Chapter 69: Live Combat in Knockturn Alley
Regulus moved closer to Orion without betraying a thing and said quietly: "We're being followed. Four. Two under Disillusionment Charms ahead and left. Two at the alley mouth — one's likely a werewolf."
Orion didn't break stride, didn't even turn his head — just gave the faintest nod.
He'd known since they entered this side-alley. Those gazes had stuck to them like flies.
With decades of experience navigating the wizarding world, this caliber of surveillance was laughable: blatant, riddled with holes, failing even the most basic standards of concealment.
Bottom-feeders.
Orion made his assessment. Almost certainly Knockturn Alley's lowest-rung Dark wizards.
Unable to land respectable work, unable to afford decent materials — reduced to lurking in backwater alleys, hoping a stray fat sheep would wander past.
They probably couldn't even recognize him.
Anyone with a shred of eye or experience would see the Black family crest on his robe, see the face that appeared regularly in the Daily Prophet's Wizengamot section, and know this was not someone to cross.
But since they couldn't tell — all the better. Waste not.
They'd finished the last shop — an underground clinic trafficking in smuggled magical-creature organs.
The proprietor was a former St. Mungo's healer, expelled for illegal experimentation, now continuing his research in Knockturn Alley.
As the shopkeeper saw them to the door, he dropped his voice: "There are a few people outside who don't look right. They've been tailing you for three blocks. Want me to take care of it?"
He turned a small blade between his fingers as he spoke — edge thin as cicada wings, glinting a watery blue in the faint light. Clearly poisoned.
Orion shook his head. "No need."
He turned to Regulus. "You handle it."
Regulus looked at his father, waiting.
"This is a live-combat opportunity. Rare." Orion's tone was as flat as if he were assigning homework.
"Clueless bottom-dwellers like this don't come along often. Even in Knockturn Alley, anyone with half a brain knows the head of House Black. Since these lot don't, they'll make perfect practice targets for you."
He added: "Show restraint. Don't make too much noise. Nobody polices this place, but Aurors do patrol occasionally — getting spotted would be a nuisance."
Regulus nodded. Privately, he'd been itching to try.
Sparring with Orion, he always held something back — not from fear of hurting his father; at Orion's level, he probably couldn't manage that yet.
Rather, some techniques were simply unsightly — unsuitable for use in a father-and-son practice bout.
The Dark spells he'd learned from the Restricted Section, for instance — those leaning toward torment and control. Or the Transfiguration applications born from his understanding of material essence — bordering on insidious.
But on Knockturn Alley dregs, they fit perfectly.
The moment they stepped outside, the four stalkers visibly tensed.
The two Disillusioned shapes ahead-left shrank deeper into shadow. At the far end of the alley, the werewolf's throat let out a low, guttural whine; the cold-magic figure's fingers tightened on a wand.
Regulus scanned his surroundings.
This side-alley was remote — secluded even by Knockturn Alley standards.
Most buildings on either side were derelict: windows nailed shut, walls blanketed in dark moss, ground pitted with reeking puddles.
No other pedestrians in sight. A few rats rummaged through a rubbish heap.
A perfect arena.
Regulus walked out alone — ten paces from the shop — and stopped in the middle of the alley.
He turned to face the corner piled with abandoned crates, voice level: "Come out. Your Disillusionment Charms are that bad — don't bother hiding."
The two figures in the corner froze.
Two seconds later, the charms dropped.
Two wizards emerged from the shadows in tattered robes, faces wrapped in black cloth — only eyes showing.
Wands already in hand, tips trained on Regulus.
"Smart kid." The tall one on the left spoke, voice like gravel. "Hand over the money and everything valuable. Then scram."
The stocky one on the right added: "Your old man too. All of it."
Regulus had no patience for talk. He raised his right hand — wand sliding into his palm — and attacked immediately.
A spell drove into the ground at their feet. Blasting Curse.
Silent — yet the magic pouring from his wand tip was savage.
The waterlogged craters in the pavement detonated, hurling filthy water and stone fragments at the two wizards like shrapnel rain. Instinct drove their arms up to shield themselves.
Regulus shifted half a step left, toe tapping the ground, his entire body gliding as though weightless.
His wand traced three arcs in the air — three spells launched almost simultaneously, each on a distinct trajectory.
The first: a Binding Curse. Magic condensed mid-air into translucent ropes studded with barbed thorns. Once coiled around a target, every struggle drove the barbs deeper; they also drained blood continuously.
The ropes lunged at the tall wizard.
The second: a Severing Curse. Magic compressed into a blade thin as paper, its edge vibrating at ultra-high frequency, emitting a near-inaudible shriek.
This variant didn't merely cut flesh — it severed magical flow, making wounds virtually impossible to heal. The spinning blade shot toward the stocky wizard's wand hand.
The third was the most covert. It struck the wall behind the pair. On impact, the stone surface rippled like water; the entire wall began to melt and reshape.
Its surface transformed into mirror-smooth glass reflecting the two wizards' backs.
The tall wizard saw the rope flying at him and dodged backward on instinct — slamming into the wall that had become a mirror.
The instant he touched the surface, it seized his body, enveloping him. No matter how he thrashed, the glass merely rippled — it would not release.
In that split second, the rope coiled around his left leg.
Barbs sank into flesh and began drawing blood. The tall wizard screamed, tried to sever the rope with his wand — but the stocky wizard was already in worse shape.
The Severing Blade was blindingly fast. The stocky wizard barely managed to raise his wand; the Shield Charm incantation was only half-formed when the blade sliced across his right wrist.
Just a hair-thin red line. But the stocky wizard's entire right hand went dead. His wand clattered to the ground. The red line at the wrist began seeping fine beads of blood.
"My hand!" The stocky wizard clutched his wrist, voice soaked in terror, and let out a piercing howl: "Aaagh!"
At the far end of the alley, the werewolf and the cold-magic wizard saw their companions crushed in an instant and charged.
The werewolf dropped to all fours, speed explosive, the whine in its throat swelling into a bestial snarl.
It couldn't manage a full transformation, but its teeth were already lengthening, nails extending and blackening, eyes flooding with red.
The cold wizard circled to the flank, wand sweeping through a long, gnarled incantation.
A dozen black ice-spikes crystallized in the air, tips aimed at Regulus. With a flick of the wizard's wand, they fired in volley.
Regulus didn't even look at them.
His left hand swept out to the side. An invisible barrier unfolded in the air.
The ice-spikes slammed into it — and their trajectories wrenched sideways, every one skimming past his flank and burying into the far wall, detonating into bursts of black frost.
Simultaneously, his right hand pointed his wand at the charging werewolf. Transfiguration — target: the air the creature was breathing.
When the werewolf was still ten meters out, the faintest silver glow flickered at Regulus's wand tip.
The werewolf opened wide and sucked in a huge lungful for its final charge. Chest expanding. Waiting for oxygen to enter the bloodstream.
Nothing happened.
The inhaled air might as well have been void — incapable of any reaction with lung tissue.
Oxygen deprivation widened its eyes, veins webbing the whites. Its sprint faltered; limbs began to buckle.
But a werewolf's magic resistance genuinely outclassed an ordinary wizard's. Even untransformed, the body's resilience held.
On feral instinct alone, it pushed on — right claw extended, lunging for Regulus's throat.
Regulus stood his ground. His left hand traced a line before him.
CLANG!
A sharp ring of metal on metal exploded. Silver-white light flared across the air in front of Regulus.
Of five blackened nails, the longest snapped at the root. The remaining four cracked, their tips shattering off, spinning as dark streaks through the air before clattering onto the flagstones.
The werewolf's entire right paw wrenched backward; a clean crack of breaking bone sounded from the wrist.
It screamed and lurched away, cradling the ruined paw. Thick, dark-red blood dripped from the fingertips, each drop spattering the flagstones into tiny scarlet flowers.
Agony compounded by the prior oxygen debt — it could no longer stay upright.
The werewolf collapsed to its knees, both hands braced on the ground, mouth gaping for air. But every breath was still useless.
Violent exertion had burned through its oxygen reserves. The body convulsed uncontrollably. Its face shifted red to blue to purple; eyeballs bulged; the throat produced a rattling, death-like rasp.