A fan slam poem for the incredible fanfic Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (read it now at hpmor.com :D). "[HPMoR] is an alternate universe story where Petunia married a scientist. Harry enters the wizarding world armed with Enlightenment ideals and the experimental spirit."
Text of the poem reproduced below; performance of the poem reproduced above.
A dull gray flash in the third floor corridor illuminates
the face of a boy with wild green eyes and a trademark scar.
He points his wand through the door and fires stunning bolts
until sparks wash into his vision, then steps through to see
a three-headed dog unconscious.
It would set off the wards, knocking out their beast --
but recent events have led Harry to realize this is no longer a game of poker,
hands to be concealed or lied about.
He is the Boy-Who-Lived, and he requires the Philosopher's Stone;
and if that costs him every ally,
and the last of Dumbledore's favor,
even the war itself... then so be it.
What would you sacrifice to save a loved one's life,
if you were her only hope?
Would you be stopped by plants or flying keys,
or a chessboard, or a troll,
or a wall of fire?
No.
And if the life you wanted to save was that of every person on Earth...
well, that made it easier to feel noble about it.
But the truth is, just one life, just one death to prevent, just Hermione --
that would be enough.
Brushing the ash and singed fabric from his robes,
Harry stands and looks into the Mirror of Erised --
and sees Harry-in-the-mirror,
a bringer of prosperity and light, distributing the elixir of life unto all,
dubbed the Slayer of Death, become a god...
"No! Wrong! Bad mirror!" he shouts.
Harry doesn't need wish-fulfillment;
he needs the Stone.
Bringing his palms to his eyes, he considers the test, considers the inscription.
Your 'heart's desire' is not the simplest path to your goals,
not the first thing an eleven-year-old dreams up that feels like an answer.
To be a god is a means to an end --
that none should live in suffering;
that none should face the specter of death --
for this end, Harry would accept godhood.
Not out of personal ambition, not to be worshiped,
or called savior -- no.
Those were fool's dreams.
Child's dreams.
The agent in Harry's mind ceases to matter.
His own actions become minor ripples in the reflected pool of the future.
Breathing deeply, Harry does not will that he should receive the Stone,
but only that the Stone should be received --
made use of not by him, but by the moral heart
that courses through the best judgments
of the compassionate and brave and wise;
that the tonic chord reverberating through the ethics of humanity
should ring louder than hate and curses and death --
"one desperate wish that no innocent should die"
-- and at the strength and coherence of this volition,
Harry-in-the-mirror -- now merely human --
reaches out and hands Harry
the Stone.
