Easy to talk to?
Sander's horse-body trembled, his human face contorted with a complex mixture of shame, grief, and incandescent fury. He was being forced to guide a monster—a wizard who had just effortlessly encased their proudest warrior in ice, a wizard who claimed he could exterminate their entire civilization with less effort than swatting a fly. Sebastian Swann's smooth, condescending voice only fueled the Centaur's simmering rage.
You want to see how 'easy to talk to' he is, you cold-hearted bastard, Sander thought, a torrent of silent curses directed at the Deputy Headmaster. Yet, he dared not voice a single syllable of defiance. The lesson was still standing behind them, rigid and shimmering.
Sebastian, observing the Centaur's troubled expression and sensing the magical spike of internalized rebellion, chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing to reassure the guide.
"Still skeptical, Sander?" Sebastian asked, stopping and turning slightly. "Perhaps you doubt my sincerity, or the necessity of this meeting? Let me offer you a tangible demonstration of my goodwill."
With that, Sebastian casually raised his wand toward the path they had just traversed, toward the heart of the spider territory that was now miles behind them. His lips moved in a low, complex incantation, not to cast a new spell, but to initiate a massive, coordinated magical transportation.
The air above the dense treeline began to shimmer, vibrating with deep, silent power.
Sander froze, every muscle taut, ready for flight, but bound by his agreement. He looked up, his sharp Centaur eyesight instantly catching movement in the sky.
Then, his heart hammered against his ribs like a panicked drum.
From the Forbidden Forest, soaring high above the canopy and moving with an eerie, unnatural speed, a procession of massive, irregularly shaped crystalline objects flew toward them. They were huge—some as large as small carriages—and glittered with the pure, cold light of deep frost.
Sander swayed, the breath catching in his lungs, as the crystalline shapes grew closer and clearer.
Inside each structure, perfectly preserved, was a giant, eight-eyed spider.
The sight was overwhelming. Here were the legendary terror of the Forest, the Calamity of a Hundred Mouths, the creatures that even the Centaurs treated with fearful respect and distance—and they were all frozen solid, captured like flies in amber.
Sander could see the terrified expressions, the hairy limbs locked in poses of aggressive attack, the oily black eyes glazed over with ice. There were over thirty of them, forming a horrifying aerial parade led by the single wizard before him.
A cold bucket of water—no, an entire magical deluge—seemed to our over Sander. The last vestiges of his resistance evaporated, replaced by a profound, shaking awe. He knew the extent of the Acromantula infestation; he knew the sheer danger they posed.
For one wizard to not only survive an encounter with the colony but to return with its finest warriors permanently neutralized—the message was brutally clear.
The wizard hadn't just defeated the spiders; he had domesticated their destruction, turning them into a traveling trophy. The patrol would not have ended up like the spiders. They would have been annihilated, their discipline a testament to the wizard's temporary mercy.
"Professor Swann," Sander managed to choke out, his voice now entirely subservient, stripped of all arrogance. "Thank you for your… restraint. I apologize for my friend's insolence. May I now ask, with true respect, what business brings you to our Chief?"
"Have you finally decided to see reason?" Sebastian replied, the half-smile returning, but this time, it held a genuine hint of relief. He gave a final, firm wave of his wand, and the remaining ice around Bane, Kum, and Harkan melted instantly, though the silencing charm on Bane remained for now.
"It matters not what I say to you now, Sander. We go to the Chief. Let him see the evidence and hear the terms." He gave the newly freed Centaurs a dismissive nod. "Watch Bane. He is under a magical silencing jinx; he may still try to communicate with his hooves."
Sander immediately assigned Kum and Harkan to restrain their furious, mute comrade, and then, without further hesitation, turned and led Sebastian deeper into the Forest. His stride was now rapid, almost urgent.
The Centaur tribe was settled in a vast, open, grassy clearing—a secret, emerald valley deep within the Forbidden Forest. The soft, lush grasses provided perfect bedding, and the surrounding ancient trees created a natural, fortress-like barrier against the harsher elements and unwanted eyes.
It was an idyllic, timeless place—until the shadows of the ice crystals began to fall upon it.
"Look! What are those things flying in the sky?" one of the Centaur youths, whose natural hunter's vision was sharper than any wizard's telescope, suddenly cried out.
Immediately, dozens of heads snapped skyward.
"They look like massive gemstones, sparkling! But it is high summer! Where did such ice come from?"
"Wait! There's something inside the ice! It looks like… it's a giant eight-eyed spider!"
"Impossible! Who possesses the power to do such a thing? Are we under attack by an ice giant?"
The discovery sent a wave of shock and frantic speculation through the tribe. Centaurs are stoic, but the sight of their ultimate predators immobilized and paraded as trophies was deeply unsettling. The older warriors prepared their bows, their faces grim, while the younger ones huddled, terrified.
The chaos was suddenly interrupted by the desperate scream of a young foal that came galloping toward the center of the camp.
"Chief! Chief! Brother Sander is returning! He has brought a wizard, and the giant eight-eyed spiders in the sky… they are his spoils!"
A wizard? Spoils? And those massive, terrifying spiders? The Centaurs stared in disbelief at the lone human figure walking confidently alongside the terrified Sander.
The Centaur Chief, a powerful, dark-maned warrior named Firan, emerged from his lodge, his face a mask of concern and deep-seated suspicion. He approached Sebastian, his posture radiating authority, though his eyes darted nervously between the Deputy Headmaster and the horrifying, descending procession of ice crystals.
Sander immediately rushed to his Chief's side, his voice a frantic, low whisper as he recounted the impossible events: the shattered arrows, Bane's instant, humiliating incapacitation, and the true, devastating power of the wizard who made no threats, but simply demonstrated ruin.
A cold, clear rage darkened Firan's face when he heard about Bane. The act was a profound insult—a public humiliation of a warrior and a direct challenge to the authority of the entire tribe. They dared to freeze one of our best?
But the rage was quickly and forcefully suppressed by the sheer, cold logic of Sander's account—and by the sight of the thirty-plus frozen spiders now gently settling, one by one, across their sacred grassland like terrifying, translucent monuments.
Firan looked Sebastian directly in the eye, his voice cold and challenging, despite the turmoil in his heart.
"Professor Swann," Firan stated, using the title with reluctant respect. "What is the purpose of this display, and what is your business with the Centaur tribe? You know that according to the agreements, adult wizards are not permitted to wander freely into the Centaurs' private Forbidden Forest territory."
Agreements. Private territory. Sebastian's smile faded completely, replaced by a look of profound disappointment and anger.
"My dear Centaur Chief, that is precisely the origin of the problem," Sebastian said, his voice dropping in temperature. "Had the generous, noble founder, Helga Hufflepuff, not taken pity on your struggling ancestors and permitted them to reside here, you would have no territory at all. To hear you brazenly, shamelessly claim this land as your own property—it reveals that the Centaur people, despite their supposed wisdom, are nothing more than a tribe of utterly ungrateful, petty bastards."
The insult, delivered with such calm, cutting authority, immediately sparked an uproar. Centaurs rarely forgave such slights, and the warriors in the crowd began to roar, stamping their hooves and raising their weapons.
"Nonsense! This is our ancient land!"
"How dare he speak such slander! Kill the insolent human!"
Seeing the Centaurs ready to erupt into a violent frenzy, Sebastian's patience snapped for the final time. His magical core roared to life, unleashing a palpable, overwhelming wave of pressure—an aura so dense and powerful it felt like a silent, crushing force pressing down on the clearing. The air seemed to grow thick, heavy, and impossible to breathe.
"I will only state this once," Sebastian's voice boomed, amplified not by sound, but by pure magical compulsion. It cut through the shouts like a shard of ice. "The Forbidden Forest, past, present, and future, is a legal and irrevocable part of the Hogwarts estate."
As he spoke, he controlled the thirty frozen Acromantula monuments. One by one, he commanded them to settle, not at the edge of the camp, but directly onto the soft, sacred grass of the tribe's main gathering area.
He looked around the stunned, silenced clearing, his gaze sweeping over every single Centaur warrior.
"I have stated the unalterable truth. Who among you agrees? And who disagrees?"
Sebastian hardened his resolve. If these Centaurs, like the spiders, proved utterly incapable of understanding the concept of power and law, he would not hesitate. He would clear them out. Despite Dumbledore's likely, quiet disapproval, he had no room for uncooperative squatters. He would use the newly organized Acromantulas to patrol the perimeter and gradually, relentlessly drive this tribe away, or worse.
The Centaurs were utterly paralyzed. They saw the giant eight-eyed spiders inside the ice—the physical, devastating proof of the wizard's power—and they felt the massive, dragon-like magical pressure emanating from him. Every Centaur swallowed the curses that had been forming on their tongues. They were struggling simply to stand upright, their large bodies trembling under the suffocating magical density.
We cannot fight this. We cannot even breathe, was the unanimous, terrified realization.
Firan, the Centaur Chief, felt the magical surge like a solid wall hitting him in the chest. Beside him, poor Sander almost collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head from the sheer stress of the pressure.
Firan was forced to speak on behalf of his tribe, his words coming out in strained, breathless gasps.
"Professor Swann," Firan managed, bowing his head in the first overt submission the tribe had shown a wizard in centuries. "Let us discuss this in a civilized manner. The Forbidden Forest… is indeed part of the Hogwarts property. We concede this point."
He held up a trembling hand, indicating his people. "Please, reduce this… this wave. The foals and the elders are struggling to breathe."
"What is it that you wish the Centaur tribe to do?"
Sebastian instantly withdrew the suppressive aura, allowing the air to rush back into the Centaurs' lungs. He looked at Firan, his face unreadable.
"Very simple. From this day forward, the Centaur tribe will pay rent to Hogwarts. This is the condition for your continued occupation and protection within these boundaries." Sebastian's voice was firm, unyielding.
Firan felt a wave of despair wash over him. He knew the wizard was determined. He had to accept the terms, or face expulsion and possible genocide. He bowed his proud, red head again.
"But… we possess no Galleons," Firan confessed, the shame deep in his tone. Centaurs were hunters, stargazers, and prophets, not merchants. They had no wealth.
"Ah, good," Sebastian said, a genuine, friendly smile finally returning. "If you had Galleons, you would be far too civilized for my plans."
Since Firan had taken the necessary step of capitulation, Sebastian was ready to negotiate the specifics. Centaurs were famously poor in currency but rich in two things: intelligence and a deep, intuitive connection to nature. They were also surprisingly dexterous with their human hands.
Sebastian withdrew his wand completely and spoke in a relaxed, businesslike manner.
"Centaurs are, by nature, deeply attuned to the Forest's environment. Your rent will be paid in resources, not currency. You will establish and maintain organized patches of land for cultivation. You will regularly and systematically collect specific, rare, and valuable herbs and magical ingredients from the Forest, utilizing your natural knowledge to ensure sustainable harvesting."
"Every month, Hogwarts staff—my newly formed Department of Resource Acquisition—will visit a designated drop-off point to collect the required quantity of ingredients, which will be specified in the contract."
Sebastian gestured broadly to the clearing. "Anything you harvest beyond the required monthly rent can be traded for Galleons. Or, more practically, we can exchange your excess harvest for winter stores—preserved fruits, dried goods, and hard grains, ensuring your herds never go hungry when the cold comes."
Firan, the Centaur Chief, listened, his expression slowly shifting from abject terror to cautious relief. Collecting plants was second nature to them; formalizing the cultivation of land was not a huge leap. And the idea of assured winter stores—especially hard grains and fruits, a rarity in the cold months—was deeply appealing and necessary for the survival of the tribe.
However... Firan realized the true, enormous cost. This contract forced the Centaur tribe to fundamentally transform its identity. They would be shifting from a proud, autonomous, nomadic hunter society to a fixed, resource-collecting, semi-agrarian civilization, effectively becoming the indentured ecological maintenance crew of Hogwarts.
We must bow our heads for the survival of the tribe, Firan conceded bitterly. If this is the price of not becoming ice statues, we will pay it.
Firan nodded slowly, calming himself and adopting the diplomatic posture Sebastian had initially requested.
"Professor Swann, we accept the terms of the resource rent. Now, let us negotiate the precise quantities of specific ingredients, and the boundaries of your resource zones."
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in a detailed, tense, but ultimately civil negotiation, with Firan skillfully arguing for lower quotas and Sebastian using his precise knowledge of magical herbology to define specific collection and cultivation territories.
Sebastian did not leave the Centaur tribe until the sun was sinking below the western edge of the Forbidden Forest, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and purple. He walked back toward the castle with a triumphant, joyful lightness in his step. The entire vast domain was now either producing high-value magical resources or providing free, well-disciplined labor.
Just as the last shadows stretched long across the path, Dumbledore, with a slight, silent shimmer, revealed himself. He adjusted the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, his eyes twinkling with a peculiar mix of admiration and quiet critique.
"A magnificent display of power and efficiency, Sebastian," Dumbledore said, his voice warm. "I was concerned for a moment that you were going to turn the entire Centaur tribe into a permanent Ice Age exhibit. But you showed the necessary restraint and, dare I say, the entrepreneurial spirit."
Sebastian beamed. "Courtesy first, Headmaster. But once they chose violence, I had to ensure the future negotiations would be conducted in complete silence and compliance. Now, we have a steady stream of venom and rare medicinal herbs. The Department of Resource Acquisition is fully funded."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even brighter. "Indeed. A stunning success. On that note, I took the liberty of contacting an old colleague—a friend, in fact, who is utterly devoted to the care and understanding of magical creatures."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. "He has agreed to train your new department on the precise, non-lethal, and entirely ethical methods of interacting with and harvesting resources from the Forest's creatures. A necessary lesson, I feel, to ensure your excellent resource management does not devolve into cruelty."
Sebastian's heart leapt, a flicker of pure excitement overriding his usual composure. An old friend devoted to magical creatures... training a new department...
"Headmaster," Sebastian asked, unable to suppress a slight, eager grin, "might this 'old friend' happen to be a rather famous Magizoologist, perhaps one known for carrying a heavily expanded briefcase?"
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I believe the gentleman's full name is Newton Scamander, though he prefers to be called Newt. He is quite keen to see what sort of arrangement you have made with the Centaurs and the Acromantulas. I believe he will find your methods… stimulating."