Written for Quidditch League, Semi-finals

Holyhead Harpies, Chaser One: Hard Sci-fi

WC: 2370

Optional Prompts:

(character) Hagrid

(word) Burn

(color) Purple

Also written for Hogwarts, Assignment #8, Magical and Mundane Languages Task #13, Write about a cult or something very old

A/N: Warnings for prejudice, ableism

I have chosen to write Hagrid's voice as true to his character. There are intentional grammatical and spelling "errors" in order to give his internal monologue true to his canon dialogue. I've chosen to omit certain canon spelling preferences to make this easier to read.

They started out with chickens. When Dr. Malcolm modified a hen's DNA into a lap-sized dinosaur, I made certain Rubeus Hagrid was scrawled at the top of the waitin' list. Them early models still had stubbed tails—easier ter change beaks into snouts than ter grow a tail from nothin'. But I didn' care. They were burns, like me. Ugly outside, but inside they jus' wanted love.

Dad was burned by nature, by dumb luck and the dwarf gene. He lived in a world of knees, of too-tall tables and tailored sleeves, and not 'cause he was tryna be fancy. The tech was still new, and he couldn' hire the best, but he tried fixin' me anyhow. Scientists, bless 'em, meddlin' in things they don' understand. Instead of curin' me, they burned me, made a mess of my DNA. Funny thing is, Dad's fear came true; I live in a mis-sized world. But rather than needin' stepstools, my body's a breaker of chairs.

Maybe that's why Hogwarts School of Science and Technology wanted me. I was an opportunity, a case study. 'Course, they regretted that before I got the chance ter finish. Didn't appreciate the velociraptor pack I squirreled away in the basement. Well, I say the velociraptors didn't appreciate them. Too focused on rules and not enough on breaking 'em, they were. Still are.

The grounds are hummin' this evening, rustlin' with dried-up leaves and flocks of birds gatherin' ter fly somewhere warm. I push pH strips into the garden soil, check on the solar panels and wind turbines. Cold tends ter make the tech go screwy. I'm lucky Dippet let me stay on as apprentice groundskeeper after the velociraptor incident. Even luckier ter get hired full time after Mr. Bensen retired. I can't afford ter make mistakes. If my deformed shape's not enough ter set people off, the purple stain under my fingernails'll do it for sure. Despite the biologists' reassurances, nobody hires a burn if they can help it. Don't trust our brains ter work right.

Besides, I don't need anybody pokin' around my hut. Someone might see, and I'll be undone.

The eastern solar panels look good; wires intact, no shattered panes, no birds buildin' homes in the junctions. I'm about ter head ter the turbines when somethin' tugs on my coat.

"Hagrid? Why is there smoke coming from your chimney?" If it isn't Harry Potter himself, flanked by his two little friends.

Strictly speakin', we're not supposed ter have fires at Hogwarts. Hurts the environment, an' all that. "Smoke? No, that's jus'… jus'…" I glance around, check ter see if anyone's lookin'. But the sun is settin'; most folks'll be windin' down, huddlin' under blankets and sippin' their tea. Doesn't sound bad, now I think of it. I clear my throat. "Why don' yeh come in for a cuppa?"

If it was anyone else, I'd make some excuse about the crops needin' tendin'. But that scar, bruised purple on his forehead, has always made my heart tender for him.

Harry glances at Hermione, whose shoulders shrug under hair almost as bushy as mine. Then he turns ter me, smilin' grim-as-you please, and nods.

They've been in my hut before; truth is, they're the only ones ter visit in ten years. Harry's like me, a burn, and a famous one at that. If there's hope for him, purple stains and all, there's hope for me, too. Not that I care much; I like critters more than I like humans. Present company exceptin'.

The red-head, Ron, stands open-mouthed, starin' at the clear cylindrical tube hooked up to my fireplace. Or, more likely, starin' at the mass inside it. "Is that… it can't be…"

I shut the door tight and shuffle over. Spinosaurus eggs are finicky, much more so than Microraptors or Claosaurus. Sixty degrees Celsius, not a fraction less or more, and they'll hatch five months from the day they were laid. The smart thermostats won't go above twenty-six, so I did some improvisin'. I check the thermometer in the incubation tube, make sure the humidity's sittin' at fifteen. Spinosaurus is a desert dweller; they like their air dry.

Behind me, Hermione clears her throat. "Is that a dinosaur egg? From the size of it, I'd say it's an illegal one. Haven't you read the Prehistoric Protection Act of 2062?"

"Charlie says anything bigger than an ostrich egg's banned, 'cept on the reserves," says Ron. "Where do you even get something like that?"

"Don' listen, Spikey. Ain't no such thing as illegal, people or animals." Truth is, I won the egg from a stranger in the pub, but I'm not about ter say that.

Hermione says, "Now that's simply inaccurate. Section six, paragraph five: 'No person shall distribute or purchase any prehistoric being weighing more than fifty kilograms.'"

So she's going ter be difficult. I hold back a sigh; shoulda trusted my first instinct, kept 'em at arm's length. If she reports me, I'll lose everythin'—my job, my future. Spike. "He's not hurtin' anythin'. Why don't yeh sit and stay awhile. Got me some fresh nettles from the patch; I'll make yeh some tea."

They frown like I've asked 'em ter muck out the fish tanks, but they settle around my table. Look mighty small there, too, and not just 'cause of their age. I built it myself, and I made it me-sized.

The table's piled with all-bran muffins, homemade from wheat grown on the grounds. Doesn't take more'n a minute for Ron ter shove one in his mouth, but it does take considerably longer for him ter chew it. I set the kettle on the Greenpeace-approved electric burner and ask, "How's school treatin' yeh? Gettin' along with yer classmates?"

Harry looks like he's tastin' bitterroot. "Wish everyone would stop worrying about my genes and leave me alone."

Hermione sends him a sympathetic glance. "After all, it was a new achievement. A second-trimester gene edit? Why, if they can delete the extra copy of chromosome thirteen on a twenty-week fetus, imagine the possibilities for the living."

Harry lifts his fingertips ter his forehead, traces the purple scar his surgeries left behind. It's unusual for a burn ter be marked accidentally. Most of the time, when their doctors discover it, dye's injected under the nails on purpose. They say it's a medical badge, for our own protection. Codswallop, in my opinion. If they need ter know our genetic status for some surgery or medication, all they gotta do is run a DNA sequence. Takes two minutes, nowadays. Really ain't nothin' but a mark of shame.

"I wish they'd just left me," Harry says.

"What, so you could die?" Hermione shakes her head. "Trisomy 13 is a fatal genetic disorder. Even if you survived birth, a chance less than ten percent, you never would have really lived."

Harry's muffin is in crumbs, his finger pick-pick-picking out each raisin, linin' 'em up like string of beads. "Everyone looks at me like I'm a mystery to be solved. But that's not the worst part. Malfoy called me a blister yesterday. Says he'll have his father get me kicked out."

I try ter keep my face calm, but my blood's boilin'. "He didn'. You belong at Hogwarts as much as I do."

The hut goes silent, 'cept the crackle of the illegal fire and the crunch of the muffin against Ron's teeth. I stew the nettles, serve 'em in china cups Dad saved from Mum's collection. But the sun's gone down, and the moon's risin'. Nobody's much in the mood for talkin' anymore.

When the door shuts and it's just me and Spike and the hot, dry air, I sing him a lullaby about fifteen-foot doorways and stores with shoes that fit jus' right.

It's another month before the egg cracks. I'm alone when it happens, but I whisper ter Harry as he trudges out ter Greenhouse Five for Professor Sprout's propagation lessons. Before the sun sets, my cabin is stuffed with three pint-sized students, one giant burn, and a baby on the way.

"According to Dinosaur Breeding for Fun and Profit, once the first crack appears, the hatchling should emerge within twenty-four hours." Bless her, Hermione's brought along a stack of books, as if I don' know. As if I haven' read 'em all.

"Everybody shut it. Something's happening." Ron's huddled next ter the incubator, his hands smudgin' up the glass. Inside, the egg trembles and shakes. I lock the front door and kneel in front of Spike.

"Daddy's here. Come on out and meet yer family."

A saucer-sized piece of shell twitches once, twice, then flip and falls away. A smooth, scaly patch shows through, and it's violet as the skin under my nails. Tears sting my eyes. "Look Harry, he's got our color. He's jus' like us."

His head emerges, and he opens his mouth ter show off neat rows of long, sharp teeth, perfect for strainin' stream water for tasty fish. I push a red button ter retract the incubator walls; no need for 'em now, since he's nearly out.

"What the? Hagrid, is that a carnivore?" Ron looks pale.

"Don' worry. Spikey here's a piscivore."

"A what-a-vore?"

Hermione purses her lips, like a mother frownin' at a misbehavin' toddler. "Pisc-i-vore, Ronald. Unlike carnivores, who will eat any animal they can catch, piscivores eat strictly fish."

She must think Ron could use a refresher course, cause she opens up her textbook and starts readin'. "After their initial success with chickens, Dr. Malcolm and crew modified the existing dinosaur genome to create other models. Through trial and error, they discovered that six genes are responsible for height. By modifying those, along with countless others, they successfully…"

I've read it all before; I'm less keen on listenin' and more keen on watchin'. A spiked sail unfurls on Spike's back and his tail whips around the room, sendin' pieces of shattered shell skitterin' into the corners. I've never seen anythin' so beautiful. He snuggles into my lap, his head restin' on my shoulder. Hermione gasps.

"I think I just saw—hold on—" She rushes ter the window. Her voice is panicked as she says, "Malfoy. He must have seen Spike."

My heart stops. "Don' figure he'll tell, do yeh?"

If Hermione's face is anythin' ter go by, I reckon she does.

"Best run along, then. Get back ter yer dorms. This is my trouble; won't have yeh gettin' caught in it."

As they leave, I draw the curtains tight, coverin' every crack and cranny. Spike nuzzles my hand, coos for fish, so I get ter workin'. The aquaponic garden has an overstock this fall, which I may or may not have planned. Perk of bein' groundskeeper, havin' control over the crops. There's a few trout in the solar-powered fridge, and I pulverize 'em with my meat mallet, mix in some vinegar and pH-test the lot. Spike's nippin' at my heels, hungry from the hard work of hatchin'.

"There yeh go, summat ter fill yeh up. I can't regurgitate it for yeh, but I mashed it the best I could." He doesn' seem ter mind either way. His little rounded baby snout disappears into the mixin' bowl, and doesn't come out 'till the bottom's licked clean. "That's a good boy. Healthy appetite, like yer Daddy." I wanna keep 'im happy forever. But he'll be twenty-three feet full grown. Too big for the hut. Maybe even too big for the forest.

That night, Spike sleeps cozied against me. Figure he needs the warmth, or he jus' loves me already. Don' know for certain, but I do know he sighs in his sleep and his lips pull back into the cutest smile I've ever seen. And I know, deep in my bones, I'd do anything for him.

Next week, I'm feedin' Spike his breakfast when there's a knock at my door. My heart stutters, 'cause there's no hidin' a doberman-sized dinosaur, not in this little hut. I crack the curtains and my shoulders drop. It's only Harry.

"Come in, come in." Don't see anyone else around, but you never can be too sure. I double-check the windows are covered and Harry slips in.

"How's Spike doing?"

I don' like the tone in his voice, more like he's attendin' a funeral than visitin' a friend. "He's eatin' good, like a hatchling should. C'mere, I'll show yeh his growth chart."

But Harry doesn' budge. "Ron talked to his brother, Charlie. He works at the Dinosaur Sanctuary, did you know?"

Don' like the sound of that. I cross my arms over my chest.

Harry sighs. "If he stays, you'll both be kicked out. I saw Malfoy with a letter from the Ministry this morning, and from the smirk on his face, I'd bet anything they'll be knocking on your door tomorrow. Charlie's standing by with his team; they can sneak Spike to the sanctuary tonight."

Seems Spike'll end up there anyhow, if the Ministry takes him. I could buy some time—disappear ter the woods, hide him as long as I can. Not like I'd be much worse off; I can live off the land. And who needs people when all they do is check your fingernails and scoff?

But Harry's eyes are pleadin', his face stained pink, so his scar's more violet than ever. "If they take you, where will I get my nettle tea?"

Somethin' funny stirs in my chest. And suddenly, I'm not so keen ter run. This little burn needs someone in his life, someone as purple, as broken as him. Spike rests his head on my knee, looks up at me with glassy eyes. My muscles shake, but I nod. "This little fella will be happier where he can roam free, dip his snout into the stream and catch fish on his own. Tell Charlie ter get ready. Tell 'im Spike likes Red Snapper best."

Hours later, I can hardly breathe for cryin', but I see love in Charlie's eyes, and I can't help but trust him. Charlie promises me I can visit often as I like, and my baby disappears into the starlight. My heart breaks, but Harry's safe, and I'm here for him. What kind of burn would I be if I wasn't?