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Sargeras listened in silence, showing not the slightest flicker of change.
The wand in his hand remained steady, its tip aimed unerringly at Aragog. The crimson glow burning at its end had not dimmed in the least. "A touching story," he said evenly. "But that changes nothing. It cannot erase the truth that you and your brood have built this mountain of corpses with your fangs, nor can it erase the fact that they dared to attack me."
Aragog's massive body recoiled, shrinking in on itself. "Survival… wizard. The law of the forest… the strong devour the weak."
Its voice rasped in a weak, halting defense, growing lower with every word. "The centaurs… they see us as prey… conflict… was inevitable. As for offending you… I offer you my apology… my greedy offspring… they caught the scent of great magical power…"
"I like that phrase, survival of the fittest," Sargeras cut across coldly, his tone as calm as still water. "It means I don't need to invent any excuse for what I do tonight."
He stepped forward. The red light from his wand spilled across Aragog's aged, timeworn carapace, painting the rough surface in a sinister glow.
"Hand over your venom. All of it." His voice carried no warmth, only the sharp bite of ice. "Do not test my patience, old spider. I can already feel the fire of your life flickering toward its end, yet I would have no hesitation in snuffing it out with my own hands, then slowly extracting what I need from your corpse drop by drop."
The cavern sank into a silence so heavy it felt like death itself.
In Aragog's clouded compound eyes flickered humiliation and terror, yet in the end both were swallowed by a bottomless despair.
It knew all too well that this wizard did not deal in empty threats. The coldness in his gaze was a hundred times more terrifying than the fiercest predator, a chill that cut deeper than fangs or venom could ever reach.
A low, pained screech tore from Aragog's throat, the sound as though it had been forced out of a decayed, hollow chest.
Its swollen abdomen convulsed violently, and from it extended a thick, barbed stinger, the tip glistening with a dim, eerie light.
Dark venom, thick as ink, welled from the puncture. It carried a pungent, metallic stench, each drop stretching into a sticky filament before falling through the stagnant air.
Nightingale stepped forward at once, producing a specially crafted crystal vial whose inner walls were etched with countless runes. With steady precision, she guided the viscous liquid with her wand, coaxing each reluctant drop into the vessel.
Through the entire process, Sargeras never let his wand waver, its aim locked on Aragog's head. Kestrel stood taut and watchful, her eyes scanning the shadows around them for danger.
At last, when the final drop of that precious venom slid into the crystal vial, Nightingale swiftly sealed the mouth. The instant the stopper clicked into place, a faint magical glow rippled across the inside of the vessel, runes shimmering to life. The light was soft yet steady, proof that the enchantment within had begun preserving the venom's vitality and its deadly potency.
Only then did Sargeras slowly lower his wand, yet the oppressive weight of his presence did not ease in the slightest.
He advanced until he stood directly before the massive Aragog. Though their sizes were worlds apart, the wizard's icy stare made the ancient spider sovereign shudder, as though his very soul had been seized and bound in an invisible grip.
"For Hagrid's pitiful kindness, and for this 'gift' you've just given me," Sargeras said, his voice calm but mercilessly cold, "I will spare your life."
He leaned forward slightly. The wand's tip suddenly spat a crackling blue arc, striking down without hesitation against Aragog's wrinkled, timeworn shell.
A harsh sizzle filled the air. The stench of charred flesh spread through the cavern as a scorched black mark was seared deep into the carapace, smoke curling upward in bitter fumes.
"But you had best keep your brood in check." Sargeras' tone did not rise, yet it cut like a blade. "If even one of your so-called offspring dares to see my students, my companions, or my people as prey…"
He broke off, locking his gaze with Aragog's. His words fell with quiet finality. "I will come back. And when I do, this forest will never again hear the screech of Acromantulas. It will know only silence. Eternal silence. Do you understand?"
Terror wracked Aragog's enormous body, his limbs shuddering violently. The place where the wand had struck still burned with a searing pain, a reminder that death's hand hovered just above him.
"U…understood! Mighty wizard! I… I swear upon what remains of my life… I will restrain them!"
Sargeras gave the faintest of nods.
"Good." He slid his wand back into his robes, not sparing the aged spider so much as another glance. "We are leaving."
The three of them retraced the path of blood that had brought them here. Behind them lingered only the ragged, labored breaths of Aragog and the faint, shivering cries of spiderlings hidden deep within the shadows.
Kestrel could not help but turn her head for one last look. In the darkness, Aragog's hulking, hunched figure seemed unspeakably desolate, and in those clouded compound eyes, she thought she glimpsed a lingering trace of yearning… for Hagrid, perhaps, or for days long gone.
Her heart softened, and in a low, hesitant voice she asked, "Are we… perhaps… it looks… it looks a little…"
Nightingale's steps faltered for the briefest moment, though she did not turn her head.
Sargeras, however, stopped outright. He turned his head toward Kestrel, his calm gaze falling upon her. Under the weight of that look, the young witch instinctively drew her shoulders inward.
"Pitiful?"
Sargeras' voice was even, without the slightest ripple of feeling. "If it had been any other wizard standing here tonight, that 'pitiful' old spider would not have hesitated to command its brood to tear them into pieces. In those piles of bones you saw, there may well be villagers from Hogsmeade who vanished without explanation… or Aurors who never returned from patrol."
Kestrel's face drained of all color at his words.
At that moment, Nightingale finally turned. Moonlight spilled through the cracks in the cavern's ceiling, laying a pale silver sheen across her face as she spoke: "Irissa, you must understand. Hagrid is its only friend. To every other human…"
She raised her wand, pointing toward several fresh skeletons scattered across the stone floor.
"…they are nothing more than food."
Sargeras lifted his wand with a casual flick. A sharp silver gleam tore through the air, ripping apart the thick webs clinging to the cavern wall. What lay beyond made the skin crawl.
Thousands upon thousands of spider eggs clung in dense clusters to the webbed nests, each as large as a pumpkin. Their shells were translucent, and through them one could see the faint shapes of spiderlings writhing and squirming within.
"The Acromantulas have no natural predators in the Forbidden Forest."
Sargeras walked forward as he spoke, his tone even but heavy with meaning. "In only a few short decades since Hagrid brought them here, their numbers have multiplied into the tens of thousands. And the Ministry of Magic has chosen to look away, pretending to be blind…"
A faint smile touched his lips, yet it carried no warmth. "I fear it will not be long before these spiders spill out of the Forbidden Forest and begin preying upon the villagers of Hogsmeade."
Kestrel caught her breath, a sudden realization seizing her. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "But… how could Headmaster Dumbledore ever allow—"
"Albus Dumbledore," Sargeras interrupted her, his tone low, calm, and certain. "Sometimes, he lets his mercy fall in the wrong places."
Nightingale reached out and gently pressed a hand against Kestrel's trembling shoulder. "Come. The venom we've gathered tonight, once brewed into a potion, will save countless lives."
The three of them left the cavern. As they stepped into the open air, Kestrel turned for one last glance behind her.
Bathed in moonlight, Aragog was dragging his immense body back toward his cocooned nest. His compound eyes, once clouded yet still faintly alive, now reflected no trace of warmth. What lingered there was nothing but the cold indifference of a beast.
And in that instant, she understood. Perhaps this was the true law of the Forbidden Forest.
Lock every shred of compassion into a cage, and only then could one survive. With that realization, Kestrel'strembling body finally stilled.
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The three of them retraced their steps along the path they had come. As they moved forward, the oppressive blackness of the forest began to thin. The glow from Nightingale's wand pushed back the dark, casting light upon the twisted tree shadows, which now seemed less grotesque, less threatening.
"Watch your step," Nightingale warned, pointing ahead. "That's a patch of bloodsucking vines."
Kestrel glanced down. What she saw was a carpet of dark red tendrils creeping across the ground like veins beneath skin, pulsing and shifting with a slow, unsettling rhythm almost too faint for the naked eye to perceive.
With a casual flick of his hand, Sargeras summoned a pale fire raven that swept over the vines. At once the writhing tendrils recoiled, curling away as if scorched by unseen heat. Such things, Kestrel realized, were scattered everywhere in the Forbidden Forest.
Her eyes brightened with excitement, and she crouched eagerly by the edge of the vine bed. "Can I take a few samples?" she asked with keen interest. "Professor Sprout once told me that the sap of bloodsucking vines can be used to brew sedatives, and even to paint alchemical arrays."
Sargeras inclined his head in assent. "Be quick about it."
He tilted his face upward, as though gauging the time through the canopy that blotted out the sky. "We should be gone from here before first light."
Kestrel needed no further encouragement. She began slicing away with cheerful diligence, gathering the wriggling vines with deft little motions.
"By the way," Sargeras said casually as if to pass the time, "I heard Nicolas Flamel went back to Beauxbatons not long ago?"
"Yes. He seemed to be…" Nightingale paused, reflecting. "Discussing the matters of his inheritance with Madame Maxime."
"So, the two of them finally chose to set aside the Philosopher's Stone, to let go of their grasp on endless life," Sargeras murmured, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic note of wistfulness. "More than six centuries of existence… and even their twilight had to come to an end."
Kestrel frowned at that, puzzled. While her wand flicked in steady rhythm, slicing through the tangling tendrils with a severing charm, she cast a glance over her shoulder. "But why would they give it up? Did the Stone… stop working?"
"It isn't the Stone," Sargeras replied softly. "It's them. I've seen him with my own eyes… a life no stronger than a candle guttering in the wind."
Nightingale shook her head, pity softening her expression. "Their sense of taste is gone. Their sense of touch has withered away. Their bodies are worn down, so frail now they can hardly sustain themselves at all."
"Oh." Kestrel tucked a small bundle of vines into her traveling satchel, then said with offhand mischief, "Well, do you suppose he might just fake his death, slip into a new body with a new name, and start life all over again?"
At her words, Sargeras and Nightingale both froze. They turned toward one another, exchanging a glance weighted with unspoken meaning, yet neither of them chose to reply.
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[Chapter End's]
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