The Hogwarts Games

Summary: Tom Riddle never existed. Neither did Ariana Dumbledore. Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald and took over the Wizarding World. To ensure that the Wizarding World will never return to the 'Dark Days' of Grindelwald's reign, Dumbledore and the Ministry enforce The Hogwarts Games. AU.

Disclaimer and A/N: I don't own Harry Potter or the Hunger Games. I'm not listing this in the crossover category since I'm not introducing HG characters (and also because it would only be listed in the crossover section of the website). There will be similarities to HG, especially at the beginning, but there will be some original material as well.

Chapter One

Stars twinkle above me, lighting my nerves afire at the sight. I should be happy to be back at Hogwarts. It's my second home after all. There's nothing like the feeling of magic coursing through my veins, the energy I feel when I cast a spell, but tonight is September 1st- Sorting Day. September 1st: Reaping Eve. Tomorrow is Reaping Day.

Everyone is trying to pretend the Hogwarts Games aren't inevitable. It is the Fifty-First Hogwarts Games this year. They've been happening ever since Albus Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald and reached ultimate power in the Wizarding World. I didn't have to worry about them first year- eligibility excludes first years. It would be quite unfair to pair untrained wizards and witches against far more knowledgeable.

Like most of the people in the room, I have never been picked. Those who have are ineligible to be picked again. After last year, that presents a problem. For the Fiftieth Hogwarts Games, Dumbledore wanted it to be memorable, to pound the important message into our heads, so he doubled the amount of tributes.

I glance around the Ravenclaw table and clench my jaw tightly. My friend, Cho Chang, had been a seventh year last year. She was twelfth to die, killed by Marcus Belby, a fellow Ravenclaw who eventually became the victor after killing the forty-seven other tributes. He sits far down the table, not talking with anyone but surrounded by a flock of girls fawning adoringly at him.

Lisa Turpin, a sixth year with the goal of sleeping her way through the entire male student body of Hogwarts, straddles his lap. If only he wasn't a victor, a professor would chide them for such behavior. Then again, if he wasn't a victor, he wouldn't be receiving this attention. He's not particularly attractive or friendly.

I can't help but grit my teeth as I notice one Marietta Edgecombe running a hand through his hair. I used to be friends with Marietta. Rather, Cho was friends with her and Marietta and I were friends because of Cho. I can't understand why Marietta, who once announced that she was Cho's best friend, would throw herself at Cho's murderer.

He's a sixth year, too. We've always had classes together, even paired up as partners in some of them. I haven't spoken to him in a year now, even when we were forced to work together in classes. I don't have the desire to talk to someone who can kill so easily, so carelessly and not be bothered by it.

Each year, I worry that my luck with run out. This year is worse for my nerves than ever. Could it be possible to get past Reaping Day this year and not be picked?

I shake my head, feeling foolish. I mustn't lose hope. It's all that I have at the moment.

Despite how excited we should be to welcome our newly sorted housemates, the atmosphere is tense and quiet. We all think the same thing: will it be me this year? Will I face death? Will I become a murderer to save myself?

I have never had to think about it for too long. I've tried not to. Considering my own mortality when I'm only sixteen years old is far too morbid for me to find it a desirable topic for my thoughts.

Perhaps, had I known that this would have been part of the deal in becoming a student at Hogwarts, I would have rejected my acceptance. I can't be certain though. My unquenchable thirst for knowledge tends to get the better of me.

The sorting hat used to sing. That's what I read in Hogwarts: A History. It doesn't anymore. It hasn't since the first year of the Hunger Games. To imagine a hat singing is strange in the first place, but it's surreal to imagine our sorting hat doing such an activity. Whenever its seamy mouth opens to shout out a house, the voice is weary, troubled and sorrowful.

When all the bright-eyed, innocent first years have been sorted, Dumbledore stands and makes a speech. His eyes twinkle with constant mirth, as if he doesn't remember what tomorrow is. But of course, he does. I've sneaked glances at him during the Games, where all students are forced to watch, and seen the unconcealed grins he wears.

Chocolate frog cards claim that Albus Dumbledore is a great man. After my first year at Hogwarts, I got a card with Dumbledore on it. It was long after the Games had ended. I tore it up and refused to ever buy another chocolate frog simply due to the principle of the matter.

I know for a fact that Dumbledore is a horrible, manipulative, and brilliant man, but his brilliance is wasted on pure evil and insanity. I've never told anyone how I feel about him. The walls have ears, and you can never be sure that you're in safe company here.

Mandy Brocklehurst, a fellow sixth year Ravenclaw, nudges me lightly. "Hermione, aren't you hungry?"

I muster a smile. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was daydreaming about this new book I'm reading."

"Oh?" Mandy asks. "What is it?"

"Um." Perhaps I should have thought of a better lie. I'm currently rereading many of my favorites, but Mandy, as my closest friend, knows what I've read and what I haven't. "You caught me. I'm rereading Hogwarts: A History."

Mandy giggles. "You're trying to memorize it, aren't you?"

I smile and cut into my roasted chicken. I'm not very hungry, but I know I should eat. Still, with every bite I take, my stomach threatens to force it back up. Eventually I decide to stick to my pumpkin juice, hoping it will ease my nausea.

Mandy studies me, brushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear and spooning up a scoopful of mashed potatoes. She leans in close to me and whispers, "I'm nervous about tomorrow."

I nod. We know better than to discuss the topic too loudly in public. We are supposed to want to be chosen as tributes. The thought alone makes me want to retch.

"I'm sure it will be fine," I say and somehow manage to keep my voice even. "If anything shall happen, you are a great witch and will be prepared." Realizing Terry Boot's eyes are on me, I add, "Besides, Mandy, NEWTs aren't until next year. You have plenty of time to study."

"Yes, but there are plenty of exams before then," Terry pips in, a knowing gleam in his walnut-colored eyes. "You shouldn't waste any time studying."

Michael Corner, Terry's handsome, dark-haired best friend, rolls his eyes as he takes a gulp of his drink. "Can we stop talking in code? We all know what tomorrow is. I, for one, hope I'll be chosen this year. I'm eager to show my skills, and I know that I have no real competition."

His knuckles turn white as he holds his goblet so tightly that it threatens to break. No one believes him, but none of us say anything about it. We all have different methods of handling the Games, and we know it's best not to argue against the expected viewpoint of wanting to be chosen for the games.

That doesn't stop one girl from speaking up about it. "It's rather sad though," she says, her voice as airy as a crisp, dewy, autumn morning. Her light blonde hair is tied into several elaborate knots that only she could manage to look charming in. "This will be our last dinner before six of our own are announced tomorrow and later thrust into the arena. We may be sitting with our own enemies."

It's something that we all know, but hearing Luna say it makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Anthony Goldstein rubs his hands together in a sarcastic applause before returning his arm to the waist of Padma Patil, his on-again-off-again girlfriend and resident gossip monger. "Thank you for that, Luna. That is obviously what we all wanted to hear."

"You are very welcome," Luna says in her dreamy voice, oblivious to Anthony's sarcasm.

Padma giggles into her hand. For some reason, it makes me irritated. I've always found Luna to be more than slightly flighty, but Padma and Anthony's lack of manners towards her are distasteful. I'm glad that Luna is too clueless to notice; while she may have her head in the clouds, she's such a sweet girl and a good friend. It's not that I don't like Padma. We're actually very close. It's just that my nerves are causing me to become irritated about almost everything.

I'm about to comment on it to Padma when I notice she's not looking at Luna, but over at the Slytherin table where Draco Malfoy sits, trying to throw Pansy Parkinson's hands off of him as he talks to one of his friends, Harry Potter.

They're probably my least favorite people in the entire school. They've known each other forever and take pleasure in bullying first years. Malfoy hates me because I'm a muggleborn, a Mudblood as he constantly reminds me. Of course, that means that I'm not qualified to even lick the bottom of his shoes- which, for some reason, he believes I want to.

Potter, on the other hand, is son of Lily and James Potter, beloved it-couple of the Wizarding World. James Potter was actually a victor in the Games during his second year, killing his opponents in eight hours flat. It was a record, one that I'm glad I didn't witness. He became an Auror and most recently, he was elected Minister of Magic.

Mrs. Potter was also a victor in the Games during her sixth year. She's known for her philanthropic efforts, her dragon pox cure, and now as the Minister's wife.

Malfoy looks away from Potter for a moment. His slate eyes land on me and he raises a blonde eyebrow, smirking as he does. I throw back a sneer. His other eyebrow arches to join the first in what appears to be surprised, but it can't be. There's a moment of hesitation, but I'm sure I'm only imagining it, before he returns the look. Quickly, I glance down to my food, my cheeks red.

I hate him. I always have. That doesn't mean he's not good looking. And it certainly doesn't mean that I want him catching me staring at him, something I'm sure he'll use against me.

I can feel his eyes on me but I pretend not to notice and dig into my food despite my lack of an appetite. It's better than acknowledging that he's now looking at me.

"Looks like you've got an admirer, Hermione," Padma says, her voice lilting into a coo. "Strange. If there was ever a Ravenclaw I'd imagine Malfoy to gawk at, it'd be Luna. They would have beautiful babies. Then again, you and him could be so romantic together, like Romeo and Juliet."

I'm now regretting insisting that Padma read the Shakespeare romantic tragedy. "Did you skip the ending?" I tease. "That didn't work out too well for them if you remember. Besides, Malfoy's not gawking at me."

"What guy looks at a girl and decides his level of interest based on their future children?" Mandy asks, rolling her eyes. "Sometimes, you're so silly, Padma."

"I'm serious," Padma says, leaning forward. "Have you ever seen a Malfoy who isn't blonde?"

"Can we stop talking about him?" Anthony asks her, squeezing her shoulder possessively. "You're starting to make me jealous, baby."

She swats his chest lightly before placing butterfly kisses all over his face. Mandy gags over her plate, and the rest of us hold back laughter.

"Perhaps it's the Ruxtle Bejil Hodgers," Luna says, her blue eyes bigger than normal. "They live in hair and can cause it to change color, texture, style at any whim. Some wizards and witches have enslaved them to be their personal hairstylists."

I hold back a smile at Luna's antics. Michael chokes on his chicken as he begins to laugh. Terry thumps his on the back so hard that his face falls into his dinner plate. Slowly, Michael regains a normal breathing pattern and wipes food from his cheeks.

The rest of dinner revolves around small talk. We may be the most intelligent house, but we all have tomorrow on our minds.

I stay awake all night with terrifying thoughts, my heart beating out of time and painfully so. I'm so nervous that my bladder keeps forcing me to get up, but as soon as I get to the bathroom, I no longer have to pee. I draw my curtains and put up a silencing charm, humming to myself between sobs. I've never played Quidditch, but I imagine this is what it feels like to be hit in the chest with a bludger- the inability to breathe, the panic, the wishing that it would all just stop.

Finally, when I've cried myself out and soaked my pillows with tears, I dry them with the help of my wand before collapsing into them. That's when I notice the whimpering coming from Padma's bed. She hasn't put up a silencing charm and I could never ignore a friend in pain. I whisper her name and the whimpering stops before she rushes out of her bed and onto mine, throwing her arms around my neck. I redo the silencing charm and listen to her fears about being chosen, about her twin sister, Parvati, being chosen, about Michael being chosen, about me, Mandy, Luna, and even Marietta and Lisa being chosen. She doesn't want anyone in Ravenclaw to be chosen, but there's nothing we can do to avoid that.

Eventually she falls asleep at the foot of the bed. Daylight streams through the windows, only moderately darkened by my bed curtains. No matter what, I know it'll be a strenuous day so I decide to get some sleep.

Just as my eyes begin to grow heavy, Mandy's opening my curtains and peering down at me, her lips grimly set together.

"It's time."

We're organized by house like usual, but the Great Hall is expanded for Reaping Day to fit all of us with the Goblet of Glory and seats for the tributes in the front. The media has already arrived. Notorious reporter Rita Skeeter taps a quill to her lips as she examines us as we walk to the Ravenclaw table.

Reaping Day is required viewing for all of the Wizarding World. It wasn't televised until thirty years ago when the Wizarding World acquired Muggle creations to better our world. Since it didn't used to be televised, the entire Wizarding World had to show up at Hogwarts to watch each day for however long it took to end. Televising it is far more convenient and makes it more difficult for parents of tributes to embarrass themselves in the audience.

At the Head table where the professors all sit, Minister Potter and Mrs. Potter converse with Dumbledore. I wonder how it feels for them to be here when their own son is in jeopardy of being chosen. If it bothers them, they mask it well.

First years sit in the back close to the door to separate them from the rest of us. It's to distance them from the knowledge that, next year, this will be their lives as well.

When the Hall is filled, Professor Snape shuts and locks the doors. No one is allowed to leave the Reaping Ceremony. Professor Snape's eyes betray no emotion. I don't believe he truly knows how to feel. He was a victor, too, during his seventh year of Hogwarts. I look back at the Head table where Minister Potter barely hides a contemptuous glare for the potions professor.

It's well-known that Minister Potter and his friends bullied Professor Snape. Perhaps that's why it was so easy for Professor Snape to kill Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black, two of Minister Potter's friends, during the Games without ever showing the slightest of remorse.

Victors aren't supposed to show remorse though, so Minister Potter's animosity is misplaced.

Professor McGonagall purses her lips as Dumbledore begins to speak. I've always admired her. She doesn't appear to respect the games very much either even though I've never heard her verbalize such thoughts. To do so would be treason and an action worthy of a first-class, one-stop ticket to Azkaban. This is why we must never speak too harshly about the Games or our Ministry.

"We are gathered here today in celebration and remembrance of a terrible time in our history," Dumbledore begins. It's the same speech every year, but it's new to the first years who watch, completely enchanted by the headmaster's false charms. He goes on to discuss the terror Grindelwald inflicted on the Wizarding World, how such actions must never be repeated, how we must be punished and how we must atone for the mistakes of the past, and how it is a glorious honor to do so. Perhaps Dumbledore would feel differently if his head was the one on the chopping block. "Happy Hogwarts Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

It's what he says every year, but I'll never get used to it. I know he thinks the odds in our favor means to be chosen, but that's not what most of us want. There are some who do desire such glory though even though we're all expected to want to be chosen, hence the name of the goblet.

I once read that it used to be called the Goblet of Fire when they still held Triwizard Tournaments when one Hogwarts student would compete with one student from Durmstrang Institute and one from Beauxbatons Academy for ultimate glory. After Grindelwald's defeat, Dumbledore demanded that all students be educated at Hogwarts and the Triwizard Tournament became extinct.

The first years are staring nervously towards the door, squirming in their seats despite how Dumbledore has already announced that they are ineligible for Reaping Day as first years. I don't blame them for their terror. Inside, I'm feeling it too, but it's much more intense since my life could actually be at risk and they're merely bystanders this year.

Minister Potter speaks next, blathering on about glory, honor, atonement just as Dumbledore did. He, of course, mentions how he was a victor as was his wife. I don't miss the glance he aims at the youngest Potter. I bite my lip, wondering if it's possible that the minister wants his son to be chosen as a tribute.

He has the same luck as the rest of us. The goblet contains the name of every second through seventh year from every house. This year returns to normalcy with the amount of tributes. There shall be twenty-four of us instead of last year's forty-eight. I expected it, but it relieves me nonetheless.

Four houses. Six tributes from each house. Three girls, three boys.

If only each year had only one or two tributes chosen, I might feel safe or perhaps I wouldn't. My thoughts jumble together illogically, and a sense of foreboding misery washes over me. I manage to keep my face calm despite wanting to run out the door- a feat I know is impossible from the severe locking charm Snape did. There have been incidents in the past that have made it necessary.

I look around the hall, spotting trepidation, excitement, terror, sorrow, fear, and more. I wonder how parents can bear to watch this. I'm glad my parents are Muggles. They are completely unaware of the Games and unless I'm chosen and die, that's how they'll always remain.

Minister Potter smiles as he concludes his speech and finishes with the same line Dumbledore did. "Happy Hogwarts Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Hearing it again makes me want to hex them both into oblivion. It enrages me that they don't care at all, that this is some sort of sporting for them. Even more than being angry, I'm scared- because the Goblet of Glory has erupted and green flames blaze through the air as a piece of paper floats down into Dumbledore's hand. We know from the green flames that the first name will be a Slytherin.

"The first Slytherin tribute is," Dumbledore pauses with a smile. I'm sure it's for the drama factor. "Harry Potter."

Slytherin cheers for him while the rest of the houses clap politely. Minister and Mrs. Potter beam proudly at their son. Mrs. Potter's hands clap furiously together with excitement. If my mother was ever that happy I was facing death, I'd probably disown her.

Potter struts up from the Slytherin table to the far right side of the Hall under a large green and silver banner. Now more than ever, the pressure is on. I definitely didn't want to be announced as a tribute before, but now with Potter? The idea is terrifying. His family practically breeds victors; it's in his blood.

The goblet doesn't wait for the applause to die down before it blazes red. Gryffindor. "The first Gryffindor tribute is Ronald Weasley."

Gryffindors applaud loudly, but his sister, Ginny, is visibly stricken by the news. A bit of pity ebbs into me as I watch her swallow and maintain composure. I'm not close with her, but she's a nice girl. I know why she's worried. Ron doesn't stand much of a chance in the arena, especially against Potter. He's at the bottom marks in his classes. I know because I was assigned to tutor him which he thought meant I was assigned to do his homework for him. He's amusing enough, but I'm not sure if he has the survival skills.

Ron's girlfriend, Lavender Brown, squeaks through her tears, audible from two tables over. It would have been a good idea for her not to wear mascara today. If she's still crying if she gets picked, it'll be a poor reflection of her. That's why we all try not to cry when our friends are chosen- because if we show any flicker of emotion, it's considered weakness. And if we're considered weak, we get less sponsors which means less gifts which means a lower chance of survival in the arena.

Hufflepuff is next when the goblet emits orange flames, actually appearing to be real fire compared to the surreal other colors. Justin Finch-Fletchley is next, and Mandy grips onto my arm so tightly that I begin to lose circulation. I don't move though. I know she needs the support. She's been in love with him since third year when they were paired up in Potions but she's never had the courage to ask him out. 'Courage', she said, 'is for bloody Gryffindors. It doesn't logically make sense that he would like me. I mean, have you seen him? He's gorgeous.'

I don't agree with her about that, but that's beside the point. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until my mouth floods with coppery liquid and I quickly drink some juice to rid my mouth of the blood.

The flame is blue this time, and we must be holding our breath because I can't hear anything except a dull rushing in my ears. Who will the first male Ravenclaw tribute be?

"Anthony Goldstein."

I don't notice I'm clapping until I look down at my hands. Anthony forces a smile onto his face, and Padma's breaths become shallow and quick. He looks back at the table to her, but she's busy looking down at her hands. I've never seen her so quiet. Luna stares at Padma with a sympathetic smile, whispering to Padma things I can't make out.

My heart speeds up as the flame turns green. Now it's a female round. Millicent Bulstrode is picked for Slytherin. Padma stops breathing when the flame turns red. She's worried for her sister, Parvati, but it's not Parvati's name that's chosen but Katie Bell's. She keeps her chin high as she walks to Ron with dignity. Hannah Abbott is Hufflepuff's first female tribute, and she sniffles as she walks up to the orange and black banner. It's a bad move on her part. Sponsors won't like that.

The flame flickers blue again, and Mandy's nails dig into my skin.

"We're fine," I tell her as my voice shakes. "Just take a deep breath and relax."

But we aren't, because Dumbledore chills my entire body when he announces, "Mandy Brocklehurst."

For a moment, Mandy doesn't move. It's as if she's been struck by paralysis from the shock. It's one thing to know you're at risk to become a tribute. It's another to actually hear your name called. Not that I would know, but I can imagine.

I want to volunteer for her, to take her place, but I can't. Back in fourth year, she said that she would never want anyone to risk their life for her because of the Games. We made an Unbreakable Vow to never sacrifice ourselves for the other. Luna's brow is crumpled in unhappiness while Padma's eyes flood with unshed tears. Terry, who has had his eye on Mandy for quite some time, stares blankly up at the Ravenclaw banner.

Slytherin's next tribute is the frighteningly buff and rather moronic Vincent Crabbe who exchanges a nod with Potter when he stands next to him. And even though they're Slytherins and I don't like either one of them, I pity them for having to stand up there knowing that they'll have to kill their friend.

Seamus Finnigan is the next to be called, and then Zacharias Smith for Hufflepuff. I realize as the flame turns blue again that we aren't even halfway done. It's a thought that makes my legs turn to jelly.

When Terry's name is called, I decide that this has to be rigged. I have no idea how it could be, but why is this happening? There's usually more variety in years. It's not unheard of for a house to be represented by just one year level, but it's rare.

This reaping is taking longer than usual and it's also more painful to endure. Astoria Greengrass joins those under the Slytherin banner. Her older sister, Daphne, pales rapidly but doesn't volunteer herself.

And then Padma's clinging onto me, filling the void that Mandy left as Dumbledore announces exactly what she didn't want to hear- Parvati's name. Parvati, always filled with grace and constantly donning a smile, is true to her normal self although her smile shakes a bit.

I squeeze her hand as the goblet spits out the youngest tribute so far: Third-year Hufflepuff, Eleanor Branstone, whose hands quiver as she shuffles to the front of the hall from spot at the end of the Hufflepuff table.

Blue again, and that's how I feel. Blue, very, very blue, like I've been underwater for too long and set out to dry- numb.

"Luna Lovegood!" Dumbledore announces, cheery as ever, as I'm holding back a dry heave. I breathe deep through my nostrils, refusing to show weakness here. It's not over yet. Luna skips up to the Ravenclaw banner and begins whispering to Mandy's who has a deadened expression in her eyes.

The goblet throws out the last male Slytherin tribute's name, and somehow I know it's him before his name is called. "Draco Malfoy."

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a fan of his despite how good looking he is. He's still an ass, but our eyes meet again just as they did last night, and my stomach drops. His expression is mostly calm, but I catch the frenzied fear in his eyes. What does he have to worry about?

After all, he's a Slytherin. Sponsors like them a lot, and most Slytherins have been raised learning how to fight well in the Games in preparation. That's not to say that the rest of the houses never have people who are prepared for the Games, but muggleborns like myself and poorer families like the Weasleys don't get that much training. We have to hope that the training we get before the games- the six weeks of training- is enough to survive the Games against people who have been training their entire lives.

But as soon as his eyes land on me and I notice the fear, it extinguishes and is replaced by cool disinterest. I must have imagined it.

Neville Longbottom is announced, and both Ron and Seamus don miserable expressions. Often nicknamed the Terrible Trio for their troublemaking, the three of them have been best friends since first year. I wish someone would volunteer for him, but not one single person does despite knowing that Neville takes a longer time to learn spells. The other tributes will single him out as a target right away which will make any alliance unwilling to include him.

Another third year Hufflepuff is named. Owen Cauldwell, gangly with hands too large for his body, glides up. I shouldn't be surprised that Michael's name is called next since this is clearly becoming a pattern, but I am.

Padma holds my hands under the table as the green flame flickers for the last time before producing the last slip of paper for the Slytherin house. Pansy Parkinson storms up to her housemates, clearly not happy and for once, I don't blame her.

Silver script decorates the emerald banner as each tribute's name is embroidered into it alphabetically:

THE FIFTY-FIRST HOGWARTS GAMES

SLYTHERIN

Millicent Bulstrode

Vincent Crabbe

Astoria Greengrass

Draco Malfoy

Pansy Parkinson

Harry Potter

And to be honest, I don't like any of them, but seeing their names on the banner makes it so much realer. We know what the banner is for. It's the tribute banner- each name is removed when the tribute is killed. I've tried not to look at the banners in past years, but last year, I remember the day after Marcus killed Cho, looking up and seeing the vacant spot drilled a knife into my chest.

At best, it means that only one of them will remain on the banner. At worst, none of them will.

Only one can be victor. During the Games, Hogwarts will lose twenty-three students, and this only serves to remind me of that fact.

The goblet glows red again. Gryffindor's last tribute for this year's Hogwarts Games. Dumbledore's lips wrinkle upwards in amusement as he reads the name, and I know it's going to be something terrible, and I'm right.

"Ginevra Weasley."

No one speaks. We're not allowed to, but no one claps either despite applauding for everyone else. We're all too shocked. I can't remember ever seeing siblings pitted against each other. And my heart aches for them. I want to cry for them, and I don't know them well enough to have that courtesy. Ginny doesn't look at Ron, and he doesn't look at her.

I don't want to look up to the banner. I know what I'll find, so I keep my eyes on the goblet, hoping and praying to survive this reaping.

Susan Bones is the last Hufflepuff tribute, and her golden braid swings as she walks with her eyes downcast. I ignore the banner again.

Blue flames- I almost forget that means Ravenclaw. It all comes down to this moment.

And then I swear I hear my name, but Dumbledore's lips haven't moved. The goblet hasn't even spit out a piece of paper yet. I'm only imagining it. I'm not sure if that's better than the actual result.

"The last tribute of the Fifty-First Hogwarts Games is," Dumbledore pauses, looking directly at our table. "Padma Patil."

My ears buzz as if a swarm of bumblebees have flocked into my brain. The first thing I see is Padma's one tear trailing down her face, and then everything happens so quickly. Parvati keels over and vomits on Dumbledore's feet, much to his dismay. I'm waiting for someone to speak up, for anyone to take her place. I look around, but no one meets my eye.

Ron and Ginny examine Parvati and Padma with sympathy and understanding. No, I can't let this happen. I couldn't volunteer for Ginny because I'm not a Gryffindor, but I'm a Ravenclaw. I can volunteer for Padma.

Padma has already stood and began walking to the banner. Once she gets there, it'll be too late. I stand abruptly and my words come out as a whisper that no one hears until finally, I shout the words out just as she's reaching the banner.

"I volunteer! I volunteer!"

Padma whirls around and rushes to me, throwing her arms around me as she mutters gratitude into my ear and assures me that I don't have to do this, but it's out of obligation for our friendship more than due to sincerity which I understand. I tell her to sit back down. She doesn't argue again.

I walk to the banner, only barely registering the thunderous applause, much louder than anyone else's, as it happens. When I turn to examine the hall, I see that Ravenclaw is on their feet. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff join them. Slytherin remains seated, but I notice Daphne Greengrass nodding at me.

It's not that people never volunteer. Siblings often volunteer for each other, but not always. Parvati runs to me from the Gryffindor banner and hugs me, thanking me quietly. I nod firmly as she begins to walk back to her banner. I can't let too much emotion show as Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff continue to applaud. I look over to the Slytherin banner and chill as Malfoy glares at me, shaking his head. He isn't impressed.

Despite knowing I shouldn't, I look up at the banner.

The Fifty-First Hogwarts Games

RAVENCLAW

Terry Boot

Mandy Brocklehurst

Michael Corner

Anthony Goldstein

Hermione Granger

Luna Lovegood

For a moment, it's like I'm an outsider watching from above or from the television, safe inside my home hundreds of miles away. Then it hits me- the reality of what I've done, and I don't regret it, but I'm terrified because this can only have one true ending: a sad one.

These are my friends.

And if one of them survives, it will because I'm dead whether they killed me or not. I bite the inside of my cheek again, reopening the cut and regretting it immediately since I have no water to get rid of the taste. I've been forced to watch the Games as part of required viewing in the years past. People change in the games. Your best friends become your enemies, because no one ever wants to die no matter what the cost is. My eyes wander to Marcus Belby and wonder how he did it. Was he as scared as I am?

Did he feel as helpless as I do?

I smile for the cameras until the ceremony ends. We're being taken somewhere, more like I'm being dragged, because I can't focus enough to remember how to walk. This morning, I woke up praying for my name not to be called, and it hadn't been. I sacrificed myself for Padma. It could very well be a suicide mission.

No, I can't think like that. If I'm going to have any chance of winning, I can't doubt myself. I'm going to make it through this. I have to. I'm just not sure how I'll do it yet.

I realize that there's a good chance I won't have to kill my friends, that others will kill them first. I decide then that I'll only kill in self-defense. I'm not going to let the Games turn me into a monster like they've turned others into.

I just hope I can remember that when I'm in the arena.