Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. That disclaimer's not mine, either. I got it from Schnoogle dot com. It sounds good, though, doesn't it?
Author's Note: A drabble! Hadn't thought myself capable. I think it's pretty obvious whom this is about. Let me know what you think by dropping a line or leaving some constructive criticism. No flames, please.
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He quirks a mocking eyebrow and a sneer tips his mouth sideways. Custom made. By him. For them. All of them. His boots are high shine and he kicks them while they're down so they can see their bleeding mouths while they're lying on the ground. The reflection in his boots makes it novel, black and white. Narrowed eyes like slate and granite, daggers in the back, and they don't know they need to fight. He has the wealth, he has a name, he writes the rules for every game. The game is power and he's got it. Flaunt it.