CHAPTER ONE
swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But
how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak sud-
denly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath
it.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as im-
portant as this?”
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.
“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor
McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless.
He does tend to — what was that?”
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It
grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for
some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up
at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed
on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting
astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least
five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so
wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his
face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their
leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he
was holding a bundle of blankets.
“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And
where did you get that motorcycle?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climb-
ing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black
lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”
14