A/n
This is a fan fiction of a fan fiction, possibly of a fan fiction. Yes, it's sad. If you don't like it, too bad.
If you haven't read Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality yet, do so now. Don't waste your time on this.
The story diverges from HPMoR at the point that Kvothe from the Kingkiller Chronicle exists, obviously. The story is a direct takeoff from Eliezer Yudkowsky's omake file IV about Kvothe at Hogwarts. My writing begins at around line 10. Enjoy.
The eleven-year-old boy who would some day become legend—slayer of dragons, killer of kings—had but one thought upon his mind, as he approached the Sorting Hat to enter into the study of mysteries.
Anywhere but Ravenclaw anywhere but Ravenclaw oh please anywhere but Ravenclaw…
But no sooner the brim of the ancient felted device slipped over his forehead— "RAVENCLAW!"
As the table decked in blue began to applaud him, as he approached the dread table where he would spend the next seven years, Kvothe was already wincing inside, waiting for the inevitable; and the inevitable happened almost at once, exactly as he had feared it, before he'd even had a chance to sit down properly. "So!" an older boy said with the happy expression of someone who's thought of something terribly clever. "Kvothe the Raven, huh?"
Several students paused, thought, and then, when they got it, laughed at the un-witticism.
(There must be a special place reserved for Edgar Allen Poe and his followers.) Kvothe groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"Why, why, lord, must I commit murder at the tender age of eleven?"
Silence greeted him.
To tell the truth, no one really knew what to do with this boy, this male child that was tender age eleven. He was called up during the "K" names, yet no surname had been given for him. Only Kvothe. Now, this Kvothe looked around dangerously, waiting for anyone else to comment. His eyes seemed to pierce through the soul of every student who met his gaze. As if he were already a legilimens, thought Penelope Clearwater - fifth year prefect and almost girlfriend to the most unpopular of the Weaselys - but of course, that was impossible, so she put the thought out of her head.
(She shouldn't have. It was not impossible. It may even have been true.)
A slightly trembling voice roused Kvothe of his introspection, or rather, extraspection.
"Potter, Harry!"
There was a sudden silence in the hall.
All conversation stopped. All eyes turned to stare.
And Kvothe was relieved because he realized there was someone else who was about to take all the attention off him. Someone who had actually vanquished the dark lord, not just survived an attack. (Of course, Kvothe knew intuitively that chances were, Harry hadn't vanquished the Dark Lord, it had been just a combination of, for the dark lord, unfortunate circumstances, and had happened to occur around Harry Potter. But that didn't matter to most people, Kvothe knew, who gravitated toward power or the illusion of power.)
Harry put the aged sorting hat on his head.
He did not get sorted right away.
He did not get sorted after two minutes had passed, or after four.
His expression changed constantly, as if he were arguing with the sorting hat, and losing to it.
Kvothe wondered what in Merlin's name could they possibly be talking about. He took a deep breath, looked into Harry's eyes. And he dipped into Harry's mind.
The sorting hat spoke. "What happens if you fail?"
Harry was silent for a bit, then whispered, Something terrible…
"What happens if you fail?"
I don't know!
"Then it should not be frightening. What happens if you fail?
"You know—you aren't letting yourself think it, but in some quiet corner of your mind you know just exactly what you aren't thinking—you know that by far the simplest explanation for this unverbalisable fear of yours is just the fear of losing your fantasy of greatness, of disappointing the people who believe in you, of turning out to be pretty much ordinary, of flashing and fading like so many other child prodigies…"
No, Harry thought desperately, no, it's something more, it comes from somewhere else, I know there's something out there to be afraid of, some disaster I have to stop…
That seemed a pretty flimsy excuse to Kvothe. For someone obviously devoted to rationality, Harry was grasping at any proverbial straw he could get his hands on. Never mind that the prior improbability of such a thing wouldn't hold up to anyone who, well, had ever heard of the concept prior improbability.
"How could you possibly know about something like that?" the sorting hat asked. Kvothe smirked. Harry's cardinal law of logic, carved prominently into the walls of his mind: What do you know and how do you know it? Would Harry reply logically, or…
Harry screamed it with the full power of his mind: NO, AND THAT'S FINAL! Guess not.
Then the voice of the Sorting Hat came slowly: "So you will risk becoming a Dark Lord, because the alternative, to you, is certain failure, and that failure means the loss of everything. You believe that in your heart of hearts. You know all the reasons for doubting this belief, and they have failed to move you."
Yes. And even if going to Ravenclaw strengthens the coldness, that doesn't mean the coldness will win in the end.
"This day is a great fork in your destiny. Don't be so - wait, there is someone listening in to our conversation!"
Aiiiiiiii! Kvothe's intuitive response was to jerk away from Harry's mind. The problem with that was that if the sorting hat was able to find out who it was that had been prying, Kvothe would rather know that fact, and leaving Harry's mind early was no guarantee that it would help. On the other hand, if the sorting hat couldn't figure out who it was, Kvothe wanted to know that, too, along with any other interesting things the sorting hat had to share.
Wait, what?! Mind reading is possible? Why didn't you tell me? Who is it and how do they do it?
"Calm down. I don't know who it is; they're being very sneaky. Although I can say it was one of the minds I sorted today. They have to look you in the eyes to get into you mind, so-"
Harry's eyes abruptly jerked downward, and the connection was lost.
A few moments later…
SLYTHERIN!
What?! Nothing Kvothe had heard made him ready for that response.
Then…
"Just kidding! RAVENCLAW!"
Well, that was more like it.
It was night again. The Waystone inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The first was a hollowing echoing quiet, made by things -
You know what, let's just skip to the third silence. The third silence was not easy to notice. Suffice to say that it was the deepest of the three, and it was contained in a remarkable man with red hair, who tossed and turned in his bed. He slept fitfully. Images flashed through his mind. He dreamed of the past, of a place called Hogwarts, of … other things.
Two months before Hogwarts
The boy peered at the envelope. It had his name on it: Kvothe. He wondered where they had learned it.
He stood barefoot in the dirty streets of Tarbean. Mud streaked his face; his arms were flimsy sticks at his side; his stomach sat swollen from starvation. Yet slowly a smile dawned on his face, like the sun rising in its strength. It was not a smile of triumph, or relief, or, heaven forbid, happiness; but it was a smile nevertheless. It was a smile, mostly, of vengeance.
Two years before that
There is a boy, and he is staring at charred wagons on a deserted landscape. He is an orphan, but that is a new development. He is scared, he cannot sink in the Heart of Stone his teacher Abenthy taught him, and that is also a new development.
He is numb. Confused. He wishes to wake up from this horrible dream.
But it is no dream.
Flames lick the air around him, around broken wagons and broken wheels. The flames are all tinged blue. In the very back of his mind, the boy knows what that means; it is Voldemort's sign. Voldemort, who had been vanquished by the Potter boy some years ago.
The boy hears voices, peeks around Shandi's wagon, sees men sitting around his parent's fire, talking, laughing.
And then, and then, the memories rush by. A man named Alecto tormenting him, with words - "Someone's parents have been singing the wrong songs, and a back of his brain realizes that perhaps not all Death Eaters were happy with Harry Potter's triumph, that it was a mistake to speak out the Dark Lord's name - with a delighted "Crucio!", and then pain, such a agonizing pain that left no space to think, not even to wish to end it, only the pain...
A shadow reprimanding, in slick, evil tones; "Send him to the soft and painless blanket of sleep." Later the boy would learn that this was the syrupy voice of Mr. Lucius Malfoy. A wand drawn from the Death Eater, the gestures, the boy knows, to Avada Kedavra, and then the wand is withdrawn.
A cry: "The aurors are coming! Dumbledore!" And then nothing. The scene clears, and we see the boy sitting so alone, surrounded only by dust and the corpses of those he loved. Green light dances in his vision.
The aurors never arrive, not to take care of the young boy so brutally disowned. But at least he's alive.
If that can be considered a good thing.
He starts walking, away from the horror, away from the blood. But he can never, ever escape the nightmares.
A year before that
A boy is crouching behind a wagon, again, watching a fire, again. But this time his parents are alive. He is watching his parents talk to his teacher, Ben.
"He is the greatest student I've ever had," Ben says. He can be anything, but I suspect if he goes to Hogwarts he will surpass even Dumbledore."
"I don't like magic much," says his father. Never have. What word do they have for us again - muggles? Word sounds like like it's supposed to resemble "monkey" to me. Kvothe is clever with a lute; he can be a psychologist, a scientist, pretty much anything he wants to be. Why a wizard?"
Abenthy looks at him, frowning. "Wizarding is the real truth of how everything works. Science without magic is like doing math with a broken calculator. You might get consistent results, but they won't be true."
Everyone laughs. Kvothe, hiding behind his wagon, considers going back. He is not modest, but this is a bit awkward even for him. His parents are now discussing his birth.
His father: "How about it, woman? Did you happen to bed down with some wandering God a dozen years ago? That might solve our little mystery."
She swatted him playfully, but her face was thoughtful. Very thoughtful; her eyes were focused on the past.
Several months before that
"You have to keep both things in your mind, simultaneously," Ben said.
"That's impossible."
"No it's not, idiot. Just because you can't do it, doesn't mean it isn't possible."
"Actually, it does mean that."
"Oh?"
"Name me one thing I haven't learned to do that you set for me."
"I only gave you things you would be able to do, E'lir. I could easily ask of you things you could not accomplish, but that others could."
"Like what?"
"Many things."
"Like what?"
"Like shutting your face for one minute, you arrogant E'lir."
"Now that's just-"
"Proving it."
"But-"
A few months before that
"Ben, why don't all wizarding children learn about magic before they go to Hogwarts?"
"Because it's illegal, you fool. Why I call you "E'lir" is one of the great mysteries of my life."
"Yes, I know. My question is, why is it illegal? Is it dangerous? Do wizarding children not have the capacity to learn magic before then? Why do we only start school at age eleven? Muggles start school nearly a decade before that - studies show that the younger the children are, especially before the age of five, is when their minds are the most malleable to learn and grow."
"Because wizards are dumb, that's why. You should know this already."
"Well, then, what do wizarding children do till age eleven?"
"They pester busy men who are trying to work with questions, obviously."
"You're a riot, Ben, a real riot."
"At least I'm not an ugly good-for-nothing brat, young ... duckling."
A handful of years before that
"He's beautiful, isn't he?"
"That he is, woman."
"What should we name him?"
"How about Kvothe, which means 'to know'?"
"Oh! What a nice name. But hold on a second, how do we know his life's mission will be 'to know'? Isn't that the fundamental question of rationality? And what language is that in, anyway. I've certainly never heard of it."
"Never mind. He'll figure out the real meaning of his name when he gets older. And you never will, I hope."
Across the world, a boy in a striped blue and white crib is crying. His mother is lying on the floor for some reason, and she isn't getting up.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Step aside, woman!" A shrill, cold, passionless voice. "For you I am not coming, only the boy."
"Not Harry! Please…have mercy…have mercy…"
Harry Potter continues to cry.
