Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (35 page)

Harry felt sick to his stomach. Professor Quirrell didn’t know about his mysterious dark side. “Professor, we really need to talk about this after class -”

“We will,” Professor Quirrell said in the tones of a promise. “After you learn how to lose.” His face was serious. “It should go without saying that I will exclude anything which could injure you or even cause you significant pain. The pain will come from the difficulty of losing, instead of fighting back and escalating the battle until you win.”

Harry’s breath was coming in short, panicky pants. He was more frightened than he’d been after leaving the Potions classroom. “Professor Quirrell,” he managed to say, “I don’t want you to get fired over this -”

“I will not be,” Professor Quirrell said, “if
you
tell them afterward that it was necessary. And this I trust you to do.” For a moment Professor Quirrell’s voice turned very dry. “Believe me, they have tolerated worse in their hallways. This case will be exceptional only in that it happens within a classroom.”

“Professor Quirrell,” Harry whispered, but he thought his voice was still being repeated everywhere, “do you really believe that if I don’t do this, I might hurt someone?”

“Yes,” Professor Quirrell said simply.

“Then,” Harry felt nauseous, “I’ll do it.”

Professor Quirrell turned to regard the Slytherins. “So… with the full approval of your teacher, and in such a fashion that Snape cannot be blamed for your actions… do any of you wish to show your dominance over the Boy-Who-Lived? Shove him around, push him to the ground, hear him beg for your mercy?”

Five hands went up.

“Everyone with your hand raised, you are an absolute idiot. What part of
pretending
to lose did you not understand? If Harry Potter does become the next Dark Lord he will hunt you down and kill you after he graduates.”

The five hands dropped abruptly back to their desks.

“I won’t,” Harry said, his voice coming out rather weakly. “I swear never to take vengeance upon those who help me learn to lose. Professor Quirrell… would you
please
…
stop
that?”

Professor Quirrell sighed. “I
am
sorry, Mr. Potter. I realize that you must find this equally annoying whether you intend to become a Dark Lord or not. But those children
also
had an important life lesson to learn. Would it be acceptable if I awarded you a Quirrell point in apology?”

“Make it two,” Harry said.

There was a current of surprised laughter, defusing some of the tension.

“Done,” Professor Quirrell said.

“And after I graduate I’m going to hunt you down and
tickle
you.”

There was more laughter, although Professor Quirrell didn’t smile.

Harry felt like he was wrestling an anaconda, trying to force the conversation through the narrow course that would make people realize he wasn’t a Dark Lord after all…
why
was Professor Quirrell so suspicious of him?

“Professor,” said Draco’s unamplified voice. “It is also not my own ambition to become a stupid Dark Lord.”

There was a shocked silence in the classroom.

You don’t have to do this!
Harry almost blurted out loud, but checked himself in time; Draco might not wish it known that he was doing this out of friendship for Harry… or out of the desire to appear friendly…

Calling
that
a
desire to appear friendly
made Harry feel small, and mean. If Draco had intended to impress him, it was working perfectly.

Professor Quirrell was regarding Draco gravely. “
You
worry that you cannot pretend to lose, Mr. Malfoy? That this flaw which describes Mr. Potter also describes you?
Surely
your father taught you better.”

“When it comes to talking, maybe,” said Draco, now on the repeater screen. “Not when it comes to being shoved around and pushed to the ground. I want to be fully as strong as you, Professor Quirrell.”

Professor Quirrell’s eyebrows went up and stayed up. “I am afraid, Mr. Malfoy,” he said after a time, “that the arrangements I made for Mr. Potter, involving some older Slytherins who will be told
afterward
how stupid they were, would not carry over onto you. But it is my professional opinion that you are already very strong. Should I hear that you have failed, as Mr. Potter failed today, I will make the appropriate arrangements and apologize to you and whomever you have hurt. I do not think this will be necessary, however.”

“I understand, professor,” said Draco.

Professor Quirrell looked over the class. “Does anyone else wish to become strong?”

Some students glanced around nervously. Some, Harry thought from his back row, looked like they were opening their mouths but not saying anything. In the end, no one spoke.

“Draco Malfoy will be one of the generals of your year’s armies,” said Professor Quirrell, “should he deign to engage in that after-school activity. And now, Mr. Potter, please come forward.”

Yes,
Professor Quirrell had said,
it must be in front of everyone, in front of your friends, because that is where Snape confronted you and that is where you must learn to lose.

So now the first year watched. In magically enforced silence, and with requests from both Harry and the professor not to intervene. Hermione had her face turned away, but she hadn’t spoken out or even given him any sort of significant look, maybe because she’d been there in Potions too.

Harry stood on a soft blue mat, such as might be found in a Muggle dojo, which Professor Quirrell had laid out upon the floor for when Harry was pushed down.

Harry was frightened of what he might do. If Professor Quirrell was right about his intent to kill…

Harry’s wand lay on Professor Quirrell’s desk, not because Harry knew any spells that could defend him, but because otherwise (Harry thought) he might have tried to jam it through someone’s eye socket. His pouch lay there, now containing his protected but still potentially fragile Time-Turner.

Harry had pleaded with Professor Quirrell to Transfigure him some boxing gloves and lock them on his hands. Professor Quirrell had given him a look of silent understanding, and refused.

I will not go for their eyes, I will not go for their eyes, I will not go for their eyes, it would be the end of my life in Hogwarts, I’ll be arrested,
Harry chanted to himself, trying to hammer the thought into his brain, hoping it would stay there if his intent to kill took over.

Professor Quirrell returned, escorting thirteen older Slytherins of different years. Harry recognized one of them as the one he’d hit with a pie. Two others from that confrontation were also present. The one who’d said to stop, that they really shouldn’t do this, was missing.

“I repeat,” Professor Quirrell said, sounding very stern, “Potter is
not
to be really hurt. Any and all
accidents
will be treated as deliberate. Do you understand?”

The older Slytherins nodded, grinning.

“Then please feel free to take the Boy-Who-Lived down a few pegs,” Professor Quirrell said, with a twisted smile that only the first-years understood.

By some form of mutual consent, the pie-target was at the front of the group.

“Potter,” said Professor Quirrell, “meet Mr. Peregrine Derrick. He is better than you and he is about to show you that.”

Derrick strode forward and Harry’s brain screamed discordantly, he must not run away, he must not fight back -

Derrick stopped an arm’s length away from Harry.

Harry wasn’t angry yet, just frightened. And that meant he beheld a teenage boy fully half a meter taller than himself, with clearly defined muscles, facial hair, and a grin of terrible anticipation.

“Ask him not to hurt you,” Professor Quirrell said. “Perhaps if he sees that you’re pathetic enough, he’ll decide that you’re boring, and go away.”

There was laughter from the watching older Slytherins.

“Please,” Harry said, his voice faltering, “don’t, hurt, me…”

“That didn’t sound very sincere,” said Professor Quirrell.

Derrick’s smile widened. The clumsy imbecile was looking very superior and…

…Harry’s blood temperature was dropping…

“Please don’t hurt me,” Harry tried again.

Professor Quirrell shook his head. “How in Merlin’s name did you manage to make that sound like an insult, Potter? There is only one response you can possibly expect from Mr. Derrick.”

Derrick stepped forward deliberately, and bumped into Harry.

Harry staggered back a few feet and, before he could stop himself, straightened up icily.

“Wrong,” said Professor Quirrell, “wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“You bumped into me, Potter,” Derrick said. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry!”

“You don’t
sound
sorry,” said Derrick.

Harry’s eyes widened in indignation, he
had
managed to make that sound pleading -

Derrick pushed him, hard, and Harry fell to the mat on his hands and knees.

The blue fabric seemed to waver in Harry’s vision, not far away.

He was beginning to doubt Professor Quirrell’s real motives in teaching this so-called
lesson.

A foot rested on Harry’s buttocks and a moment later Harry was pushed hard to the side, sending him sprawling on his back.

Derrick laughed. “This is
fun,
” he said.

All he had to do was say it was over. And report the whole thing to the Headmaster’s office. That would be the end of this
Defense Professor
and his ill-fated stay at Hogwarts and… Professor McGonagall would be angry about that, but…

(An image of Professor McGonagall’s face flashed before his eyes, she didn’t look angry, just sad -)

“Now tell him that he’s better than you, Potter,” said Professor Quirrell’s voice.

“You’re, better, than, me.”

Harry started to raise himself and Derrick put a foot on his chest and shoved him back down to the mat.

The world was becoming transparent as crystal. Lines of action and their consequences stretched out before him in utter clarity. The fool wouldn’t be expecting him to strike back, a quick hit in the groin would stun him long enough for -

“Try again,” said Professor Quirrell and with a sudden sharp motion Harry rolled and sprang to his feet and whirled on where stood his real enemy, the Defense Professor -

Professor Quirrell said, “You have no patience.”

Harry faltered. His mind, well-honed in pessimism, drew a picture of a wizened old man with blood pouring from his mouth after Harry had ripped his tongue out -

A moment later, Derrick pushed Harry to the mat again and then sat down on him, sending Harry’s breath whooshing out.

“Stop!” Harry screamed. “Please stop!”

“Better,” said Professor Quirrell. “That even sounded sincere.”

It
had
been. That was the horrible thing, the sickening thing, it
had
been sincere. Harry was panting rapidly, fear and cold anger both flushing through him -

“Lose,” said Professor Quirrell.

“I, lose,” Harry forced out.

“I like it,” Derrick said from on top of him. “Lose some more.”

Hands shoved Harry, sending him stumbling across the circle of older Slytherins to another set of hands that shoved him again. Harry had long since passed the point of trying not to cry, and was now just trying not to fall down.

“What are you, Potter?” said Derrick.

“A, l-loser, I lose, I give up, you win, you’re b-better, than me, please stop -”

Harry tripped over a foot and went crashing to the ground, hands not quite able to catch himself. He was dazed for a moment, then began struggling to his feet again -

“
Enough!
” said Professor Quirrell’s voice, sounding sharp enough to cut iron. “Step away from Mr. Potter!”

Harry saw the surprised looks on their faces. The chill in his blood, which had been flowing and ebbing, smiled in cold satisfaction.

Then Harry collapsed to the mat.

Professor Quirrell talked. There were gasps from the older Slytherins.

“And I believe the scion of Malfoy has something he wants to explain to you as well,” finished Professor Quirrell.

Draco’s voice started talking. His voice sounded almost as sharp as professor Quirrell’s, it had acquired the same cadence Draco had used to imitate his father, and it was saying things like
could have put Slytherin House in jeopardy
and
who knows how many allies in this school alone
and
total lack of awareness, never mind cunning
and
dull thugs, useful for nothing but lackeys
and something in Harry’s hindbrain, despite everything he knew, was designating Draco as an ally.

Harry ached all over, was probably bruised, his body felt cold, his mind utterly exhausted. He tried to think of Fawkes’s song, but without the phoenix present he couldn’t remember the melody and when he tried to imagine it he couldn’t seem to think of anything except a bird chirping.

Then Draco stopped talking and Professor Quirrell told the older Slytherins they were dismissed, and Harry opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, “Wait,” Harry said, forcing the words out, “there’s something, I want, to say, to them -”

“Wait on Mr. Potter,” Professor Quirrell said coldly to the departing Slytherins.

Harry swayed to his feet. He was careful not to look in the direction of his classmates. He didn’t want to see how they were looking at him now. He didn’t want to see their pity.

So instead Harry looked at the older Slytherins, who still seemed to be in a state of shock. They stared back at him. Dread was on their faces.

His dark side, when it was in control, had held to the imagination of this moment, and went on pretending to lose.

Harry said, “No one will -”

“Stop,” said Professor Quirrell. “If that’s what I think it is, please wait until after they’re gone. They’ll hear about it later. We all have our lessons to learn, Mr. Potter.”

“All right,” Harry said.

“You. Go.”

The older Slytherins fled and the door closed behind them.