“Well, it’s cold out there!” she said defensively, as Ron clicked his tongue impatiently.
They crept through the portrait hole and covered themselves hastily in the Cloak — Ron had grown so much he now needed to crouch to prevent his feet showing — then, moving slowly and cautiously, they proceeded down the many staircases, pausing at intervals to check the map for signs of Filch or Mrs. Norris. They were lucky; they saw nobody but Nearly Headless Nick, who was gliding along absentmindedly humming something that sounded horribly like “Weasley Is Our King.” They crept across the entrance hall and then out into the silent, snowy grounds. With a great leap of his heart, Harry saw little golden squares of light ahead and smoke coiling up from Hagrid’s chimney. He set off at a quick march, the other two jostling and bumping along behind him, and they crunched excitedly through the thickening snow until at last they reached the wooden front door; when Harry raised his fist and knocked three times, a dog started barking frantically inside.
“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry called through the keyhole.
“Shoulda known!” said a gruff voice.
They beamed at one another under the Cloak; they could tell that Hagrid’s voice was pleased. “Bin home three seconds . . . Out the way, Fang . . . Out the way, yeh dozy dog . . .”
The bolt was drawn back, the door creaked open, and Hagrid’s head appeared in the gap.
Hermione screamed.
“Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” said Hagrid hastily, staring wildly over their heads. “Under that Cloak, are yeh? Well, get in, get in!”
“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasped, as the three of them squeezed past Hagrid into the house and pulled the Cloak off themselves so he could see them. “I just — oh, Hagrid!”
“It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid hastily, shutting the door behind them and hurrying to close all the curtains, but Hermione continued to gaze up at him in horror.
Hagrid’s hair was matted with congealed blood, and his left eye had been reduced to a puffy slit amid a mass of purple-and-black bruises. There were many cuts on his face and hands, some of them still bleeding, and he was moving gingerly, which made Harry suspect broken ribs. It was obvious that he had only just got home; a thick black traveling cloak lay over the back of a chair and a haversack large enough to carry several small children leaned against the wall inside the door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a normal man and three times as broad, was now limping over to the fire and placing a copper kettle over it.
“What happened to you?” Harry demanded, while Fang danced around them all, trying to lick their faces.
“Told yeh, nuthin’,” said Hagrid firmly. “Want a cuppa?”
“Come off it,” said Ron, “you’re in a right state!”
“I’m tellin’ yeh, I’m fine,” said Hagrid, straightening up and turning to beam at them all, but wincing. “Blimey, it’s good ter see you three again — had good summers, did yeh?”
“Hagrid, you’ve been attacked!” said Ron.
“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid firmly.
“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up with a pound of mince instead of a face?” Ron demanded.
“You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid,” said Hermione anxiously. “Some of those cuts look nasty.”
“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” said Hagrid repressively.
He walked across to the enormous wooden table that stood in the middle of his cabin and twitched aside a tea towel that had been lying on it. Underneath was a raw, bloody, green-tinged steak slightly larger than the average car tire.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you, Hagrid?” said Ron, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks poisonous.”
“It’s s’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,” Hagrid said. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.”
He picked up the steak and slapped it over the left side of his face. Greenish blood trickled down into his beard as he gave a soft moan of satisfaction.
“Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.”
“So are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?” Harry asked.
“Can’, Harry. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”
“Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” asked Hermione quietly.
Hagrid’s fingers slipped on the dragon steak, and it slid squelchily onto his chest.
“Giants?” said Hagrid, catching the steak before it reached his belt and slapping it back over his face. “Who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’ to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve — who’s said I’ve bin — eh?”
“We guessed,” said Hermione apologetically.
“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” said Hagrid, fixing her sternly with the eye that was not hidden by the steak.
“It was kind of . . . obvious,” said Ron. Harry nodded.
Hagrid glared at them, then snorted, threw the steak onto the table again and strode back to the kettle, which was now whistling.
“Never known kids like you three fer knowin’ more’n yeh oughta,” he muttered, splashing boiling water into three of his bucket-shaped mugs. “An’ I’m not complimentin’ yeh, neither. Nosy, some’d call it. Interferin’.”
But his beard twitched.
“So you have been to look for giants?” said Harry, grinning as he sat down at the table.
Hagrid set tea in front of each of them, sat down, picked up his steak again, and slapped it back over his face.
“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunted, “I have.”
“And you found them?” said Hermione in a hushed voice.
“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,” said Hagrid. “Pretty big, see.”
“Where are they?” said Ron.
“Mountains,” said Hagrid unhelpfully.
“So why don’t Muggles — ?”
“They do,” said Hagrid darkly. “O’ny their deaths are always put down ter mountaineerin’ accidents, aren’ they?”