No matter how many times he'd told the story, Ron never seemed to tire of it.
Hagrid, for his part, was an excellent listener. He didn't just nod along; he'd gasp and laugh at all the right moments, even chiming in with his own experiences—like how terrifying the Forbidden Forest could be under a moonless sky.
The mood was especially lively when Ron, with vivid flair, mimicked that insufferable Zacharias cowering behind Davies out of fear of the dark. Hagrid's booming laughter filled the room. Gryffindors had little patience for cowards, especially those who used others as shields.
The cheerful atmosphere held until Ron mentioned the words "Acromantula." Hagrid fell silent, his expression shifting as he listened intently to the tale.
"So I hurled a torch—learned that trick from Harry, you know—and it sent those spiders scuttling back!" Ron said, animated. "They're terrified of fire. I can't even describe how horrifying it was. Those spiders surrounded us like a tide, circling the flames, looking ready to pounce and tear us apart."
"You could see them shrieking as they dodged the torch, like tossing a stone into water," Ron continued, his face twisting in disgust. "And it crushed a ton of the smaller ones. The smell—ugh, just thinking about it makes me nauseous."
"My clothes still reek today," Neville added weakly. "Hannah squashed two spiders on my back, and their guts… urgh—sorry!"
"Me too…" Ron's face paled as Neville's words stirred his own memories. "Honestly, I thought I'd never face spiders again—oi, what was that for?!"
Ron yelped, spinning to glare at Hermione, who had just kicked his shin hard enough to make him wince.
"We get it already," Hermione said, exasperated. "Fred turned your teddy bear into a giant spider because you broke his toy broom, and now you're terrified of them. Can you read the room for once?"
She jerked her head toward Hagrid.
Ron's phobia was no secret, especially not among their little group, thanks to his endless retellings. Hermione had no patience for him boasting about his "growth" or spider-fighting heroics yet again. They'd all been through the trial; they knew each other's stories inside out.
"Hagrid?" Ron turned, then jolted at the sight of Hagrid's blank, almost dazed expression. "Hagrid?! You alright?"
"…I'm fine," Hagrid said, sniffing loudly and wiping away tears. "Keep talkin' 'bout the Acromantulas. I wanna hear more."
"Them?" Hermione, Ron, and Neville exchanged glances.
Shouldn't it be "it"?
Ron resumed his story, but even his usual bravado was tempered with caution, wary of upsetting Hagrid further.
"…So that's what the spider said?" Hagrid asked abruptly when Ron paused. "Fresh meat, prey, that sort o' thing… it really called you that?"
"Yeah," Neville nodded. "It even said our flesh was tender."
Hagrid went quiet again, downing his drink in gulps. His frenzied demeanor unnerved the trio, who exchanged nervous looks, silently urging Harry to intervene.
As Hagrid drained another glass and reached to refill it, Harry placed a hand on the cup.
"Enough, Hagrid," Harry said with a sigh. "That's not how you drink Firewhisky. You're supposed to laugh when you knock it back."
"…Can't laugh, Harry," Hagrid mumbled. After a long pause, tears streamed down his face. "I never thought—sorry—I'm sorry on Aragog's behalf. I never imagined his kids would… put you in danger…"
"Aragog?" Ron asked cautiously.
"He's my friend… I hatched him, watched him grow…" Hagrid's voice softened with nostalgia as he recounted the past.
His story aligned with what Dumbledore had shared that night, with one key difference: Hagrid's perspective. In his memory, even though Riddle's accusation about him raising an Acromantula led to his expulsion, wand-snapping, and stint in Azkaban, Hagrid held no grudge.
"I don't blame him," Hagrid said, sighing heavily. "He had no choice. I did break the rules. But Aragog was innocent. I couldn't let them kill him."
Ron, Neville, and Hermione exchanged glances. They knew exactly who Tom Riddle was—Harry hadn't kept that secret from them. It only deepened their understanding of Voldemort's former charisma.
To not resent someone who got you expelled and imprisoned? Hagrid, you're too good for this world…
"You're kind, Hagrid," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "But I have to tell you—the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest… there are too many."
"Especially now that the centaur tribes have moved to new territory. It'll be a while before their lands overlap again. Until then, the Acromantulas will grow unchecked, with no natural predators. You know what that means, don't you?"
"Means less magical creatures, less materials from the forest, less coin for the school," Hagrid muttered. "Can't have that. Can't trouble Professor Dumbledore… Got any ideas, Harry?"
After decades of working with magical creatures, Hagrid was something of an expert in the field, and he quickly grasped the issue.
"I won't lie to you, Hagrid," Harry said earnestly. "The Shamanism class already has a long-term assignment. Every apprentice who passes the first trial will start clearing out the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest."
"We'll start small, tackling the younger ones, and work up to the adults as our skills grow," Harry explained, glancing at Hagrid with concern.
To his surprise, Hagrid didn't look upset. "That's a solid plan, Harry," he said, nodding. "Keeps Aragog's kids from overrunin' the place. Truth be told, it'd be dangerous if they spread beyond the forest."
"…I thought you'd object," Harry said, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't Aragog your friend?"
"He is," Hagrid said, his voice softening again. "Watched him grow from a tiny little thing. He's like a son to me, so sweet and close… oh, he was adorable…" His eyes welled up again.
"…Hard to picture that monster we saw yesterday—twice my size—as 'tiny' or 'adorable,'" Ron whispered to Neville.
"Same," Neville muttered back.
Hagrid, oblivious to their murmurs, was lost in his tears.
"…I know what you're worried about, Harry," Hagrid said, smacking a tear-soaked hand onto Harry's back. "Aragog's my friend, but his kids? Not so much. Thank Merlin you lot are alright, or I'd never forgive myself."
"Huh?" Harry blinked.
"Last time I saw Aragog, he was gettin' old, not much time left," Hagrid sighed. "Once he's gone, his kids… well, I hate to say it, but sometimes when I visit, their looks give me the creeps. You know what I mean."
Ron and Neville nodded vigorously.
Those were definitely hungry looks.
"I get it," Harry said, piecing together Hagrid's unique perspective. Friends were friends, but their offspring? Separate matter entirely.
Hagrid cared deeply for Aragog, even finding him a mate, but that was where it ended. He clearly valued the lives of young wizards over the Acromantulas.
"Let's drink," Harry said, filling Hagrid's cup. "Don't worry, Hagrid. I'll handle it. When Aragog passes, maybe we can hold a funeral for him. You'd like that, right?"
"Really?" Hagrid's tearful eyes lit up. "You're too good, Harry, just like Lily."
Harry didn't reply, just raised his glass.
Cheers.
Hangovers were inevitable, even for someone as sturdy as Harry. Hagrid's half-giant blood gave him an edge in both strength and alcohol tolerance, and it had taken everything Harry had to drink him under the table—or rather, to mutually collapse.
Unlike mead, Firewhisky had a kick… the Americans knew a thing or two about spirits.
When Harry woke the next morning, sprawled on his bed in his Mulgore suitcase home, he couldn't recall how he'd gotten there.
"You're finally awake, Harry!" Hermione's voice cut through as she rushed in from the living room, looking relieved. "You have no idea how much effort it took to get you and Hagrid settled last night. Water? Or food first?"
"…Water, thanks," Harry croaked. "What happened last night? I remember being at Hagrid's hut."
"We're still at Hagrid's," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "You two were too drunk to drag back to the castle. Professor McGonagall would've lost it if she saw you reeking of alcohol."
"Ron ran to Gryffindor Tower to grab your suitcase. He and Neville changed your clothes, by the way. You owe them a thank you."
"Got it, I will," Harry said, rubbing his throbbing temples. "Thanks, Hermione."
"Er, you're welcome," Hermione said, her cheeks faintly pink. "Anyway, hurry up. We've already missed breakfast, and we'll miss first period if you don't move."
"What's first period?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Hermione said brightly. "Professor Lockhart's class."
At the mention of that name, Harry considered crawling back into bed.
"No skipping, Harry," Hermione said, her gaze sharpening. "You promised Professor McGonagall you'd keep up with your studies, even as a professor. You haven't graduated your wizarding courses yet."
"…Yes, Professor McGonagall," Harry sighed. "I know."
As they spoke, Ron and Neville came downstairs. After a quick wash, Harry, nursing a splitting headache, climbed out of Mulgore with his friends—Hagrid's thunderous snores echoing behind them.
"Jealous of him," Ron said bluntly. "I'd love to sleep like that."
"You can't sleep forever, Ron," Hermione snapped. "You need knowledge to get a good job."
"Exams, jobs, overtime," Ron groaned. "Thanks for reminding me of that nightmare."
"It's not a nightmare, you're in second year already."
"I thought we had until seventh year to worry about graduating, ma'am."
"…"
Bickering all the way, they reached the castle. When Harry slumped into the classroom, exhausted, he regretted it the moment he saw the figure prancing in.
"Well, well! The Boy Who Lived!" Lockhart announced from the front, flashing a dazzling smile. "I know becoming a professor at twelve is thrilling, but missing my first lesson? A real pity."
Harry had barely attended classes last week, swamped with his new role as a Hogwarts professor.
Lockhart, still at the front, kept blabbing, clutching a book with his own winking, grinning face on the cover.
"—Because it was Gilderoy Lockhart's first lesson as professor!" he said, gesturing toward Harry. "Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League; five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—not that I brag about it. I didn't banish the Bandon Banshee with a smile!"
"…Isn't that exactly what he's doing?" Ron muttered, head down.
"I've heard this speech at least three times," Seamus whispered.
"Quiet, both of you," Hermione hissed. "He's looking."
"What'd you cover last class?" Harry asked suddenly.
"Reading," Ron sighed. "He had Parvati read from Travels with Trolls. Said he didn't want to teach too much until everyone was here, so no one missed 'real, useful knowledge.'"
"No doubt he was waiting for you, Harry," Dean said, scooting closer. "But honestly, I don't envy you. It's a nightmare."
"You're not wrong," Seamus agreed.
"…And now that we're finally a full class, let's have a little quiz!" Lockhart's cheerful voice carried to the back. "Oh, don't look so scared—it's not hard."
"I've got a bad feeling," Harry said grimly as Lockhart handed out papers—by hand, not with a wand, which was a first for a Hogwarts professor.
His bad feeling was confirmed in seconds.
The quiz was absurd. Question one: What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color? Question two: What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition? Question three: What is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
Fifty-four questions, all about Lockhart. The last one: When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would be his ideal gift?
Gilderoy Lockhart, Gilderoy Lockhart, Gilderoy Lockhart—his name was everywhere. This wasn't a quiz; it was a fan club application!
Harry was practically trembling with excitement. He'd found the perfect target—someone to redirect McGonagall's ire over the trials away from him: Gilderoy Lockhart.
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