The first ray of sunlight—pale and autumnal, but carrying just a trace of warmth—slid across a bearded cheek and came to rest on the right eye. The left, slightly swollen, was apparently deemed worthy of mercy. Andryukha Lomonosov let out a heavy sigh and tried to bury his head in a pillow, only to discover there wasn't one. As he gradually came to, he discovered quite a few other things as well: a beard, for instance (he'd never worn one in his life), a pair of shovel-like hands (definitely not his own), and boots of some incomprehensible size—the sixtieth, at a rough estimate. The sheer existence of such a thing was already giving Andrei Konstantinovich ideas. He was an old hand, a well-read man, and not easily rattled.
He might have said quite a lot about the situation and probably done something about it too—but a small child was quietly snuffling away on his stomach. Even in sleep, the boy looked thoroughly wretched and tear-stained. So he didn't panic. Panic was never really his style. First, understand what's what. Then act according to circumstances. You can always have a quiet breakdown afterward if you feel like it, but as a rule, there's no point. And pointless things were something he couldn't stand.
He raised his head and brought his vision to focus on the child's face. The famous lightning-bolt scar. He gave a silent nod to his own rather unprintable thoughts. Since those thoughts were purely emotional in nature and carried no actual content, the author has elected to omit them out of well-known caution, trusting that the reader is perfectly capable of filling in the blanks. And so we proceed directly to the printable part…
***
So this is you, you magnificent disaster, he thought. Hello, Harry Potter. Guess that makes me Hagrid. Well. That checks out. He flexed the feet of the corresponding size and snorted—yes, it all checked out remarkably well.
Ha. Now that's interesting. Magic doesn't work on half-giants, so they seem to have left me my own brain. I'll have to light a candle for that somewhere, if I can find one. Now then—am I supposed to hand the kid off to some grandfatherly type who'll dump him on a doorstep? I don't feel the slightest inclination to do that.
Taking stock of the reality around him, he felt a spark of something—excitement, even. He'd read about this world. The original and plenty of others. And since he was here now, someone was clearly asking for it… The question was what he could manage, and how. He'd build his plan gradually. For now, better to work from what mattered most. And that was simple: staying alive. His own life, and Harry's.
Well then. Hold on tight. Whatever happens—you asked for it.
He shifted the boy into a more comfortable position—fatherhood helped with that. He'd raised two sons in his previous life, not alone of course, with his wife, all as it should be, though his wife was sometimes the biggest child of all. Then he thought things through. His logic was intact, as befitted a former programmer, and after a dozen years of systems administration, his ability to think in structures was equally sound. The picture taking shape was… well, pictures, plural. There were too many unknowns.
Right, let's take it from the top. What's the most important thing at this stage? Communication. Even if you don't know what's what, you can always ask. And I can blame the crash for anything that seems off—except knowing Russian, obviously.
His English was decent. Programmer-decent. He knew words, quite a few of them, but he'd never liked talking to native English speakers, and the British specifically made him nervous. If the language had come as a bonus, fine. But if not? There was only one option: walk to the Soviet embassy—still Soviet, just barely—pretend he remembered nothing except this moment, and ask to be repatriated. Ha. As if anyone would believe him. He was probably the only half-giant on the island. No, that direction was a dead end. And where would Harry go? He certainly couldn't pass as a son. A grandson? God help him. Besides, these bodies were almost certainly registered to Magical Britain. No getting out of that.
His "grandson" was snuffling softly against the crook of his arm, tear-streaked little face turned inward. Andrei folded the coat around him and understood, with absolute certainty, that he would do whatever it took to keep Harry with him. As long as they don't find us first, a thought crept in—but he told it firmly to shut up. First things first: figure out where to go from here.
He decided to test something. Said "Привет" out loud, heard "Hello" come back. Well then. The built-in translator was present and functional. He tried a longer sentence—more complex, with some colourful language—smiled at the prim substitutions he got back ("fuck" and "shit," apparently the limits), and felt confident he wouldn't be lost in Britain. Grammar was another matter, but even if something sounded wrong, he probably wouldn't notice. And who would expect eloquent speech from a semi-literate gamekeeper anyway?
He needed to disappear somewhere with the child. He glanced down at himself and smiled grimly. Hide. Sure. He could walk straight into a circus. One elephant costume, please. And a whole herd to get lost in.
Wait— he began patting his pockets. Hagrid must have some kind of connection to Dumbledore. An emergency one. The Headmaster is a piece of work, but if he's not completely senile, he would have made sure of that.
He dug into the right pocket with one hand—into what felt like a heap of miscellaneous junk—and pulled out a bloody finger with a couple of glass splinters embedded in it. If that's what I think it is, Albus is going to have to come find me. One of the larger fragments began to vibrate, then emitted a sound like a poorly-tuned radio—clearly someone was talking, but who, and more importantly what, was anyone's guess.
He tapped it with his finger. Blew on it. Then said: "Can't hear a thing! It's broken! I don't know where I am." That's probably what the real Hagrid would have done. Who knew—maybe it would work. This was magic, after all. The shard crackled and clicked for a moment, then went silent.
Andrei laughed silently, careful not to wake the child—the whole thing struck him as delightfully absurd. Two-way mirrors weren't so different from walkie-talkies, when you thought about it. Then he focused his memory. He needed to take stock of what Hagrid's abilities actually were, and how to use them to:
a) survive himself
b) secure a decent life for the child
c) and since he was here anyway—why not blow the whole canon to pieces? Surely there was a reason they'd sent him here for a second life?
And speaking of which… what was happening to his old body back home? Dead? Or had there been a swap—him here, Hagrid there?
Then I'm having a stroke over there, said the internal voice, and Andrei was inclined to agree. It didn't frighten him much. His wife had left three years ago, and he'd more or less come to terms with being alone—had just finished a new headstone for her, in fact. The children were grown and gone. Hagrid, meanwhile, would end up in some care facility and then probably put to work as a janitor. If they got him sorted out medically. He felt sorry for the gamekeeper.
Oh well, he decided. I'll have fun with what I've got, and the rest can go up in flames. Bengal sparklers, if anyone's asking—I permit it. He pictured Voldemort—the one who climbed out of the cauldron—with sparklers sticking out of his ears. He liked that image.
He'd always had an adventurous streak. It had refused to leave him alone since his earliest years—hiking, rock climbing, mountain expeditions, sailing. He'd learned to fight young, and with a surname like his, you had no choice. The number of times people had called him Mikhail—until he'd learned to smile pleasantly, rub his fist against his palm, and inform them that yes, that was indeed his surname, and yes, it suited him perfectly, and did they care to test the theory?
By seventh grade the teasing had stopped, but the nickname stuck. Now it was said with something close to respect: Mikhail. Almost like "bear." Andrei didn't object. Who doesn't like being strong?
For the moment, he was cataloguing everything he knew about Hagrid's capabilities. The picture wasn't bad. Apparition—he must be able to manage it. He and Harry had taken a boat to the island, sure, but Hagrid had gotten there somehow; he hadn't walked on water. Still, he had his hesitations. He'd read about Splinching, and had no desire to experience it firsthand. He could cast spells with the absurd umbrella—the broken wand—well enough. With a proper wand, it could only be better. Handling large animals: he had limited experience there, but two years at a racetrack had left a lasting impression, if only because horses… well. Horses were a whole world. Andrei sighed nostalgically mid-thought and decided that at least he'd get to see thestrals.
Speaking of which—where's that famous pink umbrella? And that heap over there probably wants to search, once the boy wakes up. Oh. He'll want to eat. What am I going to feed him? Right. Harry's one year old. What did mine eat at that age? Solid food by then, I think—but they were nursing until eighteen months, I remember that clearly. And where exactly am I supposed to find him a breast?
He began extricating himself from the fur coat, muttering at the awkwardness of Hagrid's body along with a ridiculous rhyme that surfaced from somewhere in his memory—something about buying a fur coat against the storms of life—a sure sign that mild shock was still working its way through his system. He finally freed himself, carefully laid the mercifully still-sleeping Harry onto the fur, and covered him over.
I hope there are no fleas or other life forms in this thing, he thought. Otherwise I'll have to treat the boy for all kinds of nonsense. God, I'm an idiot.
Indeed—he'd been planning to search the coat's pockets while the child was lying right on top of them. Andrei was briefly alarmed that the original occupant's intellectual capabilities might be rubbing off on him, but the fact that he'd phrased the concern that way reassured him somewhat. He left the pockets for last, searched the dented motorcycle sidecar instead, and found a cheerfully childish umbrella in perfect condition. He examined the wheels, the cradle, the remains of the seat, and the frame, and concluded that the object was beyond repair without welding—though it had been cut apart with unusual neatness, which was worth noting. When would he ever see a motorcycle sliced into pieces again? But more importantly: in the pocket of Hagrid's own greasy waistcoat, he found a couple of biscuits. He gnawed one experimentally—slightly salty, but not unpleasant.
Beggars can't be choosers, he decided—and at that moment, Harry started whimpering. Awake.
And then it all kicked off.
The biscuit the child devoured—or rather, gnawed and sucked at—and now he wanted water, naturally. He'd probably wanted it before too, but hunger had won out, so the biscuit had worked as a temporary solution. It didn't last. Before long, Andrei decided that to hell with it—he could always collect the boy from the Dursleys later, but right now what he needed was to get his bearings. And that would be much easier without a screaming, and now apparently soiled, baby. Quite thoroughly soiled, as it turned out.
He unwound the nappy, ignoring Harry's desperate, raspy howling—November mornings were cold—and pointed the umbrella tip at it.
"Excuro!"
The cloth came clean. Andrei gave the umbrella an approving pat. Playing with his grandchildren had been good for something—the spells surfaced from memory without effort. He held off on pointing it at Harry directly, though—the boy was a living person, and caution seemed wise. He simply cleaned him up by hand and cleared the cloth again, dried it, and wrapped the child back up, despite mild protest. He paused to consider. Nappies on a one-year-old—that struck him as slightly odd. Though perhaps just for sleeping…
No, this won't do, he decided. While I'm getting my bearings and figuring out what's what, I can't be doing it with a baby on my arm. Harry survived the Dursleys in canon. And if this isn't canon, what's to stop me from coming back for him in a few days—once I've got my footing? For now, I'll have to hand him over.
My head really isn't working properly, is it. What would the real Hagrid have done? Apparated straight to Hogwarts, obviously. But can I manage that? He thought again about how Hagrid had reached the island to collect Harry in the books. Maybe it had been a portkey—that would explain the boat, the train, all the rest of it.
Poor Harry was giving quiet, exhausted little sobs against his chest—no strength left for actual crying. Thirst was becoming urgent. Andrei knew Aguamenti well enough, but what would he put the water in? And every time he tried to concentrate and picture his own cottage, his mind stubbornly produced the White Wyvern—a pub that smelled, from the outside, of outrageously good roast meat.
Fine—plain water ought to be available there too, Andrei decided. He pulled Harry close, raised the ridiculous umbrella, and said:
"Apparate!"
He was not turned inside out, which genuinely surprised him—because the sensation was precisely as if he had been. Harry was pale and silent. Clearly shaken as well. But Andrei was still hungry. And thirsty. He sighed apologetically and pushed open the door.
The smell of food hit him so hard his stomach seized up. He walked straight to the bar and dropped a couple of silver coins on the counter.
"Water and whatever that smell is," he announced.
"Six Sickles."
The water came anyway. A full glass, slid across to him. Andrei sniffed it, took a couple of swallows, and held it out to Harry, who grabbed it with both hands and nearly choked. He also nearly dislodged the mop of hair Lomonosov had arranged to conceal the scar.
"Put it on my tab," Andrei said without blinking, leaning his weight on the bar.
The landlord—or bartender—hissed something and gave them both a peculiar look.
"Beg pardon?" Andrei enquired pleasantly. "Didn't quite catch that."
"Here!" A bowl of what was clearly low-grade meat landed in front of him, absolutely reeking of spices.
"You planning to wear that on your head? How long ago did this sheep die?"
The bartender went pale.
"If I were to say you're trying to poison me," Andrei continued, "what do you think would happen?"
"Oh, sod off!" the landlord snapped. "You always ate whatever you were given and never paid a penny. Do you have any idea what you owe?"
"Remind me. And remind yourself at the same time—how much you owe me for not reporting your cosy little operation." Hagrid's fist clenched on the counter with an audible creak.
"Now, now, don't be like that. Give up the kid and you'll be flush."
"I'll be what? Give him up where?"
"Well, you know—you're here about… business, aren't you?" The bartender, it seemed, was roughly as sharp as the canonical Hagrid. In conversation and, quite possibly, in thought.
"And where does business get done around here?" Andrei asked. He needed someone who could feed the boy—a wet nurse, at least for a day or two. Though how that was supposed to make anyone rich was beyond him—it seemed it ought to work the other way around.
He was already uneasy, already suspecting something, but he held off asking and instead said:
"Give me a good tip and I'll stop in on my way back."
"Moribund's, same as always. But he doesn't let in anyone he's not expecting. I'll send the boy with a note." The landlord was willing enough to be helpful, for money.
By the time Andrei had finished the meat and Harry had finished some sort of sweet purée and fallen soundly asleep again, the messenger had returned with a note. Hagrid and the child were expected.
***
How he managed not to tear the place apart, Andryukha genuinely didn't know. The gamekeeper's heavy fists clenched and unclenched, ready to reduce everything in reach to powder, because someone had apparently concluded that he'd brought a one-year-old child there to sell. For a ritual—past the right age for that, he remembered, and ground his teeth. How he'd kept his hands to himself on the spot, he had no idea. But the real Hagrid clearly hadn't been a regular—the look on their faces when he walked in had made that abundantly clear.
Oh, I've well and truly blown my cover, he thought, slamming the door behind him hard enough that it split neatly down the middle. He walked away without looking back, keeping Harry pinned firmly under one arm, still opening and closing his other fist—it seemed to help, just barely, with not completely losing it. At least no one recognised Harry. Now I'll need to explain this somehow. Though—explain it to whom?
As if in answer, an eye-wateringly violet robe appeared ahead, scattered all over with large floating stars. A tall old man—the only person here with a long white beard—was looking at him with an expression that defied description.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Andryukha bellowed, and charged toward him. "Professor, it's been terrible! Harry here—I could barely find him water!"
"In Knockturn?" Dumbledore's expression was, if anything, even less describable now.
Hagrid was supposed to burst into tears at this point, and Andrei delivered the performance brilliantly—his student theatre years hadn't been wasted. He'd never been the lead, but he'd been a solid enough presence on that stage.
Stumbling over his words, occasionally making sounds that could charitably be described as weeping, he painted a vivid picture of the crash, the loss of the "motorbike," the terrifying awakening in an unknown field, and of course little Harry—cold, hungry, with nothing at all to feed him. He kept wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve as he spoke, until his face had gone brick-red and his eyes were genuinely streaming. Dumbledore sniffed.
"I haven't had a drop, sir!" Andrei protested indignantly. "Not with Harry here!"
But when the Headmaster extended his arms to take the boy, Andrei had to clench his jaw and look away. Handing Harry over was the last thing he wanted.
After that, everything moved as if on rails. The boy went on sleeping—there had probably been something in the purée. Dumbledore Apparated them directly into the castle—Andrei was impressed by the level of access that implied—and Andrei kept murmuring something vaguely penitent and not entirely coherent, but he could tell from the way Dumbledore relaxed that he'd hit the right note. Not everything was quite canonical, though. When McGonagall arrived, Dumbledore took Harry, and Andrei was sent back to his quarters to rest—he'd done his part, after all, even if not perfectly. No matter how Andrei tried to make himself useful, how contritely he apologised, he was not invited along.
Fine by me, he thought. As if I don't know the address. And then: There should be a dog somewhere around here—probably needs feeding, he realised, finally working out which direction to head for the gamekeeper's cottage—his new property. Good thing I had dog people in my life. I'll manage, as long as the animal doesn't sniff out that I'm not his real owner. And lucky no one saw which way I was going—look at the detour I took. Right then. Time to get to work. He picked up his pace.
What he didn't know was that the Headmaster and his Deputy stood watching him go, their gazes thoughtful. Their conclusion was simple: the familiar Hagrid had indeed taken quite a knock. To the head. But they didn't consider this a problem.
***
The half-giant's home greeted him with a moderate bachelor's mess—not unlike the one Andrei had let accumulate after his wife died. He got his bearings quickly. Fang raised no canine objections whatsoever: tail wagging vigorously, bouncing around him, licking everything within reach. Andrei appreciated his new height—his face, at least, remained unslathered.
Half an hour was enough to sort out the basics. There wasn't much actual dirt, which he'd feared. The place reminded him of a hunter's cabin or a trapper's lodge, if somewhat larger. Though "larger" was relative—for Hagrid, it was perfectly proportioned.
Country life, Andrei smiled to himself. Well, I've lived like this before and counted myself lucky. Outhouse? Better than squatting under a fir tree in a snowdrift. Now—where does one bathe and wash clothes around here, or is Excuro all there is? A proper bathhouse would be nice, but that would raise questions. Too suspicious. Though—maybe I can arrange something quietly. The Forbidden Forest is large enough. The main thing is, this place could hide not just one child—a dozen of them.
The large warm outbuilding, which he'd tidied in short order because there was almost nothing in it to start with, could have served a small nursery. A compact one. And Fang's barking from outside was completely inaudible inside, which meant Harry's noise, if it came to it, wouldn't carry either.
"Oh, bloody—" Andrei smacked himself on the forehead. "Snape! Right. What was the address? Cokeworth—that's it. The Knight Bus to Hogsmeade." He paused. "Though—do the driver and conductor report to anyone? Actually, never mind—what am I thinking? My Apparition is shaky, but I remember Obliviate perfectly well."
I also walk very fast, he discovered, when he arrived in Hogsmeade before he'd even registered the journey—and it looked almost exactly as it did in the films. Fireplaces here, of course… Snape definitely had one. Let's see about that.