A/N:
This story is my interpretation of what could have been if the Harry Potter characters found themselves in the alternate universe of The Hunger Games. This is a cross-over story, but it will be set in a magical dystopian AU. Having pre-existing knowledge of the original Hunger Games trilogy is not necessary if you want to read this, nor is it necessary to have a pre-existing understanding of the Harry Potter series. If you do, great, you'll probably enjoy the parallels between the two worlds that I've built in my little universe, but if you don't, please don't let that stop you from giving this story a chance.

There will be direct excerpts from The Hunger Games, as well as references to Harry Potter. I take no credit for the ideas and words of either Suzanne Collins or J. .

Huge thanks to my wonderful alpha/beta Gabby (supernovanox on AO3, wattpad, and TikTok), and my betas Zara (zara._anna on TikTok), Megan (megsivy on TikTok), and Laney (laneymalfoy11 on TikTok), who helped keep me and my ideas in check.

If you decide to come along on this journey with me, thank you. I hope you enjoy reading this even a fraction of how much I enjoyed writing it. And,may the odds be ever in your favour!


Chapter 1: Favourable Odds Unfavoured

When Hermione awakened, her bed was cold. Her fingers stretched, seeking any warmth but there was nothing there. It was just her in her little borrowed bed in the Burrow.

She cracked her eyes open, slowly adjusting to the light seeping in from the small and only window above the beds. Ginny was curled into herself across the room, a blanket cocooned around her body and wrapped around her head. The furrow between her brows that had been a constant feature in recent weeks was smooth and relaxed. She looked at peace, the sunlight hitting her face in a way that made her glow. Hermione couldn't help but crack a small smile at the sight.

Today was the day of the reaping.

At the foot of Ginny's bed, when he should have been at the foot of Hermione's, was Crookshanks. The half-kneazle that nobody wanted; her constant companion. Molly had been hesitant to have another mouth to feed when she took her in, but after Crookshanks caught three mice in their first week, she reluctantly let him stay. He had eyes and ears for Hermione, Ginny's bed, and the rodents that made home in the old walls of the building.

She made her way out of bed, quietly heading towards her boots by the door. She pulled on a pair of trousers, a Weasley sweater, and stashed her wand in her pocket before grabbing her beaded bag as she made her way out of the room. With a glance back at Ginny's bed, she saw that both sleepers were still peacefully out; Crookshanks having stretched to his full length parallel to Ginny's body. She closed the door behind her to a quiet click.

The Burrow resided in District 12: the District of coal miners. Typically, it was littered with men and women, grimy and battered with scraped hands and dirty faces. They walked with hunched backs and dragging feet, the coal dust so prevalent in their skin and clothes it was practically part of their being. But today, the unpaved roads were empty. The day of the reaping was a national holiday. Choosing which children to send to battle to their death. A national holiday.

The Weasley's home sat at the edge of The Seam, one of the four major areas of the District and unfortunately also the poorest. It wasn't that the Weasley's themselves were poor, at least not like their few neighbours, it was just that real estate was no luxury. You took what you could get, where you could get it.

Hermione passed a handful of gates before she reached the Meadow. If working and building shelter in The Seam was difficult, finding food was even harder. The Meadow existed just beyond the warded fence of The Seam, and beyond that existed the woods. The fence was meant to enclose all of District 12 in, though the Death Eaters claimed it was for protection from the predators – packs of Acromantulas, Hippogriffs, and Werewolves - that resided in the woods. In theory, the wards on the fence were supposed to be on 24 hours a day, but in reality they rarely were. Hermione took a moment to listen for the quiet hum that meant the wards were live. It was silent. She approached the weak spot in the fence, the one that was closest to home and crawled underneath it, quickly slipping towards the trees for cover as soon as she wriggled through.

Beyond the fence, magic was weak, if not completely irrelevant. Though the leniency of the wards would technically encourage free roamers and escapees, the fear of being without magic acted as the biggest deterrent to the willing. As a means of survival, Hermione had adapted to muggle weaponry, her favorite being her bow and arrow. Once she was behind the safe cover of the trees in the woods, she pulled out her bow and quiver from within a hollow log, safely stowed away since her last trip out.

Inside the woods she could roam freely. There were no real paths to follow, but plenty of food to find if you knew how. Even though trespassing the fence into the woods was illegal, people took the risk if they had weapons like Hermione, though few did. Her bow had been a gift from her parents, specifically her dad, who had spent days meticulously crafting it just for her. He could have made many galleons selling it on the black market, but if the Death Eaters ever found out he would have been publicly executed for empowering rebellion. Most Death Eaters turned a blind eye to the few people who hunted like Hermione because they were just as eager for fresh meat as the next person, but arming someone would never be permitted.

"District twelve" Hermione muttered to herself, "Where you can starve to death in safety." She glanced over her shoulder, an instinct she didn't even have to think about at this point. Even out in the middle of nowhere, the fear that someone might have overheard her was always there.

When Hermione was younger, she worried her mother with the things she used to say about District 12 and the people that ruled the country. The Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and everyone who lived in Pure Capital – she spared offence for none of them. As she got older, she understood that having a big mouth would only lead to more trouble. She didn't talk about it much with anyone, but she sometimes wondered if it had anything to do with her parents' death.

She had long ago learned how to hold her tongue and wear a perfected mask of indifference. Occlumency helped too, which she was a natural at, to restrict anyone from reading her thoughts. Hermione had created a routine for herself that kept her and the few people she had left safe – she kept her head down in school and made polite small talk in public, but nothing more.

In the woods, the only person who she could be herself with awaited her. Ron. She could feel the muscles in her face relax, her pace quickening as she climbed a hill towards their usual meeting place. It was shrouded by a Boom Berry bush to protect from unwanted eyes.

"Hey 'Mione," greeted Ron. He had never called Hermione by her full name. As long as she could remember, even before she came to live with his family, it was always Mione.

"Look what I caught," he said with his signature grin that felt so comfortable to her plastered on his face, as he pulled out a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it. Hermione laughed. It was real bakery bread, unlike the sad excuse for it they made from their rations. Hermione took it in her hand and inhaled the fresh fragrance. It made her mouth salivate and her knees slightly weak.

"It's still warm," she said. "What did it cost you?"

"A niffler. I think the old lady was feeling sentimental this morning," Ron said with a shrug. "She even wished me luck."

"I guess we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" mumbled Hermione.

"I almost forgot, Happy Hunger Games!", he said, projecting his voice in a Pure Capital accent. He plucked a few Boom Berries from the bushes surrounding them. "And may the odds –" he tossed a berry up and eyed it to catch with his open mouth.

Hermione swiped the berry with her hand and plopped it into her own mouth with a smile. "- be ever in your favor!" she finished with similar vigour. It was his turn to laugh.

She watched as he pulled out a knife and carefully sliced the bread. Ron was practically her brother. He looked nothing like her with his ginger hair and pale freckled skin, but his green eyes resembled her mother's so much it was unnerving. Hermione obviously didn't resemble any of the Weasley's, with her brown hair and caramel eyes. If she looked out of place, it's because she was. Her parents had used to run a potions shop in the nicer part of District 12 where they previously lived. Very few people, if any, could afford a Healer so potions were the next best thing. Her parents met each other because her father used to be a hunter and would collect magical herbs and sell them to her mother, which she used to brew into remedies. She tried to remember them and their warmth in her hardest days.

Ron spread the bread slices with some makeshift jam, made from the same berries he was tossing in his mouth, and carefully placed a mint on each slice. They settled into the nook of a rock as they ate. It was a beautiful day - the kind when you feel the season tipping the cusp between spring and summer. The sky was blue and there was a soft breeze blowing past Hermione's hair and warming her neck. The bread was wonderful, as was the jam, the flavor bursting in her mouth. It was a perfect day, and if it really was a holiday, her and Ron would spend the day roaming the woods and exploring the caves. But instead, they would be standing in the District square in a few hours waiting for their names to be called out.

"We could do it, you know," Ron said softly.

"Do what?" she asked.

"Leave the District. Run off and live in the woods. You and I could make it Mione," he said, almost more to himself than to her.

It wasn't the first time Ron had suggested the idea. Hermione didn't know how to respond.

"If there weren't so many of us," he added quickly with a chuckle.

There truly were lots of them. Hermione didn't have any siblings herself but Ron was one of seven, eight if you counted Hermione as an honorary Weasley. He was officially second youngest, a few years ahead of Ginny. His three older brothers, Bill, Charlie, and Percy all had kids of their own. And they would have to throw Molly and Arthur in too if they left, because they wouldn't be able to live without their children. Even with Ron and Hermione hunting almost every day, there were still many nights when the occupants of the Burrow would go to sleep with growling stomachs.

"I never want to have kids," she said quietly.

"I might want to. If I didn't live here," he answered, flashing an expectant look at her that went unnoticed.

"But you do."

He sighed. "Forget it."

The conversation didn't feel right. Leave? They couldn't leave. As much as the whole Weasley clan had become Hermione's honorary family, she was especially close to Ginny. She had always dreamt of having a little sister when she was growing up, and now she had one. If they couldn't leave, why even bother entertaining the idea? And even if they could, what did children have to do with it? Hermione had never felt anything romantic towards Ron, though she suspected that wasn't the case for him. They had met when she was only eleven-years-old and his family had come to her parent's shop, but it had taken a long time for them to even become friends.

"What do you want to do?" Hermione finally asked, breaking the tight silence that had settled between them. "We can hunt, or fish, or even gather."

"Let's go down to the lake to fish. We can get something nice for tonight," he said, the previous tense moment seemingly forgotten by him.

Tonight, after the reaping. Tonight when everybody was supposed to celebrate. And most people truly would, at the relief that their children weren't picked and were spared for at least another year. But most were not all. Two families would have to try and figure out how they would live through the painful weeks to come, weeks that would most likely be their children's last.

They made out fairly well with their hunting. By the early afternoon, they had caught numerous fish and had gathered a whole bag of greens, along with multiple large handfuls of fresh strawberries.

On their way home from the woods, they stopped by Knockturn, the black market where they traded their goods. Most businesses closed on the day of the reaping, but the black market was always bustling. They easily traded some of the fish for more bread and some salt. Madam Rosmerta, the frail old woman who sold soup from a large kettle turned to them and said something unintelligible, to which they both smiled and nodded. They put a conscious effort into keeping on good terms with her as she was the only one who consistently bought Crup. They didn't hunt the wild dogs on purpose, but if attacked and they took a dog or two out, it was great to still be able to salvage the meat.

When they finished at the market, they made their way to the mayor's house to sell some of the strawberries as he was one of few in the District that could afford the price. He answered the door himself. One would have expected him to be a snob, being the mayor and all, but he was usually alright. He was a fairly large man with a long white beard, a very stereotypical looking wizard. In another life he probably wore long robes and a pointy hat. In this life though, he was dressed in linen pants and a grey button down shirt. They rarely talked with him when making a sale, which seemed to suit them more than it suited him. He was a natural conversationalist, and with today being what it was, much too peachy for Hermione's liking.

"Hello Hermione," he said warmly before adding with a smiling nod, "Ron."

"Mayor Dumbledore," Hermione responded back, avoiding any ceremonial greeting.

He spotted the strawberries in Ron's hands and started to rummage through his pockets for the galleons he owed them. "Happy Hunger Games," he said, and flashed a toothy grin.

Hermione and Ron nodded and forced strained smiles onto their faces.

"How many entries this year for you both? Five? Six?" he continued.

Hermione clenched her jaw. "Fifty-two, sir," she said.

"Sixty-four for me," Ron added.

Mayor Dumbledore had the nerve to look surprised. Hermione's eyes landed on a small pin that adorned the breast pocket of his shirt. It looked goblin made, no doubt of real gold. It could probably feed a family for a year.

"Quite a few entries you've both got," he said, not quite understanding their tension. He pulled some money from his pocket and handed it to Hermione. "Well, good luck to you both," he said with a gracious smile before stepping back and closing the door.

Hermione and Ron walked towards the Burrow in utter silence, neither knowing what to say after that exchange. The irony that the Mayor didn't understand the unfair reaping system didn't go unnoticed by either of them. He didn't have children, and he also wasn't what you would call poor. One would think that after years of sending other people's children to their deaths as sacrifice, he would at least have the decency to know how the system worked.

Every resident becomes eligible for reaping the very day they turned eleven. In the first year, their name got added once. When they turned twelve, twice. It increased every year that way until they were eighteen, which was the final year of eligibility. In that year, their name got entered eight times, for a total of 36 entries. That was the case for every resident of every District in Regnum.

There was of course a catch. If you were poor, you could choose to add your name in exchange for a partem. Each partem was worth a year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You could also volunteer to do it for as many family members as you had per year. Hermione, having been slightly more privileged when her parents were around, had to exchange partem for them only a few times. Ron, being from a larger family, took the brunt when his last older brother passed the age of eligibility. He took partem for him and for his parents and one year for Ginny. Hermione had offered to take them for Ginny since Molly had welcomed her in. It was her way of saying thank you, and sacrificing for the sake of the greater good in one of the few scarce ways she could– the Weasley's youngest daughter, Hermione's surrogate sister, had just a few entries to her name so far. They planned to keep it that way.

There was a reason why in Mayor Dumbledore's case, if he ever had his own children, they would have a very slim chance of having their name drawn compared to those that lived in the Seam. It wasn't impossible. But it was definitely slim. He was wealthy, not just by District standards, but by all standards. He would have never had to take partem. Certainly not his children either.

The partem were a sore subject for Hermione. Deep in the woods, Ron had to listen to her rant about how they were just a tool used to cause misery in the District many times. It was something she became more aware of when she came to live in the Burrow, and was fuelled every time she had to take partem for herself and Ginny. And especially so when the reaping loomed near.

Ron and Hermione dropped off their catches in the kitchen and went their separate ways. Despite how small the Burrow was, there was a separate wing for the boys and the girls. Hermione rarely saw Ron at home because of it.

"See you in the square," Hermione said flatly.

"Wear something pretty," he responded back with a ghost of a smile and turned to head into his own part of the house.

Hermione spotted Molly as she headed up the stairs. She was in a dress that her mother used to wear to the potion shop. She passed off what remained of her parents' clothing to the Weasleys when she got there. As she entered their shared quarters, she spotted Ginny in Hermione's own reaping outfit from a few years ago. It didn't fit quite right, but Molly seemed to have charmed it to stay in place.

A tub of warm water waited for Hermione in the bathroom. She scrubbed the dirt off from the woods, and the water was still warm enough to wash her hair. A dress was laid out for her when she emerged back into her room. She knew it was Molly's as she didn't have much of her own fancy clothes left. It was a beautiful periwinkle blue.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked. It had been years since Molly had taken her in and it still felt odd accepting such outward favors from her.

"Of course," Molly said with a smile. "Let's put your hair up, too." Hermione reluctantly let her braid her unruly hair and it didn't go unnoticed when Molly sneaked in a few beauty charms to it. Hermione could hardly recognize herself in the splintered mirror on the wall.

"You look so pretty," whispered Ginny.

"And different," Hermione said. She pulled Ginny in for a hug because she knew the next few hours would be some of the worst of her life. It wasn't Ginny's first reaping, but it didn't really get any easier. The first few years were always the most daunting. She was safe as one could get at her age, but she knew the reality that Ron and Hermione faced. Between the two of them, they probably had the most entries for their respective gender in the entire District.

The Weasley family, and Hermione by extension, looked to protect Ginny in any way they could. The reaping was one of the few things they held no power over. Hermione noticed the blouse Ginny was wearing had pulled out of her skirt. "Tuck your dragon's tail in, Gin," she said with a warm smile.

"Maybe I want to be a dragon," she retorted back.

Hermione was reminded of the story she'd told Ginny for many years. She too would want to be a dragon. Slay the monsters and the demons and ride off into the sunset.

"You are," Hermione said patiently. "But within. Don't play all your cards by showing your tail."

Ginny laughed and did as she was told.

At quarter past one, the whole Weasley clan with Hermione in tow, headed for the square. Even though Molly and Arthur weren't eligible for the reaping, attendance was mandatory. It didn't matter if you were old or sick or nearly dying. Death Eaters came around once the ceremony started to check if you were there. If not, you were imprisoned.

People filled the square silently. All those that were eligible for the reaping were shepherded into marked areas that were broken up by age and gender in the center of the square. Family members gathered around it behind a marked perimeter. There were also those who didn't have anything at stake, no loved ones or friends with eligible children, so they took bets. 'The better the gambler, the worse the man,' Hermione thought to herself. Most people didn't deal with the swindlers, some because of ethics and others because they don't want to break the law. There were swift punishments for lawbreakers. Hermione and Ron were always at risk of punishment with their hunting habits, though the eagerness of the people they sold to and traded with protected them.

As the start of the reaping ceremony loomed nearer, the space in the square continued to fill. Though it was a large space, it wasn't nearly enough to hold all the District 12 residents. There were nearly ten thousand of them in total. Once space ran out, people were redirected to streets surrounding the square where the Pure Capital had set up large television screens. A nice little luxury for the residents of the District that most often starved to death. The ceremony was always broadcast around the country.

Hermione stood amongst twenty or so students from her school, all the same age as her. They had been divided between boys and girls. The energy in the space was tense, with people unsure if they should ignore their fellow eligibles or comfort them. Most people chose to do nothing, simply exchanging tense nods when they made eye contact and focusing their attention to the stage before the town hall building. It had been set with three chairs, a flashy podium, and two fiery goblets that Hermione knew were filled with slips of paper. She stared at the goblets with the names of girls. Fifty three of those slips had her name on them.

On the stage, two out of the three chairs were already filled. One by Mayor Dumbledore, who had changed out of his linen garb from earlier and was seated in a crisp blue suit and skinny tie with his legs stretched before him – like a sore thumb amongst his impoverished neighbours. Next to him sat Rita Skeeter, who was the escort for District 12 and had arrived fresh from Pure Capital dressed in a velvet green blazer and pencil skirt, her hair a stark white color and lips a terrifying red.

As the clock struck two, the mayor stepped to the podium and began to read his speech- a rinse and repeat of the year before and every year before that. He spoke of the history of Regnum and how the country had risen on the grounds of what was formerly Great Britain. He detailed the first wizarding war and the natural disasters that followed that nearly decimated the lands. The result of all of that was the creation of Regnum, with its Capitol full of purebloods and wealthy and the thirteen Districts. What followed was the second wizarding war, known as the Battle of Hogwarts, which grew from an uprising of the thirteenth District: Hogwarts. The rebellion spread to all Districts across the country and all were ultimately defeated by Pure Capital. The thirteenth District was decimated and today was no more. The current magical laws guaranteed that there would be peace within the Districts and between them, and that no uprising would be possible again. As a lingering reminder of the Battle of Hogwarts and all that came with it that should never be repeated, existed the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games were fairly simple. In punishment for the rebellion, each District would normally enlist one boy and one girl, referred to as tributes, to represent them. Each District had its own set of two fiery goblets, and those acted as impartial selectors for the tributes. The goblets were magical sentient artefacts that had the discretion to choose who was most worthy to represent their District. The selected tributes would then be imprisoned in an outdoor arena and would be forced to fight to their death until there was one tribute left standing – that tribute would be the winner. Magic meant that the outdoor arena could be anything from a frozen tundra, to an infested swamp, to a cursed cave. Nothing was off limits.

Hermione swallowed the rising bile in her throat as she thought about the underlying message to the Mayor's words. The Hunger Games forced children to pay repentance for the actions of adults that were no longer alive and was just another way the regime controlled every resident in every District. It was their way of saying 'You wronged us, now watch your children kill each other.' It made Hermione sick. It enraged her. It brewed enough anger within her that she nearly felt the Unforgivables at the tips of her fingers. It was all their way of saying that if there was another rebellion, nobody would survive. They wouldn't hesitate to decimate every last person like they did District 13.

To make matters even more humiliating, the day of the reaping and the entirety of the Hunger Games were expected to be treated as a celebration, a mere sporting event rather than a constructed genocide.

The mayor's voice cut through Hermione's thoughts. "It's time for atonement and for thanks," he said.

Then he read the list of "all" of the victors that District 12 had had. In over seventy five years, there had been exactly one: Alastor Moody, otherwise known as Mad-Eye by the children who feared him, and Moody by everyone else. He was a middle-aged man, pudgy and tall with a magical glass eye – something he was well known for, especially because it came as a result of an injury he took while in the Games. Hermione had never interacted with him before but knew exactly who he was. As the mayor read off his name, he staggered up onto the stage muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He reached for the flask at his hip and took a deep swig, his one functioning eye rolling to the back of his head and his glass eye staring straight ahead. He belched loudly and stumbled back into the empty chair meant for him with a loud cackle.

The mayor, knowing that they were being televised across the country, looked distressed. District 12 would be the laughing stock of every District. He scrambled to introduce Rita Skeeter.

Upbeat as ever, Rita Skeeter galloped to the podium and greeted everyone with her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She rambled about the honor of her being there, the honor the tributes would face if they were picked, and the honor that would bestow the District if they were the winners. Laced within every one of her words was the message that she would rather represent any District but this one – she would much rather escort winners, which other Districts had plenty of.

Amongst the crowd, Hermione spotted Ron looking at her sternly. Hermione started to think about Ron and how many slips of paper were in the goblet with his name and how the odds were not in his favor. At least not compared to the other boys in the District. As his face darkened and he broke his glance to turn away, she thought that maybe he was thinking the same thing about her.

As the time for the drawing neared, Rita Skeeter shrieked, "Ladies first!" and crossed the podium to the goblet with the girls' names. She stuck out her hand in anticipation towards the goblet and waited for it to spit out the name it had chosen, time feeling like it was standing still as she did. The blue flames surrounding the goblet turned red as it shot out a name, the slip of paper landing swiftly in Rita Skeeter's hands. Her fingers wrapped around the slip of paper and she slowly unwrapped it, stretching the moment as if for her own twisted pleasure. It felt as though the whole crowd drew a collective breath. Hermione felt nauseous, and was desperately thinking please not me, please not me, please don't be me.

Rita Skeeter crossed back to the podium and smoothed the slip of paper before her. She cleared her throat obnoxiously before reading out the name in a sharp voice.

It was not Hermione.

It was Ginevra Weasley.


A/N:

My inspiration for Dumbledore in this is Paul Mason – if you don't know who that is, he went viral a few years ago for being fashion Santa. It sounds weird, but I promise it's not. He's a model from the UK and as much of a GILF as a white long bearded man can be. Though I never considered Dumbledore attractive in the books/movies, I had a vision of him looking like a wealthy man that lives on an Italian coast and from there, Paul Mason became my Dumbledore fancast because it's fun, and I like to have fun.

In the Hunger Games trilogy, the country they live in is called Panem, which means bread. I didn't think that was super relevant to the story and wanted something a bit more "voldemorty" so I went with Regnum, which loosely translates to kingdom rule. I obviously do not speak Latin but google translate allows me to pretend that I do.

The quote about Dragons that Hermione thinks about in her conversation with Ginny is by Nikita Gill. It goes like this: "If you know of monsters, and if you know of demons, then just remember, they know of you too, and they fear you, because you are the dragon that can overcome them." Dragons are going to play a big role in this story, as you would probably expect. It'll take a few chapters for our favorite dragon to make an appearance, but I promise he's coming.

'The better the Gambler, the worse the man' is a more modern reference to a quote from Ancient Rome by Publilius Syrus: "The more skillful the gambler, the worse the man".