rhydian black had exceptionally debased australia’s dangers. he’d been aware of the perilous animals—he had been briefed, of course. but no quantity of cautions had prepared him for this.

he stood, muscles taut, on the porch of the house you and him had purchased in melbourne—one hand clutched a broom as though it was his only means of defense. the heat and humidity had his unbuttoned shirt plastered against his back.

silvery eyes were trained upon the stone wall, where a huntsman spider, apparently, had set up residence. the grotesque beast was prodigious. rivalling the size of rhydian’s pianist hands. arachnids were not supposed to look as though they’d gladly take you in a fight. (and win.)

he was abandoned on the porch, because you had the audacity to manipulate his panic and stay inside, safe and sound. so that he would deal with the threat.

rhydian’s fingers around the broom flexed. “right,” he began, brows furrowed. “let’s just get this over with.”

abruptly, he swung the broom with the precision of the national quidditch captain that he was. the—the beast—had vanished.

where the hell did it go? he could not hear it. he could not see it.

rhydian adjusted his stance, moving the broom to the side, so that he could competently survey the . . . nothingness before him. “no, no, no—”

that was when he felt it—something crawling across his shoulder. terror rushed through him at the realisation that the beast was there, on him.

and before he could help himself, rhydian—primordial, scion of the house of black, notorious death eater, worldwide quidditch sensation—shrieked.

he felt the thing scuttling up his neck, and all his composure fragmented. rhydian dropped the broom, slapping at his shoulder frantically. “get it off me!” he wailed, his voice high-pitched and panicked.

“i’m never leaving england again!” rhydian declared as he continued flailing. oh, god, it was now in his shirt. “bloody australia! fuck!” rhydian barrelled inside, still clawing at himself.