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The cameras take in the Capitol, the stage set up for President Riddle. Everything is clean and bright, hundreds of spotlights make the windows on the skyscrapers glitter. The audience, however, is silent, waiting for the enhanced echo of the prepared speech. Harry takes all of it in, hands framing the tiny screen. The Capitol’s frequency isn’t as strong in District Thirteen, which means the footage is fuzzy and indistinct, but he’s drinking in every detail. 

“The rebels are tearing our country apart. The survival of all depends on the rule of the Capitol. We need each other. Together, we are stronger. Together, we survive. But you’ve all heard enough from me,” Riddle’s sibilant voice is cold. “Why don’t we hear from someone else? I’m sure you’ll all be very interested in what he has to say.”

The camera pans over to Draco. His suit is a pristine white, crisp in the autumn sunlight. 

“I don’t know what’s happened to Potter,” his lips form a sneer around the name. “But everything he’s said is a lie. There is no District Thirteen, everyone knows that. Whatever he’s playing at…” Draco shakes his head, then looks directly into the camera. There are deep shadows under his gray eyes. 

“Harry,” his voice barely a whisper. “You’ve been brainwashed, but I know, I have to trust, that you’ll still listen to me. The Capitol is powerful, they’ll trip you up if you try and attack. Protect yourself.”

A handler comes up behind him, and his time is up. President Riddle says a few more words, but Harry doesn’t listen. All he can hear is Draco. The snag in his throat, the dry rasp at the end of each sentence. The barest hint of warmth when he said his name. Harry. 

He doesn’t realize he’s really hearing it until Hermione shakes his shoulder.

“Was there a message?”

He starts to shake his head, but then he pauses, biting his lip.

“He wants me to give up on him.” He closes his eyes, cursing. “He always took care of himself first. If he wants me to protect myself, it’s because he thinks he’s as good as dead.”

Harry stands beside McGonogall, arms crossed. Ron is on his other side. The map of the Capitol flickers in front of them, a three-dimensional image projected over the round table in the council chambers. Green boxes mark the areas where traps await them in the streets. Nets. Tracker jackers. Poisonous gasses. Harry glares at the layout, counting the traps. 

“There’s a lot of them.” Ron’s voice echoes Harry’s thoughts. 

“It’s supposed to be like the Arena.” Luna’s mellifluous voice sounds out of place in the dark, but Harry can’t help but agree, remembering the rockslide. 

“I’m just showing you the odds.” Moody’s mechanical eye scans the lot of them, doing a full circuit of the room while his human eye remains fixed on the map. “There’s a reason we’ve never done this before.”

McGonogall places a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“This is why we want to wait. He’s going to be moved. Once he’s out of the Capitol, it will make things easier.”

Harry speaks through a tight-clenched jaw.

“And what’s going to happen to him in the meantime?” His lip trembles, and he bites down hard before speaking again. “It’s already been a week. How much longer?”

How long do you think he can last, he doesn’t say. 

Across the room, Moody nods.

“And that’s if we still think the kid’s worth saving.”

Harry slams his palms down on the table.

“Of course he is!”

Moody’s mechanical eye lands on him.

“You heard what he said. He’s doing Propos for the enemy now.”

Harry snarls, and Ron puts a hand on his shoulder. Harry turns to fight him, but Ron’s expression tells Harry that he’s still on his side. Harry steps away, but he’s not backing down.

“They’re… they’re torturing him, don’t you get it! He wouldn’t be saying those things if he didn’t have to. He looks…” He grimaces, knowing how much work was probably put into Draco’s appearance. He thinks of Barty, and shudders. He thinks of Severus. Traitor. Harry isn't sure which man he wants to kill more. “He looks tired. And thin.” His chest clenches around the words. “He looks like he’s got a gun to his head.”

Ron nods beside him, steadfast. Ron might not understand it, but if Harry’s going to risk his neck for Draco Malfoy, Ron is going to be right there with him. 

“In that case-”

He’s cut off by an alarm. The Capitol is sending bombs.

Hermione and Ron huddle beside Harry in the dark. There’s an occasional clatter from above them, a rumbling, breaking, shaking creak every time a bomb lands. Harry knows there’s enough air, knows he’s not suffocating. It’s just the lack of light, it’s just sounds. He knows he’s not being crushed. This is not the mines, this is not a landslide. He knows he’s safe. He knows. 

“You remember the time you guys caught the deer?” Ron’s voice is even, and warm. “And all three of us were too small to carry it back. We had to borrow a wheelbarrow from, was it Mr. Olivander?”

“Hagrid.” Hermione squeezes Harry’s hand. “He was the one that told us which bait to use.”

Harry can only close his eyes and nod. 

The screens flicker, fading in and out, and there’s a droning, high-pitched hum emanating from the rattling speakers to Harry’s right. His breath stutters through his chest in short, frantic bursts as Draco appears beside President Riddle. His wave is wan, his cheeks sunken. Harry realizes how intimately he’s studied Draco’s face. He’s noticing so many details; a lock of hair out of place, covering what might be a dark bruise crawling up the other boy’s neck, just beneath his ear. There’s a cut at the corner of his lip. The memory of pressure against his frontal lobes, above his eyebrows. He looks frail. He looks used.

When he speaks, his voice shivers.

“Enemies of the Capitol must surrender.” He swallows, turning to face the camera. His pupils are blown wide, dark and intoxicated. 

“What will happen to the rebels, Draco?”

“They’ll starve.” He’s reading, his eyelids twitch. “They’ll freeze during the winter. They’ll never survive. All the rebels will be eliminated.”

“And what about Harry Potter,” Riddle hisses. “What will happen to him?”

Draco keeps reading.

“Harry Potter is an enemy of the state. If he doesn’t give in, he will be eliminated with the rest of the rebellion.”

Harry takes a grateful sip of water, struggling to keep his hands from shaking. The crater is huge. District Thirteen’s upper levels are all rubble, and he can still hear a faint ringing in his ears. Whether it’s from the bombs or the sirens, he can’t be sure. 

“Harry?”

He shakes his head when McGonogall offers him a sip from her bottle. She nods and leaves him alone. He’s determined not to take more than his fair share. Especially not after the abysmal performance he’d given.

Scrimgeour is pacing, watching the footage and shaking his head. Harry can’t blame him. He’s no expert, but even he knows none the work they’ve done today is useable. Whatever he’d found in District Twelve, whatever passion the wreckage inspired in him, it’s long gone now. He’s trying to find the spark. Seeing the damage inflicted by the Capitol is jarring, and upsetting, and he knows he should be angry. All he feels is numb. 

A few feet away, Minerva is speaking to Lupin in hushed tones. Harry can imagine what they’re saying. Will he be all right? Will he be useful at all? He shares their doubts.

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Blaise sits down beside Harry without an invitation. Harry glowers, but the other boy seems oblivious. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Blaise’s smile twists.

“You’re worried they might do something to him. Because of you.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“You know it’s going to happen anyway, right?” Blaise leans into him, and Harry can’t muster up the anger to fend him off. “Whatever he’s going through… he’s still alive, isn’t he? He’s still fighting.”

Harry shrugs.

“Looks like it.”

Blaise shrugs.

“And you’re doing everything you can.”

Harry grits his teeth.

“I’m not.” He glares at Blaise. “I’m sitting here. I’m talking about doing things. I’m making these stupid videos while people are dying and he’s…” Harry closes his eyes. “I knew Barty was up to something. I knew. And I didn’t tell anyone. I should have.”

Harry shudders, letting the last of the air he’d been holding out in a stuttering huff. He feels Blaise watching him, but he doesn’t have anything else to say. Before long, he can hear Scrimgeour calling him back, but Blaise stands up before Harry can respond.

“Actually, I have an idea.”

Harry tunes out the resulting argument, and Remus sits beside him, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. He hears bits and pieces, but when he closes his eyes all he can see is Draco, and the shadows under his eyes. Protect yourself. What did it cost him, Harry wonders, to go off-script like that? To say something real, something true? Because Harry knows that was just for him. He knows the Capitol wants him to die. Draco said it and he has no idea what’s happening to him now but Harry knows he’s being punished for it. For protecting him. 

“All right, all right! We’ll try it.” Scrimgeour throws his hands up, and Blaise returns, smiling.

“All right, Harry,” he says, in a much gentler tone. “All you have to do is introduce me. ‘This is Blaise, and he’s got a story you might want to hear’. That’s all you have to say.”

Harry nods. Blaise sits beside him. The cameras are on.

“This is Blaise. He was a Victor two years ago. He came from District Four.” He glances at Blaise. There’s tension around his brows, but he’s not giving anything away. It won’t show up on the footage. “He’s got a story you might want to hear.”

Blaise nods. Harry gets up. 

For a moment, Blaise doesn’t say anything. Scrimgeour is tightly wound behind the camera, and looks as if he might break the minute anyone speaks. But Blaise takes a deep breath, and the tension dissipates. 

“I’m sure some of you recognize my charming good looks. I know I had a reputation back in the Capitol. But that reputation…” he takes another deep breath. “Is a lie.”

Harry feels his own brown furrow, but when he looks to Remus he sees him nodding appreciatively. 

“After I won,” Blaise continues, “I thought the Games were over. I was wrong. It wasn’t just the Victory Tour. Barty Crouch contacted me about certain… contracts he needed me for. When I said no, he made it very clear that my compliance was mandatory.” Blaise looks directly into the camera, and every trace of his smile is gone. “I’d been hired to sleep with several important Cabinet members, and if I refused, they were going to chose my sister in the Reaping.”

Harry feels cold, and realizes that he’s shivering. Wordlessly, Minerva wraps her shawl around him, and he takes it, the fabric bundled in his fists.  

“Everyone said it would get easier, and it did. And they paid me, handsomely.” His words are dripping with malice. “Not just with money. But information. Secrets. And I know all of yours, Riddle. I know the man that supplies your poisons. His name is Borgin and he lives on Knockturn street. Across from him is Miss Burke. You used one of his poisons to kill her husband, because he was pushing for reforms you didn’t care for. Mr. Cobb has been stealing from your janitorial accounts to pay for his vices, myself included. And the entire Webb family have been using people in the districts as test subjects for the medicines that are keeping you alive.”

A few of the onlookers gasp.

“That’s right.” Blaise’s eyes are feral. “I know you’re dying. And you don’t have a successor. There’s no one to take over all that power when you’re done. You don’t want anyone to know that the Capitol is ripe for the taking. Secret’s out, I’m afraid. This war can end quickly or it can go on for years. It doesn’t matter to us. Because we can starve you out of your city with it’s walls. What will you do when you can’t live off our labor?” Blaise doesn’t look away, and he’s not afraid. 

“We’re all safe now. You’re the one that needs to worry. Because you need us. It’s never been the other way around. And if you think you’ve heard a tenth of what I know, you’re kidding yourself. I know all your dirty secrets, and I think it’s time they come to light.”

Blaise salutes the camera.

“If we burn, you burn with us. Remember it.”

When the cameras are off, Blaise walks away on his own. Harry follows, slipping away while Scrimgeour and the others are replaying the footage. When Blaise notices, he doesn’t stop him. 

“Are you…”

“All right?” Blaise scoffs. “Never.”

Harry nods.

“Fair enough. But what you said. Is everyone-”

“Dead.” Blaise closes his eyes. “I tried. I gave them everything they asked for. Over and over again. And they still took them, one by one. There was an accident on the boat my dad worked on. And then my little sister got sick, no one could tell where it came from, no one else had ever been sick like that. She said it hurt-” he cuts himself off.

Harry reaches for his hand, and Blaise grips it, too tight. 

“I’m sorry.”

Blaise nods.

“Me too.” He gulps. “I know what you’re afraid of. If it were me,” his lips tremble, but he remains stoic. “Well, you know what I’d do.” He lets go of Harry’s hand, flexing his fingers. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Harry shakes the circulation back into his digits. 

“You need to find a way to get him back.” Blaise is looking at him, and it’s wrong, Blaise’s eyes are black, not gray, and Harry finds himself cringing without knowing why. “Whatever he says, whatever anyone thinks of him. You know what’s real, don’t you?”

Harry nods.

“Then get him back.”

Blaise strides away, his shoulders squared, and Harry knows there will be no trace of his turmoil by the time he gets back. 

He bites his lip, and prays there’s still enough of Draco left to save. 

Ginny is waiting for him outside his room. 

He flushes, feeling guilty. He’s been avoiding her since she arrived, and the scowl on her face tells him she knows it. 

“Ginny, I-”

“Are you really planning on dying for that git?”

He’s taken aback, but in the back of his mind he’s not really surprised. Ginny’s blunt. It’s one of the things he likes about her. Her perfect, uncomplicated honesty.

He owes her the same in return.

“I think I might, yeah.”

She nods, staring somewhere behind him. 

“Are you in love?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. I thought I…” He trails off, not prepared to tell her that he thought he might love her, one day, if he survived long enough to learn how. That he doesn’t know if he loves Draco, either, that he’s too busy worrying to feel anything but fear. 

He doesn’t realize how close Ginny is until she touches his hand. 

“Harry. Harry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to push you. I just wanted to know.”

He nods.

“No, it’s all right. It’s fair. I…” he shakes his head. “I wish I had a better answer to give you.”

She nods.

“Do you want…”

He nods, and he doesn’t know what he’s said yes to, just knows that he means it. She wraps her arms around his neck, and she’s small, so much smaller and thinner and she doesn’t feel strong enough to twist his neck, or throttle him. She feels safe. She smells like home, still, the smell of cooking oil and coal dust and pine sap. She holds him tighter, and he holds her back. And when he shudders, she doesn’t say anything, she just backs away, taking him with her. 

They pass through his doorway and he opens his eyes. The light is shallow, turned dim because their generators aren’t at full capacity yet. Only the halls and common areas get full light, and only in the daytime. Ginny kisses him. He sighs. 

“Are you all right?” She whispers.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He wraps his arms around her waist.

“No,” his voice sounds deep. “Definitely not.”

She leads him to his bed. She sits down, and he stands between her knees, touching her cheek, her neck, not sure what he’s supposed to do. She looks up at him through rough-cut red hair, not smiling. She leans in, kissing the thin sliver of exposed skin between his trousers and shirt. Her breath is warm and sweet and he scrapes his fingers against her head, behind her ear, dragging her closer. He feels her fingers tugging his clothing away, feels her mouth against his skin, feels the quiet hum from her throat as it vibrates up and down his spine. 

She swallows and he sees stars. 

He watches her, and she looks up at him, and somehow he can tell she’s smiling. He licks his lips, and she pulls off, blinking.

“All right?”

He nods, pressing his hands against her shoulders. She leans back, and he follows her down, and when he kisses her the response is surprise mingled with glee. She tastes bitter and sweet all at once, so warm, and the way she moves, writhing beneath him is intoxicating. She opens her legs and he helps her drag up her skirt. She leads his fingers down into her, rocking his hand back and fourth against herself where she’s swollen. 

“Harry,” she moans. “More.”

He sucks on her neck, probing deeper, tracing rough circles against her with his thumb as he penetrates her with his fingers. Her hands drag through his hair, and he drags his lips lower, nuzzling her breast through her shirt. She sighs. The scent of her surrounds him, and he gasps it in, thirsty for her. 

“All right Gin?”

She nods, her lips curling.

“More.”

He props himself up on an elbow.

“I don’t have any more fingers.”

She snickers.

“More,” she whispers.

He understands. 

He wraps her legs around his waist, stroking her skin. She rests her arms around his shoulders, rapping her knuckles against his spine. He looks down at her for a moment. Panting, she looks back, offering a minuscule nod. He positions himself gingerly. Ginny kisses him, and he enters her.

She rocks forward, meeting him with her hips as he thrusts, shallow at first. She begins to set a pace, and he follows, angling himself where she leads him. He’s not sure if he’s doing it correctly, but she seems sure enough about what she’s feeling, and she whispers sweetly in his ear, tongue tickling the sensitive skin there, and he pushes forward, in and out, stroking her. His breath comes harder. She grips his thighs, urging him closer, nails scraping. Her grip his certain, but feeble, and she lets go as he picks up the pace. 

He slips an arm underneath her shoulder, gripping her close as he kisses her chin, her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. She gasps as his teeth scrape past her jugular, and he rocks his hips faster. Her fingers dig into his stomach and he opens his mouth, breathing in her hot skin. He feels her inner muscles contracting against him, hears her voice unstrung and ragged as she pleads, more, more, more. He shakes, and feels himself tighten, feels it in the back of his eyes. 

His heart stutters.

She lets him curl against her. She strokes his back as his breath settles. 

“It’s all right.”

He nods, though it isn’t. Not really.

“I have to save him.” He feels brittle, dried-out. “Whatever else happens. I can’t let him die for me.”

She touches his chin, and he looks at her, flushed and disarrayed and entirely beautiful.

“It’s all right Harry. You will. You’ll save everyone. You’re good. You’re so, so good.”

He closes his eyes, and lets her lie to him. It’s all the time they’ll ever have. 

Hermione sits beside him in the woods, her bow loose in her hands. Nothing else made it out of District Twelve, and they’ve got more advanced weapons here. Mechanical bows, made of feather-light metal. Bows like canons, with arrows that breathe fire, explode like thunder, rain down gas. Harry looks at the instrument in her hands, the worn, old wood. The much-mended string. 

They’ve set up a camera behind them. Not that it matters. He won’t show this to anyone.

“I’d tell him first that I’m sorry.”

Hermione nods. The air is cooler out here. 

“I’d tell him…” he shakes his head. “I’d tell him what we had was true.” He smiles. “It was real.”

One of Hermione’s hands curls around his.

“I still don’t get it, you know.” Her nose wrinkles. “Not really. He was using you to stay alive.”

Harry nods.

“Sure. Just like you and I do. Only with less snogging on national television.”

Hermione flushes. 

“It’s not quite the same though, is it?”

He considers it, sighing.

“No. It’s not really the same. I spent so much time thinking I wasn’t going to make it another day, being in the Arena wasn’t much different, actually. At least then I knew what was coming for me. And I knew why. Or, at least I thought I did.” He wraps his arms around himself. “But here. I let myself think, what if I’ve got a long time ahead of me? I actually had time to wonder what it might be like.”

“I want a family.”

He looks up at Hermione then, and she offers him a warm smile.

“I wouldn’t have, not with the Reaping. But now it’s gone, I know. I want a big family. Kids everywhere. Like the Weasleys. Picking up strays. Not just mine, but… well, yours, but I don’t really know what you want. If that’s what you want.”

Harry shrugs.

“I just want him back. Whatever happens. He doesn’t have to care about me, he doesn’t even need to like me. He just needs to be safe again.”

Hermione leans against his shoulder.

“He will be.”

Harry stiffens.

“Will he? I’m sitting here, waiting, while he’s…” He closes his eyes. “He was right. I’m useless without him.”

She rubs gentle circles into his hand. 

“He told you to take care of yourself, Harry. Maybe you should start there.”

They keep the footage to themselves. It was a long-shot anyway. Harry doesn’t ask Hermione what she’s done with it. In the end, he doesn’t want to know. 

Ron’s joins him for training, in addition to the training he’s been doing with the regular troops. Harry tried to explain that it was useless, that the regular troops are the ones learning how to keep themselves alive in a fight. Ron won’t listen to any of it, and Harry doesn’t argue too much. He can’t help thinking of the training center in the Capitol, learning new skills before the slaughter, and that just makes him think of Draco, and he has to stop there before the numbness makes him forget how to feel anything else. 

When Ginny joins them, neither says anything. Minerva merely nods. She keeps up. 

“Keep your voice down.” Hermione pinches his arm. “You never know who might be listening in.”

Harry looks at all of them in turn, searching for the signs of madness he’s sure must have gotten to all of them. Hermione, usually the pragmatic one, is fiddling with her map, not entirely meeting his eyes. Ron looks stubborn, which is nothing unusual. To his left, Luna’s wide-eyed gaze is fixed on the list of supplies. Blaise is quirking an eyebrow, offers a strange, cynical brand of support. And Ginny, wrapped beneath his arm, looks sure. 

“You can’t seriously think this is going to work. We’d have to-”

“Borrow a ship, steal supplies, break through the Capitol’s force field, deactivate the defenses on the prison itself, and get out. Preferably alive.” Luna glances up at him. “The odds aren’t exactly in our favor, but we have put some thought into this.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s not just the odds. If we make it, if, what will we do once we’re out? Do we just come back?”

Hermione shrugs, but Ron is the one that answers.

“We reckon it’s up to you, Harry. We’re here because we’re your friends, and we can see it’s killing you to let him rot in there.”

Everyone around him nods. His breaths feel tight.

“I can’t ask for this. You all might die because of me. There will be no place for any of you to go.”

Blaise shakes his head.

“That’s not your problem Harry.”

Harry slams his open pam down on the table, and Hermione grimaces at the sound.

“Yes it is! That’s what I signed up for! That’s what I am now! I’m the boy who lived, the boy who everybody is going to die for!” He tries to breathe, and finds he can’t. He feels Hermione’s hand on his shoulder, delicate and warm. The room is quiet for a moment.

When Ginny speaks, Harry is forced to look up.

“That’s exactly why we’re here, Harry, and that’s exactly why it’s not up to you to decide for us. I want this war to end. I want to take the Capitol down. For what they did-” She bites her lip. “And for what they are. It’s up to me to decide how I want to do it. And if that means following Harry Potter into the depths of hell for a boy I barely like, then I’ll be the one to decide whether or not I’m really serious about wanting this war to end.”

“You’ve given us the weapon,” Blaise nods at him. “But you can’t tell us how to use it. This is our future as much as it is yours.”

Harry swallows, and nods.

“When do we leave?”

The plane ride is quiet. 

Harry stares out the window. The decision made, he has no right to complain. The sky is pitch, and there are no lights to guide them, only an outdated mechanical sonar system and an electric map that keeps flickering on and off. He trusts Luna to lead them, watching the darkness with a building sense of anger. The others, sensing his mood, steer clear. Hermione fastidiously checks their gear for the umpteenth time. Ron flexes, donning the gloves and armor that have become too familiar to him. He’ll be with Harry on the ground, Blaise and Ginny guarding their exit, while Hermione and Luna hover above. Hermione’s been practicing with the ship’s guns. Her aim is, as always, more than good. It’s her nerve that surprised Harry. 

It shouldn’t have though. 

Luna gives them a heads up when they’re close. After they break through the Capitol’s barriers, they’ll only have about fifteen minutes to get in and out of the prison. Harry dons his helmet, looking across the plane at Ron, doing the same. 

“Ready when you are,” whispers Hermione, her hand poised above the button that will dismantle the defenses inside the prison. There will still be guards, and traps. Harry’s too angry to be afraid. 

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Blaise mutters. 

Hermione presses the button, and Luna hits the throttle. They’re jolted through the Capitol force field, equipment tumbling all around them. Harry braces himself against the wall of the plane, watching through his window as mechanical lights flicker and snap with surges of electricity. 

“Hang on!” Hermione shouts belatedly. They land heavily, and Harry’s already by the door, lunging outside using the momentum from the landing to catapult himself outside. 

He ducks through debris, Ron beside him. They’d damaged the wall when they came down, but Harry doesn’t see a downside. He and Ron lean their backs against the wall to the left; across from them Blaise and Ginny mimic the movement. According to the map they’d taken from Moody’s office, there are traps just beyond the corridor they’re in. They’ve come prepared. Ginny lets loose a small grenade, flinging it into the abandoned hall. It triggers the pod of poisonous hornets, engulfing them in an explosion before any of them can release their toxins. 

“Go!”

Harry leads, ducking behind debris when they come under fire. Ron shoots first, and the echo of gunfire is loud, too loud. Harry bites down on the feeling, firing back at their opponents. 

The fire stops. There’s dust everywhere, too much to see. Blaise puts his hand up. 

“Masks on everyone.”

“How many minutes do we have left?” Ginny, behind him, is hoisting her gun, ready to attack again.

Ron checks.

“Thirteen minutes, in and out.”

Harry grimaces.

“I can’t see.”

Blaise crouches, and something small rolls form his hand. It disappears in the dust. Almost immediately, there’s a loud screeching noise, followed by sharp yells, swiftly cut off. The color of the dust changes from white, to yellow, and then settles into a deep red, before it dissipates entirely. Harry can see again.

The return of his senses is followed by the stench of rot and sickness. The dust clears, leaving desolation in its wake. Bodies litter the floor. Soldiers in Capitol uniforms, shot or poisoned, all very much dead. Harry glances at Blaise, but his face is unreadable behind his mask. Harry touches his own mask, realizing that this was part of the plan, a part he wasn’t made aware of. Blaise leads, and Harry follows, trying not to step on any limbs. He has to save his horror for later, he knows, he doesn’t have time for it now. Not when Draco’s here. 

He can’t help but glance down, though. He sees a man, still twitching, his eyes turned to pus, his skin waxy and sallow, veins black and protruding. 

“Harry?”

He shakes his head at Ginny, pushing forward. 

They reach the cell Draco’s been kept in without incident. Ron opens the door with a shove, letting Harry step inside. The room is sterile. Draco is huddled in a corner, eyes wide, wearing a starched white uniform. His skin is sallow, and he looks too thin, wiry underneath the loose clothing. There are rough, dark circles around his bloodshot eyes, and he cringes as they come closer. Gesturing to the others to hang back, Harry kneels down before him, reaching for his hand. 

“Who… who are you?”

Draco is trembling so hard Harry can feel the tremors from the floor through his boots. He starts to unbuckle his helmet. Above him, Ron is watching the time.

“Nine minutes.”

Harry removes the helmet.

“It’s all right, Draco. I’m here.”

Draco’s pupils dilate. His breath hitches. Somewhere behind them, an alarm goes off. Harry opens his arms, letting Draco fall between them. Snarling, Draco reaches for him, his hands circling around Harry’s throat.

It takes him too long to realize what’s happening. Ginny’s tearing him away and Blaise is inserting a needle into Draco’s neck as Ron drags him away before he returns to himself, shouting and tearing at Ginny’s hands, struggling to get to Draco. 

“What did you-” he shakes his head. “What have you done! What are you doing to him?!”

Blaise shakes his head as Ron hoists Draco’s body over his shoulder. 

“Not now, boy wonder. Let’s get out of here.”

Ron nods. Beside him, Ginny is holding his helmet, which he doesn’t remember throwing aside in his anger. He doesn’t take it. There are footsteps echoing in the hall behind them. The alarms continue to blare, lights flashing. Blaise leans by the doorway, checking to see if they’re clear. Staring at all of them, Harry doesn’t feel like he can move. 

“Why.”

Ginny shakes her head, but Ron answers first.

“The clock is ticking. We have to get out.” He adjusts Draco’s unconscious body on his shoulder, gritting his teeth. “Or none of us are getting out alive.”

Harry swallows his bile, and takes his helmet from Ginny. She reloads her gun, taking the opposing position to Blaise. 

“On my mark,” she whispers. 

On her signal, they run. 

Luna is ready for them. 

The plane is moving the second they’re all inside. The hatches snap shut, nipping at Ginny’s heels as she fires a few more shots at their pursuit. Some of the gas in the air follows them inside, but it dissipates as they rise. Ron lowers Draco onto a stretcher. He murmurs, struggling for even the barest trace of consciousness. The plane lurches beneath Harry’s feet. He struggles to stand, grasping his chest, his breath coming out in a phlegmatic rattle. 

Blaise pats his back.

“You all right?”

Harry brushes his hand away, glaring.

“I’m fine.”

Blaise looks at him darkly.

“I take it you’re angry with me.”

Harry straightens, bracing one hand against the side of the plane. 

“What did you do to him? Why was he…” Harry bites the inside of his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me? What aren’t you telling me?”

He looks around at all of them. The ship rattles. Hermione, stepping away from the console, answers first.

“Harry. Was he… angry, when you saw him?”

“I don’t-”

“It was exactly the same, Hermione. He’s been snatched.”

Harry glances between Ron and Hermione, trying to piece together the fragments of their conversation.

“You knew.”

Ron shakes his head, but Hermione steps in.

“I thought it was likely. I knew you weren’t just going to leave him there, so I suggested they prepare for the possibility…” On the stretcher, Draco twitches. “Harry.” Hermione chooses her words carefully. “You need to be ready. When he wakes up. He’s not going to be the same.”

“What are you-”

There’s an explosion, and Hermione scrambles to the front of the plane, joining Luna at the console. The ship jerks queasily forward as more explosions go off in their wake, growing closer as their pursuers gain on them. Without being told, Ginny and Blaise station themselves by the guns in the back, firing off a few shots. 

In the commotion, Harry doesn’t see Draco waking up until he’s sitting, holding his head like he’s dizzy. 

“Where am I?”

Harry’s first instinct is to run to him, hold him, but he hangs back, remembering slender fingers coiled around his throat, busing, aching, killing. He glances at Ron, who nods, before starting his tentative approach.

“You’re all right, Draco. You were being held captive by the Capitol. But we got you away. It’s…” he almost chokes over the word safe, because no one around him is ever, ever safe. “It’s safer now, no one here is going to hurt you.”

Draco is tense while Harry approaches him, eyes darting all around. He doesn’t look like he’s going to lash out again. Instead, he appears to be looking for the means to escape. His hands are curled into tight fists, his knuckles white. When Harry steps closer, he cringes, drawing as far back as he can.

“Stop.”

Harry opens his arms. 

“You know me. I’m Harry. We were in the Games. We survived.” He smiles, feels it coming off as brittle and weak. “You’re my ally. You kept away my nightmares.” He swallows. “We were going to win these games together.”

Draco watches him, wide-eyed.

“You’re a liar.”

Harry feels his gut turn to stone.

“Draco, I’m-”

“You’re a filthy liar!” The veins in Draco’s neck just out bright and thick against his skin. “I know you’re a liar, you’ve always been lying to me! Everything you said, everything you did, you’re a traitor and you were going to get me killed!” Draco shudders. “Take me back.”

Harry stumbles closer, but Draco clambers away, his chest heaving. 

“No! Take me back! I can be good, I can be! Just take me back!”

The plane shakes, and Harry thinks he can hear Ginny cursing somewhere nearby. He wants to reach for Draco, but settles for grasping his own chest instead, pain seething with every breath. 

“Draco please, just listen-”

“I’m not safe here! I’m not safe with you!” He glares, shouting now. “Just take me back to where I belong! He can have me! Just don’t take me away again- stop!”

Ron manhandles Draco onto the bed without difficulty, injecting another tranquilizer into his arm before Harry can object. The plane steadies beneath them, but Harry can feel his knees wobbling, and he lets himself fall to the floor. He feels cold and lost. 

“Harry?”

He waves Ron away.

“Did you know it would be like that?”

Ron shrugs, sitting beside him on the floor.

“You never met Hermione’s parents, did you?”

Harry shakes his head.

“I thought they died.”

Ron smirks, without his usual warmth.

“Almost. No. They did something, upset someone. It was when Hermione was little. She says she doesn’t remember, maybe she never knew what it was. But one day she came home. And they were just…” he makes an obscure gesture with his hands, cheeks puffing out before releasing a quiet gasp of air. “Gone. They barely thought about her. Sometimes it was like they didn’t even remember she was there.” He shakes his head. “I remember because they used to have mum do their laundry sometimes. One day they just stopped smiling. And they were mean. Like a drunk in withdrawal. The only good word they had for anybody was President Riddle, and the Capitol.”

Harry looks up at the front of the plane, where Hermione sits, her back straight as she monitors their progress through the sky. 

“I thought she was like me.”

Ron snorts.

“Harry, nobody’s like you. That’s why we’re all here.”

“Speaking of,” Blaise looms over them. “Where are we headed? I believe we left that up to you.”

Harry nods, staring at Draco. Even sleeping, he doesn’t look well. The rictus of anger left lines like scars across his skin, framing his mouth and eyes in a perpetual frown. His hair is limp and his cheeks are wan, and his limbs aren’t corded with wiry, strong muscle like they had been. His breaths are shallow, and beneath the frenzied energy of fear, Harry doesn’t think Draco’s well enough for travel.

“He’ll be better off in District Thirteen, won’t he?”

Ron nods.

“Then we’ll go back.”

Stepping away from the guns, Ginny frowns.

“You’re sure, Harry? We won’t be able to do something like this again.”

He shrugs.

“They can take care of him there, can’t they? I know I can’t.” He shudders. “It’s not a lot to ask anyway. A few more Propos. I’ll give them whatever they need, so long as they keep him safe.”

Minerva is waiting for them when they land. Her arms are crossed, and her expression is severe. Hermione and Luna land the plane as gently as they’re able, equipment echoing in the hollow landing dock. Ron checks on Draco before they open the hatch. Still drugged, Draco’s brows are drawn together, tense lines creasing his face. Harry disembarks first, though he feels the presence of his friends behind him.

“Potter.”

He winces at her tone.

“Is President Moody-”

“Oh, he’s aware of the situation. I expect he’ll have a few things to say to you. In the meantime, no one in District Thirteen is aware of your excursion. You are strongly encouraged to keep it that way.” She scans the group, a hint of warmth returning to her stern voice. “Did you find him?”

Harry nods, his jaw clenched tight.

“Is he… well?”

“We think he’s been snatched.” Ron steps forward. “We sedated him, but beyond that, we weren’t sure what to do for him.”

“It’s likely he’s been vennated.” Hermione joins them. “It’s possible, if we flush the poisons from his system, the effects will be reduced.” She glances at Harry. “It seems he’s been trained not to trust us.”

“Me.” Harry finishes for her. “He’s afraid of me.”

Minerva nods. “I’ll speak to someone from the medical division.” She grasps his shoulder. “I’m glad you all made it back in one piece.”

Harry places his hand on hers, and Minerva smiles down at him.

“Wouldn’t have made it without Gin here.” Behind them, Blaise elbows Ginny. “She shot at least four of them. Great aim, this one.”

Ginny smirks.

“Lots of practice.”

Minerva gives her an appraising glance.

“Good work.”

Harry follows Minerva through the rigid corridors, down to one of the lower levels of District Thirteen. President Moody is waiting for him, alone, which startles Harry. Harry stands the way Minerva taught him, feet supporting his shoulders, staring resolutely ahead. Like a soldier. Moody evaluates the stance without a word, pacing behind one of the smaller conference tables. 

“I see you made it back in one piece.” He comes to an abrupt stop just inches from Harry. “You thinking about pulling another stupid stunt like that?”

Harry lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“No, sir.”

Moody’s mechanical eye rolls. 

“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to replace you.”

Moody turns, and Harry steps forward to fallow him without meaning to.

“What? Replace me?”

“Oh yes,” Moody watches him over his shoulder, mechanical eye flickering as it picks up on his tiniest movements. “We painted a target on your back when we chose you, Potter, and we knew it. I have a few contingency plans in place if something should happen to you. I’m sure someone from District Twelve could take your place as the symbol of the rebellion. Someone young, and alone. It wouldn’t be easy, replacing you. But we could do it if we had to.” Moody winks. “Just between us, I’d rather you didn’t put yourself in any more dangerous circumstances. It will save me the trouble.”

Harry feels cold.

“Is that all?”

Moody shrugs.

“I don’t know, Potter. Do you have anything else to say to me?”

He can feel himself shaking, but he holds it in.

“No, sir.”

Moody shakes his head.

“You may go, then.”

Harry turns on his heel, forcing his back to remain uptight and rigid. He can feel Moody watching him, the sensation like ice burning in between his shoulder blades. Minvera follows him, a resolute presence at his side as the doors close behind him. Harry stumbles in the hallway, fingers skimming the walls as he struggles to support himself on legs made of water. Minerva grabs his arm, fingers digging into his bones like a clamp. 

“Just keep moving Harry. Don’t think, just keep walking.”

He grits his teeth, and somehow the door to his room materializes in front of him, and Minerva lets go, grabbing his chin instead.

“You understood?”

She glares at him, and for a second Harry swears he sees fire in her eyes. 

“Yes,” he rasps. 

“Stay alive.” She places her hand on his shoulder. “That’s all you have to do, Harry.” Her voice is hard. “Just stay alive.”

Draco allows him to visit after three days.

He’s still skinny, his fingers look frail, like twigs. His posture is rigid, but his eyes are clouded. The doctors assured Harry that all of the drugs have cleared Draco’s system, but there’s a dark shadow underneath the other boy’s eyes that Harry doesn’t recognize. When he enters the bright, sterile room, Draco doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him. 

“Hey.”

It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

And then he thinks of too many things. He wants to tell Draco about the Propos. He wants to tell him about training for combat, what it’s like, how much his muscles hurt, what he thinks of when he’s afraid. Ginny, holding a gun, running headfirst into a firefight. He wants to ask him what happened, if Barty touched him, because Harry’s sure if he did, Barty is going to die a very slow death. And he wishes he didn’t want that, wonders where this thirst for bloodshed came from, wants Draco to stroke his cheek and call him an idiot, anything. Everything. 

“Do you want something?”

Harry shudders, breaking himself out of the paralysis turning his skin to lead.

“No. I just… are you all right?”

Draco grimaces.

“That question was a formality.” He glares at Harry, his fingers curling into tight fists. “You always want something. Don’t drag out the process. Just tell me.”

Harry cringes, but he tries to answer honestly.

“All right. Fine. I wanted to make sure that you’re safe.”

Draco’s glare doesn’t dissipate. If anything, his anger deepens, crystalizing in its intensity. 

“Why?”

Harry cringes.

“Don’t you remember?”

Draco’s lips twist.

“Don’t tell me you’re still committed to our old alliance, traitor.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. 

“You don’t have to say things like that. Prove your loyalty. You’re not theirs anymore, Draco.”

Draco huffs, unsettling the tuft of hair drooping across his forehead. Fastidious, pompous Draco, the version of him Harry knows would hate for anyone to see him with his hair hanging loose like that. Draco refuses to look directly at Harry, and his posture is tense, drawing his skin tight across his too-thin frame. Harry feels his gut churning, searching for the right words to say. The room feels too small, and it’s as if he can feel the pressure of being underground like a weight across his shoulders. Like being down inside the mine, with air so thin it made him lightheaded. He can’t look at Draco either. 

“They told me I’m not in the Capitol anymore.” Draco shrugs, breaking the silence first. “There are cameras. And they’re monitoring my heart, and my blood pressure. They used to lie when I was in the Capitol, to try and get me give away secrets. It’s been a while, but I suppose this game never gets old.” He looks up at Harry. “You know I don’t have any information, don’t you?” 

Harry nods. “Of course I do. But you know it’s really true this time, don’t you? You know we’re not in the Capitol anymore.”

Draco turns his head, looking up without fail at one of the cameras. Harry knows it’s there, he’s been watching the footage. 

“No. I don’t.”

Harry sits beside him without being invited.

“Sure you do. Would I be here?”

Draco turns, and squints, as if the light is too much for him. 

“They had the Golden Boy in the Capital, too.”

Harry shudders at the even, emotionless pitch of Draco’s voice. 

“What can I do, Draco? Tell me what I need to do to make you believe this is real?”

Harry hates the thin, weak sound of his own voice. Draco closes his eyes. None of the tension leaves his body.

“You could let me die.” When Draco opens his eyes again, Harry’s heart breaks at the absence of fear there. “Then I’d know for sure that I’m free.”

It’s cold outside District Two. Harry shudders, rubbing his arms, trying to trap any warmth he can underneath the thick sleeves of his uniform. The armor is sturdy, but it’s also heavy, and leeches body heat. The outfit makes him feel stiff, but he supposes he’ll be grateful for it if someone starts shooting at him. He sits by the fire, waiting. 

Ginny sits across from him, gun in her lap. She’s going through one last check, hands methodical as she inspects every part of the weapon, cleaning it with a thick, black-bristled brush. He doesn’t want to watch her, with her sturdy shoulders and her sinewy forearms. The girl he remembers when he thinks of Ginny is wiry, with loose, wavy red hair that tangled around his fingers the first time she kissed him. This girl cut her hair short and boyish. This girl looks strong enough to break him in half. He wants her to be safe, and maybe this is what safety is, bullets and training and the end of hunger, but he knows it’s also brought her closer to the fire. 

“You should get some rest, Harry.”

The sound of her voice startles him, and it takes too long for him to process what she’d said. He takes a breath, trying to ease the tension crawling up his sides. “I’m all right,” he whispers. Harry struggles to focus on the sounds of the camp, the clatter of armor. He takes another breath. She’s watching him.

“Really. I’m all right.”

Ginny glares until he’s forced to look away. 

“You’re not sleeping. You don’t eat, either.”

He shrugs, curling into himself.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“We thought bringing him back would make it better.”

He grits his teeth, standing.

“I’ll see you later, Ginny.”

She stands with him, holstering her gun.

“Harry!”

“I have to talk to Minerva.”

He struts away, forcing her to stay behind. He doesn’t have anything he needs to say to Minerva, but he doesn’t want to stay by the fire. 

Harry stands on the sidelines, and for once, he doesn’t feel the cold. 

The heat coming from the blazing factory is a rigid, unceasing blast, full of blinding light and deafening screams. And he can’t look away. Later, he will ask who gave the order, and he will be met with evasive answers, about justice, and doing what needs to be done,but now the sound of bullets is clattering all around him, and he doesn’t even know who is firing. He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be doing there anymore. 

Ginny grabs his arm, tugging, trying to pull him to safety, but he can’t look away. The fire is too bright, and he knows there were people inside. 

“We have to get them out, Ginny, please, we have to help them-”

He can tell she isn’t listening because her fingers are tight, digging into his skin, and she’s shaking her head, and she’s furious. She doesn’t want him to die here. There’s a chance that he might die here. 

He swallows, but his throat is dry. District Two. That’s where he is. He’s supposed to be standing here telling citizens to stand down, that the Capitol is the enemy, that the rebellion is real and that the soldiers behind his back are here to protect everyone. From who? That’s what he can’t remember. Is it the Reaping? The Peacekeepers? There’s an army at his back, and there’s a chance that he might die here. 

“Ginny?”

“Harry, please, you need to go!”

She won’t let go of him, but he can’t move. The fire is bright and the air smells like ashes, and ashes smell an awful lot like coal, and he’s standing in District Two, but the people running for their lives in ragged, sooty clothing look a lot like the refugees, the ones that Hermione helped lead to safety. And he remembers why he’s standing there, what it is he’s agreed to, and for what price. 

Later, he will find out that she ship that was supposed to take him away exploded above them, and he will know better than to ask any questions. 

“Stop.”

Ginny stops pulling, and though she doesn’t let go, it wasn’t her that needed to hear him. 

Scrimgeour is fighting with the soldiers too, trying to find the perfect angle to capture the carnage, while the handlers are trying to keep him from getting shot. Harry catches his eye and that’s all he needs. 

“I need a microphone! I need everyone to hear me!”

He’s shouting, and in the commotion, his words are getting lost, but it doesn’t matter, because Scrimgeour isn’t going to waste this precious moment. He’s ready, he’s got all the equipment, and Harry can already see the camera buzzing over his head. 

“Can you hear me?”

His words echo, magnified. Ginny doesn’t let go, and he thinks if she did he might falter. 

“Please! Listen!”

The gunfire fades away. He looks up, and he sees his own face, bewildered and shell-shocked, and is that blood trickling down his forehead? He glances at Ginny, and she nods, and he has no idea what she means by it. He hadn’t asked her anything.

“Please. You have to stop fighting. All of you!” He looks behind him, at the rebels with their bulky uniforms, armed to the teeth. “If we’re really here to help, we have to stop this. We are not the enemy!”

He turns back to the fire, at the people evacuating, running. They’re armed too, and desperate, smoked out of their hiding places.

He remembers, for a split second, Gregory was the Tribute from District Two. He wonders if the boy has family in that crowd. 

“Do you hear that, District Two? We are not the enemy! We are not the ones that have been stealing your children, and patting ourselves on the back because we didn’t take all of them! We’re not the ones that have been working you to death, and asking you to thank us for the pleasure of it. We are not the ones that have left you starving, while we’ve been throwing parties in our big, white houses in the Capitol! We have been hiding.” He gulps. “And maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Maybe we waited for too long.”

One of the civilians from District Two is there. On the ground. He’s bleeding, too. Harry reaches for him, then stops.

Ginny lets him go. He feels millions of eyes watching him. 

Harry crouches down, looking, for a second, at that one man. He’s young, more of a boy. In his hand, there’s a gun, and Harry doesn’t think the security detail has noticed that, yet. He should be afraid, and maybe he is, maybe that’s the word for the disorienting, stone-cold feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t think he remembers fear feeling this way. His heart isn’t rocking against his chest like a hammer, his breath doesn’t feel like hot water. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. Any of this. I just wanted to keep the people I care about safe.” He reaches for the gun at his waist, putting it down in front of this man, this stranger. 

“That’s all I wanted. But now.” He shudders. “I want President Riddle gone. This is his Panem, fighting and bloodshed, while he’s safe somewhere else. He might not be the one holding the weapon in the Arena, but he’s the one that put us all there.” His lips curl. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re not the best option there is. But I’m sure Riddle is the worst. And I don’t want to live in his Panem anymore.”

Harry swallows. The fire seems farther away.

Then, he watches himself as he’s shot. 

The first voice he hears is Hagrid’s.

It echoes and he can feel it rattling in his bones, and Harry follows the sound until he can open his eyes. The lights are flickering and bright, and he can’t see faces, just shadows. But he knows Hagrid, the great, booming presence. Begging Harry to stay alive, to come back, to be strong. He remembers it from the mine collapse, when he’d been hit in the head by some rubble. He knows that Hagrid died just a few weeks after, that he’s not there, that he can’t be. But his body aches and he feels tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. The sound feels so warm. 

The pain isn’t overwhelming, but the lips pressed against his are enough to break the spell of drug-induced sleep. He wakes up like a punch to the gut, and Draco is looking down at him, eyes wide open, and he’s kissing him with violent affection. Harry tries to sit up, tries to wrap his arms around Draco, to push him away or drag him down closer, he can’t tell, but Draco snarls, slamming his fists against the mattress. 

“Don’t!”

His expression is feral, and the tone of his voice assures Harry that he’s not still dreaming.

“Draco.”

He hisses like he’s been cut, cringing, and his fingers flex where they’re gripping Harry’s wrists in place. 

“You were shot.”

Slow, making sure Draco can see what he’s doing, that he’s not struggling, Harry nods.

“I was.” 

Draco’s lips twitch.

“Did it hurt?”

Harry considers this.

“Not as much as I thought it would. But I haven’t tried to get up yet.” He cringes. “I don’t think I’ve had a bath or-”

Draco kisses his lips again, and Harry stills, watching. It’s strange, but they’re both kissing with their eyes open. They’re not really moving, and, it’s not, objectively speaking, a good kiss, but Harry can’t help the way his lips curl into a smile. He’s not quite laughing, because it’s not quite funny, because the last time he saw Draco he was listless and starved and half-dead, and the time before that Draco tried to throttle him. 

Draco leans back.

“Is that something we did?”

It takes Harry a second to get his throat working again.

“Kissing?”

Draco nods, not taking his eyes off Harry. He nods.

“Yeah. We did that. Sometimes.”

Draco’s throat works, and Harry can’t look away.

“Did I like it?”

Harry bites down on his first response, of course you did, you git, because he knows it’s not what Draco wants to hear.

“I thought so.” He swallows. “Maybe I should have asked you.”

Draco seems to accept this answer. 

“Crouch said I liked a lot of things.”

By the time Harry recognizes the confession for what it is, Draco is already lifting himself up off the bed, standing. Harry tries to sit up, but something in his abdomen tugs the wrong way and he collapses back onto the mattress, sheets bunching up in his hands. Eyes watering, he looks up at Draco, who doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening. As if pain doesn’t make sense. Or like it’s happening too far away for it to mean anything.

Harry feels sick, being looked at like that.

“I think he was lying.”

Draco presses his fingers to his own lips, and Harry isn’t sure what to say. He sorts through a million terrible, angry answers, a million helpless pleas.

“And now?”

Draco shrugs.

“I haven’t decided.”

Draco’s escape doesn’t go unremarked, though Harry doesn’t realize it right away. He walks through the medical section of District Thirteen, following the path that Draco would have needed to walk to get to him. No guards, why would there be? There were locks on the door, but they were easy to bypass, designed to keep people out as much as to keep Draco in. 

Harry doesn’t find out until it’s already happened.

Ron is sitting with him, talking about training, plans to invade the Capitol, nothing sensitive, but enough. He knows it’s coming. He’s glad to hear Minerva is leading one of the teams going in. His abdomen is healing, and he’s almost ready to move again. He’s listening to Ron, but he’s also thinking about Draco. I haven’t decided. It has to be a good sign though, doesn’t it? And his voice sounded… even. He was confused, but he sounded human. Almost whole. Harry doesn’t realize what he’s hearing until he notices that Ron stopped talking.

“What is that?”

Ron shakes his head, eyes wide. He stands, heading for the door.

“I’ll be back.”

Harry’s gut churns, but he’s still in denial. Ron makes a choked sound, and Harry struggles to get out of bed. When he meets Ron in the hallway, his friend is glued to the screen. 

Draco is there. He’s wearing the same gray, drab clothing that’s standard in District Thirteen. He’s still thin, still pale, but his eyes are alight and focused. And he looks angry. There’s a line drawn between his brows, and his glare is directed at the camera, but Harry feels it slicing through him like it’s been crafted for him personally. The video is repeating, and he struggles to latch onto the words, transfixed by the cold, cruel expression marring Draco’s face. 

“…they kept me, and they tortured me. I’ll spare you all the gory details,” at that, Draco sneers, as if he maliciously and gleefully wishes he could share the gruesome details of his detainment at the hands of the Capitol. “Suffice to say it hurt. My family,” he almost chokes on the word, “watched while I writhed and suffered. Proclaiming their loyalty to President Riddle.” He shakes his head. “I am here to tell you that I am alive. I am free.” He pauses. Harry feels his breath catch. “And I’m coming for you. I’m coming for all of you!”

The footage cuts to the logo for the rebellion, the bright phoenix, before the video replays. 

“That’s being aired right now.” Ron is shaking. “Did you know.”

Harry feels weak, and his voice is small when he answers.

“No.”

Ron slams his fist against the wall.

“Ginny and the others!” He sounds raw and angry. “They’re all still out there! The Capitol is going to retaliate!”

Harry feels himself sinking. Replaced. His friends are in danger, his shirt feels wet like his wounds are still bleeding, like he’s torn himself open again, and he’s been replaced. 

Draco is speaking for the rebellion now.