Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

by Eliezer Yudkowsky

  "You don't mean..." gasped Harry. "My father... owned another rock?"

  "Excuse me," said Dumbledore, "I am still older and more mysterious than you and if there are any revelations to be made then I will do the revealing, thank you... oh, where is that thing!" Dumbledore reached down further into the desk drawer, and still further. His head and shoulders and whole torso disappeared inside until only his hips and legs were sticking out, as though the desk drawer was eating him.

  Harry couldn't help but wonder just how much stuff was in there and what the complete inventory would look like.

  Finally Dumbledore rose back up out of the drawer, holding the objective of his search, which he set down on the desk alongside the rock.

  It was a used, ragged-edged, worn-spined textbook: Intermediate Potion Making by Libatius Borage. There was a picture of a smoking vial on the cover.

  "This," Dumbledore intoned, "was your mother's fifth-year Potions textbook."

  "Which I am to carry with me at all times," said Harry.

  "Which holds a terrible secret. A secret whose revelation could prove so disastrous that I must ask you to swear - and I do require you to swear it seriously, Harry, whatever you may think of all this - never to tell anyone or anything else."

  Harry considered his mother's fifth-year Potions textbook, which, apparently, held a terrible secret.

  The problem was that Harry did take that oaths like that very seriously. Any vow was an Unbreakable Vow if made by the right sort of person.

  And...

  "I'm feeling thirsty," Harry said, "and that is not at all a good sign."

  Dumbledore entirely failed to ask any questions about this cryptic statement. "Do you swear, Harry?" said Dumbledore. His eyes gazed intently into Harry's. "Otherwise I cannot tell you."

  "Yes," said Harry. "I swear." That was the trouble with being a Ravenclaw. You couldn't refuse an offer like that or your curiosity would eat you alive, and everyone else knew it.

  "And I swear in turn," said Dumbledore, "that what I am about to tell you is the truth."

  Dumbledore opened the book, seemingly at random, and Harry leaned in to see.

  "Do you see these notes," Dumbledore said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, "written in the margins of the book?"

  Harry squinted slightly. The yellowing pages seemed to be describing something called a potion of eagle's splendour, many of the ingredients being items that Harry didn't recognise at all and whose names didn't appear to derive from English. Scrawled in the margin was a handwritten annotation saying, I wonder what would happen if you used Thestral blood here instead of blueberries? and immediately beneath was a reply in different handwriting, You'd get sick for weeks and maybe die.

  "I see them," said Harry. "What about them?"

  Dumbledore pointed to the second scrawl. "The ones in this handwriting," he said, still in that low voice, "were written by your mother. And the ones in this handwriting," moving his finger to indicate the first scrawl, "were written by me. I would turn myself invisible and sneak into her dorm room while she was sleeping. Lily thought one of her friends was writing them and they had the most amazing fights."

  That was the exact point at which Harry realised that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was, in fact, crazy.

  Dumbledore was looking at him with a serious expression. "Do you understand the implications of what I have just told you, Harry?"

  "Ehhh..." Harry said. His voice seemed to be stuck. "Sorry... I... not really..."

  "Ah well," said Dumbledore, and sighed. "I suppose your cleverness has limits after all, then. Shall we all just pretend I didn't say anything?"

  Harry rose from his chair, wearing a fixed smile. "Of course," Harry said. "You know it's actually getting rather late in the day and I'm a bit hungry, so I should be going down to dinner, really" and Harry made a beeline for the door.

  The doorknob entirely failed to turn.

  "You wound me, Harry," said Dumbledore's voice in quiet tones that were coming from right behind him. "Do you not at least realise that what I have told you is a sign of trust?"

  Harry slowly turned around.

  In front of him was a very powerful and very insane wizard with a long silver beard, a hat like a squashed giant mushroom, and wearing what looked to Muggle eyes like three layers of bright pink pyjamas.

  Behind him was a door that didn't seem to be working at the moment.

  Dumbledore was looking rather saddened and weary, like he wanted to lean on a wizard's staff he didn't have. "Really," said Dumbledore, "you try anything new instead of following the same pattern every time for a hundred and ten years, and people all start running away." The old wizard shook his head in sorrow. "I'd hoped for better from you, Harry Potter. I'd heard that your own friends also think you mad. I know they are mistaken. Will you not believe the same of me?"

  "Please open the door," Harry said, his voice trembling. "If you ever want me to trust you again, open the door."

  There was the sound behind him of a door opening.

  "There were more things I planned to say to you," Dumbledore said, "and if you leave now, you will not know what they were."

  Sometimes Harry absolutely hated being a Ravenclaw.

  He's never hurt a student, said Harry's Gryffindor side. Just keep remembering that and you'll be sure not to panic. You're not going to run away just because things are getting interesting, are you?

  You can't just walk out on the Headmaster! said the Hufflepuff part. What if he starts deducting House points? He could make your school life very difficult if he decides he doesn't like you!

  And a piece of himself which Harry didn't much like but couldn't quite manage to silence was pondering the potential advantages of being one of the few friends of this mad old wizard who also happened to be Headmaster, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump. And unfortunately his inner Slytherin seemed to be much better than Draco at turning people to the Dark Side, because it was saying things like poor fellow, he looks like he needs someone to talk to, doesn't he? and you wouldn't want such a powerful man to end up trusting someone less virtuous, would you? and I wonder what sort of incredible secrets Dumbledore could tell you if, you know, you became friends with him and even I bet he's got a reaallly interesting book collection.

  You're all a bunch of lunatics, Harry thought at the entire assemblage, but he'd been unanimously outvoted by every component part of himself.

  Harry turned, took a step towards the open door, reached out, and deliberately closed it again. It was a costless sacrifice given that he was staying anyway, Dumbledore could control his movements regardless, but maybe it would impress Dumbledore.

  When Harry turned back around he saw that the powerful insane wizard was once more smiling and looking friendly. That was good, maybe.

  "Please don't do that again," Harry said. "I don't like being trapped."

  "I am sorry about that, Harry," said Dumbledore in what sounded like tones of sincere apology. "But it would have been terribly unwise to let you leave without your father's rock."

  "Of course," Harry said. "It wasn't reasonable of me to expect the door to open before I put the quest items in my inventory."

  Dumbledore smiled and nodded.

  Harry went over to the desk, twisted his mokeskin pouch around to the front of his belt, and, with some effort, managed to heave up the rock in his eleven-year-old arms and feed it in.

  He could actually feel the weight slowly diminishing as the Widening Lip charm ate the rock, and the burp which followed was rather noisy and had a distinctly complaining sound to it.

  His mother's fifth-year Potions textbook (which held a secret that was in fact pretty terrible) followed shortly after.

  And then Harry's inner Slytherin made a sly suggestion for ingratiating himself with the Headmaster, which, unfortunately, had been perfectly pitched in such a way as to gain the support of the majority Ravenclaw faction.

  "So," Harry said. "Um. As long as I'm hanging around, I don't s
uppose you would like to give me a bit of a tour of your office? I'm a bit curious as to what some of these things are," and that was his understatement for the month of September.

  Dumbledore gazed at him, and then nodded with a slight grin. "I'm flattered by your interest," said Dumbledore, "but I'm afraid there isn't much to say." Dumbledore took a step closer to the wall and pointed to a painting of a sleeping man. "These are portraits of past Headmasters of Hogwarts." He turned and pointed to his desk. "This is my desk." He pointed to his chair. "This is my chair -"

  "Excuse me," Harry said, "actually I was wondering about those." Harry pointed to a small cube that was softly whispering "blorple... blorple... blorple".

  "Oh, the little fiddly things?" said Dumbledore. "They came with the Headmaster's office and I have absolutely no idea what most of them do. Although this dial with the eight hands counts the number of, let's call them sneezes, by left-handed witches within the borders of France, you would not believe how much work it took to nail that down. And this one with the golden wibblers is my own invention and Minerva is never, ever going to figure out what it's doing."

  Dumbledore took a step over to the hatrack while Harry was still processing this. "Here of course we have the Sorting Hat, I believe the two of you have met. It told me that it was never again to be placed on your head under any circumstances. You're only the fourteenth student in history it's said that about, Baba Yaga was another one and I'll tell you about the other twelve when you're older. This is an umbrella. This is another umbrella." Dumbledore took another few steps and turned around, now smiling quite broadly. "And of course, most people who come to my office want to see Fawkes."

  Dumbledore was standing next to the bird on the golden platform.

  Harry came over, rather puzzled. "This is Fawkes?"

  "Fawkes is a phoenix," said Dumbledore. "Very rare, very powerful magical creatures."

  "Ah..." Harry said. He lowered his head and stared into the tiny, beady black eyes, which showed not the slightest sign of power or intelligence.

  "Ahhh..." Harry said again.

  He was pretty sure he recognised the shape of the bird. It was pretty hard to miss.

  "Umm..."

  Say something intelligent! Harry's mind roared at itself. Don't just stand there sounding like a gibbering moron!

  Well what the heck am I supposed to say? Harry's mind fired back.

  Anything!

  You mean, anything besides "Fawkes is a chicken" -

  Yes! Anything but that!

  "So, ah, what sort of magic do phoenixes do, then?"

  "Their tears have the power to heal," Dumbledore said. "They are creatures of fire, and move between all places as easily as fire may extinguish itself in one place and be kindled in another. The tremendous strain of their innate magic ages their bodies quickly, and yet they are as close to undying as any creature that exists in this world, for whenever their bodies fail them they immolate themselves in a burst of fire and leave behind a hatchling, or sometimes an egg." Dumbledore came closer and inspected the chicken, frowning. "Hm... looking a little peaky there, I'd say."

  By the time this statement registered fully in Harry's mind, the chicken was already on fire.

  The chicken's beak opened, but it didn't have time for so much as a single caw before it began to wither and char. The blaze was brief, intense, and entirely self-contained; there was no smell of burning.

  And then the fire died down only seconds after it had begun, leaving behind a tiny, pathetic heap of ashes on the golden platform.

  "Don't look so horrified, Harry!" said Dumbledore. "Fawkes hasn't been hurt." Dumbledore's hand dipped into a pocket, and then the same hand sifted through the ashes and turned up a small yellowish egg. "Look, here's an egg!"

  "Oh... wow... amazing..."

  "But now we really should get on with things," Dumbledore said. Leaving the egg behind in the ashes of the chicken, he returned to his throne and seated himself. "It's almost time for dinner, after all, and we wouldn't want to have to use our Time-Turners."

  There was a violent power struggle going on in the Government of Harry. Slytherin and Hufflepuff had switched sides after seeing the Headmaster of Hogwarts set fire to a chicken.

  "Yes, things," said Harry's lips. "And then dinner."

  You're sounding like a gibbering moron again observed Harry's Internal Critic.

  "Well," Dumbledore said. "I fear I have a confession to make, Harry. A confession and an apology."

  "Apologies are good" that doesn't even make sense! What am I talking about?

  The old wizard sighed deeply. "You may not still think so after understanding what I have to say. I'm afraid, Harry, that I've been manipulating you your entire life. It was I who consigned you to the care of your wicked stepparents -"

  "My stepparents aren't wicked!" blurted Harry. "My parents, I mean!"

  "They aren't?" Dumbledore said, looking surprised and disappointed. "Not even a little wicked? That doesn't fit the pattern..."

  Harry's inner Slytherin screamed at the top of its mental lungs, SHUT UP YOU IDIOT HE'LL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM THEM!

  "No, no," said Harry, lips frozen in a ghastly grimace, "I was just trying to spare your feelings, they're actually very wicked..."

  "They are?" Dumbledore leaned forward, gazing at him intently. "What do they do?"

  Talk fast "they, ah, I have to do dishes and wash problems and they don't let me read a lot of books and -"

  "Ah, good, that's good to hear," said Dumbledore, leaning back again. He smiled in a sad sort of way. "I apologise for that, then. Now where was I? Ah, yes. I'm sorry to say, Harry, that I am responsible for virtually everything bad that has ever happened to you. I know that this will probably make you very angry."

  "Yes, I'm very angry!" said Harry. "Grrr!"

  Harry's Internal Critic promptly awarded him the All-Time Award for the Worst Acting in the History of Ever.

  "And I just wanted you to know," Dumbledore said, "I wanted to tell you as early as possible, in case something happens to one of us later, that I am truly, truly sorry. For everything that has already happened, and everything that will."

  Moisture glistened in the old wizard's eyes.

  "And I'm very angry!" said Harry. "So angry that I want to leave right now unless you've got anything else to say!"

  Just GO before he sets you on fire! shrieked Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor.

  "I understand," said Dumbledore. "One last thing then, Harry. You are not to attempt the forbidden door on the third-floor corridor. There's no possible way you could get through all the traps, and I wouldn't want to hear that you'd been hurt trying. Why, I doubt that you could so much as open the first door, since it's locked and you don't know the spell Alohomora -"

  Harry spun around and bolted for the exit at top speed, the doorknob turned agreeably in his hand and then he was racing down the spiral stairs even as they turned, his feet almost stumbling over themselves, in just a moment he was at the bottom and the gargoyle was walking aside and Harry fired out of the stairwell like a cannonball.

  Harry Potter.

  There must have been something about Harry Potter.

  It was Thursday for everyone, after all, and yet this sort of thing didn't seem to happen to anyone else.

  It was 6:21pm on Thursday afternoon when Harry Potter, firing out of the stairwell like a cannonball and accelerating at top speed, ran directly into Minerva McGonagall as she was turning a corner on her way to the Headmaster's office.

  Thankfully neither of them were much hurt. As had been explained to Harry a little earlier in the day - back when he was refusing to go anywhere near a broomstick again - Quidditch needed solid iron Bludgers just to stand a decent chance of injuring the players, since wizards tended to be a lot more resistant than Muggles to impacts.

  Harry and Professor McGonagall did both end up on the floor, and the parchments she had been carrying went all over the corridor.

  There was a terribl
e, terrible pause.

  "Harry Potter," breathed Professor McGonagall from where she was lying on the floor right next to Harry. Her voice rose to nearly a shriek. "What were you doing in the Headmaster's office?"

  "Nothing!" squeaked Harry.

  "Were you talking about the Defence Professor?"

  "No! Dumbledore called me up there and he gave me this big rock and said it was my father's and I should carry it everywhere!"

  There was another terrible pause.

  "I see," said Professor McGonagall, her voice a little calmer. She stood up, brushed herself off, and glared at the scattered parchments, which jumped into a neat stack and scurried back against the corridor wall as though to hide from her gaze. "My sympathies, Mr. Potter, and I apologise for doubting you."

  "Professor McGonagall," Harry said. His voice was wavering. He pushed himself off the floor, stood, and looked up at her trustworthy, sane face. "Professor McGonagall..."

  "Yes, Mr. Potter?"

  "Do you think I should?" Harry said in a small voice. "Carry my father's rock everywhere?"

  Professor McGonagall sighed. "That is between you and the Headmaster, I'm afraid." She hesitated. "I will say that ignoring the Headmaster completely is almost never wise. I am sorry to hear of your dilemma, Mr. Potter, and if there's any way I can help you with whatever you decide to do -"

  "Um," Harry said. "Actually I was thinking that once I know how, I could Transfigure the rock into a ring and wear it on my finger. If you could teach me how to sustain a Transfiguration -"

  "It is good that you asked me first," Professor McGonagall said, her face growing a bit stern. "If you lost control of the Transfiguration the reversal would cut off your finger and probably rip your hand in half. And at your age, even a ring is too large a target for you to sustain indefinitely without it being a serious drain on your magic. But I can have a ring forged for you with a setting for a jewel, a small jewel, in contact with your skin, and you can practice sustaining a safe subject, like a marshmallow. When you have kept it up successfully, even in your sleep, for a full month, I will allow you to Transfigure, ah, your father's rock..." Professor McGonagall's voice trailed off. "Did the Headmaster really -"