I couldn't not write something today!
"I'll do that for you" - Harry and Hagrid
3rd May, 1998
"There you are!" Ron appears, carrying a plate piled high with sandwiches. "You've been avoiding the Great Hall, huh?" he adds, as Harry practically dives on the food. Lunchtime was hours ago.
"Too many people," he says through a mouthful of ham sandwich.
"I know," Ron nods. "I'm thinking of growing a large moustache, and going about with my cloak collar turned up so no one will recognise me. Might have to borrow your glasses, too."
Harry manages a laugh. "Hermione will love that, I'm sure." The tips of Ron's ears turn pink, and he just grins, before taking a ham sandwich of his own. "Where is Hermione, anyway?"
"Hospital wing with Ginny," Ron says, before swallowing hastily at Harry's look of alarm. "They're fine," he says. "They've just gone along to help where they can—rolling bandages and scrubbing bedpans and all that glamorous stuff. St. Mungo's are sending as many Healers as they can spare, but still all hands on deck."
Harry sighs. "At least they get to do something useful," he says, trying not to sound bitter. There's still so much to do, but he's all but mobbed any time he goes anywhere without his Invisibility Cloak, and Professor McGonagall had kindly but firmly insisted that he might enjoy a quiet rest by the Great Lake whilst they got on with organising everything in the school. He'd offer to help the girls in the Hospital Wing, but the Healers have a hard enough job without hordes of his admirers getting underfoot and causing trouble.
Ron just nods. "Bill and the others are still checking out home, but it's looking good," he says. "A few curses and whatnot, but it's standing. Hopefully we can get back there tonight."
"That'd be good," says Harry. "Bit more peaceful, at any rate."
"Yeah," Ron says. "Look, I'm gonna leave you with these," he gestures to the sandwiches. "Mum and Dad and George are about to meet with the Minsitry people about...about Fred's...about what to do," he finishes. "And I said I'd come along."
"Want company?" Harry asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"No—best just us, you know?" Ron says. "Thanks, though. I'll let you know when we're done."
"Course," nods Harry, as he stands up. "Ron?" He looks over. "If there's anything, anything I can do at all to—"
"I know mate," says Ron, offering him a small smile. "Thanks." Harry watches as he makes his way up to the castle, being stopped every few moments by small groups of people who want to congratulate him, or commiserate with him. It's impossible, from this distance, to tell which is which.
He pushes the plate of sandwiches aside, realising this. He feels like he needs to get away from here, get away from it all, but as well as promising McGonagall and Kinsley Shacklebolt people that he'll steer clear of people trying to work, he's also supposed to remain within the school grounds. Who knows what—or who—could be waiting for him outside of their safety? So he's effectively trapped.
He wishes he could talk to Ginny. She'd know what to do, to alleviate this feeling, but she's busy helping in the Hospital Wing, and if he was to turn up there, he'd have to leave as soon as he was discovered, or else he—and his entourage—would just be in the way of those who need help the most.
He smiles a little, remembering Professor McGonagall's face on finding a reporter from the Prophet trying to disguise herself amongst the House Elves this morning in order to get an interview with him. Then he remembers Dobby, again, and the smiles vanishes. He finds himself walking along, strolling by the lake as if he's back at school and just finished with Quidditch practise, and he can pretend, for a moment, that his biggest concern is only how to persuade Hermione to read through his Potions essay. All of that seems like it happened both five minutes and several centuries ago.
He comes across Hagrid's hut without realising it, but that's partially because it's no longer there, just a smoking footprint in the ground. His eyes focus, and he realises that the large mass he can see isn't just some debris, but Hagrid himself, rootling through the remains. "I'll do that," he says quickly, heading forwards.
Hagrid looks up, startled, but his face breaks into a smile on seeing Harry. "How's it going?" he asks cheerfully, standing up from the smouldering embers of his home. Fang barks a hello, and Harry pats his head.
"What happened here?" he asks.
"Death Eaters," Hagrid says. "Burnt it down. Fortunately, no one was inside at the time, we were all fighting, weren't we Fang, boy?" The dog barks again. "Got ter clear out what remains," Hagrid continues, "salvage what we can. Then Professor McGonagall says we can work on rebuilding it. That'll be good, eh?" He tugs on something large and rectangular, half-buried under a beam.
"I'll do that for you," Harry insists, pushing him aside. It makes little sense: even if he hadn't spent the past six months on the run, scavenging food where he can and surviving on only a few hours' sleep a night, Hagrid would still be stronger. He's half-giant, after all. But Hagrid carried him out of the Forest, and Harry cannot imagine what that must feel like. He couldn't have done the same if it had been Ron who was killed, or Ginny, or Hermione, or a hundred other people, but Hagrid still managed it despite believing him to be dead. The least he can do is help him with his home now.
"Nah, s'alright," Hagrid says cheerfully. "Got most of what I want, anyway. This is the most important thing." He nods towards the (very large) shoebox he's unearthed. "S'got all my important things inside. Look," he says, holding out a picture Harry recognises. It's Hagrid as child, already huge, with his father on his shoulders.
"It's a lovely photo," he says, holding it for a moment, then passing it back.
"It is," Hagrid agrees. "I'm glad it all survived. But even it hadn't, it's all in here though, eh?" He raps at his chest with a fist. "It's what counts, int'it?"
"It is," Harry says, reaching down to a colourful object that turns out to be an alarm clock. Strange, what survives.
"Better than nothing," Hagrid says, and Harry thinks of his own photo album and silently agrees.
For around half an hour, they work in near silence, digging Hagrid's belongings out of the remains of his home. Some things are damaged beyond repair, but a surprising amount is salvageable. It would probably make more sense to summon the items by magic—the pink umbrella, of course, has survived—but, like digging Dobby's grave, it's curiously satisfying to do it by hand. No one comes down to disturb them, and Harry is able to do something useful, a feeling he's still getting used to.
"Here, Harry," Hagrid says after a while, sitting down on an upturned stump outside his house to catch his breath. He sounds deathly serious, and Harry straightens up at once, expecting a comment about Fred, or Lupin or—God, he hasn't even thought about Grawp! Did he survive? Is Hagrid mourning, too? Hagrid leans towards him, and he finds himself holding his breath.
"How 'bout that dragon, eh?"
Harry bursts out laughing. It sounds oddly loud, but he finds he doesn't mind. "She was in pretty terrible shape," he replies, when he's caught his breath. "It's terrible, really."
"It isn't half," agrees Hagrid, sobering also. "But he's projected to make a full recovery. Professor McGonagall put me in charge of him, least until we can find some handlers to take him away." His chest swells proudly. "We'll probably ask Charlie Weasley, but..."
They exchange glances. "I'm glad the dragon's going to be okay, though," Harry says after a moment, and it's true. There's been so much death and destruction, it's nice that one story ends happily. "Where is he now?"
"Up in the mountains, with Grawp," Hagrid says. "He's doing a good job of caring for him, but I've told him—no riding. I still can't believe you got to do that."
"It was an experience," Harry agrees. "I don't know if I'll be repeating it, though."
"Well, I can imagine you've had a fair bit of excitement over the past few days," Hagrid says. "A bit of quiet wouldn't do you no harm."
"Over the past few years, I think," Harry replies. "But yes, you're right. I should probably stop joyriding dragons."
"I reckon you'll be alright, now, though," says Hagrid thoughtfully. "They're making good progress rounding up all the Death Eaters, You-Know-Who is dead...and you're still here! Can't be all bad, can it?"
"I wish my parents were here to see that," he says.
He doesn't even realise the thought's in his mind until it's out of his mouth, and then he finds himself dwelling on his mother's expression when she walked him to his death, his father's promise to stay until the very end. He was so lucky—lucky not to die, lucky that no more of his friends were killed or injured, lucky in so many other ways—but he still wants more. He wants them.
"I reckon, if they were, they'd be so proud of you," Hagrid says eventually. "I'm proud enough just to know you." He gets to his feet with a slight groan, and comes to stand next to Harry, staring at the remains of his kitchen table and chairs as though they're the most fascinating thing in the world whilst Harry wipes at his eyes.
"I'm proud," Harry says, and his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and starts again. "I'm proud to know you. Proud to call you my friend."
"Anyone would've carried you out of there," Hagrid says gruffly. "Anyone on the right side, at any rate."
"Maybe," Harry shrugs. "But I wouldn't've wanted anyone else to."
Hagrid squeezes his shoulder, before pulling his usual tablecloth sized hanky out of his pocket and blowing his nose with a sound like a foghorn. "I'd offer it ter you," he says after a moment. "But, er..." Harry gives a watery laugh.
"Ah!" Hagrid exclaims after a moment, reaching for something. "Look at that! Me kettle!" He holds it aloft. "Cup o' tea?"
"As long as there's no rock buns," Harry says quickly.
"Probably about time you supplied some cake, eh?" chuckles Hagrid.
Harry grins. "I can do that for you," he says.
