The boy opened his hazel eyes and stared, hatred filling every corner of his body.

The old alarm clock continued to ring, unaware of its imminent destruction right before a tanned fist slammed down on it. Being a feeble little thing, it fell apart, silent at last.

“Oh, damn it,” Blaine sighed, hauling himself upright with a groan. He wasn’t bothered in the least about the alarm clock; this routine had occurred many times before. He knew exactly how to fix that little hellish creation - it was just the waking up part that was pissing him off. That and the fact that it was the day before the-

“Blaine? You up yet? You’re going to be late,” Mr. Anderson said, his deep voice interrupting Blaine’s thoughts.

The boy stepped out of his bed, shivering slightly as his feet touched the bare wooden floor. Dressing quickly, he made his way out of the room and into the kitchen of the little stone cottage, yanking on worn boots as he stumbled out the door.

“Blaine? Are you coming home after work?” his mother called after him.

“No! I might be out a little late…you know, to spend time with-“

“I get it. It’s all right. Just make sure you’re back before the curfew.”

“Of course, mom.”

“Take this with you,” Mrs. Anderson said, pushing a small warm sack into her son’s arms.

“Are you sure?” Blaine asked hesitantly, but already tucking it into his burlap bag.

“Of course. Share them tonight.” She insisted.

“Thanks, mom. I’ll see you tonight,” Blaine replied, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he hurried out the door.

The air was cool and crisp, the smell of smoke touching the breeze. Great weather, Blaine thought inwardly as he climbed onto his rusted bike and pedaled down the dirt road. Even in such early hours, the citizens here in the slums of District 1 were already active, smoke rising from the chimneys of broken shacks, people stepping out of their houses and making their way to the centre of the city.

What you must know dear reader, is that District 1 isn’t a privileged place. The war had taken a heavy toll on it because of its proximity to the Capitol, and the Capitol still held a tight grip on it, knowing that if District 1 decided to do anything, the Capitol’s early warning system wouldn’t even have time to kick in. Not that the citizens were planning to, anyways, because District 1 relied on the Capitol for everything: food, energy, medicine (all of which were decisively lacking). This was why tributes from District 1 didn’t usually win the Hunger Games, an annual show of strength by the dictatorship in which one boy and one girl were chosen to take part in a fight to the death. Living under the fist of the Capitol usually quashed any fighting spirit from a young age, and pair that with not being used to physical tasks, District 1 tributes had no chance. Every child aged twelve to eighteen had their name entered in the Reaping once every year, no more and no less, to prove that no matter how rich or how poor, no one could escape the will of the Capitol. The two unfortunate people who had their name picked out of that glass bowl were most likely looking at a death sentence. However, the recent discovery of a diamond mine will soon put District 1 on their course of being one of the most powerful districts in Panem, but that is a story for another day.

Blaine continued along the path he took every day, passing the square and unsuccessfully ignoring the announcements playing in the city square.

“Good morning, citizens of District 1! Please proceed to your destinations. Once again, we remind you that everything will be closed tomorrow for the Reaping of our twenty-third annual Hunger Games. Please be home by the district curfew of 7PM…” the monotone voice echoed across the already bustling city centre.

The young boy quickly pulled up in front of a large, grey building. He tied his bike to the railing with an old chain and made sure the lock was secure before he climbed up the stairs and stepped into the building. He passed a worn sign - he didn’t have to read it to know that it said District 1 Educational Facility.

Blaine walked quickly to his class, the normally laughter-filled hallway as silent as it always was at this time of year. He quietly stepped into his Ancient Literature class, where the students sat, talking quietly, tiredness etched across their young faces. Blaine slid into the final bench beside a boy whose nose was buried in a book. He nudged the other boy gently.

“Oh, there you are, Blaine!” Kurt exclaimed loudly, noticing his boyfriend for the first time. The rest of the class looked up at the sudden noise before continuing their respective conversations. “I thought you were going to be late. Dad told me that some rain blocked up a few of the back roads.” Kurt continued in a quieter voice.

Blaine didn’t have time to reply before the teacher made her way into the room, not bothering to ask why her class was so silent.

As she began her lecture, Blaine settled into his seat, clasping the other boy’s hand beneath the desk. Kurt raised an eyebrow questioningly before the look of confusion was replaced with a look of understanding as the significance of today dawned on him. He squeezed Blaine’s hand tightly as he turned his attention back to the lesson, scribbling notes every so often with his other hand, while Blaine continued to completely ignore the lesson as usual.

Blaine awoke from his reverie conveniently five minutes before class was scheduled to end.

“Can anyone tell me the author of this ancient classic?” the teacher asked, holding a yellowed book up, pleased with the number of hands that shot up. “Go ahead, Elizabeth,” she said, turning to a petite girl with wispy hair that was flung into an untidy knot.

“It’s the first novel of the Harry Potter series,” the girl replied softly.

“Very good, Miss Browning. Now Mister Wood, would you mind telling us who wrote this iconic novel?”

“J.K Rowling.”

“Excellent, Oliver. And who would like to tell us how many installments are in the Harry Potter series?” A tall girl with ginger locks raised her hand. “Yes, Miss Thrift?” she asked the eager student.

“There are six novels that have been recovered, but historians believe that there were more that were lost during the war.”

“I must confess, I’m very impressed, Jennifer,” the teacher said with a smile, turning to the class. “Yes, there have only been six novels recovered, which leaves us to speculate the ending on our own,” she continued.

The bell rang loudly as the students rose slowly and packed their materials into their bags.

“Now, remember, we have no class until the Games are finished, so we’ll continue our study of Ancient Literature when we get back. Read your photocopy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone and be prepared to discuss it when we return. I’ll see you all tomorrow at the reaping, and, of course, may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Kurt and Blaine walked side-by-side into the congested hallway.

“Kurt! Blaine!” voices called out. The two boys turned.
Rachel and Finn, hands intertwined, approached the two boys, Mercedes and Tina following closely behind them.
“Just wanted to remind you guys that Glee club is canceled until after the Games.” Rachel said breathlessly.

“Kurt, you headed home now? I need to drop off some stuff,” Finn said to his stepbrother, holding up a bag of cords.

“No, I have a shift at the factory. What are those for, anyway?”

“Burt needs some more cords for the hovercraft repairs. A new order was sent in from the Capitol. Apparently, everyone there wants to arrive to the Games in ‘style’,” Finn replied scornfully.

“Not here! You crazy?” Mercedes scolded quietly, “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

“Of course,” Kurt said, wrapping her in a warm embrace.
The group of friends smiled weakly at each other as they each broke off into their separate ways.

Kurt followed Blaine out to his bike, watching as he unsecured it from the railing. “I don’t know why you‘re so worried about your bike getting stolen. Only someone as small as you can ride it, and I’m pretty sure it’s a safety hazard.”

“Don’t insult the bike. It’s older than you-“

“My point exactly.”

Blaine let out a small laugh and shoved him gently. “-So show some respect. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll stop by the mill and we’ll walk together. Sound good?”

“Sounds totally awesome.” Blaine said, giving his boyfriend a short kiss before climbing onto his bike and pedaling down the cobblestoned road.

“Don’t fall!” Kurt called after him with a smile before making his way through the throngs of people to his work.

From the moment you could walk you were doing some sort of work in District 1. When you were sixteen, you took a small job to help support your family. The pay sucked, but any small amount would help get food on the table. Kurt had been working in the stitching factory for a year now, and he hated every minute of it. Sure, it was cool to be working with such luxurious materials at first, but the long hours and dim light was significantly dry and uneventful when combined with the delicate detailing that always hurt his eyes.

Kurt trailed off his thoughts as he stepped into the factory, eying the rows upon rows of tables before him with distaste.

“Mr. Hummel, you were almost late. May I inquire as to where you were?” the peacekeeper in charge said gruffly, staring at the young boy.

Kurt lowered his eyes, trying to mask the hatred within their blue depths, “I was at school, sir.”

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again. You’ll be working at table eighty-three this afternoon,” the peacekeeper replied haughtily, checking Kurt’s name off on the sheet.

“Yes, sir,” Kurt said quietly before turning and making his way down the rows of chairs to his designated table, giving a sigh at the pile of fabric on it. It’s gonna be a long afternoon, Kurt thought with a frown, sitting at his seat and plugging his ancient MP3 player in, blaring the beautiful sounds of classic musicals like West Side Story and Wicked in his ears, and settled down to work.

A few hours later, Kurt finished embroidering a lovely pearl design onto a black silk vest and imagined what it would feel like to wear it when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He pulled out his earphones and saw Puck standing above him.

“Puck, what’re you doing here?” Kurt asked surprised.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to start working in this shithole, if that’s what you mean.” Kurt glared as Puck continued, “I was just dropping off some fabric from the mill and saw you. Mercedes told me to let you know that everyone is getting together in the choir room, you know, to spend some ‘time’ together in case one of us gets screwed tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so. I promised Blaine we would go out tonight…”

“I get you Hummel, no worries. In case I do get picked tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind getting a little somethin’ somethin’ tonight,” Puck winked.

“You know it’s not like that,” Kurt said, blushing.

“Just messing. Anyway, I’ll see you at the Reaping tomorrow. May the odds be ever in your favor!” Puck replied, his voice taking on a serious tone. He clapped Kurt on the shoulder and strode off.

Kurt sighed softly, “And may the odds be ever in yours…”