HPP: Many First Impressions

Two introductions are made in Chapter 5 of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, mostly in relation to each other: the dementor and Professor Lupin.  At this point, we're not sure of the alignment of either, though we're told that dementors are (mostly) under control and there for the students' protection; and Professor Lupin is trustworthy enough to be employed by Dumbledore and also very handy after Harry's first encounter with the former.

Jenna writes, "In all the speculative fiction I've ever read, I cannot think of a more troubling invention than the dementor," and I'm with her there.  I'm also with her when she says that the horror of demenotors draw from the fact that they are a real thing in this world:  a beast called depression, which is far more common and far more conspicuous than demenotors in the fictional one.  But there is another thing that troubles me about the dementors, and for that explanation, I'll quote Masha: "But the dementors fail in one essential and deeply troubling sense. The ‘dementor’s kiss’ steals the soul of the victim."  If this is truly the case--and we've yet to finish the book and series, so more remains to be seen--then that is an extremely terrifying being, and an extremely depressing universe for it to exist in.  And one, I think, that is flawed.

We more or less agreed, over in Masha's combox, that 

. . . what horrifies [. . .] about the dementors [is] that we exist in a world where one's soul cannot merely cease to be like that.  Rowling's fatal mistake--if we want to carry the depression metaphor to its fullest--is in emotionalizing the soul.  The soul is more than feeling, it's got an intellectual element to it (I think Aristotle and Plato touch on this?)  So a soul can be thrust into the pit of despair, but the ultimate sin [in the Judeo-Christian philosophy] is an intellectual denial of God's goodness.

I'm sure we'll discuss this more as the dementors make their reappearance later in the book.  I'll just add to Jenna's comment on chocolate being an odd, tiny remedy for the chill of the dementors.  I like that it is something that is so often made to be the enemy of modern women and their figures.  I think it's an important affirmation that simple, ordinary things aren't just okay for us but good for us--that life is about taste and enjoying a bit of luxury in the un-lofty, and that that healthful reverence a healthy person makes.  

If no one has anything else to add, we'll leave them at the gates to the Hogwarts grounds and move forward, to Chapter 6, and the third major character introduction of Professor Trelawney.  She's a brilliant character, and a lovely parody; smoky and glittering and mysterious, everything a fortune teller-psychic-palmist ought to be, according to popular conception.  I do appreciate Rowling's fond use of tropes and reader expectations.  (Giving her the name Sibyll?  I know Masha's not impressed by the easy-come puns, but I enjoy them!)  I'm also very much appreciative of Rowling's perceptive depiction of the faults and follies of divination.

Completely aside from any assertion as to its accuracy, Trelawney's showcasing in the Gryffindor's first session is an effective argument against the practice and/or use of divination; the children, excepting Hermione, are nervous wrecks afterward.  Whether or not they really do know the future or only think they do, an important invisible thing has been shoved aside to make room for her revelations: hope.  It's determinism with the face of mysticism.  And really, even if it weren't an imprecise art, like Professor McGonagall says; or, also as she says, there are some who really possess it in it full capacity; why would anyone want to use it, let alone learn it as part of their course syllabi?  Jenna might tease me for thinking much too far into it for a children's book, but I have to be honest with my first time impressions, right?  c;

The minor character Sir Cadogan was such a nice treat for me--Rowling's clearly familiar with the Arthurian, chivalric tradition, from the Welsh-originating name to the fat knight's dated speech.

I'm happy for Hagrid's appointment as a teacher but not sure he can handle his own against snotty little brats like Malfoy; he's too much of a gentle giant.  Although, if he has anything going for him in the role, it's that he's hopelessly and sweetly oblivious to his own beautiful character and outstanding strengths.  If he could just gain a little bit of self confidence, enough to ignore the Slytherins' teasing, he'd easily shut them up and put them in their place by the mere existence of his excellence.

I love Hagrid.  (Who doesn't?)

HPP: When Worlds Collide--er, Overlap

In chapters 2 through 4 of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is the first instance--at least the first in my notice--that the Muggle world and wizarding world have modern, real-time overlap.

The Ministry of Magic sees fit to inform the non-magical media of the escape of a murderous maniac.  To be honest, I'm surprised they haven't had more problems of this kind.  There must have been bad wizards and witches, like our common thugs and petty criminals, who didn't care to keep their mischief confined to their own kind.  But then, that's what memory charms are for, I suppose!

It's an interesting thought to entertain--how often and how many times have happily oblivious Muggles happened upon magic only to have their revelations erased and their life's events rearranged for them--and how does that jive with ethics, wizards' or otherwise?

It's a perfect parallel with Mr. Weasley's dilemma in wanting to tell Harry the truth about Black.  Mrs. Weasley believes Harry would be happier protected from the knowledge that a sinister, escaped prisoner has him marked for murder.  But dear Arthur insists that Harry has a right to know.  Once again, Arthur Weasley steps forward as champion of common sense and decency.  He has more the heart of a human being than either Muggle or wizard, and every time I read about him, my respect for him grows in leaps and bounds.

This also whets an appetite that has been stirring in me from the first pages of the first book: a thus far unfulfilled hunger to see how the world of magic, veiled from the ordinary world, can go on in secret; and wishing to see what would happen if someone--either by choice or by force of hand--were to reveal to the majority of the world on a mass scale that magic is real and exists all around us, in a parallel society, since the beginning of the beginning.  The build-up to the mortal struggle with Voldemort we are heading toward is a perfect opportunity for this; for wizards to throw down their wands and say, "We all have to work together if we're going to defeat the Dark Lord" and "It's just as much their fight as it is ours because it's their world--it's their lives--too."

In a similar vein, I'm looking forward to seeing Hogsmeade, a real, live, in-the-world wizard village.  I wonder, what do unsuspecting Muggles who wander into Hogsmeade think of it?  Is it cloaked or concealed somehow from non-magical people?  I do want Harry to go there, but I've a bad feeling that he's not going to make a legitimately allowed visit.

If not for Jenna's saying so, I wouldn't have ever put Aunt Marge and Margaret Thatcher together; but then, I'm not knowledgeable about politics and any history more recent than the Reformation.  Even if this is a jab at conservationism, the labels mean different things for Americans than Brits, and I've never been a fan of labels anyway, except for the one Big One (it's obvious enough if you read around here closely).  The only way conservatism vs. liberalism would interest me is in the details--how they rate or what stances they take on particular issues or with certain real people who have names, jobs, and children . . . and not in the abstract generalizations.  So a "no" to that, I think, Masha?

I won't add to Masha's commentary about Harry's anger and the consequences thereof because I believe I've made my discomfort regarding that clear already, and repeating myself gets old, especially for readers!

I'm curious and looking forward to omens and fortunetelling in the book.  I don't have much personal opinion about it and experience with it myself, so discussions around that I'm looking forward to as well.  At any rate, Rowling is playing a bit with death omens herself, with the black wolf sighted by Harry and its affiliation with the book subtitled "what to do when you know the worst is coming."

Chapters 2, 3, and 4 take their time baiting and building up the main conflict that is to come, which allows the charming world of Harry Potter to open further fore exploration.  The Knight Bus is fun in the way that much of Rowling's inventions are: unbalanced in favor of pun more than for practicality.  The Leaky Cauldron's got rooms!  Crookshanks, Scabbers, Percy's promotion to Head Boy, Ginny, and a mirror that gives unhelpful feedback.  And there's been mention of some sinister guards placed around Hogwarts to keep watch for the also-sinister murderer.  We're well on our way to another interesting school year.

HPP: Modernism vs. Magic

It's a good thing we've covered Book 2 so far in the Harry Potter book club, or I might accidentally mix some floo powder into my tea thinking it some sort of magical tonic.  I feel like Harry, Hermione, and Ron, lately: always headed for a bed in the hospital wing.  I wouldn't mind a Percy stand-in to bully me into some Pepperup Potion every now and again.

Fevers are appropriate, however, as we're back with Harry in the summer, under the hot blankets with a flashlight doing homework.  Chapter 1 of The Prisoner of Azkaban is a good, steady re-introduction.  The pace slowed noticeably from the first book to the second, and from the second to third it's slowed yet again.  Well, so there is something to the fact that each consecutive book gets larger and larger!  It makes sense.  Now that we are more familiar with the intricacies of the Potter universe, we can take our time and explore the back-roads . . . enjoy the scenery.

I like reading about owl post in action; and it's characteristic of the wizarding world, which seems to exist in an eternal crisis (if that's the right word) between the archaic and the modern.  You can throw some powder in the chimney, walk into the fireplace, and end up in another town altogether, but apparently it takes a Galleon prize drawing to be able to afford a trip to Egypt.  Of course, we Muggles see it as charming, but for the wizard-born-and-raised, wouldn't the e-mail and the text message seem more magical?  And what separates magic from science, in a universe where magic seems to lack all elements of spirituality and is a naturally found occurrence?  It reminds me of the passage in The Lord of the Rings when Lady Galadriel kindly tells Sam that what he considers "elf-magic" is for them art, skill, and science.

I'm also happy that, at last, Harry had a good birthday.

Jenna's conjuring pumpkin recipes over at Hagrid's.  Before she did that, though, I found a most extraordinary thing in a (non-magical) schoolroom the other day.

Though a trip to Universal Studios is not impossible, it is, monetarily speaking, and at this time, out of the question.  And so is the price tag for ordering online!  So we'll stick with Jenna's experiments for now.  At least, my roasted pumpkin seeds came out pretty tasty!

HPP: Of Phoenixes and Free Will

Hallowmas was the perfect week to finish up The Chamber of Secrets, and it did not disappoint.  Chapter 17, "The Heir of Slytherin," was a sledgehammer of ah-ha! moments and I-gotta-remember-thats!  So let's begin, shall we?

In Chapter 16, Ron and Harry's intention to question Moaning Myrtle is postponed in several steps: (1) they are caught by McGonagall on the way to the bathroom and must make the detour to the hospital wing  to cover their story; (2) they discover the crumpled paper in Hermione's hand and the nature of the beast and decide to inform McGonagall; and (3) they're thrown completely off track by the news that Ginny has been taken--and most likely killed--by the Heir of Slytherin.  This is all great story-building and plot strategy.  I'll take a pinch of unbelievability for a gallon of masterful layering and cross-layering (is that redundant?) any day.

When they at last come to themselves again, Harry and Ron decide to confide the information they have to Professor Lockhart, who is to descend into the Chamber to attempt a rescue.  Why they would go to him rather than to McGonagall, who is clearly more capable, I don't know.  But it works.

In the staff room, by Marta T, source

This is one of the instances I wrote on previously, in which Harry asserts himself--as a character, as a personality, as the subject of his novels, rather than just an object to be acted upon and blown about by every wind.  In which he lays down the title earned for him by his mother, the Boy Who Lived, and fits out a reputation of his own making.  He gets angry.  And it is that very human anger and its source in love for his near and dear that brings me closest to him thus far.  It's when I really believe him and feel I know him as a person.  I just love it when he gets angry!  (Whoa--am I having a Ginny moment?)  Harry is one of those unassuming people who's not easily ticked--he's never anything other than kind to the moon-eyed little sister of his best friend, Colin's obsessive photo-snapping, and even Lockhart's friendly arrogance (okay, well maybe just "tolerant" of that last one)--but if and when he is made angry, heaven help you!

Henceforth, all the pieces fall into place.  Lockhart is revealed as the charlatan; Myrtle gets her five minutes of fame; the Chamber entrance is discovered.  The boys go forth alone, with only their fragile bravery, their determination, and a good-for-nothing Professor of Dark Arts.

After Chapter 17, I understand why people say Chamber is the darkest book.  The bleeding black ink; the sinister and apelike statue of Slytherin, crude and vast, reminiscent of dark, primitive demons that accepted blood sacrifices in the jungle; the heavy body uncurling itself from a black hole of a mouth.  Masha feels that Riddle is more distressing than Voldemort as a villain, and I agree.  

Riddle is an ideal villain in this one book. His Voldemort self is less convincing, and less interesting to me than the conscience-free, arrogant boy facing Harry beneath the castle. Is this why Chamber of Secrets is more unnerving than the rest of the series? Because Harry is still so young, still likeable, and Riddle is very much the image of a boy seduced by darkness, and not the incompetent, almost ridiculous little demon he becomes?

The smiling, handsome schoolboy, model student, orphan, prefect, head boy, calm and cool, like a brunette James Dean is poorly suited to the demented, murderous intention, the calculating conniving, the raw, yet-to-be formed and distilled craving for power, the self-stylized name . . . juxtaposition highlights perversity.  (Harry, why oh why did you put down your wand!)

Tom Riddle, by glockgal, source

The infiltration of Ginny by Tom Riddle is by far worse than Voldemort's parasitical relation to Quirrel.  Quirrel was a willing host.  Ginny is literally possessed.  And how he possessed her, by feeding on her fears and secrets!

"If I say so myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed."

That's the part that refuses to leave you in comfort--the outright deception.  At least Voldemort stands and faces his enemies.  They know him.  His name is feared.  But Riddle works like an infestation or a terminal disease, and you've no chance to defend yourself.  By the time you know what he is, it's too late.

Now the other thing I noted was how similar the attitudes of Draco Malfoy and Tom Riddle were.  Riddle's interest in opening the Chamber of Secrets (and in re-opening it through Ginny, at first, before he learned of Harry) was in ridding the school of Mudbloods.  Draco expressed approval of such a purge several times.  I daresay that he has the capability to become another Voldemort, if not the talent, charm, and intelligence, then in intention.

[Quick side question: why is such a despicable person such as Salazar Slytherin head of Hogwarts, even if he was one of the founders?  If, say, a racist bigot founded our school or town or club, we'd be in all sorts of hurry to unaffiliate with him.]

Fawkes & the Basilisk, by odella, source

Riddle's anagram-name is narcissistic, unlike Harry's confidence in and loyalty for Dumbledore.  Fawkes's unearthly music is one of the truly magical moments in Harry Potter.  The "eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly" song that "lifted the air on Harry's scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size" is more magic to me than any charm, potion, or transfiguration; even more so than an enchanted ceiling is that thin, high note ringing out in the dark, kindling hope in the heart.  Masha:

The magic in Harry Potter is not magic in the true sense, and teaches us nothing about how to approach this "embodiment of the sublime virtue of hope", with all it's dangers, pitfalls, and beautiful potentialities. More often than not, the magic of Harry Potter is mere 'hocus-pocus spells' - not fairy at all. But then, there are at times that real sense of 'ritualized optimism' that makes the magic real.

Fawkes is splendid.  But the best part of this chapter is, surprisingly, not in the the feeble but unwavering faith and loyalty of the good; but in the unflattering but accurate portrayal of evil as something dull, arrogant, and uncreative.  While Harry has no idea how a shiny bird and a shabby hat will save him, Riddle is assured his victory.  He refers to Lily's valiant sacrifice flippantly as "a powerful counter charm" and mocks Dumbledore's aid to Harry, even to the point of forgetting--he, the most brilliant and powerful of wizards--that phoenix tears have healing powers.  Voldemort's prideful carelessness can be counted on much more than Dumbledore's haphazard and sometimes dubious help to secure the the triumph of goodness.  So in the end, it is Riddle's own creature--the fang of the basilisk plunged into that black diary--that destroys him.

The girls have already spoken sufficiently on Harry's (and Dumbledore's) extreme kindness to Ginny.  So I won't say more on that.  But I will say that Gilderoy without any memory is a much more likeable person than normal Gilderoy.  Funny how he is the most himself, as opposed to the person he wants everyone to think he is, when he doesn't know himself:  "Am I a professor?" said Lockhart in mild surprise.  "Goodness.  I expect I was hopeless, was I?"

I pouted a bit about the lack of free will in the last book club post.  That was well remedied in Chapter 18, when Dumbledore makes his famous assertion: "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."  And I like that.  I'm a huge champion of free will operating in stories--especially when it is made blindingly clear by one or two very grave choices, upon which all the rest of the story hinges.  Which is why Harry can wield the sword of Gryffindor.  He chooses to.

We come back to Dobby at the end of the story.  It seems like such a long time--a school year packed with hard lessons, difficult classmates, social awkwardness, lovely holidays, exciting sports, deadly adventures, real fears and desolations--since the little house elf stood in the upstairs room in the Dursleys and begged Harry not to come back to Hogwarts.  Harry's kindness to Dobby is yet another example of choice shaping fates.  When Lucius Malfoy reels on Harry with his wand raised, Dobby knocks the wizard off his feet and commands him to leave (see how the tables have turned!).  And since Dobby's role was too small in this book, I expect to see him again in later stories, where the opportunity for Harry's choice in kindness can bear fruit for another adventure.

HPP: Problems with Authority

Plots and subplots are braided together in these latest chapters of The Chamber of Secrets, and things we thought at first were distractions and little excursions into dead ends wind back around, ushering us to the center of the labyrinth.  An empty, 50-year-old diary; an exceptionally annoying phantom; a lost enchanted car; a half-giant's soft spot for carnivorous monsters; and the authorial purpose of placing spiders near the scene of the crime.  This is where Rowling gets a chance to flex her muscles and show her mettle.  This is darn good storytelling.

The Valentine's Day celebration was suitably sickening, being, as it was, orchestrated by Gilderoy.  And it helpfully allowed for Harry to discover that the blank diary perhaps wasn't blank after all.  We learn that the blank diary is in fact a two-way device, and Harry communicates with the memories of one, Tom Riddle, who attended Hogwarts fifty years ago--the exact time the Chamber of Secrets was last open.

Of the re-lived memory, much is significant, outside of the capture of the so-called Heir of Slytherin.  First, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and death of a student is confirmed.  Second: Riddle is much like Harry, a lonely boy raised in the Muggle world, with no real home to return to outside of Hogwarts.  Sympathy-inducing and character-deepening all at once.  We're shown also the contrast between Professor Dippet and the young Dumbledore.  Masha puts perfectly what I absorbed on a subconscious level.  So I know that this impression is powerful enough to affect even the most casual reader:

I think we've mentioned Rowling's successful use of place, regarding especially the Hogwarts castle. In this book we see the strength of place growing as we see both Harry and Riddle's relationship to the school. Both boys obviously see Hogwarts as home. And there is a sort of magic to home, both in the series and in reality. Being rooted to a place is powerful and leaves a mark on both the person and the place. It seems too that Dumbledore is very much at home in Hogwarts. It is his place as well. Rowling shows it best when she gives us a glimpse of the school's previous headmaster: Armando Dippet. Dippet is kind, and I'm sure very competent, but he doesn't infuse the school with his presence the way Dumbledore does. The sense is that Dumbledore's emotional connection to the school is similar to Harry's and to Riddle's. It's his place, and because it is his: emotionally as well as vocationally, the change in official status does nothing to damage his magical link to the school and it's students. It's a rich detail, I think, and one that gives a layer of tangible, natural magic to the series. And I hadn't noticed it until Jenna pointed it out.

Also, did anyone pick up on it--?  There was more than just Riddle, spectre-Harry, young Hagrid, and Hagrid's furry creature prowling about that night.  Who or what remains to me seen.

Poor Hermione ends up in the hospital wing yet again.  Students spend quite a bit of their educational time there, so it's a good thing Madam Pomfrey is so protective.  But when their best friend falls victim to the growing terror, Ron and Harry decide it's time to confront Hagrid--as usual, taking matters into their own hands rather than confiding in an trusted adult.

I understand why Rowling has them do this.  But that doesn't put me any more at ease with the idea of my young, impressionable son idolizing as role models these otherwise capable boys.  I'm back in the discomfort caused by the opening chapters now, when Ron and Harry chose to take the enchanted car to Hogwarts.  I hope and trust that my son will make better choices than these two young wizards.  As it stands, a young adult story, with adolescents as the main characters yet which takes place in a school setting, is likely to take me over and again to this discomfort.  Rowling plays it off well by making Hogwarts an unconventional and rather dangerous place to begin with.  It is a common characteristic of the wizarding world.  And so, I find, very little suspension of disbelief is needed.

Now we turn to Azkaban.  The first mention of the wizard prison appeared in previous chapters, and it rises again and again, here and there in casual circumstances, so as to accustom us to its name and existence.  But in Chapter 14, it steps to the foreground for the first time.  Cornelius Fudge insists on taking Hagrid there for safe-keeping, making the excuses that he's "got to be seen doing something" and that the "Ministry's got to act."  If that mentality is not perfect fodder for the growth of fascism, I don't know what is.  It's a tendency of the wizarding world that I think will crop up again in the future.  As, I suppose, is common in a society so often besieged by danger and destruction.

This throws into juxtaposition Dumbledore's wise, benevolent, almost anarchist-by-comparison approach to leadership.  It's an interesting subject for scholarly study.  Those in official positions of authority have their hands tied.  In crisis, they act in what can be argued is a logical way, as their duty is to act according to the good of the whole society. Then we have Dumbledore, who is also an authority figure, but who acts on preternatural instinct.  He appears to be capable of the spiritual gift of reading of souls.  Whatever the origin or the method, Dumbledore sees through to truth.  Yet it is a very personalized gift, and as such, open to misuse and corruption.  One wonders whether it is not dangerous to trust to safekeeping a school (or society) on the "feelings" of an assumed-unbiased, capable individual who has the good of everyone in mind--without recourse to greater authority.

Going back to Azkaban: I am struck by the atmosphere of horror surrounding the place.  If a man like Hagrid (who braves the Forbidden Forest regularly and claims hideous monsters like other people collect kittens) is fearful of it, what kind of place is it?  Is it ethical to imprison criminals, no matter the crime, in what could possibly be a living Hell?  And how does that figure in a fallible system, in which innocents can be accused and sentenced?

The problem is aggravated by the existence of magic.  As a resource so powerful as to render a witch or wizard almost god-like, things could go very wrong very quickly if it were used for ill over good (or even neutrality, if it is possible to ever use something in such a way).  How does a civilization protect itself from some dire potentiality?  The answer appears obvious: there needs to be a rigorous and impenetrable penal system.  But it comes at a high cost.

Placing ambiguous magic as the central mover of a story comes with many such difficulties.  When characters can harness such mighty powers, the setting in which such people may live or exist is thrown under scrutiny.  What would such a society look like, and how would if function?  What would be the moral repercussions in such a civilization?  It's not an easy thing to work out.  I'm looking forward to seeing it in greater detail as we read on in the series.

Enough of the deep stuff!  Winding down with Chapter 15: I am with Ron and Jenna.

...okay, Hagrid, really? I know you wanted to reveal some things, but you thought it was safe to send two twelve-year-old kids and a cowardly dog into a nest of acromantulas? Way deep in the Forbidden Forest? Really?!!!

Totally.  Oh, Hagrid.  You seem to take for granted that not everybody can look at a wild beast of legend and see a pet, not a predator.  Or cut, lift, and carry a twelve-foot tall Christmas tree.

Aragog and Mosag immediately brought to mind the names of the giants Gog and Magog, of western mythological fame.  Whether or not Rowling was aware that people like me would hear the musical similarities and associate them as such, I don't know.  But she's none too shabby on her mythology, so it's not out of the question.

At the rescue of the enchanted car, my first instinct was to cry, "But what if the car hadn't been there!  They would have died!"  In reading, I often test plot developments in such a way.  I'm uncomfortable with the chance occurrence because it has little to no origin in the free will of the characters--which I find infinitely more fascinating.  Or it could be that I'm a little bit of a control freak in my own life and am scared silly at the idea of having to depend on luck, or fortune, or providence to get me out of a sticky, webby situation.

And, at last . . . something to lend dignity to poor Moaning Myrtle!  Glad to see she's got value other than comical relief, at least for her sake.  Stay close for the Chapter 16 reflections later this evening.

HPP: Happy Saint Hedwig Day!

We've been out with a nasty infection, the likes of which I doubt even a Pepperup Potion could cure!  The next Harry Potter Project post should be up within the week.  In the meantime, Jenna's given us another free period, and--guess what today is?  It's the feast of Saint Hedwig!  Rowling's stories have plenty of little allusions like that, to keep you occupied between reading installments.

Suits the wizened dignity of a snowy white owl, doesn't she?

HPP: Potions

It's potion season, ya'll, and I'm not just talking about the reading.  We're attacking our colds early with remedies and keeping our fingers crossed.  I'm tempted to try Masha's Pepperup Potion, even though contemporary medicine would say NO to alcohol during a compromised immune system (but the same authorities have got to be crazy if they think this working mom is foregoing caffeinated beverages!).  Jenna's pumpkins are looking plump, so there's some pumpkin juice in our future as well, I hope!

So, after a rushing week, it's time to cozy down with Chamber of Secrets.  But don't get too comfortable.  The Mudblood-targeting monster has got itself its first human victim.  Quite a jump in the danger range, from cat to Creevey.  And Dobby is back and with more dire warnings, but he let slip some valuable information before pummeling himself silent: the Chamber of Secrets exists, and it's been opened before!

Jenna at this point mentions Harry as "the Physical Hero."  Sacrifice that comes in the literal form of pain and suffering is common in Harry Potter.  A lot of time is spent in in-castle hospital, where the cures are almost as bad as the ailments!

Keith James

I feel for Harry's plight being a Parselmouth.  He's already under the suspicion of his classmates most of the time, without them suspecting him of setting snakes on them.  The scene in the library when Harry confronts the Hufflepuffs is one of those character-building moments, when we see that Harry has heat in him.  At least it is for me.  I don't know why I tend to forget that--maybe from Daniel Radcliffe's performance in the movies--but I subconsciously consider Harry as one acted-upon.  Not as much the one who acts.  It could be an illusion brought about by his place as central character in a plot-dense story.  So much happens all around him that it seems like most of the time he is in reaction-mode.  So when I see his anger and confrontation, I fluctuate between pride and surprise.  In a difficult situation (especially for adolescents, and this particular adolescent cares for the opinions of his peers more than most because his family is abusive), Harry doesn't run away in tears like I would have; nor does he lunge out in anger, until he is accused of something vile.  I glad for these jolts every now and then, to remind me that Harry is more master of his fate than I give him credit for.

About the Parselmouth gift being the domain of dark wizards, I feel the same as I do about his suitability for placement in Slytherin.  Though the wizarding world is stubborn in its prejudices, I insist that the evilness (or goodness) of a thing, a created object or a genetic gift, is in how it is used.  I'm pulling strongly for Harry, here.  I sense and understand his fear.  It is true that the Parselmouth gift is one often used for evil.  But that makes me even more determined to see Harry use it for good.  The ability to speak to snakes, like most things, is not intrinsically wrong.  So it's unfortunate his classmates see it as such.

Heather Campbell

An interesting thought, from the Harry Potter Companion, which I thought worth sharing:

It’s interesting that Snape completely sets up Harry’s exposure as a Parseltongue when he puts Harry and Malfoy on stage, and then suggests that Malfoy use Serpensortia. Why on earth would Snape have done it? It’s a useless spell for a duel (as Irene M. Cesca mentions below, “What? You cross your fingers… that he’s gonna run out screaming?”). So was something more sinister at work? Did Snape, or Dumbledore, suspect that Harry was a Parselmouth and use the opportunity to learn more? 

On the one hand, Dumbledore is such a mastermind so much of the time that my brain tends to immediately jump to conspiracy theories when something like this happens. But as several readers pointed out, it’s just not Dumbledore’s style to publicly expose anybody in this fashion, much less Harry Potter. Snape, however, is not above any such things – especially when it comes to Harry. And he is certainly suspicious (even though Dumbledore is not) that Harry had something to do with the Mrs. Norris incident. Is it possible Snape just took it on himself to throw a snake in front of Harry and see what happened? It would certainly be an awfully big, awfully convenient coincidence if that’s all it was. But I can’t make sense of it any other way.

Can't say that it's been like Rowling so far to be super subtle with ulterior motives, so I don't think Snape suspected Harry of snake-speaking capabilities and had Malfoy set the snake on him to out him.  That doesn't keep it from being an entertaining thought!

Malfoy further ingratiates himself to my disfavor in this chapter.  What kind of person wishes for a classmate to die?  He's horrid to his friends.  And how much of this is truly how he feels, and how much is show?  How much is a desire to make himself acceptable to his cool-favored parents?  So far, we've only met the father, and Lucius is not one I'd describe as "supportive."

We also learn that Percy is creeping around and that the last person who opened the chamber might be in Azkaban--first mention of the foreboding wizard prison.

Catmione, far-eviler of dA, source

Like Masha, I find more beauty and solace in the old fairy tale depiction of the phoenix rather than Rowling's.  But hers is suitable for the story she tells.

Like Jenna, I wondered what Dumbledore meant by asking Harry if there was anything Harry'd like to tell him.  If Dumbledore does know everything that goes on in Hogwarts--which would be a natural position to assume as children looking up to their wise, knowledgeable mentor--then there is something unsettling in his allowance for things to run their course.  The way he asks it makes me think he knows Harry knows something.  But it might not be more than a feeling or a guess, and perhaps Dumbledore is not as confident as he comes off to be.

The student-mentor relationship between Harry and Dumbledore has potential for much growing pain.  I do believe that before the end, Harry's heart will be broken by the bitter knowledge that his beloved Professor doesn't have all the answers.  But Oscar Wilde has something profound to say regarding that matter.

HPP: Ghosts in the Foreground

Halloween is a delight at Hogwarts.  The feast trimmed with floating candles and glowing pumpkins, capped with the fitting and plot-launching event of a troll invading the bathroom in The Sorcerer's Stone is hard to top; but the Deathday Party nearly does.*   I know it's supposed to be boring beyond belief, but to me, it's another face of the many-sided coin that makes Halloween my favorite holiday.   Ever.**

The side-story of Nearly Headless Nick and Filch's Kwikspell course are instances of something new in this volume: side-story.  The Sorcerer's Stone was fairly linear in plot.  And that's good for the first story.  As the introduction to the series, it needs to prove itself to readers, focus on business . . . then, with the success of the first, the following installments can be consecutively more and more intricate.  The tale must first win us before it can whet our appetite for back- and side-story.  If Rowling is able to tie in all the side stories to the main conflict, then I take my head off to her; but it's not a sign of bad writing if she doesn't.

Masha feels the ghosts serve the story better in the background.  I myself like their "fleshing out" in The Chamber of Secrets, for reasons I mentioned in the paragraph above.  I don't think it would have worked as well if they'd been introduced in detail in the first book.  By bringing us into the inner workings of Hogwarts a little more, I feel the curious traveler's satisfaction.  The impression of a thoroughly thought-out world, with nooks and crannies and secret terrains, some known and not known, many yet to be mapped. . .  Or maybe I just like Gothic too much for my own good!

artist unknown, source

Over at Jenna's, the regular book club members are engaged in a discussion about a rumor of some scholar or literary critic claiming that the Deathday party is a Black Mass.  Curious, I did a little internet digging on this topic, and came up with an article from The Remnant, a Catholic newspaper loyal to the Magistrerium; in other words, non-dissenting; not your typical extremists.

The article is by guest writer Paul Girard, who writes "The whole place is dressed in black as in preparation for a black mass (black drapes, jet-black tapers, a thousand black candles, etc.).   It is indeed a parody of the Holy Mass. . ."  He quotes the paragraph in full and then argues

This table is an altar with a black velvet tablecloth, as in a Requiem Mass.  Here the fish, a symbol of Christ (IKTUS), is not only dead but rotten, exactly like God’s enemies wish Him to be (actually, there is a Greek group of Heavy Metal Rock that calls itself ‘Rotten Christ’!).  The fish represented with bread traditionally refers to the Eucharist.  The “bread” here is the “cakes burned charcoal black,” like black Hosts used in a black mass.  The night of Halloween is believed to be the night where the veil is the thinnest between the worlds of the living and the dead, but this table shows the Living Christ as a dead and rotten fish with burned hosts (meaning that the Eucharist is dead food for brain dead people), while it exalts ghosts, who are believed to be dead but who are allegedly very much alive.  The fish (i.e. the One it symbolizes) is lying flat, hopelessly horizontal whereas the wizard’s tombstone is erect, gloriously vertical “in pride of place,” like a promise of immortality.

I don't know how Mr. Girard can state unequivocally that table = altar.  That kind of assumption, I'd think, would usher in all sorts of problems in everyday life.  So credibility is damaged immediately.

As for the fish and cakes representing Christ and the Host . . . well, even Freud admitted that sometimes a sword is just a sword, and not a phallic symbol.  The fish and cakes are not the only things on the table: there's also haggis, a normally disgusting food, without the addition of maggots; cheese, known for its potent smell, especially when it is moldy; and a big grey cake shaped like a tombstone, with "tar-like icing."  The fish and cakes are chosen for similar reasons.  Fish is a food whose smell often makes people queasy even when fresh.  And cakes are regular party fare (Sir Nick is English, after all), but they can't be nice, so Rowling makes them burnt.  By then, mold, rot, and maggots were already taken.

source

Now, he is right that Halloween is believed to be a night when the threshold between living and dead is weakened.  The belief was adopted by the Catholic Church early on without difficulty for All Hallows' Eve.

There is no exaltation of ghosts; in fact, they are undermined at every turn and made humorous, silly figures.  Just look at Myrtle!

The "believed to be dead but who are allegedly very much alive" statement baffles me . . . does he not know the definition of a ghost?  They are paradoxes.  Like zombies and vampires, that's part of their horror.

And the erect tombstone makes perfect sense, as that is how they are usually found, as does a fish lying on a plate on its side and not standing on its fin.

Mr. Girard then de-deconstructs his Satanic symbolism and re-deconstructs it as Gnostic--er, wait Celtic--no, Gnostic--symbolism.

Finally, while he may with good reason disapprove of Rowling's literary treatment of life-after-death, the celebration of a death can't be argued from a Judeo-Christian standpoint as evil.  On the contrary, death is spoken of as a true birth, or a second birth, into eternal life; and it is widespread in the Catholic tradition of memorializing a saint on the date of his or her death.  Put bluntly, Catholics have Deathday parties all the time.

All teasing aside, the author of the article seems like a sincere and concerned individual, but his knowledge as as scholar of literature is highly questionable.  His interpretation of symbolism is a stretch to say the least, and in all instances are taken out of context.  A paper written by me in such a way wouldn't have passed my professor's scrutiny in graduate school.

Moving on.

I do feel a little sorry for Filtch, since his is a society that seems steeped in prejudice for non-magic users.  Would the Malfoys be more accepting of a Squib than a Muggle-born wizard?  And why aren't Squibs, people born to magical families who can't use magic, just called Muggles, as people born to non-magical families who can use magic are called wizards and witches?

Good old Hermione gets things moving again with her questions in history class.  The back-story of the founding of Hogwarts is effortlessly woven with plot.  (See second paragraph.)  I took my time with this part of the chapter, and much pleasure in reading it.

*  Sir Nick died the year Columbus "sailed the ocean blue"!

**  Yes.  Better than Christmas.  I know!

HPP: Meanings and Mandrakes

It's September!  The description of damp, stony smells and cold entrance halls in Hogwarts remind me of my own time in an English school, which felt a good deal like how I imagine Hogwarts.  It was one of my first utterances upon seeing it.  "Like Hogwarts!"  And I referred to it as "the castle" for those first few months.  My Welsh and English schoolmates didn't get it.

But you do, don't you?  c;
source

Imagining the cold air of early morning in the Quidditch field is one of the pleasures of reading Harry Potter.  In a larger sense, it's a characteristic that is probably invisible to a significant portion of its English-speaking readers.  I mean it's Englishness.  Historical castles, shepherd's pies, crisp new school uniforms, and even the slightly dark air of aristocracy and social class give it a flavor subtle yet distinct from an American novel.

Another example is treacle, a food I'd never know about if not from reading English novels.  Hagrid's treacle tarts sound pretty tasty, jaw-cementing or not, so I scrounged up some recipes for them and hope to be making some in the future: here and here.  If you've found and/or perfected a recipe, do share.

Of chapters six and seven, Masha said, "this book is doing a great job so far of bringing us back to Hogwarts without making us feel we're repeating anything," which sums my feeling up quite nicely.  Gilderoy Lockhart continues to be an affliction for Harry.  Poor boy just can't attend school in peace with his friends like a normal student wizard.  Though anyone worth his wand is going to figure that the two words "normal" and "wizard" together aren't too promising to begin with.

I can't make up my mind about whether I do or don't like Hermione's girlish crush on Lockhart.  On the one hand, it seems out of character for the level-headed bookworm with more sense than Ron and Harry put together.  You'd think she'd recognize Lockhart's insincerity right away, especially after the pixie incident.  On the other hand, the soft hidden romanticism of the sensible girl is a fiction element I've seen before, not without good results, though it usually happens much later on in the character development.  So . . . I guess in this instance, I have to concede full knowledge of character to the author.  She of all people would know best whether or not Hermione would have this little lapse in judgement due to adolescent "feels"!  And it does add a dimension of humor to the Lockhart caricature a la, "What?  Not you too, Hermione!"

Chapter 7 brought some discomfort for readers and characters alike.  Ron's curse is nothing to sniff at.  Retching is The Worst without having to throw slugs into the bargain cauldron.  It's one of those things about Harry Potter that make some people uncomfortable.  In passing, the incident fits snugly into the reckless world of wizardry and doesn't raise any eyebrows.  But when you stop to think about it, it's pretty horrid.

In a related instance, Jenna mentioned some readers' dislike of Rowling's Mandrakes.  It didn't grab my attention personally, though encountering a real, infant-like screaming creature at the end of a green stalk buried in mud would probably get me all sorts of upset.  But fairy tales have always been violent, unapologetically so.  Harry Potter, as fantasy, is heir to fairy tales.  Is there a difference in exposing children to a fleshed out, detailed novel with some violent, feather-ruffling imagery and plot?  I don't know; but I almost always err on the side of non-censorship, and that doesn't waver a bit when it comes to HP.

mandrake

The other discomfort in this chapter is caused by the racial slur against Hermione.  Though we're in the positions of her and Harry about the severity of the insult, we readers, like them, pick up immediately that it is something loathsome.  The movie played out the ensuing scene in Hagrid's house differently.  In the film, Hermione offers a weak, teary smile as Hagrid comforts her.  I found that much more powerful than her book reaction, though not necessarily more realistic.

It raises a question in Harry Potter, not for the first time, of the meaningfulness of words.  Perhaps I should say meaning-ness.  How much does a word mean itself?  If the hearer of the word is ignorant of its meaning, is it still offensive?  Is meaning inherent?  Or does it depend on the intention of the speaker?  Mudblood, since it is a made up racial slur, is ideal to study when asking these questions, as we have none of the cultural or chronological biases.  I'd be interested to hear your thoughts, now and going forward in our reading.  (And by no means is it a topic limited to HP.)

As promised, The Chamber of Secrets takes a sharp turn for the darker at the end of Chapter 7.  Perhaps it's symbolic that the mystery antagonist--at this point as yet only a disembodied voice--does not make itself known from the outside, but from inside Harry's own head.

HPP: Back to School, Part II

Chapter 4 of The Chamber of Secrets further acquaints us with the Weasleys and the idiosyncrasies of wizard society.

Mr. Weasley's fascination with Muggles is meant to be humorous.  We, the readers, shake our heads at him with affection and say, "Silly Arthur, don't you know, it's you who are the fascinating ones?"  But I'm a stubborn advocate of the magic of ordinary; though I know it's exactly the opposite I'm supposed to take away, I wholeheartedly concur with his conclusions:

"Fascinating!" he would say as Harry talked him through using a telephone.  "Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found for getting along without magic."

Here, here, sir!

And aren't we, though?  It's something that irks me about wizards' attitudes toward Muggles.  At least one sensible wizard recognizes our resilience, vision, and resourcefulness as a race.  There's an opportunity here to bring a touch of magic to readres' lives, by helping us view them through the admiration of an outsider.  I hope to see more on that.

by reallycorking, To Freedom

Meanwhile, we re-visit Diagon Alley, one of the pleasures of the first book.  To see how the wizarding world works outside of Hogwarts.  Harry, unaccustomed to using Floo powder, gets off one fireplace too early and steps into Knockturn Alley, a section off of Diagon devoted to the Dark Arts.*  (As a folktale enthusiast, I appreciated the Hand of Glory cameo.)

Malfoy the elder and son are poking about on suspicious business, so Harry must hide.  For the first time we hear Voldemort referred to as The Dark Lord, by Lucius.  Not very convincing if his family were supposed to have been controlled by Voldemort against their wills.  Harry barely escapes being caught.  He is then scooped up by Hagrid, who is "lookin' fer a Flesh-Eatin' Slug Repellent."  Hagrid leads Harry down the road and out into the more wholesomely quirky Diagon Alley.

Among other things (entangling mysteries and further plot and character developments in this part abound), I'm surprised that the Dark Arts are so easily accessible.  In The Sorcerer's Stone, I got the impression that such things were outlawed, and that black magic had to operate in secret under the benevolent law of the Ministry of Magic.  But shady is not illegal, and the presence of Knockturn Alley bugs me like an itch.  Just what is the consensus regarding the Dark Arts in the wizarding world?  There doesn't seem to be the moral authority to proclaim them universally Wrong and banish their practice; only a general sense of wrongness and a distaste for those who have an affinity for it.

I was glad to see Hermione's parents and was curious as to why they didn't get much "screen time."  At that point it would have been tedious to introduce and flesh out two new characters, but we might have got a bit of dialogue, or even a gesture--a nodding of the head, a raising of the eyebrow--other than a passive description of general nervousness at the situation in which they find themselves.  I want to know how two decent people previously ignorant of an entire parallel society living among them react to the sudden revelation that There Is Such a Thing as Magic.  Oh, and Your Daughter's a Witch.**

Heather Campbell, Weasleys meet the Grangers, source

Gilderoy Lockhart and his swooning female fans--Mrs. Weasley among them--are in good fun.  They further convince me that the foundational backdrop of the Harry Potter story is meant to be a parody--a kind of cultural stereotype upon which to unfold an entertaining plot and unpack and examine deeper, more significant questions.

As Masha and Jenna noted, Harry's kindness to Ginny is a sweet moment.  I enjoyed seeing Ginny step out of two dimensions as a character.  Her introduction is well-handled.

by glocgal, Arthur vs. Lucius

Ron and Harry's mad adventure is typical boyish mischief, just the sort of thing I can see my son doing (and my husband, at that age).  Parental formation might deter irresponsible choices, but some children are just willful and insist to learn through deviation!  I felt a great deal of satisfaction at events not turning out how they expected, in both a motherly I-told-you-so way and a makes-for-a-more-interesting-read sort of way.  Though some of that was lost when they did indeed end up winning the admiration of their peers, as they had planned.

At this point it can be called a recurring circumstance: the absence of any real negative consequence for the protagonists' actions.  I don't like it, for two reasons: 

1. It's unrealistic.  Which could be overlooked using suspension of disbelief, perhaps, if not for the fact that
2. It's weak storytelling.  One of the more annoying circumstances surrounding a Mary Sue is that everyone, except for the obvious Bad Guys, are on the side of the protagonists and don't fault them for doing bad things with innocent intentions.

A third reason could be listed, and that is morality.  What kind of message is communicated to young people, if their heroes are never given more than a slap on the wrist for seriously poor choices?  For putting the lives of themselves and others in danger?  But I'm not sure if I'm comfortable including that as a literary failing since I don't believe stories ought to be didactic.  Of course, we're still early in the series, so we have yet to see if Harry and co. incur any significant consequences for misdeeds, intended or no.

Or is it telling that the chapter ends with the final words "Harry couldn't help it.  He grinned, too"?




*  Knockturn Alley, huh?--i see whut u did thar
**  We've touched on this before in combox discussion, but it's another book element I'd like to examine further: the use the word witch for a female wizard.  The two have very different connotations and bring up questions of gendered language.

HPP: Back to School, Part I

Chapter 2 of The Chamber of Secrets introduces us to a new character and, with him, a new race to populate the world of Harry Potter.  Dobby's debut comes with a warning, a revelation, and a further mystery.

Julie Baroh, Brownie, source

Our discussions surrounding Dobby these past weeks have been feisty and good-natured.  The existence of Dobby's race proves problematic for Masha.  Jenna counters, with others, that we don't know the history of the house elves--or their proper place in the story's cosmological order--and so cannot cry error per se.

The situation in Chapter 2 makes me uncomfortable.  This might be personal taste.  Many people I know adore Meet the Parents and movies, shows, and stories like it--"mean relational comedy," Jenna calls it--but I can't stand that kind of painful humor at others' expense.

"Can't anyone help you?  Can't I?" 

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn't spoken.  Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude. 

"Please," Harry whispered frantically, "please be quiet.  If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you're here--" 

"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew. . . ."

I've various thoughts and feelings when reading this passage, so I'll list them below.  (In full disclosure, I saw the film long before reading The Chamber of Secrets, so perhaps my impressions would have been different had they been via written form rather than visual.)

• Has no one ever before asked Dobby if he or she could help him?
• What kind of society is the wizarding world, that this has never occurred?
• Do they accept (actively or passively) this kind of cruelty toward a living thing, or are we to assume undisclosed back-story?
• If so--if wizards don't accept it, have tried to change it, and have not been successful--is it in the very nature of the house elves to behave this way?
• Did Rowling intentionally create a race of rational slaves?
• Did she do so for the sake of plot and storytelling without thought to the moral and ethical problems that might arise?  (I doubt it, personally.)
• What does that say about Rowling's world view and the virtue in and in reading her novels?  And does it matter?
• Harry's reaction isn't really extraordinarily good, but basically human (in the healthy formed conscience).
• Which leads me, again, to wonder why Dobby has never encountered even the slightest of human compassion.

I'm told by veteran readers the answers to some of these questions will unfold throughout the series.

Now for Mr. Weasley's fascination with muggle artifacts . . . in true keeping with Harry Potter protocol thus far, Arthur Weasley disregards and dismisses the rules.  This is a unique luxury/privilege for him, considering he is the guardian and enforcer of said rules.  Fred says plainly, "If he raided our house, he'd have to put himself under arrest."  It resembles the special allowances among police officers and other government workers, so not a situation entirely original to Harry Potter.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's marital bickering is certainly not original to Potter.  I like the portrayal of the Weasleys as normal, faulted, but generally wholesome and loving people.  Rowling's set them up to be allies for Harry but made them three-dimensional, enough to necessitate growth.  And, with nine people to a family, the potential relationship combinations create dimension for the story's backdrop.  Ginny's shyness annoys me a little, but then I was never one for teen idols as an adolescent.

Rien Poortvliet

De-gnoming the garden fleshes out Rowling's world-building.  As with the house elves, she caricatures a traditional folk being to better fit Potter's tone.  I admire her author's creativity in parting ways with tradition and making them her own, but I prefer gnomes of the garden variety (and I don't mean ceramic ones!).

I don't know what is unrelated distractions and what is the book itself, but so far The Chamber of Secrets has failed to immerse me.  I remember being satisfied after my first reading of The Sorcerer's Stone (and again after my recent second reading) but feeling no strong desire to pick up the second book.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter," says Dobby.  "A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year."  Indeed, I don't doubt it.  That's rather my thinking right now!  But I assume interest will pick up as read on.

Follow-up post for Chapters 4-5 coming within the week.  In the meantime, join the discussion here or feel free to contribute your own post reflecting on the past weeks' readings!

HPP: Recapitulation, and Other Hocus Pocus

I'm beyond getting my feet wet as I open the cover to Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  It might be time to rummage around for appropriate Hogwarts attire.  Methinks a trip to the thrift shop is justified.  Do they make many old shirts in Ravenclaw colors?

As a reader, going back to the beginning is always joyful to me.  It signals the delight of the journey to come, minus the edge-of-your-seat fumbling with the unknown of a first-time reading.  The Chamber of Secrets brings us full circle . . . so, despite the growth and triumph in The Sorcerer's Stone, we find Harry right back where he began.  Which is not, I'm afraid, very joyful for him.  Chapter 1 is a recap of the previous book, an evil necessity.  I don't much like recaps but they're almost always necessary in a series, especially a children's one.  But Rowling summarizes while staking out the ground for the new plot to come, so it's not bad.

source

For reasons yet to be revealed, Harry's friends have not kept correspondence with him over the summer as they promised.  This serves two purposes, as I see it: it puts Harry right back into the darkness where he was to be found in the beginning of Book 1, with even his prospects of returning to Hogwarts thrown into uncertainty.  It also highlights a particular character weakness.  Masha writes that, "he never really knows where he stands in the magical world, or the hearts of his friends.  He wants certainty that can’t be given in this world, he lacks trust - a faith in the goodness and consistency of those he loves.  It’s sort of a common thread for Harry throughout the books. . ."

I remember writing early on about the horror of Harry's upbringing and my subdued surprise that it hadn't affected him more severely.  Children raised in such a home, outside of the fictional world, would almost certainly have deep emotional wounds and problems with delinquency.  Here we start to cast light into the deeps of Harry's woundedness, of which, so far, we have not much left the shallows.

I noted and took some pleasure from Harry's teasing Dudley.  The words "jiggery pokery," "squiggly wiggly," and even the famous "hocus pocus" sound so ridiculous to those who, like Harry, have encountered real wizardry, lovely Latin roots and all.  It's a fun elbow-nudge to the reader.

Keith James, The Worst Birthday, source

Jenna warns that this book is noticeably darker than the first, and both Jenna and Masha admit to a bewildering gut reaction of finding it their least favorite in the series, only to renege after having freshly finished.  So we're going to see what that's all about!

In the meantime, I would love to make Aunt Petunia's pudding.  I'd not had trifle before living in Britain.  Its sogginess can be off-putting for some, but I like the throwing-together-the-scraps recipe.  My mother-in-law makes it from leftover cake and even sweet bread.  If I do make it, it won't be any sooner than the next couple of weeks.

HPP: The Greatest of These*

Three is irrefutably a magic number; and there are three revelations at the end of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

The first revelation is the solution to Dumbledore's enchantment protecting the Philosopher's Stone.

Of the 17th and final chapter, Jenna writes, "Dumbledore has set his task up so that no one who actually wants to use the Philosopher's Stone can find it."  It's the perfect catch-22, and an old familiar paradox: that someone who desires the eternal life granted by the Elixir made from the Philosopher's Stone cannot have it; those who cling to their lives shall lose them.

I'm more than a little mystified as to how Dumbledore pulled this off.  Making it so that an inanimate, albeit magical, object senses the intention of the one mirror-gazing and withholds or deposits itself accordingly is impressive.  Although, I suppose, no more impressive than a mirror that looks into a person's soul and shows him back what he most desires.  The Stone would have to have some connection with the Mirror, and it makes most sense, to me, to believe it was hidden inside.  This is no charm to temporarily paralyze a person's nerve-endings or spell to unlock a door.  This is magic that looks into the heart of a man.  To have that kind of ability at lose in the world, whether naturally inherited or gained through secret knowledge, makes me uneasy.  Also, it shows Dumbledore to be on or above the level of Voldemort in skill and eerily similar in nature.

"With great power comes great responsibility."  Could it be that Voldemort and Dumbledore are of the same stuff, with the only difference being how they chose/choose to use their power and regard their responsibility?  Like Voldemort's feeding on the soul of Quirrell, Dumbeldore's task supersedes mere nature and passes into the realm of the spiritual.  Whenever and wherever that happens, questions of morality are sure to follow.

Masha feels the grandiose mirror task renders the previous ones superfluous.  I see her point.  If we're really trying to stop an evil madman from obtaining an object of power, one need only the one impenetrable shield.  Unless we assume that those less wily and wicked than Quirrell-Voldemort, and those less loyal and courageous than Hermione-Ron-Harry, would have had a harder time getting through and met a dead end (no pun inten--oh, what the hey, pun way, way intended!) at an earlier task.  There is also the lingering suspicion that Dumbledore foresaw, to a certain extent, the way in which events would unfold and allowed the tasks and their subsequent dangers for reasons undisclosed--perhaps to strengthen the friends and fortify Harry with their friendship before the greater test; or to weaken Quirrell and distract him, exasperate him, and catch him off guard by making him think his success was a given.

The second big reveal in this chapter is, of course, that Snape wasn't the one working for the cause of Voldemort.  There are little hints of this throughout, and it's hard to say how well it's disguised and how subtle the clues are.  I had long known the plot of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone the first time I read the book and so it didn't come as a surprise to me.  I'm curious about how those first early readers felt about it.

Ponyu, Severus Snape
(Disclaimer: I have no idea and take no responsibility for what he's saying!)

Still, Rowling avoids the elbow-elbow-wink-wink fictional plot-twist: Snape wasn't out to kill Harry, but he doesn't have a hidden heart of gold.

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much." 

"Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes.  He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know?  They loathed each other.  But he never wanted you dead."

So an uneasy truce is struck with the idea of Snape--not enemy . . . not exactly ally, either.

What is there to say about Voldemort being revealed underneath the turban on the back of Quirrell's head?  It speaks for itself.  The fact that the enemy was so near all along, within the very walls of the one place deemed safe--a place for children.  The horror of a man so enslaved by his "master" that he is willing to become an abomination of nature, housing a spiritual parasite.  It's shudder-inducing and hits too close to home.  We may not yet be the ones who have sold our souls, but we feast with, work with, and learn from those who have every day.  The stench is evident.

What follows, then, is surprising only inasmuch as the answer to the Mirror task is surprising: an inversion of the expected, even of the laws of nature, the creed of Darwinism.  The powerful magician cannot bare to lay hands on the helpless boy.  It burns his very skin.  He cannot defeat him.  And while Quirrell's skin burns, Harry's scar sears: clearly, the source of this incompatibility is in the event or act from which the scar was cut.

"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?" 

"Your mother died to save you.  If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love.**  He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark.  Not a scar, no visible sign . . . to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever.  It is in your very skin.  Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason.  It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."  

It seems so simple and obvious, but it's a quite an idea.  In a realm where magic is power, something ordinary and universal like human love is super-magical, and has nothing to do with wizardry.

Or, as Jenna says, "It's interesting here that hatred leaves a scar [. . .] but love leaves an invisible mark with stunning powers."  This is the third significant revelation at the end of The Sorcerer's Stone.

Masha protests Dumbledore's practical use of his pupils, which, despite good intentions and good results, is use nonetheless.  After all, his explanations to Harry leave little doubt as to whether or not he had some shadowy idea of what was going on all along--things which he allowed and even instigated--such as with the cloak and Harry's first encounter with Erised.  We get the idea of a master hand in it all; and this I think is why, with Harry, I fall into a too-easy comfort with Dumbledore.  The concept of an authority figure, of a wise old man who has lived long enough--scrutinized the way of things hard enough--to have arrived at the Right Answers and Know Things.  Especially as a child, we are prone to put full trust into our parents and guardians, never suspecting them of ill, never dreaming of ever one day finding them mistaken.  It's a hard lesson, one that comes with growing pains.  I suspect Harry's going to have to learn it before his time at Hogwarts ends.

"The truth."  Dumbledore signed.  "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution."

For now, I understand Harry's relief; his resignation to something--someone--greater than he is; who will look after them all, whom they can count on--even if, sometimes, he is called in faith by the one he trusts to do something he does not understand.

The friends from Gryffindor are recognized for their roles in averting disaster--Neville's sacrifice is given special attention by making it the last rewarded, consequently tipping Gryffindor House over the edge for points and out-scoring Slytherin.  It is the happiest moment in Harry's life.  And then the train pulls out, the enchanted realm falls behind, and the journey ends, metaphorically as well as literally, at the return to a train station.  It's a place of repose and nostalgia, and a part which no fairy tale is complete without; the coming home after a long and tiresome journey, the putting up of one's feet; the satisfied feeling of deeds well accomplished and unnamed wonders witnessed; and the trust in hope that this is only The End the way the final page of a good book is; that there are potentialities, shapeless and shimmering, just out of reach; and that the door of Faerie is not locked but only shut, ready to open again in a time and place appointed by the stars.




*  1 Corinthians 13:13
**  Similarly, the plot of JRR Tolkien's masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings, hangs on the gamble that Evil will not, cannot penetrate the vision of the Good.  It lacks imagination because it cannot possibly imagine a motive other than selfishness.  Thus, Frodo and Sam are able to slip through the treacherous borders of Mordor unnoticed, to destroy the One Ring, the object Sauron coveted above all else.  He could never have imagined someone putting the good of others before himself.  He could not have fathomed the love of friendship that carried two small, weak creatures over the waste land to accomplish the impossible.