Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of JKR, etc. Likewise, the Hunger Games series is the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.
Originally written for tigriswolf's prompt on comment-fic: "Hunger Games/Harry Potter, author's choice, 14 yo Dudley Dursley is chosen at the Reaping; Harry Potter volunteers to get out of the Dursley house (and, at the end, wins)"
Reaping Day in District Six
Harry ends up at the front of the male fourteen year old section, a position that everyone else tends to avoid. As if standing near the front is going to increase your odds of being reaped or something. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only because he doesn't want to draw the ire of the watchful Peacekeepers. He's sore enough from the beatings Dudley and his cronies mete out at least twice a week, no need to make it worse.
Nobody wants to stand close to him, afraid that the proximity will be mistaken for friendship. Dudley's made it clear that Harry is an outcast, and no one wants to join him there.
He tunes out the usual opening speech, the propaganda spiel about the origins of the Hunger Games and the escort's obliviously ignorant comments. District Six, while not as pathetic as some of the other Districts, is still pretty low on the proverbial food chain. The only victor that even pretends to be functioning is Hagrid, a giant of a man who won more than thirty years ago; the rest are addicts - alcohol or morphling, the end result is pretty much the same.
"I think we'll start with the boys this year," the escort says brightly, and sashays over to the reaping bowl.
Everyone around Harry tenses in anticipation, though the odds of any of them being picked are pretty insignificant. They must all have less entries than Harry, apart from the really poor kids who live in the slums - the Dursleys force him to take out as many as he can every year, not because they need the tesserae but because they want him gone - and he doubts he'll be picked anyway. Only the poor kids have anything serious to worry about, he figures.
"Dudley Dursley!" rolls past the escort's electric blue lips, his perfect white teeth closing with an audible click around the last syllable of Harry's cousin's name.
Predictably, hysteria ensues.
"M-m-me?!" Dudley stammers, his voice breaking around his disbelief. Aunt Petunia gives a horrified, cut-off shriek.
Huh, Harry thinks. What are the odds?
"Come, come," the escort says in a tone that tries for encouragement but settles on impatience. He flaps his hand at the fourteen year old section imperiously. Dudley staggers onto the stage, a shell-shocked expression on his face.
Harry ignores the niceties, the escort greeting Dudley and moving on to the female tribute. He glances to the edge of the square, where Uncle Vernon is holding a sobbing Petunia to his chest. He's glaring daggers at Harry.
Harry smiles back and returns his attention to the stage as the female tribute - she must be seventeen or eighteen - walks onto the stage. She's holding it together better than Dudley, who has become a whimpering, snivelling mess.
"Any volunteers?" the escort asks, though his eyes keep darting to Dudley; probably worried that Dudley's going to throw himself at the escort to beg for mercy and ruin those nice Capitol clothes.
Harry hates to do this, he really does. But if he goes home and Dudley goes to die (because let's be honest: there's no way in hell Dudley would ever win the Hunger Games) then his life is going to get even worse. On the other hand, if he dies in that arena he'll basically be doing what the Dursleys have wanted all along.
But oh, it will taste bitter. The useless nephew that they never wanted stepping up for the boy who should have been like an adopted brother to him. If Harry dies in the arena after volunteering for Dudley, he imagines things will get rather... difficult for the Dursleys.
And if Harry wins...
Harry puts that thought aside. Even though he has better odds than Dudley, the fact is his odds still aren't good.
"I volunteer," Harry says, stepping forward deliberately. "I'll take Dudley's place."
"Th-thank you," Dudley whimpers as he passes Harry on the stairs, his pudgy hands grasping Harry's arm more gently than Harry can ever remember.
"Yeah, whatever," Harry says, shrugging him off.
"And what's your name, dear?" the escort asks, holding the microphone in front of him.
"Harry. Harry Potter," he says, gazing calmly at the cameras.
(If Harry does win, he could make their lives miserable.)
Note: continues in "The Labyrinth", which can be found on my profile.