Chapter 320. The Lost Torch
When Harry and the others were studying the Golden Egg, Adrian Wesson was at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
In front of him stood the dragon handlers led by Charlie Weasley.
"Wait!" For a moment, Wesson thought he'd misheard. "You're saying you lost the Chinese Fireball? Aren't you professional dragon handlers?"
Charlie's expression turned awkward, his face going redder than his hair.
As Wesson had said, they were professionals. Losing a dragon was… quite something.
But that was exactly what had happened.
Their colleague Thomas had stepped away because nature called. When he came back, the enchanted chain tethering Torch had been melted through, leaving only a few charred claw-prints where the dragon had stood.
"As his former keeper, you should understand," Charlie sighed. "Torch is cleverer than most of his kind. From our tests, he's got at least the intelligence of a ten-year-old child."
"That still shouldn't happen," Wesson muttered.
"All right, I know this is on us," Charlie said, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "Please, stop twisting the knife. The problem now is how we get Torch back. If he flies to a nearby village, it will be a catastrophe. Whether it's a Muggle village or a wizarding one, neither can withstand a full-grown dragon on a rampage."
"Haven't you prepared for accidents like this?" Wesson asked. "Some kind of tracking device or magic?"
"We did, but Torch destroyed it," Charlie said, hunching his shoulders. "I've got to tell Professor Dumbledore—maybe he'll have a solution. Wesson, you know the Forbidden Forest better than we do. Can you help look?"
"Of course," Wesson nodded.
While Charlie hurried up to the castle to inform Professor Dumbledore, Wesson turned and headed into the Forest.
The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
Why had Torch suddenly bolted?
It couldn't be simple mischief… could it?
Wesson didn't know what Torch had in mind, nor where he'd go.
All he could do was head deeper into the Forest and try his luck.
Of course, he didn't really think he could find Torch in the vastness of the Forbidden Forest.
This was better left for Dumbledore to worry about.
However, just as he reached a section he seldom visited, he caught the smell of burning—almost certainly dragon-made.
After a few minutes walking towards the scent, he found some scorched, unidentifiable objects on the ground.
Wesson studied them for a long moment before he grudgingly concluded they were chunks of Acromantula remains.
Acromantulas were extremely dangerous magical creatures; by Ministry classification they were "XXXXX," the same as dragons.
It was worth noting that Acromantula venom was very valuable—a pint fetched as much as one hundred Galleons.
Good thing Wesson wasn't short of money, or he might have been tempted to harvest a portion of the colony here.
That Torch had crossed paths with Acromantulas was, admittedly, not what he had expected.
"Interesting," Wesson murmured.
He couldn't tell whether these Acromantulas were addle-brained enough to provoke a dragon—or whether Torch had simply fancied a snack.
Following the trail the Acromantulas had left, Wesson walked for quite a while and came to the mouth of a vast cave. The edges of the entrance still bore clear claw marks and charred streaks.
He rarely came to this part of the Forbidden Forest because it was Acromantula territory.
If he wasn't mistaken, this exaggeratedly large entrance was Aragog's lair.
Aragog was a male Acromantula Hagrid had raised, and by now he should have been well into old age.
Hagrid had told Wesson that Aragog suffered from severe cataracts.
That, however, was beside the point.
What mattered was that he could not see a single living Acromantula at the cave mouth.
Wesson narrowed his eyes and stepped inside.
The cave was pitch black, with a faint heat wafting from within—making him all the more certain Torch was inside.
"Lumos!"
Wesson flicked his wand; a soft light bloomed at its tip and spilled into the depths of the cave.
The scene within was far worse than outside—downright brutal. The cave walls were scrawled with scorched, blackened burns; the floor was strewn with a vast number of spider remains, some still smouldering. The air reeked with a stinging stench of char and the Acromantulas' distinctive, cloying venomous tang.
Moving with caution, Wesson advanced. Suddenly, a low dragon's roar rolled out from the depths.
He quickened his pace and rounded a bend—then stopped dead.
Acromantula bodies littered the ground, some still flickering with flame. Torch was sprawled over a gigantic black mass, tearing great mouthfuls from his prey.
"Pfft."
Wesson shook his head. There was no doubt that the hulking black shape was Hagrid's beloved pet, Aragog.
He didn't approach straightaway. Instead, he lifted his wand where he stood.
With a sweep, a fresh current of air surged through the cavern, driving out the choking stench and venomous fumes.
Once his breathing was easier, Wesson walked up beside Torch.
Sensing a familiar presence, Torch jerked up his head.
The instant he recognised Wesson, his gaze softened.
Then he tore off a still-steaming spider leg from Aragog's charred corpse, nudged it to Wesson's feet with his snout, and let out a puppyish whine—clearly, he still remembered his old "owner."
Wesson's mouth twitched. "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry."
He crouched to inspect the old spider's leg. The blackened shell had split, revealing tender, pale flesh inside.
He had to admit, it smelled rather good—like chicken.
Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to put it in his mouth.
Who knew how much venom was still in it?
Wesson patted Torch's nose and asked, "So you ran all the way out here just to eat roast spider legs?"
Torch snorted, sending a few sparks spitting.
Wesson had no idea whether Torch understood him, but it was obvious the dragon's mind wasn't exactly mature.
He sighed. "All right, little fellow, time to go. The handlers are looking for you—you can't stay missing for long. If you want, I can help you pack up some spider legs."
Torch nodded in a very human way.
He'd had his fun today; it was time for playtime to end.
"Good boy."
Wesson gave his head a gentle pat.
Out of habit from when he was young, Torch leaned forward for an affectionate bump.
Wesson shot into the air at once.
The little brute was far too strong.
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