Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (186 page)

June 13th, 1992.

It was the last week of school in Hogwarts, and Professor Quirrell was still alive, barely. The Defense Professor himself would be in a healer’s bed, this day, as he’d been for almost the last week.

Hogwarts tradition said that exams were given in the first week of June, that exam results were released the second week, and that in the third week, there would be the Leave-Taking Feast on Sunday and the Hogwarts Express transporting you to London on Monday.

Harry had wondered, a long time ago when he’d first read about that schedule, just what exactly the students did during the
rest
of the second week of June, since ‘waiting for exam results’ didn’t sound like much; and the answer had surprised him when he’d found out.

But now the second week of June was done as well, and it was Saturday; there was nothing left of the year but the Leave-Taking Feast on the 14th and the Hogwarts Express ride on the 15th.

And nothing had been answered.

Nothing had been resolved.

Hermione’s killer hadn’t been found.

Somehow Harry had been thinking that, surely, all the truth would come out by the end of the school year; like that was the end of a mystery novel and the mystery’s answer had been promised him. Certainly it had to be known by the time the Defense Professor… died, it couldn’t be allowed for Professor Quirrell to
die
without knowing the answer, without everything being neatly resolved. Not exam grades, certainly not death, it was only truth that finished a story…

But unless you bought Draco Malfoy’s latest theory that Professor Sprout had been assigning and grading less homework around the time of Hermione being framed for attempted murder, thereby proving that Professor Sprout had been spending her time setting it up, the truth remained unfound.

And instead, like the world had priorities that were more like other people’s way of thinking, the year was going to end with a climactic Quidditch match.

In the air above the stadium, distant figures on broomsticks swooped and pirouetted and spun around each other. The red-purplish truncated tetrahedron that was the Quaffle was caught, tossed, blocked, and occasionally thrown through floating hoops, accompanied by stadium-rocking cries of triumph or dismay. Blue and green and yellow and red-trimmed robes shouted with the enthusiasm that people felt so easily when no action would be required from them personally.

It was the first Quidditch match Harry had attended at Hogwarts, and he’d already decided that it would be the last.

“Davies has the Quaffle!” shouted the amplified voice of Lee Jordan. “That’s another ten points for Ravenclaw in seven… six… five… holy smokes, he’s done it already! Smack through the center of the central hoop! I’ve never seen such a winning streak - I’m calling it right now for Davies becoming Captain next year after Bortan steps down -”

Lee’s voice cut out abruptly and Professor McGonagall’s own amplified voice said, “That’s the Ravenclaw team’s own business, Mr. Jordan. Confine yourself to the match, please.”

“And the Slytherins take possession - Flint hands off the Quaffle to the lovely -”

“Mr. Jordan!”

“To the merely acceptable Sharon Vizcaino, whose hair trails behind her like a comet as she blazes toward the Ravenclaw defense - now with two Bludgers in close pursuit! Pucey’s on Sharon’s tail - what are you doing, Inglebee? - and she swerves in midair to avoid - IS THAT THE SNITCH? GO, CHO CHANG, GO, HIGGS IS ALREADY - WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?”

“Calm down, Mr. Jordan!”

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CALM DOWN? THAT WAS THE WORST MISSED PLAY I’VE EVER SEEN! And the Snitch is gone - maybe gone for good, after being missed that badly - Pucey’s heading off towards the goal posts, Inglebee’s nowhere near him -”

In a distant era of history, maybe in another world entirely, Professor Quirrell had undertaken that the House Cup would be awarded to either Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Or possibly, somehow, both; for he had promised that three wishes would be granted. So far it was looking good on two out of three.

If you just went by the current score, Hufflepuff was leading the race for the House Cup by something like five hundred points, thanks to Hufflepuff’s students doing their homework and
staying out of trouble.
It appeared that Professor Snape had been strategically taking quite a lot of points from Hufflepuffs for, er, the last seven years or so. Slytherin House, reigning champion for the last seven years, still had to its advantage a certain
generosity
of its Head of House in handing out points; and this was sufficient to put it neck-and-neck with Ravenclaw House, home of the academic achievers. Gryffindor was far behind in the last place, as befit the House of nonconformists; Gryffindor had Slytherin’s profile when it came to academics and mischief, only without the advantage of Professor Snape. Even Fred and George had barely broken even on the year.

Ravenclaw House and Slytherin House both needed a lot of points from
somewhere
if either wanted to catch up with Hufflepuff in the next two days.

And so far as anyone knew, Professor Quirrell hadn’t done a single thing leading to the obvious result. It was happening all by itself, now that one lone Professor in Hogwarts had taught a class with creative problem-solving.

The final Quidditch match of the year was between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Earlier in the year, Gryffindor’s initial Quidditch lead had vanished after their new Seeker, Emmett Shear, fell off a possibly malfunctioning broomstick during his second game. This had also required some hasty rescheduling of the remaining games.

This, the final game of the year, wouldn’t end until the Snitch was caught.

Quidditch scores added directly onto the House points total.

And what did you know, today it seemed that both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Seekers just could… not… catch… the… Snitch.

“THE SNITCH WAS PRACTICALLY ON TOP OF YOU, YOU DIM-EYED DIMWIT!”

“Language, Mr. Jordan, or I’ll remove you from this game! Though it
was
a terrible play, I admit.”

Harry had to admit that Lee Jordan and Professor McGonagall had a wonderful comedic routine, with Jordan as the banana-man and Professor McGonagall as the straight-woman; Harry now felt a little sorry to have missed it at the earlier Quidditch matches. It was a side of Professor McGonagall he hadn’t seen before.

A few seats down from where Harry sat in the Hufflepuff section of the Quidditch bleachers, there lurked the hulking form of Cedric Diggory. The Super Hufflepuff had observed the most recent near-air-collision between Cho Chang and Terence Higgs with the keen eye of a wizard who was a Seeker and a Quidditch Captain in his own right.

“The Ravenclaw Seeker is new,” Cedric said. “But Higgs is in his seventh year. I’ve played against him. He’s better than that.”

“You think it’s a strategy?” asked one of the Hufflepuffs sitting next to Cedric.

“It would make sense if Slytherin needed some extra points to lead for the Quidditch Cup,” Cedric said. “But Slytherin already has us beat for the title. What are they thinking? They could’ve won right there!”

The game had started at six o’ clock in the afternoon. A typical game would have gone until seven or so, at which point it would have been time for dinner. June in Scotland meant plenty of daylight; sunset wasn’t until ten.

It was at eight pm and six minutes, according to Harry’s watch, when Slytherin had just scored another 10 points bringing the score to 170-140, when Cedric Diggory leapt out of his seat and shouted “
Those bastards!”

“Yeah!” cried a young boy beside him, leaping to his own feet. “Who do they think they are, scoring points?”

“Not that!” cried Cedric Diggory. “They’re - they’re trying to
steal the Cup from us!
”

“But we’re not in the running any more for -”

“Not the Quidditch Cup! The House Cup!”

The word spread, with cries of outrage.

That was Harry’s cue.

Harry politely asked a Hufflepuff witch sitting next to him, and another Hufflepuff sitting one row above him, if they could move aside. Then Harry drew forth from his pouch a huge scroll, and unfurled it into a 2-meter-tall banner which stuck in place in midair. The enchantment had been done courtesy of a sixth-year Ravenclaw who had a reputation for knowing less about Quidditch than Harry did.

In huge, glowing purple letters, the sign read:

JUST BUY A CLOCK

2 : 06 : 47

Beneath it was a Snitch, with a blinking red X over it.

Second, after second, after second, the time counter incremented.

As that counter rose higher, there seemed to be an awful lot of Hufflepuffs who’d decided that they wanted to sit next to Harry’s banner.

As the game dragged on past nine, there also seemed to be a lot of Gryffindors.

As the sun set and Harry started using Lumos to read his books - he’d given up on the actual game a long time ago - there were a noticeable number of Ravenclaws who’d betrayed patriotism for sanity.

And Professor Sinistra.

And Professor Vector.

And as the stars began to come out, Professor Flitwick.

The climactic final Quidditch game of the year… dragged on.

One of the things Harry hadn’t planned on, when he’d decided to do this, was that he would still be out here at - Harry glanced at his watch - eleven-oh-four at night. Harry was now reading a sixth-year Transfiguration textbook; or rather he’d weighted the book open, illuminated by a Muggle glowstick, while he did one of the exercises. Last week, when the graduating Ravenclaws were discussing their N.E.W.T. scores, Harry had overheard that upper-year Transfiguration practice involved several ‘shaping exercises’ that relied more on control and precise thinking than raw power; and Harry had promptly set out to learn those, whacking himself hard on the forehead for not trying to read
all
the later-year textbooks earlier. Professor McGonagall had approved Harry doing a shaping exercise that involved controlling the way in which a Transfiguring object approached its final form - for example, Transfiguring a quill so that the shaft grew out first, then the barbs. Harry was doing an analogous exercise with pencils, growing out the lead first, then surrounding it with wood and finally having the eraser form on top. As Harry had suspected, focusing his attention and magic into a particular part of the pencil’s ongoing transformation had proven similar to the mental discipline used in partial Transfiguration - which could indeed have been used to fake the same effect, by partially Transfiguring only the outer layers of the object. This way was proving relatively easier, though.

Harry finished his current pencil and looked up at the Quidditch game, which was, check, still fantastically boring. Lee Jordan was commentating in a tone of dull disgust, “Another ten points - yay - whoopee - and now someone takes possession of the Quaffle again - ask if I care who.”

Almost nobody remaining in the stands was paying attention either, since everyone who’d remained in the stadium seemed to have discovered a new and more interesting sport, the debate about how to amend the House Cup rules and/or Quidditch. The argument had become heated to the point where all of the nearby Professors were barely keeping order at a level short of open combat. This argument, unfortunately, had considerably more than two factions. Some darned busybodies were proposing sensible-sounding alternatives to eliminating the Snitch entirely, and this was threatening to split the vote and sap the momentum for reform.

In retrospect, Harry thought, it would have been nice to have Draco unfurl his own banner from the Slytherin side saying ‘SNITCHES ARE AWESOME’, to set the polarity of the debate. Harry had squinted over at the Slytherin section earlier, but he hadn’t been able to spot Draco anywhere in the stands. Severus Snape, who could also have been sympathetic enough to play the villainous opposition, was likewise nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. Potter?” said a voice next to him.

Beside Harry’s seat was standing a short but older Hufflepuff boy, someone who’d never before come to Harry’s attention, holding out a blank parchment envelope with wax dripped on the front. The wax was also blank, without impression.

“What is it?” said Harry.

“It’s
me,
” said the boy. “With the envelope you gave me. I know you said not to talk to you, but -”

“Then don’t talk to me,” Harry said.

The boy tossed the envelope at Harry and walked away, looking offended. It made Harry wince a little, but it probably hadn’t been the
wrong
decision considering the temporal issues…

Then Harry broke the unsigned wax seal and drew out the envelope’s contents. It was parchment instead of the Muggle paper that Harry would have expected, but the writing on it was his own handwriting, if done with a quill instead of a pen. The parchment said:

Beware the constellation,
and help the watcher of stars.

Pass unseen by the life-eaters’ confederates,
and by the wise and the well-meaning.

Six, and seven in a square,
in the place that is prohibited and bloody stupid.

Harry took it in at a glance, then folded the paper again and put it back into his cloak with another exhaled sigh. ‘Beware the constellation’, really? Harry would have expected a riddle left by himself, to himself, to have been easier to interpret… though some parts were obvious enough. Clearly future-Harry had been worried about this paper being intercepted, and while present-Harry wouldn’t ordinarily have thought of the local Aurors as ‘the ones in league with the Dementors of Azkaban’, maybe that had been the best way to say ‘Auror’ without potentially tipping off anyone else who read the parchment and did their own best to decrypt it. Translating the idiom back out of the Parseltongue he’d used during the Incident with Azkaban… that worked, Harry supposed.

The note had said that Professor Quirrell needed help, and that whatever was going on needed to pass unnoticed from the Aurors, and from Dumbledore and McGonagall and Flitwick. Since Time-Turning was involved already, the obvious solution was to leave for the loo, travel back in time, and return to the game right after he’d left.