Authors Note: Chapter 2! Slightly more descriptive and less eventful, but sometimes I feel other authors rush into action too much. I don't own any of J.K's original characters or any of the Hunger Games, as much as I would like to. Please review; it makes my day. If you want to talk to me about something else or in private, feel free to PM me. Enjoy!

Chapter 2 ~ A Certain Slytherin

All the tributes were ushered into a damp grey building that stood three times as tall as any other houses in Howsingtine, and had a slight tilt to it which always made Hermione wary that it could come toppling any second. It was only used for when important Death eaters came to visit, or other ministry business. The ministry was run by Voldemort himself; although he would employ his servants to do all the actual office work. Everyone knew it was him behind every decree, every decision, corrupting anything that entered its walls. His rules and enforcements made Professor Umbridge look like one of her fluffy kittens that hung on her putrid pink walls.

Hermione shivered as they filed into the building, trying to push other grim memories from resurfacing. This was also the place where Voldemort tried to…persuade Hermione to change her mind, and it hadn't been pretty.

"Hurry up." Snarled a voice, and a hooded figure poked Hermione in the back with his wand. The other tributes had already lined up in the foyer, and Hermione who was wrapped up in the terror of the past and the present, was still lingering at the entrance. She scurried forward and took her place in line next to a girl she remembered as Sarah, the girl's chin jutting out defiantly.

The large foyer used to look grand, but age had stripped its beauty away, leaving large patches of damp in the wall and once gold leafed archways were now peeling away. The floor was made up of hard flagstones that echoed when Vitreus' short heels clipped against the surface, and the once royal red curtains were eaten away by moths and covered in a thick film of dust. The room was rectangular in shape and in front of Hermione and the others were a set of shallow steps that led up to a set of doors. Hermione knew what lay behind them; room after room as you carried on up the spiralling staircase that always felt too precarious to stand on. Of course, the other tributes didn't know that. They had never been here before and had hoped they never would be.

Hermione was at a loss at how to feel. At first it was sorrow; hot tears pricking at her eyes, but now that the situation had sunk in it was kind of numbing. Her movements were mechanic, on auto pilot, following the instructions that she had never wished to hear.

Life was unfair, and Hermione decided to accept that.

Vitreus stood at the top of the steps, her black hood now down, showing her sharply cut bob of black hair and her sallow skin that looked like it hadn't seen the sun in weeks. In the back of her mind, Hermione thought she could pass as a female version of Professor Snape, except with a smaller nose.

Poor professor Snape. Dying for a loss cause.

"In a few moments, the Port key will take you to your destination in order for you to meet your stylists and the other tributes." She said stiffly.

Each Hunger Games was hosted in a different place where the tributes stayed for one week before the games. Usually at a high ranked Death Eaters mansion or equally grand place. During that week stylists dressed you up, trying to encourage the rich purebloods to sponsor you. Unfortunately, if you were a traitor or muggleborn, stylists were sometimes wicked creatures who only tried to humiliate you more. Hermione hoped she wouldn't get one of them.

"Wait at your destination for your stylist to find you and follow all orders. Everyone take a hold." She gestured to a broom, and Hermione had to supress a hysterical giggle at the irony of them traveling by port key on a broomstick. According to muggle fairy tale, witches were supposed to travel from one destination to another by these. It still happened today, but only by death eaters and the broom business was on high security at all times.

She gingerly held onto one end of the broom and didn't glance up as another hooded figure took his place next to her whilst also grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back of her robes.

Someone had to stop her letting go before they got there.

Before they left she glanced at the other tributes who were also accompanied by hooded death eaters. A small willowy girl with mousy hair, Grace, was trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her heart-shaped face. She couldn't be any older than 13. The small boy who reminded her of Colin Creevy was also shaking but was trying to put an intimidating face on, which only gave the impression her had just eaten a sour lemon. She had never seen Flyn before, but his face was impassive, as was Luke's, the carpenter's son, however, his fright was betrayed by his eyes which darted frantically around the room.

With a sickening lurch, the decaying foyer disappeared in a blur of colour, and all she could see was the fluttering black cloth of numerous death eaters' robes which whipped around in the wind of traveling. Seconds later they landed on a hard marble floor with a thump and Hermione tried to supress a groan as her elbow jarred against the hard surface. She stood up and looked around, before she gasped and clutched her stomach.

The memories made her feel sick; her head was spinning.

What sick minded being chose this place? Of all places? This was planned, this is just because I'm here…I can't stay here! I can't…

Hermione stared in revulsion at Malfoy Manor.

The planning of Voldemort most likely.

Quickly, she shut her eyes and counted to ten, trying to slow down her rapid breathing.

I can do this, Bellatrix is dead, and I have nothing to worry about except getting killed by a bunch of ruthless teenagers…

She opened her eyes, deciding that it wasn't helping. Instead she stood on her tiptoes and scanned the bustling crowd to get a look at the other tributes. She instantly spotted Pansy, the female tribute for Purebloods no doubt, ordering staff around in a loud voice as if she owned the place. She hadn't changed much it seems; Hermione remembered her deafening voice when anyone got in her way at Hogwarts. She caught glimpse of other random teenagers who she hadn't seen before including a lanky blonde girl and a boy she recognised from Slytherin in her year, but his name now forgotten. As she turned around she gasped and put her hand up to her mouth in disbelief as she watched a well know red-head walk towards her new stylist.

Ginny….

She breathed to herself, thinking it couldn't get any worse. Ginny was under the class of blood traitors and was now part of the Hunger Games themselves. She watched helplessly as she was taken away to one of the many side rooms and the door locked behind her. Ginny's story wasn't too different from Hermione's in the fact that it was her skill with a wand that saved her life. She worked as a maid for a half-blood family further north, and sometimes was able to send Hermione letters which she hid under the floor with her books.

A large hand clasped her shoulder and she turned around with a jump to see the brash Cormac McLaggen grinning at her.

"Long time no see Hermione." He said winking. She felt anger boil up inside her at the coward he is. She was there when she watched the former Quidditch player beg for mercy at the feet of the Dark Lord, grovelling for life. Pathetic. As a half-blood, he was spared. Just.

"Looks like both of us are in it together eh? How unfortunate. Of course, I volunteered." He said arrogantly. Winning the games was a chance at glory, and she could see why he would want to be the victor.

"Leave me alone you coward." She spat at him and turned away so he stood behind her.

"Don't be like that baby…" he said leaning forward into her ear as he started to snake one arm round her waist. Suddenly, Hermione spun and punched McLaggen in the jaw where he stumbled backwards, but not quite falling over.

"Never call me that again."

The crowd went quiet and Cormac cursed under his breath before glaring at Hermione and disappearing into the throng of people. The chatter slowly increased in volume, a few wary looks being shot in the Gryffindor's direction, but no death eaters came to punish her.

It had been a few minutes and slowly, the tributes began to trickle out, leaving Hermione to crane her neck and try and see a stylist without a tribute. As she was looking, she froze as she caught sight of a head of white-blonde hair she had only ever seen once before in her life.

Of course, the male tribute for purebloods.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against a marble pillar, arms folded and dressed in a stylish set of dark emerald robes. His hair was the same as it had been at Hogwarts, yet instead of it being slicked back with a gallon of hair gel, it was slightly longer and looked ruffled, no hair gel in sight. She couldn't but help notice his growth in height and his almost effortless good looks. His trademark smirk, however, had not changed from first year and his grey eyes were scanning the room lazily. Despite his carefree look, Hermione could see that he was stiffer than other tributes, slightly tense as if waiting for something to happen.

Hermione jumped slightly as his eyes met hers and the smirk disappeared, leaving his face blank. She couldn't tell how he felt or what he was doing but his gaze was locked on hers until a nasally voice caught her attention.

"Hermione Granger, Muggle-born."

Behind her stood a tall woman with ginger curls piled on top of her head. She was slightly chubby and wore ghastly orange robes that were far brighter than any other stylists here. In one hand she held a clip-board and in the other a stubby wand that she used to poke Hermione towards another side room as if she was something unpleasant the dog left on the carpet. Not for the first time that day, Hermione thought about the bruise that was going to form as a result from all this wand poking. As she was being pushed towards the room, she turned around to catch the last glimpse of the former Slytherin.

Draco Malfoy was still staring at her.

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