115
The heart of the dungeon
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You remember that woodlice are one of the few creatures that are completely immune to magic of any kind, and decide to cast a heat spell to clear a path indirectly.

You raise your wand. "Fiel fresa fusila fuego!"

A magical flame whooshes out of your wand, sending golden sparks shooting.

The flame doesn't harm the woodlice, but it heats the air, and dries it. The woodlice have no option but to retreat: without moisture they can't absorb oxygen, they would suffocate.

This leaves a path.

"Wait!" says Aaron. "I... I can't go any further."

"What's wrong?"

"It's the woodlice. I have had a terrible fear of them ever since one rolled up my nose as a baby. I can't... I just can't go on."

"Listen Aaron, it's ok. I'll keep going but you should turn back and tell Slumblebore what we have found down here: the spider webs, the beetles, the woodlice. He needs to know what's going on."

"Yes, yes... thank you Arthur. Slumblebore needs to know," says Aaron in relief. "I'll go and get help."

Aaron turns and hot-foots it back the way you came.

As his hurried footsteps fade into the distant darkness, you breathe deeply and plunge forwards past the woodlouse army who are retreating to the still moist cracks in the stone.

After walking further down the dank, chilly passage you come to an iron bar door.

Just beyond you can hear a faint murmur of voices.

This is it: the heart of the dungeon. Whoever or whatever has been setting these traps for you and Aaron must be here, at the bottom of it all.