When Hagrid came out of the Three Broomsticks, the wind was still blowing, but it had weakened considerably. He kept his head down, both hands tucked into the pockets of his school robes. One hand held his own hand, while the other held the egg. His fingers gently stroked its surface, again and again. The purple fuzz bent beneath his fingertips, then sprang back, bent, then sprang back, like a field of purple grass repeatedly brushed by the wind.
By the time he walked back to the castle, it was nearly dark. He paused at the castle entrance and looked down at the bulging purple lump against his chest, still faintly pulsing. The corner of his mouth lifted. It was not a smile, but something deeper and quieter—the wordless satisfaction of someone who had received the finest gift of his life and could only express it through the curve of his lips. He pushed open the castle doors and went inside.
The torches in the corridor burned dimly. His shadow stretched long behind him across the stone floor, like a black, slender snake still crawling forward. He headed toward the dungeons.
A cupboard. He needed a cupboard. A dark, damp cupboard that nobody would ever bother searching through.
He was going to hide the egg there. Wait for it to emerge. Wait for it to open its eyes. Wait for it to crawl out of its split shell on eight thin, soft, still-weak legs and climb onto his finger.
Hagrid named it Aragog, after Arachne from Muggle Greek mythology. Legend said that Arachne had been a mortal girl skilled in weaving. Her pride drove her to challenge the goddess Athena, and she was ultimately transformed into a spider, doomed to weave webs for eternity.
The name not only pointed to