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HRA# Chapter 85. The Magic Journal and Hagrid’s Request
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 21:09:29 +0000 UTCVacations always arrive amid eager anticipation, only to vanish unnoticed before anyone realizes it.
When students who chose to go home dragged their weary bodies back to Hogwarts, hoping to boast about their holiday adventures, they were outdone by those who had stayed behind. The stayers had tales that turned the tables entirely.
A seemingly reformed Peeves, a transformed Hagrid (many students agreed that Hagrid looked incredibly cool that day)—these stories dazzled. Yet, when the returning students went to verify these claims, they found the same old Hagrid and Peeves as before. Worse still, Peeves pelted them with water bombs mixed with dead rats, racking up a humiliating score against them.
Soaked and disheveled, they trudged back to their friends, only to face loud mockery. Truth be told, more than a few were jealous—especially when they heard the stayers recount the events of the Christmas feast over and over. That pang of regret, the wish they’d been there, grew sharper with every retelling.
Even Hermione and Neville felt it. After all, they got to hear extra stories—like Ron’s reaction after eating a chocolate laced with a love potion, crafted by some long-gone upperclassman (Harry had to pin Ron down with his legs during that part of the tale), or the existence of the Mirror of Erised.
The Mirror of Erised’s strange power scratched at Hermione’s and Neville’s hearts like a kitten’s claws. Both longed to know what they’d see in its reflection—what their deepest, most desperate desires might be. But Dumbledore was a man of his word. Despite Hermione’s stubborn trek to the classroom Harry had mentioned, the corner where the mirror once stood was empty. Only faint marks on the floor hinted at what had been there.
Hermione stamped her foot and sighed.
Life settled back into its quiet rhythm. Harry, meanwhile, was busy writing a paper—not homework for a professor, but a treatise for the entire wizarding world. He wrestled with how to frame his argument to convince witches and wizards of the existence of elements, as well as the spirits of the ancestors and the Great Elements.
The latter, at least for now, couldn’t be broached in the wizarding world. From what Harry understood of wizarding society, spells or potions involving souls were almost universally branded as the darkest of Dark Magic—untouchable topics. Though shamans summoned ancestral spirits without harming them or breaking taboos, wizards’ tolerance wouldn’t stretch that far. Best to leave it alone.
So Harry decided to push the soul-related aspects of shamanism to the back burner—perhaps until the concept of the Great Elements gained traction among wizards, or until gifted shamans could access the Shadowlands, the realm where wizards’ souls journeyed after death. Only then could he gradually introduce the shamanic connection to spirits.
For now, he’d start with the basics: the existence of elements and elemental magic.
Drawing on the Shaman Club’s first lesson and the questions students had raised, Harry’s initial submission to Mysteries of Magic barely covered a tenth of that session’s content. Mysteries of Magic was akin to Transfiguration Today or Potions in Flux—authoritative journals in their fields of transfiguration and potion-making, respectively. But Mysteries focused on magical theory and typically featured articles by prestigious, seasoned wizards with the experience to back their research.
Unlike the other two, which published weekly or monthly, Mysteries of Magic had no fixed schedule. It only released an issue when someone submitted something significant or groundbreaking. Flipping through past editions, Harry noted the last one had come out two and a half years ago. Its authority, however, was beyond question.
Harry’s paper focused on two points. The first half introduced a force unknown to most—a power he dubbed “elemental energy,” comprising earth, wind, water, and fire. The second half tackled his biggest headache: devising a way for external wizards to observe this elemental energy without drinking the Spirit Pact Potion.
The Spirit Pact Potion, a shamanic initiation brew, couldn’t be shared carelessly. Even among shamans, only a select few knew its recipe and could craft it successfully. Finding an alternative method for wizards to glimpse the elements was no easy task—but Harry was, after all, a master alchemist.
At the paper’s end, he included a formula for what he called the “Camp Sight Potion.” Alongside protective boomslang bark, it used calming dryweed and mandrake leaves to heighten spiritual perception. Per Harry’s instructions, once brewed, the potion should be taken to places rich with natural elements—volcanoes for fire, oceans for water, windy plains for air, or deep mountains for earth. There, after drinking it, anyone seeking proof could briefly see the elements’ movements: earth’s flow tracing ley lines, fire’s dance foreshadowing eruptions, water’s surge stirring tides, and wind’s path shaping the endless breeze.
After mailing the paper, Harry didn’t dwell on it. Mysteries of Magic took far longer to respond than he’d expected—so long that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and knocked over his milk bowl, he didn’t immediately register the reply.
Dear Mr. Potter,
Apologies for the delay in responding to your submission. I’ve traveled to numerous locations to verify this “elemental energy” you describe. I’m sure you understand the gravity of this matter. I’ll need to consult old friends for further confirmation, so I regret to inform you that we cannot publish your work until we reach a consensus.
However, I assure you, if your discovery proves genuine and not a potion-induced illusion, Mysteries of Magic will publish it immediately. Personally, I eagerly await that day.
Sincerely,
Farachino Wildsmith
The flowing, classical script filled the parchment, elegant yet frantic. The writer’s excitement was palpable—misspelled words and cramped letters betrayed it. “He” might even be a “she.”
“What’s that?” Ron asked, a sausage dangling from his mouth as he leaned over.
“A reply about the paper,” Harry said, scanning it once more before pocketing it.
“The one about the elements?” Neville asked, curious. “What’d they say? Are they publishing it?”
“Not yet. They need more verification,” Harry said with a slight shake of his head. “Makes sense. If it’s real, it could upend a lot of magical theory.”
“What?” Ron’s jaw dropped. “You mean all the stuff we’ve memorized might change? We learned it for nothing? Why? No one freaked out when you taught that first class!”
“That’s because we’re just students, Ron,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Why would we notice how big this is? Adults don’t care what we think. Harry’s trying to change the minds of grown wizards—important ones.”
Hermione seemed more thrilled than Harry himself. Ron muttered something about re-memorizing not being a small deal.
“Do you know what this means?” Hermione whispered, her voice conspiratorial. “If those old wizards verify it and find no issues, Harry could found a whole new branch of magic! His name might go down in history—maybe even outshine Dumbledore!”
Her eyes sparkled.
“We might be talking to a living legend right now!”
“Really?” Ron’s eyes widened. He turned to Harry. “You’ll definitely get a Chocolate Frog card! I won’t miss it!”
Typical Ron—his words nearly choked the others.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hermione,” Harry said with a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a long way off. Besides, I think you all could end up on Chocolate Frog cards too.”
“Me too?” Ron perked up.
“Sure,” Harry nodded. “Remember Montague Knightley? He got on one for winning the Wizard Chess Championship.”
“Yeah, Knightley!” Ron said, buzzing with excitement. “I could give that a shot!”
“Good luck with that,” Hermione said absently, frowning. “But Wildsmith… I’ve heard that name somewhere.”
“Probably some old wizard,” Neville offered. “Don’t worry about it, Hermione. The magical world’s full of ancient witches and wizards. Even Dumbledore’s young compared to some.”
Neville was right, but for Hermione, an unanswered question was unbearable.
After breakfast, she bolted to the library. When she returned, she had her answer.
“Ignatia Wildsmith!” she whispered, thrilled. “She invented Floo Powder in the 13th century. This Farachino Wildsmith must be her grandson or great-something.”
“That’s impressive,” Ron said, nodding. “Now that you mention it, I’ve got her Chocolate Frog card. Her family must be loaded—Floo Powder’s recipe is still secret, and no one in the wizarding world can live without it.”
“Maybe,” Harry shrugged. “I just hope he hurries up. I need time for elemental energy to take root in wizarding society.”
To be fair, when Farachino Wildsmith, editor of Mysteries of Magic, first saw the_lanebreak
the paper Jaina had sent over, he thought someone was pranking him. Wizarding society had its own traditions, and in a thousand years, no one had ever stumbled across these so-called elements.
For a moment, Farachino wondered if the submission had been sent to the wrong place—something like this belonged in The Quibbler. He enjoyed flipping through that one, especially on the toilet. Amusing, but hardly serious.
Though he’d already drafted a rejection in his head, courtesy compelled him to read it through. At the end, he spotted two names: Harry Potter and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Quite formal.
He double-checked: the paper was primarily Harry’s, with Dumbledore assisting—providing space, materials, and such. Harry’s signature took precedence, Dumbledore’s followed.
Farachino sat in his chair, mulling it over for half a day. Dumbledore wouldn’t stake his reputation on a child’s whim—or a hoax. After one last read, he hauled out his cauldron, brewed the Camp Sight Potion, and set off to verify it himself.
Harry, of course, had no clue what the editor was up to. Before Mysteries of Magic made a move, Potions in Flux beat them to it—probably thanks to Snape’s clout as a Potions Master. Around Christmas, Snape sent the formula, and within a week, it was published. The article analyzed the potion’s effects, its potential in beauty potions, and showered praise on Harry Potter’s talent.
Hermione clipped the page as a keepsake, ignoring Ron’s teasing—though she did jab him in the ribs for it.
Harry’s potion making the magazine stirred some buzz among students, but only a few. Honestly, each Hogwarts year had just a handful of studious types. Most lacked urgency—rushing through homework to goof off, aiming to scrape by exams. The tests weren’t even that hard if you paid attention in class.
So Harry’s feat didn’t register widely. With Snape’s obvious favoritism backing him, it seemed outrageous at first glance—yet not entirely implausible on second thought.
For Harry, everything was proceeding as planned.
In rare downtime, he’d hunker down with Hagrid in his hut, roasting meat over the fire and sipping strong liquor—winter demanded it, warming you head to toe with one gulp.
“Dunno what’s up,” Hagrid slurred after another cup. “This year’s been extra restless. Another unicorn’s dead in the Forbidden Forest—third in two months. Merlin’s beard, it was a golden foal! Who could hurt somethin’ that sweet?”
“Bloody monster!” Hagrid roared, a rare outburst. “Not even scared o’ the unicorn curse! Pure evil!”
“You’re sure it’s not magical creatures preying on each other?” Harry asked, serious.
“Definitely a dark wizard!” Hagrid snarled. “Black magic’s killin’ marks—no creature did this!”
“What’d the body look like?” Harry pressed.
“Blood sucked dry,” Hagrid huffed. “The bastard drained ‘em completely—even licked up what spilled on the ground.”
“Unicorn blood’s cursed but can sustain life,” Harry recalled from books. “No vampires in the forest, right?”
A theory was forming. A dark wizard, desperate to cling to life, in a state worse than death, unafraid of curses—willing to bear them to survive. It pointed to someone in the castle.
“Er, maybe?” Hagrid said, uncertain. “But even vampires wouldn’t go mad enough to drink unicorn blood. They fear curses too.”
“Got it,” Harry nodded gravely. “Leave it to me. But until the forest’s safe, why not move the unicorns closer to the castle’s edge?”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
