The wind from the Apparition’s spatial squeeze blew Regulus’s hair back. Fire type magic poured off his skin, and the air between them warped violently.
His right fist was already clenched. Betelgeuse’s dark red light burst out between his fingers as he swung it upward.
Dolohov’s eyes didn’t even have time to widen before the fist landed.
Knuckles wrapped in burning red light slammed into his left cheekbone. The magic detonated on contact, and the air hissed from the heat, swallowing the crunch of breaking bone.
The cheekbone, the eye socket, and the upper jaw shattered into a dozen pieces at once, and half his face caved in. Broken bone pressed into his eyeball from behind, turning his vision into a blur of red and pain. The corner of his mouth split all the way to his ear, and teeth flew out with a spray of bloody foam.
The force of the punch sent him flying backward. His back slammed into the rubble, cracking the stones. He bounced once and landed face down, blood gushing from his mouth and staining the rubble dark red.
He rolled over and tried to get up, hands clawing through the stone. He made it halfway and fell back, knees hitting the rubble, his body convulsing between the urge to fight and the urge to flee.
His one good eye was locked on the white-haired wizard, the pupil shrunk to a pinpoint, fear and rage and disbelief churning in it. The whole act had been for nothing. This guy had never planned to let him leave.
Killing intent shot up his spine and grabbed every nerve, demanding that he fight back, that he go all out.
He struggled to raise his arm. Purple light glowed at his fingertips. He was making muffled noises but couldn’t get out a word. Half his face was out of his control, and his mouth was full of blood.
Then he saw the white-haired wizard’s expression go blank. The fist lowered, the savage grin disappeared, and the fire magic pulled back in. The man went from a violent fire to a quiet stone.
He stepped back, laid his left hand on his chest, and swept his right outward in an extremely theatrical gentleman’s bow, palm up, pointing toward the open moor beyond the smoke. He looked like a gracious host seeing off a respected guest. It was so elegant it was sickening.
Please. You may go.
Dolohov lay on the rubble, blood running from the dent where his cheekbone had caved in. The fear and rage in his right eye hadn’t even faded yet, and now that pretentious aristocratic bow scraped over them all over again.
This guy was a nasty piece of work.
A flattened growl rolled up from deep in his throat. Killing intent and reason fought it out, and reason won.
He still had enough strength to fight back. But if he did, the other man would let him die here. If he left now, he’d make it back alive. Half his face was ruined, but potions and charms could fix that. If he lost his life, he lost everything.
Dolohov didn’t say a word. The purple light at his fingertips went out. He pulled his other hand out of the rubble, hooked the wand that had rolled away, and focused.
Crack. Apparition.
His body twisted in the squeeze, and the instant he vanished, a few pieces of flesh dropped where he’d been. A chunk of meat still attached to half a strip of torn robe hit the rubble and bounced.
He’d forced an Apparition through severe pain with rage flooding his brain, and his body hadn’t come along in one piece.
The black smoke thinned, and the night wind carried it east in a pale gray veil. Where Dolohov had been standing there was a rock scorched black by purple flames, and a few pieces of flesh going cold.
Regulus shook the blood and bone chips off his right knuckles, and a small orange-red flame ran over his fingertips and burned them clean. He put his wand back in his inner pocket, brushed the dust off his short waistcoat, and broke into a satisfied grin.
Moody walked over from the edge of the battlefield, his eyes sweeping over Geralt.
He’d seen the whole thing. This white-haired guy had held back all the way through. He’d let Dolohov send his men off, let the black smoke spread, let the retreat play out. It should have ended there, with everyone going home.
Then at the very last moment, this guy had gotten in his face, shattered half of Dolohov’s skull with one punch, and finished it off with a bow.
Moody opened his mouth, then shut it again. In nearly thirty years as an Auror he’d seen people who didn’t play by the rules, but never anyone who played this dirty.
He stared at Geralt’s still-grinning face and was silent for a long time.
"You fight dirty," Moody said. His voice was rough and hoarse. It was hard to tell if he disapproved or meant something else.
Regulus tilted his head and looked at him. "He glared at me."
He glared at you?
You couldn’t come up with a more shameless excuse if you tried.
Moody didn’t answer. He stared at him a little longer, snorted through his nose, and walked away.
The Prewett brothers came up from behind him.
Fabian was in front, his reddish-brown hair gray with stone powder, dust over most of his freckles. He wasn’t tall but he was solidly built, and he kept looking toward the ruins as he walked, a relaxed smile on his face.
Gideon followed, half a head taller and broader in the shoulders, a cut on his temple dried into a dark red scab. His eyes landed on the pool of blood and that chunk on the ground first, stayed a moment, then moved away.
The brothers exchanged a few quiet words with Moody, who jerked his chin toward Regulus and said something.
Fabian looked over, and his grin got even wider, with a gritted-teeth kind of satisfaction.
He’d seen the punch Dolohov took. Half his face smashed in, sent flying, and politely shown the door before he could even get up.
It was deeply satisfying. It was seriously impressive. It was also seriously brutal. Sure, it was a bit of a sucker punch, but that was a Death Eater. So, good job.
Gideon was probably thinking the same thing, lips pressed together, brow slightly furrowed, half grateful and half wincing.
Regulus walked over, hair still full of dust from the blast. He’d completely shed the violence of a minute ago. His stride was loose, his posture lazy.
He looked them up and down, then spoke in a low voice, with a bit of careless teasing.
"Evening, rookies."
Gideon opened his mouth, probably to say thank you, but "rookies" caught him off guard, and the words took a detour on the way out.
Fabian tried to grin, breathed in a mouthful of smoke and dust, and ended up coughing into his hand. When he was done, he pointed at the dust on his robes. His voice was hoarse. "We’ve been chased around all day. We’re not at our best."
Regulus raised an eyebrow and didn’t reply.
Gideon tugged on Fabian’s arm to tell him to cut it out, then turned to Regulus and gave a serious nod. "Thank you, Mr. Geralt. We owe you one."
"Don’t call me Mr.," Regulus said, waving a hand casually. "Just Geralt is fine."
Fabian grinned and held out his hand. "Fabian Prewett. That’s my brother."
Gideon held out his hand too, a little slower, his voice steadier. "Gideon Prewett. Thanks. That thing back there..."
He glanced at the castle ruins, still smoking.
"No need," Regulus said. He shook Fabian’s hand, then Gideon’s, and let go. The corner of his mouth tugged up. "I happened to be nearby."
Fabian looked down at his own ragged robes, then at Geralt’s clean, sharp short waistcoat. His mouth twitched again. "What were you doing nearby?"
"Taking a walk," Regulus said with a completely straight face.
Fabian froze for a second, then burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking.
Moody came over. His eyes swept across all three faces, cutting off the small talk.
"You two," he said to the brothers, his voice rough and hard. "Go to Hogsmeade first. Albus is waiting at the Hog’s Head Inn. When you get there, have Aberforth look at your injuries. After you get back, write a report. Put down everything that happened tonight, start to finish."
Gideon nodded and didn’t ask any questions.
Fabian muttered something under his breath, and Gideon tugged his arm.
Moody looked toward the ruins, then turned back. "I’m going in to see what’s left in there."
With that settled, he raised his wand, the faint glow of a detection spell at the tip, and headed into the ruins, rubble crunching under his boots. After a few steps he looked back.
There was less wariness in his eyes than when they’d first met, and something else in its place. This guy was all right. His methods were dirty and his style was wild, but he got results.
Moody looked away, and the light of his wand flickered in the dark as he walked on.
Regulus stayed where he was and looked up at the night sky.
He watched it for a while. Then he looked down, flashed a small smile at Moody’s back, and turned to walk toward the open moor.
The Prewett brothers glanced at each other, then followed, holding each other up.
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