A/N:

Chapter title inspired by Jeanette Leblanc: "There is a girl, she is wise and wary of flames, but still, she knows she will survive the fire life scorches sometimes. She has been a phoenix, before, and every time she burns to ashes, she knows exactly how to rise again."

This chapter includes direct excerpts from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, denoted by *. I take no credit for her words or ideas.

Beta love to supernovanox, zara._anna, megsivy, and laneymalfoy1. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 11: She Burns to Ash, and Rises Again

Every tribute after Malfoy passed in a blur before Hermione heard her name being called up to stage. When she stepped out past the curtain and spotted the crowd of thousands, the muscles around her throat tightened. Ears flushed red, she focused on the steps from where she was to where she needed to be – 1 – 2– right – left – almost – there. Moments later her hand was in Gilderoy's outstretched palm and he was kissing the top of it.

May the odds be ever in my favor.

She stole a second to take in her surroundings. The limited view from backstage did the scene before her no justice. Evening dusk had settled over the city but the City Circle was bright and in typical Pure Capital spirit, colorful. Before the stage was a small standing crowd of around a hundred people and behind them a mob of cameras pointing in different directions. Beyond that were rows upon rows of seats, each filled with a person that seemed to span for miles.

Hermione's heart stammered in her chest. It was the largest crowd she had ever been in front of. Every fear and worry in her mind sparked, sending gooseflesh down her spine. Past the crowd, high in the elevated balconies, were prestigious guests and the styling crews. She spotted Fleur and breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

I can do this.

She sat down opposite Gilderoy and met his eyes. He was smiling at her oddly, the same way you do when trying to figure someone out who asked a perplexing question. She matched it back to him with ease.

"Hermione Granger," he sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. "Welcome to Pure Capital."

"Thank you."

He looked out to the crowd expectantly and flashed someone a cheeky wink. If Gilderoy was anything, he was a crowd-pleaser.

"Tell us," he prattled. "What's been your favorite part about the city?"

That question, the same one that Moody had tried to rehearse, immediately stumped her. It was the one that she wasn't able to answer, because how could she say "nothing"? How could she politely explain to a host, a crowd of people, and the entire nation watching her on television, that she loathed everything about their rotten city?

Her mouth went dry. She opened it, then closed it, then opened it again, willing any sound to come out. Just say something. She looked out to the crowd, almost desperately, and spotted Fleur again.

"The pumpkin juice," she blurted out. "I like the pumpkin juice."

Gilderoy threw his head back and laughed. It was the only thing she could think of that was honest.

"Pure Capital's finest," he said, forcing down a grin. "I drink it by the gallons." The crowd roared into laughter.

"Now, Hermione, your dress in the opening ceremony blew everyone away," he turned to the standing crowd before the stage and urged them to agree. "It did, didn't it?" A few people started to applaud, and a rambunctious cheer broke through the otherwise quiet crowd.

"Yes, yes it did," Gilderoy smiled as if the cheering person had spoken up on cue. "Tell me more about that dress."

Unlike the question about Pure Capital, for which there were only a handful of positive answers, this she could do. Talking up Fleur would be easy.

"I loved it," she affirmed. "Fleur designed the dress and it was a great representation of me."

Gilderoy nodded at her every word, maintaining persistent but comfortable eye contact, almost as if he was encouraging her on.

"And what did it represent?"

Her mind flashed between options – to tell, or not to tell? The runes were special to her, and she almost didn't want to ruin the exclusivity of their meaning. But Moody's voice broke through.

Act humble.

Don't be hostile.

Smile.

Every one of his words, though fuelled by anger and impatience, started to click. This was all a game. The game leading up to the actual Games. She was skillful, she was smart, she could do this.

This is a game of wizard's chess. The king's piece is in sight. Make your move.

"It represented me in the most simple way. The details are a bit of a secret though," she smirked.

Gilderoy gasped. "Oh Hermione, do tell!"

This is a game of wizard's chess.

She pulled an honest expression to her face. "It's something pretty special to me, but I can give you a little bit of a hint." She looked out towards the standing crowd. At the tease, they smiled up at her, one by one.

Gilderoy's eyes lit up, the corners of his mouth pulling up into bright pink cheeks. He turned to the crowd and started to garner a chant. "Tell! Tell! Tell!"

A few people from the crowd joined in, while Gilderoy kept motioning for them to get louder. And they did. They got louder and louder, and suddenly Hermione was blushing and wondering if it was supposed to be this easy.

The king's piece is in sight.

"Okay, okay!" she laughed. "You've worn me down! There were runes on the dress."

Gilderoy's eyebrows flashed up his forehead. "Runes, you say? The study of ancient runes is quite that, ancient! Practically extinct!"

She nodded. "It is," with a smile. "Fleur is brilliant. And look at this piece," she said, pointing down to her dress. "When I say she's brilliant, I mean it."

Gilderoy's expression shifted curiously, his eyes passing over her dress slowly.

"It is quite lovely," he hummed. "Would you stand? Give the people a better look!" He regarded the crowd again and encouraged their eager applause.

Make your move.

She stood, and caught Fleur in the crowd again. She gave her the smallest twirl of her finger before motioning down to Hermione's skirt.

Hermione remembered. With two hands, Fleur had said. She wasn't sure how much time was left in her interview but she knew there wasn't much. Whatever surprise Fleur had hidden within her dress would have to make itself known soon.

Gilderoy beamed at her as she made her way to the center of the stage. She grabbed her overskirt with one hand and turned her back to the crowd, showing off the intricate details of the feather design. The crowd ooh'd and ah'd, thoroughly enraptured by the show she was putting on.

He brought his face up close to the train of her skirt and examined it. Running his hands over the feathers, he seemed to revel in the soft texture and detailed pattern.

"Simply beautiful," he remarked. "I see why you like your stylist." Voices among the crowd rang out in giggles.

Make your move.

Now standing in the center of the stage, Gilderoy came over and stopped before Hermione. She knew her time was running out.

"Before I let you go, tell us, what went through your mind when you volunteered?"

If this was a game, Hermione could play. She decided to tell the truth.

"I was nervous."

His expression was warm. "I bet you were. And what did your family tell you when they saw you off?"

She hoped the clench of her jaw went unnoticed at the mention of family.

"They told me to be strong and try to win."

Gilderoy hung on to her every word. "And what did you say?"*

Make your move.

Her veins turned to ice. It was the moment of truth. She felt it in her bones, her muscles, and deep within her heart. All her previous hesitation and fear seemed to dissolve at the direct probe. If she had to kill right now, she could. She believed she truly could.

"I promised I would."*

Gilderoy looked at her, glassy-eyed, and squeezed her hand. The buzzer blared, signifying the end of her interview.

"Best of luck, Hermione Granger, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Hermione nodded her head in acknowledgment, and as she turned to make her way off the stage, met the eyes of Fleur one final time. A tiny flash of a thumbs-up was all she needed.

She grabbed the overskirt of her dress on either side with each hand. Pushing both arms back and swiftly down, the skirt train flared into the air and straightened out behind her. To the unknowing eye, she hoped that it looked like an inconspicuous adjustment. She looked back at the skirt as the crowd stilled.

Suddenly, the feathers at the tip of the dress ignited. One by one, each feather burst into flames, beautiful magical flames, and started to fall like dominoes up a straight path towards her hips. She pulled her arms up, letting go of the skirt behind her, and watched in awe. As soon as the last feather lit up, the entire skirt crumbled to ash.

As the last bit of ashy powder fell to the floor, a large and unexpected gust of wind swept it into the air. It slowly encircled Hermione and engulfed her from head to toe. The crowd gasped.

It swirled around her body like a tornado, slowly shifting from shades of grey to fragments of gold, silver, and red. The specks of color lifted up her body, collecting at the top of her head, and slowly trailed down her back. They moved like fairy dust, purposeful and controlled until the wind around her calmed and she felt the prickle of magic all over her skin.

Her dress was embodying a phoenix. The truest symbol of the journey through fire she would have to take in the Games. And like her pin, it was a nod to rebellion. She wondered if President Riddle was watching, and what he was thinking.

This is a game of wizard's chess. The king's piece is in sight. Make your move.

As the specks of color settled to form a new overskirt in place of where the other was, the crowd broke into a deafening roar. She smiled at them sweetly and walked the rest of the way off stage, glowing feathered train trailing behind her.

Checkmate.

When Hermione passed the safety of the curtains, her whole body slumped forward. The adrenaline she'd felt on stage came flooding out of her in rapid breaths, panting in a desperate attempt to fill her lungs with air. It was as if she had held on until her breaking point and now the dam had collapsed. She had done it. The relief she felt was palpable.

She had promised Ginny she would try, and she did. She had been able to find the smallest ounce of courage and willpower deep within her and that was the strength she needed to get through the interview. It was the final daunting task she had left to face before her journey into the Games began.

If she had taken the time to observe her surroundings, she would have seen the blonde head of hair sitting on the other side of the stage from where she had exited from. He had smiled when she spoke, applauded her when she made her exit, and then collapsed into his chair to spend the rest of the evening watching the crowd filter out of the square.

But instead, Hermione had made her way to the elevator without a second glance back.

Alone, she rode all the way up to the twelfth floor. She waited for several minutes for the rest of her team to arrive but when they didn't, she figured they had been caught in the crowd of people leaving the Circle. She followed the delicious smell of dinner and felt her feet gravitating to the dining area. As soon as she entered, heavy overskirt trailing behind her, she heard the shriek of Rita's voice.

"Hermione Granger, you little vixen!" she trilled, opening her arms to envelope Hermione in an unnecessary hug. "You kept your charm under wraps on purpose, didn't you?"

Hermione blushed. "Not quite, but I'm glad you think so." And she was. Infinitely glad. If Rita had bought it, then everyone else had too.

Moody gave her one swift pat on the back, already reeking of alcohol. "You did good," he gruffed, magical eye spinning as he reviewed the dinner offerings. "You can hope it's enough for the sponsors." It was as much of a compliment as she could get from him so she took it in stride.

Cedric and Viktor kissed her on the cheeks and whispered sweet nothings to her. She was struck by a painful thought that she would actually miss them, but quickly swallowed it away.

"Wonderful job," Fleur smiled, and though she tried not to let her face show it, Hermione could tell she was pleased. The dress had done what she planned.

"Thanks to you," Hermione responded.

The group of six collapsed onto their chairs and dug in to eat. After a meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and baked carrots, Hermione was stuffed. When a plate of fruit scones arrived, they all shifted to the sitting area to watch a replay of the day's events.

When Gilderoy's final words wrapped up the night, the screen of the television went dark. A somber hush fell over the room as the realization of what was to come settled over everyone. Come the next morning, it would be Hermione's last time waking in a bed before the Games began. Whether she would ever get to do it again after that, was still to be seen.

The Games would begin at eleven.

Moody and Rita wouldn't join Hermione at the arena. Their task as of the morning would be to head to the headquarters, a top-secret location that changed every year and was only divulged to Death Eaters and the mentor and escort for each tribute. Their focus would be to finalize deals with potential sponsors and work out the strategy for when gifts would be delivered to her. She would be escorted to the arena only by Fleur, who would see her out until the very moment she was launched into the Games.

Her final goodbyes with everyone else would come now.

Rita clasped her hands around Hermione's, faint tears already collecting on her lower lash line, and wished her well. She thanked her for being her tribute and said it was an honor to escort her.

As Rita reached over to wake Moody, she muttered under her breath. "Maybe they'll give me a good District next year."

Hermione sighed, wondering if Rita intended to be overheard. But she couldn't find it in herself to be mad at the woman or lash out. This would likely be the last time she ever saw her, and for that she was grateful. As Moody roused from his nap, Rita kissed Hermione on the cheek and scurried out of the room.

When Moody opened his eye, he crossed his arms and looked Hermione up and down, scowling. Whatever positive sentiment he had shared with her earlier, though scarce and somewhat dry, had quickly evaporated from his demeanor. He looked at her the way you look at a pile of hippogriff dung.

"Any final words of advice*?" she asked, hoping to break the tension and speed their goodbye along. She figured if she didn't say something, he could have eyed her all evening.

He yawned, placing his hand steadily on the flask at his hip. "Avoid everything at the Cornucopia. If the bow and arrow aren't set right in front of you, don't even bother with anything else. Throw up a shield charm and get the hell out of there," he muttered, unhappy as ever to have to do his job and offer advice. "Is that clear?"

"No," she said. "Not really. What if I can't make a bow and arrow?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, unimpressed. "You're a witch Granger, I'm sure you can think of something."

She scoffed but remained silent. If it was really as simple as just being a witch or wizard, there would rarely be any casualties. But the reality was, only one person would be left standing at the end of it all.

"Okay," she breathed, knowing that arguing with him wasn't worth it. "And then what?"

He smiled at her, a vicious and mean sneer that did nothing to ease her nerves or bring her comfort.

"Constant vigilance," he said. "Stay alive."

It was the same advice he had given her on the train. There was nothing else left to say.

After she was hugged and showered in pecks by Cedric and Viktor, she waved to Fleur and made her way to her room. A bath had been drawn and the bedsheets pulled back for her. Though there was nobody else in the room, she knew the black-haired girl had been there.

She wished she at least knew her name.

Hermione settled into the bath, relishing in the warmth and comfort. She dispensed the soap that had become her favorite since she arrived, a mixture of strawberry and mint, and slathered it across her body with a coarse loofah. She scrubbed the ash that still magically lingered on her skin and the weight of the rest of the day away. She massaged soap into her hair, knowing it would be the last time, whether for long or forever, that she would be able to get a good wash. Cleansing charms could only do so much in the arena, and the luxury of filtered running water and a bathtub would be nowhere to be found.

After her bath, she dressed in a fleece nightgown and climbed into bed. Like the bath, the bed was warm and enveloped her like a hug.

The moment her eyes closed, vivid images flipped through her mind. The faces of the other tributes, weapons pointed at her, her own vicious death. She shot up in bed, heart racing, and tried to calm her rapid breathing.

Think of something good. Think of something good. Think of something good.

But was there any good left to think of?

One hour passed, then another, and still, her mind was consumed with the odds. What the terrain would be in the arena, the weapons, and her fate. Would they be dropped in a desert? Or a frigid tundra? Maybe a dystopian city, or a chemical wasteland?

She hoped if anything, if there was any luck left for her in the world, that it would be a forest. Something she was familiar with. A forest would give her the best chance of survival, with ample space for shelter and food, regardless of whether she ended up in an area with no magic or not. She could survive it. She knew she could. At least for a little while.

As the hours passed and her mind whirred, the anxiety absorbed her. The more Hermione thought, the less likely sleep would come to her. Her heart raced, her palms sweat, and suddenly she was up on her feet and pacing around the room. She paced until the walls started to close in around her. She was in a prison cell, and she needed to get out.

Bursting from the room, she ran down the hall towards the stairs, taking two at a time before she reached the door to the roof. All she wanted was to breathe fresh air. To let it fill her lungs and feel alive for just a little longer.

Breathing suddenly felt like a luxury she couldn't get enough of because she knew it was slipping through her fingers faster than she could hold onto it. There was a countdown clock, a ticking time bomb, and then suddenly and all at once it could vanish.

She burst through the door and gasped as the cool wind hit her face, her heart immediately calming. This was her last night breathing fresh air without being hunted.

But maybe that day had already long passed.

The roof was empty but lit by the moon in the sky. The stars twinkled brightly and illuminated the night. It was breathtakingly beautiful. She could never see a sky like this in District 12 because of the coal pollution. She walked herself to the small garden she had uncovered the last time she was there and sat on the ledge.

Just moments later, the door to the roof creaked open.

With her reflexes still fuelled by the lingering anxiety, she quickly disillusioned herself.

The door opened and closed, but there was nobody there.

Warm wind howled around her, broken up by the commotion of the still busy streets below, but she was alone. No scuffs of shoes or sounds of steps. She started to wonder if the wind had flung the door open itself or if the roof was charmed to play tricks on her, but the thought barely gained traction before a layer of disillusionment slowly started to pull back like a curtain on the body of a person at the center of the roof.

Malfoy. But glancing at him in that moment she felt more inclined to call him Draco.

He was laying on his back in the middle of the roof, arms and legs splayed around him, and his head turned up towards the sky. If he had seen or heard her, he didn't show it. Instead, he appeared to be in his own little world, entranced by the sight above them. Hermione pulled her own eyes up and wondered if he was on to something. An unobstructed view of the sky would look how magic felt coursing through her body.

After another glance in his direction, she carefully moved off the ledge and behind the wild shrubbery of the garden. She took care to stay out of his eyesight and laid herself on the ground.

The dark blue canopy of the sky threatened to consume her. Laying back, head up at the stars, it felt like she was swimming in the depths of an endless pool. The moon was bright, a deep yellow color, and close enough to discern its shaded craters. Specks of silver twinkled like fireflies above her and she decided that she had never seen something as wonderful, as beautiful and magical, as the sight before her.

She turned her head towards Draco, and he laid still in the same place he had appeared in. His body was relaxed, no tenseness in his muscles or limbs, chest rising and falling steadily.

Looking at him, she realized there was something deeply intimate in laying paces away from another person and being engulfed by the same night sky. He was nothing more than a stranger to her, but laying there, suddenly without a worry to cross her mind, she felt as though she knew him. And he knew her.

Maybe it was magic in the sky that allowed for two strangers to look at it and feel known. No matter what life they lived, no matter what problems they faced, they could turn their head up to the same sky, see the same moon, and be swarmed by the same stars. Everything could dissipate at the thought that the world was so much grander and greater than just them.

Her eyes moved back to the sky and she let the shapes and movement of the stars lull her eyelids closed. She thought she might have seen a shooting star before she met the darkness, but it was likely a trick of the light. A figment of her imagination as she dozed off into a deep and restful sleep.

But at least one person on the roof had made a wish.

When her eyes opened in the morning, she was in her bed. She scarcely remembered a dream about constellations and flying through space. She thanked her lucky stars that she was able to get some rest before the day ahead of her.

She rose from bed to greet a knock at the door. Fleur gave her a simple shift dress to wear and told her that her clothing for the Games would be waiting in the warrens beneath the arena. She instructed her to meet in the dining area, where they would have breakfast and then be shepherded off.

Hermione had time to brush her teeth, wash her face, and slip the shift on. Wand in hand, she took one final look at the room before leaving for good. Her eyes passed over the space when she spotted something on the table.

Approaching, she saw a scrap piece of paper, small and coarsely torn. In ragged penmanship, read a message:

I'll be rooting for you.
- Cho

It didn't take long for her to understand what it meant and who it was from. The black-haired girl that she had failed had seemingly risked her life to leave the note for her. Her throat constricted but she pushed the need to cry deep within and set the note alight with a swift Incendio. Its fragments crumbled between her fingers and disappeared into the plush of the carpet.

Hermione was the first to arrive in the dining area. Squibs typically gathered to serve them breakfast, but there were none in the room that morning.

Though she could have waited for Fleur, her stomach grumbled as if on cue. She perused the serving table, passing her eyes over the offerings for breakfast, and reached for the stack of plates, ready to serve herself. But as her fingers grazed the ceramic, she felt a sudden pull behind her navel and everything around her started to spin.

Her body whirled in the space of nothingness, flashes of buildings and streets flying by her vision. The pressure she felt in her skull threatened to consume her and she didn't think she could handle it much longer before she felt solid ground beneath her feet.

As the sensation came to end, she was dropped into an unfamiliar room just as four walls formed around her. She stumbled to get her footing, and the plate slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor.

Where was she? Where was Fleur? What had happened?

Besides her, the room was bare. On a lone chair laid what looked like her clothing for the Games. As her head started to spin, she leaned against a wall for balance. Next to the chair was a small table with breakfast food laid upon it. The dining room at the training grounds was clearly a ruse to get her here.

She tried to steady her heart rate but the sudden transport and unknown surroundings filled her with dread. She stood as if petrified, trying but failing to make sense of where she was and what would happen to her.

Hermione's focus shifted when a door suddenly appeared where there previously was none. The outline of it shimmered into existence along one of the walls for just a moment before it swung open and the last people she ever expected to see stood before her.

The head Games-maker, the one from the showcase with the dreaded black hair, scurried into the room. As soon as he entered, he stepped aside to allow for another person to follow in behind him. The President.

Hermione had a feeling that his appearance wasn't one made to wish her good luck. Her fists clenched at the sight of the man, nails digging into her palms and leaving crescent-shaped moons in their place.

She wanted to pinch herself. It felt like a dream. A terrible dream, very much like the worst nightmare.

"Good morning ," President Riddle said. "How do you do on this fine day?"

She stood, frozen, mind reeling.

"It's alright to be nervous," he continued when it seemed like she lacked the ability to say anything in response. "Most tributes are."

He looked her up and down and though his tone may have been more gentle than she would have expected, the look in his eyes was not. It was vicious and judgemental, and it physically pained her to meet his sight. His presence filled the small room and threatened to suffocate her.

"Present your forearm," the head Games-makers said. "Your left."

She willed herself to ignore the fear coursing through her veins and did as she was told. The President approached her and trained his wand to her arm. As he opened his mouth to speak, she stammered out, "What - what are you - what is that for?"

He chuckled, a deep and throaty sound that came from the base of his chest and reverberated off the walls. "It's your tracker, . The stiller you are, the less it will hurt when I place it."

He didn't wait for her to acknowledge before she was hit with the sharp sting of a spell. She gritted her teeth at the force and felt the pain flood her senses. Though he maneuvered his wand light-handedly, the impact of magic felt like a violent stab. Hermione watched blood trickle from her arm and the sight of it sent a wave of nausea over her. She willed her eyes to look away from his ministrations and shifted them to the only other place she could think of: to the head Games-maker.

He seemed intent on observing the President's handiwork but a second later, he trained his eyes on her as well. His gaze was dark and severe, as though he were filled to the brim with secrets, but his expression betrayed nothing of the sort. She saw his jaw clench once before he shifted his eyes back down to the wand of the President.

The spread of pain accelerated, a trickle of sweat rolling down Hermione's forehead, as she tried everything to hold herself together. She tasted blood in her mouth from where she had bitten her tongue. The pain was nearing unbearable as if her skin was being torched, but she didn't know what consequences awaited her if she didn't hold still. The President's words could have been interpreted as a suggestion, but she knew they weren't. They were an order.

Hermione was on the verge of breaking and yelling out when the magic receded abruptly. She brought her eyes down to her arm to assess the damage and watched in horror as a marking appeared on her pale skin.

It was a single red eye, closely resembling that of a snake.

Her knees buckled at the sight and when she looked up from the ground, the two men were gone. She traced a finger over the marking on her skin, now raw and tattered, and wondered if maybe this was her punishment. Maybe they had waited to stick it to her after her showcase until now. Scare and weaken her just hours before the Games began. It was as much psychological torture as it was physical.

She was still on her knees when Fleur appeared in a flash, seemingly by the same travel method, but with more coordination. She landed swiftly on her feet and immediately rushed over to Hermione's side. Her body was in shock, ears ringing and vision blurring, so she didn't hear nor understand the healing spells that Fleur muttered. But a short moment later, the pain eased. When Hermione's senses started to came back to her, Fleur had cleaned the wound and bandaged the arm.

Reality quickly set in for Hermione. Whatever they had done to her with this spell meant that they would be able to trace her whereabouts in the arena. There was no getting away from them anywhere. She felt numb.

Fleur helped her get dressed in the outfit that had been laid out for her. The trousers stretched around her legs, buckles situated around the thighs that could second as knife sheaths. On top of a tank, she was given a jacket that sat high on her neck with a protective collar. The boots had thick soles and tied halfway up her shins.

As Fleur rose from tying the second boot, she stashed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the phoenix pin. Hermione didn't bother asking where she had gotten it from, but the relief she felt at seeing it was unexpected. She had forgotten about it herself, but the moment Fleur affixed it to her breast pocket, her body relaxed.

Hermione paced the floor of the room, unable to stomach anything more than water and jammed bread. She pulled her Occlumency walls forward as strong as they would go and settled them at the front of her mind. She meant for no rogue thoughts in or out.

A female voice rang out through the room and announced it was time to prepare for the launch.

Similar to how the door had appeared out of thin air, the wall opposite Hermione shifted to allow for a glass platform to rise from the ground. Atop the platform was a fireplace that suddenly flared to life.

Hermione took a step forward.

Above the fireplace appeared a clear glass hood, roughly the size of her, that spanned up to the ceiling and emptied out into a dark passage. It was the compartment that would take her into the arena.

Fleur reached out to her and clasped their hands together. "I believe in you, Hermione," she whispered.

Hermione stepped towards the floo and up onto the platform. As she stood, the glass column moved down over her body and encased her. She looked up at what should have been the ceiling of the room, and her eyes got lost in the darkness above.

Floo powder rained down on her. She glanced one final time at Fleur, who smiled reassuringly.

The static of a mic cut through the silence, as a booming voice rang out across the room.

"Welcome to the Hunger Games!"

A/N:

Most of you guessed Cho, so I'm sure that reveal wasn't all that surprising.

I would also say I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but I'm not. This chapter ending is consistent with the original Hunger Games book and I decided to continue paying homage to that by not diverting from it. You'll forgive me, right?

Now, the next chapter will be a goodie! I've spent the better part of the first 11 chapters staying as consistent to Hunger Games canon as I can, but from this point on there will be a lot more divergence. I always envisioned the road to the Games for Hermione being eerily similar to that of Katniss, but she'll start to lead her own unique story in the arena, and I'm super excited for that to all play out. See you next Thursday :)