Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Hunger Games.
A/N: I'm posting this in parts on tumblr, so the chapters are going to be pretty short, just an fyi!
Enjoy!
Part 1
James Potter dragged his feet on his way to the Great Hall. It was Halloween night and this evening's supper was mandatory for all students. He was nearly late, but felt no pressure to move any faster.
A hand fell onto his right shoulder. Not a friendly pat, but a somber touch, to shift his attention. Sirius Black joined him at his side. The two didn't speak; this occasion was not one for words. They silently shared the small relief that this was their last year and that if today was in their favor, they could go on this year without watching more of their friends die.
It started when Voldemort took control of Hogwarts. Drawing on ideas from the long-retired Triwizard Tournament, he established a new kind of House Cup. Every year, a boy and girl would be chosen from fifth, sixth, and seventh years in each house and forced to duel to the death while the other students watched. It was a cruel assertion of dominance – Voldemort even forced his own house to compete, as a reminder that his favor was a gift.
James and Sirius sat together at the Gryffindor table. The tables were covered in a magnificent feast, second only to the feast they would have to crown the winner. At the Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor tables not a single hand reached for their meal. The Slytherin table seemed unconcerned, taking in the food as though it were the treat it was meant to be.
They had every reason to feel comfortable. The system was unfairly in their favor.
After fifth year, all students were entered once. Instead of House Points, from the start of term until Halloween, any wrong-doings were met with additional entries into the raffle. Blood-traitors, or those not of Pureblood status had their entries doubled.
Most Slytherins were only entered once, but their House was unfairly trained in Dark Arts. To win the tournament for them would be a thing of honor, for chances were that they were "ridding" the wizarding world of impure blood along the way.
Despite the efforts of the other champions, the winner was probably going to be one of them. The thought made James sick.
The chatter at the Slytherin table ended abruptly. The attention of every student shifted to the head table, where Voldemort stood front and center. His eyes, though a deep shade of red, reflected a great deal of excitement. His pale skin seemed to be pulled as tightly as possible across his skull, accentuating every one of his angular features. His thin lips stretched into a smile and at last, he spoke.
"Welcome, everyone, to the Reaping."
His head fell backwards as his mouth opened wider than James imagined being possible and he laughed a deep, dark laugh that seemed to echo throughout the hall. It lasted too long, as though it were a private joke.
"You are all here," he finally started again, "because I am a gracious Lord. Rather than let those of you who have not earned the gift of magic wander the country alongside muggle filth, I have brought you here. But not without a price."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "In exchange for not only allowing you to live, but to live among the rightful owners of magical abilities, I arranged this little competition.
"A pair of you from each of the fifth, sixth, and seventh years in every House shall be entered into an arena, where you will duel–" He paused, a vicious smile across his face. "–to the death."
A few first years gasped, quickly covered their mouths. James could only imagine their horror. His heart dropped, thinking of all that those naïve first years would lose after watching their classmates kill each other.
"There are rules, of course, but those we will get to at a later date. All that really matters is the prize – for should a Mudblood win, they will be allowed a wand."
This was the real heart of the games. Even after Voldemort took over, Hogwarts remained a place of magical education. Anyone with at least a half-blood status was allowed to remain and take their (with some modifications, naturally) regular courses. Muggleborns were still in the school, but their classes weren't the same as those of higher blood status. They were forced into Muggle Studies and History of Magic – all focusing on their own illegitimate acquisition of magic. They certainly weren't allowed wands and to be caught with one would have the same result as refusing to come to Hogwarts – death.
At Hogwarts, they were less than second class citizens, with no hope for a future aside from the mundane work other wizards were too proud to do or eventual torture by death eaters. To win the House Cup would mean their blood status would be promoted; they'd be allowed a wand and an education. They wouldn't be equal to purebloods, but they'd be better off. The competition designed as a way for them to kill each other off was their only real chance at surviving.
With nothing else of importance to say, and eager to line up students for slaughter, Voldemort pulled his wand from his robes, raised his arm, and flicked his wrist. In front of him, ignored until this point, a dark sheet flew off of the ancient, repurposed Goblet of Fire.
It started with the fifth years from each House, one boy and one girl. There were names James recognized, but none that he knew too well. Then the sixth years were called out, from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. More than halfway through the Reaping and James couldn't think anymore, couldn't breathe until it was over, when a name was called out that pulled him from his horrified haze.
"Black, Regulus."
He whipped his head around to face Sirius. The same thought crossed the collective mind of the Gryffindor table, because all eyes were on Sirius now, looking for a reaction, either out of concern or curiosity. Sirius kept his stare forward, watching his brother walk through the door out of the Great Hall. Years of Reapings had taught him well in guarding himself.
The sixth year Slytherin girl was called, but the Gryffindor table had yet to turn away from Sirius. Another name flew from the Goblet of Fire, and this one they all heard.
"Black, Sirius."
A wave of gasps and cries came from different tables and students now turned to each other to find a way to react. Sirius finally met James' gaze. His marble expression was cracking, but only behind his dark eyes, now glassy with a film of tears James could tell he had been fighting to hold back. Sirius pulled his left leg out from underneath the table and James still couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't let this happen.
"I volunteer!"
The words came tumbling out, louder than he had thought he was capable of speaking, and he was standing up without remembering how it had happened. Sirius was still half-seated at the table and James was on his feet, with hundreds of faces turned to him in horror.
"Prongs, what are you doing?" Sirius hissed at him, grabbing the sleeve of his robe, pulling him back toward the table. Sirius turned to address the room. "He's joking! He's only joking."
James ripped his sleeve from Sirius' grip. "I'm not," he said to Sirius, aware of everyone else listening in. He pushed his lips together tightly, biting down on them from the inside, and placed a hand on Sirius' shoulder.
"Prongs…"
He drained his face of the dread that filled him and turned to face Voldemort.
"I volunteer as the seventh year Gryffindor Champion."
Voldemort tilted his head slightly and James was certain that he was trying to determine what this strategy was. Volunteering was explicitly allowed, but few remembered, since it had yet to be employed. Surely, Voldemort would think that he was up to something, but this hadn't been a plan. It had never crossed James' mind until his best friend thought he'd have to kill his own brother.
Seemingly satisfied, Voldemort straightened himself. "I hope this demonstration of affection proves worth it, Mr. Potter."
James' feet were moving him forward, through the door, to the room with the other students, the ones he would have to duel, and he was sitting by a fire, uncomfortably warm in his sweater and was it only morning when he had put that sweater on? He felt considerably older than he had those few hours before. After only a minute, the door clicked open again. James looked up, knowing his final fellow Gryffindor would be walking through.
A mess of dark red hair walked into the room and caught the entirety of his attention. The girl's green eyes were scared and sad, her jaw was clenched, and her lips were pushed together until they nearly disappeared. As terrified as her eyes were, her body language read determined. She was a Muggleborn. James already knew this, but even if he hadn't, they all had the same confusion of emotions when their name was called. If she won, it would change everything for her, but her chances were slim.
James knew who she was. He was surprised she had made it to their seventh year without competing. He had hoped she would hold out for just one more year.
She was Lily Evans and he was in love with her. And now they'd have to kill each other.
