ARAGOG THE ACROMANTULA
a character is accused of something absurd and must prove otherwise

Winter had turned Hogwarts into a snow dusted secret with all its towers hushed and glittering under the moon. Hagrid lumbered along the covered walkway with his collar pulled up, scruff pretending it was a beard crusted with frost, and one hand jammed deep into his greatcoat's pocket.

A pocket that kept twitching every so often.

He'd only gone as far as the edge of the Forbidden Forest—juuuuust far enough for some necessary fresh air and stretching of the limbs—and now he was heading back toward the staircases that led to the Gryffindor common room. The castle was quiet in that winter way, which meant that even the portraits' whispers seemed to reverberate off the stone walls.

"Hagrid."

Hagrid jumped as Professor Dippet’s voice drifted from behind a pillar.

"What do you have there, Hagrid?" the Headmaster asked, peering at the bulge in Hagrid's pocket.

"Me?" Hagrid said cheerfully. "Just me pocket, Headmaster, sir."

"That pocket is moving, Hagrid."

"Pockets do that," Hagrid assured, head nodding far more than was necessary. "When there’s wind."

There was no wind indoors, but Headmaster Dippet merely narrowed his eyes and gave a disapproving inclination of the head. "It’s not a kitten, is it?"

Hagrid looked affronted. "Wouldn’ do that to one, Headmaster, sir."

The pocket wriggled again.

Headmaster Dippet raised an eyebrow. "Is it a toad?"

"No, sir."

"A ferret?"

"No."

"A Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

"Don’ even own one but on me list, Headmaster, sir."

Dippet sighed. "See that one stays off your list. You know students are not permitted to smuggle creatures of that sort into the castle."

"I ain’t smuggling no creatures," Hagrid nodded.

Dippet hesitated, then swept on, robes swishing. The moment he was gone Hagrid exhaled and rounded the corner and nearly colliding with a pair of Ravenclaws.

"What’s moving in your coat?" one demanded.

"Looks like a rat again," said the other.

"A rat?" Hagrid said, offended. "Course not."

"A lizard?"

"No."

"A baby dragon?" the first Ravenclaw guessed hopefully.

Hagrid grinned despite himself. "Wouldn’ fit."

They exchanged uneasy glances but, lacking proof, moved on. The pocket tapped twice. A leg—no, several legs—scratched politely.

"Stop that," Hagrid muttered. "Yeh’ll give us away."

At the foot of the stairs, a prefect barred his path, arms crossed.

"Hagrid," she said. "You aren’t carrying anything inappropriate into the castle, are you?"

"N-n-no, 'c-course not," Hagrid stammered.

Her lips thinned. "Is it… a dragon?"

"Goodness, no. But yer the second person to ask me that. A mighty fine compliment, I reckon."

"A Kneazle?"

"Nope."

The prefect studied him for several uncomfortable moments before nodding briskly. "Fine then. Don’t do anything dimwitted. I have a date tonight. I don't want interrupted by the likes of you because you set something loose in the common room again."

"Always am," Hagrid said.

At the foot of the stairs, the pocket chose that moment to give a mighty skitter.

"Oh no yeh don’," Hagrid whispered fiercely, clapping a hand over it. Blessedly, he reached the corridor of Gryffindor Tower… but there was still the Fat Lady to contend with and considering the rat incident of last month, this threshold might be the toughest challenge yet.

The Fat Lady sneered from her portrait, chin lifted as if the very idea of Hagrid offended her sense of decorum. "Password."

"It ain’t no rats, ma’am," Hagrid said immediately, before she could even ask.

Her eyes narrowed. "That is precisely what one says when it IS rats."

Hagrid pressed a hand to his chest. "After all me's been through? Snow up to me ankles, professors askin' questions, prefects starin' holes through me coat… yeh think I'd risk rats again? Me own dorm still smells like peppermint traps."

The pocket gave yet another nervous twitch.

"I am sworn to protect this tower," the Fat Lady said loftily. "From rodents, reptiles, and whatever other creature your fingers manage to entangle themselves with."

Hagrid sagged, every inch the picture of a misunderstood boy―just like the misunderstood friend in his pocket. "I'm cold, I'm tired, an' I've had three staircases change directions on me already. If I were haulin' rats, they'd be squeakin’ louder."

"And you expect me to believe that bulge in your coat pocket is nothing?"

"I be hopin' yeh to believe," Hagrid said solemnly, "that I wouldn't insult yer portrait with somethin' so common."

There was a long pause. The Fat Lady studied him, then scoffed one final time. "Very well," she said at last. "But if I find so much as a tail—"

"Ain't no tails," Hagrid said quickly, stretching the tightest toothiest grin he could manage.

The Fat Lady sighed heavily and then the portrait swung open. Hagrid slipped through immediately, ducking his head and murmuring, "Much obliged, ma'am," as he passed.

The entrance closed behind him and along with it the corridor’s chill and the pocket went still. He once more lumbered, this time through the common room, up the stairs, and didn’t stop until he reached the dim quiet of his dormitory where the warmth creep back into his bones.

There, at last, seated on his bed… Hagrid opened his pocket.

Many eyes blinked up at him as all eight of its legs carefully climbed out and onto Hagrid's gigantic hand.

"There yeh are," Hagrid said fondly. "See? No one even suspects yeh here."

People worry too much. Ain't nothin' wrong with keepin' an Acromantula, long as yeh know what yeh're doin'!