There was some laughter in the classroom. Harry didn't share it. That hadn't been right at all.
"In any case. During one of my first fights, after I had been beaten in a particularly humiliating fashion, I lost control and attacked my sparring partner -"
Yikes.
"- thankfully with my fists, rather than my magic. The Master, surprisingly, did not expel me on the spot. But he told me that there was a flaw in my temperament. He explained it to me, and I knew that he was right. And then he said that I would learn how to lose."
Professor Quirrell's face was expressionless.
"Upon his strict orders, all of the students of the dojo lined up. One by one, they approached me. I was not to defend myself. I was only to beg for mercy. One by one, they slapped me, or punched me, and pushed me to the ground. Some of them spat on me. They called me awful names in their language. And to each one, I had to say, 'I lose!' and similar such things, such as 'I beg you to stop!' and 'I admit you're better than me!'"
Harry was trying to imagine this and simply failing. There was no way something like that could have happened to the dignified Professor Quirrell.
"I was a prodigy of Battle Magic even then. With wandless magic alone I could have killed everyone in that dojo. I did not do so. I learned to lose. To this day I remember it as one of the most unpleasant hours of my life. And when I left that dojo eight months later - which was not nearly enough time, but was all I could afford to spend - the Master told me that he hoped I understood why that had been necessary. And I told him that it was one of the most valuable lessons I had ever learned. Which was, and is, true."
Professor Quirrell's face turned bitter. "You are wondering where this marvelous dojo is, and whether you can study there. You cannot. For not long afterward, another would-be student came to that hidden place, to that remote mountain. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
There was the sound of many breaths being drawn in simultaneously. Harry felt sick to his stomach. He knew what was coming.
"The Dark Lord came to that school openly, without disguise, glowing red eyes and all. The students tried to bar his way and he simply Apparated through. There was terror there, but discipline, and the Master came forth. And the Dark Lord demanded - not asked, but demanded - to be taught."
Professor Quirrell's face was very hard. "Perhaps the Master had read too many books telling the lie that a true martial artist could defeat even demons. For whatever reason, the Master refused. The Dark Lord asked why he could not be a student. The Master told him he had no patience, and that was when the Dark Lord ripped his tongue out."
There was a collective gasp.
"You can guess what happened next. The students tried to rush the Dark Lord and fell over, stunned where they stood. And then..."
Professor Quirrell's voice faltered for a moment, then resumed.
"There is an Unforgiveable Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, which produces unbearable pain. If the Cruciatus is extended for longer than a few minutes it produces permanent insanity. One by one, the Dark Lord Crucioed the Master's students into insanity, and then finished them off with the Killing Curse, while the Master was forced to watch. When all his students had died in this way, the Master followed. I learned this from the single surviving student, whom the Dark Lord had left alive to tell the tale, and who had been a friend of mine..."
Professor Quirrell turned away, and when he turned back a moment later, he once again seemed calm and composed.
"Dark Wizards cannot keep their tempers," Professor Quirrell said quietly. "It is a nearly universal flaw of the species, and anyone who makes a habit of fighting them soon learns to rely on it. Understand that the Dark Lord did not win that day. His goal was to learn martial arts, and yet he left without a single lesson. The Dark Lord was foolish to wish that story retold. It did not show his strength, but rather an exploitable weakness."
Professor Quirrell's gaze focused on a single child in the classroom.
"Harry Potter," Professor Quirrell said.
"Yes," Harry said, his voice hoarse.
"What precisely did you do wrong today, Mr. Potter?"
Harry felt like he was going to throw up. "I lost my temper."
"That is not precise," said Professor Quirrell. "I will describe it more exactly. There are many animals which have what are called dominance contests. They rush at each other with horns - trying to knock each other down, not gore each other. They fight with their paws - with claws sheathed. But why with their claws sheathed? Surely, if they used their claws, they would stand a better chance of winning? But then their enemy might unsheathe their claws as well, and instead of resolving the dominance contest with a winner and a loser, both of them might be severely hurt."
Professor Quirrell gaze seemed to come straight out at Harry from the repeater screen. "What you demonstrated today, Mr. Potter, is that - unlike those animals who keep their claws sheathed and accept the results - you do not know how to lose a dominance contest. When a Hogwarts professor challenged you, you did not back down. When it looked like you might lose, you unsheathed your claws, heedless of the danger. You escalated, and then you escalated again. It started with a slap at you from Professor Snape, who was obviously dominant over you. Instead of losing, you slapped back and lost ten points from Ravenclaw. Soon you were talking about leaving Hogwarts. The fact that you escalated even further in some unknown direction, and somehow won at the end, does not change the fact that you are an idiot."
"I understand," Harry said. His throat was dry. That had been precise. Frighteningly precise. Now that Professor Quirrell had said it, Harry could see in hindsight that it was an exactly accurate description of what had happened. When someone's model of you was that good, you had to wonder whether they were right about other things too, like your intent to kill.
"The next time, Mr. Potter, that you choose to escalate a contest rather than lose, you may lose all the stakes you place on the table. I cannot guess what they were today. I can guess that they were far, far too high for the loss of ten House points."
Like the fate of magical Britain. That was what he'd done.
''You will protest that you were trying to help all of Hogwarts, a much more important goal worthy of great risks. That is a lie. If you had been -"
"I would have taken the slap, waited, and picked the best possible time to make my move," Harry said, his voice hoarse. "But that would have meant losing. Letting him be dominant over me. It was what the Dark Lord couldn't do with the Master he wanted to learn from."
Professor Quirrell nodded. "I see that you have understood perfectly. And so, Mr. Potter, today you are going to learn how to lose."
"I -"
"I will not hear any objections, Mr. Potter. It is evident both that you need this and that you are strong enough to take it. I assure you that your experience will not be so harsh as what I went through, though you may well remember it as the worst fifteen minutes of your young life."
Harry swallowed. "Professor Quirrell," he said in a small voice, "can we do this some other time?"
"No," Professor Quirrell said simply. "You are five days into your Hogwarts education and already this has happened. Today is Friday. Our next defense class is on Wednesday. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... No, we do not have time to wait."
There were a few laughs at this, but very few.
"Please consider it an order from your professor, Mr. Potter. What I would like to say is that otherwise I will not teach you any offensive spells, because I would then hear that you had severely hurt or even killed someone. Unfortunately I am told that your fingers are already powerful weapons. Do not snap them at any time during this lesson."
More scattered laughter, sounding rather nervous.
Harry felt like he might cry. "Professor Quirrell, if you do anything like what you talked about, it's going to make me angry, and I really would rather not get angry again today -"
"The point is not to avoid getting angry," Professor Quirrell sai
d, his face looking grave. "Anger is natural. You need to learn how to lose even when you are angry. Or at least pretend to lose so that you can plan your vengeance. As I did with Mr. Goyle today, unless of course any of you think he really is better -"
"I'm not!" shouted Mr. Goyle from his desk, sounding a little frantic. "I know you didn't really lose! Please don't plan any vengeances!"
Harry felt sick to his stomach. Professor Quirrell didn't know about his mysterious dark side. "Professor, we really need to talk about this after class -"
"We will," Professor Quirrell said in the tones of a promise. "After you learn how to lose." His face was serious. "It should go without saying that I will exclude anything which could injure you or even cause you significant pain. The pain will come from the difficulty of losing, instead of fighting back and escalating the battle until you win."
Harry's breath was coming in short, panicky pants. He was more frightened than he'd been after leaving the Potions classroom. "Professor Quirrell," he managed to say, "I don't want you to get fired over this -"
"I will not be," Professor Quirrell said, "if you tell them afterward that it was necessary. And this I trust you to do." For a moment Professor Quirrell's voice turned very dry. "Believe me, they have tolerated worse in their hallways. This case will be exceptional only in that it happens within a classroom."
"Professor Quirrell," Harry whispered, but he thought his voice was still being repeated everywhere, "do you really believe that if I don't do this, I might hurt someone?"
"Yes," Professor Quirrell said simply.
"Then," Harry felt nauseous, "I'll do it."
Professor Quirrell turned to regard the Slytherins. "So... with the full approval of your teacher, and in such a fashion that Snape cannot be blamed for your actions... do any of you wish to show your dominance over the Boy-Who-Lived? Shove him around, push him to the ground, hear him beg for your mercy?"
Five hands went up.
"Everyone with your hand raised, you are an absolute idiot. What part of pretending to lose did you not understand? If Harry Potter does become the next Dark Lord he will hunt you down and kill you after he graduates."
The five hands dropped abruptly back to their desks.
"I won't," Harry said, his voice coming out rather weakly. "I swear never to take vengeance upon those who help me learn to lose. Professor Quirrell... would you please... stop that?"
Professor Quirrell sighed. "I am sorry, Mr. Potter. I realize that you must find this equally annoying whether you intend to become a Dark Lord or not. But those children also had an important life lesson to learn. Would it be acceptable if I awarded you a Quirrell point in apology?"
"Make it two," Harry said.
There was a current of surprised laughter, defusing some of the tension.
"Done," Professor Quirrell said.
"And after I graduate I'm going to hunt you down and tickle you."
There was more laughter, although Professor Quirrell didn't smile.
Harry felt like he was wrestling an anaconda, trying to force the conversation through the narrow course that would make people realize he wasn't a Dark Lord after all... why was Professor Quirrell so suspicious of him?
"Professor," said Draco's unamplified voice. "It is also not my own ambition to become a stupid Dark Lord."
There was a shocked silence in the classroom.
You don't have to do this! Harry almost blurted out loud, but checked himself in time; Draco might not wish it known that he was doing this out of friendship for Harry... or out of the desire to appear friendly...
Calling that a desire to appear friendly made Harry feel small, and mean. If Draco had intended to impress him, it was working perfectly.
Professor Quirrell was regarding Draco gravely. "You worry that you cannot pretend to lose, Mr. Malfoy? That this flaw which describes Mr. Potter also describes you? Surely your father taught you better."
"When it comes to talking, maybe," said Draco, now on the repeater screen. "Not when it comes to being shoved around and pushed to the ground. I want to be fully as strong as you, Professor Quirrell."
Professor Quirrell's eyebrows went up and stayed up. "I am afraid, Mr. Malfoy," he said after a time, "that the arrangements I made for Mr. Potter, involving some older Slytherins who will be told afterward how stupid they were, would not carry over onto you. But it is my professional opinion that you are already very strong. Should I hear that you have failed, as Mr. Potter failed today, I will make the appropriate arrangements and apologize to you and whomever you have hurt. I do not think this will be necessary, however."
"I understand, professor," said Draco.
Professor Quirrell looked over the class. "Does anyone else wish to become strong?"
Some students glanced around nervously. Some, Harry thought from his back row, looked like they were opening their mouths but not saying anything. In the end, no one spoke.
"Draco Malfoy will be one of the generals of your year's armies," said Professor Quirrell, "should he deign to engage in that after-school activity. And now, Mr. Potter, please come forward."
Yes, Professor Quirrell had said, it must be in front of everyone, in front of your friends, because that is where Snape confronted you and that is where you must learn to lose.
So now the first year watched. In magically enforced silence, and with requests from both Harry and the professor not to intervene. Hermione had her face turned away, but she hadn't spoken out or even given him any sort of significant look, maybe because she'd been there in Potions too.
Harry stood on a soft blue mat, such as might be found in a Muggle dojo, which Professor Quirrell had laid out upon the floor for when Harry was pushed down.
Harry was frightened of what he might do. If Professor Quirrell was right about his intent to kill...
Harry's wand lay on Professor Quirrell's desk, not because Harry knew any spells that could defend him, but because otherwise (Harry thought) he might have tried to jam it through someone's eye socket. His pouch lay there, now containing his protected but still potentially fragile Time-Turner.
Harry had pleaded with Professor Quirrell to Transfigure him some boxing gloves and lock them on his hands. Professor Quirrell had given him a look of silent understanding, and refused.
I will not go for their eyes, I will not go for their eyes, I will not go for their eyes, it would be the end of my life in Hogwarts, I'll be arrested, Harry chanted to himself, trying to hammer the thought into his brain, hoping it would stay there if his intent to kill took over.
Professor Quirrell returned, escorting thirteen older Slytherins of different years. Harry recognized one of them as the one he'd hit with a pie. Two others from that confrontation were also present. The one who'd said to stop, that they really shouldn't do this, was missing.
"I repeat," Professor Quirrell said, sounding very stern, "Potter is not to be really hurt. Any and all accidents will be treated as deliberate. Do you understand?"
The older Slytherins nodded, grinning.
"Then please feel free to take the Boy-Who-Lived down a few pegs," Professor Quirrell said, with a twisted smile that only the first-years understood.
By some form of mutual consent, the pie-target was at the front of the group.
"Potter," said Professor Quirrell, "meet Mr. Peregrine Derrick. He is better than you and he is about to show you that."
Derrick strode forward and Harry's brain screamed discordantly, he must not run away, he must not fight back -
Derrick stopped an arm's length away from Harry.
Harry wasn't angry yet, just frightened. And that meant he beheld a teenage boy fully half a meter taller than himself, with clearly defined muscles, facial hair, and a grin of terrible anticipation.
"Ask him not to hurt you," Professor Quirrell said. "Perhaps if he sees that you're pathetic enough, he'll decide that you're boring, and go away."
There was laughter from the watching older Slytherins.
"Please
," Harry said, his voice faltering, "don't, hurt, me..."
"That didn't sound very sincere," said Professor Quirrell.
Derrick's smile widened. The clumsy imbecile was looking very superior and...
...Harry's blood temperature was dropping...
"Please don't hurt me," Harry tried again.
Professor Quirrell shook his head. "How in Merlin's name did you manage to make that sound like an insult, Potter? There is only one response you can possibly expect from Mr. Derrick."
Derrick stepped forward deliberately, and bumped into Harry.
Harry staggered back a few feet and, before he could stop himself, straightened up icily.
"Wrong," said Professor Quirrell, "wrong, wrong, wrong."
"You bumped into me, Potter," Derrick said. "Apologize."
"I'm sorry!"
"You don't sound sorry," said Derrick.
Harry's eyes widened in indignation, he had managed to make that sound pleading -
Derrick pushed him, hard, and Harry fell to the mat on his hands and knees.
The blue fabric seemed to waver in Harry's vision, not far away.
He was beginning to doubt Professor Quirrell's real motives in teaching this so-called lesson.
A foot rested on Harry's buttocks and a moment later Harry was pushed hard to the side, sending him sprawling on his back.
Derrick laughed. "This is fun," he said.
All he had to do was say it was over. And report the whole thing to the Headmaster's office. That would be the end of this Defense Professor and his ill-fated stay at Hogwarts and... Professor McGonagall would be angry about that, but...
(An image of Professor McGonagall's face flashed before his eyes, she didn't look angry, just sad -)
"Now tell him that he's better than you, Potter," said Professor Quirrell's voice.
Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality Page 32
