The Monsters He Loved
He'd always loved the majesty of the powerful beasts. The sweep of the dragon's wings, the click of the Acromantula's pincers, the clean line of Fluffy's jaws.
Perhaps it was because of his mother. She had been all power; his strongest memory was of her long straight limbs uprooting tree trunks in the forest where they had lived so long ago. Or maybe it was his natural ferocity, prevented from any real violence by his soft heart, but seeking an outlet in the appreciation of those creatures created to rip and claw.
In any case, the friendship started because young Hagrid could sense, by some unseen instinct, that this boy was special. Tom had walked the stone halls with the confidence and vigilance of a tiger. All students acknowledged his superiority. To a child of eleven, an age when one is always longing for a hero, he was more than a god.
And to his surprise and delight, Tom returned his interest. Oh, not at first; he had far too many admirers and hangers-on for one silly first year to have any effect. But a stray Tripping Spell sent the hapless young oaf crashing to the ground, and at the sound of the ancient stone splitting, Tom spun around and narrowed his handsome eyes.
Tom took him aside, showing such concern and charm that anyone would open up to him. He wanted to know what could make a boy so strong that his fall would crack solid rock, and Hagrid, overcome by his idol's attention, was happy to talk about his mother. Of course, he was not really supposed to mention her, but Tom was different.
And indeed Tom was different. He wanted to know all about the giants, about their history and abilities and motivations; he showed no fear. And when Hagrid saw his pale face shining at the description, he knew that he had found a kindred spirit in his passion, in the love of strength and vitality to be found in the creatures of the world.
Tom's true interest seemed to be snakes; he had a natural way with them, and Hagrid loved to watch him wind their potent tongues around his long fingers. But he was always keen to pump Hagrid for all kinds of information, which the younger boy had in abundance. He wanted to know about dragons and werewolves and giants and unicorns, but most especially he was fascinated by the most enigmatic of creatures, the Dementors.
Plying Professor Kettleburn for knowledge about Dementors would be regarded by most as rather suspicious, but the good-natured old peg-leg had long since been charmed by young Hagrid's boundless interest in deadly beasts and happily shared all he know, which was quite a lot. And Hagrid in turn passed on this education to his older friend, who listened with interest as keen as a knife and rewarded him with the kindness and attention that nobody else seemed to have for a large, clumsy orphan. Each time, Hagrid fell deeper under the spell of this most captivating of boys.
When he found Aragog, he knew he could trust Tom. Tom listened, intent as ever; he asked jokingly if Hagrid wasn't worried that Aragog would kill someone. But he promised to keep the secret and suggested the closet that became Aragog's home.
By the time he betrayed that promise, Hagrid could hardly blame him. A girl had died, and Hagrid was forced to admit that the pet he loved had fallen short of expectations. As the doors closed on him, he struggled with the possibility that Might was not Right. He had trusted the wrong predator, and he would now pay the price forever.
Tom kept his distance after that, which was understandable, and Hagrid went back to admiring his hero, so dark and so golden, from afar, ignoring Dumbledore's warnings not to trust, to stay away from him.
Years passed, enough to turn Dumbledore's beard grey, but not sufficient to age one with the hardy blood of giants. Dark rumours surfaced of sinister crimes and a man bent on destruction and hate, a man who few remembered as the magnetic young champion of Hogwarts. Hagrid joined Dumbledore's side without question; he owed the old man much loyalty. He cooked for the Order members and did odd jobs for them, and every day thanked Merlin for his expulsion that kept him out of the direct action of the war.
He was not afraid of death; indeed, he was not sure if he could easily be killed. But he knew he could never raise wand to his old friend. How could he? Would one kill a Hippogriff because it scratched, or a dragon because it flamed? Tom was born to dominion; as much as Hagrid hated what he was doing, he hated more the idea of a caged beast. Hagrid had never worshipped him because he was kind or good; he had loved him for his power and supremacy, and that had only grown.
And so as he fought, he watched his favourite creature's success with shameful interest. Tom had disappointed him as Aragog had, but his darkest secret was that he would never stop loving either of them.