The 84th annual reaping was supposed to be your last.
You're twenty-five and will turn twenty-six before the next one. Your birthday falls two days before the annual reaping, so you're lucky.
James Potter isn't, as it turns out. He's only two months shy of twenty-six, and if he'd been born just a few months earlier, he might have escaped his fate.
His name is the first called, and you can't help but peer through the crowd to see James slowly emerge outside. His parents are weeping silently. A lump forms in your throat as you drag your gaze from James to the stage, where Sirius is already standing, jaw clenched, nodding to James as he ascends the steps.
You have no doubt that Sirius will do everything in his power to ensure James survives the arena. He'll beg, he'll borrow, he'll steal; He'll teach James everything he needs to know; he'll be the best mentor his district has ever seen, and he'll take his best friend home. Whoever the other tribute is, you preemptively pity him, because there's no life Sirius puts above James's.
“you Black!”
This is the second time you've heard your name called during a reaping; the first time you didn't even manage two steps before your older brother, Sirius, volunteered. This time there's no one to save you. For a second you dared to think you were lucky, and the universe gave you a reality check.
