Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (8 page)

The sun was setting and it was very late indeed, by the time they stood again in the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron, the silent leaf-dusted interface between magical Britain’s Diagon Alley and the entire Muggle world. (That was one
awfully
decoupled economy…) Harry was to go to a phone box and call his father, once he was on the other side. He didn’t need to worry about his luggage being stolen, apparently. His trunk had the status of a major magical item, something that most Muggles wouldn’t notice; that was part of what you could get in the wizarding world, if you were willing to pay the price of a secondhand car.

“So here we part ways, for a time,” Professor McGonagall said. She shook her head in wonderment. “This has been the strangest day of my life for… many a year. Since the day I learned that a child had defeated You-Know-Who. I wonder now, looking back, if that was the last reasonable day of the world.”

Oh, like
she
had anything to complain about.
You think your day
was surreal? Try mine.

“I was very impressed with you today,” Harry said to her. “I should have remembered to compliment you out loud, I was awarding you points in my head and everything.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” said Professor McGonagall. “If you had already been sorted into a House I would have deducted so many points that your grandchildren would still be losing the House Cup.”

“Thank
you
, Professor.” It was probably too early to call her Minnie.

This woman might well be the sanest adult Harry had ever met, despite her lack of scientific background. Harry was even considering offering her the number-two position in whatever group he formed to fight the Dark Lord, though he wasn’t silly enough to say that out loud.
Now what would be a good name for that…? The Death Eater Eaters?

“I’ll see you again soon, when school starts,” Professor McGonagall said. “And, Mr. Potter, about your wand -”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Harry said. He took out his precious wand and, with a deep twinge of inner pain, flipped it over in his hand, presenting her with the handle. “Take it. I hadn’t planned to do anything, not a single thing, but I don’t want you to have nightmares about me blowing up my house.”

Professor McGonagall shook her head rapidly. “Oh no, Mr. Potter! That isn’t done. I only meant to warn you not to
use
your wand at home, since the Ministry can detect underage magic and it is prohibited without supervision.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “That sounds like a very sensible rule. I’m glad to see the wizarding world takes that sort of thing seriously.”

Professor McGonagall peered hard at him. “You really mean that.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I get it. Magic is dangerous and the rules are there for good reasons. Certain other matters are also dangerous. I get that too. Remember that I am not stupid.”

“I am unlikely ever to forget it. Thank you, Harry, that does make me feel better about entrusting you with certain things. Goodbye for now.”

Harry turned to go, into the Leaky Cauldron and out towards the Muggle world.

As his hand touched the back door’s handle, he heard a last whisper from behind him.

“Hermione Granger.”

“What?” Harry said, his hand still on the door.

“Look for a first-year girl named Hermione Granger on the train to Hogwarts.”

“Who is she?”

There was no answer, and when Harry turned around, Professor McGonagall was gone.

Aftermath:

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore leaned forward over his desk. His twinkling eyes peered out at Minerva. “So, my dear, how did you find Harry?”

Minerva opened her mouth. Then she closed her mouth. Then she opened her mouth again. No words came out.

“I see,” Albus said gravely. “Thank you for your report, Minerva. You may go.”

Whoa. A spokesman for Rowling’s literary agent said that Rowling is okay with the existence of fanfiction as long as no one charges for it and everyone’s clear that the original copyrights belong to her? That’s really cool of her. So thank you, JKR, and thine is the kingdom!

I feel the need to disclaim that certain parts of this chapter are not meant as “bashing”. It’s not that I have a grudge, the story just writes itself and once you start dropping anvils on a character it’s hard to stop.

A few reviewers have asked whether the science in this story is real or made up. Yes, it is real, and if you look at my profile, you’ll see a link to a certain nonfiction site that will teach you pretty much everything Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres knows
and then some
.

Thank you very much to
all
my reviewers. (Especially Darkandus on Viridian Dreams, for the surprisingly inspiring comment “Lungs and tea are not meant to interact”.

“Your dad is almost as awesome as my dad.”

Petunia Evans-Verres’s lips were trembling and her eyes were tearing up as Harry hugged her midsection on Platform Nine of the King’s Cross Station. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Harry?”

Harry glanced over to his father Michael Verres-Evans, who was looking stereotypically stern-but-proud, and then back to his mother, who really did look rather… uncomposed. “Mum, I know you don’t like the wizarding world very much. You don’t have to come with. I mean it.”

Petunia winced. “Harry, you shouldn’t worry about me, I’m your mother and if you need someone with you -”

“Mum, I’m going to be on my own at Hogwarts for
months
and
months.
If I can’t manage a train platform alone, better to find out sooner rather than later so we can abort.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Besides, Mum, they all love me over there. If I have any problems, all I need to do is take off my sweatband,” Harry tapped the exercise band covering his scar, “and I’ll have
way
more help than I can handle.”

“Oh, Harry,” Petunia whispered. She knelt down and hugged him hard, face to face, their cheeks resting against each other. Harry could feel her ragged breathing, and then he heard a muffled sob escape. “Oh, Harry, I do love you, always remember that.”

It’s like she’s afraid she’ll never see me again,
the thought popped into Harry’s head. He knew the thought was true but he didn’t know why Mum was so afraid.

So he made a guess. “Mum, you know that I’m not going to turn into your sister just because I’m learning magic, right? I’ll do any magic you ask for - if I can, I mean - or if you want me
not
to use any magic around the house, I’ll do that too, I promise I’ll never let magic come between us -”

A tight hug cut off his words. “You have a good heart,” his mother whispered into his ear. “A very good heart, my son.”

Harry choked up himself a little, then.

His mother released him, and stood up. She took a handkerchief out of her handbag, and with a trembling hand dabbed at the running makeup around her eyes.

There were no questions about his father accompanying him to the magical side of King’s Cross Station. Dad had trouble just looking at Harry’s trunk directly. Magic ran in families, and Michael Verres-Evans couldn’t even walk.

So instead his father just cleared his throat. “Good luck at school, Harry,” he said. “Do you think I bought you enough books?”

Harry had explained to his father about how he thought this might be his big chance to do something really revolutionary and important, and Professor Verres-Evans had nodded and dumped his extremely busy schedule for two solid days in order to go on the Greatest Secondhand Bookshop Raid Ever, which had covered four cities and produced
thirty
boxes of science books now sitting in the cavern level of Harry’s trunk. Most of the books had gone for a pound or two, but some of them definitely
hadn’t,
like the very latest
Handbook of Chemistry and Physics
or the complete 1972 set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica.
His father had tried to block Harry off from seeing the till displays but Harry figured his father must have spent
at least
a thousand pounds. Harry had said to his father that he would pay him back as soon as he figured out how to convert wizarding gold into Muggle money, and his father had told him to go jump in a lake.

And then his father had asked him:
Do you think I bought you enough books?
It was quite clear what answer Dad wanted to hear.

Harry’s throat was hoarse, for some reason. “You can never have enough books,” he recited the Verres family motto, and his father knelt down and gave him a quick, firm embrace. “But you
certainly
tried,” Harry said, and felt himself choking up again. “It was a really, really,
really
good try.”

His Dad straightened. “So…” he said. “Do
you
see a Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?”

King’s Cross Station was huge and busy, with walls and floors paved with ordinary dirt-stained tiles. It was full of ordinary people hurrying about their ordinary business, having ordinary conversations which generated lots and lots of ordinary noise. King’s Cross Station had a Platform Nine (which they were standing on) and a Platform Ten (right nearby) but there was nothing between Platform Nine and Platform Ten except a thin, unpromising barrier wall. A great skylight overhead let in plenty of light to illuminate the total lack whatsoever of any Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Harry stared around until his eyes watered, thinking,
come on, mage-sight, come on, mage-sight
, but absolutely nothing appeared to him. He thought about taking out his wand and waving it, but Professor McGonagall had warned him against using his wand. Plus if there was another shower of multicoloured sparks that might lead to being arrested for setting off fireworks inside a train station. And that was assuming his wand didn’t decide to do something else, like blowing up all of King’s Cross. Harry had only lightly skimmed his schoolbooks (though that skim was quite bizarre enough) in a very quick effort to determine what sort of science books to buy over the next 48 hours.

Well, he had - Harry glanced at his watch - one whole hour to figure it out, since he was supposed to be on the train at eleven. Maybe this was the equivalent of an IQ test and the stupid kids couldn’t become wizards. (And the amount of extra time you gave yourself would determine your Conscientiousness, which was the second most important factor in scholarly success.)

“I’ll figure it out,” Harry said to his waiting parents. “It’s probably some sort of test thingy.”

His father frowned. “Hm… maybe look for a trail of mixed footprints on the ground, leading somewhere that doesn’t seem to make sense -”

“
Dad!
” Harry said. “Stop that! I haven’t even
tried
to figure it out on my own!” It was a very good suggestion, too, which was worse.

“Sorry,” his father apologised.

“Ah…” Harry’s mother said. “I don’t think they would do that to a student, do you? Are you sure Professor McGonagall didn’t tell you anything?”

“Maybe she was distracted,” Harry said without thinking.

“
Harry!
” hissed his father and mother in unison. ”
What did you do?
”

“I, um -” Harry swallowed. “Look, we don’t have time for this now -”

“
Harry!
”

“I mean it! We don’t have time for this now! Because it’s a really long story and I’ve got to figure out how to get to school!”

His mother had a hand over her face. “How bad was it?”

“I, ah,”
I can’t talk about that for reasons of National Security,
“about half as bad as the Incident with the Science Project?”

“
Harry!
”

“I, er, oh look there are some people with an owl I’ll go ask them how to get in!” and Harry ran away from his parents towards the family of fiery redheads, his trunk automatically slithering behind him.

The plump woman looked to him as he arrived. “Hello, dear. First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too -” and then she peered closely at him. “
Harry Potter?
”

Four boys and a red-headed girl and an owl all swung around and then froze in place.

“Oh,
come on!
” Harry protested. He’d been planning to go as Harry Verres at least until he got to Hogwarts. “I bought a sweatband and everything! How come you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Harry’s father said, coming up behind him with long easy strides, “how
do
you know who he is?” His voice indicated a certain dread.

“Your picture was in the newspapers,” said one of two identical-looking twins.

“
HARRY!
”

“
Dad!
It’s not like that! It’s ‘cause I defeated the Dark Lord You-Know-Who when I was one year old!”

“
WHAT?
”

“Mum can explain.”

“
WHAT?
”

“Ah… Michael dear, there are certain things I thought it would be best not to bother you with until now -”

“Excuse me,” Harry said to the redheaded family who were all staring at him, “but it would be quite extremely helpful if you could tell me how to get to Platform Nine and Three Quarters
right now
.”

“Ah…” said the woman. She raised a hand and pointed at the wall between platforms. “Just walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous.”

“And whatever you do, don’t think of an elephant.”

“
George!
Ignore him, Harry dear, there’s no reason not to think of an elephant.”

“I’m Fred, Mum, not George -”

“Thanks!” Harry said and took off at a run towards the barrier -

Wait a minute, it wouldn’t work
unless he believed in it?

It was at times like this that Harry hated his mind for actually working fast enough to realise that this was a case where “resonant doubt” applied, that is, if he’d started out thinking that he would go through the barrier he’d have been fine, only now he was worried about whether he sufficiently
believed
he’d go through the barrier, which meant that he actually
was
worried about crashing into it -

“
Harry! Get back here, you have some explaining to do!
” That was his Dad.

Harry shut his eyes and ignored everything he knew about justified credibility and just tried to believe
really hard
that he’d go through the barrier and -

- the sounds around him changed.

Harry opened his eyes and stumbled to a halt, feeling vaguely dirtied by having made a deliberate effort to believe something.

He was standing in a bright, open-air platform next to a single huge train, fourteen long carriages headed up by a massive scarlet-metal steam engine with a tall chimney that promised death to air quality. The platform was already lightly crowded (even though Harry was a full hour early); dozens of children and their parents swarmed around benches, tables, and various hawkers and stalls.

It went entirely without saying that there was no such place in King’s Cross Station and no room to hide it.

Okay, so either (a) I just teleported somewhere else entirely (b) they can fold space like no one’s business or (c) they are simply ignoring all the rules.

There was a slithering sound behind him, and Harry turned around to observe that his trunk had indeed followed him on its small clawed tentacles. Apparently, for magical purposes, his luggage had also managed to believe with sufficient strength to pass through the barrier. That was actually a little disturbing when Harry started thinking about it.

A moment later, the youngest-looking red-haired boy came through the iron archway (iron archway?) at a run, pulling his trunk behind him on a lead and nearly crashing into Harry. Harry, feeling stupid for having stayed around, quickly began moving away from the landing area, and the red-haired boy followed him, yanking hard on his trunk’s lead in order to keep up. A moment later, a white owl fluttered through the archway and came to rest on the boy’s shoulder.

“Cor,” said the red-haired boy, “are you
really
Harry Potter?”

Not this again.
“I have no logical way of knowing that for certain. My parents raised me to
believe
that my name was Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, and many people here have told me that I
look
like my parents, I mean my other parents, but,” Harry frowned, realising, “for all
I
know, there could easily be spells to polymorph a child into a specified appearance -”

“Er, what, mate?”

Not headed for Ravenclaw, I take it.
“Yes, I’m Harry Potter.”

“I’m Ron Weasley,” said the tall skinny freckled long-nosed kid, and stuck out a hand, which Harry politely shook as they walked. The owl gave Harry an oddly measured and courteous hoot (actually more of an eehhhhh sound, which surprised Harry).

At this point Harry realised the potential for imminent catastrophe. “Just a second,” he said to Ron, and opened one of the drawers of his trunk, the one that if he recalled correctly was for Winter Clothes - it was - and then he found the lightest scarf he owned, underneath his winter coat. Harry took off his sweatband, and just as quickly unfolded the scarf and tied it around his face. It was a little hot, especially in the summer, but Harry could live with that.

Then he shut that drawer and pulled out another drawer and drew forth black wizarding robes, which he shrugged over his head, now that he was out of Muggle territory.

“There,” Harry said. The sound came out slightly muffled through the scarf over his face. He turned to Ron. “How do I look? Stupid, I know, but am I identifiable as Harry Potter?”

“Er,” Ron said. He closed his mouth, which had been open. “Not really, Harry.”

“Very good,” Harry said. “However, so as not to obviate the point of the whole exercise, you will henceforth address me as,” Verres might not work anymore, “Mr. Spoo.”