It was bad enough that your brother, James Fleamont Potter, has been reaped, several years after you yourself had been in the arena, volunteering for him, but now Sirius, your best friend, had his own brother reaped.

District 6 was unlucky.

You couldn't exactly hide your favoritism, you wanted James to win, he was your brother, but he was determined to get Regulus out of the games and die doing it. You gave up your freedom and your sanity to volunteer for him when he was reaped, nearly a decade ago, and now he was reaped again, and you legally couldn't volunteer.

The Hollow was worse. The masks the servants wore annoyed you to no end. You wanted to talk. Ask questions. Get to know them. But they weren't permitted to speak. Your house, or at least, where you were staying with the boys and a tolerable Hallow, Pandora Rosier, had a personal servant. Yours didn't have a name because none of them did.

On the first day you were there, you tugged off his mask and his jaw dropped. You only explained that you hated the servitude as a whole, and as long as he was in this house, he wouldn't wear the mask. He knew he could be killed for taking it off if someone outside found out, but he let it stay off when he was around you regardless.

You got enough information out of him eventually. His name was Remus. He was in his 20s. He was a servant as punishment. And he had a best friend named Lily. He didn't divulge too much about himself.

You were stressed. Over James. Over Regulus. Over the games. Fuck the stupid games, honestly. Fuck President Riddle. Fuck it all.

Just then, Remus knocked, bringing in extra towels for your bathroom. You had been chronically showering while the boys trained, trying to rid yourself of the feelings you tried so desperately to push down. The despair over the possibility of losing your brother. The despair over Sirius hating you if you didn't. The despair of it all.

"Hi. I have.. towels." His mask was off, as usual, and he set them down.

"Everything alright?"