Regulus's original plan had been to let Aragog make the first move, then proceed straight to the experiment.
Provoke it. Enrage it. Let it lunge. Then show it that lunging accomplished nothing.
Simpler that way, and more in line with how Acromantulas operated.
But Aragog's intelligence had overridden its predatory nature. What should have been an instant eruption of violence had become this tense, probing conversation.
Since talking was on the table, Regulus didn't mind spending the extra time.
If the experiment succeeded, he'd need Aragog to articulate what it felt and experienced. A cooperating subject capable of clear expression would always be more useful than a resentful captive pinned under force.
At last, Aragog spoke again. Its voice had dropped lower, chelicerae folded together, body weight shifting backward.
"I think I know why you came to me. Because I have intelligence. I can communicate. My magical resistance is decent."
While it spoke, all eight compound eyes studied Regulus without blinking.
Regulus gave a slight nod. "That's right."
Aragog's expression turned serious, which produced a strange contrast on that monstrous face.
A pause. When it spoke again, there was something exploratory in its tone, and beneath that, an odd sincerity.
Whether a spider had any business possessing sincerity was absurd on its face. But it did.
"I have a question," it said.
Regulus raised a hand. "Go ahead."
Aragog sounded genuinely puzzled. "Why didn't you go to the centaurs?"
The question stopped Regulus cold. His mouth opened, then closed without producing a word.
Centaurs?
He hadn't considered centaurs. Not once. From the moment the idea of this experiment had formed, his mind had gone straight to Acromantulas. To Aragog.
Centaurs had never entered his options.
Maybe, on some unconscious level, he'd decided that dealing with a group that spent its days reading star charts and pronouncing cryptic prophecies about fate would be far more trouble than negotiating with predators whose motives were transparent.
Now that Aragog had raised the point, he realized the centaurs were, in fact, better suited.
Greater intelligence. Better communication. Stronger magic. Clearer feedback.
And they also lived in the Forbidden Forest, roughly the same distance from the castle.
He'd never thought of them.
Regulus was quiet for a moment. "...You're right."
Then, with plain honesty: "It didn't occur to me."
"The experiment." Aragog's voice dropped lower. Its chelicerae opened and closed once, an unconscious movement. "What kind of experiment?"
Before Regulus could answer, it added: "Does it have to be me?"
He considered.
Strictly speaking, it didn't matter whether the subject was Aragog. The criteria were what mattered: intelligence, communication ability. Which specific spider made little difference.
Since Aragog seemed reluctant, using a different one was fine. The exchange had been pleasant enough. No need to force the issue.
It would also put Aragog more at ease, which would make future cooperation smoother.
"It doesn't have to be you," Regulus said. "But the subject needs sufficient intelligence and the ability to communicate clearly. It needs to understand what it's feeling and describe it."
Aragog's massive frame loosened, as though a breath it had been holding finally released. "What kind of magic? Will there be harm?"
"In theory, no."
Regulus noted the softening tone and nodded, satisfied. This spider was reasonable. Sensible, even.
As for the specifics of the magic, there was no need to share those.
It wasn't some profound, arcane technique, but it represented an entirely new line of thinking and possibility. In time it might become a significant tool for influence or control, and that wasn't something to discuss freely.
Not even with spiders that were almost entirely isolated from wizarding society.
In fact, he'd need to take precautions afterward to ensure Aragog couldn't reveal that tonight's visit had happened at all.
The concern was, of course, one specific big mouth.
Regulus could picture it with perfect clarity. Aragog, chatting with Hagrid one day, mentioning offhandedly that a young wizard in school robes had come by at night to run some strange magical experiment.
It wouldn't cause real trouble, but Regulus didn't want Dumbledore thinking too deeply about it. Not about this magic. He'd already thought plenty about it himself.
When Regulus didn't elaborate on what the magic entailed, Aragog let it go.
Silence settled for a while. Its chelicerae opened and closed a few times, producing soft clicks, the rhythm absent-minded.
Finally, it issued a single short, deep click. A command.
From the circle of spiders, one stepped forward. Larger than the rest, powerfully built, its carapace so darkly black it gleamed.
It moved with a heavy, deliberate strength, each of its eight legs planted with authority. Its chelicerae were thick, its compound eyes brighter than the others in the dim light.
It stopped at Aragog's flank, facing Regulus, and dipped its front half in a posture of deference.
"This is Baruk," Aragog said, voice flat and heavy. "The smartest of my offspring. Strong magic, too. He'll cooperate with you."
Baruk lifted one foreleg and tapped the ground with its joint. A single crisp click, like a greeting.
Its eight eyes focused on Regulus. No hostility in them. If anything, he caught a trace of curiosity.
Another intelligent spider, clearly.
He gave Baruk a nod, then turned to Aragog. His manner was polite. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Still that low rumble. "If Baruk suffers any harm he's unwilling to endure, the experiment stops immediately. And you owe me one. You also owe me an explanation for why you thought you could do this."
"Fair enough." Regulus had no objections.
He turned to Baruk and raised his wand. "Ready? It's only a beam of light. Watch it."
Baruk responded with a confirmatory click, shifting its body so it faced him squarely. All eight eyes locked onto his wand tip.
Regulus let his magic flow.
A faint silver-white glow kindled at the tip. Dim as a firefly in the dark. Then it stabilized, soft, easy on the eyes.
The light began to change.
Silver-white to warm yellow. Warm yellow to pale gold. Back to silver-white.
Rhythm and intensity shifted together, as though something was moving inside the glow.
The variations were subtle, nearly invisible unless you were watching closely, but each one corresponded to a precise parameter in Regulus's consciousness.
He focused, drawing on the emotional sample stored in his mental isolation chamber: the compound of arrogance and contempt. He translated it into the light's modulation pattern.
Shifts in frequency mapped to emotional intensity. Rhythms of brightness mapped to emotional inclination. All of it executed under the tight control of his mental discipline and magical precision.
Then he aimed the beam, loaded with its encoded pattern, at the most central and perceptually acute pair of Baruk's compound eyes.
Light spilled across the spider's black carapace and pale, luminous eyes.
Three seconds passed.
Baruk's body locked rigid. All eight legs tensed at once, joints creaking faintly. The two forelegs lifted off the ground, claw tips hovering in the air.
Its chelicerae snapped open, then slammed shut with a sharp crack.
A burst of rapid, high-pitched clicking erupted from its mouth.
Nothing like its earlier steady cadence. These clicks were fast, shrill, edged with a metallic quality, brimming with agitation and disdain.
It swiveled its head, no longer fixated on the wand, and surveyed its surroundings with an exaggerated sweep.
Especially when its gaze passed over the watching spiders, Aragog included, its body language carried an unmistakable air of superiority.
Spiders didn't have necks, but the message rolled off it in waves: everyone present is beneath me. You didn't need to understand spider language to read it in every click and angle.
It was appraising, measuring and reassessing every spider around it.
The uppermost pair of compound eyes told the story on their own. The left one radiated disdain. The right, contempt. Together, they said: you don't deserve to share ground with me.
Aragog's largest eyes widened, fixed on Baruk's sudden transformation.
Mosag let out an anxious hiss. She shrank back, all eight legs curling inward to shield her abdomen.
The surrounding colony stirred into chaos. Clicking erupted from every direction: challenges, demands for explanation, sheer confusion.
They sensed the wrongness in Baruk's behavior. The provocation was too blatant to miss.
A few of the less intelligent spiders took offense. Forelegs rose, chelicerae spread, and they edged toward Baruk. Their clicks hammered together into a continuous rattle.
Aragog barked a single sharp click.
They froze and retreated. A few backed up too fast, collided, and tumbled over each other.
The state lasted about ten seconds.
Then Baruk stopped. The shrill clicking cut off mid-note. Its body swayed, like something waking from a brief spell of vertigo.
Raised legs settled back to the ground, claw tips landing unevenly. The chelicerae drifted shut with one last quiet click.
It lowered its head, looked at its own chelicerae, then raised its gaze to Regulus.
All eight eyes were full of confusion, and beneath that, a residual trace of arrogance that hadn't quite dissolved.
But the arrogance was fading fast, crowded out by bewilderment.
Regulus extinguished the light at his wand tip. "How did that feel?"
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