Eliezer Yudkowsky - Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

What the man might be seeing there, Harry could not tell; to Harry it seemed that the flat, perfect surface still reflected the room behind it, like a portal to another place.

“Ariana,” breathed the man. “Mother, father. And you, my brother, it is done.”

The man stood still, as if listening.

“Yes, done,” the man said. “Voldemort came before this mirror, and was trapped by Merlin’s method. He is only one more sealed horror now.” Again the listening stillness.

“I would that I could obey you, my brother, but it is better this way.” The man bowed his head. “He is denied his death, forever; that vengeance is terrible enough.”

Harry felt a twinge, watching this, a sense that this was not what Dumbledore would have said, it seemed more like a strawman, a shallow stereotype… but then this wasn’t the real Aberforth’s spirit either, this was who Professor Quirrell imagined Dumbledore imagined Aberforth was, and that doubly-reflected image of Aberforth wouldn’t notice anything amiss…

“It is time to give back the Philosopher’s Stone,” said the man who thought he was Dumbledore. “It must go back into Master Flamel’s keeping, now.”

Listening stillness.

“No,” said the man, “Master Flamel has kept it safe these many years from all who would seek immortality, and I think it will be safest in his hands… no, Aberforth, I do think his intentions are good.”

Harry couldn’t control the tension that was running through him like a live wire; he was having trouble breathing. Imperfect, Professor Quirrell’s Confundus Charm had been imperfect. The underlying personality of Professor Quirrell was leaking through and seeing the obvious question, why it was okay for Nicholas Flamel himself to have the Stone if immortality was so awful. Even if Professor Quirrell conceptualized Dumbledore as being blind to the question, Professor Quirrell hadn’t included a clause in the Confundus saying that Dumbledore’s image of Aberforth wouldn’t think of it; and all of this was ultimately a reflection of Professor Quirrell’s own mind, an image from within the intelligence of

Tom Riddle…

“Destroy it?” said the man. “Maybe. I am not sure it can be destroyed, or Master Flamel would have done it long since. I think, many times, that he has regretted making it… Aberforth, I promised him, and we are not so ancient or so wise ourselves. The Philosopher’s Stone must go back into

the keeping of the one who made it.” And Harry’s breath stopped.

The man was holding an irregular chunk of scarlet glass in his left hand, the size perhaps of Harry’s thumb from fingernail to the first joint. The sheened surface of the scarlet glass made it seem wet; the appearance was of blood, suspended in time and made into a jagged surface.

“Thank you, my brother,” the man said quietly.

Is that what the Stone should look like? Does Professor Quirrell know what the true Stone should look like? Will the Mirror give back the real Stone under these conditions, or make an imitation and return that?

And then—

“No, Ariana,” the man said, smiling gently, “I fear I must go now. Be patient, my dearest, it will be soon enough that I join you in truth… why? Why, I am not sure why I must go… when I hold the Stone I am to step aside from the Mirror and wait for Master Flamel to contact me, but I am not sure why I need to step aside from the Mirror to do that…” The man sighed. “Ah, I am getting old. It is well this dreadful war ended when it did. I suppose there is no harm if I speak to you for a time, my dearest, if you wish it so.”

A headache was starting behind Harry’s eyes; some part of Harry was trying to send a message about not having breathed in a while, but no one was listening. Imperfect , Professor Quirrell’s Confundus Charm had been imperfect, Professor Quirrell’s image of Dumbledore’s image of Ariana wanted to talk to Dumbledore, and maybe didn’t want to wait because Professor Quirrell knew on some level that there wasn’t really an afterlife, and the previously implanted impulse to leave after getting the Stone wasn’t standing up to Riddle-Ariana’s arguments…

And then Harry felt himself become very calm. He started breathing again.

Either way, there wasn’t much Harry could do about it. Professor

Quirrell had stopped Harry from intervening; well, Professor Quirrell was welcome to reap the consequences of that decision. If the consequences caught Harry as well, so be it.

The man who thought he was Dumbledore was mostly nodding patiently, sometimes replying to his dearest sister. Sometimes the man cast an uneasy look to one side; as if feeling a strong impulse to go, but suppressing that impulse with the great patience and politeness and concern for his sister that Professor Quirrell imagined Albus Dumbledore having.

Harry saw it the instant the Confundus wore off, and the man’s expression changed, becoming again the face of Professor Quirrell.

And in the same instant the Mirror changed, no longer showing Harry the reflection of the room, showing instead the form of the real Albus Dumbledore, as though he were standing just behind the Mirror and visible through it.

The real Dumbledore’s face was set, and grim.

“Hello, Tom,” said Albus Dumbledore.

The grimness on Albus Dumbledore’s face lasted only an instant before giving way to bewilderment. “Quirinus? What—” And then there was a pause.

“Well,” said Albus Dumbledore. “I do feel stupid.”

“I should hope so,” Professor Quirrell said easily; if he had been at all shocked himself at being caught, it did not show. A casual wave of his hand changed his robes back to a Professor’s clothing.

Dumbledore’s grimness had returned and redoubled. “There I am, searching so hard for Voldemort’s shade, never noticing that the Defense Professor of Hogwarts is a sickly, half-dead victim possessed by a spirit far more powerful than himself. I would call it senility, if so many others had not missed it as well.”

“Quite,” said Professor Quirrell. He lifted his eyebrows. “Really, am I that hard to recognise without the glowing red eyes?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” Albus Dumbledore said in level tones. “Your acting was perfect; I confess myself utterly deceived. Quirinus Quirrell seemed—what is the term I am looking for? Ah yes, that is the word. He seemed sane.”

Professor Quirrell chuckled; he looked for all the world as though the two of them were just having a casual conversation. “I never was insane, you know. Lord Voldemort was just another game for me, the same as Professor Quirrell.”

Albus Dumbledore did not look like he was enjoying a casual chat. “I thought you might say that. I regret to inform you, Tom, that anyone who can bring himself to act the part of Voldemort is Voldemort.”

“Ah,” said Professor Quirrell, raising an admonishing finger. “There is a loophole in that reasoning, old man. Anyone who acts the part of Voldemort must be what moralists call ‘evil’, on this we agree. But perhaps the real me is completely, utterly, irredeemably evil in an interestingly different fashion from what I was pretending with Voldemort—”

“I find,” Albus Dumbledore ground out, “that I do not care.”

“Then you must think yourself to be rid of me very soon,” said Professor Quirrell. “How interesting. My immortal existence must depend on discovering what trap you have set, and finding a way to escape from it, as soon as possible.” Professor Quirrell paused. “But let us pointlessly delay to talk of other matters first. How did you come to be waiting inside the Mirror? I thought you would be elsewhere.”