Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (69 page)

“Yes, please, come in,” said her husband, followed by a muttered “Thank you” that indicated some sort of present had been accepted, and “Have a seat.” Then Leo’s voice altered to a tone of artificial enthusiasm, and said, “And all the toys are downstairs in the basement, I’m sure Herm will be down shortly, it’s the first door on your right.”

There was a brief pause.

Then a young boy’s bright voice said, “Toys? I love toys!”

There was the sound of footsteps entering the house, and then the same bright voice said, “Gosh! This is a big house! I hope I don’t get lost in here!”

Roberta closed up the oven, smiling. She’d been a bit worried about the way Hermione’s letters had described the Boy-Who-Lived - though certainly her daughter hadn’t said anything indicating that Harry Potter was
dangerous;
nothing like the dark hints written in the books Roberta had bought, supposedly for Hermione, during their trip to Diagon Alley. Her daughter hadn’t said much at all, only that Harry talked like he came out of a book, and Hermione was studying harder than she ever had in her life just to stay ahead of him in class. But from the sound of it, Harry Potter was an ordinary eleven-year-old boy.

She got to the front door just as her daughter came clattering frantically down the stairs at a speed that didn’t look safe at all, Hermione had claimed that witches were more resistant to falls but Roberta wasn’t quite sure she believed that -

Roberta took in her first sight of Professor and Mrs. Verres, who were both looking rather nervous, just as the boy with the legendary scar on his forehead turned to her daughter and said, now in a lower voice, “Well met on this fairest of evenings, Miss Granger.” His hand stretched back, as though offering his parents on a silver platter. “I present to you my father, Professor Michael Verres-Evans, and my mother, Mrs. Petunia Evans-Verres.”

And as Roberta’s mouth was gaping open, the boy turned back to his parents and said, now in that bright voice again, “Mum, Dad, this is Hermione! She’s really smart!”

“
Harry!
” hissed her daughter. “Stop that!”

The boy swiveled again to regard Hermione. “I’m afraid, Miss Granger,” the boy said gravely, “that you and I have been exiled to the labyrinthine recesses of the basement. Let us leave them to their adult conversations, which would no doubt soar far above our own childish intellects, and resume our ongoing discussion of the implications of Humean projectivism for Transfiguration.”

“Excuse us, please,” said her daughter in a very firm tone, and grabbed the boy by his left sleeve, and dragged him into the hallway - Roberta swiveled helplessly to track them as they went past her, the boy gave her a cheery wave - and then Hermione pulled the boy into the basement access and slammed the door behind her.

“I, ah, I apologize for…” said Mrs. Verres in a faltering voice.

“I’m sorry,” said the Professor, smiling fondly, “Harry can be a bit touchy about that sort of thing. But I expect he’s right about us not being interested in their conversation.”

Is he dangerous?
Roberta wanted to ask, but she kept her silence and tried to think of subtler questions. Her husband beside her was chuckling, as if he’d found what they’d just seen funny, rather than frightening.

The most terrible Dark Lord in history had tried to kill that boy, and the burnt husk of his body had been found next to the crib.

Her possible future son-in-law.

Roberta had been increasingly apprehensive about giving her daughter over to witchcraft - especially after she’d read the books, put the dates together, and realized that her magical mother had probably been killed at the height of Grindelwald’s terror,
not
died giving birth to her as her father had always claimed. But Professor McGonagall had made other visits after her first trip, to “see how Miss Granger is doing”; and Roberta couldn’t help but think that if Hermione said her parents were being troublesome about her witching career, something would be done to
fix
them…

Roberta put her best smile on her face, and did what she could to spread some pretended Christmas cheer.

The dining room table was much longer than six people - er, four people and two children - really needed, but all of it was draped with a tablecloth of fine white linen, and the dishes had been needlessly transferred to fancy serving plates, which at least were of stainless steel rather than real silver.

Harry was having a bit of trouble concentrating on the turkey.

The conversation had turned to Hogwarts, naturally; and it’d been obvious to Harry that his parents were hoping that Hermione would trip up and say more about Harry’s school life than Harry had been telling them. And either Hermione had realized this, or she was just automatically steering clear of anything that might prove troublesome.

So
Harry
was fine.

But unfortunately Harry had made the mistake of owling his parents with all sorts of facts about Hermione that she hadn’t told her
own
parents.

Like that she was general of an army in their after-school activities.

Hermione’s mother had looked very alarmed, and Harry had quickly interrupted and done his best to explain that all the spells were stunners, Professor Quirrell was always watching, and the existence of magical healing meant that lots of things were much less dangerous than they sounded, at which point Hermione had kicked him hard under the table. Thankfully Harry’s father, who Harry had to admit was better than him at some things, had announced with firm professorial authority that he hadn’t worried at all, since he couldn’t imagine children being allowed to do it if it was dangerous.

That wasn’t why Harry was having trouble enjoying dinner, though.

…the problem with feeling sorry for yourself was that it never took any time at all to find someone else who had it worse.

Dr. Leo Granger had asked, at one point, whether that nice teacher who’d seemed to like Hermione, Professor McGonagall, was awarding her lots of points in school.

Hermione had said yes, with an apparently genuine smile.

Harry had managed, with some effort, to stop himself from icily pointing out that Professor McGonagall would never show favoritism to any Hogwarts student, and that Hermione was getting lots of points because she’d earned
every, single, one.

At another point, Leo Granger had offered the table his opinion that Hermione was very smart and could have gone to medical school and become a dentist, if not for the whole witch business.

Hermione had smiled again, and a quick glance had prevented Harry from suggesting Hermione might also have been an
internationally famous scientist
, and asking whether that thought would’ve occurred to the Grangers if they’d had a
son
instead of a
daughter
, or if it was unacceptable either way for their offspring to do better than them.

But Harry was rapidly reaching his boiling point.

And becoming a
lot
more appreciative of the fact that his own father had
always
done everything he could to support Harry’s development as a prodigy and
always
encouraged him to reach higher and
never
belittled a single one of his accomplishments, even if a child prodigy was still just a child. Was this the sort of household he could have ended up in, if Mum had married Vernon Dursley?

Harry was doing what he could, though.

“And she’s really beating you in
all
your classes except broomstick riding and Transfiguration?” said Professor Michael Verres-Evans.

“Yes,” Harry said with forced calm, as he cut himself another bite of Christmas Eve turkey. “By solid margins, in most of them.” There were other circumstances under which Harry would have been more reluctant to admit that, which was why he hadn’t gotten around to telling his father until now.

“Hermione has always been quite good in school,” said Dr. Leo Granger in a satisfied tone.

“Harry competes at the national level!” said Professor Michael Verres-Evans.

“Dear!” said Petunia.

Hermione was giggling, and that wasn’t making Harry feel any better about her situation. It didn’t seem to bother Hermione and
that bothered Harry.

“I’m not embarrassed to lose to her, Dad,” Harry said. Right at this moment he wasn’t. “Did I mention that she memorized all her schoolbooks before the first day of class? And yes, I tested it.”

“Is that, ah,
usual
for her?” Professor Verres-Evans said to the Grangers.

“Oh, yes, Hermione’s always memorizing things,” said Dr. Roberta Granger with a cheerful smile. “She knows every recipe in all my cookbooks by heart. I miss her every time I make dinner.”

Judging by the look on his father’s face, Dad was feeling at least some of what Harry felt.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Harry said, “she’s getting all the advanced material she can take, now. Her teachers at Hogwarts know she’s smart,
unlike her parents!
”

His voice had risen on the last three words, and even as all faces turned to stare at him and Hermione kicked him again, Harry knew that he’d blown it, but it was too much, just way too much.

“Of course we know she’s smart,” said Leo Granger, starting to look offended at the child who’d had the temerity to raise his voice at their dinner table.

“You don’t have the tiniest idea,” said Harry, the ice now leaking into his voice. “You think she reads a lot of books and it’s cute, right? You see a perfect report card and you think it’s good that she’s doing well in class. Your daughter is the most talented witch of her generation and the brightest star of Hogwarts, and someday, Dr. and Dr. Granger, the fact that you were her parents will be the only reason that history remembers you!”

Hermione, who had calmly got up from her seat and walked around the table, chose that moment to grab Harry’s shirt by the shoulder and pull him out of his chair. Harry let himself be pulled, but as Hermione dragged him away, he said, raising his voice even louder, “It is entirely possible that in a thousand years, the fact that Hermione Granger’s parents were dentists will be the only reason anyone remembers dentistry!”

Roberta stared at where her daughter had just dragged the Boy-Who-Lived out of the room with a patient look upon her young face.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Professor Verres with an amused smile. “But please don’t worry, Harry always talks like that. Aren’t they just like a married couple already?”

The frightening thing was that they
were.

Harry had been expecting a rather severe lecture from Hermione.

But after Hermione pulled them into the basement access and closed the door behind them, she’d turned around -

- and was smiling, genuinely so far as Harry could tell.

“Please don’t, Harry,” she said in a soft voice. “Even though it’s very nice of you. Everything’s fine.”

Harry just looked at her. “How can you stand it?” he said. He had to keep his voice quiet, they didn’t want the parents to hear, but it rose in pitch if not in volume. “
How can you stand it?
”

Hermione shrugged, and said, “Because that’s the way parents
should
be?”

“No,” Harry said, his voice low and intense, “it’s not, my father
never
puts me down - well, he
does
, but never like that -”

Hermione held up a single finger, and Harry waited, watching her search for words. It took her a while before she said, “Harry… Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick like me because I’m the most talented witch of my generation and the brightest star of Hogwarts. And Mum and Dad don’t know that, and you’ll never be able to tell them, but they love me anyway. Which means that everything is just the way it should be, at Hogwarts and at home. And since they’re
my
parents, Mr. Potter,
you
don’t get to argue.” She was once again smiling her mysterious smile from dinnertime, and looking at Harry very fondly. “
Is
that clear, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded tightly.

“Good,” said Hermione, and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

The conversation had only just gotten started again when a distant high-pitched yelp floated back to them,

“
Hey! No kissing!
”

The two fathers burst out in laughter just as the two mothers rose up from their chairs with identical looks of horror and dashed toward the basement.

When the children had been brought back, Hermione was saying in an icy tone that she was never going to kiss Harry ever again, and Harry was saying in an outraged voice that the Sun would burn down to a cold dead cinder before he let her get close enough to try.

Which meant that everything was just the way it should be, and they all sat back down again to finish their Christmas dinner.

It was almost midnight.

Staying up late was simple enough for Harry. He just hadn’t used the Time-Turner. Harry followed a tradition of timing his sleep cycle to make sure he was awake for when Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day; because while he’d never been young enough to
believe
in Santa Claus, he’d once been young enough to doubt.

It would have been nice if there
had
been a mysterious figure who entered your house in the night and brought you presents…

A chill went down Harry’s spine then.

An intimation of something dreadful approaching.

A creeping terror.

A sense of doom.

Harry sat bolt upright in bed.

He looked at the window.

“
Professor Quirrell?
” Harry shrieked very quietly.

Professor Quirrell made a slight lifting gesture, and Harry’s window seemed to fold into its frame. At once a cold gust of winter blew into the room through the gap, along with a scant few flakes of snow from a sky spotted with grey night-clouds, amid the black and stars.

“Fear not, Mr. Potter,” said the Defense Professor in a normal voice. “I have Charmed your parents asleep; they shall not wake until I have departed.”

“No one’s supposed to know where I am!” said Harry, still keeping the shriek quiet. “Even owls are supposed to deliver my mail to Hogwarts, not here!” Harry had agreed to that willingly; it would be silly if a Death Eater could win the whole war at any time just by owling him a magically triggered hand grenade.

Professor Quirrell was grinning, from where he stood in the backyard beyond the window. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Mr. Potter. You
are
well protected against locating Charms, and no blood purist is likely to think of consulting a phone book.” His grin grew wider. “And it did take considerable effort to cross the wards that the Headmaster put around this house - though of course anyone who knew your address could simply wait outside and attack you the next time you left.”

Harry stared at Professor Quirrell for a while. “What are you
doing
here?” Harry said finally.

The smile left Professor Quirrell’s face. “I’ve come to apologize, Mr. Potter,” the Defense Professor said quietly. “I should not have spoken to you so harshly as I -”

“Don’t,” Harry said. He looked down at the blanket that he was clutching around his pajamas. “Just don’t.”

“Have I offended you that much?” said Professor Quirrell’s quiet voice.

“No,” Harry said. “But you
will
if you apologize.”

“I see,” said Professor Quirrell, and in an instant his voice grew stern. “Then if I am to treat you as an equal, Mr. Potter, I should say that you have gravely violated the etiquette that holds between friendly Slytherins. If you are not currently playing the game against someone, you
must
not meddle in their plans like that, not without asking them
before
. For you do not know what their true design may be, nor what stakes they may lose. It would mark you as their enemy, Mr. Potter.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, in just the same quiet tone that Professor Quirrell had used.

“Apology accepted,” said Professor Quirrell.

“But,” Harry said, still quietly, “you and I really must speak further on politics, at some point.”

Professor Quirrell sighed. “I know you dislike condescension, Mr. Potter -”

That was a bit of an understatement.

“But it would be even more condescending,” said Professor Quirrell, “if I were not to state it clearly. You are missing some life experience, Mr. Potter.”

“And does everyone who has sufficient life experience agree with you, then?” said Harry calmly.

“What good is life experience to someone who plays Quidditch?” said Professor Quirrell, and shrugged. “I think you will change your mind in time, after every trust you place has failed you, and you have become cynical.”

The Defense Professor said it as though it were the most ordinary statement in the world, framed against the black and the stars and the cloud-spotted sky, as one or two tiny snowflakes blew past him in the biting winter air.

“That reminds me,” said Harry. “Merry Christmas.”

“I suppose,” said Professor Quirrell. “After all, if it is
not
an apology, then it must be a Christmas gift. The very first one I have ever given, in fact.”

Harry hadn’t even started yet on learning Latin so he could read the experimental diary of Roger Bacon; and he hardly dared open his mouth to ask.

“Put on your winter coat,” said Professor Quirrell, “or take a warming potion if you have one; and meet me outside, under the stars. I shall see if I can maintain it a little longer this time.”

It took Harry a moment to process the words, and then he was dashing for the coat closet.

Professor Quirrell kept the spell of starlight going for more than an hour, though the Defense Professor’s face grew strained, and he had to sit down after a while. Harry protested only once, and was shushed.

They crossed the boundary from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day within that timeless void where Earthly rotations meant nothing, the one true everlasting Silent Night.

And just as promised, Harry’s parents slept soundly all through it, until Harry was safely back in his room, and the Defense Professor had gone.