Your Turn To Die, Main Game AU (You do not need to know the game to understand the one-shot.)

One minute, all is well. He's sitting with Ron and Hermione in the common room, one arm swung around each, and gigging his head off. Fred and George had smuggled in Firewhiskey for them, warning, "Not to drink responsibly, okay? We can't be having our own little brother not have the experience of black-out drunkness." Of course, Harry and Ron followed their instructions to a T.

Hermione? Not so much. But she seemed to be having her own fair share of fun, watching the two fifth years bumble around.

Harry hugged them closer. "I love you, Ron," he said. And he does. He would die for him. For both of them. Kill for them. Even if they would not be happy hearing that last part, it is still true. It always will be.

Ron went red-red, in the way that only Weasleys can. "Uhhh -- I... luv you too."

Hermione laughed. "It seems it's bedt--"

But everything went black, Hermione's sentenced unfinished and her tale untold.

Harry wakes up in a small room with a satchel on his hip. His first conclusion is that he's been kidnapped, which is not that unusual in his eyes. It was to happen sooner or later, after all. He IS the Boy Whomst Lived. His second conclusion is that he followed F & G's advice and has since blacked out in some strange part of Hogwarts previously unheard of, but that seems wrong, too. His head doesn't hurt. And everything -- the arriving here, the waking up -- it feels... abrupt. Too abrupt.

In the small room, there is a banquet of food in front of him -- but Harry doesn't eat it. Doesn't consider to. He know that every other thing he tries to eat is poisoned (Hermione has resorted to running spells over his food every morning. It is terribly troublesome but Harry loves her for it, every time.) And it does not look appetizing. It looks fake, artificial. As if it was made of more quick magic than, well, food. He presses a hesitant finger to it, and watches as it goes straight through it. It doesn't feel like magic and does not react to him like magic.

It's Muggle.

"A hologram...?" Harry wonders aloud. He'd see them in the Muggle movies Dudley put on and he watched through the crack in his cupboard door. Odd.

On the front wall is what looks like a window. Harry walks up to it, then bangs his hand on it. "Hello?" There is no response. Of course not. That would be too easy.

Huffing, Harry takes a look at the bag on his shoulder. There is a name embroidered on it. A name that, admittedly, isn't his own. "DRACO MALFOY," is printed on the cover. "Sorry, Malfoy," Harry says, not sorry at all, and opens the satchel anyway.

There is not much inside. A thin tablet (Muggle, again, so fucking weird) that shows a card, with a lock on the middle. "KEYMASTER," it says. "If anyone else sees this card, you will die."

Harry winces, then slides the tablet back in the bag. Sorry, again, Malfoy. There is Draco Malfoy's wand inside, as well, but Harry doesn't dare to touch that.

Just as Harry starts to feel tendrils of panic rise up inside him -- unanswered questions that sound a lot like what the fuck make themselves a whirlwind -- a figure appears on the presumed window. Harry recognizes the technology immediately.

A television. That is three for three on the Muggle bingo.

A woman, with the Dark Mark etched boldly on her forehead, is projected. Which... makes it way less likely to be a Muggle perpetrator. "Hello, participants!" she says. "I would like to welcome you all to the first annual Main Game. There are nine of you in total." Nine? thinks Harry. They kidnapped more people? Oh, Merlin. (I guess it is not a Boy Whomst Lived thing, after all. I am not that special.)

"The Game is simple. In your satchels--" Harry touches the one he has out of reflex, "-- there is a card with a role on it. It will appear as Keymaster, Commoner, Sacrifice, or Sage. Your card is for your eyes and your eyes only." She lets out a little giggle at this and Harry sees red. (Our kidnapping is not funny. This is not funny. We do not exist for your entertainment.)

"Each round," which Harry supposes suggests multiple rounds, "will go as follows: You will decide who will die by majority vote. You will have an hour in total to decide. Three of you will be voted, fifty minutes in, to be in the preliminary vote. If you are not selected for the preliminary vote, you are safe for the round.

"There are three rounds in total." Harry blanches. Fuck.

"With circumstances like so, you might resort to voting for whom you like least. And, however much that excites me, I must suggest that this isn't always the grandest option. For if the person with the Sacrifice card is chosen to die, all but the Sacrifice, and one other of their choosing, will perish. The remaining two will win and are permitted to leave.

"If the Keymaster is chosen to die, all perish.

"If it's a tie between the Keymaster and a Commoner or Sage, the Keymaster is chosen and all perish. If it's a tie between the Sacrifice and anyone, the Sacrifice is chosen and all but two perish.

"The Sage is a helpful tool here, as well. As the Sage, you're able to tell who is the Keymaster. But, unfortunately, the Sage is not the only one with a special power.

"The Sacrifice's vote counts as two. If the Sacrifice is NOT selected by majority vote, then the Sacrifice dies. All votes are anonymous.

"There is one Keymaster, one Sacrifice, and one Sage. All others are Commoners.

"The Game begins in five minutes. Exit through the door that appears at your leisure."

And then the screen goes blank, and Harry is left to ponder the misfortune of his circumstance. The circumstance he shares with nine others, six, at the very least, of which that will die. Harry remembers the bloodlust of his third year, staring Sirius Black down, one second, one moment away from becoming a murderer. He remembers almost doing the same to Pettigrew.

Because Harry Potter will kill to make the ones he loves live. (And, if his suspicions are correct, then that is precisely the case.)

A door appears on the wall with the TV. Harry takes on glance back at his desolate room, the fake food glaring back at him, mocking him, then opens the door. He has a game to play, after all.

The room is open and wide, filled with people all standing about, looking just as confused as he does. Harry glances back toward the room he exited --

But in its place is a blank wall.

Harry swallows. Okay. This is fine.

Hermione and Ron are standing to the side, huddled together. Fred and George are with them. Harry approaches them slowly, scanning the room as he does. There's Draco. And is that Pansy? Blaise.

And... Luna Lovegood. Of course she isn't spared. Why would she be?

Nine of them. Only three will live. (Harry will fight to hell and back to make it is some odd combo of the people he knows and the ones he loves. If they do not escape before then, of course. But a part of him screams that something is very off here and if your enemy is unpredictable then a response is hard, if not impossible, to do correctly.

There might very well be no escape. Harry's okay with that, too. He has no choice but to be.)

Hermione throws her arms around his throat the moment she sees him. "Oh, Harry!" she cries.

Harry wraps his arms around her back. "Mione," he says. "Mione, I love you. Breathe."

She hiccups, pulling away. "Are you -- well, not alright, but physically, I mean, okay?"

"Nothing wrong," Harry says, holding his hands up. "Not even a headache. I'm okay. Are you?"

Hermione nods but her eyebrows furrow. "But weren't you --?"

"Drunk as fuck before this?" Harry shrugs. "Yeah. I was. But I feel sober as saint currently."

"I guess that's good," Hermione says, but she still sounds troubled. "If there's no alcohol in your system, then I guess that... Ron," she calls. Ron raises an eyebrow. "Do you have a hangover?"

Ron puffs out his cheeks, waving slightly to Harry. "No. Should I? And it's great to see you, Harry."

"You, too," Harry says and it is partially the truth. "I just wish it was under different circumstances. "

"Yeah" Ron says, his gaze darkening. "That, too."

"It's been a couple of days."

Harry's head snapped toward her. "Excuse moi?"

"Since we've been kidnapped," she explains. "If you're not longer feeling the effects of your excessive drinking -- completely dangerous, by the way, please watch be careful int he future -- then it's been some time since we've disappeared."

"Damn," Harry says. "But -- isn't that a good thing? People will have noticed we're missing by now. The Order will send for help. They'll find us."

Hermione brightens at that, but Ron does not look as convinced. "Will they find us soon enough, though?" he says. "The game begins in five minutes. Less, now. And from that, we've got an hour before people start dropping."

Hermione puffs her cheeks out. "You mean this ridiculous death game? I, for one, refuse to participate. I'm more focused on finding a way out."

"If no one votes, it'll be a tie," Harry says. "A tie between anyone and the Sacrifice means all but two people die."

Hermione frowns. "Yes. I suppose so."

"So it's not like we have a choice, right?" Harry eyes the competition. It is us or them. I choose us. Or you guys. I choose you. He does not want to kill but he will. For them he will do anything. "We can look for an escape and try to send for help, but... We need to figure out who to vote for in the meantime."

Ron blanches. "I -- I mean, who do we--"

Hermione places a hand on his back, soothing him. "Let's not think about that right now, okay? We need to first rule out the Sacrifice and the Keymaster. We can move from there, think about who to vote, but nor right now, okay? Okay?"

"Okay," Ron repeats dully.

A large buzzer sounds. In the middle of the room, a podium rises with an alarm clock resting upon it (and it's Muggle, of course, Harry's getting serious mixed signals.) It starts counting down from an hour.

Ron looks sick. Harry rubs his arm, giving him an endearing smile. "I'm going to go see how Fred and George are, alright? Talk to them once you're feeling a bit better. I'm sure your brothers would love to hear from you." He means it to be comforting but Ron only seems to deflate further.

"My brothers," Ron says.

Harry tries to smile again, eventually clearing his throat, turning to Hermione. "Be right back," he tells her.

"Of course," Hermione says. "I'll be testing out what magic we can and can't do. There must be some limitations, I presume. They would not be foolish enough to leave us with our wands otherwise."

"Right on." Merlin, his wand. He'll have to talk to Draco, too. Fix their little switcheroo.

Fred and George are surprisingly cheerful. "Ello--" George says upon his approach.

"--Harry!" Fred finishes.

"Hey," says Harry. "Great to see you two. And awful. And fucking terrible."

"Mhm," agrees George. "I'd say I'm hallucinating, but I'm not the one who was given bottles of Firewhiskey, was I?"

Harry laughs. Fred and George are always good at that, making him feel better.

It was a shame they had to die.

(He loves them, but he loves Ron and Hermione more. He thinks twins exist in a vacuum; one cannot survive while the other does not. )

(Sorry, loves. We will all remember you fondly.)

(I wonder if they are thinking the same thing about me right now.)

"Are you guys doing okay?" he asks.

"All things considered--"

"--we're doing brilliant."

"Yeah." Harry grins. "Same here."

"Wonderful as this catch up has been Harry--"

"-- we've got some scheming to do, so we must ask you--"

"--politely--"

"-- to be on your way."

"Scheming, huh?" Harry says it lightly, like they are planning their next big prank, but Harry. knows, and his tone does not hide it, that in this scenario, nothing that small is on their minds.

You are planning your survival.. You are planning the death of everyone else but you two and a fucking spare.

And, from the fact you're sending me away, it won't be me.

Us or them. You choose life. I respect that. Understand.

But I hope you know I'm scheming, too.

"Talk later," Harry says, leaving them, being on his way. They smile at him but it's as fake as Harry's own.

That's fine. It's all fine.

Draco is talking in a hushed tone to Pansy. They say nothing when Harry stops in front of them.

"Yo." Harry takes the satchel off of his shoulder. He nods to the one on Draco's, which clearly shows his name. "I think you have something that belongs to me."

"And you as well," Draco says stiffly. He grabs his bag and gives Harry his. He narrows his eyes, looking Harry up and down. "Did you..."

"See your card?" Harry finishes.

"Yes. Something like that. Have you?"

Harry shrugs.

"Interesting," Draco mutters.

"I'm sure, Malfoy." Harry returns to where Ron and Hermione still stand.

"What were you doing with Malfoy, mate?" Ron asks. He's looking a bit better, Harry notes. More color in his face.

"I--" Harry starts, but he's given no time to say anything else, because Fred and George announce, with what must be a voice amplifier charm:

"When considering your preliminary vote--"

"-- we must advise against voting for either of us."

Draco sneers, shouting back: "Yeah, Weasel? Or what?"

"Or you risk dying," says George simply.

Harry frowns, glancing back at Draco. He looks equally as irritated. Surely, they couldn't mean...

"Out of the two of us," Fred says, "one of us is the Keymaster."

"The other, the Sage," says George.

"And we will not reveal which until after the preliminary vote."

Draco voices Harry's own thoughts exactly: "You're fucking crazy."

Yes, Harry thinks. Because me and Draco both know that neither of them are the Keymaster.

Oh. My role. I forgot about that. Harry grabs his bag, discreetly looking at his card.

He's a commoner. It's not anything special it is at the very least not the Sacrifice card.

Harry turns to Ron and Hermione, who are discussing Fred and George's announcement. "...it's unlikely," Hermione supplies, "but, I suppose, not entirely impossible..."

"I think they're cappin," Harry says.

Ron stares at him. "Mate?"

"I'll be right back."

"Mate--"

"Actually," Harry says, grabbing Ron's arm, "both of you, come with me."

"What are you--"

"Just listen. And walk with me."

Hermione shares a look with Ron but they trust him, following along as he joins Draco Malfoy and Pansy.

"So," Harry says.

"So," Draco repeats.

"One of them is the Sacrifice," Harry states.

Ron yelps. "Mate -- what --no, I--"

"Precisely what I was thinking," says Draco, ignoring Ron's protests.

"Calm down," Hermione says. "I don't understand how one could come to this conclusion."

"They saw the others card," Harry explains. "Or told each other. That twinly trust and all."

"You can't look at each others cards! It says, on the card-- they'd be dead--"

"Agree to disagree, Mudblood," says Draco.

Harry shoots him a look. I will be glad to see you dead. "What he means to say is that it's a false rule. A diversion."

"How do you--"

"They gave me Malfoy's satchel," Harry says. "At the start. I looked at his card--"

"-- and I, his--"

"And yet," he spreads his arms. "Here we are. Alive."

Hermione looks mystified. "Oh," she says softly.

"Oh indeed," Harry repeats dryly.

"But, then, even if they looked at each others cards..."

"Hermione?"

"How can you be so sure that one of them isn't the Keymaster, even so?"

Harry tilts his head at Draco, who puffs out his chest proudly. "I'm the Keymaster," Draco says smugly.

"God fucking dammit," mutters Ron.

"Ron!" chides Hermione. Ron shrugs. Harry cannot blame him for his outburst. It'd be really fucking lovely to kill off Malfoy in the first round. But, no.

Fate would simply not permit it.

"The question is what to do next," says Harry.

"The fuck you mean?" questions Pansy. "We call them out on their bullshit, that's what--"

"But they must've known," Harry insists. "They couldn't have NOT known that someone would counter claim them."

"That's right," Hermione says, breathless.

"So what were they planning, then?" says Draco.

"Probably for it to be a he-said she-said situation," surmises Hermione. "Maybe 'accidentally' out the one of them that's the Sacrifice as the 'Sage,' so everyone would feel safe voting them."

"That wouldn't work either," snaps Draco.

Hermione looks offended. "And why not?"

Draco looks at her like she's the dumbest person in the world. "Let's assume that the Sacrifice claims to be the Sage. He'd be voted into he preliminary vote, maybe with Harry, because he's the worst, and we know he's just a commoner, and with some other poor bloke. There's a what -- a one in five chance, then? One in five chance that that poor bloke is the actual Sage, assuming they don't out themselves.

"If the Sage is safe, they'd come out with the info that I'm the Keymaster. It'd make this more of a she-said they-said scenario--"

"So, with me and the Sage backing you up," Harry continued, "it'd make everyone certain that the Weasley Sage is lying and is--"

"And is the Sacrifice," says Draco. "If the Sage had came out before the preliminary vote, the result would be the same. If the Sage does not have the odds in their favor and gets voted in the preliminary vote, they'd likely wager their safety in return for the information on the Keymaster, which means--"

"Same results," says Hermione.

"So?" Ron asks. "What does that mean?"

"It means," hisses Draco, "that there won't be a Sage counterclaim."

"One of them is the Sage," Harry breathes. "And the other is the Sacrifice."

Draco nods, glad someone gets it. "They wouldn't cause such a ruckus if it this wasn't the case. If I come out as the Keymaster, I'll have no backup -- save Potter -- and since I have no Sage to back me up, it'd be assumed what they're saying is true. One of them will slip their Sage Status at some point. They will be the Sacrifice."

Ron pales. "I -- so -- what do we..?"

"What do we do?" Draco laughs. "We let it happen."

"You can't be serious--"

"Of course I can," snaps Draco. "We let everything go according to their plan and vote the one that is the presumed Keymaster, because that's the Sage, the safe vote--"

"But every vote that isn't you or the Sacrifice is a safe vote," says Hermione.

Draco's jaw snaps shut. "Yes," he says tightly. "That much is also true."

There's a tense silence. Hermione clears her throat. "Yeah -- I'm... I'm gunna go catch Luna and Zabini up on this..."

"You do that," Draco says.

Hermione walks off, distressed. Harry glares at Draco, grabbing Ron's arm, dragging him off.

Ron grabs Harry's arm tightly, so tightly, he' sure there will be a bruise. "I don't want my brothers to die," he whispers frantically. "I love them, Harry, I can't just--"

"I know," Harry says soothingly. "But you have to." It is one of them or the rest of us. You love them but I love you more.

Ron collapses into Harry's arms. Harry kisses him on the head. "I love you. I'm sorry," he whispers, over and over again. And he is. Sorry, that is. But he is not sorry enough to change his mind.

Hermione returns to them a moment later. "Luna's voting Pansy," she says hoarsely. "During the final vote and now."

"Merlin, Pansy's a git, but I don't want to, I can't--" Ron says into Harry's shirt.

"You have to," Harry says again. "I'll vote Pansy, too."

Ron says nothing for a moment. He pulls Harry closer. "Okay," he says. "Me too."

Hermione nods, agreeing to do the same.

"Who'd Blaise say he was voting for?" asks Harry.

"No one."

Harry jerks back. "What? But -- why?"

Hemrione shrugs, twirling her wand between her fingers. "The Sacrifice gets two votes. So the preliminary winners will be the Weasley Sacrifice, assuming they vote for the Sacrifice among them, the real Weasley Sage, assuming Draco and Pansy vote for them, and Pansy, because of us four. That's the set up. No matter who it is Blaise votes for."

"Oh," says Harry, running his fingers through Ron's hair. "I guess he figured his vote didn't matter."

"And," says Hermione, "it doesn't."

Harry sighed. My friends are safe. For now. It is worth it. It has to be. He glances at the clock. "Twelve minutes until the preliminary," notes Harry. "Twenty till the final vote."

"We've got some time to spare," Hermione says. And is that not an ugly thing? These are the last moments of someone's life. They are precious. But to them, the Golden fucking Trio, they are spare.

(Harry is flooded with memories -- kill the spare -- a body dropping dead beside him -- Voldemort's inkly figure rising from the cauldron -- blood, blood, death--)

"Voldemort," Harry says softly.

Ron pulls away from him, tears dried on his face. (is that not a testimony to the harshness of this, his tears? Ron never cries.) "Erm -- what?"

"Oh, yeah!" exclaims Hermione. "The Dark Mark!"

"On that woman's forehead, yeah," says Harry, tugging at his hair. "It could be Voldemort who did this."

Ron nods but Hermione shakes her head. "It may seem like it. But it all feels off."

"But," sputter Ron, "it's -- didn't you see -- the Dark Mark!"

"It's like the warning on the cards," says Hermione.

"A diversion?" asks Harry.

"Yeah. You're supposed to assume Voldemort is behind this, you're supposed to assume you can't show other people your card -- but it's bogus."

"But why would they--"

"Because, Ron." Hermione runs a hand down her face, weary. She suddenly looks much, much older. "It adds to the entertainment value."

"But how do you know it's not Voldemort?" Harry feels warmth flood his chest -- pride -- because Ron is afraid of that name. But now, for them, around them, he does it. Harry loves him fiercely.

"The Dark Mark is too obvious, and in the wrong place. And then there's the Muggle hologram," Hermione explains. She noticed it, too, then. Of course she did. (Harry loves her fiercely, too.) "The Muggle alarm clock, the Muggle tablets. Voldemort doesn't do Muggle."

"And he doesn't do roundabout," Harry inputs. (A duel; kill the spare; Avada Kevadra--). "He wants me dead. He wouldn't do it like this." He never has before.

Ron bites his lip. "Okay, then. So... who?"

And is that not the million dollar question?

"Whoever set the Dementors on me at the beginning of the summer," Harry suggests. "They might've done this."

"Quite possibly," agrees Hermione, though she does not look entirely convinced. It fits. Whoever has access to Dementors -- surpassing the restrictions that Azkaban has -- could surpass the restriction that Hogwarts has just as easily. "Problem is, we don't know who did that, either."

They go silent.

A dead end. Of course. It is never that easy (he is the Boy Whomst Fucking Lived. How could he ever dare to hope for anything else?).

Harry opens his mouth to fill the silence with something, but Draco yells, "I'm the Keymaster!" and Harry rolls his eyes and backs him up. He has a part to play.

It goes just as Draco has said it would. George says he's the Sage. Everyone knows he is not. Harry's chest aches. He almost feels bad about betraying them.

But they betrayed him first. They lied first. How could they expect anything different in return?

The clock hits ten minutes.

A voice comes form their tablets telling them it is time for the first round of voting. Nine faces pop up, a bubble option that says VOTE written beneath each of them. Harry clicks Pansy and does not feel bad. I am protecting the ones I love. I am doing what I have to.

A minute passes. On their tablet screams, Fred, George, and Pansy's faces pop up. A voice says, "These are the participants selected for the final vote. Whoever has the majority vote will die. You have ten minutes to decide."

Harry does not need ten minutes. His finger is on Pansy's button before the disembodied voice gets the disembodied words out of her disembodied mouth.

Harry glance at Fred and George.

They look worried. Harry would be, too, if he was in their position. But Harry knows it is also because this, both of them being in the final vote... was not in the plan. Something went wrong and they are starting to realize it.

Ron is chewing his lip so hard it's starting to bleed. Harry decides it is best to distract him. "Mione. What'd you figure out with the spells earlier?"

Hermione perks up. "All magic is permitted. But it can't leave this room."

"Is it warded?"

"That's what I was thinking."

Harry curses. "So sending a Patronous won't work."

"Nope," Hermione says, sounding just as upset.

"But it's good," Harry adds. "That we can use any spell we need inside the room. Gives us options."

"Not enough to save my brothers," Ron mutters.

"Ron--"

"No!" Ron snaps. "No! Don't try to 'calm me down'!"

"I wasn't trying to," Harry lies.

"You don't understand, you don--"

"They know!"

Harry and Ron stop talking.

"They know, George!" Fred cries again, louder.

George pulls him into a hug. "They can't--" he says quietly, almost too quiet to hear.

"But they do!" Fred sobs. "I don't want to die, I don't want to die--"

"I know," murmurs George. He meets no one's eye. "I know. I know."

Harry watches the pair. It is a shame you have to die, he thinks for the second time that day. And it a shame you have to keep living.

Ron goes up to them, in those last minutes. Harry cannot hear them but he can guess what is said. I love you. I am sorry. I promise this, I promise that. Your wish is my command because you are the one dying and I am not and that hardly seems a fair trade off. I love you.

The timer goes off. The lady's hologram appears again. She is so, so cheerful. So, so out of place. Harry borders on indifference but she crosses the line into joy. She is disgusting and she knows it and not only does she not care, she revels in it.

"Pansy Parkinson" she chirps. "Congratulations! You have been selected to die by majority vote." Pansy shoots a curse at her, anger coursing through her, but it goes right through. It is a hologram. Untouchable. "And the Sacrifice, Fred Weasley, did not get selected by majority vote. Both of you, please stand aside. Your death will arrive shortly."

There is screaming and there is screaming and there is Harry amongst it all, indifference and forever glad that it is not his friends. Better them than us. It is a mean though, but it is okay, because it is just a though. Harry thinks he'd join the list of those dying if he voiced it.

Harry only has time to wonder how they will die before both Fred and Pansy drop to the floor, puppets with their strings cut. Oh, Harry thinks.That's how.

George wails. Ron screams.

Harry is in a sea of sorrow and he is the only one floating.

The lady says, "The next round begins now. Your tablets will show your new role. Please look them over and make your decision carefully."

Harry exhales loudly, glancing at Hermione, who takes out her tablet. She sighs in relief but it is not absolute. Harry figures she got the commoner. Good. She is best kept safe with a commoner.

He should check his own card now, too, but Draco rushes him angrily before he can, punching in his face. "You killed Pansy!" he shouts. He knees Harry in the gut.

Harry falls onto the ground with an oopmf, grabbing his stomach. He hears his tablet crack. Dracos' still swatting at him, tagging at his bag, and Harry is blinded by the pain. He can't think straight, can't see right--

And then Draco is gone, leaving just as swiftly as he arrived. Huh, thinks Harry absently, somewhat aware of Hermione above him, hovering. He must not have been that angry.

"--Are you okay, Harry?"

"Mhm," Harry groans. He stands, rejecting Hermione's hand to help him up. "I'm okay, Mione."

She grits her teeth, glaring over at Draco. "The nerve of him," she hisses.

"It's alright," he says, disrupting her attempt to kill him via glaring a hole in the back of his head. "I'd be pretty pissed if he got one of you guys killed." Though probably a bit more so.

Hermione purses her lips. "Me too," she admits.

Harry opens up his satchel, taking out his tablet, looking at his card--

And then he freezes.

He rereads the words and they do not change and that is an awful, awful thing, isn't it?

"I'm the Sacrifice," he states. Wow. He sounds emotionless. That might be the shock.

Hermione blinks at him. "I'm sorry?" she says. Harry's sure she heard him the first time but, yeah, alright. Denial. He gets it. So he says it again.

"I'm the Sacrifice."

She covers her face with her hands. "Oh, Harry," she mumbles. "Harry, say it isn't true. Say it. "

"I'm sorry," he says. It's not what she wants to hear. It's not what he wants to say. "It's true."

Her breathing comes in short, shuddering breathes. She knows he will let himself die so they can live. Otherwise he wouldn't have told her, now, would he?

She knows and she hates it but she only cries a minute more before she wipes her face, standing tall. "That won't be relevant," she states strongly.

"If you say so."

"I do," she says, firmer. "Because we'll escape before that time comes."

"Okay," Harry says. He will let her have this. "Do you want to tell Ron? So he can help."

Ron is currently clutching his brother's body. Hermione shakes her head so. (She will let him have this.)

"We can do it by ourselves. For now."

"Okay," Harry says. If that is what you want.

"I think there's an impostor."

Now that... that is not what he expected her to say. "Do tell me why."

"Just thinking about it!" she exclaims. "This is for entertainment value, right?"

"Right."

"So it's gotta be for someone's entertainment value, right?"

"Right," he says again.

"But there's no cameras!" She gestures to the ceiling, the four corners of the room. They are empty. She is right.

"Your point?"

"So the only way someone would be able to watch this, enjoy this, would be to participate in it!"

It's smart. But her assumption's foundation is weak. "How do you know they're using Muggle surveillance?" he asks. "There's Muggle technology in here but there's magic wards, too. And we got snatched from Hogwarts. Means our kidnapper is somewhat magical, too."

"They're using magic sparingly," Hermione points out. "By which I mean they're hardly using magic at all."

"I suppose," says Harry evenly. He... he will let her have this, too. "Who do you think isn't themselves, then?"

Hermione hums. "Malfoy?"

Harry scoffs. "Too obvious."

"Luna?"

"Because she's weird? Mione, that's just her norm. And also rude."

Hermione tsks. "Who do you think it is, then, Mr. Smarty Pants?"

Harry shrugs. "Could be anyone, really. Maybe even you."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Har, har. Maybe Ron would have a better idea."

They both look at him. He does not look well.

Hermione pales. "I'm going to go calm him down first," she says.

"Okay," Harry says. She has always been better at that kind of stuff. (And he loves her for it, always.)

Hermione walks off and Harry stands all by himself, watching the numbers on the alarm tick down. Forty minutes now. His last forty minutes. That really is odd to think about.

He takes out his tablet and glances at the screen again. Two words. Again. He can't believe it's that easy to kill someone.

He wonders what will happen to the wizarding world once he dies. Will they find someone in his place, someone more suitable, to defeat Voldemort? Maybe Dumbledore. He'd be a good fit. A better one. Harry is just a child who has seen too much, that's all. How could he ever have defeated Voldemort, ever have dreamed to?

Yeah. The wizarding world will be alright. He hopes his friends will, too.

He would kill for them. He has. And now he will die for them.

Hermione returns with a considerably more put together Ron. "So you think one of the remaining participants is sus." Skipping straight to the point. Ron always had been good with that.

"Yeah. Any ideas? Well..." Harry stops, embarrassed to have thought it, embarrassed to have said it. "I think we should clear each other first." To Ron's disbelieving look, Harry quickly adds, "I mean, so we know it's not one of us. Because it could be, you know."

Ron looks like he wants to disagree but Hermione nods. "That's smart. Ask me something only the real Hermione would know."

"Um..." Harry racks his brain. "I guess... what was the first book you talked about with us?"

Hermione beams. "Hogwarts: A History. As I seem to recall, you both found it a total bore, but there were many chapters I found to be particularly riveting--"

"Yup," Harry says fondly. "That's our Hermione."

Hermione sticks out her tongue.

"Okay, well, mate," Ron says. "What about you?"

Harry hums. "Well, my Patronous is a stag, if that counts for anything."

"It does," Hermione assures him. "So that leaves Ron."

"I've got one," Harry says. "What was the first spell you attempted to cast?"

"Levesoa," Ron answers.

"You're not pronouncing it right--" Hermione says.

"Um. Ron. I said attempted." Harry says, smile growing tense.

"Yeah. And I heard you. So? Are you alright, mate?"

Harry says nothing.

He's asked Ron this question before.

He's gotten the same answer, every time. (That one on the bus, first year, that Fred and George lied to me about. You know the one. The poem. Sounded awfully stupid...)

Maybe, Harry reasons, he just doesn't want to talk about Fred and George. Maybe that's all this is, this little slip of the tongue...

But it's not just this, now that Harry is thinking about it. It's not just this.

Ron saying Voldemort's name. (He was so proud of him. Ron never does that.)

Ron with tears down his cheeks. (Harry felt so bad, seeing his friend this shaken. Ron never cries.)

Ron holding him close. (Harry hugged him tighter. Ron never hugs him.)

Harry does not want to think about it.

But he remembers his own card and realizes that even though he can and will die for his friends, he does not want to die -- and he will not do so for someone not his friend.

"Who," says Harry, "are you?"

Ron looks at him quizzedly. "I'm me, mate."

But you're not. You're really, really not. "Who the FUCK are you?" Harry says. He's shouting, he realizes. People are looking at him.

He isn't sure he cares.

"You take the form of my best friend -- talk like him, act like him--" just not well enough "--but you're not him. Ron wouldn't, Ron isn't-- I'm not a fucking moron!"

Ron stares at him. Hermione looks conflicted but her hesitance is slowing fading. She's connecting the dots, too. She is the brightest witch of their time. Of course she is.

Ron's face breaks out into a grin -- huge, wide, nearly face splitting -- all the grief previously painting it being shed in an instant. He looks nothing like Ron. That is because he isn't.

"Wow," he says and his voice is different now, deeper. "You're right; you're no fool. You are always exceeding my expectations."

He jumps out of the way suddenly as a burst of green light shoots at him. George stands, gripping his wand tightly in his hand. "Fuck you," he bites out. He shoots the killing curse again and Harry can hardly fault him for the Darkness. Harry feels it, too. All of the time.

Even and especially now.

"Answer me," Harry says. "Answer me. Who are you?"

"I," says the boy, face Ron's but mind not, voice not, dodging another killing curse, "am Death. I am your kidnapper. I am a straight cheerful fellow. I am deadass in love with you. Does that answer your question?"

"No," Harry says truthfully. "Not really. Death kidnapping me does not sound all that believable." But it is not impossible. Stranger things have happened. He ignores the 'in love' part. Makes his feel better.

"Would you like to know why?"

"Preferably."

"Then you should live long enough to do so, love."

Harry's face scrunches up.

It...

It is not the worst idea.

He was okay with dying because he could not take Hermione and Ron with him if he won.

But now it is just Hermione because this. This is not Ron.

Harry shakes the thought out of his head -- the truly selfish thought -- because two lives versus three is not an argument. Luna, Hermione, and George could all live if they play their cards right (if the odds are ever in their favor.)

Harry lets out a breath and takes Hermione's hand in his own. "Stop trying to kill him," Harry says.

George falters.

"You're not going to beat him."

Hermione reluctantly agrees. "We need answers first. A dead man is not a responsive one." Death's smile grows ever larger. "And... there are more pressing matters at hand."

They all turn toward the clock. It's at 25 minutes. Fifteen until they have to make a vote. And they have not even started.

"Okay," says Draco. He sounds tense but that is not out of place. "I'd like to start."

"Shoot," says Harry.

"I am the Sage," Draco says. He holds up his tablet for all to see. There's a crack running halfway down the screen but Harry ignores that in favor of Draco's role. "I would like to offer the Keymaster's identity in exchange for my safety."

"There is no need for that."

Heads turn toward Luna Lovegood, ever the soft speaker. She holds out her card.

"I'm the Keymaster."

Draco pales. It was a stupid plan. When he mentioned this concept earlier, it sounded good, sounded strong, but that scenario was different.

In that scenario, the Sage was anyone but Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, who is surrounded by people who do not like him.

He gulps. (Draco Malfoy is not a fucking moron.) He recognizes his situation. He will have Blaise on his side, at most.

"I --" he says and he sounds so pathetic, so unlike the boy who walks as if the world belongs to him, so unlike himself. "I... please. Please do not."

Voting time comes around and his plead falls on deaf ears. Draco and Death progress to the next round. (The lady with the wrongly placed Dark Mark explains that no one else was voted for, so only two people will be risking their lives. She sounds sad about it.)

Harry recognizes his name not being on the list is a death sentence. He is okay with that. He has to be.

Harry looks over the votes again.

Something is... off here. The numbers do not match.

"Mione," he says. "Who'd you vote for?"

"Malfoy." She sounds sad about it. (She does not want to kill but she will because she has to.)

"Mhm." Him, Mione -- that's three of Draco Malfoy's five votes, since the Sacrifice's counts as two. "I'll be right back," he mumbles. "Love you. Keep working on a way out."

"Sure," she says, her voice betraying her sadness. She knows I'm dying, too.

"Luna," he says. Luna looks up at him from her place on the floor.

"Harry," she greets. "Whatever favor can I grant you?"

"Wisdom," he says. "Knowledge."

"What of?"

"Your vote."

"Of course. I voted Draco Malfoy. They do tell you that soldiers die young but they never tell you they die alone."

Harry looks at Malfoy. Alone. Yes. Curled on the floor, disheveled, the very picture of heartbroken. Blaise is not near him. He is very much alone.

Harry bows his head and marks tallys in his head. With Luna's, that's four of Draco's five votes.

That's wrong. Or might might be. He isn't sure. He doesn't know.

"Death," Harry calls. "My bro."

"My love, you mean," Death corrects.

I will slaughter you once given the chance. "Sure. Who'd you vote, love?"

Death beams. "Why, myself, Harry dear!"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Really? Why's that?"

"I worried it'd be just Draco Malfoy in the final round, and that means he'd automatically die, doesn't it? That's just no fun."

And you're here for fun, aren't you? "Right," Harry says coldly. "Thank you."

Death looks delighted and Harry feels sick.

That counts for one of Death's two votes.

George, from the way he is looking at Death, is the easy second.

Something is wrong here. The numbers are off. They must be.

"Blaise. Did you vote?" Harry asks and he does not feel himself, does not feel real at all.

"No," Blaise says.

"Why?" Harry breathes.

"Because it wouldn't matter.

But it does. And it did. "Malfoy has five votes," Harry says.

"Is that so?"

"My vote counts for two," if Blaise is surprised by this confession he says nothing, "and Hermione and Luna voted for him, too."

"That's four," Blaise states. "Who else voted for him?"

"Himself," says Harry. "Death voted for himself and George voted for Death and you didn't vote so all that leaves is Malfoy."

"Draco, who voted for himself."

"Yes. Yes, but I don't get why."

"I think you do. I think you get it."

Harry tugs on his hair. "Why would he vote for himself? He begged and pleaded not to die and--"

"And then he voted for himself."

"Yeah. And then he did." Harry pauses. "Can I tell you something, Blaise?"

"Sure. Tell me anything."

"When Malfoy punched me, I was sure I heard my tablet crack."

"Really. I saw that Mafloy's tablet, too, is cracked."

"I don't think that switching the tablet switches our roles."

"No?"

"No."

"So tell me what you think then, Harry."

"I think," Harry says and he looks right at Malfoy, small, pathetic, secretly giddy, elated, surely, Malfoy, "Malfoy duped us."

"Wrong word."

"Is it? I feel duped."

"It is. Because he's not getting way with it, is he? Because you know better."

"That's right," Harry says quietly. "I do."

"And you're going to go tell your little friends."

"I am."

"Congrats, Harry Potter. You just saved our lives."

"Yeah," Harry says absently. He is already speedwalking toward Hermione, the words change your fucking vote, on the tip of his tongue. "I guess I did."

Blaise watches after him, then presses the VOTE button beneath Death's name. He doubts this will matter, either. But it is the thought that counts.

Hermione almost burst into tears on the spot. "He used --"

"Yes, Mione," Harry says again. "He switched our cards out. I am the Sage and he used my card. Will you vote, please?"

"Oh -- right, sorry -- I'm so glad that you're--"

"Harry squeezes her hand. "I know. Me too."

Death watches with unadulterated envy. Harry frowns.

Love. Death had said he was in love with him. Then why put him in this death game, risking the very same life Death supposedly cherishes?

Well. Harry supposed it didn't matter anymore. A dead man is an unresponsive man.

Harry Potter has time to question whether or not Death can die at all before the timer runs down and the lady tells them happily that it's Death turn to die and Draco is a failure of a con artist, please wait a moment.

Draco gasps. "I'm not -- you all said--"

"We figured it out, Draco," Hermione says. Draco. Is she allowing him this before he dies?

"I wasn't supposed to--"

And then he falls to the ground, dead.

Death is still standing. "What? Are you disappointed? Me, too, to be honest, but you cannot kill someone not alive."

George growls and starts trying to curse him and this time, Harry lets him.

The hologram lady says, "Before the next round begins, we'll hear a word from our sponsor. Death, please take the floor."

"OH! That's me, guys, thank you very much. SO. The rules are going to be a bit different this time around, since it's the FINAL ROUND. The twist is that if you can figure out the ACTUAL goal of this death game, no one else has to die. OH! And, by the way, the role you are assigned is public knowledge. The card you're currently holding is officially yours."

Harry takes outs his card. It shows him the roles of everyone around him. Hermione, Keymaster (good for her), Luna, Commoner, George, Commoner, Death, Sage (lot of good that did him now), and Harry...

Harry, Sacrifice.

"So about that 'actual goal' of the Death game, guys--" Harry says.

"It's to kill us," George states blankly. He knows it is a desperate bid to save his life. Knows it, and does not care. "It is to kill us for this sick fuck's entertainment and leave the winners feeling like losers because they are."

"There's a reason," Harry protests. "A real, deeper reason--"

"Are you saying my brother died for something better?" George laughed. "For some deep, meaningful cause? Don't bullshit us both, Harry. Fred died because someone wanted him dead."

"Actually," Death corrects, "all of the roles up until now were assigned randomly, so it's like like I wanted your brother, in particular, dea--"

"I'm going to peel your skin off and shove it up your ass."

"Alright, alright, touchy," Death puts his hands up.

"You said 'until now,'" Hermione notes. "So the roles this time were assigned with purpose, with intent."

"Maybe," says Death. "Maybe I'm just messing around. Maybe I'm just a very silly boy."

"Hermione. Why we were drinking?"

Hermione turns toward Harry. "Huh?"

"Why were me and Ron, before this drinking?" Harry asks.

"Fred and Geo--" she winces. "The twins wanted you to experience being drunk."

"But what about me? Why did I want to get drunk?"

Hermione thinks. "It's June," she says slowly. "And schools nearly out."

"Yes? And?" he presses

"And you Voldemort nightmares were getting worse. You wanted relief."

"What else did I want Hermione? What else?"

"You wanted an..." she looks around the blank room they are in. "... an escape."

"Yes, yes. I wanted and escape. I wanted no nightmares and an evening away from Umbridge and now this bitch--" Harry points at Death, "-- this bitch is saying he's in love with me. Do you get me? Are you following me? Am I getting followed?"

"Yes, Harry, but--" But you don't believe me.

"And right before we got here, I told Ron I loved him. Do you remember that?"

"Harry--"

"And guess who isn't here, risking his life?"

"Harry--"

"And Death said he voted for himself the second round so Draco Malfoy wouldn't be the only person in the finals, which is the only reason we all aren't dead!"

"I understand you're--"

"He volunteered information, his identity when I prompted him!"

"I'm being real--"

"This cannot be a coincidence," Harry shouts. "There's too much of everything, too much that lines up. It makes too much sense. Does it not, Mione? I'm sure most of this game is for Death's entertainment, sure, but there's more it it, isn't there? If there's any purpose to this, why can't this be it?"

George starts to protest and Hermione grabs onto his hands, ready to gently let him down, but Death..

Death starts laughing. "Oh," he says, breathless. He grabs Harry's head in hands and kisses his temple gently. "Harry, you wonderful, wonderful boy. You really are marvelous.

"I will see you soon, at the Veil. Do not forget me in the meantime, okay, love?"

Harry wakes up lying on the couch, squished between Ron and Hermione, tears dried down his cheek.

Death's kiss lingers still on his face.