Regulus took one step forward. When his foot came down, he was already standing in front of the ruins.
He glanced over at the Prewett brothers first.
They were a few meters behind Moody, Fabian sitting against a collapsed stone wall, Gideon crouched beside him, both covered head to toe in stone powder like they’d been dragged out of a chimney flue.
No visible injuries. He’d already scanned their magic. Chaotic and unstable, but they weren’t hurt.
Actually, the brothers had been in better shape before he rescued them. They’d burned through a lot of magic fighting Dolohov’s people, but they hadn’t taken any real wounds. Then he’d come along and rattled them so hard their magical cores were still shaking.
Surrounded by enemies, they’d been fine. Blown up by their own side, and now they were wrecked.
The corner of his mouth twisted. Well, it was a rescue. The process didn’t matter, as long as the result was right.
Maybe this was the Death Eaters’ strategy. Don’t go for the kill. Keep them alive, keep them trapped, wait for the Order of the Phoenix to come save them, then hit the rescuers with something bigger.
Or maybe neither side had reached the point of fighting to the death yet. The Prewetts were still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and pure-blood circles were small. The people blasting each other on the battlefield today might be nodding over wine glasses in some manor ballroom next month. Leave a little room, so you can still face each other later.
If things played out the way they normally would, the Prewett brothers would die at Dolohov’s hands sooner or later. But not today. Today, nobody wanted to be the first to go all the way.
Regulus pulled his gaze back and turned it on the man across from him.
Antonin Dolohov. One of the old guard who’d followed Voldemort from the early days.
He was around fifty, with a long, pale face, high cheekbones, and a pointed jaw. It wasn’t a comfortable face to look at. Twisted and cold, with snake-like eyes that locked on and didn’t let go. Even in tattered, bloodstained robes he hadn’t lost much of his presence.
A veteran Death Eater, a fan of torture, a top-tier duelist, a master of nonverbal magic, and a sadist. But right now he looked pretty well-behaved.
While Regulus was sizing him up, Dolohov was sizing him up too.
Long silver-white hair. Amber slit pupils. Magic so hot on his skin the air around him warped. A completely unfamiliar face, barely over twenty.
Dolohov couldn’t name the explosive magic he’d used, and a moment ago the man had been a hundred meters away. However you looked at it, he was trouble.
Dolohov shot a quick glance toward Moody, still at the edge of the battlefield, wand at his side, not moving forward and not backing off. Then he pulled his gaze back to the white-haired wizard.
The situation was bad. He’d had ten people. Three were buried under rubble, two were coughing up blood, and one was on his feet but completely dazed. Fewer than half could stand.
The other side had four. Moody was an old enemy, the Prewett brothers were in decent shape, and then there was this white-haired one, whose unknown spell had just blown the castle apart. If he’d come in swinging, they’d all be finished today.
But he hadn’t moved. He was just standing there across the rubble. Calm. No taunting, no spells.
Dolohov understood. The other side was holding back too, same as him.
He sneered inwardly. A bunch of people who only know how to wait.
His face showed nothing. His eyes stayed on the white-haired wizard while his mind raced.
He couldn’t fight to the death. Moody alone, at full strength, he might take. But Moody and this white-haired one together? He was finished. And he wasn’t at full strength. The injury from the blast was still churning in his chest, and every breath pulled at the muscles along his ribs.
He couldn’t just run, either.
Ten men, most of them taken out by a single spell, and the commander is the first to Apparate away? How would he explain that to his master?
"They had Dumbledore. We were outnumbered. I judged we couldn’t win and ordered a retreat."
That was an organized withdrawal. He could explain that. But the other side didn’t have Dumbledore.
"One Blasting Curse knocked us senseless, and I abandoned my men and ran."
That was a rout. His master would make him kneel and repeat it, then give him a Crucio.
So he had to put up a fight before pulling out. At the very least it had to look like they’d fought until they couldn’t.
The best option was to hold the line, let his men dig out the buried ones and dose them with potions, then retreat together, keeping losses within a range he could explain.
Dolohov turned his head and signaled to the dazed Death Eater behind him, sweeping a finger toward the rubble, then pointing at the ground.
The man stood there a moment before it clicked. Then he stumbled off deeper into the ruins and started digging.
Dolohov took two steps forward, putting himself in front of his men, and raised his wand. Purple light glowed at the tip. If anything, he was taking his time about it.
Regulus saw it, and the corner of his mouth tugged up.
Dolohov’s signature. The purple flame curse. Cast silently, and brutal. In the future, a little girl would take half a year to recover from one hit of it.
So, just as he thought. Everyone was pulling their punches, and Dolohov was playing along nicely. They’d have a fight, both sides would spend some magic, and the Death Eaters would make an organized retreat. That was the script.
Regulus had no objections. Dumbledore wanted no escalation, Moody was backup, and he could treat it as a warm-up.
But this man was an important player. Voldemort’s torture specialist, absolutely loyal, the kind who would go to Azkaban rather than give up his comrades. No family, no friends, no weaknesses. He lived for Dark Magic, for Voldemort, and for killing.
Come to think of it, once the Black family stepped into the open, Regulus might end up at the same table as him. Dolohov would never dream that the white-haired wizard who’d just blown up his stronghold would, in a few years, be sitting across from him in Black family robes.
Killing him was going too far. But leaving a lasting impression was fair game.
Something flickered in Regulus’s amber slit pupils, and his smile turned dangerous.
Dolohov made the first move. A fist-sized purple fireball shot from his wand tip, trailing flame, flying straight and not especially fast.
Regulus stepped aside. It brushed past his shoulder and hit the dead grass behind him, bursting into a pool of purple fire that kept burning.
Regulus answered with a flick of his wand. Confringo. Dolohov ducked and fired a deep red beam back, aimed dead center, and Regulus met it with Reducto. The two spells collided in midair and burst into a spreading ring of glittering dust.
They traded several rounds at a fast pace.
Dolohov’s casting had no wasted motion. All of it was nonverbal, the purple flame curse mixed with bits of Dark Magic in colors hard to make out. But he never moved forward. Every time Regulus stepped in, he gave ground, backing slowly toward the rubble, always keeping himself facing the white-haired wizard.
Now and then he checked behind him out of the corner of his eye. His man was still digging, lifting stones away one by one to reveal trapped arms and legs underneath.
Another round. Dolohov fired two purple flames, one straight on to pin him, one from the side as a sneak attack. Regulus slapped away the front one with Protego, knocked the side one down with a blast, and stepped forward half a pace.
Dolohov backed off again.
Regulus didn’t push. He let his wand hang loose.
Giving him a breather.
Dolohov stopped at the same time. They stared at each other from ten meters apart, one calm, one blank. Then the next round started.
Behind Moody, the Prewett brothers sat at the base of the stone wall. Fabian had his head down, checking a scrape on his arm. Gideon’s eyes kept jumping between the white-haired wizard and Dolohov.
Moody stood at the edge of the battlefield the whole time, wand at his side, eyes following the two of them.
One Death Eater who’d crawled out of the rubble looked up toward the fight and met that ice-cold stare. He quickly looked away, ducked his head, and went back to playing dead.
Moody ignored him. Albus had said no escalation. The Geralt kid was controlling the pace, Dolohov was obviously stalling so his men could recover, and the outcome was already settled. It was just a question of when.
All Moody had to do was stand here and make sure none of Dolohov’s men got any other ideas.
In the next round, Regulus put more force behind it.
He fired Confringo at Dolohov’s feet, and the blast knocked him back several steps, heels skidding on the rubble. Reducto followed right behind, striking the ground two meters in front of him and spraying dirt across his face.
Dolohov wiped his face with his sleeve, the killing intent in his dark eyes thickening. But he held it in and glanced back again.
Two of the buried men were out, leaning against a broken wall with potions, already able to sit up. The two who’d been coughing blood were getting vials stuffed into their mouths.
Almost there.
The last one was pulled free, and after a potion he got to his feet. They could basically all move again.
Dolohov flicked his wand and fired three purple flames in a row, forcing Regulus back a step.
Then he jabbed his wand tip at the ground by his feet. A cloud of black smoke burst out and spread fast, covering the whole area in front of the ruins.
From inside the smoke came a string of dull Apparition cracks. Crack, crack, crack.
Some sounded near, some far. Some were clean, some sloppy.
At the edge of the smoke, Dolohov was the last one left. Once he’d confirmed his men were gone, he looked at Regulus through the haze, his dark eyes gleaming coldly in the leftover glow of the purple flames.
No threats. He just looked, memorizing the face.
White hair. Slit pupils. Fire type magic. A combination spell capable of a devastating explosion.
Next time they met, he’d recognize him.
Regulus watched that stare come through the smoke. Cold, vicious, sinister, like a snake.
Rude.
His grin spread.
At the exact moment Dolohov raised his arm and his wand began the opening motion for Apparition, Regulus’s figure warped.
The next instant, he was right in front of Dolohov.
One step, and he was in his face.
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