Eliezer Yudkowsky - Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

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 stadiumrocking cries of triumph or dismay. Blue and green and yellow and redtrimmed 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 problemsolving.

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: