The Mudblood Games

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  1. The chosen one is dead, yes, it's true. We all thought that Harry Potter had stopped Voldemort ages ago; we thought we could sleep sound at night knowing evil had been driven from this world, but we were wrong. I didn't even know the Death Eaters were still around, let alone how they got ahold of such an old and powerful magic. Secretly, they used that magic to bring Voldemort and his army back from the grave. After that, it didn't take long for everything to fall apart. Using the element of surprise, Voldemort and his army swiftly sought out Harry Potter and slaughtered him in cold blood...right in front of his family. I couldn't imagine the kind of slow and painful death he must have endured at the Dark Lord's hand. Once Harry had been killed, they moved on to the rest of his family, then on to The Order of the Phoenix; one by one, hunting down and killing the other members of The Order who had helped Potter before.​

    Once all immediate threats were dealt with, Voldemort set his sights on the Ministry. He wanted complete control of our world, and it didn't take long for him to get it. Minister Fudge quickly gave up control without much of a struggle. Consequently, Death Eaters rose to positions of power, and Mudbloods were hunted down and killed for sport. Voldemort's true goal was to follow his predecessors footsteps and eliminate all Mudbloods from his perfect pureblood world. This is where our story begins.​

    It is now 25 years into Voldemort's reign as Minister of Magic. Poverty, crime, and disease run rampant through the entire land. All citizens are forced to obey him; those stupid enough to stand against him being killed in horrendous ways. All purebloods are allowed to live their pitiful lives without worry of oppression while the mudbloods are forced to a life of secrecy and shadow. For those few unlucky Mudbloods that are captured, Voldemort doesn't handle them like you would think. Instead of killing them, he gives them a chance for salvation.​

    Every year, he gathers up 28 Mudbloods that he deems worthy and throws them in an arena together to compete for a small assortment of prizes. The rules for this competition are simple. Rule #1: The last one standing wins. Rule #2: There are no other rules. One by one, the tributes brutally kill one another all in an effort to win Voldemort's favor and rewards. The first reward is complete and total safety from execution or prosecution. The other prize is one wish that will be granted upon victory. A worthy sacrifice for a worthy prize I suppose...This year, I am one of the participants. My name is Daniel Bane, and I'm contestant #13 in the Mudblood Games.​
  2. He could hear them behind him. The Hounds. The masters. All baying for his blood. His hand went down to his calf where one of the dogs had caught him in its mouth. The blood was wet and soaking through his trousers, jagged rips surrounding the wound where he had wrestled free. He had to keep going. Stopping was not an option. If he stopped he would be caught and he couldn't let that happen.

    The pain was rising through his body. He wanted to scream but he couldn't give himself away. The dark surrounded him. Pressing him in. He wasn't usually claustrophobic but the cold and the dark left him scared. Usually he would escape it by clambering up a fire escape or shimmying up a water spout, but his injury left him crippled and unable to really do anything.

    He had to carry on. He had to. He had to stumble further down the network of back alleys that made up his home, hoping beyond hope that he could escape and wouldn't be caught and taken away. Just another filthy Mudblood sent to his death in the Games. He would not be that.

    He couldn't go on. He would die fighting here, where he belonged. He pulled his wand out, his hands shivering and shaking thanks to the cold and pain. He could see the eyes. The dogs standing just out of reach, ready to pounce when their masters gave them permission to savage their prey. To savage him. He raised his wand to fight but then he heard something behind him.

    He snapped around "no...not can't be...please!"

    A thin smile. A hooded cloak. A nasally voice shouting out "SECTUMSEMPRA!" And then darkness.
  3. Quincey hurried down the street, her jaw set and her eyes facing forward. All around her, there were calls from wizards and witches; nasty, arrogant, insulting phrases spat at her as if she were just a paper figure that was present for their amusement. The weight of her backpack made her shoulders ache but she took no notice. For the fifth time in eight months she had been fired from job after job because she was a Mudblood. The whole office had laughed, standing outside the manager's office, waiting for her so they could chant and pull her hair as well as other things. Jerry had even baked a cake, in which she was sure he had inserted some dreadful ingredient which is just the reason she threw it away as soon as she left the office. She'd tried so hard to make this job work, even though she didn't care in the least about accounting (she was good with numbers, though, and it was the first company that accepted her application). Every Friday she had brought in freshly-baked cookies, she kept her desk space neat and organized, she never made excuses, but none of it mattered. Although only less than a month had gone by before she had officially been kicked out, she had been treated as if she were scum the moment she entered the building. No, she would now go back to her grungy apartment, comb the gum out of her hair and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow she would try again, as she had done for the past two years, ever since she moved to this city.

    Her thoughts were interrupted by a shove. She stumbled backward, the weight of her pack almost causing her to fall onto the pavement. "Hey!" she growled, all her anger from the day bubbling up inside. "Watch where you're walking!"

    The person who had bumped her, she now saw, was cloaked from head-to-toe. The only thing she could see of the figure was a long, crooked nose. It seemed familiar, and she squinted, stopping in her tracks. About to say something, a wand protruded from inside the cloak and she gasped, instantly remembering why that nose was so familiar. Even as she tried to run backward, forward, anywhere but where the wand was pointing, it was too late. He had uttered a violent spell, one Quincey knew from her school days, and she fell to the ground with a loud crack, unable to move. Her backpack's contents spewed out onto the street. Her wand, which she had been unable to grab from her pocket, poked her spine, jerked out of its place. The last thing she remembered was a pool of blood under the back of her head and the figure pulling back its hood to loom over her, a satisfied sneer making its way onto Professor Severus Snape's pale face.
  4. "Where to go, where to go," Daniel panted, running down the street.

    His hand firmly gripped his wand as the echo of his feet on the pavement rang out into the night. They had been trying to capture him for weeks now. He had moved three separate times, left his girlfriend Trisha, and abandoned his family -- all in the hopes of escape. Up until this point, Daniel managed to stay one step ahead of them. He slept in dark alleyways, kept his hood up, and was constantly moving from place to place. Somehow, someway, they had finally caught up to him and were now nipping at his heels. In a split-second decision, Daniel took a sharp right turn into a small alley near Bakers St. This decision would come to haunt him as he was met with a large brick wall.

    "Damn it," Daniel exclaimed. He was cornered now, and his options were few in number. With a quick look around, Daniel turned to face the wall, pointed his wand, and shouted, "Bombarda Maxima!"

    The wall violently exploded, flinging bricks in every direction. Before the dust had a chance to settle, Daniel sprinted through the hole he had created. A wave of happiness came over him as the he thought of his potential freedom; however, before he could get too far, his excitement slowly disintegrated into terror as he was hit with a blue stroke of light, throwing him backwards onto the hard concrete. From the direction of the spell, Daniel could hear a cold and familiar laugh echo through the alley. Slowly a dark figure approached, eventually standing over Daniel's limp body. Daniel didn't have the courage to say anything to the man, so without another word, the dark figure rose his wand once more, sending Daniel into darkness.


    Daniel's eyes sprang open, capturing the image of the poorly kept rafters above him. His head painfully throbbed, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. Using all the strength he could muster, Daniel forced himself into a sitting position so he could study his environment. Cold stone and metal bars surrounded him on all sides. Daniel began to panic, sweat forming on his brow.

    "Hello?" Daniel called out, worry flooding into his voice. He reached for his wand only to find it had been taken. For the first time, he was completely and totally alone -- helpless.
  5. The first thing Quincey thought when she opened her eyes next was that her head was killing her. She was lying on the cold, hard ground in a dark and damp room with no one else. After sitting up she realized on of the walls was gone, replaced by metal bars. Slowly she stood, putting a hand to her head and moving toward the bars.

    It seemed as if she was truly alone, although she had no idea since it was too dark to see anything, really. Her voice, hoarse, called out, "H-hello?"

    She could have sworn she heard a reply, but she didn't want to see what it was just yet and even if she wanted to it would be impossible to get through the bars. Instead she slid to the floor, closing her eyes and pretending she was back at home.
  6. Devan groaned. His fingers tracing the wounds that's cut across his calf and chest. He was topless and lying in a dark, wet cell. Dried blood covered his body, well, the parts that weren't covered in dirt and grime at least. They had got him, he was as good as dead. He would fight others like him for the prize of freedom. And he would die. No doubt about it, Devan was a dead man walking. He was too small, too rough. Others would have been training for this their entire lives. Devan hadn't had that luxury. The time they spent training he had been forced to use plundering food, breaking the law, doing dark things, just to survive. Only so he could die here, for the enjoyment of the watching Death Eaters. The nameless shadows. Severus Snape, Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair. The Dark Lord's right hand men they called them.

    When he thought of the Dark Lord the image of a thin curled smile appeared in his mind. The words shouted. The excruciating agony. The laughs of those watching on. He had run. He had fallen. Now he will die. He vaguely heard others talking in the back of his mind, calls for help, for loved ones, for mercy. By the end of this week most of these people would be corpses, squashed under the boot of one lucky mud blood who had fought for his life. Who the Dark Lord had chosen to survive.

    They would fight under the Dark Mark. In the name of the Master that they all served no matter how much they hated him. Those that fought him died. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Ron Weasley. All dead. Their friends had tried again many years later. Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood and Seamus Finnigan were given public executions as a result. The members of the order were gradually killed off one by one. Rumours had been circling that the Dark Lord had himself tracked down and killed Charlie Weasley.

    He tried to recite their names. The dead ones. He'd be joining them soon. He wondered if they were as talented as the legends said. His grandfather had known them, or at least that's what his father told him. He had been one of the first casualties of He Who Must Not Be Named's regime. Picked up and murdered on the street by Lucius Malfoy and his vile pure blood son.
  7. The entire cell block was filled with pungent odors and pained groans. Daniel's ears rang from the various voices all scrambling to get their point across. Some begged for mercy, others wallowed in self-pitty. As for Daniel, he wasn't sure how to react to his current situation. Hell, he didn't even know where he was! It took a moment, but after he figured out where he was, his face became pale, and a wave of fear came over him.

    'No...' he thought to himself. He was in the center of Voldemort's Holding Cell. Where else could it be?

    No other place on this planet could be so sinister and be filled with this much evil. Daniel was dumbstruck. In a matter of days, he had gone from the safe. enclosed space of an alleyway, to being minutes away from having to survive and fight for his life. What was he going to do now?

    Come up with a plan to win Voldemort's sick game? Lie down and accept his death? Or maybe find a way to escape...? Everything was overwhelming. For right now, Daniel slid to the floor, sat in the corner, and put his head to his knees.
  8. Quincey stood up, her pants wet from sitting in dark water on the ground. She was frightened, yes, but she had seen enough of the Mudblood Games in her time to know that looking frightened was going to get her no where, and neither was pretending she was home again. And anyways, how different was this place from her home? Here, at least, there was some hope of getting out, of earning fame and fortune possibly, of becoming almost equal to the rest of the wizarding world. But at what cost, she thought. Her dignity? Her self-worth? Her potential future? If she won, she would never rank up in life no matter how many mudbloods she killed. The victor of the Mudblood Games would always remain a dog baying for scraps of food to be dropped from its master's table. Anger began to bubble up inside of her.

    "You filthy little rats better know what's coming to you," she snarled, gripping at the bars and shouting into the dark halls beyond. "You're killing the innocent for entertainment! You'll see, someday we'll get stronger and larger and then you'll be sorry!"

    It didn't matter if anyone was listening, for she couldn't care less. The words streamed out of her mouth, growing fouler and nastier with every second. What could they do to her, kill her? In just a few hours she would face the same fate. If perhaps someone finally said something it would change their minds, she thought foolishly, denying the truth for just a little while so that she could escape her desolate fate and focus on something else, which could potentially increase her chance of death.
  9. "We've got a live one," Valentina said out-loud to herself from her seat in her cell, listening once more to the screams and yells of her neighbors. She'd been the first, or at least the first she could hear, to be placed in these cells so for a while there had been no one to listen to her cries. Then another had joined her and she'd had to listen as she begged to be released from the cages. And then another joined, and another... and another until eventually Valentina realized that all the cries and screams and begging in the world wouldn't change a thing. They wouldn't let them out, no matter what happened. So Valentina fell silent, sitting on the floor of her cell for weeks counting the bricks on the wall beside her. There were two hundred and fifty-eight bricks on the walls and another sixty-four on the floor, but there was never enough light to see what was going on with the bricks on the ceiling and she wasn't tall enough to reach them. She assumed that they would be the same as the floor, but it was impossible to know.

    Every now and then she'd let out a sarcastic comment, if only to give herself something else to listen to besides the never-ending crying, like now for instance, and they would always make her laugh. After three weeks in this place, it was all she could do to keep her sanity, especially after the way she'd been captured. They'd been following her for months, a Death Eater always just around the corner or a few blocks over like they had some kind of tracker on her. She knew it was impossible, but still that was the way it seemed. It was probably just her paranoia, turning innocent people into monsters in the shadowed streets of the capital city, but that was probably natural knowing what she did. Knowing that if she was caught, she would be put in an arena for sport. Because of what she was born as. It was unfair, something she couldn't control, but no amount of complaining or wishing could have changed that so instead she kept moving. For days she walked through back alleys and along streets, hoping to come across some kind of way out of the city but that so called safe-passage had been her undoing. She'd tried to fight. She'd tried to run. She'd failed. And now she was here.

    She tucked a dirty strand of auburn hair behind her ear to stop it from tickling her neck, and as usual she let out a loud laugh at her comment. She knew it was inappropriate to laugh at such a time, but she couldn't help it. They were all in this mess because they were alive, but the tributes weren't normally so.... lively. Which she found to be incredibly ironic. Her hazel eyes scanned the area in front of the bars, hoping to see something move in the dim light but she wasn't fortunate enough. "You know they can't actually hear you," Valentina said loudly to the screaming girl. "The doors are soundproof. The guards kept getting annoyed with the screams, and I was already here when they enchanted it," she told them as she tilted her head to lean against one of the bars, glancing down the dark hall that ran straight down the middle of the room. Her voice held dry humor, and she was barely holding back her laughter. The others would probably think she was insane, but she wasn't. At least, no more than she had been before.
  10. Quincey stopped, turning her head to the first voice she had heard since she woke up, besides the other cries and screams. Still angry, she gritted her teeth and spat, "Even if they can't hear me, there has to be someone watching us. Surely you don't think that patiently waiting to die is doing you any better than trying to do something about it?" Her spine tingled as she said it, and she gripped the bars tightly, slowly realizing her outburst. When she was in that frame of mind nothing anyone said or did mattered, it was as if her whole essence was focused only on releasing her anger.

    If the girl was right, she thought, the red cloud half-gone from her eyes, there really was no hope. There was no way to get through the bars, and the walls of brick were not going anywhere anytime soon. The only way out of this place was through the Games, to an almost certain death. She thought of the many times she was forced to watch the Games at school, the professor forcing them to take their eyes off their books and turn them to the television screen. The cheers from her former classmates rang through her ears as she pushed the memory away, her fury returning like a needed drug, even greater than before.

    "I'll cry out if I want to, since there's nothing better to do in this hellhole. If you want to continue lying on the ground or whatever you're doing, go right ahead but I'm not so easily defeated."
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  11. Devan's eyes flicked around the room, taking in everything he could see, determined to give himself an advantage. Next to him was a young girl, crying her eyes out, no more than 10. She was dead. Opposite him was a stony faced boy. He looked strong, capable and calm. He would stand a chance of winning if it hadn't been for his crutch. His leg was twisted badly, he was at a disadvantage, he was dead already.

    Others stood out. Twins that had, presumably, been identical before the Death Eaters took them. Now one was missing two fingers and an ear whilst the other had several large gashes across his face. His completion didn't look like much.

    That was when the girl started screaming at the Death Eaters. "Rash and impetuous" he mumbled to himself "she will die". There was another voice, it stood out against the screams and wails. Calm, collected and sharp. He focussed on the girl it belonged to. She unnerved him. She looked different, small and vulnerable but he could tell she had been through a lot. These cells...she had been here a long time.

    "There's the first target" he whispered to himself, a small smile flickering on to his face.
  12. "Who said I was waiting to die?" she said quieter, not really caring if Quincey heard her, tilting her head up to look at the ceiling. She was no longer concerned with the shouting girl, finding her boring and predictable, and began to allow her voice to fade in with the others she ignored regularly. There were more important things to listen for if you ignored the droaners, the criers, and the screamers. Like footsteps against hardwood floors just outside the door and hushed conversations between Death Eaters. Mostly they were about assessing the tributes so they could make a quick coin in the betting system, but sometimes you'd hear the odd piece of information about the inside world. News about 'the Dark Lord's plans' and battles between what was left of the rebellion and the Death Eaters. But most of the time she couldn't hear a thing. She was lucky in a way, to be the first contestant, because it meant she was right next to the door. And of course, Death Eaters were mostly Pure Bloods too inbred to know that the shielding charm they cast on the door was only one-way. Either that or they were lower down members. She doubted that any member of Voldemort's inner circle would be that idiotic, especially since they had been the ones to win the war. On the other hand, she suspected it was easier to control mindless drones who couldn't tie their own shoes than to bother with the trouble of intelligent people. Or else he might have to worry about an uprising from within his ranks.
  13. Quincey let herself run out of steam, which lasted only a few more minutes, and slid down to the ground, leaning her head against the bars and slowly clinking it with her fingers. Her head began to hurt again and she sighed, running through her favorite poem in her head which always calmed her down. "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."

    The floor was cold, even through her pants, and she looked around as her mind cleared, and tried to focus on the Games. She hated the thought of actively participating in them, but she realized that to survive she would have to come up with some sort of strategy. If she could find an ally, one who could match her abilities, she would have a chance. There was no sense in trying to find any weapons, since she was useless with anything but a bow, so perhaps if she could get away from everyone she could find a place in the woods. Then she could pick and choose who to interact with. This comforted her a little, and she continued the poem with a little hope in her whisper.
  14. Suddenly lights shone down from the ceiling. Many of the gathered mudbloods. Under them had to shield their eyes from the brightness. It wasn't so much how light they were, more the sudden introduction into the dark, gloomy cells located deep under the headquarters of the Ministry for Magic. Hissing sounds came from below the floor, like snakes were slithering away from the brightness.

    Devan tried not to react, but his eyes weren't used to it. The cries and wails had stopped, but were replaced by an eerie silence. They were waiting for the voice, the voice that would announce them to the world, to the people baying for their blood, baying for their death.

    "Here we have gathered some of slimiest filth that wizard kind has to offer." The rasping voice emanated down from the ceiling "in a few hours the Games will begin and they will battle to the death for their survival. 48 mudbloods and only one can survive. Who will be the champion? Who will die? And which will be the first to kill themselves because they can fight no longer?" They hear cackles of laughter come from the outside world. Cheers and jeers. No cries, no sobs, no one to miss them when 47 of them were dead. This was it. This was the beginning of the end.
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  15. Valentina sat back in her cell, staring out into the hall. She didn't say anything or react to the sudden light or noise, though it did surprise her. She'd been in the cell for so long that she'd been ultimately surprised that the time had come for her to enter a whole new hell. She'd both expected it to come sooner and wanted it to take longer, because she wasn't prepared for the strain of what this contest was going to do to her. She certainly was going to let it show, knowing that the other contestants would see that as a weakness but when it got to the point were she might have to kill someone then she was going to have a problem. In a life or death situation, she liked to think she could kill someone because her survival instincts would kick in because in the past her instincts had always helped her to do things she didn't think she could do.... but taking someone's life was something she had always avoided. She didn't want to become like the Death Eaters who had made her life what it was, but now it was different. It was eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. Life or death. And she was a Mudblood forced to fight for the only thing she had left, her life. Over the past three weeks she'd strategized about the games, preparing for them as best she could in a dirty cell with no windows and barely any light to see her contenders except when they were brought in to the holding area. One after another, she looked at them for a few brief moments before they disappeared into their cells and it wasn't really much to go on. But one thing was for sure, she wasn't going to let herself be left without supplies. That was practically a death sentence even if it did mean facing the first blood bath.
  16. Quincey was stopped midsentence, the bright light forcing her to squint. She opened on eye, looking up with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Her plan, if it could even be called such, would have to do since clearly there was no time left. Determined to face fate with dignity she rose to her feet and braced herself, mumbling a small prayer to herself before glancing around to try and catch a glimpse of the other tributes, but there was nothing.

    Her knees trembled, but that was the only slight sign outwardly that she was frightened. Her jaw locked and her fists clenched and her anger rose back up into her throat. Images of angry actions flashed through her mind but she set them aside. She would need to keep a cool head for this, not make rash decisions based on her mood. With a short grunt she stood in the center of her cell and forced herself to stare up at the light.
  17. The door to the cell burst open. Death Eaters charged in and each grabbed hold of a tribute, hauling them to their feet and pulling them out of the cell. There were screams as those who fought back were syringed with some form of knockout potion. Each one of the figures was hooded, not even here would they reveal their identities to scum such as us.

    Devan allowed himself to be picked up and lead through the door. As a small boy he knew most people would expect him to die in the initial stages of the games, leaving the well fed, taller tributes to battle it out over the prize. He intended to spectacularly defy the expectations of all of them. He intended to survive. He was led out into a dark corridor, barely wide enough for two people to walk down it abreast. The hand on his shoulder was rough but he could see others being treated worse. Maybe it was because he wasn't resisting.

    At the end of the corridor the male tributes were taken right and the female tributes left. He was handed a costume, all black. The remnants of a cloak. This costume was designed to suit the arena he was about to be thrown into. It didn't seem to have any special material to counter heat or rain. He was puzzled. It was just a standard cloak that any young wizard or witch might wear.

    When all the males were ready they were positioned in tubes. It was these tubes that would provide the only entrance route into whatever twisted arena that Head Gamemmaker Macnair had come up with this year. One time the tributes had to survive the ruins of Azkaban, swarms of Dementors following them. Another time they were thrown into the middle of a desert, tributes were fighting to death over drops of water. What would he face, he wondered.

    As the tube rose him up he expected more dazzling light, but there wasn't any. He was raised into a dark room. Above he could hear the swirling of the wind, he could hear trees somewhere nearby, but couldn't feel the wind on his face. They must be inside somewhere. Slowly candles started to flicker into life around the room. Suddenly it dawned on him where they were fighting. This was the Great Hall. The arena was Hogwarts.
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  18. Quincey simply glared as the hooded figures entered her cell. They violently grabbed under her arms and began dragging her toward a long hallway that was dimly lit with torches. "Filth of our kind," she muttered, gaining a smack sgainst the left side of her face. Her anger began to bubble up but she pushed it down and instead took pleasure in dragging her feet against the concrete floor. It didn't matter, since she was relatively light, and the hooded figures only continued to drag her. She swore she could see them smirk to one another. Soon they reached an impass, and she was led off with the other girl tributes into a small room with only a black outfit lying on the ground and a tube sitting in the background, waiting.

    She stripped down without fuss and changed into the outfit, feeling the fabric of the black cloak with some familiarity though in that moment she couldn't say why. Once dressed she stood in front of the tube, her anxiety finally becoming known. She allowed herself to show her feelings for exactly one minute, her teeth chattering and her knees knocking. When one minute was up, though, she took a deep breath and control of her body, putting on the face of an older, slightly-amused girl, letting her axiety slip back into the corner of her mind. Without another moment's hesitation she stepped into the tube which closed behind her. There she waited, listening to herself breathe before she felt herslf begin to rise. She braced herself for bright light but there was none. She was standing in a dark room. As if by magic, candles began to flicker like stars in the sky. Quincey could now see the four large wooden tables with the coveted flags above them, the fireplaces on either side of the room and, of course; the Headmaster's podium. "Hogwarts," she breathed. "It's Hogwarts."
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  19. Valentina was dragged out of her cell, without much fight from her. Her dirty auburn hair was clinging to her face as she was hoisted under her shoulder by a set of firm hands, but she was too distracted by the blinding light that shone through the door. The hands half-dragged her through the dimly lit halls, following after the other tributes in complete silence. She found it odd that the other tributes were silent, and if it weren't for the thumping footsteps against the hard concrete she might have thought she'd lost her hearing. She was so used to their screaming, and she would have thought it would have doubled in volume.

    They pushed her into a room with the other female tribute, various tubes and uniforms for them all. She moved to a pile of black robes and picked them up carefully, feeling the texture between her fingers. She knew what these clothes were, but after being in the same murky torn clothes for weeks she actually couldn't wait to put clean clothes on. Even if it meant being sent into a battle arena and having to fight to the death. She pulled them on a little too eagerly, and stepped into the tube as she pushed the hair away from her face with her hands. Time to get this over with, she thought to herself as the tube lifted her up into the arena and then she saw where she was. Hogwarts. Her eyes widened dramatically and her heartbeat stuttered as she tried to prepare herself for what was now to come.
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  20. Devan looked around, the hall was set up specifically like it was the end of year feast. Slytherin banners were draped from the walls, the eyes of the serpent glittering red, like rubies illuminated in the flickering candlelight. The tables, however, were empty. No plates or cutlery, presumably because a fork could be used as a weapon and to get one of those you had to reach the cornucopia. The cornucopia that was, in this case, located right where the Headmaster's podium would usually be located.

    He wondered how accurate the setup of Hogwarts was. Some of the tributes here will have attended for seven years. Devan had been kicked out after his third, when Professor Snape found out the truth about his heritage. He tried to picture how the building set up, the twining secret corridors, the spiralling towers and the changing staircases. No doubt this arena had been planned to get the best entertainment out of the assembled tributes.

    He could vaguely hear the countdown start, the numbers entering his head but he wasn't really acknowledging that it was a countdown to the bloodbath. He had to seize an advantage. He knew what he was going to do. He started to evaluate where his opponents were stood. The girl he had targeted was a few places to his right, beyond her was the girl who had called out in the cells. Stood directly to his left was a much taller boy. The crying ten year old girl was as far left as you could get. The boy with a leg injury was directly to his right. He knew he could outpace him but he wasn't sure about the boy on the left.

    "Let the Mudbloods Games Begin" the voice called out to the arena. Devan reacted as quick as possible, leaping from his podium and running down the aisle that separated the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor table. To his right he could hear the tall boy. To his left he had lost track of the disabled tribute, he may have run from the Hall to try and escape the bloodbath. That had been a wise choice, people would die here. He wouldn't leg himself be one of them.

    He pulled himself up onto the stage and into the cornucopia. There was a large assortment of weapons but he had to choose quickly. He grabbed a large backpack, hauling it on his back before grabbing for a weapon. To his right was a short spear which he quickly picked up, turning fast and thrusting it forward, straight through the abdomen of the tall boy who had been just behind him. Before anyone else could arrive he grabbed himself a satchel and a flask that had been lying on the floor, before darting out and through a door he knew would be located at the back of the hall and would take him down to the Hogwarts trophy room.
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