Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

The afternoon sunlight poured down into the office of the Sunshine Regiment, illuminating General Granger in her chair as though she glowed with a golden aura.

"How long do you think it will take Malfoy to figure it out?" said General Granger.

"Not long," said Colonel Blaise Zabini. "He may have already. How long will it take Potter to figure it out?"

"Forever," said General Granger, "unless Malfoy tells him, or one of his own soldiers realizes. Harry Potter just doesn't think like that."

"Really?" said Captain Ernie Macmillan, looking up from one of the corner tables where he was being crushed at chess by Captain Ron Weasley. (They'd brought back all the other chairs after Malfoy had left, of course.) "I mean it seems kind of obvious to me. Who would try to come up with all the ideas just by themselves?"

"Harry," said Hermione, at exactly the same time Zabini said, "Malfoy."

"Malfoy thinks he's way better than everyone else," said Zabini.

"And Harry... doesn't really see most other people like that," said Hermione.

It was kind of sad, actually. Harry had grown up very, very alone. It wasn't that he went around thinking in words that only geniuses had a right to exist. It just wouldn't occur to him that anyone in Hermione's army besides Hermione could have any good ideas.

"Anyhow," Hermione said. "Captains Goldstein and Weasley, you're on duty for thinking up strategic ideas for our next battle. Captains Macmillan and Susan - sorry, I mean Macmillan and Bones - try to come up with some tactics we can use, also any training you think we should try. Oh, and congratulations on your marching song, Captain Goldstein, I think it was a big plus for esprit de corps."

"What're you doing?" said Susan. "And Colonel Zabini?"

Hermione stood up out of her chair, stretching. "I'll try to figure out what Harry Potter is thinking and Colonel Zabini will try to figure out what Draco Malfoy might do, and both of us will join you again after we come up with something. I'm going to walk while I think. Zabini, you want to come along?"

"Yes, General," said Zabini stiffly.

It hadn't been meant as an order. Hermione sighed to herself a little. This was going to take some getting used to, and although Zabini's first idea had certainly worked, she wasn't quite sure that Professor Quirrell's quote mixture of positive and negative incentives unquote would be enough to keep the Slytherin fully on her side until December when traitors would be allowed for the first time...

She still had no idea what she was going to do with Professor Quirrell's Christmas wish, either. Maybe she'd just ask Mandy if she wanted anything, when the time came around.

Chapter 32: Interlude: Personal Financial Management

"But Headmaster," Harry argued, some of his desperation leaking into his voice, "leaving all of my assets in one undiversified vault full of gold coins - it's crazy, Headmaster! It's like, I don't know, doing Transfiguration experiments without consulting a recognized authority! You just don't do that with money!"

From the lined face of the old wizard - underneath a festive holiday hat like a catastrophic automobile collision between cars of green and red cloth - a grave, sad look peered out at Harry.

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore, "and I do apologize, but allowing you control over your own finances would give you far too much independence of action."

Harry's mouth opened and no sound came out. He was, literally, speechless.

"I will permit you to withdraw five Galleons for Christmas presents," said Dumbledore, "which is more than any boy your age should spend, but poses no threat, I think -"

"I can't believe you just said that!" the words burst out of Harry's mouth. "You admit to being that manipulative?"

"Manipulative?" said the old wizard, smiling slightly. "No, manipulative would be if I did not admit it, or if I had some deeper motive behind the obvious. This is quite straightforward, Harry. You are not yet ready to play the game, and it would be foolish to allow you thousands of Galleons with which to upset the gameboard."

The bright hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley had increased by a hundredfold and redoubled as Christmas approached, with all the shops enshrouded in brilliant sorceries that flashed and sparkled as though the season's spirit was about to blaze out of control and turn the whole area into a cheerful holiday crater. The streets were so crowded with witches and wizards in festive and loud clothing that your eyes were assaulted almost as severely as your ears; and it was clear, from the bewildering variety of the shoppers, that Diagon Alley was considered an international attraction. There were witches wrapped in giant swathes of cloth like toweled mummies, and wizards in formal top hats and bath-robes, and young children barely past toddling age who were decorated with lights that blazed almost as bright as the shops themselves, as their parents took them hand in hand through that magic wonderland and let them shriek to their heart's content. It was the season to be merry.

And in the midst of all that light and cheer, a note of blackest night; a cold, dark atmosphere that cleared a few precious paces of distance even in the midst of all that crush.

"No," said Professor Quirrell, with a look of grim revulsion, like he'd just bitten into food that not only tasted horrible but was morally repugnant to boot. It was the sort of grim face an ordinary person might make after biting into a meat pie, and discovering that it was rotten and had been made from kittens.

"Oh, come on," Harry said. "You must have some ideas."

"Mr. Potter," Professor Quirrell said, his lips set in a thin line, "I agreed to act as your adult guardian on this expedition. I did not agree to advise you on your choice of presents. I don't do Christmas, Mr. Potter."

"How about Newtonmas?" Harry said brightly. "Isaac Newton actually was born on December 25th, unlike some other historical figures I could name."

This failed to impress Professor Quirrell.