Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (145 page)

Severus was gazing at the Headmaster with narrowed eyes. “And the notes to Miss Granger -”

“The Defense Professor, very likely,” the old wizard said. “Still - that is only a guess.”

“I shall go look for them,” Severus said. “And then, I suppose, start looking for You-Know-Who.” A frown crossed the Potions Master’s face. “A task at which I haven’t the faintest idea of where to start. Do you know of any magics to find a soul, Headmaster?”

The Divination classroom was lit by the dim red light of a hundred small fires where burned a hundred kinds of incense, so that if you were to ask in one word what the room looked like, the answer would be ‘smoke’. (Assuming you bothered to look at anything, when your nose was threatening to overload and die.) If your gaze could pierce those dank mists, you would see a tiny, cluttered room in which forty stuffed armchairs, most of them unused, were crammed around a small open space in the center of the room, where a circular trapdoor waited on your escape.

“The grim!” Professor Trelawney said in a quavering voice, as she peered into George Weasley’s teacup. “The grim! It is a sign of death! One whom you know, George - someone you know is to die! And soon - yes, it shall be quite soon, I think - unless of course it is later -”

It would have been a good deal scarier, thought Fred and George, if she hadn’t said the same thing to every single other student in their Divination class. They were hardly even thinking about it at this point; all their thoughts were on today’s disaster -

The trapdoor in the floor flew open with a bang that caused Professor Trelawney to shriek and spill George’s tea all over his robes, and then an instant later Dumbledore was whooshing up out of the floor with a bird of fire upon his shoulder.

“Fred!” the old wizard said commandingly. His robes were the black of a moonless night, his eyes hard like blue diamonds. “George! With me, now!”

There was an collective gasp and by the time Fred and George were climbing down the ladder after the Headmaster, the entire class was already speculating what role they’d played in the attempted murder of Draco Malfoy.

The trapdoor had hardly slammed shut above them before all nearby sounds muted and the old wizard spun on them and held out a hand and commanded, “Give me the map!”

“M-map?” said Fred or George in total shock. They’d never even suspected that Dumbledore suspected. “Why, w-we don’t know what you’re -”

“Hermione Granger is in trouble,” said the old wizard.

“The Map is in our dorm,” George or Fred said immediately. “Just give us a few minutes to get it and we’ll -”

The wizard’s arms swept them up as if they were hugging-pillows, there was a piercing cry and a flash of fire and then the three of them were in the third-year Gryffindor’s boys’ dorm.

A few moments later, Fred and George were handing over the Map to the Headmaster, wincing only slightly at the sacrilege of giving their precious piece of the Hogwarts security system to the person who actually owned it, and the old wizard was frowning at the apparent blankness.

“You’ve got to say,” they explained, “
I solemnly swear that I am up to no good -
”

“I decline to lie,” said the old wizard. He held the Map high and bellowed, “Hear me, Hogwarts!
Deligitor prodi!
” An instant later the Headmaster was wearing the Sorting Hat, which looked
scarily right
upon his head, as though Dumbledore had always been waiting for a patchwork pointed hat to complete his existence.

(Fred and George immediately memorized this phrase, just in case it would work for somebody besides the Headmaster, and began trying to think of pranks that would involve the Sorting Hat.)

The old wizard wasted not a moment before sweeping the Sorting Hat off his head and turning it upside-down - it was hard to tell with the Hat upside-down, but it looked a bit cross at the treatment - and then plunged in his hand and drew out a crystal rod. With this instrument he began tracing rune-like patterns on the Map, muttering strange incantations that sounded not quite like Latin and echoed in their ears in an unusually creepy fashion. In the midst of tracing one rune he looked up at both of them, fixing them with a sharp glare. “I will return this to you later, sons of Weasley. Go back to class.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” they said, and hesitated. “Ah - about Hermione Granger, is she really going to be bound to serve Draco Malfoy forever as his -”

“
Go,
” said the old wizard.

They went.

When he was alone in the room, the old wizard looked down at the map, which had now written upon itself a fine line drawing of the Gryffindor dorms in which they stood, the small handwritten
Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore
the only name left therein.

The old wizard smoothed the map, bent over it, and whispered, “Find Tom Riddle.”

The interrogation room at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was usually lit by a small orange light, so that the Auror interrogating you would be leaning toward your uncomfortable metal chair with most of their face in shadow, preventing you from reading their expression, even as they read yours.

As soon as Mr. Quirrell had entered the room, the small orange light had dimmed and begun flickering like a candle about to be blown out by the wind. The room was now lit by a sourceless ice-colored glow which illuminated all of Mr. Quirrell’s pale skin like alabaster, except, somehow, his eyes, which stayed in darkness.

The Auror on duty outside had surreptitiously tried to dispel this effect four times without the slightest success, despite the fact that Mr. Quirrell had politely surrendered his wand upon being detained for interrogation, and had shown no sign of speaking any incantations nor exerting any other power.

“Quirinus… Quirrell,” drawled the man now sitting across from where the Defense Professor had waited courteously. The interrogator had tawny hair that swept back like a lion’s mane, with yellowish eyes set into the sternly lined face of a man late in his tenth decade. The man was, at this moment, leafing through a large folder of parchments that he had taken from a black and very solid-looking briefcase after he had limped into the room and sat down, seeming not to look at the face of the man he was interrogating. He had not introduced himself.

After some further leafing through parchments, carried out in silence, the Auror spoke again. “Born the 26th of September, 1955, to Quondia Quirrell, of an acknowledged tryst with Lirinus Lumblung…” intoned the Auror. “Sorted into Ravenclaw… O.W.L.S. quite good… N.E.W.T.S. in Charms, Transfiguration… an Outstanding in Muggle Studies, impressive… Ancient Runes, and ah yes, Defense. An Outstanding in that as well. Went on to become quite the tourist, visiting all sorts of places. Portkey visas for Transylvania, the Forbidden Empire, the City of Endless Night… my my,
Texas
.” The man looked up from the portfolio, eyes narrowed. “What were you doing
there
, Mr. Quirrell?”

“Sightseeing, mostly in the Muggle areas,” the Defense Professor said easily. “As you say, I am quite the tourist.”

The man listened to this with a frown, then looked back down, then up again. “I also see that you visited Fuyuki City in 1983.”

The Defense Professor lifted an eyebrow in mild puzzlement. “What of it?”

“What did you do in Fuyuki City?” The question snapped out razor-sharp.

The Defense Professor frowned slightly. “Nothing of any account. I visited some better-known sights, some less-known sights, and aside from that, kept to myself.”

“Really?” the Auror said softly. “I find that reply rather interesting.”

“How so?” said the Defense Professor.

“Because there was no visa listed for Fuyuki City.” The man slammed the folder shut. “You’re not Quirinus Quirrell. Who the
hell
are you?”

The Potions Master walked quietly into the Ravenclaw girls’ dorm, the first-year dorm room, a festive place where bronze and blue competed to be the color of stuffed animals, scarves and dresses, small bits of inexpensive jewelry, and posters of famous people. Hermione Granger’s bed was easy to identify; it was the one that had been attacked by a book monster.

Nobody else seemed to be around, at that time of day, and a number of spells verified this.

The Potions Master searched under Hermione Granger’s pillow, and beneath her bed, and then began going through her trunk, sorting through mentionable and unmentionable items without change of expression, and finally succeeded in drawing forth a set of papers describing places and times where bullies would be found, all of the papers signed only with an elaborate ‘S’.

A brief burst of fire later, the papers were gone, and the Potions Master left to report the failure of his mission.

The Defense Professor was sitting calmly with his hands still folded in his lap. “If you consult Headmaster Dumbledore,” said the Defense Professor, “you will find that he is well aware of this matter, and that I agreed to teach his Defense class on the explicit condition that no inquiry be made into my -”

In a lightning motion, the interrogator whipped out his wand and spat “
Polyfluis Reverso!
” at the same time that the Defense Professor sneezed, which somehow caused the mirror-silvered ray to disrupt in a shower of white sparks.

“Pardon me,” the Defense Professor said politely.

The smile that the Auror gave had absolutely no mirth in it. “So where’s the real Quirinus Quirrell, eh? Under an Imperius in the bottom of a trunk somewhere, while you take a hair now and then for your illegal Polyjuice?”

“You are making highly questionable assumptions,” the Defense Professor said with an edged voice. “What makes you think I did not steal his body outright using incredibly Dark magic?”

This was followed by a certain pause.

“I suggest,” the Auror said, “that you take this seriously, Mr. Whoever-You-Are.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Defense Professor, leaning back in his chair, “but I see little reason to humble myself on this particular occasion. What are you going to do, kill me?”

“I don’t appreciate your humor,” the Auror said softly.

“How unfortunate for you, Rufus Scrimgeour,” said the Defense Professor. “You have my deepest sympathy.” He tilted his head, seeming to study the interrogator; and even within the shadow of the ice-light, the eyes glinted.

Padma stared down at her plate.

“Hermione wouldn’t just
do
that!” yelled Mandy Brocklehurst, who was practically in tears, in fact she
was
in tears, her voice would have been loud enough to silence the Great Hall if it hadn’t been for all the other students also screaming at each other. “I - I bet Malfoy tried to - to
do
things to her -”

“Our General would
never
do that!” Kevin Entwhistle yelled even louder than Mandy.

“Of course he would!” shouted Anthony Goldstein. “Malfoy’s the son of a
Death Eater!
”

Padma stared down at her plate.

Draco was the General of her army.

Hermione was the founder of S.P.H.E.W.

Draco had trusted her to be his second-in-command.

Hermione was her fellow Ravenclaw.

Both of them were her friends, maybe the two best friends she had.

Padma stared down at her plate. She was glad the Sorting Hat hadn’t offered her Hufflepuff. If she’d been Sorted into Hufflepuff it would probably have been much more painful, trying to decide where her divided loyalties lay…

She blinked and realized that her vision had gotten blurry again, and raised a trembling hand to wipe once more at her eyes.

Morag MacDougal snorted so loudly it was audible even amid the pandemonium of lunch, and said in a loud voice, “I bet Granger
cheated
in her battle yesterday, I bet that’s why Malfoy challenged her
-
”

“All of you
SHUT UP!
” roared Harry Potter, as he hit the table with his fists so hard that plates rattled all the way along it.

At any other time it would have gotten Professors reprimanding him, this time it just got a few nearby students to look.

“I’d wanted to eat lunch,” Harry Potter said, “and then get back to investigating, so I wasn’t going to talk. But you’re all being
silly
, and when the truth comes out you’re going to regret what you said about innocent people. Draco didn’t do anything, Hermione didn’t do anything, they were both False-Memory-Charmed!” Harry Potter’s voice had been rising on the last words. “
How is that not BLOODY OBVIOUS?
”

“You think we’ll believe
that?
” Kevin Entwhistle yelled right back at him. “That’s what everyone says! ‘I didn’t do it, it was all just a False Memory Charm!’ You think we’re
stupid?
”

And Morag nodded right along with him, with a condescending look.

The look that came over Harry Potter’s face then made Padma flinch.

“I see,” Harry Potter said, it wasn’t a shout so Padma had to strain to hear it. “Professor Quirrell isn’t here to explain to me how stupid people are, but I bet this time I can get it on my own. People do something dumb and get caught and are given Veritaserum. Not romantic master criminals, because
they
wouldn’t get caught,
they
would have learned Occlumency. Sad, pathetic, incompetent criminals get caught, and confess under Veritaserum, and they’re desperate to stay out of Azkaban so they say they were False-Memory-Charmed. Right? So your brain, by sheer Pavlovian association, links the idea of False Memory Charms to pathetic criminals with unbelievable excuses. You don’t have to consider the specific details, your brain just
pattern-matches
the hypothesis into a bucket of things you don’t believe, and you’re done. Just like my father thought that magical hypotheses could never be believed, because he’d heard so many stupid people talking about magic. Believing a hypothesis that involves False Memory Charms is
low-status
.”

“What are you
blithering
about?” said Morag, looking down her nose at the Boy-Who-Lived.

“You think we’d believe anything
you
say?” yelled a slightly older-looking Ravenclaw witch who Padma didn’t recognize. “When
you
turned Granger Dark?”