"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
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CHAPTER FIFTY
THE SWORDS CLASHED AGAINST EACHOTHER AS THE two wizards sparred, sparks of fire rising from the jarring conflict as the slicing sound—driven explicably from the wrath of the contact in between the silver blades, swept against the Bulgarian wizard's cheek—hot as it scorched his skin and grazed it.
He looked as his opponent with the gaze of raw conflict that two sparring wizards ought to hold for each other, but his own anthracite eyes seemed to let go of such a feat with great relief, for he smiled into the gaze, and watched his opponent return the smile in an equal proportion, the latter's light brown eyes glinting against his bronze skin.
The two Bulgarian wizards, both with the stark agility of their former International Quidditch playing years, where one had carried the role of a world renowned Seeker while the other a Beater for the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, sparred some more as their strength and dexterity translated itself into the blades they held—as though the fingers holding hilts had enough power to radiate all that was inside into a lifeless blade.
Then they stopped. Drenched in their own perspiration and humidity of the weather pressing in on their bodies at all sides, they stopped sparring, both of them panting and panting, breath rushing in and out of their lungs as they broke into laughter stemmed from exhaustion, and congratulated each other.
Newcastle, Northern Ireland. The trip made to come here, was arduous and mentally tiring in more ways than one, and both the wizards were all too aware of it.
Deliberately having to abandon the safehouse they had occupied with the others, only to move onto and seek refuge in another one, just because they had replenished their medical supplies, was atrocious, and anger stemming from that had fueled this sparring practice in the first place.
It was a means for the both of them to put away their anger so that it was stored safely, to be found and used when the need arose.
"You are getting sloppy, though," Zubair Dimitrova, the black haired, brown eyed, and bronze skinned former beater of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, was quick to retort, his teeth glinting like his eyes against the contrast of his skin and the freshly blue-ing sky overhead them both.
