A/N: Apart from the obvious two books I borrowed this idea from, I must give a shout-out to Kwan and his story, Hogwarts Battle School - a much more talented author and story than I could ever be or create. I am rather new to writing, so take it easy on me. I am almost done with my first story I posted on here, Ghosts of the Past, and just wanted to float this idea, see if any like it. I do not know if any have already attempted this idea, so my apologies if I am being redundant. This is a parody/alternate universe theme.
Chapter One: The Hollow
Four Houses split Asunder
One to Rule with Three to Plunder
The Ravenclaws, the Master's Scripts
Their Knowledge buried within His Crypts
The Hufflepuffs, those mocked and Roiled
Their Loyalties sowed amongst the Soil
The Gryffindors, once Proud and Brave
Their Courage earned an early Grave
The Slytherins, on High they Stand
Their Cunning rouse to form His Band;
A Time now past, a time Forlorn
But the Prophecy lives, for he was Born
And upon his brow was cast the Dye
And in his Hands the Fates now Lie
It was the oddest of sensations that swept over the young, bushy haired brunette as she read the poem, her lips silently dancing over each syllable. Like magic tingling down her. Indeed, it had appeared on a blank page of the tome that she had been reading quite out of nowhere.
Upon the last line, she looked up nervously, her eyes darting to the bedroom window as if expecting someone to be there, spying on her. But… nothing. Nothing except the dull gray of the overcast dawn, and the swaying dead branches of the skeletal Elm beyond. Just in the distance, she could see the barb-wired fence, marking where the wards began.
Books of this sort were most certainly illegal. She'd never seen a list per se, but she knew enough to know that if she were ever caught with this, it would earn her a one way ticket to Azkaban, if not worse. Unsanctioned materials, nay, even speaking of the time before was forbidden.
She had heard the rumors of course, the Snatchers and the Death Eaters could not be at all places at all times. Though He had many spies, He could not see all things. Her head leaned back against the wall as she tried to imagine such a time, when witches and wizards lived at peace and free and the young were… Hogwarts.
She knew little of it though. Her parents weren't like the rest, and they could not share with her
the old bedtime fables of her kind, nor of the better times before in this uncertain, strange new world. What she did know, she'd heard from the other kids whispering amongst themselves while at play, but never directly to her. For she was a Mudblood you see, her parents Muggles, and all kept their distance from her less they be tainted by her disease.
Keeping one finger to hold her place, she closed the book on it, running the pads of her left hand across the coarse cover. It was old and worn, as if to represent the knowledge held inside, Hogwarts: A History. It told of those long ago, forgotten times, of a school where the children like her went to learn and study and properly use their magic they had been gifted. It seemed like such a magical place, a fantasy in this dark, cold world she lived in now.
She reopened it to the back where her finger marked. The story had just stopped, three-quarters of the way through, as if the author had run out of time, and the rest of pages were just left there blank, awaiting for her to one day return. In the midst of this void, the mysterious poem had just appeared.
While most of it was foreign to her, she did recognize the names of the different Houses of the school. That's how the Dark Lord had organized them all now within the different Camps. But the last lines of the poem...
"Ughmm…" the small girl in the next bed over moaned softly, turning in her sleep. She frowned ever so as her eyes fell upon her adopted sister. They were not of blood, no, and the adoption had never been made official - nothing was these days, nothing but the Games - but her parents had taken her in nonetheless. Another orphan created by these archaic, cruel times.
There were far too many. There wasn't a family left untouched from the war before or the harsh conditions within all the Gryffindor Camp of Godric's Hollow now - save for hers, which was perhaps the strangest thing of all. It was a miracle really, she an only child born of Muggles, both her parents had somehow pulled through it all.
It had been too long ago, she too young to remember it, but upon the ascension of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Usurper, the Dark Lord - whichever name you wished to assign him - the Order, those who dared to stand against him, they had rescued her family and put them into hiding.
They had made it for a time, through the darkest of the chapters. But after the fall of the Great Dumbledore, everything else followed like a tumbling house of cards. Britain had been swallowed in a purge of fire and flame and brimstone until there was no longer any place left to hide.
While countless thousands - tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions in all reality - perished in the war, the Magi's numbers were left so few after the struggle, that the Dark Lord had decided to spare not only the Half-Bloods, but even the Squibs and the Mudbloods as well - all put in their proper places of course - in hopes that they might be able to help replenish His numbers one day.
"Her - Hermione…" the younger girl roused from sleep, her voice calling out with that hint of fear in the dim of the approaching dawn.
"Yes, Lizzy, I'm here," Hermione marked her page and slipped off the far side of her bed as her little sister watched her curiously.
"A new book?" That look of fright yielded to her fascination in her older sister.
Hermione smiled mischievously back to her, before ducking down to use her nails to peel back the loose floor-board just underneath the edge of her bed. Hidden beneath was a small collection of various books she had traded for, consisting of her own, personal library.
She deposited this latest addition, setting it in with care, before retrieving out a tiny package wrapped in old, used brown paper, and tied with a thread-bare string. She sat it aside as she carefully replaced the rotting floor-board, hiding her most treasured possessions in all this world below.
If the Death Eaters ever came looking, they could find them easily enough, but they never did come. For she was a Gryffindor, and their number had received the harshest of the Dark Lord's retribution. Some fifteen years later, they were all still barely hanging on by a thin, feeble thread.
"Happy Birthday, Lizzy," Hermione walked around her bed to her adopted sister's, sharing with her a warm smile as she sat down beside her. It was an important birthday for the young girl, her eleventh. "For you," Hermione handed her the small, wrapped package.
Lizzy's eyes glistened with bewilderment. "A present… for me?" she pointed to herself if she couldn't believe it. Such niceties were a rare thing in these troubled days.
"Go on," Hermione gave her a short nod of reassurance. Lizzy slowly untied the string holding the wrappings together, before carefully peeling back the brown paper, as if afraid it might tear. Nothing was wasted in the Hollow.
"It's - it's beautiful…" Lizzy's eyes gleamed as she breathed out a long wisp of air, ringing her fingers through a golden chain of a locket. Hermione just shrugged at this last piece, as if such a treasure these days wasn't worth three months of rations. "How… where'd you get it?"
Hermione smiled impishly. "Had to barter a bit with that ol' slouch Lupin, but he owed me-"
"But Hermione, he's scary!" Lizzy brought a hand to her gaped mouth, her eyes genuinely betraying a sense of fear at the mention of Remus Lupin. All the kids and most of the adults were afraid of him, as if he were some kind of monster that haunted the village.
"Don't be silly, Lizzy," Hermione laughed at her. "There's more… open the locket." Lizzy's eyes darted back and forth between Hermione's and the locket, unsure if she should dare. "It's okay, I promise," Hermione urged her on.
Lizzy's fingers, now trembling nervously, fumbled with the tiny hasp on the side of the locket. She unfastened it, prying the two halves apart. And then… and then she sat and she stared at it.
Hermione's taut lips pulled down into a frown for her little adopted sister. She had not thought about
how sad this would be - she thought it would be a joyous affair - but here they were, and two quick tears rolled down each of Lizzy's pink cheeks in quick succession.
Lizzy had never seen the two in the photos on either side of the open locket before, at least not that she could remember. But as they both smiled genially and waved up to her, she could recognize her own round, oval eyes within the woman's face, the curl of their blond hair almost the same with every wave; and she shared the same grayish-blue colored irises as the man's, and had his high cheek bones set beneath…
"I don't… my parents?" she squeaked out, unable to pull her eyes from the miniature moving portraits within. No one had ever been told what the accusations were against them, not that the Death Eaters ever bothered in such instances, but both of her parents had been arrested when she was still an infant. The Death Eaters had come and taken them and had just left the little baby Lizzy in her cradle, crying, totally unconcerned with what would become of her later. "How did you..?" Lizzy tried to repeat her question earlier of the locket, but choked up before she could finish.
"Seems Madam McGonagall still has a few tricks left up her sleeve…" Hermione placed a gentle hand on her sister's small shoulder, forcing a smile down at her once again. "She knew your parents well… if you'd like to go by there and ask her about them sometime…"
"Thank you…" Lizzy breathed in the faintest of whispers, her tearing eyes still glued to the two gleaming images of the parents she never got to meet.
"Of course," Hermione said, standing up to give Lizzy some time alone, but the small girl caught her by the hand.
"I'm eleven now…" the realization seemed to dawn on the little girl for the first time, though they'd known it was coming all along. "My - my name will go into the Goblet now…" her voice sounded weak and far away.
"Yes," Hermione placed her other hand atop her sister's. There was no point in trying to pretend it wouldn't. Everyone's name went in at eleven, and they risked being called upon until they came of age at seventeen. "But it won't get called… I'd never let that happen."
"But… I don't want you to go either…" Lizzy's small voice cracked. The two girls had formed such a close bond, even though they weren't true sisters, that Hermione knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Lizzy's name was called, that she would happily volunteer to take the girls place while she still could, even if it meant certain death.
Hermione felt the subtle swell of tears in her eyes for her little sister. So small and frail, her arms as thin as a broom's handle, she could never imagine poor Lizzy named and dragged off to those horrible Games, of having to watch on the screen as she attempted to survive and do battle with the monsters and other kids of all the other clans in that savage hell called the Arena. She would never allow that to happen.
"Don't worry about that now, Lizzy, we've still got a couple more months until the Naming Ceremony. I've made it five years already..." Hermione tried to sound brave and comforting, but it was hard with that large lump in her throat. "Rest now, mum will have something for breakfast soon…" Hermione had to pull her hand away and retreat before she was overcome by the sorrow and unfairness of it all. Hermione caught Lizzy slinking back down into her bed, staring longingly at her gifted locket as she slipped out the door into the common room.
There wasn't much to the house, two tiny bedrooms, one for her and Liz, the other for their parents, a shared bathroom, and a small common room that merged into the kitchen. Her mother kept it immaculately clean, but the walls were bare with cracked mortar giving way to the warped, rotting wood beneath. There were no pictures on paintings on the walls, no fancy rugs to pad your feet on the cold planks, no signs of comfort or pleasure in life.
"Dad already-?" she walked up behind her mother at the stove.
"Yes, he left your package there," her mum cut her off, gesturing sharply to the table at the entry. She never had approved of their little clandestine operations - it could get them all arrested, or worse - and she didn't bother to disguise her displeasure with them now.
Hermione eyed the package before leaning over the steaming pot to see what the contents were within.
"Traded some of your parchment for a little cabbage from Mrs Weasley…" Hermione's mum, Ellen, explained the more luxurious soup. "I thought… for Lizzy's birthday…"
"No, I'm glad," Hermione smiled curtly. She'd become quite practiced over the years at making paper from pulp, and the pulp from the rotten wood that was in abundance about the small village. She had always had a love for reading and writing, and you could do neither without paper. In the Hollow, you either learned a skill to trade with on the side, or you starved. But that was not all that Hermione had learned from within the books she collected. "Is all the flour gone?"
Ellen nodded without looking to her. "Your father will get his next rations on Friday, I think we can thin this soup out until then…" she did her best to disguise her worry, but Hermione was too perceptive. They'd have to do a lot of thinning.
"I'll work on it," Hermione said resolutely.
"Don't get yourself into any trouble, dear," she didn't mean to, but glanced back at the package her husband had left for their daughter on the entry table. Ellen didn't like it, but she'd long since stopped trying to inject her opinions on the matter. Neither listened to her, and as it was, her daughter had more than likely kept them from starving. There was just never enough.
"Did you give Lizzy her gift?" she tried changing the subject. Hermione nodded. "I think that was very sweet of you…" her mum admitted, but Hermione could see she still took into account how much it had cost them to get it.
Hermione didn't care though, it was Lizzy's eleventh, the hardest for any child, their name going into the Goblet of Fire for the first time, and she wanted to do it for her. Every child deserved to at least
know what their parents looked like, and Hermione had either made or earned herself everything she'd used to trade for it anyways.
"Breakfast?" her mum asked her as Hermione began preparing her satchel to head out for the day.
"No, save it," her stomach was empty, but unless she was able to trade, they would have to make that meager soup last for another three days.
"When can I expect you back?"
"Dinner," Hermione answered shortly, picking up the package her dad had left her. With her back to her mum, she tucked it beneath her blouse in the confines of her halter. It wasn't unheard of for a guard doing their rounds to stop and search you, but they never did that thorough of a job.
"Hermione…" her mum called out to her as she opened the door to leave. "Do be careful… I love
you."
Hermione gave her a short grin. "I will mum, love you too." And with that, she was out the door.
The Grangers had always had a hard time of it, as any Mudblood or Squib family did, and though they'd never once regretted the decision, it had only gotten harder when they had taken in little Lizzy, she still an infant at the time.
She'd seen no less than thirty-nine Muggles and fourteen Squibs outright starve to death over her short, sixteen years, and even three witches and wizards. She knew this because she had recorded each and every one of their names. Hermione herself was an oddity in this odd world. She was meticulous to a fault, and she refused to let these sad souls die and disappear without a trace of remembrance.
It was a disturbing process to watch. It would usually start with the bread winner getting injured or killed in the Pits or at the Mill, and then the rest of the family would soon follow behind them, not allowed by the Death Eaters to work unless specifically assigned. With no other way to provide for themselves, their limbs and their faces would begin to thin. Their bones would start to protrude. Last, their bellies would start to distend as their bodies literally began to eat itself from the inside out.
People did what they could to help of course, but there was so very little to go around, their own families coming first. Even the wizards had a hard time of it without full access to their wands, and that was only in the rarest of cases when they were at work. Hermione had determined long ago that that fate would never happen to her family.
Under the cover of darkness in the rising dawn, Hermione moved briskly down the lane, turning left onto the main street, always careful to keep out of anyone's way. It still being early, most just awaking, there was only the miners making their solemn trek either filing back in from the night's shift, or out to the day's.
Hermione slipped into the shadow of the brush within the main square. The Death Eaters had renamed it from Potter to Nagini Square, after the Dark Lord's treasured snake, tearing down the memorial that had been briefly erected in memory of the former in that short lapse of time that the Dark Lord had fallen.
Even though it carried with it the threat of a death sentence, everyone still referred to it as Potter Square in the privacy of their homes or in the knit of their most trusted friends, but all were careful never to be caught in public naming it as such. Hermione wasn't sure why people risked it at all, she'd seen brothers rat each other out for a single apple, but she surmised it was one small shred of defiance any could dare show.
The Potters were the antithesis of the Dark Lord, their son being the first he'd ever failed to kill. It had slowed him down at first, the killing curse he had unleashed doubling back on him from the infant child he had attempted to murder. No one could explain what exactly had happened. But ever proving he was the the master of the Dark Arts he claimed to be, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned in all his fury in only a matter of months. It had been a very short reprieve.
And there in the shadows of this said square, she waited and she watched the small Witchdoctor's Clinic of Madam Pomfrey's across the way. Hermione's father and mother, as practiced dentists in their former lives, each had access to certain medical information from those who dared seek out their skills now, and had learned that Mrs Avery was due to give birth this morning. This being said, Hermione knew that a majority of the Snatchers and Death Eaters would be coming to administer the Sorting.
This, in and of itself, was just another sick practice of the Dark Lord's ill conceived world. There was a hat, the Sorting Hat so named properly, that could judge the temperance of a child. Hermione had read of it in her newest book she had received as a gift from Minerva McGonagall, the same lady who had given her the portraits of Lizzy's parents. During the better times, it was used at the wizarding school to sort the students into their proper Houses. The Dark Lord now used it to sort them into the respectful clans, the Ravenclaws known for their wit, the Hufflepuffs for their toil, the Gryffindors, of which she belonged, for their courage, or into the Slytherins, of which the Dark Lord himself hailed, and who reigned over all with their cunning.
It was very rare, a child had a ninety-two point four percent chance of remaining in the same clan as their parents - Hermione had done the calculations - but there was still that slim chance, that nearly one in ten who would get sorted into a different clan. And poof, just like that, the Death Eaters would strip the wailing infant right from the arms of the pleading mother, neither ever to see each other again.
To squelch any chance of rebellion, the Dark Lord kept the clans segregated, separate from each other, each sealed into their appropriated villages, none ever free to pass the wards that held them in less it was to be swept off as a Tribute within the Games, or as a prisoner of the Death Eaters. A shiver coursed down Hermione's spine at the mere thought of either.
And sure enough, not ten minutes in, no less than twenty Snatchers and eight Death Eaters in their sheen black robes and silver, intricate masks arrived to oversee the delivery and subsequent sorting. They always arrived at these events in such numbers, for if any were to ever gather enough courage to raise a hand against them, it would come at these such moments of madness when their new born child was ripped from their arms.
The Snatchers formed a wide perimeter around the clinic. Two Death Eaters stood guard outside the front doors. Two more took positions atop the roof. The rest entered inside. Satisfied, Hermione slunk out of her hiding position and made a bead for the Black Smith's shop.
She could not always afford such luxuries, but it was far safer to perform her illicit trades when the Death Eaters were preoccupied with either a Sorting, a public display of punishment, or Merlin forbid, a public execution. Much less chance of being spied.
Hagrid's true passion in life was magical creatures, Hermione had learned in her short visits with the half giant, but lacking any such beasts in the Hollow's sealed borders, the oversized man had taken to bending metal with his gargantuan arms and hands for his craft.
Hermione bent down along the stone wall that bordered Hagrid's foundry as if to retie her boot, allowing her cloak to fan out about her to obstruct any on-gazer's view. She'd already carefully scouted out the surroundings, so she did not risk giving herself away by looking around suspiciously again as she nonchalantly reached over to pull the nondescript stone loose from its socket at the base of the wall. She retrieved the small pouch of Floo Powder her father had secured for her at the mine from within her blouse, and traded it out with the awaiting package within the cavity in the wall. Replacing the stone, she tugged at the strings of her boot, pulling them tight, before standing to carry on her way. It had become a well orchestrated event.
Hermione wound her way through the near deserted streets of Godric's Hollow, soon finding herself at the edge of town. Up ahead was the Parish Church of St. Clementine. Pausing to spare one last glance around, Hermione moved beneath the archway over the gates that lead into its graveyard.
She passed quickly between the rows upon rows of marbled and limed headstones, glancing at the Potters' as she always did, offering them a single bow of her head in respect, until the grounds began to slope back and she disappeared behind the large crypt of the most ancient and revered Peverells'.
"Morning..." a voice startled her as she was bent at the base of it, just as she had done at the wall along Hagrid's.
"Ayee!" Hermione leapt nearly a meter in the air, spinning around to face the intruder. "Ronald Weasley! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!" she added a few curses for him under her breath, trying to reign back in her jumbled nerves. Ron, for his part, was having to hold his stomach he was laughing so hard.
"That was not funny!" she warned him sternly. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?!" she demanded, looking over his shoulder to see if there were any more unexpected surprises.
"Relax," he waved her off. "I was careful, no one followed me. I came down before Sun up."
"You still didn't answer my question," she continued her surveillance of their surroundings, not at all trusting the latent and youngest red-haired Weasley boy to be careful enough. She knew the family well enough, they kept a small, private garden, and she would often trade with them for some extra food when she had something to barter with.
With their fiery red hair, you could spot one of the bunch from a kilometer away, and they were by far the largest family in the village, not to mention all those they had taken in who had been sorted into Gryffindor from other Clans. Ron was of the same age as her, so besides Mrs Weasley, his mum, she knew him the best, and unlike most of the other families, the Weasleys never showed any sign of prejudice against her blood status.
"I..." Ron scratched at the back of his head uneasily, as if he himself didn't know what he was doing here. "I - I wanted to see what it was you were working on..?"
"It's none of your business, now go!" Hermione hissed at him like an angry asp. Ron just shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "What?!" Hermione finally went on as Ron said nothing, and didn't appear to be leaving any time soon.
"I don't know..." all the humor Ron was usually full of was gone from him. "I don't know if you heard about my dad..?"
Hermione frowned involuntarily for him. She had indeed heard, from her father, that there had been a nasty explosion at the mines last week. "I did. Is... will he be okay?" Hermione could not force herself to be unsympathetic, they'd all seen so much loss.
Ron just kind of shrugged, looking to the ground. "Doc says he's deaf in one ear. His left hand is pretty mangled and he's got some bad burns..."
"I'm sorry to hear," Hermione said, but she did not relax her unwelcoming posture.
"Thanks..." Ron glanced at her from beneath his fallen bangs. "I - I brought you these," he suddenly remembered what exactly he was doing here, and reached around the side of the crypt for a large bag bulging at its seams. Hermione's brow furrowed at it.
"What's that?"
"Cabbages..." Ron started hesitantly, "some potatoes, onions, radishes, and a few carrots, I think."
Hermione's eyes darted back and forth between Ron and the bag of life giving morsels. "And what are they for?" she asked sternly, but at the same time took a careful step back, preparing her retreat at a moments notice.
"Mum sent them..." he was back to staring at his shoes, still holding out the loaded sack. "It's - it's not much, we know, but..." he stopped, glancing back up to Hermione as she scoffed at his words. Not much? That could feed her family for weeks! "I... I didn't mean too, but... last week... I was just curious..." he stumbled along.
"What is it, Weasley? Out with it!" Hermione was losing her patience, her right hand inching towards the covered package she'd just pulled out from the hidden covey beneath the Peverells' crypt.
"I saw you... back here... last week..." he stumbled along nervously.
"You were following me?! You saw what exactly?!" Hermione fired off.
"You... you have a wa-" Ron did not get to finish his sentence before Hermione had indeed drawn this said wand and had it trained on his chest. "Hey! Easy there!" Ron dropped his sack of vegetables, holding his hands up in defense while tripping backwards all the while until his feet caught on one another and he landed on his arse.
"Who have you told?!" Hermione demanded, stalking upon him like a predator would their prey. There was no greater offense than possessing an illegal wand, and if she were caught with it, she would be the next one knelt in Potter Square before the town crowd being Crucio'd until she begged for death.
"No-no one, honest!" Ron looked like he was the one about to have the heart attack now.
"Liar!" Hermione cut at him.
"Please, Granger, honest to Merlin I haven't! I - I told mum I thought you could help us... that's all! With - with my dad I mean!" Ron pleaded, spitting out his excuse as fast as he could, his eyes never leaving the tip of Hermione's wand. "She sent me first thing, with these," he glanced at the fallen sack, "told me whatever it takes - I can get more... Please Hermione, we can't..." And Ron had to stop as tears welled in his eyes and his throat locked up with thoughts of his father. "He won't..."
"Take him to Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione referenced the Healer of the village. Ron just shook his head.
"She... she said she's done all she can for him... without a wand..." Hermione could guess the end of that sentence.
"She's a Healer, why wouldn't they let her use her wand?!" Hermione challenged him.
"Traitors..." he muffled. "They - they said Blood Traitors don't deserve..."
Ron didn't have to say any more. As a Mudblood, Hermione knew what a Blood Traitor was, and knew that they were treated little better than the Mudbloods themselves. It was the main reason most everyone of the Hollow shunned her and her family and those like her. But not the Weasleys...
"Gawd! This is so... so..!" Hermione spun in her frustration, in her anger towards the Death Eaters, towards Him and this life they were trapped in. Balling her fists at her side, it was all she could do not to strike out at something. As her gaze fell onto the barb-wired fence and the wards ever so slightly shimmering around it, staring longingly out to the other side and wondering what it would feel like to be free, she realized her fatal error. She had let her guard down.
She jerked herself back, flourishing her wand, ready to strike at the charging Ronald Weasley as if she knew how to use it... but no. It was a most foolish display, if any had been watching her. Ron was still sitting on the ground, his knees bent up with his arms folded loosely across them. His head was dipped towards the earth, silent tears dripping into the grass. Ron possessed none of that ruthless cunning of the Slytherins. He was a Gryffindor.
Hermione knew that the oldest two boys of the family had died during the war, but including Mr Weasley himself, that still left seven of them to feed, and she wasn't totally sure how many they had adopted like her parents had, but she knew it was more than they could spare for. If he wasn't able to return back to work, that would leave a lot of hungry mouths with little ways to gain their rations.
Tucking her wand into the sleeve of her robes, she stashed what she had retrieved from Hagrid with the rest of her cache back behind the loose stone at the base of the Peverells' crypt. Picking up the heavy bag of vegetables, she turned to the still slumped Ron.
"Alright, Weasley, lets hurry while the Eaters are still at the clinic."
Ron's face shot up to hers with eyes as wide as saucers. "You... you will... you'll help us?!"
Hermione offered the sad boy something between a smile and a frown as she nodded her head once. "Lets go," she urged before she changed her mind.
A/N: Okay, that's all I got so far. Thoughts? Ideas? Keep going or drop it? I don't know if I borrowed a little too much from the Hunger Games... but I am just not that creative. Thanks for reading, please leave a review on your way out.