Dawn Rivera

Hagrid's Tale

Hermione and I hurry back down from the girls' dormitories, wearing scarves, gloves and two of our own knobbly elf hats.

"Well, it's cold out there!" I say defensively, as Ron clicks his tongue impatiently.

We creep through the portrait hole and cover ourselves hastily in the Cloak - Ron has grown so much now he needs to crouch to prevent his feet showing - then, moving slowly and cautiously, we proceed down the many staircases, pausing at the intervals to check on the map for signs of Filch or Mrs Norris. We are lucky; we see nobody but Nearly Headless Nick, who is gliding along absent-mindedly humming something that sounds horribly like "Weasley is our King". We creep across the Entrance Hall and out into the silent, snowy grounds. With a great leap of my heart, I see little golden squares of light ahead and smoke coiling up from Hagrid's chimney. Harry and Danny set off at a quick march, the rest of us jostling and bumping along behind them. We crunch excitedly through the thickening snow until at last we reach the wooden front door. When Harry and Danny raise their fists and knock three times, a dog starts barking frantically inside.

"Hagrid, it's us!" Danny calls through the keyhole.

"Shoulda known!" says a gruff voice.

We beam at each other under the Cloak; we can tell by Hagrid's voice that he is pleased, although I avoid Harry's eyes, and I notice as Danny avoids Hermione's. Now I know why you should never date your best friend. "Bin home three seconds...out the way, Fang...out the way, yeh dozy dog..."

The bolt is drawn back, the door creaks open and Hagrid's head appears in the gap.

Hermione and I scream.

"Merlin's beard, keep it down!" says Hagrid hastily, staring wildly over our heads. "Under that Cloak, are yeh? Well, get in, get in!"

"We're sorry!" Hermione gasps, as the five of us squeeze past Hagrid into the house and pull the Cloak off ourselves so he can see us. "We just - oh, Hagrid!"

"It's nuthin', it's nuthin'!" says Hagrid hastily, shutting the door behind us and hurrying to close all the curtains, but Hermione and I continue to gaze at him in horror.

Hagrid's hair is matted with congealed blood and his left eye has been reduced to a puffy slit amid the mass of purple and black bruising. There are many cuts on his face and hands, some of them still bleeding, and he is moving gingerly, which makes me suspect broken ribs. It is obvious that he has only just got home; a thick black travelling cloak lies over the back of a chair and a haversack large enough to carry several small children leans against the wall inside the door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a normal man, is now limping over to the fire and placing a copper kettle over it.

"What happened to you?" Harry demands, while Fang dances around us all, trying to lick our faces.

"Told yeh, nuthin'," says Hagrid firmly. "Want a cuppa?"

"Come off it," says Ron, "you're in a right state!"

"I'm tellin' yeh, I'm fine," says Hagrid, straightening up and turning to beam at us all, but wincing. "Blimey, it's good ter see yeh three again - had good summers, did yeh?"

"Hagrid, you've been attacked!" says Ron.

"Fer the las' time, it's nuthin'!" says Hagrid firmly.

"Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up with a pound of mince instead of a face?" Ron demands.

"You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid," I say anxiously, "some of those cuts look nasty."

"I'm dealin' with it, all righ'?" says Hagrid repressively.