It doesn't fully hit Dorcas until she's sitting in front of a screen, late in the evening, watching with her breath held as the reaping for district ten ends and the one for eleven begins.
Even when the Quarterly Memorial rule was announced a month ago, it never crossed Dorcas' mind to think—even for a second—that Minerva was involved, or Dumbledore for that matter. It was too cruel, too horrific, for her to even imagine that the supposed good guys would have a hand in this.
There are no good people in war. Dorcas has known that this entire time, so maybe some part of her should have seen this coming, but she didn't. She didn't.
There are only two Victors in district eleven.
Only two, and one of them is Marlene.
Dorcas didn't know that, because she doesn't know all the Victors in each district. She doesn't find out until she's staring at the screen where Marlene and what must be her previous mentor are waiting on the stage. Alone.
The reaping is a formality. A joke, really. To rub salt into the wound, it's Marlene's name that gets called first. She steps forward, stone-faced. Her mentor, when he is called, stumbles up, visibly drunk, and vomits all over the stage.
Dorcas is just sitting there, ears ringing, and she remembers suddenly how Minerva looked at her with such sadness when she said that involvement in war isn't always a choice. She remembers suddenly the way Minerva said things would be quiet until now. She remembers suddenly that Minerva said she can wish to protect Marlene, but if wishes were reality, everyone would be daydreaming—and oh, isn't that the truth? Reality is a bitch, and Dorcas has been daydreaming for too long. She can't anymore.
Dorcas is up out of her seat in seconds.
It's raining outside. She doesn't care. She just runs.
Minerva lives halfway across the city from Dorcas, nearly half an hour away in a car, so she isn't making it there as fast as she needs to on foot. The quickest route will be to take the tram, which she does, practically rattling in place the entire ride. People look at her oddly, but she ignores them.
The moment she's off, she's running again. Careless and frantic, she sprints without stopping, the pouring rain drenching her until her clothes are sticking to her skin and her braids are slapping heavily against her back, dripping over her neck and shoulders. She's sopping wet, not dry anywhere, and that's how she turns up at Minerva's door.
As soon as she arrives, she bangs her fist against the door on repeat without stopping, her chest heaving as she fails to catch her breath. She'd yell if she could, if she wasn't panting, if she was able to find her voice.
The door wrenches open to reveal Minerva with her lips pressed into a thin line, but she doesn't look particularly surprised to see Dorcas at her door. She doesn't say a word. She just stands there and holds Dorcas' gaze.
"You knew," Dorcas chokes out, desperately wanting to be wrong, but Minerva's mouth flattens out even more, pinched and wrinkled at the corners. Dorcas heaves out a harsh breath and rears back, whispering in utter betrayal, "You knew?"
"Get inside," is Minerva's quiet response. "You'll catch your death standing outside in the cold, soaked head to toe."
With that, Minerva swivels on the spot and sweeps off, leaving her door standing open. Dorcas doesn't move for a long moment, her chest still aching, her lungs burning. It takes her a few seconds, and then she tilts her chin up and marches into Minerva's house, which she has never been inside before.
Minerva brings her a towel, but Dorcas doesn't take it. She stands there and continues to drip all over Minerva's floor.
"Did you know?" Dorcas demands, wanting to hear it.
