Eliezer Yudkowsky - Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

Professor McGonagall spun around to face Professor Flitwick, and then stopped, blood draining from her face.

Then she seized the broomstick from Harry Potter’s hand, and presented it to the tiny half-goblin Professor. “Filius,” she said crisply. All the incipient panic had disappeared from her voice, she now spoke in her crisp Scottish accent as though addressing lessons on Monday. “Look for the graveyard of which Mr. Potter spoke, find Miss Granger. Apparate her to St. Mungo’s and then stay by her.”

“I think—” Harry Potter said hoarsely. “I think Transfiguration might have been used in combat there—Professor Quirrell tried to fight Voldemort—take precautions—”

Filius Flitwick nodded without halting in getting on the broomstick.

“Professor Quirrell’s dead!” wailed Harry Potter. The anguish in his voice carried clearly. “He’s dead! The Dark Lord killed him! His body—”

Harry Potter choked up. “It’s there, in the graveyard.”

She stumbled back again, feeling it like another punch in her gut. Professor Quirrell had been—one of her favorite Professors, ever , he’d made her rethink everything she’d believed about Slytherin, she’d known in some distant way that he was probably going to die very soon but to hear that he was really, truly dead…

The Boy-Who-Lived sat down on the bench, as if his legs couldn’t support him anymore.

Professor McGonagall turned to the crowd, touching her wand to her throat. “QUIDDITCH IS OVER,” her amplified voice boomed out. “GO BACK TO YOUR DORMITORIES—”

“ Don’t! ” screamed Harry Potter.

Professor McGonagall turned to look at him.

Tears were leaking down the Boy-Who-Lived’s cheeks, he looked like the interruption had surprised himself as much as it had surprised anyone else. “It was Professor Quirrell’s last plot,” Harry Potter said, his voice breaking. The Boy-Who-Lived looked at the Quidditch players who had now flown to nearby, as though speaking to them directly. “His last plot.”

Harry Potter was floated off by Professor McGonagall to the infirmary.

The other Professors ran off to oversee who-knew-what, leaving only Professors Sinistra and Hooch behind. At the stadium, rumors ran wild; Anna repeated everything she could remember hearing as best she could. Something had happened to Dumbledore, some Death Eaters had been summoned and killed (no, Harry Potter hadn’t said which ones), Professor Quirrell had gone out to face the Dark Lord and died for it, You-KnowWho had returned and died again, Professor Quirrell was dead, he was dead.

In time most of the students wandered off back to their dormitories, to sleep if they could.

Anna stayed in the stadium, and watched the rest of the game, ignoring her body’s need for sleep, and her eyes that often blurred with tears.

The Ravenclaw team put up a valiant fight.

But there was no Quidditch team anywhere that could’ve defeated the Slytherins that day.

Dawn was tinging the sky when the Slytherins won their final game, the Quidditch Cup, and the House Cup.

The morning after had come, and all the students had gathered silently around the four Tables of Hogwarts, Harry James PotterEvans-Verres among them. He had collapsed in exhaustion last night and been awoken in the infirmary next morning, still muzzy, with the Philosopher’s Stone underneath his left sock.

The Head Table looked like a plague had swept it.

Dumbledore’s throne was gone from the Head Table, without replacement, leaving the center of the Head Table empty.

Severus Snape was sitting in a floating seat, the magical equivalent of a wheelchair.

Professor Sprout was missing. According to what Harry had been told last night, a court Legilimens would examine her to see if any further compulsions remained, but probably no charges would be filed. Harry had emphasized to Professor McGonagall and the Aurors, as hard as he could, that Professor Sprout was probably just a victim. The Boy-WhoLived had pronounced that he’d seen no evidence of Sprout’s intentional guilt in Voldemort’s mind.

Professor Flitwick was missing, presumably still staying by Hermione’s side.

Professor Sinistra was missing and Harry didn’t know why or where.

The numbness that surrounded Harry’s mind was like a Mylar blanket, protective if not comforting. There were scenes in his mind of black robes falling and blood spilling, appearing for an instant before being shoved back. He’d process it later, not now. Some other time would be better, future-Harry would have a comparative advantage at coping.

Somewhere inside Harry was the fear that it wouldn’t hurt, that there would be no price to be paid. But that fear also could be put off into the future.

No breakfast had appeared on the tables. The students sitting near Harry were waiting in frightened silence. Owls had been prohibited from entering or leaving Hogwarts since early last night.

The doors of the Great Hall opened once more, and forth came Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. She wore robes of formal black, and her head was bare, denuded of its usual witch’s hat. Her grey-brownblonde hair was done up in a coiled braid, as if in preparation for a hat to be placed later; but for now Harry saw her head bare for the first time.

Minerva McGonagall came to the lectern that stood before the Head Table.

All eyes were upon her.

“I am afraid that I have much news,” Minerva said. Her voice was sad, within its Scottish precision. “And most of it is terrible. First. The reason I am the one to speak to you is that the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus,” her voice stopped, “Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, has been lost. You-Know-Who trapped him outside Time, and we do not know if he ever can be brought back to us. We, we have lost, what may have been, the greatest Headmaster, that Hogwarts has ever had.”

A susurration of horror arose across the tables, no audible gasps or moans, just the sound of many intaken breaths; most from Gryffindor, and some from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as well. The ill news had already been known, but now it had also been said by authority.

“Second. You-Know-Who returned briefly, but is once again dead. All that remained of him was his hands clutched around Miss Granger’s throat. There is no more threat from him, or so we think.” Minerva McGonagall drew in another breath. “Third. Professor Quirrell died with his wand in his hand, facing You-Know-Who. He was found not far from where You-Know-Who perished again, a victim of You-KnowWho’s Killing Curse.” Another susurration of verified horror, now from all four tables.

Minerva drew another breath. “Last night we also lost what may have been the greatest Defense Professor in the history of Hogwarts. His scholastic merits alone… Our Defense Professor has gone by many names, but his true name was David Monroe. As he was the last of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Monroe, his funeral—his second funeral, and the true one—will be held before the Most Ancient Hall of the Wizengamot, in two days. Yet a wake shall also be held for the Defense Professor of Hogwarts, for our own Professor Quirrell, in this castle. That man also died a Hogwarts teacher, as nobly as a Hogwarts teacher ever did.”

Harry listened in silence, shoving down the tears that again rose to his eyes. It wasn’t even true, let alone unexpected; and yet hearing it still hurt. From where he sat beside, Anthony Goldstein put a comforting hand over Harry’s hand, and Harry left it there.

“Fourth. One piece of exceedingly unexpected and happy news. Hermione Granger is alive and in full health, sound of body and mind. Miss Granger is being observed at St. Mungo’s to see if there are any unexpected afteraffects from whatever happened to her, but she appears to be doing astonishingly well considering her previous condition.”