Astor continued his foray into the woods, unaware of his danger. The castle now was a speck in the distance, though it could still be made out as a massing of grey stone sitting atop a small mound in the distance. The woods were decaying and broken, fell trunks and rotting leaves carpeted the floor, and the anaemic trees were covered in moss and fungus. Even the sky looked pale and wan inside the forest. There was no time to lament the scenery. However, Astor continued his journey deep into the woods. He was uncertain of direction or purpose. If he was lucky, he might navigate, by chance, into Hogsmeade village, where he could rest his weary and tired limbs. If luck was not on his side, he would travel deeper into the heart of the Forbidden Forest and either die of exhaustion or at the hands of its many evil and foul creatures. After several hours of aimless wandering, Astor rested by sitting on a fallen tree trunk. His throat was parched, and his stomach hurt from hunger, hope was beginning to fade when he heard the distinct sound of air being spliced by an arrow. The arrow cemented itself into an adjacent standing tree, hitting its mark so close to Astor's head that a splinter caught him by the cheek. Wiping the blood off his cheek, he looked around for his attacker, too tired and broken to even hide or avoid another strike. He merely waited and watched, sitting atop his trunk.