In the dark medieval style dungeon, covered with soggy mold saturated with the dank smell of decay

In the dark medieval style dungeon, covered with soggy mold saturated with the dank smell of decay. In the dimly lit space stood a figure cast in shadow. He stood with his head down, his hands were balled into fists and hid body was shaking. In one hand he held a long thin stick. The only hint that the tears that ran down his face and twinkled in the half light, were anything but tears of sorrow, were the sparks exploding from the wand tip. Across the room, was a menacing shape, bathed in darkness. It was impossible to see his face but you could tell he was smirking. In between the two figures was a nondescript mound of darkness. "Why?" asked the first. "Why did you do this? Why did he deserve this? He didn't do anything!" His voice was shaking by the time he was done and he trembled harder. "Because I felt like it." You could hear the smirk in his voice, the feel of total superiority oozing from his every pore. The boy jerked his head up and there was a sharp intake of breath across the room. The boy's eyes were glowing red. "He didn't deserve this." The shadowy man could only stare. He had miscalculated in a dangerous way. The boy charged. He ran head first. The sparks spat out of his wand with such ferocity that the whole room was lit up. On the man's face was a look of pure terror. Before he died, he thought 'all this time it was really him. Why…why…wh.' Then it was over. The boy stood, panting. He walked over to the thing in the middle of the room. "It's over. You don't have to worry, you can sleep in peace.." There was a sigh, the thing moved and then was still. The boy wiped his face wearily. His eyes were normal and the wand lay forgotten on the floor. "Good-bye, Father." he said. Then collapsed.