet, Malfoy?" Liam sneered.
"Pissing on your bed, Crane," he replied without looking at him.
In fact, Keela was roaming the grounds at the moment. Chasing bugs, probably. She liked grasshoppers especially. He had noticed for a while now that nobody called his dog by her name. It was 'dog', 'pet', 'mutt' or even 'friend'. He wasn't even sure if everyone knew that the only dog in the Empire was his.
Around the table, the High Gamemasters had taken off their masks. Rowle, Macnair, Lestrange and Rosier. Yaxley's long, skeletal fingers lay on the table in front of him, strumming an intermittent rhythm.
"Are we all here?" he asked before examining the faces around the table.
"Lana isn't here yet," Blaise replied.
They waited in silence, the flames of the chandelier above the table crackling and swaying. When Lana entered the room a few minutes later, Yaxley looked at her with venom.
"We don't appreciate tardiness, Rathmore."
She took a seat at the table, right next to Liam, breathless. "Sorry, but my players were a pain in the arse. Not letting me go with their questions."
Yaxley's gaze hardened. "Then teach them to filter their questions. You are not at their disposal."
She gathered her many braids behind her neck and tied them into a long ponytail that she draped over her shoulder. "Understood."
He clapped his hands. "Now that we're all here, I want your impressions on our first day."
That was the part where Draco usually disassociated, wandering to an empty place in his mind where he could imagine mountains and windswept hills. It worked for a while, while Rowle, Lestrange and Carrow spoke. Liam and Blaise said something to do with their band.
Voldemort was humming an unknown melody in the corner, listening absently.
When the room fell silent again, Yaxley looked at Draco. "There is one matter we needed to discuss with you, Draco."
His focus returned in a flash to the room in which he was sitting. "What?"
"Player 41."
"Granger?"
"Yes," Yaxley smirked. "As you know, we advertised her presence to our sponsors and high-value guests. Since we promoted her participation, the number of attendees has increased by 32%. I believe this year will be our biggest games so far."
His mind stayed blank. "Okay?"
"She's part of your band," Yaxley continued. "It is therefore of the utmost importance that she's ready for the games, and that she can remain so for as many games as possible."
He said nothing, holding the Death Eater's gaze.
"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?" Yaxley inquired.
"You're telling me Granger needs to stay alive for as long as possible so our sponsors and guests can keep paying."
Yaxley slapped the table with his palm before pointing at him. "Yes!" His eyes remained fixed on him, as if waiting for the rest.
"What?" Draco frowned. "Are you asking me to... protect her, somehow? Because—" Yaxley started to answer but he carried on, "—if that's the case, then no. I'm not a fucking bodyguard."
"That's not what I'm asking you."
Everyone in the room watched their exchange, eyes alternating between them.
Yaxley licked his lips. "I want you to make sure that number 41 stays alive as long as possible. I want her to perform at the games. I want you to train her relentlessly, I want you to stretch her limits, carve them, break them."
He cringed, uncomfortable. "I—"
"Supervise her, just a little more than the others, that's all I ask." His mouth twisted into a sappy grin. "Just make sure she takes training seriously."
"Are you expecting her to win the games, then?" he asked, surprised by the defiance hint in his voice.
Voldemort tutted, the sound resembling parental disapproval. Everyone turned their heads to his corner. He was still perched on his chair, but slightly slouching, legs crossed.
"I am not sure I wantthismudblood to win," he said.
"My lord—" Yaxley tried to speak.
"Hermione Granger was a threat to my existence seven years ago. Although Harry Potter is dead, he still knew how to…endme. He was close. I believe thismudbloodcould be a threat again."
Draco felt a rumble inside of him, churning in unknown places of his soul. Harry had been close to ending Voldemort. That didn't sound horrific to his ears.
Why didn't that sound horrific?
"What are you suggesting, my lord?" Yaxley asked.
"That she stays alive until the last game. And then she dies." His voice was clear like the glint of steel.
Yaxley blinked several times. The Trainers looked at each other, confusion painting their features. The implications and meaning of what Voldemort was suggesting sounded a little false to everyone.
Draco's head swam with nerves.
He needed a drink.
An amber-colored drink.
"Are you suggesting we... rig the games, my lord?" Yaxley broke the silence.
"Only if she lasts until the last game in May. We'll rediscuss it then."
"What about—" Draco began before he could stop himself. He closed his mouth in a sharp snap.
"Yes, boy, speak up," Voldemort encouraged him.
"What about her parents?" Uneasiness roamed in his stomach.
"They will be free if she wins the games," Voldemort said slowly, with a bright tone. "I'm a man of my word."
"But if the games are rigged—"
Voldemort jerked up in his seat, and a gust of icy air flew into the room, almost extinguishing the chandelier. A haze of shadow surrounded the Dark Lord, a tenebrous aura hovering around him. "Can I count on you, Draco?" His voice was stiff. Reptilian.
Draco knew he was implying several things. Can I count on you to train Granger properly, can I count on you to ensure that the games run smoothly, can I count on you to keep quiet, can I count on you to show me complete trust and loyalty?
He felt like saying no. "Yes." His chest felt tight.
"Excellent," Voldemort drawled.
Light returned to the room. Lana and Blaise exhaled audibly. Rodolphus Lestrange was smirking like a madman.
Draco dissociated again.
Draco left Town Hall, slamming the door behind him. His chest felt… smaller. Like he had to force air into his lungs. His hands had slight tremors. He took long strides in the dark, his footsteps crunching in the grass, before inserting his thumb and forefinger into his mouth to whistle.
"Keela!" he called out.
He couldn't keep the anger out of his voice, even though Keela had nothing to do with it.
He whistled again and waited. A distant bark reached him and soon his dog appeared from behind the dorms, running towards him. She had a stick between her teeth. His head was buzzing like a hive, sounds and words swarming like raucous bees. Fuck, why did he care so much about the games being rigged? It shouldn't have come as a surprise.
But a morsel of him was… biased.
He knew Granger. She was clever.
It was fucked up to imagine her being defeated by a rigged game.
It wasn't—it didn't feel fair.
Panting and happy to see him again, Keela wagged her tail rapidly, raising her nose to be petted. She tried to give him the stick. But she stopped when she felt his aura.
She let the stick fall to the ground.
She barked firmly, raising a paw towards him.
"Come," he said softly, before disapparating with her.
With a loud pop, he arrived at the lodge. As soon as the structure detected his presence, a light flickered on next to the entrance door. Make sure she stays alive. He walked quickly to the door and opened it, without closing it.
Keela followed closely, whining as if she was afraid of something. She kept his eyes trained on him, head raised, hoping to catch his gaze.
He stepped into the small kitchen, breathing more heavily and twisting the neck of his uniform to breathe more easily. But it made no difference. His chest was tightening.
And it felt awful.
It felt like drowning in oxygen.
Rig the games.
He leaned against the counter, shoulders hunched, and lowered his head in front of the window. Dark corners of his mind were humming with devastating ideas, like a torrent of sensations, smoke and disillusionment. His chest was shrinking by the second.
Can I count on you?
Something was unfurling inside him.
He needed air.
Light-headed, he gradually lost all feeling in his legs, which could no longer support his weight. Keela growled more firmly, worried.
"What the fuck?" he muttered. He slowly sank down, one knee at a time, before turning to press his back against the cupboards under the counter. Surrendering himself to the floor.
Keela moved closer to him and pressed her cold nose against his face. She licked him, squirming with trepidation.
She placed a paw on his stomach.
He forced himself to breathe. But he could no longer feel the regular movements of his lungs. He didn't feel like they were working.
Why weren't his lungs working?
Keela barked softly, nudging his cheek with her nose. Then she lowered herself to the ground, the front of her body resting on his thighs. She licked his hand.
Again and again.
Draco focused on absently stroking her head.
On his thighs, there, a regular movement.
Keela inhaling.
Keela exhaling.
She was real, and she needed him.
Slowly, he tried to synchronise his jerky breathing with her's. Then, to lengthen his inhalations. To exhale through his mouth.
He rolled Keela's fur between his fingers.
He felt this. He felt how soft it was.
I'm here. I'm real.
My lungs are working.
Peeling off his pasty tongue, he took a long breath as he opened his mouth. His lungs opened, like a flower reborn in spring.
Air.
Keela licked his hand.
He practised several more normal breaths. A tingling sensation spread through his legs. They were coming back to him. He moved an ankle.
His chest seemed to have expanded again.
"Sorry, Kee," he murmured.
The dog looked at him, mouth closed, still worried.
"I'm feeling better," he said. He continued to stroke her head, more intentional in his caresses. "How did you know it was happening?" His voice was a trickle of a murmur.
For a while, they stayed on the ground. The door was still open, letting the night air into the lodge. It didn't smell fog or trash or death. It smelled of mountains, freedom and grass. He remained pressed against the cupboards, looking at the rectangle of the outdoors behind the door frame. The soft, vaporous light of the moon. His thoughts had fallen silent.
All but one.
It didn't matter if he trained Granger to be the best player out there. She would still end up dead.