Chapter Text
Tom's back hurt. The feeling was nothing new. The pain was a simple fact in his life and something he rarely bothered to think about. But in the morning it was always apparent. He didn’t know if it was due to only having gotten a thin mattress a few years ago, having slept on hay before that time. Or maybe it came from the scars that littered his back from the harsh usage of the belt. Maybe it came from having to carry heavy things all the time or maybe it was just genetics. What Tom did know was that something as meaningless as pain would not deter him from having impeccable posture and looking seemingly perfect.
Tom’s part of District 12, Knockturn Alley, is usually crawling with miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. His District's task was to make sure that the rest of Godric’s Hollow had access to raw minerals like copper, coal or rare valuable metals. Men and women with hunched shoulders and swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust from under their broken nails or from between the lines of their sunken faces, walked those streets. But today was different, the black cinder streets were empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses were closed, even though the reaping wasn’t until two. May as well sleep in—if you can. Especially on this day, when so many feared to lose loved ones or die themselves in the next few months.
The orphanage is almost at the edge of the Alley. It’s easy to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow—only a few gates separate it from the woods. Beyond the Meadow is the electrified ward that encloses all of District 12. In theory, it’s supposed to be a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods—packs of wild Acromantulas, Ozark Howlers, Hinkypunks (not that Tom would ever be stupid enough to follow one) and even Trolls—that used to threaten the streets.
But Tom has always been special. When he focused on the ward, he could hear the soft hum of magic, feel its elurin power. By concentrating harder, he could practically see where the ward was disintegrating. With a little more effort, he could widen the small holes into an opening big enough to slip through. As soon as Tom stepped into the forest, he sharpened his focus, magic humming at his fingertips, ready to be used. Disintegrating or not, the ward was successful at keeping flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woods, they roamed freely. Not to mention that there was no real path to follow so it was easy to get lost in the woodland. But there was food if you knew how to find it.
Tom stayed close enough to the district to run back to safety if trouble arose. “District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” Tom murmured quietly. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Even here in the middle of nowhere, he worried someone might overhear him. Though the problems were apparent —just three days ago, a two-year-old orphan died of starvation or how they liked to call it weakness. He wasn’t really too fond of his fellow orphans, their pained screams, runny noses and teary eyes were rather annoying and pathetic- at least in his humble opinion. And while he was sure most here must share Tom's beliefs, he had learned early on to hold his tongue and hide his true thoughts, turning his features into an indifferent, pleasant mask.
At school, he worked quietly. In the public market, he made only polite small talk. At Borgin and Burkes—the black market where he made most of his money—he discussed little more than trades. The orphanage was even less of a place for open discussions. No one wanted to talk about things like the food shortages, the Reaping or the Hunger Games when the hardships were so apparent.
He glanced at his watch, an old, barely working thing that he had traded a squirrel for. He needed to hurry up, if he wanted to make it in time.
————————————
Tom crouched low in the underbrush, his hand pressed to the ground. The snare he had set just a few moments ago trembled as a faint pulse of magic kept it taut and ready. His dark eyes focused on the clearing ahead, where a scrawny rabbit sniffed at the ground, oblivious to its impending doom. Tom exhaled quietly. With a sharp flick of his fingers, the snare sprang to life, tightening around the rabbit’s neck. The creature gave a feeble struggle before falling limp. Efficient. Clean. Just the way he liked it. Just how he killed the other two rabbits that were laying lifeless in his bag. He had tried hunting with a spear, sharp knives and only with his magic, but he found this to be the most efficient way.
Hunting always made him feel powerful, like a giant towering over ants, like a god controlling life and death. Maybe it was hypocritical—well, it most likely was.
He despised President Dumbledore for enjoying the exact same feeling, for deciding which districts were allowed to have an easy life and which weren’t. Whose children were to fight to their death and whose were allowed to have a comfortable childhood.
But in the end Dumbledore and Tom were not the same. Tom saw magic’s true purpose. Knew magic was supposed to be relished by everyone who was able to use it. Magic was mighty. Magic was power. And subjugating it only made it more dangerous, more uncontrollable.
But Tom was not as easily blinded. The Capitol’s lies or their glittering illusions were only that. Growing up in District 12, where the air tasted of coal dust and the only magic most people knew was the kind that kept them alive for another day, despite their hunger, he had seen their truth.
They used the Hunger Games as an obvious representation of the dangers of magic, a way for the Capitol to show magic‘s most gruesome forms. Used by and on children under the age of eighteen.
The Capitol called the Games a necessary reminder of why magic had to be controlled. That’s what their polished voices said every year during the reaping. The districts were told that magic, if left unchecked, could destroy the world. That the Games were a way to honor the lives lost in the rebellion centuries ago. A punishment, yes, but also a safeguard.
A lie.
Tom had always known better. He could see through the Capitol’s facade the same way a predator saw through a weak disguise. The Games weren’t about keeping people safe. They were about fear— about control.
Every citizen was tested for magical potential before their eleventh birthday. A white-robed Capitol official came to the school with a magical stone that was able to show their power level on a scale from one to hundred. Anyone scoring above 50 was entered into the Goblet of Fire. The higher the score, the more times their name was entered. The higher your score, the more dangerous you were deemed—not that anyone said it out loud, but it was understood by most. But there was no honor in having a higher chance of dying in the Games.
Tom remembered his score with bitter clarity: 97.
He had been only ten, barely old enough to understand the weight of the number. But he understood soon enough. With a score like his, his name was thrown into the Goblet of Fire so many times he had stopped counting. That was how the Capitol worked.
He was honestly astonished to have made it to seventeen without being chosen by the Goblet of Fire. Some nights he even saw it as an insult to have his name entered so many times without being picked. Maybe he was too strong, too powerful, too smart. Too hard to control.
The Games, Tom thought bitterly, were a culling disguised as a spectacle. They didn’t want strong wixen in the districts—unless they could break them first. If you survived the Games, you became a victor—a Capitol pawn, paraded as proof of their mercy and might. Most didn’t survive.
It was a dangerous life, but he wasn’t too scared of danger. If anything, it had sharpened him, taught him how to make his magic obey him. Tom never needed a wand to cast a spell, like all the others did..
There were rumours, changed by time, but still believed by many, that Grindelwald once had been able to use magic wandlessly. Just like he could, if Tom wanted a hare to walk into his trap, it did. When he wanted the forest to fall silent, it listened. He could reach out with his bare hands and bend the world to his will.
For most, or more precisely—for those not seen as worthy—Magic was restricted. Wands were a privilege reserved for the wealthy or the powerful, which meant that most children in District 12 wouldn’t even touch one until their training at Hogwarts if the Goblet chose them.
Standing, Tom brushed the dirt from his hands and crossed the clearing. He scooped up the rabbit and tucked it into the burlap sack slung over his shoulder, already heavy with the day’s catch. He had been out since dawn, tracking and hunting with the same single-minded determination he brought to everything. There was no room for mistakes in District 12, not when survival was a game with ever-shifting rules.
Tom didn’t survive because of the Capitol. He survived despite it.
The Order-Keepers in District 12 mostly looked the other way when he hunted in the woods beyond the fences. They didn’t care if you bent the rules, so long as you stayed useful. Tom had become useful in his own way. He brought back game—hares, wild birds, sometimes even deer—and sold the meat to the wealthier families in the district. Some of it went to the mayor’s family. Some of it went to the Order-Keepers themselves. Most of them were just as bitter about being stuck in District 12 as Tom was.
It wasn’t hard to buy their silence. A rabbit or two, a whispered promise of more to come and the Order-Keepers turned a blind eye. Some even traded openly with him now, exchanging meat for Capitol-grade medicine or supplies. Tom didn’t like them—he hated them, in fact—but he understood the value of keeping people indebted to him.
As he made his way back toward the district streets, the bag over his shoulder heavy with his morning’s haul, Tom passed the wealthier houses near the edges of the alley. A few heads turned, watching him with a mixture of fear and interest. Everyone in District 12 knew Tom Riddle. He was the boy who could make things happen, the boy you didn’t cross.
“Tom!” a shrill voice called.
He turned, his expression neutral. A woman stood on her porch, her apron smudged with flour. She gestured to him, a thin smile stretched across her face.
“You got anything fresh today?” she asked, already pulling a few coins from her pocket.
Tom glanced at the sack over his shoulder. “Rabbit,” he said shortly. “Two.”
The woman nodded eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “That’ll do. My husband’s been craving some stew.”
Tom handed over the rabbits, accepting the coins without comment. He didn’t care what her husband was craving, but he did care about the coins in his pocket. Money meant leverage, and leverage meant survival.
After finishing his business at the market, he headed to the back door of the mayor’s house to sell half the strawberries, knowing the mayor had a particular fondness for them and could afford the price. His daughter, Hermione, opened the door. She was in Tom’s year at school. Being the mayor’s daughter, she had the luck to live a more comfortable life. Today, her drab school outfit had been replaced by an expensive white dress and her bushy hair was done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes. She looked at him, her brown eyes brightening with recognition.
There were few people Tom tolerated in District 12, Hermione Granger was one of them. She was adopted as a baby, and her Muggle-born origins whispered about but rarely mentioned openly. She was clever, annoyingly so at times, and had the luxury of books and time. They had spent their school breaks together more often than not, poring over whatever scraps of magical theory they could find. She had a hunger for knowledge that Tom recognized in himself. He liked her little brother too—a curious, gap-toothed boy who followed him around the village square with wide eyes, asking questions about him, practically worshipping him. Tom wasn’t sentimental, but the boy reminded him of what innocence looked like before it was ground to dust.
“Finished your hunting early?” Hermione asked, opening the door wider so Tom could step inside.
Tom shrugged. “Had a good run.”
—————-
The air in District 12 was stifling, thick with coal dust and tension. The annual Reaping had come again, and with it, the silent dread that wrapped itself around every family. District 12’s system was simple, brutal, and unforgiving: families in the Alley worked the mines, scraping a meager living out of the earth. Merchants in the town’s center fared better but not by much. Food was scarce, and survival often depended on bartering or breaking the Capitol’s laws. The Reaping served as a grim reminder of their place in the system—a population kept under control through fear and scarcity.
By one o’clock, Tom had to make his way toward the square. Attendance was mandatory unless you were on death’s door, and officials would check later to confirm your excuse. If you weren’t present, you’d be imprisoned.
It was a shame, really, that they held the Reaping in the square—one of the few places in District 12 that could be pleasant. The square was surrounded by shops, and on market days, especially in good weather, it had a lively, almost festive feel. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, the grimness was inescapable. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only added to the oppressive atmosphere.
People filed in silently, signing their names. The Reaping was also an opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population. Eleven- through eighteen-year-olds were herded into roped-off sections, divided by age. The oldest stood in the front, while the youngest—like Hermione’s brother David—were pushed to the back. Family members lined the perimeter, clinging tightly to one another. But there were others too, those who had no one to lose, or who no longer cared. They moved among the crowd, taking bets on whose names would be drawn. Odds were given on age, whether they were from the Alley or merchant, and if they would break down and weep. Most avoided the racketeers, but carefully—those same people were often informers.
Tom thought grimly of the risks he took every day. He could be killed on sight for hunting or his illegal magic usage, but the appetites of those in charge protected him. Not everyone could claim the same.
Tom found himself standing with the other seventeen-year-olds from the Culdren, the poorest section of the Alley. They exchanged terse nods before turning their attention to the temporary stage set up before the Justice Building.
Two of the three chairs were already filled. Hermione’s father, Mayor Granger, sat stiffly, his tall, balding figure casting a shadow over the platform. Beside him sat Nymphadora Tonks, the Capitol’s representative, impossible to miss even in a crowd. Her pink skin clashed sharply with her lime-green hair, which hung in long, shiny waves. Her outfit—a short, pale pink halter dress with intricate beading and shimmering green ruffles—looked like some kind of jellyfish. She murmured something to the mayor, her expression flickering between amusement and boredom.
Tom couldn’t help himself. His eyes drifted to the Goblet of Fire, which stood at the center of the stage. The magic emanating from it seemed almost tangible.
The Goblet of Fire was a relic of the Capitol’s hypocrisy, placed at the heart of the Reaping ceremonies to draw the tributes’ names. Its golden flames licked the air as though mocking the districts’ despair. The Capitol framed it as a symbol of fairness, an impartial force beyond reproach. But most here knew the truth. It was rigged. The Goblet didn’t just choose names—it chose threats. The Capitol wasn’t interested in fairness. They were interested in blood.
“Tom,” a soft voice whispered beside him.
He turned to see Hermione Granger, her face was pale, and she held her hands tightly together, as though physically keeping her composure intact.
“You’re late,” he said, though there was no real reproach in his tone.
“I was helping my mother with David, he was scared to come, wouldn’t stop crying” she said quietly. “Not that it matters. We’re all here now.”
Hermione followed his gaze toward the stage. “Do you think…” She hesitated, her voice dropping lower. “Do you think your name will be called? I mean you’re so powerful, your name is in there so often…”
Tom smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Does it matter? If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else. Maybe you. Maybe your little brother.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. Tom regretted the comment instantly. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, even if a small part of him relished in her desperation, but he’d learned long ago that detachment was easier than hope.
Just as the town clock struck two, the crowd hushed. The mayor stepped up to the podium and began to read. It was the same story every year. He told of the history of Arcem, the country that rose from the ashes of what was once called Europe. He listed the disasters—the droughts, storms, fires, encroaching seas that swallowed vast stretches of land—and the brutal wars for the few remaining resources. All because powerful magic had nearly destroyed the world.
The result was Arcem: a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, bringing peace and prosperity to its citizens with complete separation between wizards and muggles.
The name itself carries an inherent irony. The Capitol, though mighty like a fortress, a cruel oppressor. The arena, though inescapable, designed for destruction.
But then came the Dark Days—the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Grindelwald against Dumbledore. Twelve districts were defeated, and the thirteenth was obliterated.
The mayor recited the Treaty of Treason, which established the Capitol’s new laws to guarantee peace. As a yearly reminder of the Great War, the Hunger Games were created.
It was the punishment for the uprising— to control those born with magic—each district must provide one boy and one girl, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes would be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could contain anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing, wins.
Taking children from the districts and forcing them to kill each other while the rest of Godric’s Hollow watched—was the Capitol’s way of reminding everyone how completely they controlled their lives. Whatever words the Capitol used, the real message was clear:
“Look how we can take and sacrifice your children, there’s nothing you can do. If you resist, we will destroy every last one of you, just as we did to District 13.”
To prevent future uprisings and ensure the districts remained submissive, the Capitol implemented strict wand restrictions as well. Only the deserving were allowed to use one, which meant only the rich and powerful. From the Capitol to District 5, most people owned a wand. Beyond that, wands were rare luxuries, only touched by those chosen for the Games.
To make the Hunger Games more humiliating and torturous, the Capitol required districts to treat the event as a celebration—a sporting competition between them. The winning tribute was promised a life of luxury, and their district would receive prizes, which consisted largely of food. But the odds of a lower district winning were slim at best. How could someone with only three months of wand training stand a chance against those who had been wielding them their entire lives?
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intoned the mayor.
Then he read the list of past victors from District 12. In seventy-four years, there had been exactly two. Only one was still alive.
Severus Snape, a thin man with sallow skin, a large hooked nose, and yellow, uneven teeth, stumbled onto the stage, hollering something unintelligible. His shoulder-length greasy black hair flew into his black eyes as he staggered into the third chair. The dark robes he wore clashed sharply with the bright colors of the Capitol representatives but blended perfectly with the grim folk of District 12. Tom always thought he looked like an overgrown bat.
The man was drunk. As he always was for these events.
The crowd gave its token applause as Snape swayed on the stage. He tried to give Nymphadora Tonks a bear hug, but she barely fended him off, her lime-green hair catching in the beading of her pink dress. She stumbled, nearly toppling off the stage, saved only by Snape tangling his arm in her voluminous hair.
Tom’s lips twitched despite himself. He was almost impressed that neither of them had fallen yet, though he supposed there was still time. Snape was nothing more than a miserable drunk, and Tonks—while bubbly and kind—was hopelessly clumsy. Together, they were likely part of the reason District 12 consistently failed in the Games.
The mayor looked distressed. Since all of this was being televised, District 12 was undoubtedly the laughingstock of Arcem, and he knew it. He quickly tried to pull attention back to the reaping by introducing Nymphadora Tonks.
Bright and bubbly as ever, Tonks trotted to the podium and gave her signature greeting:
“Welcome! Welcome! Happy Hunger Games! And may the stars align in your favor!”
Her green hair was noticeably shorter since her encounter with Snape—like she’d wanted to erase every point of contact. She launched into a speech about what an honor it was to be here, though everyone knew she was just aching to be reassigned to a district with proper victors. Somewhere without drunks who tried to grope her in front of the entire nation and more than one victor.
Everyone’s focus shifted to the Goblet of Fire as its flames burned brighter.
“As always,” Tonks continued,“ladies first.”
The flames shot higher and higher until a piece of parchment flew into her hand. Besides Tom, Hermione’s breath caught audibly. He remained motionless, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tonks declared, unfolding the paper with exaggerated precision, “our female tribute for this year’s 74th Hunger Games is… Hermione Granger!”
The world seemed to stop.
It wasn’t that Tom loved Hermione so much that her death would devastate him, but he didn’t want her to be killed—or kill. Could she even do it? Tom wouldn’t hesitate, but he’d realized early in life that not everyone was wired that way. Some people's morals were simply stronger, their conscience a pathetic force that refused to bend, even in the face of survival. Tom doubted Hermione could shed that part of herself, and it wasn’t exactly pity he felt—just the cold certainty that in a game like this, it would be her undoing.
“No,” Hermione whispered, her face draining of color.
Tom’s head snapped toward her, his mind racing. She took a step back, her eyes wide with panic. The crowd parted, leaving her exposed, and the Order-Keepers began moving toward her.
“Come on,” Tom muttered under his breath. “You’re stronger than this.”
Hermione shook her head. “I—”
“Move!” he hissed, grabbing her arm. “If you don’t walk, they’ll drag you.”
His hiss jolted her from her shock. Slowly, she took a step forward, then another. The crowd murmured as she moved through them, her shoulders trembling but her head held high. Tom caught her eye for a brief moment, but she looked away, her steps unsteady as she made her way to the stage.
Tom’s thoughts shifted to anger, but not surprise. Of course, they’d chosen her. She was clever, determined, and more capable than most in District 12. The Capitol didn’t care about fairness—they wanted entertainment, and Hermione would give them that. He had long suspected the reaping wasn’t entirely by chance. Maybe the Grangers had done something to anger the Capitol.
When Hermione reached Tonks, the woman clapped her on the shoulder like she was some prize to be displayed. Hermione flinched under the touch. “Lovely, just lovely,” Tonks said, her cheerful tone grating against the tension.
The applause was sparse, awkward. Hermione stood stiffly beside Tonks, her face pale but her chin lifted high. Most people probably thought she deserved it. While the mayor wasn’t hated, Tom knew many envied the Grangers’ comfortable life.
“If there aren’t any volunteers,” Tonks trilled, “we’ll move on to the boys!” Her voice was syrupy sweet, her hair lengthening again as she spoke.
The square fell deathly silent, save for the crackling flames of the Goblet as it spat out the next name. Tom crossed his arms, watching, detached, as the Capitol official unfolded the parchment. This was always the worst part—waiting to see who would be thrown to the wolves.
“David Granger.”
The name sliced through the air, sharp and unforgiving.
Tom stiffened, his eyes snapping to the stage where Hermione stood frozen, her face ashen. Already chosen as the female tribute, she now stared blankly into the crowd, her mind seemingly refusing to process the words. Tom’s gaze darted to the mayor. Surely this couldn’t be a coincidence. Now he was truly curious what the Grangers had done to warrant the Capitol targeting both of their children.
“No,” Hermione whispered, so faintly it was barely audible. But Tom heard it.
The boy—no older than eleven—stood near the back of the group. He had the same wild curls and intelligent eyes as Hermione, though his were already brimming with tears.
The crowd shifted uncomfortably, a ripple of unease breaking the silence. No one spoke as David’s name sank in. He didn’t move at first, paralyzed by fear until one of the Order-Keepers gave him a nudge forward.
“Hermione… Father…” David’s voice wavered as he stumbled toward the stage, his small frame trembling, eyes locked onto the stage.
Hermione snapped out of her paralysis, rushing to the edge of the stage, her arms outstretched as if she could physically block him. “No! No, he’s just a child!”
The mayor looked horrible, as though he’d aged years in the past minute. But he just stood there, frozen, powerless to act.
The Capitol official’s overly polished smile faltered for just a moment. “The Goblet has spoken, my dear. Siblings in the arena—how….poetic.” She turned to the audience with a sly grin. “What a rare twist for District 12 this year!”
Hermione whirled on her, her voice trembling with rage. “You can’t do this! He’s eleven! He's just a boy! He—.”
Nymphadora Tonks arched a single, sculpted brow. “And yet his name was drawn. Quite the remarkable family, the Grangers. This only speaks about your power, darling.”
David had reached the stage now, his small hands clutching desperately at Hermione’s skirt as she bent to shield him. “I’ll protect you, you… you can survive this, okay? I… I promise,” she whispered frantically, though the lie obviously burned in her throat. They were standing next to the microphone, so it was audible to all.
Tom’s stomach twisted at the sight. David wouldn’t survive the bloodbath, let alone the Games. A child like that wouldn’t even make it through training.
The boy’s sobs grew louder, and Hermione’s pleas turned raw, almost incoherent. “Please, don’t take him—he’s just a child!”
Tonks let out a dramatic sigh, clearly bored of the display.
“I volunteer.”
The words were out of Tom’s mouth before he fully thought them through, though deep down, he’d known this was inevitable.
Every head turned.
David froze, his tear-streaked face staring up at Tom as if he’d just seen a miracle. Hermione, on the other hand, looked as though she’d been slapped.
“What did he just say?” someone murmured in the crowd.
There was confusion on the stage. District 12 hadn’t had a volunteer in decades, and the protocol had become rusty. The rule was that once a tribute’s name was drawn, another eligible boy—or girl, depending on the selection—could step forward to take their place. In other districts, where winning the Hunger Games was seen as an honor, volunteering was common, even competitive. But in District 12, where the word tribute was synonymous with a corpse, volunteers were all but extinct.
“Lovely!” said Tonks, clapping her hands together.
“But I believe there’s a small matter of introducing the Reaping winner, and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth, then we, um…” She trailed off, unsure of the exact process herself.
“What does it matter?” the mayor cut in sharply. His eyes, filled with anguish, fixed on Tom. He didn’t know Tom well, but the boy had just saved his son’s life.
“Well, bravo!” gushed Tonks, recovering quickly. “That’s the spirit of the Games!”
Her grin returned, wider than ever, clearly delighted by the unexpected turn of events. “Oh, how noble! A volunteer from District 12! It’s been years—decades, even.” She gestured grandly to the stage. “Come now, young man, join us. What’s your name?”
Tom stepped forward, his hands loose at his sides, his face calm. The crowd parted as he made his way to the stage, each step deliberate and precise.
“Tom Riddle,” he said, climbing the steps, his voice steady and clear.
“Tom,” Tonks repeated, savoring the name. “And you’re volunteering for… this young boy?”
Tom glanced down at David, who still hadn’t moved, then at Hermione, whose tear-filled eyes burned with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Let him go home.”
David didn’t wait to be told twice. He practically flew off the stage, into the safety of his mothers arms.
Hermione, however, didn’t move, but it was plain to see that she wanted to follow him off the stage. She just stood there, staring at Tom. Her face becoming unreadable, the chaos of emotions too tightly wound for her to unravel at this time.
“Why would you do this?” she asked softly, her voice trembling.
Tom shrugged, stepping into the spot beside her. “I’m not interested in seeing a kid get butchered. Call it a favor.”
“A favor,” she repeated, her tone heavy with disbelief. “For me?”
“Sure, if it helps you sleep at night.” His voice was casual, detached, but his mind was already spinning.
The Capitol official stepped between them, her voice chirping with glee. “Well, District 12, what an exciting reaping we’ve had this year! Your tributes: Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle!”
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not a single person clapped. Not even the ones holding betting slips—the ones who were usually indifferent to it all. Silence filled the square, heavy and deliberate. It was their way of saying ‘We do not agree’.
And then, something unexpected happened. At first, just one, then another, and then almost every person in the crowd raised their right hand, holding it out toward Tom, while whispering ‘Ignis Libertas’. It was an old and rarely used gesture in District 12, a sign of thanks, admiration, and farewell.
Tom stood frozen, watching the quiet defiance ripple through the square. At first, he couldn’t process it. District 12 was not the kind of place that cared about him. But now, for the first time, he felt… precious. Perhaps it was gratitude for saving a little boy. Perhaps they hated the Capitol enough to see this as an act of rebellion. Or maybe, it was because without him, many of them would starve.
Either way, it didn’t matter. This was good—very good. Adoration would be his ticket to survival.
Warmth began to build in his chest. He could feel the faintest flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. But before he could savor the moment, a familiar voice broke through.
“Look at him. Look at this one!”
Severus Snape came staggering across the stage, arms outstretched like he was welcoming an old friend.
Tom stiffened as Snape threw an arm around his shoulders. Disgusted, he tried to shrug him off while keeping the illusion of being a kind-hearted boy. But Snape was surprisingly strong for someone who reeked of alcohol and hadn’t bathed in days.
“What a pretty one!” Snape hollered, his words slurring. His breath was rancid. “What a ja… eh… ja…” He struggled to find the word, blinking blearily at the crowd.
“Jawline!” he announced triumphantly, jabbing a finger at Tom’s face.
The audience murmured awkwardly.
The drunk man finally released him and staggered toward the front of the stage. “More than you!” he shouted, pointing directly at a camera.
Tom froze. Was He taunting the Capitol? Or was he so drunk he thought he was insulting someone in the crowd? Tom would never know, because just as Snape opened his mouth to continue, he stumbled too close to the edge of the stage and plummeted face-first onto the cobblestones below, knocking himself unconscious.
The silence was deafening.
Tom stared at the crumpled figure on the ground before him, disgusted but grateful. With every camera now trained on Snape's drunken display, he had just enough time to let his mask slip for a fraction of a second.
He stole a glance at Hermione. Her pale face was hardening now, her jaw tight and her hands clenched into fists. She didn’t look at him, but the resolve in her expression was unmistakable. But she surely realised as well, that the reaping had been fixed.
Tom allowed himself a small, fleeting smirk. Let them all believe he was some noble, selfless savior. It would make what came next all the more satisfying.
The mayor cleared his throat, cutting through the awkward tension, and resumed reading the Treaty of Treason. When the dreary speech was finally over, he motioned for Hermione and Tom to shake hands.
Hermione’s hand was clammy, and her grip was painfully tight. Tom raised a brow but didn’t react.
Oh well, he thought. There will be twenty-four tributes. Odds are someone else will kill Hermione before I have to do it.
They turned back to face the crowd as the anthem of Arcem blared, drowning out any further conversation.
Tom kept his expression carefully neutral, his mind working furiously. This was his way in. His ticket to the Capitol.