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HRA# Chapter 79: The Arrival of the Unspeakable and a Gift for Voldemort
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 20:43:42 +0000 UTCThe affirmation from his older brothers left Ron feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride, boosting his confidence even further.
In truth, it wasn’t a big deal—within a week or two, no one would even mention it anymore. Well, there was actually another reason Ron’s situation had suddenly improved.
After the older students attended their latest Divination class, they were stunned to discover that Professor Trelawney now sported a pair of runic horns on her head. Wait—Professor, you didn’t fight with Professor Harry over this? Why do you look like you’ve completely given up? Wearing those horns means total defeat! Professor Trelawney, if you’re being threatened, just blink!
Unfortunately, Professor Trelawney didn’t blink. Quite the opposite—she seemed rather cheerful about it.
Her eyes sparkled with life, and she no longer spent her days stumbling around in a sherry-induced haze. This pleased Professor McGonagall greatly, who dropped several hints to Harry, hoping he’d teach Trelawney a bit more.
As for Harry, the very next day, he met the Unspeakable from the Ministry of Magic that Dumbledore had mentioned.
To be precise, this Unspeakable came from the Department of Mysteries, a division even the Minister of Magic couldn’t control. Its authority surpassed that of the Minister himself.
Harry had gone out of his way to research the Department of Mysteries. They conducted the most secretive studies, known only to a handful of witches and wizards. Those who worked there were called Unspeakables because they were forbidden from revealing anything about their work—locations, details, anything.
Rumor had it that the Department of Mysteries tackled the wizarding world’s most enigmatic and cutting-edge research, exploring mysteries like love, space, thought, time, and death.
It was only after digging into this that Harry realized wizards weren’t entirely ignorant about space—just that their approach differed drastically from Muggles’.
The term “Unspeakable” only meant they couldn’t disclose their work environment or secrets, not that they were silent or antisocial. In fact, the Unspeakable Harry met was quite chatty.
Perhaps worried that Harry might feel nervous or scared, he cracked a few jokes and repeatedly assured him that the process wouldn’t cause any harm.
He seemed like a decent guy, though Harry struggled to find the humor in wizarding jokes.
Without letting the Unspeakable do it himself, Harry pressed his wand to his temple, recalling the moment from the previous night when Professor Trelawney had made her prophecy. A silvery-gray mist snaked out from his temple, drawn by the wand.
It was silver-gray, wriggling like a serpent.
The mist wasn’t thick or plentiful. In the blink of an eye, it flowed into the prophecy orb in front of him. The once-translucent crystal ball came alive the next second. From the outside, faint, shadowy figures of Harry and Trelawney could be glimpsed, though they remained indistinct.
“There we go,” the Unspeakable said cheerfully, picking up the prophecy orb. “A fine Memory Charm. If I’m not mistaken, you’re only in your first year, right, Harry? Anyway, if you ever need to review a prophecy, feel free to visit the Department of Mysteries. Once it’s stored, only those mentioned in the prophecy can retrieve it. Very secure, and it ensures the contents don’t spread carelessly.”
“If I ever need to,” Harry nodded.
Looking busy, the Unspeakable didn’t linger at Hogwarts. He left with the prophecy orb soon after.
“So, after we left last night, Professor Trelawney made a real prophecy?” Ron turned to Harry, incredulous. “But didn’t the older students say she’s a fraud?”
“Well, if you think about the timing,” Neville chimed in, frowning, “when she made the prophecy, we were still in the Great Hall listening to the older students talk about her. I’ve never seen a traditional wizard prophecy before.”
“Maybe she can’t make them consistently?” Hermione mused, thinking quickly. “Like Harry said before, most shaman priests can only give vague divinations and interpret them—sometimes wrongly.”
“But that doesn’t add up,” Hermione continued, growing more puzzled. “The older students were clear: every year, students taking Divination hear Trelawney predict someone’s death in the first class. To score high, you have to invent gruesome deaths for yourself, others, or even animals—the gorier, the better, apparently.”
“If her predictions were accurate, Hogwarts would lose a student every year—even graduates wouldn’t escape,” Hermione said with a scoff. “But plenty of students she ‘predicted’ would die are still alive and well after graduation. Otherwise, she’d be famous enough to make the Daily Prophet by now.”
“Are you sure it’d be the Daily Prophet and not Azkaban’s wanted list?” Ron quipped. “If she really predicted a death that came true every time, they’d suspect her of murder.”
“I’m just stating facts!” Hermione rolled her eyes.
“But honestly, Trelawney’s prophecies are way clearer than the centaurs’ star-gazing nonsense,” Ron shrugged. “At least we know who she means by ‘Dark Lord.’ It’s just… the meaning’s a bit…”
Ron shivered involuntarily.
Thanks to Harry’s desensitization training, Ron could now hear Voldemort’s name and his deeds without flinching, though a brief pang of panic still lingered.
“According to her prophecy, does that mean You-Know-Who will come back?” Ron’s eyebrows nearly pinched a fly to death. “The ‘history people forgot resurfacing’ bit fits—nobody likes talking about eleven years ago. When they do, it’s always ‘You-Know-Who’ or ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’”
“But what’s this about the wizarding world ‘birthing its own king’?” Neville asked, confused. “Is You-Know-Who coming back to fight Professor Dumbledore?”
“Watch your words, Neville. Professor Dumbledore isn’t some king,” Ron shot back.
“And those three vague wars?” Hermione said sharply. “Sure, Trelawney’s divinations are better than the centaurs’, but not by much. She can’t give detailed interpretations either.” She turned to Harry. “What about you, Harry? Didn’t you divine anything?”
“I haven’t had time to refine my prophecy magic, so I can’t see too far ahead,” Harry said无奈ly. “You know how busy I am every day. I’ll have to wait and work on it later—so keep at it, guys. I’m counting on you to help me out.”
“Oh, I will,” Hermione said, her cheeks faintly pink, though it wasn’t obvious.
“Anyway, Trelawney does have some seer talent,” Harry affirmed. “She just lacks a way to channel it reliably. When she’s truly prophesying, she’s completely different from her usual self. You’d spot it instantly—it’s pretty obvious.”
“Maybe,” Hermione sighed. “But this talent-heavy divination stuff—I’ll wait for your shaman divination lessons in the club. I’m planning to take Arithmancy in third year, though. I wonder how it compares to traditional wizard divination.”
“If you’re interested, you could try both,” Harry suggested. “Wizards have long lifespans—plenty of time to find something you enjoy and suits you.”
“Oh, that’s a bit too far off,” Ron said, patting his stomach. “Right now, I’m more curious about tonight’s dinner… I hope it’s fried pork chops. Honestly, the house-elves’ cooking is amazing—even better than Mum’s.”
“Mrs. Weasley would be heartbroken to hear that,” Hermione teased.
“I mean—! Mum’s food has a special flavor! Something house-elves can’t replicate!” Ron backpedaled loudly.
“Why are you yelling at us? We’re not Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said dryly.
“Hahaha.”
“…”
And so, laughing and chatting, they headed off to class.
Time slipped by unnoticed—seven days in a week, one class after another. It wasn’t until snowflakes began to fall that everyone realized something: Christmas was almost here.
That meant gifts, holidays, and going home!
For the first-years especially, that last part was huge. It was their first time away from their parents for so long, and now they’d finally see them again.
An ancient castle steeped in history, wondrous magic, eccentric professors, and the extraordinary Harry—they had so much to share with their families, they could hardly wait.
“I’m sorry I can’t spend Christmas with you all,” Hermione said, her eyes shining as she wrapped her scarf. “I hope summer comes soon.”
“Er, me too,” Neville raised a hand.
Both of them were leaving for the holidays. After signing a pledge not to use magic outside school, they’d board the Hogwarts Express.
“Don’t worry, it’s just a short break. When you’re back—” Ron waved dismissively. “Remember to send gifts.”
“Oh, alright.”
Watching the not-so-express Hogwarts Express chug away in a plume of black smoke, Harry and Ron turned back toward the castle.
“Fancy a game of wizard chess when we get back? Or Exploding Snap—your pick,” Ron said cheerfully. “I love holidays. Warm blankets, a cozy fireplace… I could lie in bed all day!”
Ron had a knack for chess—Harry couldn’t beat him.
“I need to prepare gifts—but a couple rounds first shouldn’t hurt,” Harry said, noticing a flicker of disappointment on Ron’s face before amending his answer.
“Aha! Don’t worry, Harry, I’ll help you out,” Ron said, perking up as he nudged Harry’s shoulder.
As a somewhat famous figure at Hogwarts, Harry had to prepare plenty of gifts. It wouldn’t do to receive presents without giving something back.
For most acquaintances, simple, thoughtful gifts sufficed.
But for close friends and professors, he put in extra effort.
For Dumbledore, Harry made a box of homemade sweets packed with pine nuts—a Thunder Bluff delicacy beloved by tauren, a touch of exotic flair.
For Professor McGonagall, he chose a Quidditch match model of the Irish team—seven tiny figures zooming around on broomsticks, silently cheering (or shouting noisily if switched on). He thought she’d like it. If not, next year he’d try cat grooming potion.
For Professor Snape, he crafted a potion recipe—a playful concoction he’d whipped up while trying to recreate Spirit Link in this world, analyzing herbs and animal parts. It made the drinker look “refreshed”—literally, as if polished by a wool wheel, gleaming blindingly bright. A real crowd-stealer.
He hoped Snape would enjoy it.
For Professor Flitwick, Harry offered his rough notes from his study, How to Communicate and Harness Elemental Power with Charms. It was a mess of trial-and-error logs, not a clear thesis—but he figured Flitwick would find it inspiring.
For Hagrid, a crate of mead—enough to tide him over until Harry’s homebrew batch was ready. Otherwise, they’d run dry.
For Professor Sprout, a newly published Herbology Compendium, updated with recently discovered plants.
Even Quirrell and Voldemort got a joint gift: a Muggle painting, Saturn Devouring His Son, by Francisco Goya, painted in 1823. Wizards could appreciate it—Saturn, or Cronos in Greek myth, was the Titan leader who killed his father Uranus and ate his children to avoid the same fate.
Yes, Harry admitted Trelawney’s Dark Lord prophecy partly inspired this choice.
He hoped Quirrell and Voldemort would like it.
Wizards loved cryptic, ancient, symbolic stuff like that.
He also owed thanks to Uncle Vernon, who’d sourced a replica of the painting after receiving Harry’s letter.
Unable to join the Dursleys for Christmas, Harry had sent their gifts early: a course of weight-loss potion for Vernon and Dudley, letting them indulge without health worries, and three courses of beauty potion for Aunt Petunia—guaranteed to please any woman.
From Vernon’s reply, they seemed to like them.
Gift-giving was a hassle, especially when you didn’t want to half-heart it. Guessing friends’ tastes was brain-racking.
The first day of the holiday, Harry and Ron spent in the suitcase, where it was still a cool autumn—perfect for Ron to play to his heart’s content.
When Harry woke Ron the next day, it took the boy a few groggy seconds before he leapt up, shouting, “Time to open presents, Harry!!”
In just pajamas, Ron scrambled up the ladder—only to dart back down in less than a second, shivering like mad.
“Merlin’s knickers, it’s freezing up there!!”
It was indeed cold—snow fell outside, and though the dorm fireplace crackled, it wasn’t exactly toasty.
When Harry emerged from the suitcase after breakfast, he found Ron bundled in his fur cloak, gleefully unwrapping gifts under the Christmas tree.
“You’re up?” Ron looked over at the sound of Harry climbing out. “Thanks for my gift! Uh, is that one of those Muggle models? It’s a ship—wicked cool!”
“The HMS Hood, Royal Navy battlecruiser,” Harry shrugged. “My cousin recommended it. Super detailed and tricky to build, but satisfying once it’s done. Glad you like it.”
“Of course!” Ron beamed. “I love assembling fiddly stuff—especially a Muggle ship! Once it’s built, we can enchant it to move. Dad’ll be so jealous!” He paused, uncertain. “Think an Enlarging Charm could make it big enough to carry us across the Black Lake?”
Harry pictured it.
“‘Charge’ might be an odd word for a ship—it’s not a horse,” he said with a wry smile. “But it should work. We’re not afraid of falling in.”
Even without magic, the giant squid would fish them out—worst case, a cold.
