Summary: "No Ministry citizen is ever supposed to enter, but they would sometimes gamble their children anyway." 12 Districts. 24 Tributes. 1 Champion. Let the 74th annual Blood Games begin.

Disclaimers: Rights for J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury for Harry Potter; Suzanne Collins and Scholastic for Hunger Games.

Warnings: Set a millennium or two from the canon Harry Potter timeline, except now with twisted age, background, and more in all characters to fit into the Hunger Games contour; GEN and mostly action/adventure and maybe some romance, but no promises; there'll be politics and explicit violence. Rated T [14+].

—The Blood Games—
A Harry Potter and Hunger Games Crossover Universe
by rayningnight

Part One: The Tributes

[ 1 ]
District 12

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The sound of thundering footsteps above jolts me awake. I lay still for a few seconds, clutching the threadbare coverlet with knuckles white, trying to recall my dream. It's hazy at the edges, but I distinctly remember a high-pitched shriek, a fiery blur, and a green flash. It's been the same dream since I was young, jumping me in my sleep a fistful of times a month. I'm surprised that I didn't wake echoing the woman's scream to my family; then again, I've already learned from that mistake years ago.

I quickly rise from my cot and narrowly dodge the wooden stairs. I scowl, feeling around for my round glasses. They're at the bedside, cast off from yesterday's exhaustion, and once I blink them on, instantly the familiar shadows sharpen. Even with my short stature, I doubt any other sixteen year old could possibly fit in my cupboard. I always sleep in foetal positions and even then it's tight. Add the fact that, ever since I turned fourteen two years ago, I've been growing like the weeds in my aunt's garden…

I'm still debating whether shooting up is a good thing or not.

I probably would've thought it all brilliant when I was younger, but I now recall being completely vertically challenged to be a whole lot easier. I'm still the shortest out of all my male classmates and a good half of the girls, but I'm quite sure those statistics will change in the following year. The only bright side I figure, if I'm average height, not above or below, I can easily become more unnoticeable in the crowds or otherwise. My lips thin. Harry Hunting's in the past now, but for those imbecilic classes, where instead of perfecting calligraphy or memorizing whatever regurgitation of history the Ministry pukes out, I could probably skive for more productive activities. Speaking of which…

Fishing for Dudley's hand-me-downs underneath my bed and donning a mismatched pair of decrepit dragon-hide boots, I stow my cot quickly into a hidden wall compartment once I'm done changing and check my bedroom once over. Good. Excluding the spiders, it doesn't look like a habituated cupboard, but a rather normal storeroom, with a broomstick, a dustpan, two buckets, a handful of rags, and a large ball of yarn. There's no dust, however.

"Up! Get up! Now!" My door's rapped thrice after my aunt's shrill voice.

I smile grimly to myself. If Aunt Petunia's screeching at this hour, when my internal clock bespeaks of dawn skies and grey sunlight, it's likely for Dudley's case. I wonder if he's having the standard nightmare, or if it's a strange one like mine.

I snort immediately and pocket the grey yarn ball.

I'm wasting daylight with these thoughts.

The door opens without sound and I can already hear Aunt Petunia scurrying upstairs to coax Dudley awake. It won't work, since the whole point is a reprise from the dreams, and she'll be down in an hour before going back up; rinse and repeat. I know Uncle Vernon isn't in the house anymore, but I tread inside the kitchen with ingrained caution nonetheless. Unlike his father, Dudley doesn't get up unless his piggy little nose smells bacon. Briefly I entertain the fantasy of cannibalism since Dudley's obviously a cousin and surely the Ministry won't accept that — and then I string the thought that I'm his cousin too.

It's disturbing and I never think of it again.

As I walk to the back door, I notice the tangled mess of dark hair in the window reflection. I grin and the glass reciprocates it. My hair passes my ears and resembles a small black bramble bush, sometimes even catching in that plant along with thistles, cocklebur and whatever else it can, when it can. Growing it out makes it worse, since, the one time I tried it about four years ago, with a number of invectives from Dudley about my personal preferences, the added weight tamed it a bit, yes — but I inevitably looked like a ponce. Absently running a hand through my shorter curls, I'm happier with this outcome than that.

Especially when my own professor scolded me for going into the boy's loo.

The next day, I cut it all off.

Shaking from my thoughts, I head out the door. The house isn't the smallest in the neighbourhood, nor is it particularly larger than the rest. I hazily remember when the Dursley family used to be pedestrians of District 4 before, ironically once I turned four, we were deported into District 12 because my uncle was promoted as the newest Director of Grunnings. New drills were needed in the Mining District, and what better than the transfer of a higher-up to be overseer? Of course, even the Dursley family knew what a 'promotion' to District 12 was in face value. What surprises me most is that that they never protested the 'promotion.'

Then again, no one messes with the Ministry.

So, they made the most of it, using whatever riches they had before and wisely bought one of the symmetrical houses in the middle-class part of District 12, saving the rest for the family necessities like food, clothes, and Dudley.

I'm not included in that equation since I'm just Aunt Petunia's sister's bastard son that should be grateful for the roof over my head and the clean water to drink. My aunt explained to me when I was six exactly why I wasn't allowed food anymore and had to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I was old enough to work like the miners' children, and if I couldn't, then she'd feed me at least once a week. Food was scarce, she said, and any human could survive months without it.

Never mind Dudley, who couldn't survive hours.

This is the reason why I'm up at this ungodly time: crossing an hour's run to the unchartered territory outside of District 12; it's not some recreational exercise. I pass a few yawning Aurors, who in turn ignore me as I make my way to the Forbidden Forest. The namesake pretty much sums up the whole woodland. All the Districts are separated by a powerful Ward, a brilliant yellow shield that slowly goes transparent as it reaches the top in its semicircle. It's conjured by a Wardscrafter and can be anchored by a Runes Master or some other powerful witch or wizard to separate us from other Districts and the Forbidden Lands: outer wild regions flooded or still affected by the nuclear weapons from the Great Muggle World War. The Ministry says that the Wards are still there for our own safety, to separate the classes to quash rebellious ideas, and to protect us from the carnivorous creatures mutated with radiation and the roaming dangerous beasts of magical origin: chimaeras, dragons, manticores and the like, which apparently have some sort of anti-radiation gene in them.

I'm still not really sure.

The schools in the Districts are strictly watched over and only basic facts of science and maths are given to those who don't need it. District 3 and 5 focusses in mathematics and anything with electricity, Districts 9, 10 and 11 have in-depth teachings in Biology and Chemistry. The Ministry and District 1 and 2 have full access to all details in every subject — including magic.

And everyone has full details in History of Mageía.

Sometime a few hundred years ago, maybe a millennia or two from current date, when Muggles ruled through sheer numbers and technological advancements, and Magicals were hidden in secretive societies, the non-magical civilization went through what they called 'World War III' — the Great Muggle World War — and utterly destroyed themselves. Major landmasses changed shape as the sea levels rose to astounding heights around the planet, and many perished from either 'natural disasters' or World War III's radiation residue in now uninhabitable areas. Fortunately, the Magical community protected whatever areas they could with their impenetrable mystic shields, and small societies survived with food, water, and many magical creatures.

Unfortunately, the Muggles who survived were greatly in their debt — Life Debts, which bound their souls to the ones who saved them, until a Magical deemed them paid.

There are still those ancient Life Debts today.

Not because those ancient Magicals are still alive, since though they live double, sometimes triple the lifespan of the average Muggle, those who sanctioned them are long since dead. In actuality, some witches and wizards managed to trick those they saved to modify the Life Debt into their children, and then their full line. I think that was quite nasty of them to do so, basically turning the lot into soul-bound slaves, even if the majority only for a short time; but if the Muggles brought on the world to its knees and it was the Magicals that did all the work to bring back some semblance of prosperity, I can see how those few wanted some revenge in whatever petty way.

Hell hath no fury like a Magical scorned.

I look over my shoulder as I crouch down near one specific area in the yellowish-clear ward, a compressed path nearly visible from my visits every day that's possible. Aurors pass every once in a while, but since that last squadron had yawned, even though everybody knows that Aurors work in twelve hours shifts at the stroke of midnight or midday, I know it's a signal. Most Aurors are Muggles and Muggle-bloods — or "Muggleborn" if you read the ancient texts: Magicals born from two Muggles, and not uncommonly found with the infamous Life Debt inherited from the forefathers and foremothers — but there are many Aurors who're Half-bloods and Pure-bloods as well.

Mageía is broken into six classes. There are the Muggles who have no magic and who solely live in the Districts, the Muggle-bloods who usually live in Districts 1, 2, 4, and 6, and if powerful and intelligent enough, the Ministry itself. Then there are, of course, the Half-breeds, who have Veela or Giant or whatever Being's blood in them, and tend to live in whatever District or Ministry area they want.

It all really depends on their pedigree.

Just like Half-bloods: the Ministry's lower echelon branches — unless they're birthed from one of the High Families, and thus included in the Pure-blood political stations, or in rare cases, when they're born into some scandal or a lower District. They would immediately be sent to some family in a higher District, like: 1, 2, or 4 — or taken back into their biological family fold, with few exceptions.

These latter four are typically referred to as Magicals — witches and wizards alike.

The last class is considered shameful to all Magicals alive — a Squib. Born from one or both Magical parents, yet having no ability to employ magic through wands or other foci, they're immediately sent to the Districts, whichever District, no matter if they're from a High Family or not. They're considered better than Muggles, yes, but they're below Muggle-bloods, so they're immediately scorned by all. Magicals dislike them because of their wasted pure blood in their veins, and Muggles hate them since, even though they both can't utilize magic, they're still 'higher in standing' because of their former families.

The yellowish tint of the Ward wavers, as it has been for the last hour, but finally, with a static hum that's nearly gone silent as I lean on the balls of my feet, I see the metre-long dollop concealed by a clump of bushes has gone completely see-through. I take a moment to smile before hastily flattening out my belly and sliding under the stretch of the faded shield. Once I'm in the trees, I quickly race across the green foliage at a breakneck pace. I don't like wasting too much time when the Wards are no longer electrified, usually only until three or four hours past midday, because keeping out the flesh-eating creatures or not, they kill all who touch it, even humans. I know wizards are able to fine-tune the Runes so that they don't do that, so I also realize that even if they say the Wards are to keep predators out, it's also to keep the residents in.

Fortunately, the Wards always wear down in this area every day between early dawn and the visit of the Runes Mistress, an old insane witch named Bathsheda Babbling from the Ministry. One time, she locked herself in her home — one of the large houses in the wealthy part of District 12, with the other few Magicals and Aurors as her neighbours — and didn't come for a renewal for a week, leaving the Runes that sustained the Wards to fade. A call to Ministry for a Wardscrafter was in order since, on the fifth day, splotches of transparency littered the brilliant yellow shield, and a dragon had gotten in, killing a dozen households.

That was when I was able find the faded Ward area after realizing what Babbling did exactly for District 12.

I sneeze right then, nearly knocking off my glasses into the rushing ravine from my precarious position on a smooth stone. However, I'm highly coordinated and have quick reflexes, and my fast feet scurries me across the few peeking rocks with no more unnecessary problems. I land on soft sun-kissed moss and quickly jump into full sprint for a quarter of an hour into the shady deciduous forest, dodging poisonous life-forms, dangerously low branches, and growing roots snaking the ground. Finally, to my left, there's the Whomping Willow. I grin. Dubbed for its sentience and actual whomping when I first greeted it, nowadays, the old tree seems to have grown fond of me, and only bats away known predators to humans. I think it has something to do with the gifts I usually bring along for it.

For an old tree, the Whomping Willow is surprisingly childish.

"Willow," I say as it lifts me high into its branches with an excited bounce. Sometimes I wonder if I should keep calling the ancient tree 'it' or change to 'she,' but I ultimately never decide.

Once up, I give a quick hug to the middle trunk. "Sorry, but I didn't bring any of Dudley's old toys today."

The Willow deflates, allowing the wind to sway its branches instead of bouncing.

Then I break into a grin, unfurling my hoodie pocket; "But I did bring—"

The Willow instantly grabs my ankle and dangles me upside-down, shaking me like one of Dudley's precious ketchup bottles that won't spill its contents. The blood rushes to my head but I keep laughing, holding back my little present as the Willow throws its typical temper tantrum. I may seem more calm than I probably should when suspended about thirty metres above the ground, but I've always liked heights.

That, and this is routine with the Whomping Willow.

"Sorry, sorry! I couldn't help it!" I tease, finally relinquishing the ball of grey yarn into the air.

The Willow ceases its usual 'admonishment' and gently settles me onto a high, thick trunk. Minutes later, the other hundred smaller branches are completely tangled with my gift, and I can't find the ends of the string. Okay, maybe bringing yarn wasn't the smartest idea. I can't withhold a laugh, however, and the Whomping Willow's leaves quiver, the old tree's equivalent of a huff. I laugh harder.

"You're acting like Filch's spoilt cat! Really, it'll take hours just to untangle you!"

Again, the leaves quiver and the Willow somehow give off a pout.

Laughing hard until my stomach aches, I can't find myself to care that I'm losing balance a hundred feet up. The Willow catches me and shakes with maternal scolding, but I just remark that it's brilliant to start this day off with a bout of happiness. That is, until I realize my stomach isn't hurting with laughter but with growling hunger.

"Uh oh. Sorry, Willow, but I need to go hunting. Do you think the birds could fix you up?" I say until my eyes catch the extreme tangles of grey string two yards below me. I frown. That cluster was like a spun Acromantula web; it'd never come apart without human hand or some other intervention.

I sigh as the Willow shivers sheepishly. "Really, Willow? Sheesh, next time I'll just bring a regular ol' ball."

Grappling the branch above, I swing down and immediately reach for the next and the next, wrists twisting as I curl over one crooked branch and land in a crouch on the lower trunk. The Willow moves most of the leafy branches out of my way that aren't tangled up, so I'm not slapped too badly in the face. However, I do feel a bit of nervous anticipation when I leap from branch-to-branch as they travel around me like the cogs of a clock, because I really don't want to fall and go splat. Running a hand through my hair after the dark curls fall into my eyes, I sit down on a stilled trunk, feet dangling, until I throw myself backwards with my legs curling over the stiff branch so that I'm suspended upside down as I reach the tied up cluster beneath it.

"There you go," I say right as the yarn web slackens. From my vantage point, I see a few more clusters of intricate loops and impossible knots, so I climb and swing to them as well. Half an hour passes and I see the web around has loosened dramatically, so I begin whistling a few notes. I leap into a more comfortable position, the Whomping Willow encircling my for a bit in a thankful tree-hug as I keep whistling patiently, a haunting melody I can't recall where I learnt from.

Suddenly I see it, a hundred metres away: a speck of moving black. As the blackish blur grows bigger and clearer, I see seven blurs behind it as well. I grin, waving my hand welcomingly and stop whistling as a symphony of hoots reciprocates my call.

"Snuffles!" I cry as the large black owl lands on my shoulder. Snuffles, a black owl speckled with brown and with large amber eyes, did exactly what I named her after — she snuffled into my hair. I laugh at the action and wish I could hug her, but I know owls don't really appreciate human ways of affection, unlike the hug-lover Whomping Willow.

I met Snuffles on my first trip into the Forbidden Forest, finding the large owl with a broken wing and unfortunate limp. I fixed her up, and ever since, she's always helped me out whenever I'm in the Dark Forest: my hunting partner. She's quite intelligent for an owl, and when she had her first litter of eggs, I found her owlets just as intelligent when, like their mother, they could understand human speech. I've never known Snuffles' first mate, but her second one was surely some great white owl, because two years ago, her last litter had included a sheer white owlet with her mother's eyes and none of her mother's feathers.

And right then, three blackish-brown owls, two brownish-black, one black and one white, alight in front of me in perfect order, practically replicating an Auror's stance with their backs stiff and wings down and beaks up. It's seriously adorable, but I'd never say so, because I'm sure the five male owls would take offense and what kind of bloke uses the word "adorable" in a sentence?

"Greetings, troopers." I recall the phrase from Dudley's telly, the only electronic the Dursleys kept from selling when they left District 4.

The seven owls blink at me in innocent confusion, as I'd known they would, and I'm momentarily undecided whether to continue or cut into the matter.

I do the latter. "I need some help with untangling Willow here," I gesture around and above, before turning the Snuffles, "so could you owls help a bloke out with that while I go hunting? I need a good haul for—" My stomach growls angrily and I immediately flush.

The old black owl snuffles into my side, nipping my ear affectionately and I know it's a yes. I turn to the order of owls and each of them nods — a human gesture I taught them since I don't think I could take eight loving nips and not come unscathed— except for the white female.

She's bigger now, as is her family, and I hadn't named any of Snuffles' owlets since I was sure they would all leave on their own. But independence was damned when all of them grew fond of me, and they found it easier anyway to live together and hunt together and share prey like a human family. I mentioned it to them once, that human parallel, but they simply hooted and attacked me mercilessly in disagreement.

Just like what the white one was doing now.

"Ow, hey, hey! Blimey, if you don't want to help, it's fine! But it'll be you taking it up with Willow here— hey!"

The white owl huffs and settles before me with a stubborn glint in lambent yellow eyes. I frown in confusion until I realize as she ruffles her tail feathers.

"You wanna go hunting …with me?" I manage incredulously.

She hoots with an owl's equivalent of a grin.

I look up and I see Willow already has a bow and sheath of arrows in its freed branches. I don't understand how it works, but the Whomping Willow somehow shifts one of her branches into these weapons for me whenever I'm there, ever since I mentioned one time that I needed something better than throwing knives a year after we grew closer. I required a longer range, and though I knew I could throw things farther than any normal person probably could, my body's natural physique isn't strength, but endurance. I was only lucky that I could run as fast as my prey to actually be able to throw weapons at them, but I struck gold when I managed to procure some horsetail for the Whomping Willow to use.

I was sure the Willow had been magical before, but the crafting cinched it.

Really, how could a tree sharpen its own twigs into arrows that could kill? Didn't you need more than pure wood to craft a bow and arrow properly? On that matter, how does a tree even know what a bow and arrow looks like?

From then on, childish tendencies or not, I knew the Whomping Willow was old. Old, old.

But that didn't change my attitude.

"Okay, really, Willow? That thing's nearly the same height as me. How in Merlin's name do you think I'll be able to bloody move in the Dark Forest, let alone hunt?"

The Whomping Willow tree shrugs.

I choke my incredulity of: How does a bloody tree know how to shrug? — and channel it into my argument, waving around wildly.

"No, really, I don't believe it's even possible to run around with that thing. What was wrong with the old model? Or the one a few years ago, that crossbow or something?"

The Willow doesn't answer — technically, it can't, but if the tree wanted to, she could have answered in some way, I'm sure — and it simply drops the weapons onto my lap. A breeze whispers through the Willow's leaves and the tree is no longer moving. I huff. When the Whomping Willow stills all sentient movement, it's practically the tree's version of rolling over in bed to La La Land.

Turning over, I see that while I was arguing with Willow, the owls had begun untangling the ancient tree and the white little one was still in front of me, blinking amber eyes intelligently. I narrow my eyes, not once falling for the innocent act, and the white owl hoots in laughter and takes off. Instantly, I climb down and run after, arrows strapped with leftover vines as a makeshift quiver, a rather large potato sack I traded for several years ago over my shoulder that's snatched quickly from the underbrush, and clutching the stupid …longbow.

The hunt is on.

Hours pass, maybe longer, but I can now see the radiant sun high in the sky as I'm munching on some wild berries to stave off the sharp hunger. I'm sure it's way past morning time. The white owl helped kill a few rounds of squirrels with no little pride and I managed three ducks and two geese — and a soon-to-be a passing stag, an amazing haul I would say. But there's something strange as I set the arrow free and sprint to its prone form. I don't get why I feel terrible for its loss, with the cycle of life, me being a hunter for a reason, hunger an all that… But I do. I truly do, as I gaze into lifeless black eyes and up sharp arched antlers and over beautiful blood-stained pelt. I sigh. The fur will fetch a nifty Knut if I wash most of the red away before the blood hardens, but as I quickly manoeuvre to the lake with the white owl above, who lugs two large squirrels in her claws with surprising ease, I realize I haven't even pulled the arrow out of its bleeding heart. I couldn't even look at it.

I shake off the strange pity — it's dead already — and, once at the lakeside, I mercilessly rip and toss the arrow over my shoulder along with any leftover sentiments, keeping my eyes locked forward as I clean the blood away, watching wisps of reddish-brown smoking in the clean blue water that's soaking my trousers. The white owl somehow succeeds shoving her two squirrels into my potato sack, which isn't completely full yet, and she skims over the black lake for the leaping fish. I smile.

Truly, the Dark Forest is a beauty. Forbidden or not, looking up at the tall trees scraping the open skies, rolling mountains to the north, crystalline waters snaking soft earth, and even the company of too-intelligent owls and of a crazy, sentient Willow — all of it almost makes me forget about the Dursleys, District 12, the Ministry, even Mageía in general.

But considering the daylight hour, it doesn't make me forget the Blood Games.

The reaping.

Today.

Leave a review, maybe some ideas/spotters for grammatical stuff (since I don't have a beta) and maybe a little looksie into your thoughts...? Thanks —rayningnight