Prize Version Two

by Lara Wilson

He looks down at his prize, sneers.


What a joke.

He doesn't care how brave and daring he is, how talented a wizard, how troublesome he's been the last seven years. He is a halfblood and he is expected to taint himself by touching the brat?

Break him, the Dark Lord said. You know how, he slyly intimated.

And he does. It's long been a past time of his. Gender hasn't mattered. Neither has appearance.

But he's never broken anyone impure. He has his fastidious standards.

The tap of his cane on the cold stone floor startles the boy and he glares, squinting behind broken glasses.

No tears for all his losses

That surprises him.

He has lost everything, everyone, and he is young, young enough to still cry.

Instead, there is defiance in those eyes. Anger, hatred.

A spark of interest lights in him.

When the boy calls him a bastard and spits in his face, he almost laughs. There is something handsome in those sharp features twisted with hatred. He's not cowed by the older, more powerful man in the least.

He likes that.

Still impure and dirty, a halfblood, a fallen hero.

But...perhaps he can bear to touch him.

If only to see how long that defiance lasts in those flashing eyes.


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