Hagrid, What's That?
September 1, 2014, 7:00 a.m. London’s sky had been smothered for days under damp gray clouds that hung like laundry left out too long. A fine drizzle scattered across the asphalt, thickening the sour reek of exhaust fumes.
Clinging tight to the back of the giant on the motorcycle—Hagrid—Harry Potter’s mind raced through the memories of the past two months.
Bang—!
“Where might you be off to, madam? I believe I sent official notice of my visit in advance. Ah—I’m Professor Rubeus Hagrid of Hogwarts.”
Vernon and Dudley had sneered at the sight of Hagrid in what looked like a brand-new, expensive suit, but Aunt Petunia had trembled as if seized by pure terror.
The pretty woman lawyer standing beside Hagrid introduced herself as Emmeline Vance and calmly informed them that, by order of the Prime Minister, custody of Harry Potter was hereby transferred to Hogwarts and the Department of Educational Policy, and that Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley would be investigated on charges of child abuse.
Lined up next to them were men in police uniforms and others who introduced themselves as Members of Parliament for the Surrey constituency. Even the mayor stood behind the man called Hagrid.
Uncle Vernon had gone purple with rage and started shouting, but Aunt Petunia only stared, shaking, at the thick staff in Hagrid’s hand, the slender wand at Emmeline Vance’s hip, and the small silver phoenix badges pinned to both their chests. When Vernon tried to call the police, Petunia had desperately stopped him, hissing that the police were already right there. Her eyes never left those phoenix badges.
And so Harry Potter left the Dursley house where he had lived for twelve years and spent a month at Hagrid’s preparing for Hogwarts.
Four police motorcycles had shadowed them the entire ride from Hagrid’s flat to the station. The moment they arrived, men in suits drifted over from every direction and greeted Hagrid as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Hagrid, right on the expected time. Not like you at all.”
“Arthur, the Ministry put the whole timetable together. Why would I go and mess it up? It’s for Harry’s safety.”
“Afraid Albus Dumbledore will give you an earful, more like. So you’re Harry Potter. An honor. To make your first day of school safe and happy, the Department of Magical Administration, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Magical Police, Transport, and Disaster Response have been planning the security detail for three months. Lad, no strange characters along the way?”
“…No, sir.”
The tall, handsome Black man standing beside the red-haired middle-aged man who had been talking with Hagrid smiled and took over.
“An honor for me as well, escorting the hero of the wizarding world. We all worked hard, but Magical Police worked the hardest. Right, Arthur?”
“Oh, come off it, Kingsley. Without Magical Administration you’d have paid for every doughnut and coffee out of your own pocket. We handled the manpower control too. Lad, pleasure to meet you. Ah—this is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Director of Magical Police, and I’m Arthur Weasley, Head of the Living Safety Division in Magical Administration. My son’s a first-year same as you. Hope you’ll be friends. Truth is, that’s half the reason I’m out here.”
Arthur Weasley continued, looking a little embarrassed.
“Ron’s my sixth boy, and he’s a bit… talkative, so he never had many friends. At Hogwarts—especially with you—I’d love for him to make a real mate.”
“Arthur, enough. You’ll put the boy under pressure. Good to meet you too, Harry. I was a professor at Hogwarts until last term. Anyone gives you trouble, you ring Magical Police straight away. Severus Snape, for instance.”
“Kingsley, Severus isn’t a child. He’s not going to lose his temper at a first-year. Stop talking rubbish and get ready.”
“Ahem, Arthur. I’m a Director now. Not a mere Head like you. Kindly address me as Director—”
“Director Shacklebolt! Law Enforcement is ready!”
A young, pretty woman whose hair was changing color in real time approached Kingsley—who had been teasing Arthur—and saluted smartly.
“Ah, thank you. Your unit and name…?”
“Nymphadora Tonks, new Auror, First Battalion, Department of Magical Law Enforcement!”
“Kingsley, that’s Ted’s girl. Early graduate of Oxford Magical Engineering, commissioned as an Auror in Law Enforcement—and look how splendid she turned out. Dora, remember me? Friend of your dad’s. He must have told you stories.”
“I’m sorry, Head of Living Safety. I’ve been living away from home for so long because of my studies…”
“What? Ted and Andromeda never told you? I emptied my empty wallet buying you clothes more than once.”
Hagrid and Kingsley roared with laughter at the stricken look on Tonks’s face and waved her off. Her hair already orange, Tonks turned back just long enough to flash Harry a sparkling smile, say it was an honor, and pump his hand—until Kingsley reminded her she was supposed to be busy. She dropped Harry’s hand and sprinted away.
“Harry Potter, may I have a handshake as well? John Dawlish, Team Leader Two, Prime Minister’s Guard Battalion, Enforcement Division, Law Enforcement. Truly an honor.”
“Me too! Sturgis Podmore, Deputy Regional Commander, Central Region Magical Police.”
“Walden Macnair, Review Office Chief, Enforcement Division, Law Enforcement. Harry Potter—an honor.”
“Bob Ogden, Acting Director of Transport Control. Thank you for growing up safe, Mr. Potter.”
The suited men who shook Harry’s hand with open delight and laughed with their colleagues all had wands and radios hanging at their hips. Only then did Harry realize that every suited man and woman who had been glancing at him since the police motorcycles were Ministry staff. No wonder they had never once hit a red light, and helicopters kept circling overhead.
“Hagrid… all this just for me…”
“Of course, Harry. They take our taxes—if they can’t even manage this, Prime Minister Cameron would be impeached first thing. There we go. Almost there, Harry.”
Hagrid’s enormous hand gave Harry’s thin shoulder a light, friendly thump. At the same instant every passer-by—the man reading a newspaper on a bench, the young women in dresses laughing over coffee, the red-nosed middle-aged men still half-drunk and squabbling, the old lady leaning on a cane with a baguette under her arm—snapped into formation in front of King’s Cross Station, lining the path Hagrid and Harry would take.
“All Ministry. They’ve been sleeping in shifts here since the night before last in case of a terrorist attack. Come on, Harry.”
Harry nodded mechanically. The world was spinning. He could not get his bearings.
For twelve years the only world he had known under the Dursleys’ elegant, airtight control and censorship had been the dusty cupboard under the stairs and the living-room television glimpsed through the crack. He had lived nowhere else since his parents died when he was two—a memory he no longer possessed.
Until last week his greatest daily joy had been the homework Dudley’s private tutor grudgingly handed him. He needed something to read; without exam papers the only print in his day was the old newspaper scraps slapped over the peeling wallpaper. He had long since memorized every word. He must have read the scrap about Alan Shearer breaking the league goal-scoring record a few thousand times.
Then, in a matter of weeks, the entire world had flipped upside down.
Aunt Petunia had received some letter, gone white with terror, and suddenly insisted they leave for a holiday in Australia—and, astonishingly, that Harry must come too. Harry had been certain they meant to dump him somewhere or quietly drown him. The moment Uncle Vernon’s thick hand had dragged him outside after a beating for refusing, that had been his first meeting with Hagrid.
Aunt Petunia’s mouth had fallen open as if she recognized him. “Th-this… this is Dumbledore’s doing too, isn’t it?” she had stammered. The giant—four times the size of Vernon and Dudley—had smiled politely and asked if they were going somewhere; a holiday was fine, but Harry had a great deal to do, so might he take the boy? Petunia had frozen solid. Vernon had roared about hooligans. While Hagrid calmly and courteously explained lawsuits, custody, and a message from someone named Albus Dumbledore to the furious uncle and the terrified aunt who was desperately trying to restrain him, he had beckoned Harry over. Emmeline Vance, in the same cool official tone, had been informing Dudley that a juvenile group-violence investigation would be opened against him as well.
That was how Harry learned he was a real wizard. For about a month he lived in Hagrid’s London flat and learned about wizards and the wizarding world. Or rather, because he had never properly attended school, most of the time was spent relearning basic common sense from Hagrid. They shopped in Diagon Alley, he learned elementary magic from Hagrid’s colleagues, and he even saw the family vault at a bank called Gringotts. And now he stood at King’s Cross Station on his way to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He felt he had met more people in the last hour than in his entire life in the cupboard. Towering forests of glass and steel, massive metal boxes roaring down the roads, people shuffling like zombies with their noses buried in small glowing slabs—everything whirled past him in a dizzying, unreal panorama.
“Right then. Through here.”
Hagrid pointed at the weathered brick pillar between platforms nine and ten. The red bricks were chipped in places, dark blue-green moss nestled in the gaps. Harry swallowed hard. If he hit that wall he would not merely break bones—he would be reduced to powder.
“Hagrid.”
“Mm?”
“Why is the station hidden inside a pillar? Everyone already knows. Can’t we just board normally?”
“Aha! So that’s what you were wondering, Harry.”
Hagrid chuckled and went on.
“It’s a national cultural heritage site, see—the platform inside this pillar. You can’t just remodel or knock it down. And the secret platform only runs twice a year anyway: Hogwarts opening day and end-of-term.”
Harry’s eyes went round.
“What? Then—?”
“Why so surprised? They remodeled King’s Cross into this great big modern station—why keep using that old thing every day? Ordinary times you board and alight from regular platforms whether it’s Hogwarts Station, Hogsmeade Station, or any other. Only four times a year, on special event days like this, do they open the secret platform inside the pillar. Impressive, eh, Harry? You’re walking into a national treasure. Come on. You won’t get hurt.”
There was not a speck of doubt in Hagrid’s dark eyes. They were more trustworthy than any adult Harry had ever known. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. As if shaking off fourteen years under the Dursleys, he gathered every scrap of courage he possessed, shoved the trolley, and charged the wall.
There was no dull impact. Instead a soft, warm sensation like mist wrapping his whole body. The familiar London exhaust vanished, replaced by a strange scent of hot metal and ozone. And filling his ears—noise far livelier and more chaotic than anything before.
When he opened his eyes, Harry stopped breathing.
“Heh-heh.”
Hagrid, coming through behind him, let out a satisfied laugh. Before Harry stood a colossal crimson steel beast of a steam locomotive, belching milk-white steam. The old brass sign reading Hogwarts Express gleamed under the morning magical lights. That much was exactly as Hagrid had described.
The problem was the scene filling the platform.
Harry had naturally imagined everyone in pointed wizard hats and star-spangled robes. The wizards in the ancient fairy-tale book Dudley used to read—Mary Poppins—had all looked like that.
Of course he had known wizards existed in a vague way. He had heard Uncle Vernon bellowing at the television news about the Minister for Magic being under investigation for property speculation, claiming that land had been earmarked for him. He had seen Dudley bring home a flyer from something called the Nimbus Group and whine for a broomstick, only for Aunt Petunia to shriek that no wizards were allowed, tear the flyer to shreds, and buy him an expensive Nintendo instead.
He had never seen a wizard in person, yet they had felt mysterious. Once he had muttered that maybe he was a wizard himself; Aunt Petunia had overheard and made him repeat “Harry Potter is not a wizard, he is an ordinary human” hundreds of times while she caned him.
But the children who looked his age were dressed exactly like Dudley and Dudley’s friends: baggy trousers down to the ankles, tight multicolored tops, and shoes of every shape.
Even more astonishing were the objects in their hands.
“Hagrid… what are those glowing slabs the kids are holding?”
A group of girls with owls perched on their arms were laughing as they snapped pictures of one another’s faces with the glowing slabs. A soft click, and the slab flashed.
“Oh, that? Brand-new iPhone. Wait—Harry, you don’t know what a smartphone is? Your aunt and uncle never even bought you one of those? They’ve been out over six years! Those bastards—”
Hagrid laughed easily, then suddenly scowled and dialed someone, voice rising in anger.
“Emmeline! Those people never even bought Harry a smartphone! Add another charge!”
Smartphone? Harry had not even known mobile phones came in different kinds. Aunt Petunia had never let him touch the house phone.
Vernon and Petunia had kept Harry out of school after kindergarten. Only when Hagrid roared and pressed them did Harry learn the reason: from the year he turned eight, admission notices from elementary magic schools had arrived without cease. Every wizard child was required at eight either to enter an elementary magic school or a normal primary school. There they learned the basics of magical power, its use and expression, and theory. At fourteen, when their magic fully manifested, they chose one of Britain’s eleven secondary magic schools—or simply continued in ordinary school.
Hagrid had insisted Hogwarts was the best of them all, and Gryffindor the best of the best. Slytherin, he added, was only for cowards and traitors.
Harry suddenly remembered Aunt Petunia screaming in terror at a letter that moved by itself, delivered by an owl, and begging to move house. Young Harry had thought it a cheap prank by Dudley’s thug friends. He had never dreamed it was a magic-school acceptance letter. In the end they had moved to a remote neighborhood full of Vernon’s relatives, and Harry had been allowed only basic lessons from a private tutor alongside Dudley. Uncle and cousin had merely mocked him, but Aunt Petunia had forbidden even the first syllable of the word “magic.” Looking back, her reaction had been less mockery than pure, thorough terror—isolating Harry completely from anything magical.
“Hagrid, what’s that?”
Harry pointed at the enormous black stele that had been the first thing he saw upon entering Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
13 August 2002
We lost you,
and you protected everything.
Hagrid’s face hardened for a moment; then he wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders.
“…There was a very, very bad man. That stele honors the King’s Cross Regional Unit who died catching him.”
“A bad man?”
“Aye. A truly bad one.”
Harry thought Hagrid’s shoulder was trembling more than it should.
“After the King’s Cross unit was wiped out that day, they raised this memorial. The unit was never reconstituted. Central Region covers the duty now.”
While listening, Harry noticed a much smaller gray cross standing beside it. The name Tobias Weybridge was carved on it, and more than ten students stood before it in silent tribute.
“Hagrid, whose is that little one?”
Hagrid glanced at the stele the students were facing, then explained.
“The day the King’s Cross unit fell, there was an Auror who single-handedly saved hundreds of civilians in London. He’s retired now, runs a cram school—Marcus Weybridge. That was his older brother.”
“His brother?”
“Aye. The brother died there too, shielding a child. Lots of students from Marcus’s school come and experience the memory in a Pensieve. I’ve only heard the stories myself. The school’s famous for good teaching, and the kids who go there have been coming to pay their respects every year on this day for I don’t know how many years now. Ah—Harry, a Pensieve is…”
Harry listened to Hagrid’s explanation while slowly walking toward the great picture window where other students were gathered.
“Professor Rubeus Hagrid. It’s been a long time.”
A middle-aged man in a smart suit appeared, greeted Hagrid with formal courtesy, and offered his hand.
“Ah—yes. Director Yaxley of the Budget Office. Truly a long time. Is Budget taking part in today’s operation as well? I didn’t see it in the circulars.”
Hagrid accepted the handshake with a faintly awkward look.
“No, no. Simply nerves. The hero who saved this planet has finally manifested his magic, and what’s more he’s been assigned to Hogwarts—my own school. I haven’t slept a wink. As you know, we all thought young Potter was growing up in America.”
Yaxley smiled brightly and simply looked at Hagrid.
“…You know how it is. Only the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress knew. I learned the same day you did, Director.”
Hagrid’s voice dropped, slightly unsteady, almost apologetic. Yaxley brushed it off and, despite his small frame, gave Hagrid’s shoulder a couple of friendly pats.
“I know. Rank-and-file like us just do as we’re told. Still—I wanted to see our young hero’s face at least once and say hello, so for the first time I threw a little Director’s weight around.”
“No one more unassuming than Director Yaxley—that’s well known. Plenty of people want a word with Harry today as it is. Harry, say hello. This is Corban Yaxley, Director of the Budget Office. Holds the Ministry’s purse-strings in one hand.”
“Hello. Harry Potter.”
“Yes, a pleasure, Mr. Harry Potter. Thank you—truly—for surviving healthy and whole. Mr. Potter? MP Lucius Malfoy would very much like a brief word before the train, if that would be possible?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Hagrid cut in.
“MP Malfoy is here? Ah—his boy’s starting today too. Natural enough, I suppose, but still…”
“He said if young Potter prefers not to, do not press a second time. As you know, Professor Hagrid, that is simply the sort of man he is.”
“Is this an official…?”
“Absolutely not. Merely a parent of a classmate wishing to encourage and greet his son’s future friend.”
Hagrid and Yaxley were discussing this Lucius Malfoy whom Harry did not know. Hagrid still looked uneasy, almost cowed; Yaxley remained oddly at ease.
Harry found Hagrid’s expression uncomfortable and turned toward the picture window instead.
Students were murmuring at the Bugatti Veyron that had screeched to a halt at the station entrance, leaving thick skid marks.
“What the hell is that supercar?!”
“Insane—that’s the only son of the Crabbe Industries chairman. Vincent Crabbe!”
“Arms-dealer’s kid, showing off like mad on day one.”
Hagrid, having bowed farewell to Yaxley, returned to Harry and ruffled his hair.
“Looks like we’ll have to say a quick hello to MP Lucius Malfoy after all, Harry. He’s a reasonable man, though—no need to be frightened.”
“What sort of person is he?”
“Extremely wealthy. And one of the four heroes who resolved the incident that killed the people named on that stele. Probably just wants a polite greeting and a photograph. Come along, Harry.”