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How to Read Harry Potter and How Not To

Gregory Bassham

The culture wars have unfortunately taken a toll on Harry Potter scholarship. To date, relatively

little high-quality academic commentary has been produced, and a multitude of agenda-driven

readings have filled bookstore shelves. Among the latter are those that view the Potter stories as

a witches’ brew of anti-Christian occultism or (at the opposite extreme) as a thinly disguised

Christian allegory. Both of these one-sided interpretations have now been thoroughly discredited,

but many other misleading, agenda-driven readings continue in active circulation. In this paper I

examine three notable misreadings of the Harry Potter stories, and then offer a suggestion about

how the books should be read, and how viewing them this way helps to explain both their

tremendous appeal and their literary significance.

Harry Potter: Postmodern Epic?

John Granger, aptly known as “the dean of Potterology,” has described the Potter tales as

“the postmodern epic.”1 Another leading Potter scholar, Travis Prinzi, agrees, claiming that

Rowling has “incorporated many postmodern elements” into the Harry Potter series.2 What

should we make of such claims? What is postmodernism, and in what respects are the Potter

books allegedly postmodernist?

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Postmodernism is a radical twentieth-century movement in philosophy, art, and literary criticism

that challenges Enlightenment or “modernist” notions such as truth, rationality, objectivity,

certainty, stable verbal meanings, authorial meaning, and historical progress. Leading

postmodernists include Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, and Jean-Francois Lyotard. (Friedrich

Nietzsche is often considered the intellectual godfather of postmodernism.) The central motif of

all versions of postmodernism is relativism. Common postmodernist themes include the “social

construction” of reality, the illusion of objectivity, the relativity of truth to shared linguistic

communities, the historical and social “conditionedness” of all forms of thought, the rejection of

grand “metanarratives” or big-picture explanations, and the assertion that all claims of

objectivity and rationality are disguised bids for power.

To his credit, Granger admits that the Potter books are not postmodernist all respects. He

notes, for example, that the books do not endorse any form of relativism or the rejection of all

metanarratives.

How, then, are the books postmodernist? Granger asserts that the three most important

features of postmodern thinking are:

a) The tendency to question the defining myths of our culture;

b) The claim that nothing is what we think it is; surface appearances are often deceptive;

c) The claim that high art and popular culture mix; genres should blurred in order to shake

up people’s preconceived ideas.3

The Potter books, he claims, are replete with each of these themes.

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There is no question that these three elements are prominent in the Potter tales. The

books clearly critique “defining myths” of wizard racial superiority and social hierarchy. Many

leading characters in the Potter stories (including Snape, Dumbledore, Quirrel, Moody-Crouch

Jr., Scabbers, Kreacher, and Draco Malfoy) turn out to be quite different than we had first

assumed (Rowling’s famed “narrative misdirection”). And the Potter books undoubtedly “blur”

many disparate genres, including those of children’s tale, mystery, fantasy, gothic, coming-of-

age, satire, and humor. So do these themes make the book distinctly “postmodern”?

They do not. Granger is right that postmodernists embrace these three themes. He is

wrong, however, to suppose that only postmodernists do so.

Think about it. Is critiquing defining cultural myths enough to make one a postmodernist?

Then Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings is a postmodernist novel, for it challenges such reigning myths

as consumerism, technology, and big government. Is condemning prejudice and intolerance

uniquely postmodernist? Then Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Huckleberry Finn are postmodernist

novels.

Is it only postmodernists who claim that appearances are often deceptive and people

aren’t always what you think they are? Then Plato and Buddha were early postmodernists.

And is genre-blurring uniquely postmodernist? Then C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia

are postmodernist, because they blend genres such as children’s tale, fantasy, religious allegory,

and coming-of-age novel.

In short, Rowling’s Potter books are not postmodernist in any interesting or deep sense.

On the contrary, they are “modernist” or traditionalist in their clear rejection of relativism, their

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affirmation of objective values, and their embrace of broadly Christian “metanarratives” such as

love, faith, forgiveness, sacrifice, equality, the soul, and an afterlife.

The Libertarian Reading

Some commentators—notably Travis Prinzi and Benjamin Barton—have proposed a political

reading of the Potter books. In particular, Prinzi and Barton argue that there are clear elements of

political libertarianism in the series.

Libertarians are a diverse lot, but all agree in favoring small government, a robust

conception of personal liberty, and opposition to laws that restrict individual rights (including

near-absolute property rights) in the name of “welfare,” “economic equality,” “morality,” or

“one’s own good.” How is it that the Potter books supposedly embrace, or suggest, such a

political view?

Prinzi frankly admits that the Potter novels don’t explicitly endorse libertarianism. There

are, after all, no paeans in the books to small government, robust property rights, laissez-faire

economics, antiwelfarism, avoidance of entangling foreign alliances, or other themes

characteristic of classical or contemporary libertarianism. Moreover, in terms of her own politics

Rowling makes no bones that she is a political leftist and favors a large, generous welfare state.

Prinzi acknowledges these facts but insists nonetheless that the Potter series is a “political fairy

tale” with an ‘embedded” libertarian political philosophy.4 His central argument for this reading

centers on Albus Dumbledore, who he claims is “libertarian-minded” in three crucial respects.

Dumbledore, he notes:

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a) Is suspicious of political power. (He has little respect for the Ministry of Magic,

admits that he is not to be trusted with power, and has several times refused to be

Minister of Magic.)

b) Sets a high value on personal freedom and responsibility. (He gives Harry lots of

rope, opposes all forms of discrimination, and does not believe in forced social

change through governmental mandate.)

c) Has a hands-off management style in the way he runs Hogwarts.

As my colleagues, Beth Admiraal and Regan Lance Reitsma have convincingly argued,

none of this shows that the Potter books are in any interesting sense “libertarian.”5 Lots of non-

libertarian political theorists are suspicious of political power (e.g., Plato and St. Thomas More)

and/or place a high value on individual rights and personal freedoms (e.g., liberals). Dumbledore

himself serves in several high-profile political posts and recognizes that a large, active Ministry

of Magic is necessary to keep Muggles safe and oblivious to the existence of wizards. Finally,

the fact that Dumbledore has a hands-off management style in the way he runs Hogwarts does

not in any way suggest that he favors a small, laissez-faire government. Running a school is a

very different proposition from running a government. Under Dumbledore’s watch, students at

Hogwarts encounter abusive and incompetent teachers, constant dangers, an extremely narrow

magic-centered curriculum, and rampant prejudice against Muggles and “mudbloods.”6 There is

no reason libertarians must endorse Dumbledore’s management or child-mentoring styles. They

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can support vigorous, active leadership in children’s education while favoring small government

and strong individual freedoms.

Benjamin Barton has also argued for another sort of libertarian reading of the Potter

series. He claims that the books’ portrayal of the Ministry of Magic and its bureaucrats is so

scathing that it constitutes “an impregnable invective against government.” He writes:

What would you think of a government that engaged in this list of tyrannical activities:

tortured children for lying, designed its prison specifically to suck all life and hope out of

the inmates; placed citizens in that prison without a hearing; ordered the death penalty

without a trial; allowed the powerful, rich or famous to control policy; selectively

prosecuted crimes (the powerful go unpunished and the unpopular face trumped-up

charges); conducted criminal trials without defense counsel; used truth serum to force

confessions; maintained constant surveillance over all citizens; offered no elections and

no democratic lawmaking process; and controlled the press?7

Rowling’s depiction of the Ministry is so relentlessly negative, Barton argues, that it makes sense

to see the Potter series as a whole as having an implicit libertarian agenda and as giving

encouragement to fans of small government.

Several responses are in order here. First, Barton largely ignores aspects of government

that do function well in the wizarding world, such as the Wizengamot and the International

Confederation of Wizards. The Ministry, after all, has been effective for many centuries in

keeping the existence of wizards secret from Muggles and in restraining wizards from using their

magical powers to take over the world. Second, as Admiraal and Reitsma note, the fact that the

Ministry of Magic is often bungling, authoritarian, and oppressive does not show that small

government is the appropriate solution. Many political theorists (e.g., Plato, St. Thomas More,

Rousseau, and Alexander Hamilton) have shared Dumbledore’s dim view of politicians but

offered markedly different cures (usually involving better forms of government, not smaller

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government). Given Rowling’s avowed big-government leanings and the fact that Harry,

Hermione, and Ron all choose government careers, it is highly unlikely that Rowling is even

“implicitly” endorsing a libertarian agenda. It is far more probable that she is cautioning young

readers, many of who may think that tyranny and oppression are “old, unhappy, far-off things,

and battles long ago,” that freedom and good governance are recent and hard-won achievements

that each generation must be vigilant to preserve, protect, and extend.

In summary, while libertarians may find themes in Harry Potter stories that make them

happy (along with many that won’t), there is no plausible basis for any “libertarian reading” of

the books of the sort Prinzi and Barton support.

The Literary Alchemy Reading

The boldest and probably best-known outré reading of the Potter stories is undoubtedly

John Granger’s literary alchemy interpretation. According to Granger, the Potter tales from

beginning to end are written in a kind of hidden code of alchemical themes and symbolisms.

“The Harry Potter books individually and as a series,” he claims, “are built on alchemical

structures, written in alchemical language, and have alchemical themes at their core.”8

On its face, such a claim is quite surprising. There are a few obvious alchemical themes

in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, including the Philosopher’s Stone, Nicholas Flamel (a

fourteenth-century alchemist who reputedly invented the Stone), the Golden Snitch (based on an

alchemical symbol), the mention of Dumbledore’s contributions to alchemy on Chocolate Frogs

cards, and a few references to famous historical alchemists such as Agrippa and Paracelsus. But

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that’s pretty much it as far as explicit references to alchemy in the Potter books go. And

Dumbledore himself seems to condemn the alchemical quest in no uncertain terms. “You know,”

he remarks in Sorcerer’s Stone, “the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much

money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—

the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for

them.”9

This lack of evidence doesn’t faze Granger. He claims that alchemy, properly understood,

was a wonderful thing, and that Rowling herself was so impressed with the wonders and spiritual

depths of alchemy that she structured the entire series around alchemical themes.

So what exactly was alchemy? Pull a few standard scholarly sources from the shelves and

you’ll find that it was an early and pre-scientific form of chemistry. The central goal of alchemy

was to transmute base metals into gold and make an elixir that would restore youth, cure diseases,

and extend life indefinitely.

Granger’s view is radically different: He sees true alchemy—as opposed to crass

metallurgical alchemy—as the esoteric pursuit of spiritual perfection. True alchemists were

mystics who rejected any human/nature dualism. They saw everything as alive and containing

elements of the divine. As a consequence, they thought, one can do things to metals that establish

corresponding harmonic resonances in the soul. The ultimate goal is not to become rich (a base

desire), but to kill the old fallen, corrupt nature (subject to death, sin, and disease), purify it,

reanimate it, and finally perfect it so that it might become a fitting vessel of immortality.

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There are two distinct issues here: (1) Does Granger get alchemy right? and (2) Does he

make a convincing case that the Potter books are infused with alchemical themes?

The answer is No and No. Read any standard history of alchemy and you'll find Granger's

depiction of alchemy unrecognizable. Granger's view of alchemy—that it was an occult science

aimed at the spiritual perfection of the alchemist—is based largely on one eccentric source: Titus

Burckhardt's Alchemy: Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul.10

Burckhardt was an art

historian, a student of the occult, and an exponent of a kind of pantheistic mysticism (the so-

called philosophia perennis) that Rowling could hardly be expected to sympathize with. What

Granger characterizes as the alchemical tradition was in fact a very late, heterodox, fringe

movement inspired by Renaissance occultism.

The main tradition of alchemy in the West was rooted in Greek philosophy (particularly

Aristotle), with a later infusion of Islamic science. The possibility that baser metals could be

transmuted into gold was thought to follow from Aristotle’s metaphysical doctrines of prime

matter, “quintessence,” and the distinction between matter and form. By means of a chemical

process standardly involving mercury, sulfur water, and small amounts of silver and gold,

alchemists sought to create a quintessence-laden “philosopher’s stone” possessing a super-potent

homeopathic power to “perfect” metals (which on Aristotelian principles naturally “strive” to

become gold) as well as to protect the alchemist from death and disease. Metallurgical alchemy

of this sort was officially condemned by Pope John XXII in a decree published in 1317. The

Church was concerned not only with the problem of counterfeit alchemical “gold,” but also with

the theological implications of a quest to overcome the consequences of the Fall (death, old age,

and disease) through a purely natural process that operated outside the sacramental system of the

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Church. Following the Pope’s decree, alchemy largely went underground, only to morph into a

search for super-medicines with Paracelsus (1493-1541). When such medicinal panaceas proved

elusive, a type of esoteric “spiritual alchemy” emerged in the 16th

and 17th

centuries inspired by

the pagan hermetic tradition. This is the form of alchemy Burckhardt and Granger highlight. The

object of this spiritual alchemy was to transmute and perfect the soul (not metals) by means of

devotional practices and esoteric knowledge of human/nature unities and synergies. Its basic

inspiration wasn’t Christian, but pagan and pantheistic, which is why it remained largely

underground and “esoteric.”

On the face of it, it seems unlikely that such pantheistic occultism would appeal to a

Church of Scotland Christian like Rowling, but let’s consider Granger’s evidence that the Potter

books are structured and suffused by alchemy.

Granger's key proof is a 1998 interview in which Rowling stated, "To invent this

wizarding world, I've learned a ridiculous amount about alchemy. Perhaps much of it I'll never

use in the books, but I have to know in detail what magic can and cannot do in order to set the

parameters and establish the stories' internal logic."11

Q.E.D, says Granger. Rowling has told us herself that the "books are suffused by

alchemy."

But notice: Rowling isn't saying that it's alchemy that establishes the stories' internal logic.

It's magic—magic generally—that does that. And this of course makes good sense if you are

writing a seven-volume series on magic.

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So what other evidence does Granger point to? Well, there are three stages to the

alchemical cooking process—the black stage, the white stage, and the red stage. (Ignore the fact

that there was also a yellow stage until the late Middle Ages, when as we’ve seen alchemists

mostly gave up on trying to make gold and shifted to making quintessence-based super-

medicines instead.) And behold! One main character is named Albus (=white), another is named

Black (Sirius), and a third is named Red (Rubeus). And if that's not enough, there's Rufus (=red)

Scrimgeour, and if we subtract an "F" from Fred's name we get "red"!!12

True enough. But in any lengthy work with hundreds of old-fashioned names, shouldn't

we expect some of those to refer to colors? (Compare Tolkien: Mordor = Black Land,

Caradhras= Red Horn, Glorfindel = golden hair). And how close is the connection between

Hagrid and the red stage of Harry's transmutation? Or Sirius, really, and the black stage of

Harry's despair and decomposition? Isn't it in fact doubts about Dumbledore (the white stage guy)

that bring Harry to fury and despair (the black stage) in Deathly Hallows? The patterns you'd

expect are just not there.

Yes, but what of Harry's cyclical journey, repeated in each of the stories, from doubt and

ill-treatment (black stage) to challenge, growth, and near-death (white stage), to final triumph

and purification (red stage)? No doubt. But notice: there's nothing specifically alchemical about

such a process. It's simply the classic heroic quest formula. Think of Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Bilbo

undergoes the same process. So do Frodo and his hobbit companions in The Lord of the Rings.

Start out as humble nobodies with hidden strengths. Have some cool adventures and nearly get

killed. Come back as battle-hardened heroes. It's what Tolkien calls the "ennoblement of the

humble."13

It has nothing to do with alchemy.

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OK, but what about all the “resolution of contraries” in the Potter books—a common

theme in alchemical literature? Aren't Ron and Hermione—two such different people—

constantly quarreling but eventually reconciled? Doesn't Hermione represent the feminine

mercurial element in nature? (Hermione=Hermes=Mercury. And her initials HG = mercury. And

aren't her parents dentists, who use mercury in their dental practice?) And doesn't Ron, with his

red hair and impulsive nature, represent the masculine sulfuric element in nature? (Ignore the

fact that sulfur isn't usually red.) And weren't mercury and sulfur common reagents in the

alchemical process? And don't Ron and Hermione help Harry a lot in his personal transmutation?

What more proof could we want?

Well, a bit more, actually. Nearly all great literary works involve a "resolution of

contraries" of some sort. There are always conflicts, polarities, opposing forces that figure in

literary plots and (usually) get resolved. "Resolution of contraries" is a big, one-size-fits all grid

that can be imposed on almost any literary work.

In sum, Granger doesn’t make a convincing case that literary alchemy is the hidden key

to unlock the Potter stories. As we’ll see, Rowling does indeed pack a good deal into the stories

that doesn’t appear on the surface. But the case for a alchemical reading hasn’t been made.

How to Read Harry Potter

Now that we’ve looked at three ways in which the Potter stories should not be read, let’s

consider how they should be. And here I think John Granger is absolutely spot-on: much of the

power, narrative drive, and artistry of the Potter series are due to an extremely skillful fusion of

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literary genres that are usually kept separate. Rowling’s big, bold idea was to ask: What sorts of

stuff do people like in works of fiction? Fantasies? Sure. Mysteries? Yep. Humor? No doubt.

Well, why not combine them into one big tasty literary omelet? In fact, as Granger notes,

Rowling combines a dozen or more recognizable genres, including fantasy, mystery, humor,

satire, heroic quest, gothic, coming of age, boarding school novel, satire, moral fiction, Christian

fantasy, and literary sleuth.14

I haven’t space to consider all of these various genres. Let’s look briefly at two: literary

sleuth and religious fiction.

Literary Sleuth

As Granger and other Potter scholars have amply demonstrated, the Potter books are strewn

with literary and other allusions that kids won’t understand but (many) well-read adults will

recognize and appreciate. (Similar literary sleuthing techniques are employed by writers such as

James Joyce, J. R. R. Tolkien, and the children’s writer, Daniel Handler, a.k.a. Lemony Snickett.)

Here are a few notable examples:

Jane Austen allusions:

In Potter: Filch’s cat is named “Mrs. Norris;” John Dawlish is an auror; Horace

Slughorn lives in Budleigh Babberton.

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In Austen: A busybody aunt in Mansfield Park is named “Mrs. Norris;” Dawlish is an

English seaside town where Lucy Steele honeymoons in Sense and Sensibility;

Budleigh Salterton is an English town in which Jane Austen fell in love.

Victor Hugo allusions:

In Potter: Harry, a scorned and mistreated orphan, lives in a cobweb-filled cupboard

under the stairs, while other children in the house (Dudley) are pampered; Hugo Weasley

is the younger of Ron and Hermione’s two children.

In Hugo: Cosette, a scorned and mistreated orphan in Hugo’s Les Miserables (2.3.8),

lives in a cobweb-filled cupboard under the stairs, while other children in the house

(Ponine and Zelma) are pampered.

Robert Louis Stevenson allusions:

In Potter: Characters include Marcus Flint (Slytherin seeker), Sybill Trelawney

(Hogwarts teacher), Amelia Bones (Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement),

Black Dog (Sirius Black, transformed as an animagus).

In Stevenson: Characters in Treasure Island include: Squire Trelawney (treasure-seeker),

J. Flint (pirate captain), Billy Bones (old seaman), Black Dog (pirate).

T. H. White allusions:

In Potter: Dumbledore is a wizard with a long white beard, spectacles, a long flowing

gown, and a wand, who may sometimes disguise himself as a tawny owl.

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In T. H. White’s The Once and Future King (chap. 3): Merlyn is a wizard with a long

white beard, spectacles, long flowing gown, a wand, and accompanied by a tawny owl.

Fabian Society15

allusions:

In Potter: Members of the Order of the Phoenix include: Fabian Prewett, Sturgis

Podmore, and Emmeline Vance.

In the Fabian Society: Frank Podmore (who suggested the name of the society),

Emmeline Pankhurst (British suffragette and an early member of the Fabian Society).

J. R. R. Tolkien allusions/influences:

Rowling has said that she read The Lord of the Rings as a teenager and that any similarities

between Tolkien’s writings and her own are “fairly superficial.” There are, however, numerous

parallels between the two works, whether these were consciously intended or not. These include:

Dark Lord (Sauron)/Dark Lord (Voldemort)

Sauron attempts to conquer the world and have himself worshipped as a god// Voldemort

does the same.

Sauron attempts to conquer death by encasing part of himself in a virtually indestructible

physical object which corrupts whoever wears it// Voldemort does the same.

Sauron permanently ruins his own physical appearance by means of his own evil acts//

ditto with Voldemort.

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Sauron is eventually defeated by humble and easily-underestimated heroes// same with

Voldemort.

Tolkien’s Middle-earth is a world populated by elves, goblins, giants, trolls, dragons,

ghosts, wizards, and other fantasy creatures// so is Rowling’s wizarding world.

Name similarities include: Wormtongue/Wormtail; Isengard/Nurmengard; Longbottom

Leaf/Nevile Longbottom; Old Man Willow/Whomping Willow; Proudfoots the

hobbits/Proudfoot the auror.

Beorn the shapeshifter/various Potter animagi.

Shelob (giant spider)/Aragog (ditto).

Galadriel’s mirror (magic basin)/Dumbledore’s Pensieve (ditto)

The invisible arched doorway into the Mines of Moria/ the invisible arched doorway into

Voldemort’s locket cave.

And this could go on and on. It becomes great fun for literate readers and Potter “obsessives” to

hunt out such parallels and allusions. This adds to the books’ appeal and literary depth.

Religious Fantasy

“Religious fantasy” is a term John Granger uses to describe works of fantasy that contain

clear religious themes, symbols, or undertones. C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia is one prime

example of the genre; Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (much more subtly) is another.16

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Historically, few things have been able to move, inspire, and uplift than religion. Works of

religious fantasy seek to draw upon this proven source of imaginative and emotional energy to

enhance their literary impact on readers.

As Granger convincingly argues and Rowling has acknowledged in interviews, the Potter

books are chock-full of Christian symbols and themes. These include: the Scripture verses on the

tombstones in Godric’s Hollow (“Where your heart is, there will your heart be also,” “The last

enemy that shall be destroyed is death”); the affirmation of immortal souls; the choice of King’s

Cross as Harry’s between-worlds destination; Harry’s struggles to believe in Dumbledore,

culminating in conscious leap of faith; the many Christ symbols (the phoenix, the Philosopher’s

Stone, the white stag, the white unicorn, the hippogriff, etc.), the notion that death should not be

feared; and of course the humble hero (Harry), who walks a via dolorosa , gives his life as a

ransom for many, conquers death through sacrificial love, and, through his self-giving, invokes

the deepest laws of magic to protect his friends from harm. All of these are salient Christian

themes.

I beg to differ from Granger on the interpretation of one crucial religious passage: the

King’s Cross scene in Deathly Hallows in which Harry asks Dumbledore whether what they are

experiencing is real or only happening in Harry’s head, and Dumbledore replies, “Of course it is

happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”17

In an

interview, Rowling remarked that she had waited seventeen years to write those lines, and that

“that dialogue is the key.”18

Granger’s interpretation of this key passage is this: The dialogue takes places entirely in Harry’s

head, but it is nonetheless fully real—more real, in fact, than Harry’s ordinary waking existence.

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Voldemort’s killing curse blasts Harry into his “superconscious mind,” “Logos-land,” a piece of

God’s own uncreated mind that is our own true and deepest self. We are all ultimately parts of

God, all reality is mental, and what we call the physical world is a lesser reality or mere

appearance. The conversation between Harry and Dumbledore is “real” because it takes place in

the mind of God (the ens realissimum), and what we call “real things” are ultimately just ideas

that God puts in our heads. In other words, the conversation and King’s Cross are “real” because

they are actually taking place (rather than being merely imagined); but they are also taking place

inside Harry’s head, because Harry is simply knocked out and his soul has not left his body.19

That’s a whopper of an interpretation, no mistake. But it faces one huge problem, which

is that there is not a shred of evidence that Rowling shares Granger’s everything-is-mental

Christian pantheism.

So what’s really going in the King’s Cross scene? The key, I think, lies in the epigram by

the seventeenth-century Quaker William Penn that opens Deathly Hallows. It’s taken from a

section of William Penn’s More Fruits of Solitude titled “The Union of Friends.” The quoted

passage is this:

Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For

they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine

glass, they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort

of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the

best sense, ever present, because immortal.

What Penn is talking about is how friends who have “gone on” are still “with us,” since

they live on in God. Death does not sever our relationship with our friends—rather, it deepens it

by grounding it in an eternal spiritual unity and purifying it of what is earthly. This explains why

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Dumbledore is completely candid and unreserved with Harry in the King’s Cross scene—their

“converse is free, as well as pure.”

Rowling has made clear that the dialogue between Harry and Dumbledore does not take

place merely in Harry’s head. She says, “When Voldemort attacks Harry, they both fall

temporarily unconscious, and both their souls—Harry’s undamaged and healthy, Voldemort’s

stunted and maimed—appear in the limbo where Harry meets Dumbledore.”20

The glorified

King’s Cross is thus a real place—“a kind of limbo between life and death.” At the same time,

Rowling cautions readers not to “forget that it is Harry’s image we see, not necessarily what is

really there.” How can we reconcile these various statements?

Here’s my suggestion: The limbo world works a bit like a holodeck in the Star Trek

shows and movies. It is a world in which souls—or at least souls that are “undamaged and

healthy”—can create their own reality. This would explain how Harry is able to conjure up

clothes just by wishing for them and how “his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before

his eyes” out of the cloudy vapor. It also explains why Dumbledore does not know where they

are—it is, as he says, “Harry’s party.” The entire scene is a kind of virtual reality construct

except that Dumbledore and Voldemort’s maimed soul are really present and not mere “images”

in Harry’s mind.

This is the sense in which the scene is both “real” and taking place in Harry’s head. It is

real in the sense that there is a genuine encounter and dialogue between Harry and Dumbledore.

It is also real in the sense of being intersubjectively shareable. Dumbledore is able to see the high,

sparkling ceiling and sit upon Harry’s thought-generated seats just as Harry can. But the entire

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setting is also Harry’s “image” and occurs in Harry’s head because it is produced by his thoughts

and wishes.

Granger is right, therefore, in thinking that Rowling is saying that the contrast between

“real” and “in my head” is a false one. But it’s not because Rowling is a closet idealist and

pantheist who thinks that “everything is mental.” Rather, it’s because she’s making an intriguing

suggestion about what the afterlife might be like. Perhaps what we call “heaven” (maybe hell too)

is not a single shared “space” (with pearly gates, gold streets, etc.) but a state of mind in which

each person is able to generate his or her own mental, but shareable, construct (have his or her

own “party,” as Rowling puts it). This interpretation may not be as exciting as Granger’s

pantheistic one, but it is plenty exciting to explain why Rowling would have waited with great

anticipation for seventeen years to be able to say it.

Whether I am right in this reading of the King’s Cross scene or not, it serves as an

illustration of what I see as the Rowling’s greatest achievement as a literary artist—the extremely

skillful interweaving of genres and the intermixing of children and adult themes. In the Potter

books Rowling takes what readers are known to love—mystery and fantasy, humor and satire,

gothic romance and heroic quest, morality tale and spiritual quest —and fuses them all into a

thrilling, 4,100-page epic. She does so in a way that integrates many layers of meaning, both

high and low, superficial and deep. As Harry and his friends grow and mature, so too do the

books. They become darker, deeper, and more “adult” as they rush toward their tremendous

denouement. Like all great works of fantasy, Rowling’s Potter tale offer what Tolkien called

“consolation”: a positive “answer to the question of whether our efforts, hardships, and

21

sufferings have any point, any final significance.”21

May all our stories end with “All was

well.”22

1 John Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf: The Great Books Behind the Hogwarts Adventures (New York: Berkely

Books, 2009), 129.

2 Travis Prinzi, Harry Potter and Imagination: The Way Between Two Worlds (Wayne, PA: Zossima Press, 2008), 207.

3 Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf, 114-17.

4 Prinzi, Harry Potter and Imagination, 219.

5 Beth Admiraal and Regan Lance Reitsma, “Dumbledore’s Politics,” in Gregory Bassham, ed., The Ultimate Harry

Potter and Philosophy: Hogwarts for Muggles (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2010): 113-27.

6 For a detailed discussion, see Gregory Bassham, “A Hogwarts Education: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” in

Bassham, ed., The Ultimate Harry Potter and Philosophy, 215-23. It’s not clear why Dumbledore allows these

problems to persist; some may be out of his control.

7 Benjamin Barton, “Harry Potter and the Half-Crazed Bureaucracy,” Michigan Law Review 104 (May 2006), 1523-

24.

8 John Granger, Unlocking Harry Potter: Five Keys for the Serious Reader (Wayne, PA: Zossima Press, 2007), 54.

9 J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (New York: Scholastic, 1997), 297.

10 Baltimore, MD: Penguin Books, 1972.

11 Quoted in Granger, Unlocking Harry Potter, 60.

12 Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf, 235.

13 The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien , edited by Humphrey Carpenter (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981), 237.

14 Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf, passim.

15 The Fabian Society is a British socialist organization, founded in 1884, which advocates a gradualist and non-

violent adoption of socialist ideals.

16 For discussions of the religious elements in Tolkien’s writings, see Bradley J. Birzer, J. R. R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying

Myth: Understanding Middle-Earth (Wilmington, DE: ISI Books, 2003) and Ralph C. Wood, The Gospel According to

Tolkien: Visions of the Kingdom in Middle-earth (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003).

22

17

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (New York: Arthur A. Levine Books, 2007), 723.

18 Quoted in Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf, 274.

19 Granger, Harry Potter’s Bookshelf, 271-79.

20 J. K Rowling Official Site, quoted at http://harrypotterspage.com/news.php/2007/12/07/j-k-rowling-gives-site-

update-on-characters-her-and-more123.html.

21 John J. Davenport, “Happy Endings and Religious Hope: The Lord of the Rings as an Epic Fairy Tale,” in Gregory

Bassham and Eric Bronsons, eds., The Lord of the Rings and Philosophy: One Book to Rule Them All (Chicago: Open

Court, 2003), 209.

22 Rowling, Deathly Hallows, 759.