Weighing the odds and calculating the consequences are not skills typically found in the repertoire of teenage Gryffindors. Had these students been Slytherins, the sight of the scorched earth and the smoldering crater in the Forbidden Forest would have prompted a display of immense restraint and impeccable manners.
"Why are we still talking to him, Charlie? We'll cover you—find an opening and get Prian out!"
To Amossta's upper left, a Gryffindor player mounted on a Comet-series broom roared the command. Without waiting for a response, he slashed his wand, sending a streak of brilliant red light toward Amossta.
The Quidditch team moved with practiced synergy. That Stupefy was the starting pistol. The three players—excluding Charlie—immediately split into a coordinated formation. To maximize Amossta's confusion, they wove through the air in a dizzying pattern, their shadows weaving a dark net above his head as they rained down a barrage of Stunners and Full Body-Bind Jinxes.
In truth, Amossta had intended to hand Prian over and end the night without further bloodshed. Filoya was already halfway to the castle to fetch reinforcements; points would be lost, and detentions would be served. He simply hoped the detention wouldn't last until next Christmas in Snape's dungeon.
But since the Lions had chosen violence, a "defensive counter-attack" was well within the rules. Besides, he still had a bit of temper to burn off.
Amossta flicked his ebony wand. A swirling vortex of silver and black magical energy manifested before him, its center a collapsed, fathomless void. It hovered at his side like the Charybdis of Greek myth. Every time a spell screamed toward him, the vortex shifted automatically, swallowing the light and the force of the jinxes with predatory ease.
"What kind of magic is that?!"
The Gryffindors redoubled their efforts, trying to hit him from multiple angles simultaneously or focus their fire on a single point to break the vortex. It was useless.
"I don't know, but it looks like Dark Arts!" another player shouted back.
Charlie Weasley knew he couldn't stay on the sidelines any longer. As a Seeker of legendary talent, his flying was an entire tier above his teammates. He moved like a flickering ghost, vanishing from one spot only to reappear in another a heartbeat later. His spellcasting was equally impressive; even at high speeds, every one of his jinxes was aimed with surgical precision at Amossta. It was a display of aerial combat that even a young Filius Flitwick might have admired.
Amossta, despite the situation, found himself impressed. He rarely cared for Quidditch, but the sheer grace of Charlie's maneuvers explained why the Slytherin team had been thoroughly humiliated on the pitch the previous year.
"Hey, little earthworm! Are you just going to hide behind that thing all night?" one of the players yelled, trying to goad him.
"Maybe we should try a different approach!" Charlie shouted. Seeing his Expelliarmus swallowed for the fifth time, he hovered in place, chest heaving, as a plan formed. "Fly high! Watch out for the spider's venom— Finite Incantatem! "
Everyone understood Charlie's intent instantly—including Amossta. He turned just in time to see Charlie's spell strike the ropes binding the paralyzed Acromantula.
Click-clack! Click-clack!
Restored to its senses, the giant spider gnashed its massive, glistening black chelicerae, letting out a furious hiss. Having been toyed with by the Gryffindors for half the night, the Acromantula's eight emerald eyes flashed with rage. To its primal senses, the red-clad "flies" in the air and the wizard on the ground were all part of the same threat.
Crack!
The eight-legged beast lunged with terrifying speed. Its bulk was a battering ram, snapping trees the width of a man's arm as it charged.
Amossta's brow arched. He knew that Acromantula venom was a prized commodity—a single pint could fetch a hundred Galleons on the black market. This specimen was young, likely with a small yield, but Amossta wasn't in the habit of wasting resources.
Seeing Amossta standing motionless as the spider lunged, Charlie's weathered face creased with worry. He feared the boy had been paralyzed by terror. Just as he opened his mouth to shout a warning, Amossta's arm snapped up. His wand pointed directly at the leaping beast.
" Reducio! "
The Acromantula's massive body jerked mid-air. A look of profound confusion crossed its multiple eyes as the world around it warped and expanded. Before it could land, it was sucked into a small glass jar Amossta had conjured in his free hand.
"Thank you for the gift," Amossta said, tapping a few locking charms onto the jar before looking up. "I quite like it."
He gripped his wand vertically, like a drumstick, and let out a weary sigh.
"I'm going to have enough paperwork to deal with as it is. Let's end this farce so I can get back to the castle. If I'm lucky, I might get thirty minutes of sleep before dawn."
"In your dreams, Blaine! You think you're going back to bed?" the first Gryffindor snarled, recovering from the shock of seeing the spider vanished so easily. "The Dementors will be the ones tucking you in!"
"The wind is quite strong up there. I wouldn't fly so high if I were you. Falling hurts."
Amossta ignored the threat, his eyes locked on Charlie.
"What are you doing?" Charlie gripped his broom, shifting his weight to dodge.
Amossta didn't fire a spell. Instead, he swung his wand with violent force, "hammering" the empty air directly in front of him.
WHUMPH!
The strike sent a massive ripple through the invisible fabric of the air. Magic radiated outward from the point of impact like a boulder dropped into a still pond. A heavy, resonant wave of force expanded in every direction.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Swept up by the turbulent mana, the Gryffindor team fell from the sky like stones. One by one, they slammed into the soft earth, the impact knocking the wind out of them and leaving them unconscious in the dirt.
"I warned you. It hurts... ah, for heaven's sake."
Amossta turned toward the castle. Bill Weasley, mounted on Filoya's Nimbus, was racing across the Quidditch pitch toward the forest, his face a mask of frantic concern.