Harry Potter and the Headmistress' Hypothesis: Chapter 1

Harry Potter, all Harry Potter characters, and the entire Harry Potter Universe is owned by J. K. Rowling.

This book builds on fanfictions Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality and His Own Man. This is intentional; all will become clear as the story unfolds.

In the house of Professor Michael Verres-Evans, a bookcase commands every inch of wall space. Each bookcase has six shelves, going almost to the ceiling. Some bookshelves are stacked to the brim with hardback books: science, maths, history, unbound sheaves of recent publications. Other shelves have two layers of paperback science fiction, the back layer propped up on old tissue boxes or lengths of wood, so the books peek out from behind those in front. And it still isn't enough. Books overflow onto the tables and the sofas and make little heaps under the windows.

Professor Michael Verres-Evans, his lovely wife, Mrs. Petunia Evans-Verres and their son all adore books. They collect books. They are consumed by books. This Tuesday in July their son, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, stands trying to make himself appear a little taller, running a hand through his hair.

An unstamped envelope of yellowish parchment sits, out of place, on the living-room table. Everybody makes uncomfortable glances at the letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter in emerald-green ink. If they could make it disappear by wishing, it would.

The Professor is speaking sharply to his wife. Neither of them shouts of course. The Professor loves Petunia; shouting would be uncivilised.

"You're joking," he said. He looked afraid. He looked like he thought she was serious.

"My sister was a witch," Petunia repeated, her face a little afraid, too. But her voice was steady. "And James was a wizard."

"This is absurd!" Michael said sharply. "They were at our wedding – " He paused, no words coming out. "They visited for Christmas – "

"I told them you weren't to know," Petunia whispered. "But it's true. I've seen things – "

The Professor rolled his eyes, interrupting, "Dear, I understand that you're not familiar with the sceptical literature. You may not realise how easy it is for a trained magician to fake the seemingly impossible. Remember how I taught Harry to bend spoons? If it seemed like they could always guess what you were thinking, that's called cold reading – "

"It wasn't bending spoons – "

"What was it, then?"

Petunia bit her lip. "I can't tell you. You'll think I'm – "

She swallowed. "Listen. Michael. I wasn't ... wasn't – always like this – " She gestured at her waist in a vague way. "Lily did this! Because I – because I begged her." It sounded like her voice was breaking, but she pressed on in a rush. "Since I was 14, I begged her. Lily had always been prettier than me, and I'd ... been mean to her. I hated that she was prettier. Then she got magic. Can you imagine how I felt? And I begged her to use some magic on me so I could be pretty too. Even if I couldn't have her magic at least I could be pretty – "

Tears were gathering in Petunia's eyes. "And Lily would tell me no and make up the most ridiculous excuses, like the world would end if she were nice to her sister or a centaur told her not to – just the most ridiculous things. I hated her for it! When I graduated from university I was going out with this boy, Vernon Dursley. He was the only one who would talk to me – " Now her voice really did break. She took a deep, wavering breath.

"He wanted his first son to be named Dudley. It was too much! What kind of parents name their child Dudley Dursley?! One morning it all just hit me and I was sick in the sink.I quit my job and went to visit my sister. We had a long talk – "

Petunia stopped.

"Anyway," she said, her voice small, "she gave in. She told me it was dangerous. I said I didn't care any more. She gave me this awful stuff to drink and I was sick for weeks, but when I could get out of bed my skin cleared up and I finally filled out and ... people started to be nice to me!"

Now she spoke with a bitterness Harry had never heard before, gesturing angrily at the world in general. "I hated them – just everyone! – for a while. But I couldn't hate Lily any more. Oh, we would fight – "

"Darling," Michael's gentle voice chided, "you got sick, you gained some weight while resting in bed, then outside all summer did wonders for your skin. Or being sick made you change your diet – "

"She was a witch." she insisted, a little mollified. "I saw it."

"Petunia," the annoyance crept back. "You know that can't be true. Do I really have to explain why?"

She wrung her hands, desperate. "My love, I know I can't win arguments with you, but please! You have to trust me on this."

"Dad! Mum!"

The two of them stopped and looked at Harry as though they'd forgotten anyone else was in the room.

Harry took a deep breath. "Mum, your parents didn't have magic, did they?"

"No." Petunia said, looking puzzled.

"Then no one in your family knew about magic when Lily got her letter. How did they get convinced?"

"Ah, they ... " Petunia said. "They didn't just send a letter. They sent a professor from Hogwarts. He – " Her eyes flicked to Michael. "He showed Lily a magical demonstration."

"Then you don't have to fight over this." Harry said firmly, hoping against hope that just this once, they'll listen to me. "We can just get a Hogwarts professor here and Dad can decide an experiment."

He pondered it, then brightened. "Mum, you don't have to admit that it's false until after the experiment. That's what the experimental method is for, so that we don't have to just argue."

The Professor looked down at him, dismissive. "Oh, come now, Harry. Really, magic? I thought you'd know better than to take this seriously, even if you're only 10. Magic is just about the most unscientific thing there is!"

Harry felt the bitterness as his mouth twisted. He was treated well, probably better than most children by their own fathers. He had gone to the best primary schools. When that failed, he was tutored from the endless pool of starving university students. He was always encouraged to study whatever caught his attention, bought all the books that caught his fancy, sponsored in whatever maths or science competitions he entered, given anything reasonable that he wanted, except, maybe, the slightest shred of respect!

The Professor was a Doctor teaching biochemistry at Oxford. He could hardly be expected to heed the advice of a little boy. Harry hated it: You would listen to Show Interest, of course; that's what a Good Parent would do, and so, if you conceived of yourself as a Good Parent, you would do it. But take a ten-year-old seriously? Hardly.

Sometimes he wanted to scream.

His mum smiled patronizingly. "Thank you, Harry, for being willing to defend me. But – " she straightened to stare at her husband, "I don't need someone to defend me. I want my husband to, to, just this once, listen to his wife who loves him, and not argue ..."

Harry closed his eyes. Hopeless. Both of my parents are hopeless. He opened his eyes. It was turning into one of those arguments where his mum tried to make his dad feel guilty while his dad tried to make his mum feel stupid.

"I'm going to my room." Harry announced. His voice quavered a little. "Please don't fight about this, Mum, Dad. We'll know soon enough, right?"

"Of course, Harry." His dad glanced at him. His mum gave him a reassuring kiss. Then they went on fighting.

He went upstairs, shut the bedroom door and tried to think. Funny thing was, he should have agreed with Dad. No one had ever seen any evidence of magic. According to Mum, there was a whole magical world out there. How could anyone keep something like that a secret? More magic? That seemed a rather suspicious sort of excuse.

It should have been simple. Mum was joking, lying or insane, in that order. Though she wasn't a practical joker, she could have slipped the letter in with the mail; that would explain how it arrived without a stamp. Harry didn't want to think about the more awful possibilities.

There has to be an explanation! The universe can't really have magic! Except ...

He had the strangest sensation as if he already knew magic was real. It had struck the back of his neck the instant he saw the putative letter from the putative Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He rubbed his forehead, grimacing. Don't believe everything you think, one of his books said.

But now he felt bizarre certainty: he just expected that, yes, a Hogwarts professor would show up, wave a wand and magic would come out. That his mind made no effort to guard against falsification – making no excuses in advance for why there shouldn't be a professor, or the professor should only be able to bend spoons –

Where do you come from, strange little prediction? He challenged himself. Why do I believe what I believe?

Usually he could answer that, but today he had no clue what his brain was thinking. He shrugged. A flat metal plate on a door affords pushing. A handle on a door affords pulling. The thing to do with a testable hypothesis is to go and test it.

He sat at his desk and reread the letter.

––

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(O. Merlin 1st Class, Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mug., Int'l Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

You have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of books and equipment you are expected to purchase. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

On the reverse was a list of required supplies.

First-year students will require:

Plain work robes (black)

Gloves (dragon hide or similar)

Winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Beginning Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) and Basic Potions Set

Glass or crystal phials

Telescope set

Brass scales

Wand

Students may bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

Please note that clothes should carry name tags.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

––

Harry took a piece of lined paper from his desk and began composing his reply:

Dear Deputy Headmistress

He paused, thought about it, discarded the paper for another, tapped another millimetre of graphite from his mechanical pencil: this calls for careful calligraphy, he resolved.

Dear Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,

Or Whomsoever It May Concern:

I have your letter of acceptance to Hogwarts, addressed to Mr. H. Potter. Perhaps you should know that my genetic parents, James and Lily Potter, are dead. I was adopted by Lily's sister, Petunia Evans-Verres and Michael Verres-Evans.

I am extremely interested in attending Hogwarts, conditional on such a place actually existing. My mother says Hogwarts exists, though she can't use magic herself. My father is highly sceptical. I myself am uncertain.

To wit, where may I obtain any of the books or equipment listed in your letter?

Mother mentioned that you sent someone to Lily Potter (née Evans) to assuage her concerns. Perhaps they also helped Lily obtain her books? If you would please arrange a similar visit for me it would resolve many things.

Sincerely yours,

Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres.

––

Harry added their home address, folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He addressed the envelope, To: Hogwarts. Further consideration led him to obtain a candle, a penknife and drip wax onto the flap of the envelope. He shaped his initials in the wax with the penknife: HJPEV.

If I am going to descend into this madness, I will do so with style!

Feeling better, he went back downstairs. His father was sitting in the living room reading a book of higher maths – his mother was in the kitchen making ravioli, one of his father's favourite meals. She was 'not arguing.' It didn't look like they were talking to one another at all. As scary as arguments were, 'not arguing' was worse.

"Mum," Harry breached the unnerving silence, "I'm going to test it. According to your theory, how do I send an owl to Hogwarts?"

His mother turned from the kitchen sink, shocked. "I really don't know. I think you use a magic owl."

He should've pounced on that. Oh, so there's no way to test your theory then! But the peculiar certainty at the back of Harry's neck seemed willing to stick itself – with the rest of his hapless neck attached – out a little further.

"Well the letter got here somehow, so I'll just wave it around outside and call 'letter for Hogwarts!' Maybe an owl will pick it up. Dad, want to watch?"

His father shook his head minutely. Of course, Harry realised. Magic is a disgraceful thing that only stupid people believe in. If Dad were to so much as test the hypothesis, or even watch it being tested, that would be like associating himself with it!

Clenching his teeth, Harry stumped out the back door into the garden. It occurred to him that if an owl did come snatch the letter, it would be impossible to convince Dad.

But, but, that can't really happen – can it? No matter what my brain seems to believe, if an owl swoops down for this envelope, I'm going to have more important worries than what Dad thinks.

Harry took a deep breath. He raised his right hand with the envelope.

He swallowed.

He had almost called out, "Letter for Hogwarts!" while holding an envelope high in the air, in the middle of his back garden. It was ... actually pretty embarrassing!

No. I'm better than this. I will use the scientific method even if it makes me feel stupid!

"Letter – " Harry said, but it came out as more of a whispered croak.

Harry steeled his will and shouted at the heavens:

"Letter for Hogwarts! Can I get an owl?"

A finch burst out of the bush and took flight.

"Harry?" A bemused woman's voice spoke.

Harry pulled down his hand like it was on fire and hid the envelope behind his back like it was drug money. His whole face burned with shame.

There was Mrs. Figg's face peering over the fence, grizzled gray hair escaping from her hairnet. She lived next door and occasionally babysat Harry.

"What are you doing, Harry?"

"Noth–" Harry said in a strangled voice. "Nothing. I'm testing a really silly theory – "

"Did you get your acceptance letter from Hogwarts?"

Harry froze in place.

After an eternity, Harry's lips said, "Yes, I got a letter from Hogwarts. They say they want my owl by the 31st of July, but – "

"But you don't have an owl. Poor dear! I can't imagine what someone was thinking, just sending you the standard letter."

Her wrinkled arm stretched out over the fence to open an expectant hand. Not even thinking, Harry gave over his envelope.

"Just leave it to me, dear." she reassured him, "In a jiffy or two I'll have someone over."

Her face disappeared from above the fence.

The silence in the garden stretched on and on and on.

Then Harry's calm voice said, "What?"