Regulus drifted closer to Orion without drawing attention and spoke under his breath. "We're being followed. Two under a Disillusionment Charm on the left ahead, and two at the mouth of the alley. One of them might be a werewolf."
Orion didn't slow down, and he didn't turn his head. He only gave the smallest nod.
He'd noticed long ago. From the moment they entered this side alley, those stares had stuck to them like flies.
With decades of experience clawing his way through the wizarding world, Orion found this level of tailing almost funny. It was blatant, sloppy and full of holes.
They couldn't even manage the most basic concealment.
Bottom-feeders.
That was Orion's assessment.
Most likely the lowest tier of dark wizards in Knockturn Alley, the kind who couldn't land real work and couldn't afford real materials. So they camped in back alleys like this, hoping a lone fat sheep would wander past so they could grab one good score.
They probably didn't even recognize who he was.
Anyone with half an eye and half a brain would've seen the House of Black crest on his robes, would've recognized the face that showed up often enough in the Wizengamot section of the Daily Prophet, and would've understood that this wasn't someone you picked a fight with.
But if they couldn't recognize him, then good.
He could make use of that.
They finished their stop at the last shop, an underground clinic that trafficked smuggled magical creature organs.
The owner was a former St. Mungo's healer who'd been expelled for illegal experiments and had simply continued his research in Knockturn Alley.
As the shop's handler walked them to the door, he lowered his voice. "There are a few people outside who don't look right. They've tailed you for three streets. Want me to take care of them?"
As he spoke, he casually spun a small knife between his fingers. The blade was thin as a cicada's wing, glinting an eerie blue in the low light. Poisoned, obviously.
Orion shook his head. "No."
Then he looked at Regulus. "You handle it."
Regulus lifted his eyes, waiting for the rest.
"It's a rare chance for real combat," Orion said, as calmly as if he were assigning homework. "You don't always get idiots like this. Even in Knockturn Alley, anyone with a brain knows better than to mistake the head of the House of Black. Since they did, it's perfect for practice."
He added, "Watch your limits. Don't make too much noise. No one cares down here, but Aurors from the Ministry of Magic do patrol sometimes. If they see you, it's trouble."
Regulus nodded. Truthfully, he'd wanted to try for a while.
When he sparred with Orion, he always held something back. It wasn't that he feared hurting his father. With Orion's level, Regulus probably couldn't, even if he tried.
It was that some techniques were simply… ugly.
Not things you used in a father-and-son practice match.
The sort of spells he'd learned from the Restricted Section that leaned toward torment and control. The transfiguration applications that came from understanding matter too well, sharp enough to feel poisonous.
On garbage like this in Knockturn Alley, though?
Perfect.
The moment they stepped out of the shop, the four stalkers tightened up.
The two under the Disillusionment Charm shrank deeper into shadow. Farther off, the werewolf at the alley mouth let out a low, uneasy whine, and the other, colder presence curled fingers around a wand.
Regulus took a quick sweep of the area.
This side alley was remote, even by Knockturn Alley standards.
Most of the buildings were abandoned. Windows were nailed shut. Dark moss crawled along the walls. The ground was broken and uneven, holding stagnant, foul water in potholes.
There wasn't a single other pedestrian in sight. Only a few rats rummaging through trash.
A perfect place for a lesson.
Regulus walked forward alone, ten steps into the open, and stopped in the middle of the alley.
He turned to face the corner piled with discarded wooden crates and spoke in an even voice. "Come out. Your Disillusionment Charm is terrible. There's no point hiding."
The two figures in that corner froze.
Two seconds later, the Disillusionment Charm dropped.
Two male wizards stepped out of the shadows. Their robes were worn and filthy. Black cloth covered their faces, leaving only their eyes visible.
They already had wands in hand, tips aimed at Regulus.
"Smart kid," rasped the taller one on the left. "Hand over your money and anything valuable, then get lost."
The shorter, stockier wizard beside him added, "And your dad's too. All of it."
Regulus didn't bother with a reply. He raised his right hand, wand sliding neatly into his palm, and attacked immediately.
A spell slammed into the ground at their feet.
Confringo.
There was no dramatic roar, but the magic bursting from his wand tip was violent.
The potholes full of water detonated. Filthy puddles and shattered stone exploded upward like a storm, pelting both wizards. They jerked their arms up on instinct to shield their faces.
Regulus shifted half a step to the left, toes barely touching the ground as he glided forward with unnatural lightness.
At the same time, his wand cut three arcs through the air, and three spells shot out almost together, each one taking a different line.
The first was a binding spell. Magic condensed into a semi-transparent rope, barbed along its surface. Once it latched on, struggling only drove the hooks deeper, and it would keep drawing blood the entire time.
The rope snapped toward the tall wizard.
The second was a severing curse. Magic sharpened into a blade thin as paper, the edge vibrating so fast it made a shriek you could barely hear.
This wasn't a simple cut. It could slice flesh and disrupt the flow of magic itself, turning wounds into something stubborn and slow to heal. The spinning blade flashed toward the short wizard's wand hand.
The third spell was the most subtle.
It hit the wall behind them, and the instant it made contact, the stone rippled like disturbed water.
Then the entire surface began to melt and shift.
The wall smoothed into a mirror sheen, reflecting the two wizards' backs.
The tall wizard saw the rope flying at him and dodged backward on instinct, only to slam into the wall that had become a mirror.
The moment his body touched it, the surface grabbed him.
It swallowed him in, wrapping around him. His struggles only made ripples. He couldn't break free.
And in that heartbeat, the barbed rope snapped tight around his left leg.
Hooks sank into flesh and began to drink. The tall wizard screamed and tried to lift his wand to cut the rope, but the stocky wizard was already in worse trouble.
The severing blade was too fast.
He barely managed to raise his wand in defense. The protective charm was only half-formed on his lips when the blade swept across his right wrist.
A hair-thin red line appeared.
Then his entire hand went slack.
His wand slipped free and clattered to the ground. Blood beaded along that line in tight, trembling dots.
"My hand!" the short wizard shrieked, clutching his wrist, voice cracking with panic. "Ahh… ahh!"
At the alley mouth, the werewolf and the cold wizard saw their companions crushed in an instant and rushed in.
The werewolf ran on all fours, terrifyingly fast, the earlier whine turning into a beast's growl.
He couldn't fully transform, but the change had already started. Teeth sharpening. Nails stretching long and black. Eyes flushing with red.
The cold wizard circled to the side, wand whipping through the air as he spat a long, harsh incantation.
A dozen black ice spikes formed in the air, all pointed at Regulus.
With a sharp flick, they shot forward together.
Regulus didn't even look at them.
He snapped his left hand outward and an invisible barrier unfurled in the air.
The ice spikes struck it and their paths warped violently, forced aside so they skimmed past him and slammed into the wall behind, bursting into black ice blossoms.
At the same time, Regulus leveled his wand at the onrushing werewolf.
Transfiguration, aimed at the air the creature was breathing.
When the werewolf closed to within ten meters, a faint silver glimmer sparked at Regulus's wand tip.
The werewolf threw his head back and sucked in a huge breath, preparing for the final lunge. Lungs expanding, body demanding oxygen.
Nothing happened.
The air he'd drawn in had lost its purpose, stripped of whatever made it usable. It refused to do anything inside his chest.
Oxygen deprivation hit like a hammer. His eyes went wide, blood vessels swelling red. His speed faltered. Limbs started to soften.
But a werewolf's resistance was real. Even without a full transformation, the body's toughness remained.
Driven by animal instinct, he surged forward anyway, claws already extended, reaching for Regulus's throat.
Regulus stood his ground. He drew his left hand across the space in front of him.
"Clang!"
A bright, metallic impact rang out.
Silver-white light flared in the air before him like a sudden sheet of steel.
Out of the five black claws, the longest snapped clean off at the base. The other four cracked, tips splintering away. Fragments flew backward in thin black streaks and bounced across the stone with sharp little clinks.
The werewolf's entire right paw jerked back. A crisp sound of bone breaking followed.
He howled and stumbled away, cradling his shattered wrist, thick dark red blood dripping from his fingertips onto the greenish stone, splashing into tiny blooms.
The pain, combined with the lack of oxygen, finally broke his balance.
He dropped to his knees, hands braced on the ground, mouth open as he tried to breathe.
But every gasp still pulled in useless air.
The sprint had burned through what little oxygen reserve his body had left. His muscles began to spasm uncontrollably. His face shifted from flushed red to bluish, then a deep, ugly purple. His eyes bulged, and a wet choking sound crawled out of his throat, the noise of something dying.