"There is someone in the Forbidden Forest known as the Spider Reaper," Ronan said gravely. "He first appeared eight years ago. Every time he slew an Acromantula, he would cut off all its legs."
"The spiders have never seen him—but they're terrified of him. Whenever they come across one of their own with all its legs gone, they flee the area for weeks."
"So we do the same," he added. "Mimic the Spider Reaper, to keep them from coming near our lands."
Charles gave a convincing gasp of surprise, though in truth, things were beginning to make sense.
"Do the Acromantulas attack you often?" he asked, eyebrows drawn together in concern.
"All too often…" Ronan let out a long sigh, eyes clouded with memories.
On Charles's other side, Twilight whispered softly, "Three years ago… Ronan's son was killed by one."
Ronan exhaled again, more softly this time, lifting his gaze to the narrow slivers of twilight sky between the branches above. "Such is the will of the stars," he murmured.
Charles mirrored the sigh. There didn't seem to be much else to say.
"If only he were still around," Twilight added wistfully.
"Who?" Charles asked.
She hesitated, then said, "He used to be the guardian of the Forbidden Forest, a long time ago. The Elder says that back then, the forest was full of poachers, and dark wizards hunted our kind as well. But he—he destroyed them all, alone."
Charles nodded slowly, curiosity piqued. "Did he have any... distinguishing features?"
"His wand was fifteen inches long," Ronan said. "That's the only record we have of him."
"The stars say he will return."
Charles made a mental note—381 millimetres. That was a solid lead. Maybe the library had something… or the old man might know.
"And you've never found a way to deal with the Acromantulas?" he asked.
Ronan shook his head solemnly. "They multiply too quickly. They lay hundreds of eggs at a time, and they hatch in just six to eight weeks."
"My father once tried. In winter, when the spiders were gone, he and a few others crept into their nesting grounds, hoping to destroy the eggs. But the spiders were only hibernating, deep in caves. Thick leaves covered the entrances—completely hidden."
"They awoke from the tremors of our steps. Surrounded us. Only Bane's father returned… and he was too poisoned to last long."
Charles fell silent, brow furrowed in thought. After a long pause, he said, "I'll help."
He remembered a few things about centaurs. They didn't trust humans—most barely tolerated them, and even that only extended to children.
But Ronan had called him a foal, and none of the other centaurs had objected to him joining them. They must have accepted him, at least for now, because he had helped Twilight.
And if your friends are in trouble, well—what kind of person doesn't help?
As for Hagrid—who treated Acromantulas like cuddly pets—Charles didn't exactly fancy trying to explain this plan to him. They weren't exactly close.
Of course, wiping out all the spiders at once wasn't realistic.
But if he could borrow a few ideas from the recently-ended Gulf War… precision strikes. Bombing key targets. Like, say, the egg-laying chambers.
Before he could say anything, Ronan spoke again.
"I know you mean well," he said gently. "But you're still only a colt. Charging in without thinking would only get you killed."
"If you truly want to help us… find the Spider Reaper. We must thank him properly."
Charles very nearly said, Why don't I just give you his phone number and let you call him yourself?
The centaur village soon came into view. Towering tree trunks, bound together with rope and vines, formed a circular wall around the clearing. Outside, a group of very young foals—barely toddlers by the look of them—were galloping about in play.
Inside the village, Charles noticed that only the elders and the young seemed to be home. The older centaurs were either telling stories or teaching the little ones how to shoot arrows with tiny bows.
Twilight trotted off with the basket of blueberries she had picked, while Ronan led Charles to the great longhouse at the center of the village.
It smelled sharply of something between incense and burning moss—pungent, yet oddly pleasant. At the far end, sprawled upon a thickly woven mat, lay an ancient centaur with a sloped back and heavy-lidded eyes that barely opened. He might have been asleep, or simply very, very old.
Unlike the others, he wore a flowered garland on his head.
"This is our Great Elder," Ronan said solemnly.
Before Charles could even offer a greeting, the old centaur rasped, "The stars foretold your coming. Welcome, friend of the phoenix-wand."
Startled, Charles blinked and drew his wand. "You mean this one?" he asked.
The elder didn't look at the wand. Instead, he gazed straight into Charles's eyes and said, slow and low, "But perhaps friendship is not foretold by what wand one carries… but by what one chooses to do with it. Don't you think?"
Charles had no idea how to respond. One moment he was quoting prophecies, the next he was dismissing them like idle dreams. Charles was thoroughly confused.
But the elder pressed on, his voice like leaves scraping stone. "The Acromantulas grow in number. More and more of our children are lost to them. So I ask you now, my friend: will you help us?"
Before Charles could speak, Ronan jumped in, almost urgently: "Elder, Charles is still only a colt!"
But the elder acted as though he hadn't heard a word. His half-lidded eyes stayed fixed on Charles.
And Charles, after a pause, said quietly, "When a friend is in need, of course I'll help."
A crinkled smile tugged at the elder's weathered face. He turned to Ronan. "Fetch the box from the top of the rack."
Ronan returned with a small, aged chest and handed it to Charles at the elder's gesture.
As Charles took the box, the elder said, "To the south of our village lies a grove of chestnut trees. The chestnuts there are nearly ripe—and they are vital for our winter stores. But the grove has been overrun by Acromantulas. We cannot reach it."
"I hope you can help us drive them away. Inside this box is a spell—your reward, if you like. But I trust you, so I give it to you now."
For a moment, Charles felt as though an enormous golden exclamation mark had appeared over the elder's head.
He clutched the box awkwardly and said, "I really do want to help. But it's getting late… I need to get back to the castle. I'll return first thing tomorrow morning. Better you keep the box for now—I'll look at it when I come back."
He had no desire to test Hogwarts' rules. One night missing from the dormitory could lose enough house points to make him Gryffindor's public enemy number one.
The elder smiled mischievously. "You can stay here tonight. No need to worry. I'll write to Dumbledore myself and explain. I met you on the edge of the Forest and asked for your help. He won't deduct a single point."
He asked Ronan for parchment, a quill, and a writing board. In short order, the elder penned a neat letter and passed it to Charles for inspection. It said exactly what he claimed.
Seeing this, Charles felt the matter might be more urgent than he'd first thought. So—he accepted the mission.
The Great Elder handed the letter to Ronan. "Take this to Hagrid. Ask him to bring Dumbledore to meet you. If Dumbledore's not there, ask for Professor McGonagall. Say nothing else—just give them the letter."
Charles, listening from the side, was astonished. They were summoning Dumbledore to come out and meet Ronan? That was no small request.
But a moment later, he realized—of course. Centaurs couldn't climb stairs. The only way to speak with someone in the castle… was to ask them to come down.
(End of Chapter)