"Ah," said Dumbledore. He tapped his cheek, looking thoughtful. "An interesting argument, certainly, but doesn't it break down at the point where you make an analogy between a million potential murderers only one of whom committed the murder, and taking one out of many possible courses of action, when many possible courses of action may all be wise? I do not say that carrying your father's rock is the one best possible course of action, only that it is wiser to do than not."
Dumbledore once again reached into the same desk drawer he had accessed earlier, this time seeming to root around inside - at least his arm seemed to be moving. "I will remark," Dumbledore said while Harry was still trying to sort out how to reply to this completely unexpected rejoinder, "that it is a common misconception of Ravenclaws that all the smart children are Sorted there, leaving none for other Houses. This is not so; being Sorted to Ravenclaw indicates that you are driven by your desire to know things, which is not at all the same quality as being intelligent." The wizard was smiling as he bent over the drawer. "Nonetheless, you
"You don't mean..." gasped Harry. "My father...
"Excuse me," said Dumbledore, "I
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:
"This," Dumbledore intoned, "was your mother's fifth-year Potions textbook."
"Which I am to carry with me at all times," said Harry.
"
Harry considered his mother's fifth-year Potions textbook, which, apparently, held a terrible secret.
The problem was that Harry
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. "
"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
"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
That was the exact point at which Harry realised that the Headmaster of Hogwarts
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?"