Fred and George and the Toilers of Trouble (Year 1) ✔

Chapter 20:5

Outside, rain was coming down in sheets. And although their stomachs lurched with every leap across the grounds, it was refreshing to have their faces and robes soaked clean in the downpour. The twins even stopped midway to rinse their mouths. It was a welcomed relief, no matter how temporary.

Smoke was billowing from Hagrid's chimney, making the hut more welcoming in the sudden chill. And as the boys slipped through the dingy slush of mud and snow, George thought back to their last visit, and to the gargantuan spider that had chased him and Angelina out of the forest. They huddled under the eave and rapped on his door.

"Be there in a secon'. Jus' tidyin' up," said Hagrid, as he coughed over the strange noises that erupted from inside the hut.

"It's Fred and George Weasley," they hollered toward the open window.

The bearded gamekeeper came to the door with a kink in his smile. He barely had time to greet them before his pet Hippogriff fluttered out.

"Witherwings! Back inside, you! It's rainin'."

"He was almost flying for a moment there, Hagrid," said Fred.

"He's gettin' better, but not by much," the large man replied gruffly. He wrestled the creature back into the cabin. Seconds later, Fred and George were overpowered by another vomiting spell. Hagrid's frown lowered even further. "Wha' happened ter yeh?"

"Ate the — wrong leaf —"

"— in Herbology..."

Hagrid dumped the gathering rain out of the stack of buckets they had used for collecting snow and handed one to each of them.

"Go on inside, then. I'll make yeh a spot o' tea."

He plucked a few leaves from a plant in the garden, then followed the boys inside the warm and inviting hut. Fred and George sat at Hagrid's table, swaying uneasily, their arms wrapped loosely around the buckets. Fang was also feeling sorry for himself. The boarhound was curled up on the bed, his snout wrapped in bandages. As Hagrid closed the door, the sudden change in temperature caused the twins to vomit in rapid succession. Witherwings swooshed up to the table and clucked at their buckets.

"Tha's not fer you!" Hagrid commanded, elbowing the small beast to the floor. "And yeh've already eat'n. Curiosity ain't gonna do yeh no good in life, Witherwings. Listen ter yer Pappy. I know a thing er two."

After a few quiet minutes, Hagrid brought a copper kettle to the table and poured each of them a tankard of steaming tea.

"Drink it down. Ain't Earl Grey, but it should do the trick."

"It's the trick that got us into this mess, actually," said Fred, never too queasy to make a pun.

George braved a sip and reached for a flowery pink umbrella that was leaning against the hearth. "We could've used this out there. You should keep it by the door."

Hagrid seized the umbrella from George's grasp, but it was too late.

CRACK!

A jet of loud sparks shot from the wooden tip, followed by a crackling ball of lightning that whirled and bounced across the cluttered hut. It went smashing into the fireplace, dousing the flames in an explosion of hot ash.

"Hagrid!" Fred exclaimed in the sudden dimness. "That could count as a misuse of Muggle Artifacts! If our father knew, you could face serious charges."

"But you don't know magic. You told us!" George asserted.

Hagrid cleared his throat. "Ain't a misuse..." he said, falling into his chair. "It's jus' a wand. See?" He rapped it twice against the smoking logs. A spell trickled from the end, and flames erupted within the fireplace.

"Why would you turn a wand into an umbrella?"

"Or an umbrella into a wand?"

"It's broken. I know I weren' meant ter keep it. Felt wrong tossin' it in the bin." Hagrid's voice had gone very quiet, as he gazed down at the splintered wooden tip. "It don' work so well. S'pose tha's the point. I'd buy a new one, but...I'm banned from most o' the shops on Diagon Alley. Except Ollivanders, o'course! Fine man, Ollivander. Still lets me stop in, now and again. Sold me this 'ere wand. Oak, sixteen inches," he said fondly, before his eyes lowered. "Only eight now."