Harry was going to win. There was no question of it.
It had little to do with his baking ability - although it was exemplary thank you very much, if he hadn’t followed his parents wishes and become a barrister,
he might well have made a career of it - so much as that Harry Hart did not like to lose.
And to do so on national television, in front of his competitors, the entire country, and Mary Berry herself, was not an option.
Initially, the other contestants didn’t seem to pose much of a threat.
Merlin he was already acquainted with due to a long standing friendship between their families,
not that it would stop him from utterly destroying the man during bread week; Merlin and yeast had never gotten along.
On the bench in front of him, a man called Valentine something - or something Valentine, either way it was absurd - was carefully arranging his ingredients.
When they’d met the day before, he’d spent twenty minutes lecturing Harry about his ethically sourced produce. Most of the rest were just plain wet blankets doing it for their grandmother.
It’d be a fucking cakewalk, pardon the pun.
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