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

Chapter 22:8

Fred woke with a start.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes to find that he was under a patched quilt and lying beside his brother in a large, partially collapsed bed. He was warm, comfortable, and grateful to see that George was unharmed. Fred cleared his throat, and gazed at the room that steadily came to memory. Blue curtains, a thatched roof, wooden cages and copper pots hanging from the rafters — they were safely inside Hagrid's cabin.

Fred's movement roused George, who shot up to a sitting position. He clambered for his wand, swiveling left and right, before taking a quick breath and squinting at the fireplace.

"Hagrid's hut? What did I miss?" he exclaimed.

"Not sure," Fred replied sleepily, pushing himself up. "Last I remember, we...we were running from Professor Quirrell."

"But how'd we wind up back here?"

The door crashed open and the twins yanked the massive quilt to their chests. Fang trundled inside, a torn rope hung from his collar, and prodded his wet snout at their arms, which were filthy and covered in red scratches.

"Tha' was a waste a time," said Hagrid brusquely from outside the door. He stomped in and dropped the remainder of the rope. "Thought a leash might keep 'im still. Ah well. Biscuit? Baked 'em, m'self."

Hagrid slipped on what looked to be two flowery oven mitts that had been stitched poorly together, and lowered a black iron door within the hearth. He gestured to the tray on the inside shelf.

"Apologies if they're a bit burnt. Been out with this one. He's been a right little — well...forget I said tha'."

"How did we get here, Hagrid?" asked George, as Fred handed him a warm biscuit.

"I should be askin' you tha'! Weren' expectin' ter find two students lyin in the dirt this mornin'."

With their stomachs rumbling, the twins wolfed down two biscuits each with a tall glass of dandelion juice.

"Lucky you found us," said Fred, through gulps.

"Lucky's right. I usually steer clear of tha' part o' the forest. No one should be out that way, 'specially firs' years. But I was — searching fer —"

Suddenly, Hagrid dropped to his chair in a burst of heavy sobs.

"Fer...Witherwings!" he spluttered. "I knew it! Once he'd rejected tha' dinner I made 'im, knew he'd be ready ter leave the nest...ter hunt fer his own food. He ain't coming back. Not ever!" Hagrid sniffed and shook his massive head. "It's the worst day in any father's life...when 'is child don't need 'im no more."

"Don't say that, Hagrid. I'm sure he'll come back," said Fred, patting the gamekeeper's trembling shoulder.

"This is his home," said George consolingly.

"Nope. It's done!" Hagrid rubbed his face dry, still wearing the oversized, flowery oven mitt. "Sooner I get used ter it, the better. It's jus' sad, is all — when you care bout somethin' so much, and then it jus' leaves yeh...as if ya meant nothin'."

Fred took a long look at George. There could be no question. Seeing how compassionate Hagrid was toward his lost hippogriff, it was obvious that he couldn't be responsible for destroying the paintings.

"Hagrid," Fred began, "would you tell us if you had anything to do with what's been going on at the castle?"

"O'course I would," he said, blinking away the tears. "Hogwarts has been me home fer as long as I can remember. I'd never! No, sir."

"Professor Kettleburn suspects that you have," said George.

"Well, tha's no surprise. He's had a problem with me fer years...since back when Aruzula and I...er..." Hagrid stopped himself. "What I meant ter say was —"