A Vile Bastard
Regulus's long, silvery-white hair was blown backward by the wind generated by Apparition's spatial compression, and scorching Magic Power erupted from his body, causing the air to violently distort between the two.
His right fist was clenched tightly, and the dark red light of Betelgeuse burst out from between his fingers, wrapping around his fist as he swung it upwards.
Before Dolohov's eyes could widen, before his pale, distorted face could contort into expression, his fist had already slammed down.
The finger bone, enveloped in scorching red light, slammed into the left cheekbone. The Magic Power exploded the moment it made contact, the air hissed from the intense heat, and the muffled sound of bones shattering was swallowed up.
The bones on the left side of the face, including the cheekbone, the outer edge of the eye socket, and the maxilla, shattered into more than a dozen pieces at the same moment. The fragments were displaced under the skin, and half of the face collapsed Transfiguration on the spot.
His eyeball was squeezed from behind by bone fragments, and his vision turned into a blurry red blur amidst the excruciating pain.
Blood gushed from the collapsed eye sockets, the bridge of the nose was completely shattered, the corner of the mouth was torn to the ear roots, and teeth were blown out of the mouth, spraying out with blood and foam.
Dolohov's body was sent flying backward by the force of the punch, his back slamming into a pile of rubble. The rocks shattered, and he bounced off the rubble before landing face down on the ground.
Blood gushing from his mouth stained the rubble in front of him deep red, and broken teeth and blood splattered down the rotting left side of his face.
He instinctively rolled over and tried to get up, digging at the rubble with his hands, his fingernails scraping against the stone surface with a sharp scraping sound.
The muscles in my legs tensed and relaxed repeatedly; I got up halfway but fell back down, my knees hitting the gravel.
His body twitched and then forced itself open, convulsing between the conflicting signals of fighting or fleeing. His only remaining right eye was fixed on the white-haired wizard, its pupil contracted to its limit.
Fear, anger, and disbelief were swirling together in that eye.
His act was all for nothing; this guy had no intention of letting him go.
A murderous intent surged up from the base of his spine, gripping every nerve, urging him to fight back, urging him to fight with his life on the line.
Struggling to raise his arm, his fingertips glowed with purple light. He could only utter muffled sounds, half of his face was out of control, and his tongue was cut by broken teeth, his mouth full of blood.
Then he saw the white-haired wizard suddenly change his expression, lower his fist, and the sinister smile on his face disappear.
The scorching Magic Power receded, the air stopped distorting, and the person transformed from a raging fire into a still stone.
The white-haired wizard took a step back, bowed slightly, placed his left hand on his chest, and extended his right hand outward, making an extremely affected gentlemanly gesture.
With palms up, pointing towards the empty wilderness beyond the black smoke, it was like a hospitable the Master bidding farewell to a respected guest, a posture so elegant it was nauseating.
Please, you can leave now.
Dolohov lay sprawled on the rubble, the left side of his face unrecognizable, blood gushing from the hollow of his sunken cheekbone, obscuring half of his vision.
Before the fear and anger in his right eye could fade, he was once again thoroughly assaulted by this affected aristocratic manner.
This guy is absolutely despicable.
He hissed through clenched teeth, a low, flattened growl rumbling from deep in his throat, his only remaining right eye fixed on that hateful face.
The tug-of-war between murderous intent and reason prevailed.
He still has the strength to fight back, but his opponent will kill him here.
If I leave now, I can return alive. Half of my face is rotten, but I can repair it with Potions and bone- Healing Charm. If I lose my life, I lose everything.
Dolohov remained silent, the purple light at his fingertips extinguished, and he pulled his other hand out of the rubble, hooked it onto the fallen wand, and focused his mind.
Snap, Apparition.
The voice was drawn out, not crisp, and had a damp quality.
Dolohov's body twisted Transfiguration in the spatial compression, and as he disappeared, several pieces of flesh fell from the spot where he vanished.
A piece of flesh with skin on, probably from the outside of the Left Arm, along with half a torn piece of robe fabric, landed on the gravel and bounced.
A fragment of thigh muscle, with blood vessels and fascia still oozing blood, lay on the ground covered in dust.
Splinching.
The forced Apparition under intense pain, the rage surging through the brain, the body not being taken away intact.
The black smoke slowly dissipated, turning into a thin, grayish-white veil blown eastward by the night wind, and the wilderness fell silent once more.
Smoke still rises from the Castle ruins, and occasionally a piece or two of rubble rolls down.
Where Dolohov had just stood, there remained a stone charred black by purple flames and several pieces of flesh that were growing cold.
Regulus flicked the blood and bone fragments off his right knuckles, and a small cluster of orange-red flames flickered across his fingertips, burning them away.
He put his wand back in his inner pocket, dusted off his vest, and then grinned, revealing a hearty smile.
Moody walked over from the edge of the battlefield, his grey-blue eyes sweeping over Geralt.
He had seen everything that had just happened. The white-haired guy had been holding back from the start, letting Dolohov send all his men away, letting the black smoke spread, and letting the retreat signal be given.
Everything was fine until this point, and everyone went home.
Then, at the last second, this person pressed his face close and smashed half of Dolohov's face with a punch, and then even bowed.
Moody opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He had been Auror for nearly thirty years and had seen people who were uncouth, but he had never seen anyone so uncouth.
His lips twitched, and he stared at Geralt's still-grinning face for a long time in silence.
"You used pretty dirty hands." Moody's voice was rough and hoarse, and it was hard to tell whether it was disgust or something else.
Regulus glanced at him sideways, the golden light still lingering in his amber pupils, the smile on his lips not yet faded, "He glared at me."
Staring at you?
You couldn't find such a convincing excuse even if you wanted to find fault.
Moody didn't reply, stared at him for a while, exhaled through his snort, and turned to leave.
The Prewett brothers walked up behind Moody.
Fabian walked ahead, his reddish-brown hair stained grayish-white by stone powder, and most of his freckles were covered by dust, with only a few visible on the bridge of his nose.
He wasn't tall, but he was sturdy, with bright eyes. As he walked, he kept glancing towards the ruins, a relaxed smile playing on his lips.
Gideon followed behind, half a head taller than his brother, with broader shoulders, short reddish-brown hair, and a cut on his forehead from a pebble, the blood dried and forming a dark red scab.
His expression was calm, his gaze first falling on the pool of blood and the object on the ground, lingering for a moment, before shifting away.
The two brothers exchanged a few words with Moody in hushed tones. Moody then gestured with his chin toward Regulus and said something.
Fabian glanced this way, his smile widening, tinged with a hint of gritted teeth and satisfaction.
Dolohov had just been punched; half his face was smashed, and he was sent flying. Before he could even get up, he was politely ushered away by a pretentious nobleman.
It was truly satisfying, incredibly impressive, and ruthless. Although it involved a sneak attack, those were Death Eaters, so well done.
Gideon probably felt the same way; his lips were pursed, his brows slightly furrowed, and his expression was somewhat complicated—a mixture of gratitude and toothache.
Regulus walked toward them.
Her long, silvery-white hair was still covered with dust blown up by the blast wave during the explosion; the dark patterns on her short vest shimmered slightly in the moonlight; and her amber vertical pupils gleamed with two points of gold in the night.
He was completely detached from the violence of smashing Dolohov's facial bones, his steps were unsteady, and his posture was relaxed.
He walked up to the two of them, looked them up and down, and saw that they were covered in dust and hadn't fully recovered from the shock.
After a moment of silence, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, and his voice was low, carrying a hint of casual teasing.
Good evening, newbies.
Gideon opened his mouth, probably wanting to say thank you, but was choked by the word "rookie," and swallowed the words back.
Fabian grinned, but inhaled half a mouthful of lingering smoke, choking and coughing several times while covering his mouth.
After coughing, he pointed to the dust on his robe, his voice hoarse. "We were being chased all day, we're not in good shape."
Regulus raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.
Gideon tugged at Fabian's arm to stop his banter, then turned to Regulus and nodded earnestly. "Thank you, Mr. Geralt, we owe you a favor."
"Don't call me 'sir,'" Regulus waved his hand dismissively. "Just call me Geralt."
Fabian grinned and held out his hand. "Fabian Pruitt, that's my brother."
Gideon also extended his hand, his movements slower and his voice steadyer than his brother's. "Gideon Pruitt, thank you for that—"
He glanced at the still-smoking Castle ruins.
"No need," Regulus shook Fabian's hand, then Gideon's, before withdrawing his own, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "It's nearby."
Fabian glanced down at his tattered robe, then at Geralt's clean and sharp vest, and his lips twitched again. "What are you doing around here?"
"A walk," Regulus said with a serious expression.
Fabian paused for a moment, then burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking.
Moody walked over, his grey-blue eyes sweeping over the three people's faces, interrupting their conversation.
"You two," he said in a rough, hard voice, looking at the brothers, "Go to Hogsmeade first. Albus waiting for you at the Hog's Head Inn. When you get there, let Aberforth check your injuries."
"After you get back, write a report detailing everything that happened tonight from beginning to end."
Gideon nodded without asking any further questions.
Fabian muttered something under his breath, and Gideon tugged at his arm.
Moody glanced in the direction of the ruins, then turned back and said, "I'll go in and see what else is in the ruins."
Having finished explaining, the wand was finally raised, its tip glowing with the faint light of Detection Charm.
He walked deeper into the ruins, the rubble crunching on the soles of his boots. After a few steps, he glanced back at Geralt.
The wariness in his grey-blue eyes had lessened compared to when they first met, replaced by something else.
This guy is alright. Although his methods are a bit dirty and his approach is a bit unorthodox, he works.
He withdrew his gaze, the light of his wand flickering in the night, and continued walking into the ruins.
Regulus stood there, looking up at the night sky.
A crack appeared in the clouds overhead, allowing a few stars to peek out. Orion hung low in the west, Betelgeuse's dark red light flickered through the cloud gap.
He watched for a while, then looked away, gave Moody's retreating figure a smirk, and turned to walk towards the open field.
Her long, silvery-white hair was blown down to her shoulders by the night wind, and her amber vertical pupils appeared as two faint points of golden light in the darkness.
The Prewett brothers exchanged a glance, then supported each other as they followed behind.
The three figures cast long shadows in the moonlight, which were gradually swallowed up by the undulating hills.
A cow in the distant pasture bellowed again, a muffled sound, as if complaining about being woken up.
The night wind grew cool again, carrying the scent of ashes and scorched earth as it blew from the direction of the ruins, scattering across the open field.