"That's right, though Hagrid isn't a wizard. I've encountered him several times while hunting near the Hogwarts boundaries, and we gradually became acquainted. He is different from other wizards; I even shared prey with him once." Firenze's voice was clear and resonant, possessing a musical quality that wasn't grating.
"He is my friend, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." Alan nodded. Firenze's account aligned perfectly with the stories he had heard from Hagrid.
"So you two share such a connection. It seems fate has not abandoned the centaur people; the Morning Star still favors us." The Centaur Elder placed a hand over his chest, facing the sky, and offered a salute to the heavens.
The centaurs beside him followed suit, bowing respectfully toward the stars with far more devotion than they had shown Alan just moments prior. Alan couldn't help but frown at the display. These centaurs were far too mystical for his taste, acting as if fate itself had stepped in to save them. He privately thought he should have waited until they were nearly wiped out before intervening.
"The movements of the stars are ever-changing. Before the vastness of the universe, we are as insignificant as ants. I advise you not to rely so heavily on them. Sometimes, sharp insight and a clear mind are more dependable than celestial omens," Alan interjected, his tone distinctly unromantic.
"You!" Another young centaur beside the Elder bristled at Alan's bluntness and tried to step forward, but he was immediately restrained by the Elder's hand.
"Ronan, our benefactor speaks with great wisdom. Do not be disrespectful." The Elder shook his head at the youth, then turned back to Alan. "You are right. Sometimes we fall into the illusions cast by the stars, much like in this crisis. We had almost no prior warning."
The Elder took a few steps forward and spoke softly. "Please, tell us your name. I am Brandwaldden, the chieftain of this tribe. In this place you call the Forbidden Forest, we claim the southern region near Hogwarts as our territory. From this day forward, you will always be our guest and our friend."
"Alan Wilson, currently a student at Hogwarts. It's a pleasure to meet you." Alan could see that the Elder was wise and rational, and his politeness was genuine.
"It is a pleasure, Alan." Brandwaldden smiled and unslung a horn from his belt, handing it over. "To thank you for your aid, please accept this. It is fashioned from the horn of a Re'em. Blow it within the southern region, and any centaur who hears the call will come to your assistance immediately."
"Thank you." Alan raised an eyebrow and accepted the horn, satisfied. He hadn't expected to receive a functional tribute.
At that moment, the handsome Firenze also stepped forward. He unstrung the only intact longbow on his back and presented it to Alan. "This is my personal weapon, crafted from blackthorn wood and bound with hair from my own tail. It is a treasure of my people, symbolizing my friendship and respect. Please, you must accept it."
Faced with Firenze's solemnity, Alan accepted the bow with equal gravity. Afterward, the rest of the centaurs lined up, one by one, to offer their cherished possessions to him. Even Ronan, who had been hostile moments before, respectfully presented his favorite steel dagger.
Soon, Alan was burdened with a horn, a longbow, a dagger, a spear, two satchels of rare herbs, a necklace woven from unicorn tail hair and predator teeth, and a piece of bezoar the size of a fist. Accepting these gifts gave Alan a deeper perspective on the race. While they were old-fashioned and stubborn, they were simpler and more trustworthy than many of the scheming humans he dealt with.
After receiving the gifts, Brandwaldden reiterated that Alan should never hesitate to seek their help. Alan, remembering a loose thread, asked, "What do you know about these werewolves and their wizard leader? How did he manage to pull so many together?"
"Regarding the werewolves, I only know they used to operate strictly in the northern reaches. Our kin there reported they were always scattered, showing no inclination toward unity." Brandwaldden pointed back toward the deep forest. "As for the leader, I have never seen him before, but I have a suspicion."
"Oh? What is your theory?"
"Have you heard of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
"The Dark Lord?" Alan raised an eyebrow. How was that man still involved in everything?
"Precisely. Before his fall, he sent envoys to contact us, attempting to coerce the centaurs into fighting for him. We refused, of course, but it made us enemies of his forces. We had many skirmishes with dark wizards during those years. To survive, the tribes in this forest dispersed to avoid detection. we were only just discussing a reunification," Brandwaldden sighed.
Alan nodded. The Dark Lord's reach had been long indeed, attempting to press every non-human race into service.
"From what I know, they also contacted werewolves, giants, and even trolls. They failed with the trolls—their intellect couldn't even grasp the concepts being offered," Brandwaldden explained.
"So you think this werewolf wizard might have been an agent sent by the Dark Lord to organize the packs?" Alan realized.
"Exactly. He likely succeeded, but with his master's demise, he found himself with a gathered army and had to seek his own fortune." The Elder nodded.
"I understand. Thank you for the information."
*Death Eaters again,* Alan thought. *They really are persistent.* Brandwaldden's theory felt right, which meant he absolutely could not allow the wizard to escape.
With the conversation finished, Brandwaldden bid Alan farewell and led the centaurs into the shadows of the trees. The young warriors, led by Firenze, offered one last respectful nod. They were a people of clear debts and grudges, and they were not stingy with their goodwill.
Alan watched them vanish before stowing his new treasures into his enchanted space ring. It was time to plan his next move.