Why Dumbledore Had to Die
Originally published in Mapping the World of Harry Potter
“After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
—Albus Dumbledore
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, by J.K. Rowling
Chapter Seventeen, “The Man with Two Faces”
In 1976 I was an undergraduate at Princeton University, and took a course entitled “Myth and Religion,” taught by Benjamin C. Ray. One of the highlights of the course was a lecture on James Bond as heroic archetype—a lecture Professor Ray gave every semester, and which was well enough known that it had to be moved to a much larger room than the one the class usually met in, so that students who wanted to hear it but who weren’t taking the course could sit in.
That lecture was where I first learned the outlines of the universal hero myth, the story Joseph Campbell called “The Hero with a Thousand Faces.” For me, as a fantasy writer, that one lecture pretty much justified the cost of the three years I spent at Princeton. Nowadays the idea is familiar to a large percentage of the population, thanks to Joseph Campbell’s work being popularized by “Star Wars” and Bill Moyers, but in 1976 the notion that hero myths follow a standard template was new to me, and I listened to Professor Ray with intense interest.
After that, any time I encountered a hero of mythic stature, I just naturally tried to fit him into the mold I had been given by Ben Ray. It usually worked. If a particular hero’s story was new to me I could nonetheless predict much of what would happen in it, because that’s how The Story, the universal hero story, always goes.
Was that a problem, that things became predictable? No, the fact that some elements were predictable doesn’t mean the stories were boring—it’s not what happens that matters, but how it happens. Lots of genres have standard forms. Every category romance ends with a happy couple, but that scarcely means they’re all the same story. You know that in a Hollywood blockbuster the hero will defeat the villain, but you don’t know how. A formula is not itself a story, but only the frame a story fits in.
Not every story with a hero in it fits the pattern of the universal hero, either. There are other ways to construct an adventure. But when you have a character who everyone instantly recognizes as a hero, and not merely a protagonist; when that hero’s story is immensely popular, and resonates with people who ordinarily don’t care much about stories; when the hero has a world and a supporting cast distinctly his own—well, then you’re pretty much always going to have that same mythic structure that Professor Ray described on that day in 1976. It’s just something in how people in our society think.
When Harry Potter came along, a little over twenty years after I heard that lecture, he was obviously exactly that sort of hero. He fit all the elements perfectly. Here was an outwardly ordinary person leading a boring life in the everyday world who is something more than he appears, and who is then drawn from his humdrum existence into a larger world where he becomes the hero he was meant to be, and defeats a great evil that threatens the world—or at least a part of it.
That description fits Clark Kent stripping off his suit and tie to become Superman. It could also be James Bond being summoned from his cover job in the offices of Universal Export to accept an assignment as Agent 007, or Sir Kay’s squire Arthur pulling the sword from the stone to become King of the Britons; it describes Billy Batson saying his magic word to become Captain Marvel, Luke Skywalker leaving Tatooine behind to join the Rebellion, Frodo Baggins agreeing to carry the One Ring to Mount Doom—and young Harry Potter leaving his home with the Dursleys on Privet Drive to attend Hogwarts.
The hero is generally an orphan, often with some tragic loss in his background. Superman lost his entire home planet; Bond’s background is vague but implied to be unpleasant, and his wife is murdered at the end of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service; Arthur is an orphaned bastard in a period of civil war; Billy Batson is a homeless newsboy; Luke Skywalker is told that Darth Vader betrayed and murdered his father, and returns home to find the burning corpses of the aunt and uncle who raised him; Frodo Baggins is an orphan whose beloved uncle has gone off to live with the elves; and Harry Potter, of course, lost his parents to Lord Voldemort while just an infant.
There are enemies opposing these heroes, many of them, but always one stands out as the hero’s nemesis, his very opposite, whether it’s Lex Luthor, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Mordred, Dr. Sivana, Darth Vader, Sauron, or Lord Voldemort.
There are friends who aid the hero, as well—Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, Q and Miss Moneypenny, the Knights of the Table Round, the staff of radio station WHIZ, Han Solo and Princess Leia, the Fellowship of the Ring, and for Harry Potter, fellow Gryffindors Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.
To fit the classic formula, every true hero must have a powerful and mysterious mentor who will guide him through portions (though only portions) of his heroic journey. Superman has his father, Jor-El; Bond takes his orders from M; Arthur is guided by the wizard Merlin; Captain Marvel’s powers were given to him by the wizard Shazam; Luke Skywalker is trained to be a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi; Gandalf sets Frodo upon the road to Mordor; and of course, Professor Albus Dumbledore takes Harry Potter under his wing.
Harry Potter’s story fit right in, point for point. It was obvious that in Rowling’s seven-volume series we were seeing a new hero in the classic model being added to western civilization’s already-extensive pantheon of heroes.
And thanks to Professor Ray, I know what to expect in a hero’s story.
Therefore, when rumors were circulating prior to the publication of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to the effect that there would be a death in the story, I assumed it would be Dumbledore.
Instead, of course, it was poor Cedric.
But then there were rumors again, for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, that a character would die, and this time we were assured it was an established and fairly major character.
Again, I thought Dumbledore was doomed. Again, I was wrong.
And in retrospect, it was obvious why I was wrong—it was too soon. The climax was still too far away, the young hero still unready for the final confrontation. But by the end of Book Six, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore’s time had run out.
Sooner or later, Dumbledore had to die.
Why? You ask why I wanted poor lovable Dumbledore to perish? I didn’t want him to, but sooner or later, he had to. Because that’s what mentors do—once the hero is ready, once he no longer needs them, they die, often voluntarily. They pass away so that the hero can and must stand on his own, and defeat his adversary, whoever and whatever it may be, without his teacher’s aid and guidance.
That’s what makes a hero-in-training into a full-fledged hero, guardian of the world, defender of the weak, and all-around good guy—when he takes down the big bad guy all by himself, without a mentor’s help.
And he has to know he won’t get his mentor’s help; the hero can’t be just trying to hold on until his teacher saves him, he has to know that he’s it, he’s the last line of defense, the man who’s got to do the job, no matter what. That’s how the story always has to end, with the hero either alone or in command against the foe. He can have sidekicks and companions and friends and assistants and even minions, but he’s gotta be the top man, with no mentor to fall back on. It must be him, the fated hero, who finally confronts the foe.
That’s why the mentors must die—so the hero can’t expect their help when the chips are down.
They don’t necessarily stay dead, of course, but they die.
Jor-El stayed on Krypton and perished with his planet—well, in most versions of the story, anyway; yes, I know about the Survival Zone story, but in the standard myth Jor-El died when Krypton exploded.
M… okay, M doesn’t die, but M is a title, not an individual, and by the time we meet Bond, Bond is already an experienced agent, not a youth learning the hero trade. And M never leaves London, never comes
to help the 00 section in the field.
Merlin doesn’t actually die, but he’s spirited away by Nimue and sealed in a cave for centuries; that’s close enough. He’s out of the story, in any case.
When Billy Batson first meets the ancient wizard Shazam, Shazam is sitting in a throne in an abandoned subway tunnel with a gigantic stone block dangling from a thread over his head. As soon as he has given Billy his magic powers, the thread snaps and Shazam is crushed. None of this makes any sense at all in real-world terms, but mythologically, it’s perfect—the mentor has passed on the burden, and when he’s done his job it’s time to go, so the thread snaps and it’s all over instantly. No waiting, no messy delays, just slam down the rock and get it over with.
Mind you, Shazam’s ghost hangs around the Rock of Eternity and advises Billy on occasion. As I said, mentors aren’t required to stay dead. They just need to be out of the picture at the crucial moment.
Obi-Wan Kenobi dies on the Death Star, allowing Darth Vader to strike him down. He tells Vader that this will make him “more powerful than you can imagine,” so he clearly doesn’t consider death the end of his mentoring career, and as we see later, it’s not—but he’s still dead, and Luke can’t call on him for help in the final confrontation with Vader and the Emperor and expect a reply.
Gandalf falls battling the Balrog in Khazad-Dum, but he gets better. Of course, Frodo doesn’t know about Gandalf’s resurrection until after the Ring is destroyed—that would spoil his final struggle.
And Dumbledore? Well, right from the first book, as I quoted at the start of this piece, he plainly doesn’t see death as a major problem. He’s centuries old and ready to rest. He knows, thanks to Hogwarts’ many ghosts and portraits, that death isn’t necessarily the end of his career. As the hero’s mentor, he has his doom written all over him even without these extra details making his death palatable. He has to go so that Harry can save the day single-handed. Dumbledore must die.
It’s not that I wished the old man ill; I don’t. Like most of Rowling’s readers, I love him. I love all the details we learn about him. I love the fact that he has a pet phoenix named Fawkes, and a brother named Aberforth who did inappropriate things with a goat. I admire him for using trading cards as surveillance devices. I’m delighted that he long ago gave up Bertie Botts’ Every-Flavor Beans after getting a vomit-flavored one. Little things like these make him one of the most lovable and entertaining mentors in all heroic fiction.
And he certainly does a fine job in the more traditional parts of the role, as well, teaching and defending his pupils. He’s generally acknowledged to be the most powerful wizard in Britain, perhaps the world, with the possible exception of Lord Voldemort; it’s believed by many people that as long as he’s the headmaster at Hogwarts, nothing really dreadful can happen there. He seems to know pretty much everything that happens anywhere in the Wizarding World, and when he deems it advisable he explains virtually anything Harry might want to know. He serves as Harry’s guardian, advocate, confessor, confidant, and advisor. He is powerful, wise, trustworthy, kindly—almost infallible, really. He’s everyone’s perfect grandfather figure, a mighty protector and comforter.
And that’s why he has to go. Really, with a mentor figure as powerful as Albus Dumbledore in the picture, how can Harry Potter ever prove himself a true hero and single-handedly defeat his nemesis, Lord Voldemort?
If we look back at the other mentor figures, we can see that it’s the powerful and lovable ones who always die. M survives, but really, M’s just a bureaucrat; the wizards, such as Shazam and Gandalf and Obi-Wan, generally die. They have to, so the hero can win on his own.
The series is about Harry Potter, isn’t it? His name is on all the covers; he’s the person we follow through each book. He’s the hero. He’s not Dumbledore’s sidekick; he’s the one who’s supposed to save the world, all on his own.
So Dumbledore had to die.
Rowling certainly knew that all along. She gave Dumbledore that speech in the first book; she established that he’s centuries old; it would certainly be reasonable for him to die. Oh, tragic as anything, but still perfectly appropriate. It’s a necessary part of Harry’s heroic journey.
So at the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Albus Dumbledore shuffled off this mortal coil— at least to all appearances. He’s gone, at least temporarily. He would not be there when Harry faced Voldemort for the last time; the existence of a living Dumbledore, another line of defense against evil, would vitiate Harry’s final struggle and triumph. His death added poignancy and emotional depth. He had to go.
But you know, I liked Dumbledore, so I must admit—I hoped he wouldn’t stay dead!
After all, mentors are required to die, but they aren’t required to stay dead. Gandalf didn’t. We certainly had enough hints that Dumbledore’s death might not have been quite what it appeared—this is a wizard who Rowling has associated over and over with the phoenix, a bird that rises from its own ashes. His death came after any number of reminders that magic can fool us, that polyjuice potion can perfectly duplicate anyone’s appearance, that we can’t be sure anyone is who he appears to be. Was it really Dumbledore that died? If it was, was it a real and permanent death? We didn’t know at first—the hero story doesn’t require the mentor to die permanently. Gandalf didn’t. Merlin didn’t. So we started the seventh book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, thinking that Dumbledore might not be dead at all.
There were obvious reasons to fake his death—what better way to lure Voldemort out of hiding than to remove the one wizard he fears? There were equally obvious reasons to not let Harry in on the secret—Harry’s unwillingly linked to Voldemort, and if trusting Harry didn’t genuinely believe Dumbledore to have perished, the deception could never fool the suspicious Voldemort. The whole thing might have been an elaborate charade.
Or perhaps it was indeed Dumbledore who died—but he might have been prepared, with some way to ensure his resurrection in place.
Or he might genuinely be permanently dead—but that didn’t mean he was gone, any more than Obi-Wan or Shazam were. We already knew there’s a portrait of him in his office, available to give advice; we know that wizards who die with unfinished business can survive as ghosts.
So I, like many readers, went into Book Seven hoping for Dumbledore’s return. I didn’t know what Rowling had up her sleeve for him.
But I knew a few things with absolute certainty, thanks to Professor Ray.
I knew Harry would confront and defeat Voldemort, and he would do so with no wise elder physically present to assist him—but it would be the lessons he learned from his lost mentor that allow him to triumph, and he would persevere despite all obstacles because to do any less would be to fail his mentor’s memory.
That’s how the hero’s story works. That’s how it has always worked.
Whether the mentor returns after the final confrontation, well, that’s a variable—but it’s a constant that the mentor is not there, cannot be there, when the hero confronts his foe and proves himself.
And that’s why Dumbledore had to die.
Mixed Media
The Lone Ranger: Batman of the Old West
Revised; original version published in Sagebrush Journal
I’m not a big fan of westerns, but there are certain exceptions. As a kid I read and loved many of Dell Comics’ western titles: The Lone Ranger, Tonto, Annie Oakley, Flying A’s Range Rider, and a few others. I did not care much for Roy Rogers or Gene Autry or any of that bunch, but I just doted on the Lone Ranger. One of my sisters had the old Decca record of the first two Lone Ranger stories—I guess off the old radio show, though I’m not sure—and to this day, I can recite large pieces of both “The Origin of the Lone Ranger” and “He Finds Dan Reid.” I watched the TV show. And I read the comics. Boy, did I read the comics!
A decade or so later I rediscovered comic books after years of not reading them, but the Lone Ranger, and the rest of the Dell line, were long go
ne. A company called Gold Key was publishing Lone Ranger comics, but those simply weren’t as good; they had silly stories more suited to the TV show “The Wild Wild West” than to the Lone Ranger, with thieves using balloons or electric gadgets. They didn’t have the true spirit of those thrilling days of yesteryear.
No, I had to find a new favorite or two, and I did. That place in my heart once reserved for the masked rider of the plains went instead to the caped crusader, the Batman.
Eventually, I realized something interesting: the Lone Ranger and my later favorite, the Batman, have a heck of a lot in common.
This may not be any sort of profound realization, but I haven’t seen it discussed before, so I thought I’d give it a shot.
The Batman became a crime-fighter when his parents were ruthlessly gunned down by a small-time punk named Joe Chill. (At least, that’s how it happened according to the comics of my childhood; I’m aware there have been later versions that changed the killer’s identity and/or motive.)
The Lone Ranger took up his crusade for law and order when his brother Dan was ruthlessly gunned down by the Cavendish gang, led by the unscrupulous Butch Cavendish.
Young Bruce Wayne was taken in by kindly Mrs. Chilton, and trained himself in every branch of criminology in order that he might bring his parents’ killer to justice. (Again, I’m aware that Mrs. Chilton has not always been canon.)
The critically-wounded young Texas ranger—whose first name has never truly been revealed, though it’s been rumored to be John—was nursed back to health by an Indian named Tonto whom he had once saved from a mountain lion. Reid swore to become an unbeatable force for good, so that he might bring his brother’s killers to justice.
Bruce felt he needed a new identity, and a symbol for his campaign that would strike terror into the hearts of criminals. He chose a bat, and became the Batman, using the wealth his father had left him to finance his new career.
The young ranger was the only survivor of his brother’s company, and therefore took the name “the Lone Ranger.” His brother had given him the secret location of a silver mine he had hoped would make them both rich, and the Lone Ranger used that silver to finance his operations, and used it, in the form of bullets, as a symbol, the shining silver of right and justice.
Mind Candy Page 16
