Number 42 returned on Monday. She didn't look very well and seemed to have shed at least ten pounds. Her eyes were sunken with exhaustion and her complexion was greyish. Draco felt sorry for the old woman, but there was nothing he could do.

Granger's sympathetic look at 42's arrival did not escape him. He expected her to walk over to the old woman, give her a hug, and make some kind of friendly gesture. But instead, she tore her gaze away from 42, blinking rapidly and clenching her fists at her sides. A look of mute relief was painted on her face.

She was trying not to get emotionally involved.

She had listened to what he had said.

Good. This was good.

"Where's number 49?" he asked his band, looking at their uniforms in turn and counting the absence of one player.

No one replied and a few heads glanced around, as if they had just noticed 49's absence.

"Did anyone see her come out of her room this morning?" he asked.

A few mumbles confirmed that they hadn't.

"I saw her at dinner last night," Oliver said, looking worried.

Draco thought about it for a few moments, but eventually brushed the situation aside. Players were missing training regularly, precisely when they weren't performing well. And number 49 was below average.

"Too bad for her," he said aloud, which earned him a disgusted scoff from Granger. "Let's get started."

He dashed ahead of everyone, followed Keela, setting the rhythm for the first interval. He loved the ease with which he let himself be carried by the wind. He wasn't born an athlete. But his slender physique, long legs and good posture had contributed greatly to making him a competent runner. He started running on his own the year after the Battle of Hogwarts. After his father's death.

As a Scavenger, he regularly had to run behind Muggles or Mudbloods to capture them. Running made him forget why he was running. He did love the thrill of the chase, but not the goal of it. He loved the smack of the wind on his face, the flapping of his cloak behind him, the burn of his lungs.

It was in his second year as a Scavenger that Theo's father told him that if he wanted to, he could start the training program to become a games' Trainer.

He didn't.

Not officially.

But on his own, he began to train his muscles, devoting himself to improving his reflexes. Zabini joined him after a few months. Together, they boxed, ran, lifted weights, did squats and push-ups.

Zabini became a Trainer a year before him, in 2000.

The following year, not so long after he had found Granger in Bromley, Yaxley himself came to him. He said he could be a Trainer's without doing the training program. Draco just had to do a quick course to be kept up to date with the guidelines, what to do and so on.

He had always loved a challenge.

So he said yes.

That was three years ago.

At the point in the interval where they had to walk, he stopped monitoring Keela's position—she was way too happy to be set free on the grounds. He looked back and checked on the progress of his band. Numbers 43 and 50 were first behind him and didn't seem that winded—that didn't surprise him, they were the two best performers in training. He suspected they were athletes of some kind before. Or they were naturals, gifted with genetics.

His gaze swept the grounds, under a sky that was now the colour of trout—a symptom of illness, like the ashen complexion of a corpse. At least the air was breathable in the Empire.

He couldn't spot Granger. Nor 42. Francine.

Fuck—had she wasted her training running with granny again?

He whirled around, turning back to the front and quickening his pace sharply, unable to grasp why he was so frustrated. "We start jogging in twenty seconds!" he barked.

A whole circle around the castle lasted a good 30 minutes, considering they had to snake around a few rocky steeps, push through uneven grounds, avoid muddy soil and dodge a few ancient pines.

At one point during the third lap of the castle, he abruptly stopped his run. "STOP!" he yelled. Number 43 crashed into his back.

"S-Sorry," he mumbled.

He ignored him, his chest rising with his ragged breathing. There was a dot on the horizon, beside the shores of the light-speckled Lake. He could make out two silhouettes—or maybe three—on the water's edge. And another rapidly moving black dot.

Keela.

"Why are we stopping?" Number 50 asked.

Behind them, the other players began to catch up, stopping as well. Out of breath and covered in sweat, everyone started questioning why they had stopped. Shortly afterwards, their complaining voices blended together—one complaining of a cramp, the other of a taste of blood in their mouth.

Draco ignored them completely and set off towards the banks of the Lake. He wasn't really supposed to leave his band unsupervised, but where could they go anyway?

It was when he had got within 100 metres that he recognised Granger, up to her thighs in lake water, her uniform soaking wet, almost black. She was heaving something and her trembling voice sent a chill down his spine.

Francine was standing on the bank, water up to her ankles, also hunched over the surface.

Keela was scampering around them.

He ran faster. A few dozen metres more and he could make out words.

"Grab her ankles!" Granger shot at the old woman above the glistening water.

He didn't understand right away what he was looking at.

They were dragging a body out of the water. The leather of his red notebook flashed through his mind—would healreadyhave to use it?

Because yes, he did learn their names.

Keela finally spotted her master and began to run towards him, before returning to the Lake, still yapping.

Granger, lifting the motionless person by the armpits, trudged to the edge of the Lake, hindered by the weight of the water and the rigid body. Francine took small steps backwards, until they switched places.

They gently laid the body on the wet pebbles.

He came up to them, short of breath. "What—"

"It's Laura," Francine said.

He looked down at the body of number 49, her skin drained of colour and her lips greenish. Her hair was slimy and spread around her head like a halo of black seaweed. But what struck him most was the look in her eyes, her stare was blank, open to the sky, lidless and lightless.

The fabric of her uniform was slashed on her right calf. Displaying three deep and bloody gashes. Like a creature had clawed her skin, tearing her flesh apart. But the gashes were messy, like something else had tried to attack her leg.

He remembered his father telling him that they weren't supposed to swim in the Lake. But there was nothing in the water. Only fish and the Giant Squid's skeleton at the bottom.

Granger was breathless. "We found her... barely ten... minutes ago."

"Here?" he asked.

"Well, your dog did," she clarified. Her nose was running and she wiped it against the sopping wet sleeve of her uniform. "She spotted something and barked, so we came."

He knelt at the side of the corpse and drew his wand. Slowly, he performed a spell to get an accurate reading of her vital signs. He then noticed a bulge in her pockets, and in several places on her chest.

"She died during the night," he declared matter-of-factly. From the state of the wound and the colour of the body, he guessed she had died before what had happened to her leg. But he wasn't a hundred percent sure. The Healers would confirm it.

At that moment, the whole band that had been following him arrived on the shoreline. Oliver cussed audibly and approached the body to ascertain what his eyes were seeing.

"Oh, my God", gasped number 46—Draco just knew it was the American with her three syllables. He still couldn't look at her without feeling like setting her hair on fire. "What happened?"

A scoff. "Went for a midnight swim."

He turned sharply to see who had just said that. Number 48—no surprise. Ever since Draco had first laid eyes on him, something had ticked him off.

"What is wrong with you?" muttered the young Delacour girl.

He didn't care about people in general—especially the players—but disrespecting the dead didn't sit well with him. Just as he was about to retort something, Granger's quiet voice came from behind him.

"Wait." She bent down to touch the body.

"Granger, don't—" He froze, cursing himself for his idiocy.

She inhaled sharply, a look of I Can't Believe You Just Did That on her face.

Yaxley's voice rang in his head.Call their number, not their name.

An awkward silence followed. He threw a sidelong glance at the huddled players. Some of them were frowning.

So… everyone had caught that?

Number 48's eyes darkened, like a thunder cloud looming under his brows. His jaw ticked.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"O…kay," the American said.

Exhaling, Granger resumed her action, reaching slowly into number 49's pockets to retrieve—

Rocks.

She slowly unbuttoned the front of the uniform to release more stones, clattering to the shore along with the others.

Rocks, and rocks, and rocks.

She stood up slowly, wiped her nose again, then bent down in front of Keela, without touching her. "Good girl," was all she said.

All the while, Draco was already thinking about what had happened to her leg, and what he'd write in his red notebook.

Draco kept an eye on number 48 for the rest of the week. He didn't trust him. He shouldn't have cared—he was a player—, but he did.

He cared because he expected something bad would happen because of Forty-Eight.

If he was honest with himself, he was worried that he would hurt Granger.

It is therefore of the utmost importance that she is ready for the games, and that she can remain so for as many games as possible.

But above all, he hated the fact that he was probably the one who had signed her death sentence.

He had to make things right.

He had to prove that Granger was just a number, like the rest of his band.

No more slips.

No more Can I Talk To You Alone.

She had to know, as much as anyone, how much he hated her.

He could do it.

He could be cruel. Cold. Demanding.

I want you to stretch her limits, carve them, break them.

He began to evade her gaze.

He barked precise orders at her, selecting the most icy tone he had ever practised.

He stopped touching her with his hands. Just the soles of his boots.

Like the rest of them.

Cockroaches.

The first game was in six weeks. He couldn't waste time.

She had to survive the game.

He demanded even more of her when he noticed her trembling muscles threatening to fail her.

She grunted in pain. Like the rest of them.

She vomited with effort. Like the rest of them.

She cursed him. Like the rest of them.

Until, finally,

the rage he knew was buried inside her

flooded back to her eyes.

And she

finally

looked at him with blatant hate.

Like the rest of them.

With each passing day, Draco did not let his guard down. The atmosphere had changed within his band. They were no longer as whiny as they had been at first—they were finally starting to develop their physical abilities. But they spoke more privately and never openly.

After three weeks, he could now see the ties that bound them together, like threads stretched between them.

Granger had one thread stretching to 42, the old woman. And two more around 45, the youngest, and 47, Arthur Weasley.

44, Wood, and 42 shared a thread.

43, the Scottish guy and the American, 46, shared another—he suspected they were fucking.

46 and 45 shared a tiny (sisterly?) one.

43, 50 and 45 shared an ominous thread that got tighter by the days.

So his band was officially split into cliques. And that didn't bode well, because it was in cliques that plans were hatched and executed. Cliques were the perfect breeding ground for plotting.

He just didn't know which clique would act first. Although he had a suspicion.

In the fourth week, as Draco ate his evening meal in the hubbub of the Great Hall where the other players were seated, a Gamemaster appeared before him.

"The Trainers have been summoned."

His hand holding his spoon remained suspended over the bowl of soup. "Now?" What he really wanted to say was Again?

"Finish your meal. Then come."

He had no choice but to do as he was told. Being summoned meant that a member of the higher authority requested a meeting at Town Hall. It didn't happen often. Looking up from his meal, he noticed that two Trainers, Carrow and Rathmore, had already left. He finished his soup, and munched on his bread while walking briskly outside the castle, under a prussian blue sky. Keela was sitting at the entrance of the Great Hall, waiting patiently, and followed him as soon as he stepped into the dusk.

"What's this about, you think?" he asked her, scratching the top of her head without breaking his stride.

They walked side by side in lockstep to Town Hall. Another masked Gamemaster was waiting outside the door.

"The mutt stays here."

"I don't think so," he snapped back sourly, entering the building with Keela on his heels. Nobody but him could tell his dog where to go.

The Gamemaster didn't stop him, but some possibly insulting mumbles escaped from his mask.

In the meeting room, Yaxley, Rathmore and Carrow were already seated. At the centre of the table was a set of porcelain saucers and cups, a teapot and a honey jar. Draco knew this was for appearances only. He had never seen anyone serve themselves tea in this room.

The Dark Lord was not here. Rathmore was talking colloquially with Yaxley, and Carrow had her arms crossed, balanced on the back legs of her chair.

"Ah, there you are!" Yaxley exclaimed, noticing him. "Take a seat."

He took the chair at the end of the table, opposite Yaxley. Keela faithfully stationed herself beside him at the foot of the chair. As soon as he was seated, Zabini and Crane arrived. Zabini had a half-eaten biscuit in his hand and his mouth was full. He took a seat on Draco's left, and Crane went to sit on Carrow's right.

Zabini quickly slid a piece of biscuit to Keela under the table. The dog greedily snatched it up without hesitation.

Worry spiked his veins in a second. "Is there chocolate in that?" he hissed.

"'Course not. You think I'm an idiot?" Blaise wiped his fingers on his pants.

His heartbeat slowed. "While we're on topic—"

Zabini kicked him under the table.

"Thank you for coming on such short-notice," Yaxley began. "We're finally halfway through training before the first game and I'd like to check on the state of things, your bands and your training. And the tally of our losses."

Rathmore raised her hand at once.

"I have a player, number 6, who's doing very well. He's bloody fast. He might actually find the first game easy."

"Will he be worthy of bets?"

"Pretty sure."

"Good. Any losses?"

"Nope."

The players weren't supposed to diebeforethe games.

"He's good-looking too," Rathmore smirked. "Christmas-worthy." She winked at them all at once.

Draco shivered at the thought of Christmas in the Empire. He hadn't decided yet what he should do about it this year. Granger was definitely Christmas-worthy, more than any other players. He blocked his apprehensions, like a gate vertically closing shut.

"There's a teenager in my band that's crying every bloody day," Carrow said, her voice wintry as gunmetal. "Also got two Mudbloods that I know spend at least four nights a week together. They make me sick."

"Anyone good?" Yaxley asked.

Carrow shrugged, lowering her eyes. "They're all average. I do everything I can but progress is slow."

Yaxley turned his gaze on Zabini.

Zabini shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth and pointed at his cheek to suggest they skip his turn. Yaxley sighed and looked at Crane.

"Actually, I got three players that aren't bad," he said, running a hand through his hair. His smirk indicated how pathetically proud he was. "One's a Mudblood, the others are Muggles."

"Very good," Yaxley nodded along. "Do the other players in your band feel... threatened by these three players who are performing well?"

"Don't think so. They don't talk to each other very much."

"What's the number of those three?"

"13, 17 and 18."

Yaxley mentally registered the information before looking back to Zabini.

"I had a good one," he said, putting his hands on the table. "Player 36. But she gets more sick by the day. I think she has a disease."

Yaxley hummed. "Unfortunate. Any suspected losses?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Losses aren't supposed to happen before the first game anyway." He said this last thing while looking towards the end of the table. Draco immediately noticed the change of expression in his eyes.

He had saved him for last, like the icing on a cake. Because he knew—

"How is your band doing, Draco?"

He gulped, and he reached under the table to distractedly touch Keela's head. There was no point in lying. "I'm not sure."

Rathmore sneered, and Yaxley frowned, but he hurried on with the details. "In fact, I got two players who perform very well and they keep up with me for all the training sessions."

"I hope that one of them is our golden player." Yaxley's smile turned expectant, excited.

He hesitated briefly. "No… sir."

Silence fell over the table for a few seconds. Yaxley cleared his throat. "How is your band doing,Draco?" Trying to extract information from him, like poison from a wound.

"Granger—I mean, number 41, is… average. She can keep up. I do push her limits. But she's… petite. And weak."

"Any losses?"

There it was.

He fumbled with a patch of his uniform under the table. "Number 42 almost died of a heart attack—she's old and slow. Number 49 killed herself. At least, I think it's a suicide, and…"

Zabini whistled, the sound bouncing in the room.

Yaxley's face had turned to stone, his features like marble. "And?"

"I'm… suspecting that one of them wants to hurt the golden player, sir."

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room and a faint shiver crept over Draco's hands, which he tucked between his thighs.

Carrow shook her head and chuckled quietly. "Man… you're fucked."

Yaxley, his posture stiff and erect, kept his eyes riveted on him. "You are one of the most skilled Trainers. Why is this happening?"

Bile rose in his throat. "I didn't choose the players I got, Corban. I can't decide their fucking age, their weight, their genetics, or their fitness level." Keela huffed under the table and laid her head on his thighs. He nipped at her fur without breaking eye contact with Yaxley. "I work with what I have. I was just dealt with a bad hand."

"Hundreds of sponsors will drop in attendance if they see Forty-One perform badly. They won't stick around for the other games."

Draco didn't know in what language to express how much he didn't give a fuck.

"I don't know what more I can do. I'm pushing her, and I force her to take it seriously."

Yaxley held up his hand to interrupt him. "What do you mean?"

"She—" he sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to find the right words. "The whole reason she's here is because you captured her parents. Right? But no one has proved to her that her parents are really here, or still alive. Her only reason for participating is based on a hypothesis that she hopes is wrong. And she doesn't care about dying if it is."

Yaxley leaned back in his chair, pondering his words, his index absently tracing the curve of his chin. "What I hear you saying, Draco, is that our golden player is not motivated enough to participate because she doesn't know if her parents are really alive?"

He didn't like exposing her so much. "Yes, but not only that." Talking about her like he had figured her out.

"What else?"

But the words kept spewing out of his mouth. He was just thinking out loud. "All you said in the note was 'Play or they die'. What does that mean? Does she have to win the games to save her parents? Or just participate? You didn't say 'Win or they die'. No one gave her any information and she has a thousand questions."

The other Trainers watched their exchange, turning their heads from one end of the table to the other.

Yaxley let out a long breath. "Here's what you can tell her." He crossed his fingers against the table in front of him. "If number 41 is the sole winner of the Empire's games, her parents will be freed, unharmed. If she dies, her parents will be participating in next year's games." He paused and smirked. "You know where we're keeping them. So tomorrow, you shall take her to see them, but don't let them interact."

"But—"

"What else would Forty-One need to perform well?"

He scoffed. Where to begin?Better sleep, better food, less stress, less pressure, better environment, better set of genetics, better bone structure, better lung capacity.

"Time," he said instead.

"We don't have more of this."

"We can't make Gra—number 41 the best player out there in a month."

Rathmore raised her hand again but didn't wait to speak. "Sorry to interrupt, but I feel that this is becoming a very 41-centric tournament. We have other players that will blow their minds."

"Didn't I tell you that almost 40% of the audience booked their seats to see her?" Yaxley said, his tone clipped.

"Yes, but that means 60% of them don't really give a fuck about her."

Yaxley ignored her and returned to Draco. "What if you were to train her… personally? Someone else could take up your band."

His blood drained from his face. "No."

"What if you train her on the days off?"

"Her body needs rest, like everybody else." His teeth were clenched, cramping up his face. "She's not some mythical beast."

How was it possible that Yaxley didn't understand this simple concept? Draco knew there was only one way he could have what he wanted.

He straightened his posture. "I'm confident that seeing her parents and knowing they get to live if she wins will motivate her enough," he said, gaze unwavering. "We can't expect a weak little Mudblood like her to be anything other than a pathetic insect. I understand that a lot of sponsors are coming because of her, but let's not forget that the only thing that's special about her is her notoriety."

Carrow and Crane glanced at each other, and Rathmore huffed. Blaise sucked audibly on his lips, nodding. "Truth," he muttered.

"I admire your confidence," Yaxley said. "Let's…tryit your way. We'll see after the first game how she did."

Draco motioned to get up, feeling the meeting was adjourned, but Yaxley raised his voice. "Butdomake sure she isn't killed before then."

"Of course."

Rathmore dramatically cleared her throat, looking at Yaxley. "Before we're dismissed, we should talk about the Scavengers coming back half dead. It's getting ugly out there."

Silence descended upon the table, and Keela yawned loudly under the table.

"It's under control," Yaxley said calmly. "The Mudbloods and some Wizards simply started feeling confident and they're acting on it."

"Mulciber came back with his chest almost sliced open," Rathmore snapped. "Wasn't able to secure Redbridge. It was overrun."

Draco frowned.Overrun? Theo hadn't mentioned a thing about the Scavenger situation. Was it really getting bad?

"It's none of your concern," Yaxley replied, voice still eerily calm.

"But they'll come here," Crane jumped in. "Eventually."

"Need I remind you it already happened twice and both times, our wards held strong and we were able to handle the situation." He pushed back his chair and it creaked loudly. A smile plastered on his face. "Do not worry. You're dismissed."

He left the room, leaving the Trainers looking at each other in silence.

Draco stood up, not needing to spend another second in here, and Zabini followed him.

"Hey, Malfoy," he called.

"What."

Keela kept close to his right side, and Zabini fell in step on his left. "If I tell you 'arrows to God', does that tell you anything?"

"No, why?" They slipped outside, and Draco marched to the dorms.

"I was the first to arrive for the meeting, and overheard Yaxley and Dolohov speaking," Zabini explained. "Looked secret. I don't know. They said 'arrows to God'".

"I really couldn't care less. Why do you care?"

Zabini scratched his neck. "Dunno. It sounded important. And secretive. Maybe you knew about it."

Draco stopped abruptly. "Everything those men say will always sound fucking important. Do like me. Go to your mind palace."

"My mind palace?"

"Yes. Mine is another continent."