Chapter Five: In Company With Beasts and Men

Chapter Five: In Company with Beasts and Men

As far as Rubeus Hagrid was concerned, there were only three certainties in life--the honest nature of beasts and creatures, the baffling complexity of humankind whether they be wizard or Muggle, and the unbridling effect that alcoholic spirits had upon his tongue. The first had never failed him in its constancy. The second had often left him either delighted or miserable... and the third? More than any other, the third had been the one to lead him astray.

Though his thirst for something potent was mighty at the moment, the languid sweetness of twilight soothed his senses as he settled, dusty and weary, onto the bent-willow bench in front of his tumbledown hut. This had always been his favorite time of day--the long fingers of the pending darkness stretching from the forest to grasp the castle walls, the grounds, the loch--blurring all the sharp edges into softness and draining the colors into pools of gray as the fire of the setting sun was banked. The creatures of the sunlit day, still warm from their basking, would soon settle into sleep, even as those that thrived under star-flung skies awoke to slip among the shadows and call forth the night. These fleeting moments of between had always been the ones to give him peace if he were troubled. He loved this whispering time of softly-ticking, eternal rhythms.

It was the simplicity of honest labor that had steadied him the most over the last several days as he marshaled a diminutive army of grounds-gnomes and house-elves. Together they had turned the dark sweet loam of Hogwarts for the graves of those whose families wished them buried in the shadow of the White Tomb. In recognition that none had escaped its losses, they had erected four memorial cairns with mingled stones taken from each of the damaged Houses. And they had planted... a living henge of trees encircling the hill of the White Tomb, an embracing ring of remembrance for the wounded and the fallen... Rowans of protection, alders of endurance, birches of renewal... saplings carried by the centaurs from deep within the forest to bless this place of honored rest.

A little ways apart, on a hillock that faced the gates, he had planted one other tree, asking for no help from the gnomes and elves. The trunk was gaunt and twisted with bark black and rough, the branches guarded by threatening thorns. Still in the flower of Spring, the tree's blossoms were starkest white with red-tipped stamen, sorrowing Hagrid with the memory of a pale throat pierced by bloody wounds.

Minerva had spread her cloak on the ground nearby, settling there to silently watch his work as the sun sank in flames beneath the waves of the coming dusk. When he'd finished, she'd come to stand beside him.

"To preserve thy going out, and thy coming in."

She'd said she remembered the words from a psalm she'd once read long ago and that she thought them fitting.

"You've made the right choice, Hagrid. A blackthorn for suffering and sacrifice... and trials still to come... He'd appreciate the thorns, I imagine. The berries, though, will need to bide their time."

Leaning on his shovel, Hagrid had struggled with his thoughts as he watched the waning light tangle in the branches of the solitary tree.

"It seemed right fer it to be 'is. There woulda' been some as questioned if there was no tree planted fer 'im... but there's plenty more would not 'av wanted 'is to be with the others. Couldn' put 'is there anyway, seein' as how 'e's not... really with 'em, yeh see... Not sure just where that tree come from, though... It was jus' there amongst the ones the centaurs brought, but none 'o them remember carryin' it 'ere."

The source of the blackthorn remained unknown, and unlike the other trees, most passersby chose not to linger beside it in meditation, as though unsure how best to acknowledge the loss it represented.

The Dark Lord was gone, no argument there... Hagrid had seen him fall and had stood beside the dragon that had reduced his body to ash. All was well now, with no more terrors to stalk the night, or so everyone seemed ready to convince themselves. Still, his twilight place was changed, not so familiar and comforting. Though a trace of serenity was beginning to nudge at him like a gryphon hatchling, he felt out of kilter and uneasy. In the midst of his labors, or even while he rested, his thoughts drifted into a troubled place where he searched his memories with questions about the man he had carried in his arms to be hidden in the Valley of Gwaun.

Drowsy in the deepening darkness, he thought about Minerva, too, hoping she would walk down soon from the castle. During the past year he'd begun to think of her as Minerva, the way he had when they were House mates, so long ago. They hadn't been in House that long together, what with his expulsion and all. She'd gone off after Hogwarts to continue her studies, and when she'd returned, she was a full-fledged professor of Transfiguration. At that point it hadn't seemed proper for him to call her Minerva anymore, and such was even more the case when she became a Head of House. He'd not presumed to speak to her with such familiarity or make assumptions about the nature of their friendship. The fact that they now shared an unforeseen secret affirmed the bond of trust between them, and that was enough.

This day had been very difficult for her... That was surely fact. In the worn comfort of the staff room, as they shared a simple breakfast of tea and porridge before dawn, she had told him she intended to speak with Dumbledore's portrait before going on to the Potions master's tower. He had offered to accompany her, but as she briefly squeezed his heavy, calloused hand, she had refused.

"No, Hagrid, but I do thank you for offering. You know I depend on you, given all we've been through, but I need to go alone. I'll join you for supper later and we'll talk. It will be a great help to me knowing you're nearby, as much as if you were with me. Don't worry so. Whatever I learn, I'll tell you, and we'll decide together what we must do."

And so he sat patiently awaiting her arrival, belly rumbling for want of supper, taking great gulps from an enormous pewter tankard of scalding Darjeeling from the vast copper kettle above his fire. Hanging alongside the kettle was a simmering cauldron of one of Minerva's favorite meals...finnan haddie stew, rich with cream and butter, fragrant with leeks, potatoes, and fairy-ring mushrooms. Remembering how she often asked the house-elves to prepare this savory dish and how she always wanted at least two generous helpings, he'd asked the kitchen-elves earlier in the day for help in making it. They had shooed him out of his own house and set to work, allowing him back in only after their task was done.

He hoped she would enjoy her supper tonight and that her mood would be lifted by a good meal, some rest and conversation, although he knew their talk would soon move from a comfortable chat into far more serious matters. There seemed, at times, so few ways he could help those he treasured and respected most. Yet, he'd noticed how often when people were feeling low, they came to sit with him to share their troubles and accept a mug of whatever spirits were available, although most tended to beg off from the meals he offered.

Taking another deep swallow from his battered tankard, he scowled in consternation. While it was true he took pleasure in the comfort of strong tea at breakfast, or even mid-day, a steaming cuppa was not at all what he was accustomed to enjoying after a spate of strenuous husbandry. A substantial portion of something far more potent was much more to his liking, but since returning from the Valley, he had tried to avoid the practice of ending the day in his usual fashion.

There must be no such behavior, at least not for quite some time. Given his tendency to freely ramble on about whatever came to mind whenever he partook of a stout mug of mead, an overflowing flagon of elfin wine, or a brimming tumbler of firewhisky, he feared he would endanger the life of the wizard he could never have imagined he would seek to protect. Snape--Professor Snape--Severus--Neirin Maldwyn... Hagrid had taken Minerva's cautions to heart, and he was unsure how even to address the man in his thoughts. The important thing, though, was to be very careful to keep those thoughts to himself.

With his massive stature and unsavory heritage, his impetuous nature and volatile temper, his indulgences and robust habits, he knew many people considered him an oafish lout. It was no secret that his inclination to nurture creatures that anyone of half a wit would avoid at all costs made him something of an embarrassment to the Wizarding world. What he also knew was that he would never knowingly cause injury or death to any living thing for the mere want of a drink. When he had placed the broken body of the Potions master into the care of the Healer, he had made himself a solemn promise. He'd not bring harm to the man if that could be prevented by a willing abstinence.

A profound determination for Hagrid, since he'd always been slow to trust any man or woman, witch or wizard, with whom he'd not shared a drop. It was simply foolish, and generally bad manners, not to sit beside the hearth or under the glittering stars, enjoying the pleasure of good company while delighting in the glow of some excellent libation or another.

Those who refused such an invitation were usually not to his liking. He far preferred the acquaintance of amiable and forthright people, relishing the hearing and telling of the epic tales or the singing of rousing songs. To his thinking, there was no better way to pass a span of hours, and the flavor of the drink made any such occurrence so much the better.

Happily, most of the Hogwarts staff shared his appreciation for the blessings of grape and grain. He was proud that Dumbledore had always invited him to share a convivial glass of the saffron-scented Strega gifted at Midsummer by the Witches of Benevento. Certainly Minerva enjoyed sitting by the fire now and again with a wee drop of her native Scotch, the burr in her speech becoming more pronounced as good cheer filled the room. Filius had a surprising capacity for one so small, and Trelawney, Merlin bless her, was known to partake liberally, which no doubt accounted for some of her more intriguing prophecies.

One Solstice night, the moonlight shrouded behind the clouds of an approaching blizzard, he had welcomed Remus Lupin to his hearth. They'd shared a stout keg of spruce beer, one of many delivered to Hogwarts by Uppsala's Wizards in thanks for Hagrid's intercession, at Dumbledore's request, into a dispute between the Jaette and the Vitterfolk. Since giants shared ancestral roots with trolls, his counsel had been willingly acknowledged, helping to avert a conflict that the Dark Lord could easily have turned to an advantage. The keg had been Dumbledore's personal Yule gift to him, and he'd been glad to have someone willing to share it.

The long Midwinter night had resounded with their boisterous laughter and rowdy off-key singing, with old tales spun and reminiscences embellished until nearly dawn. How Lupin had enjoyed that beer, particularly since he said it countered the vile taste of Snape's Wolfsbane potion.

Years before, long before the unthinkable incident of the Shrieking Shack, Dumbledore had shared the secret of Lupin's curse with Hagrid, asking him to keep an eye on the young Gryffindor. Years later, when the werewolf had returned to teach at Hogwarts, he'd seemed relieved that at least one colleague could know his truth and still welcome his company. Hagrid had managed to keep that particular secret, perhaps because he understood both of Lupin's natures--the beast and the man--and sat in judgment of neither.

He'd asked about Snape's potion, wondering why the Potions master was willing to brew it, having almost met an awful death within the slavering jaws that transfigured from Lupin's gentle smile. Why would the Slytherin show kindness to the Gryffindor?

"I doubt compassion for me has anything to do with it. No doubt it's mainly pride that prompts his actions. He is, after all, the only Potions master in the Isles able to brew the bane so perfectly. Of course, there's the fact that Dumbledore asks it of him... There's always that... Perhaps he simply doesn't despise me quite so much anymore. He knows I had no control of my actions that night... James and Sirius did, though... Peter, as well. We handed Severus his need for vengeance on a silver platter... and then we despised him for seeking it. He holds the upper hand now... We both know it... We just don't speak of it."

Lupin had sat staring into the flames for quite some time after that, and the beer had seemed a touch more bitter when they toasted the dawn's coming.

Many a night, the Houses settled until morning, the grounds and gates well-secured under their protective wards, the staff had shared a late-night toddy, chatting about the day's events, reading whatever suited them, sometimes slipping into a comfortable doze by the fire before wandering off to bed. Dumbledore often joined them and was frequently the first to pull out the wizard chess board or the necromancer noddy cards, and lay a wager, the glass of spirits at his elbow enhancing the twinkle of his eyes.

Certainly the Great Hall reverberated throughout the seasons with feasts and celebrations, ceremonies and gatherings. In times of joy and victory, in times of sorrow and loss, the cup shared in fellowship was always given its due. How he'd missed the way things had been in the years between the wars. Spending his days roaming the forest, tending his beasts and gardens, teaching the more willing students the habits and haunts of the creatures, meandering up to the castle for a fine meal seasoned with lively talk and laughter... Those had been happy times.

The year past had seen little joy at Hogwarts, and the only comfort had been found in enclaves of family and friends gathering to reassure themselves that they still at least had one another. Perhaps now, with Minerva as Headmistress, familiar patterns and habits would return to the school.

Over the years, the Order had fallen into the habit of ending strategy sessions with a toast, the members sharing a moment of comradeship. Each knew that every meeting could be their last and that some might not be present for the next. The specter of the Dark Lord was always an unwelcome guest at their table. The raised glasses had become their solemn ritual, the symbol of a shared destiny and sacred trust.

There were members of the Order who considered Severus Snape to be the other unwelcome guest at the table. They were thrown unwillingly into his company, but nonetheless he was grudgingly acknowledged as a brother-in-arms and therefore had the right to participate in the ritual of the parting toast. His refusal to do so never sat well with most, except for Sirius Black. He never concealed his contempt whenever Dumbledore's spy took his leave, openly declaring that the Potions master was the one Order member that Death could claim with none of them the worse for the loss of him.

There was such bitterness between those two men that even a shared drink would have fueled the fire of their mutual hatred. Had Snape joined the toasting circle, Sirius would, no doubt, have hurled his whisky into that pale and sneering face, claiming no Death Eater would ever have the right to drink with them. Hagrid had often wondered why Snape never accepted, if only for the satisfaction of goading Sirius' temper into an impotent rage.

The greater puzzle for Hagrid had been Snape's tendency to also distance himself from joining any Hogwarts toasting, even as a sullen show of good will at the Yule. The Potions master was not in the least adverse to his ample portion of firewhisky, that much was known. Yet, he would frequently depart before the glasses were even filled, robes swirling behind him, footsteps scarcely audible on the stone floor, stealthy and silent as any basilisk.

Often when he noticed such an abrupt departure, the hackles on the back of Hagrid's neck would rise in warning. He did not fear Snape, any more than he feared any creature that by its nature kept itself concealed within the shadows, but he was wary of him. Deadly and dangerous creatures were not to be abused or despised, but they were certainly to be respected and regarded with great caution.

It had always been easiest for him to associate people with the creatures whose traits they shared. He knew that many, based on appearances alone, referred to Snape as "The Bat of Hogwarts," but that comparison never seemed quite accurate. Bats, hanging in tight clusters among the rafters and eaves of the castle, were sociable creatures, launching into the night sky in the cacophony of a thousand wings, swooping and darting in perfect community--behaviors that did not match the Potions master's solitary habits. In Hagrid's thinking, Snape was comparable to far different creatures.

When he'd first come to Hogwarts as a child, he'd been most like one of the feral cats that roamed Knockturn Alley, keeping to the darker corners where his back would be protected--matted and underfed, sharp little claws at the ready, lips pulled back in a warning hiss, darting away from anyone's approach. In the boy's wary eyes, Hagrid had recognized the look of a creature already scarred. He'd kept a sharp eye on him, knowing all too well that those who'd been abused often became the abusers. Snape's aversion to company was not Hagrid's primary concern, unfortunate though it might be, but any cruelty towards beast or creature... As groundskeeper, he would deal personally and immediately with any such offense.

It was quickly apparent the child was no threat on that account. Rumor had it that he was already versed in certain of the Dark Arts, but he directed no abuse to any of the creatures that inhabited the castle grounds. Snape's interest seemed to center on flapping about at dusk in his over-large robes, scooping up samples of every shedding, molting, secretion or dropping he could find, tucking each one safely away in his pockets. Hagrid had heard he showed an affinity for potions and could only imagine the disgust his more aristocratic House mates felt at sharing rooms with him and his many unsavory acquisitions.

He was certainly an unappealing child, but Hagrid had a fondness for ugly and unlovable creatures. Out of sympathy, he would sometimes look the other way when he saw the scrawny figure after curfew, huddled among the rocks by the loch, scribbling in a tattered textbook. The boy was shrewd and self-reliant and always managed to slip back into the castle undetected. Occasionally, Hagrid had left some choice bit of something elemental tucked among the rocks where he knew it could be found. The next day, the little treasure would always be gone.

Snape's peculiar interests and his innate skill for potions became personal for Hagrid near the end of the boy's first year. A nesting of young Allghoi Kharkhoi from the Gobi had been delivered to the castle at first light, the misconception being that the damp morning air would keep them torpid and docile. An infernal mess they'd been, spewing their yellow venom everywhere, but the Ministry had wanted them looked after until studies could begin at St. Mungo's on the medical benefits of their venom.

As much as Hagrid delighted in having new creatures in his care, this squirming mass of three-foot-long worms had been a feat to handle alone, and no one else was inclined to help. As he was about to wrestle the last one into its warded enclosure, the flit of a shadow had caught the corner of his eye, and he'd looked up to see Snape darting along the perimeter of the pen, flask in hand, headed straight for a puddle of smoking Allghoi poison.

"Watch yerself there, little one! Keep back from that before it burns the skin right off yeh!"

For the moment it took to shout his warning, he'd taken his eyes off the squirming crimson worm and had his hand doused with a vicious spray of venom for his troubles. Rarely did he lose his temper with a student, but his hand hurt like blazes, and the boy should never have been there in the first place.

"Damn and blast yeh, Snape... What in Merlin's name are yeh doin' 'ere anyway... See what's done ter my hand tryin' ter keep yeh from bein' hurt... It burns like bloody feckin' Hades..." He remembered he'd fairly howled from the pain of it.

For once in his life, the boy had run... had run like all the demons of the night were on his heels, and even before Hagrid had reached the castle steps, Pomfrey had been racing to meet him. He'd heard later that Snape had indeed gone straight to her, demanding her immediate attention, shouting at her to move her arse, and that he'd been given two week's detention with his Head of House.

Wounds and such were the usual for Hagrid, and soon enough he'd put the matter out of his mind, except for the one Galleon-sized spot on his hand that wasn't healing quite right. He'd not seen Snape hiding by the loch even after the detention should have been over, but suspected the boy might be embarrassed or even a little afraid to come near him. Perhaps he'd noticed that Hagrid was still favoring his hand a bit.

Right before the end of term under cover of night, a small jar, filled with a salve that smelled like cayenne, was left at his doorstep. The carefully lettered label read only, "For your hand." He'd taken it to Pomfrey, and when she'd examined it, she'd looked surprised.

"Black blood-root salve? Where did you get this, Hagrid? It's an old cure, excellent for ulcerations and wounds. I should have thought of it myself."

"I'm not certain, but I think that odd little Slytherin, Snape, might 'ave left it. Do yeh suppose maybe 'e made it? He's supposed to be good with that sort 'a thing..."

Pomfrey had taken a pinch of the salve and rubbed it between her fingers.

"Well, if he did, he knows just what he's doing. Someone should consider speaking to the Headmaster next year about training that boy as a Healer."

Perhaps someone should have, but caught up in the daily life of Hogwarts, no one quite found the time, and soon enough, by the second year, the feral cat had become a pet for Lucius Malfoy. No doubt it amused that sleek young predator to bring the unkempt laboring-class boy into his privileged home as a diversion.

Gradually, Hagrid noticed the awkward child beginning to grow into an oddly compelling youth. There was something about him, though, that triggered an intense hatred in the proud young lions of Gryffindor, the ones who fancied themselves Marauders. The assumption was that they despised him for being so enamored of the Dark Arts, but Hagrid often wondered if there was something more primal at the heart of the matter... some need for the pride to pull down any who would not yield to them.

He'd seen it happen often enough in the forest. Certain creatures were born enemies. It was no reflection on their nature, but simply was the way of things. With humans it was different, though. It wasn't instinct... It was deliberate choice. House loyalties didn't help matters, either. And, if the truth of it were told, none of it was one-sided. The Gryffindor pride stalked the Slytherin with singular intent, and he retaliated with a cobra's unerring accuracy.

By the fifth year, Malfoy had taken Snape in hand more deliberately, teaching him to erase all Spinner's End inflections from his deepening voice, to conduct himself properly in the presence of powerful Wizarding families, and to duel flawlessly. Standing beside Professor Kettleburn one perfect autumn day, Hagrid had watched the young man's first introduction to a hippogriff. Bowing with the elegance of a prince of the realm, Snape never took his eyes off those of the great beast, and he had received an acknowledgment of equal respect. It was then that Hagrid knew a powerful wizard was beginning to emerge.

He had heard of an incident that had caused the young Slytherin deep humiliation, something about an especially shameful taunting by the Gryffindors, the intercession of the young witch Lily Evans, and Snape's use of the foul slur "mudblood." He'd not been present, but could well imagine both the effect and the outcome. Natural enemies were becoming mortal ones.

The calculated ambush at the Shrieking Shack had been the final catalyst of Snape's unforgiving transformation into an ever-circling hawk. At only seventeen, he'd become very dangerous indeed, coveting power and purpose, seething with pride and resentment. Lucius had done his work well, mentoring his House brother into a perfect prize with which to curry favor with the ascending Lord Voldemort. Keeping his aerie apart from the ambitious murder of crows around him, the hawk had sought and found his killing ground within the ranks of the Dark Lord's disciples, and soon after, Hagrid was sure, his talons had been bloodied.

Four years later, on the night of Samhain, when the Veil had been torn by vicious slaughter and a mother's sacrifice, the howl of a creature in mortal agony had pierced the night, and Hagrid knew. For whatever reason, the hawk had plummeted to earth from its proud and vengeful flight. Rising in its place, like the tortured aspect of some darkened phoenix, had come the fearsome dragon Snape... Keeping to his lair in the Sytherin dungeons, stealthy in the hunt, fierce when provoked, jealous of his secrets... and alone.

Even though he believed he understood Snape's temperament to some degree, Hagrid still found himself disturbed by the Potions master's dark and secretive nature. What reason could there be, even for a dragon, to constantly shun the company of others except for what was required of a Head of House?

While it was true that Snape was never what might be considered pleasant, his keen intellect and biting sarcasms often made for lively conversation, and most of the staff were at least amenable to his presence at their nightly gatherings. Certainly on the brief occasions he chose to join them, when he and Minerva sparred with one another in some spirited duel of wit and words, things were far from dull. Though neither would ever admit to such a thing, Hagrid had long suspected a mutual acceptance between the two. After all, Minerva had a certain dragon quality as well.

And Merlin help anyone who ventured to challenge Snape in wizard chess. He almost always won, using strategies that were Slytherin to the core. Hagrid had no dexterity for the game, but he greatly enjoyed watching from his seat by the fire, and he admired Snape's ability to conclude a match so swiftly that his opponent scarcely knew the battle had even begun.

Only Dumbledore ever managed to defeat him. Hagrid remembered now how the Headmaster would sit during a game with Snape, quietly studying his Potions master's face. Snape always remained unreadable, but there had often been a certain tenderness in Dumbledore's eyes, and something else less evident... A flicker of regret... and shame. Hagrid questioned that perception, for what could Albus Dumbledore have ever done to Severus Snape that he would regret or be ashamed of? Dumbledore had said their bond was absolute and undeniable. He trusted Snape, and Hagrid trusted Dumbledore. It was enough to put his anxieties at rest, this simple and unshakeable belief he held because his Headmaster said it was so.

There had been one evening, though, lumbering from the Great Hall full of an excellent brisket and an excessive amount of mead, Hagrid had grumbled to Dumbledore that it was just not right for Snape to refuse the Order's toasting ritual. The Headmaster had quietly hushed him with a knowing smile and a pat on the arm.

"Don't be too put off, Hagrid. Severus has his reasons for keeping himself apart and we will respect them. Now, if you will indulge me, I have some excellent centaurian ale I'd be pleased to share with you, and I believe Minerva still owes me a game of witches whist? I suspect she may have cheated last time..."

Reasons, Dumbledore had assured him. What reasons could there be?

The night of the Unforgivable's casting, Snape was finally revealed as the incarnation of every creature with which Hagrid had ever compared him. The feral cat had lurked in shadow, the coiled serpent had waited to strike, the ravaging hawk had seized its prey... and the deadly dragon had emerged triumphant from its brooding. A vile and cunning deceiver, a vicious and heartless assassin, the paragon of a Death Eater... Those were the realities and reasons of Snape.

For weeks, lost in a haze of mourning and uncertainty, Hagrid blamed himself. He should have sensed this treachery... should have prevented it... should have followed his instincts about dangerous, dark creatures. He had fixed on his failure, pondering little else other than ways to gain some measure of vengeance. For the first time in his life, Hagrid experienced the powerful surge of hatred--consuming his thoughts, leaving him sickened with its poison.

Of course, once the first shock of grief had passed and clearer heads in the Order had prevailed, he'd understood the futility of any attempt on his part to overcome such a powerful dark wizard as Snape. Having only recently been permitted to even practice magic openly, Hagrid had no choice but to accept his place in the greater scheme of matters concerning the war.

In the months after Dumbledore's murder, he had settled himself to wait and watch, finding ways to be useful to the Order, performing the tasks and completing the missions that only one with his unique lineage could safely undertake. But then came another shattering blow.

Severus Snape returned to take control of Hogwarts, became its Headmaster, sat in the chair of Albus Dumbledore. The injustice of such a thing was overwhelming for Hagrid. Nothing could be trusted anymore. Deceit and darkness were everywhere now, even in the halls of the castle, with the murderer in charge of the school, students huddling in abject terror, staff gathering in secret, Death Eaters openly prowling the grounds, and the Dark Lord at the gates.

The violence of his giant's nature fought to surface, and he was plagued with thoughts of wresting the last breath from Snape and hurling him lifeless from the parapets. But he did not possess the skills to even pass the wards the coward had placed to shield himself from any such attack.

And so he stayed quiet, keeping the Keys, tending the grounds, protecting his creatures, giving the students what support he could, wondering why the cursed Death Eater was sending certain ones to him for detention in the Forbidden Forest. The feckin' bastard... What was he up to?

Drowning his rage and sorrow in the fleeting oblivion of drink, he would awaken at dawn with the pain renewed, the loss unfilled, the anger not lessened. His pattern of misery remained constant until the night of the Yule Lighting when the Great Hall had always been filled with an exuberant feast before the students left on holiday, a riotous celebration filled with the sheer ecstasy of magic flowing through the ether.

But on this night, there was to be no joyful abandon. Snape had denied the students their feast, had issued an edict that no celebration would take place. None would be permitted to leave the castle or go home. All were to remain in their quarters, students attending to their studies, staff to their lesson plans or other duties. Any caught outside their Houses without express permission from the Headmaster would face the most severe punishment.

Hagrid recalled that night with painful clarity now. He had downed his firewhisky with particular vengeance before throwing open the door of his hut to plunge through the deadening drifts of snow to patrol the moonlight-silvered grounds, blood in his eye. He'd not be told by that bastard Headmaster where he might go, or what he might do... Damn the bloody murderer. Let him do his worst, see if it mattered. He could crush the life from that scrawny, greasy son of a whore, Death Eater or not. He answered only to the true Headmaster of Hogwarts--Albus Dumbledore--never to Snape, the coward, the betrayer.

How he had raged that Yule night. He sorely missed his friend, his guardian, his Headmaster--the wizard he loved above all others, the one who had given him a true home, a place to do useful work, to be sheltered and respected, surrounded by the creatures and people he loved and honored. Yet even in his ravings, driven as he was by the fervor for revenge, he could hear Dumbledore's words, sounding faintly, as if the ancient wizard stood close beside him in the echoing winter chill.

"Hagrid, he has his reasons. We will respect them."

His drunken, restless wanderings had led him finally to the hill of the White Tomb where Dumbledore slumbered in eternal rest. It had been the most profound moment in Hagrid's life to carry the great wizard there in his arms, to lay him gently in his tomb, to hear him blessed with phoenix song. For the groundskeeper of Hogwarts, this hill had become the most sanctified place in the Wizarding world, a shrine never to be sullied.

As he approached the tomb, he had seen a herd of Thestrals gathered in a pool of moonlight reflected off the pristine marble across the glittering expanse of snow. As he stood there swaying, a shadow had broken loose from the surrounding darkness, moving through the herd to stand like Death personified before the White Tomb, one hand outstretched to touch its icy facade.

Snape... the defiler of all things beautiful and sacred.

Hagrid's huge hands had clenched, and he had fought to steady himself, the haze of the firewhisky dissipating into the frigid night. Hatred and grief, stronger than any drink, ignited him with a flame of power such as he'd never experienced. In that moment, he believed he could take Snape's life with no second thought for the ghastly wound that would forever mar his own soul. This was the chance he had sought. He had the will to seize this single instant and fulfill his fervent, dark desire to kill this wizard who had destroyed everything he loved, who had committed the unforgiveable sin of cowardly betrayal and vicious murder.

He moved closer, silent as a great beast of prey, to stand behind Snape. Some force of will stayed his hands in that moment, but not his voice, which bellowed with all the strength of his giant's blood.

"Seein' the Thestrals plain, are yeh, Snape, now yeh've done yer master's bidding? Look sharp, then... Be sure yeh see Dumbledore's tomb as well. It was yeh put 'im there, yeh feckin' bastard. Did yer master want to be sure yeh could see it clear? Yer sittin' in the chair of the true Headmaster 'o Hogwarts... Did yeh think yeh'd foul 'is tomb as well with yer filthy hands?"

Snape had not startled or drawn his wand as Hagrid's voice sounded behind him, nor even turned his head to look at him. His hands hanging empty at his sides, billowing black cloak snapping in the icy wind like the sail of a ship of the damned, his eyes had not left the tomb. When he answered, his voice was more chilling than the bite of the winter blast.

"You would have failed, Hagrid, in your attempt to kill me. As for your mindless rant... In that, you are correct. My master has always insisted that I see... clearly."

"He's not been disappointed in yeh, then, 'as 'e? Did as yeh were told jus' perfect, didn't yeh? Yer a damned coward, Snape... Yeh don' even have the stones to look a man in the eye," Hagrid had raged in answer to the threatening resonance of the shadowed voice.

Snape's response could have issued from the mouth of a corpse, it was so empty of passion.

"Again, you are correct... I have indeed done as I was told... And no, he is not disappointed. Who would have expected you, Hagrid, to be so astute?"

Swift and silent as a scorpion, Snape had pivoted, casting 'Immobulus', 'Petrificus Totalus' and 'Impedimento' conjoined in a spell of three-fold strength, rendering Hagrid defenseless on the ground before the tomb. Looming and terrible with power, Snape had gazed down at him, face devoid of expression, fixing him with eyes as hard as the black ice of the loch.

"Your illicit gatherings in support of Potter have not gone un-noticed. They are to cease. Service to this school does not protect you, and I doubt you'd enjoy a place as the Dark Lord's dancing bear for the amusement of Greyback and his pack."

Turning on his heel, the Death Eater had again reached out his hand, laying it against the marble of the tomb, flesh and stone so alike that Hagrid was barely able to distinguish one from the other. Unable to move, he had struggled desperately to cry out against this atrocity, but found he had been silenced by yet another unspoken spell. He could only watch, powerless, as Snape stepped away from the tomb to pass among the Thestrals, pausing at the edge of the herd to place his hand against the bony face of one standing apart from the rest.

Hagrid was stunned to see the Thestral lower its head in quiet acceptance of Snape's touch, billowing cloak and leathery wings lifted in solemn accord by the arctic wind. Death Eater and Death's symbol stood thus for several moments in silent communion, eyes fixed on one another, before Snape lowered his hand and moved into the shadows, a swirl of cloak and snow marking his departure.

Within moments the Binding Spells had lifted, and Hagrid had hoisted himself, dazed and shaken, from the snow. His head ached from the aftermath of the firewhisky, and his mind was spinning. Snape had held him within easy reach of a Killing Curse and could have dispatched him as readily as breaking a brittle twig. Yet, he had left him there, wet and shivering in the cold, but alive and unharmed.

Bereft and depleted, oddly drained of the poisonous hatred that had possessed him, Hagrid had wished Dumbledore was there to help him sort his thoughts and reach some reasonable determination. He had no clearer grasp of Snape's intentions, that much was certain. Trudging home through the snow, he had thought long and hard and had concluded that the mind of such a dark wizard was beyond his comprehension. The only thing that was clear was that he must focus his thoughts, put away his desires for vengeance, and become an asset once more to the Order.

"There is important business to be done. Master is not too sleepy to pay attention?"

Lost in his reverie, Hagrid had not noticed the arrival of the four house-elves weighted with their heavy burden, and he was a bit perturbed at the thought they might think he'd been dosing unawares.

"A man's allowed to close 'is eyes when 'e's thinkin' 'a serious matters. I've things to sort in my mind before the Headmistress comes fer 'er supper. What's that yeh've brought there with yeh?"

"Mistress is sending this trunk from the tower of the One We Are Not to Speak Of," the eldest of the elves replied. Seeing Hagrid's face twist with sudden alarm, he bent low with a solemn bow. "Not the Dark Wizard killed by Harry Potter. The house-elves spit on that one's name and tread on it with muddy feet. Headmistress said we are not to say the other's name aloud, the Headmaster who is dead by the great snake. Mistress has taken his life things, the ones his hands could always find without looking. She has put them in this trunk, and says you are keeping it safe until she asks for it."

'So that's what she's done,' Hagrid thought. 'She's packed the things might make it easier fer 'im there with the Healer. Clever witch, she knows no one would think to look with me fer anythin' of 'is.'

Rising from his bench and nodding to the elves, he hoisted the worn trunk onto his shoulder.

"If that's what's been asked, then that's what'll be done. Did the Headmistress say she'd be comin' down from the castle anytime soon?"

Hagrid found he spoke to empty space, for the elves had departed as silently as they'd arrived, having delivered the trunk into his charge. He really was quite hungry and weary from his labors, and though he'd hoped to be patient, he longed for food and rest... and more than tea, if he were to be honest about his wants. Where was Minerva, and what had she learned?

With a sigh, he carried the trunk inside, thinking to stow it high in the eaves amongst the myriad of useful objects he stored there. It would seem just another piece of clutter, nothing important, but if necessary, he could cast a concealment charm to keep it safe.

Shaking his head as he considered just the proper spot, he muttered, "Wonder what she's put in 'ere, that it took four 'a the little fellas to carry it 'ere... Hope she's not tried to bring all 'is books..."

"Only some I thought might help him to remember, if he heard them read aloud."

Minerva's voice behind him sounded as exhausted as he felt, but he was so relieved to hear it. With an unceremonious thump, he deposited the trunk on the floor and for a moment stood hesitant as to just what he should do, or offer, next... until the realization that he was keeping the Headmistress of Hogwarts waiting on the doorstep prompted him to hastily usher her in and direct her exactly where to sit.

"Professor, yeh look about as spent as a beggar's last penny. There's supper there fer yeh, and I'll not say I'm not pleased yer finally 'ere. I was beginnin' to wonder if I shouldn't come to find yeh."

It struck him odd that Minerva gave no resistance but simply dropped without a reply into the chair nearest the fire. As he pulled a table closer and began to ladle food, he focused on what she'd said.

"What'd yeh mean... 'e might remember? What's 'e forgotten then, except maybe to open 'is eyes and keep 'is breathin' steady..."

Minerva leaned her head back to rest against the weathered chair back, and seeing the strain on her face, Hagrid immediately regretted his cheek.

"Sorry, Professor... I meant no 'arm... It was only a poor way to pull a smile from yeh... Yeh've learned things, then... Are yeh ready to speak about 'em, or would yeh rather have a bit of supper first and gather yerself?"

Leaning her elbows on the work-scarred table, Minerva sat kneading her temples with the tips of her slender fingers, and he could see she'd need some time before she'd want to say much.

"Ogden's Old, if you have it, Hagrid... and the food. I need to eat something. I quite forgot to do that since this morning..."

Pulling the bottle from his cupboard, he poured a good three fingers into a mug for her, and considering the three fingers were measured by his own, the amount was substantial. He paused for a moment, thinking to pour for himself as well, but did not. Minerva had raised her head from her hands and saw his hesitation but made no comment when he set the mug next to her bowl of finnan haddie. For the next few minutes, the only sound was the snapping of the fire, and the clatter of spoons against crockery. Hunger was the bond between them at that moment.

Settling back at last with a sigh, Minerva sat in silence with her mug tightly encircled by her hands, as though its presence there was an anchor to keep her from drifting. When she began to speak, there was the timbre of a distant bell about her voice, clear and constant.

"Hagrid, I must ask you to listen to me now with great attention, and I will want you to remain still. There are things I will tell you that you will doubt, things that will be very hard to hear. I know that... And I know you will have a great many questions. I will give you whatever answers I can, but you must please not interrupt me. This is a story I may have to tell again to those who need to hear it, but for tonight, I'd prefer to do so as quickly as I can."

The time that passed in the telling could have been measured in minutes... or in hours... It could have been measured in heartbeats... or in breaths. For Hagrid, it was measured in the number of times he lifted the bottle to refill Minerva's mug... and she did not refuse.

"Albus... I am afraid..."

Those were the words that caused him to take his own cup, fill it to the brim with Ogden's, and drain it dry. Minerva never faltered, but plunged ahead, as if to stop would be to lose her way. When she had finished, the only sound was the wind sighing the words of summoning at the window...

"Ecce... ecce... Behold... behold..."

Anyone in the room at that moment might have thought Hagrid was dosing, his head sunk low on his chest... until they would have noticed his hand, the one with the scar the size of a Galleon, tapping softly against the worn trunk, as if it were a crouching beast needing to be soothed.

"It's true, what yeh said, Minerva." And in that moment he could not have said what prompted him to say her name, except that formalities seemed to make little sense within the scope of all she'd told him. "I've more questions than I can even sort..."

When she did not answer, he looked up and saw she had closed her eyes, lulled by the fire, the food, and no doubt by the whisky as well. He was about to continue when he realized she'd fallen asleep, and he was glad of it. But she wouldn't rest properly sitting up in his old chair, so as gently as though he were gathering the flowers of the field into his arms, he lifted her, and crossing to his sprawling, threadbare settee, settled her there, covering her with a blanket that smelled of cedar-wood and hay.

Taking up her vacant place beside the fire, he thought of pouring another portion of the Ogden's but decided against it. As tired as he was, he wanted to be clear-headed. Methodically, he began to recall and consider every detail of what Minerva had told him. It was a bit like removing the barbed quills of a hedgehog from the palm of an overly eager Grawp... Painful but necessary, requiring great patience, and a steady hand...

When he woke with a start at dawn, it was to find himself still in the chair, but now he was the one covered by the blanket, and it was Minerva sliding a plate laden with eggs, kippers, and oatcakes across the table towards him.

"Tuck in, Hagrid, and then let's see if we can begin to find a way to sort this mess."

He gave her no argument and having quickly finished up, stood and nodded his head in the direction of the door.

"Would yeh maybe walk with me around the grounds, Professor? I'd find it easier to say what's on my mind if I'm on my feet and outside, yeh see."

Minerva smiled as she pulled on her over-robe to follow him.

"I seem to recall last night, you calling me by my first name, but today we're back to formal terms? That hardly seems necessary, Hagrid. I rather liked being spoken to as a friend you trusted. Perhaps we could meet in the middle... Minerva, as private friends... Professor, as public colleagues?"

Tears spilled over the dam of Hagrid's cheeks.

"That'd make me very happy... Minerva."

It was Minerva's turn to listen as they walked, and she did so with the same respectful attention he'd given her the night before.

"I've been thinkin' about all yeh said, yeh see... about 'im bein' cursed and all... and maybe bein' lost forever. That seems to me somethin' like the Dementors' Kiss takin' away all hope and such. Doubt he's 'ad much hope of anythin', what with all he's done. Dumbledore sayin' we should try to bring 'im back, help 'im to remember it all... That occurred to me at first as a cruel thing to do, and that keepin' the worst of 'is memories from 'im would be the kinder thing. But seein' as how he were an honorable man, he'd not want what he's done kept from 'im. If he's lived with nothin' but lies all these years, he'd not want anyone tellin' 'im any more. Seems to me 'e should 'ave the chance to hear all of it. Might help to mend 'im some, to know he's done the last bit right.

"The things yeh packed in that trunk... maybe those are the Portkeys fer 'im, the ways to find 'is way back. If e's blind... well, he's not the first creature I've seen that's learned to move in darkness without its eyes. We can teach 'im that. He always was easier about 'imself in the shadows. If he's sick with the potions, I expect you'll fight with 'im enough to sweat that muck out of 'im. Healer Gareth's an ol' battler too, no doubt, with a few notions of 'is own."

Minerva smiled a little at that, remembering the quarrels she'd always had with Severus. Hagrid was right; She'd goad him into a fight every blessed day, if that was what it took to restore his ravaged body and unlock his darkened mind.

"This business 'a Riddle fixin' this curse to the professor's name... It's not really about what yeh call a man but what's done in 'is name that's more important. Still, 'is name's been an ugly dark thing to a lot of people for a long time, and it'd be right for 'im to see some honor in it, without it causin' 'im to suffer.

"Hidin' 'im like we have, that's all right for now, but he'd want 'is own name back someday. There's plenty of magic in the world that's stronger than Tom Riddle's... and plenty 'a wizards too. If there's to be three Keepers, one of us can always be lookin' for the way out.

Stopping for a moment to look up at the Astronomy Tower, he paused, wanting to say the rest in a way that would leave no doubt of his meaning.

"Harry's done what was asked of 'im, done a great thing. Dumbledore's right on that account. That lad needs to be free of all 'a this, as much as 'e can be. He'll carry some of it always, but not so the scars will show so much. The rest 'a these children need to be free of it as well, or they'll never be over it. We're the old ones should clean up the unfinished business that's been left behind.

"The point bein'... the ol' dragon was a broken thing since he were a child... and we all 'ad somethin' of a hand in it, whether we meant to or not. Especially Dumbledore... I understand about the greater good and such, but I wonder if there was a better way 'a doin' it. Maybe not... I'm not the one to ask. Yeh know I loved him as dear as my own heart... Still do... But if he and the professor ever lay eyes on each other on one side of the Veil or the other, I hope Dumbledore makes it right with 'im.

"There's a good deal of what he's sufferin' that's his own doin', that's true, but we had our share in it. 'Ardly seem of much importance now, who did what... Or didn't do what... He's lost, and I'd not leave any creature lost. Even in the Forest, I'd go lookin'. If he's afraid, there's no shame in it... Bein' afraid's no measure of yer courage..."

Hagrid had been striding purposely forward as he spoke, as though intent on his destination, but now he stopped and faced Minerva with grave attention.

"There's somethin' else... I've never been a true and proper Wizard... Never 'ad the way of it... I'd like to do this right, yeh see. If I'm to be one of 'is Secret Keepers, I'd want to do it correct... I'd want us both to make the Fidelius Charm... Not just a promise like what Dumbledore and 'im had between 'em, but to make the charm the way it's supposed to be done. It's deep magic, but I'd want to make it honest and full and 'ave you there with me. The professor deserves that from us. I'd want 'im to be able to trust we did that fer 'im."

Seeing they'd come to stand where they could look from the hill of the blackthorn tree across to the White Tomb, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, found herself dumbfounded. In all her years of knowing him, she'd never heard such a lengthy outpouring from Hagrid. There could be only one response.

Reaching up to gently urge his shaggy head down to where she could softly kiss him on the forehead, she answered.

"Rubeus Hagrid, you are an extraordinary man. We will fight the good fight to bring our lost one home, and I will be honored to stand beside you to make the Fidelius Charm. We will make it tomorrow, with Albus as our Witness, as the moon reaches her fullest ascension. This promise I give you now, before all these who have fallen. We will stand together, you and I, as witch... and most true and proper wizard."