Harry Potter and Philosophy: If Aristotle Ran Hogwarts

by David Baggett

  What else characterizes unacceptable forms of domination, of which the Unforgivable Curses are a paradigm case? Recall Harry’s inability to perform the Cruciatus curse on Bellatrix Lestrange and the explanation she gives for why he can’t. His desire to hurt her is not sufficiently wholehearted. His heart is not in the curse; it is with Sirius. What we learn here, as we said, is that one must become corrupt to master this or any of the Unforgiveable Curses. To become proficient in the Dark Arts, one must damage one’s character in a particular way—one must give oneself over to the desire for domination. This observation opens up to us a fuller understanding of why the paraphernalia and non-human creatures that Rowling’s characters identify with the “Dark Arts” belong under that rubric. They are all the products or accomplices of a spirit eager to dominate, eager to reduce all creatures susceptible to its influence to the status of tools, of things.

  This observation also goes some way toward illuminating a cryptic remark Dumbledore makes to Voldemort as they duel in the penultimate chapter of Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore says to Voldemort that Voldemort’s greatest weakness is his failure to understand that there is something worse than death. A philosopher reading this cannot but be put in mind of Plato’s Gorgias, where Socrates contrasts a life devoted to avoiding suffering and death with a life devoted to avoiding unjust action, and argues that the first life is ultimately self-destructive, damaging one’s soul and cutting one off from both friendship and freedom. Rowling’s accounts of the interactions between Voldemort and the Death Eaters read like textbook illustrations of Socrates’s point. Voldemort’s followers cower before him; though they might once have thought that the Dark Arts were a means to power, and thus to a kind of freedom, there is no freedom for them, and no reciprocity between them and their master. They must ever choose between catering to his whims and dying.

  For his part, Voldemort the tyrant has harmed himself more than any of them. He pursues the Sorcerer’s Stone in an effort to restore an existence depleted by the exercise of his dark powers. Formless unless he can “share another’s body” (SS, p. 293), he desperately consumes unicorn blood to stay alive, knowing all the while that, as the centaur Firenze explains to Harry, the end result of such a crime against nature is a cursed life (SS, p. 258). To be consumed by the desire to master one’s surroundings and thereby secure oneself is worse than death, and Voldemort’s “greatest weakness” is his self-caused blindness to this fact. He is, as Socrates says of the tyrant Archelaus, wretched and pitiable. One detects a note of sadness in Dumbledore’s voice when he speaks to or about Voldemort, an excellent student, and one who has known real suffering. When they meet, he persists in calling him “Tom.”

  Taking a step back from Rowling’s books, one notices two major classes of disapproved actions, only one of which we have so far discussed. First, there are the actions we have been talking about: actions which completely dominate susceptible others. For example, what is the problem Hermione and Dumbledore identify with respect to the magical community’s treatment of house-elves? It seems to be the magical community’s domination of them—thinking of them and (in turn) treating them as tools. In the case of the giants, we see this domination carried to the point of near-extinction.

  But there is another major class of disapproved actions, too: actions that threaten to expose the magical community to the wider world. There are a host of legal and ethical sanctions attached to publicizing the magical community, and while good characters sometimes wink at these restrictions, there is no evidence that Rowling disputes their value. We should ask, then, how these restrictions are justified.

  They are not justified by any physical threat to the magical community. We are told, in Prisoner of Azkaban, that medieval witch burnings did no harm to real witches; the witches would perform a charm to neutralize the flames and then stand within the fires set for them, feeling nothing but “a gentle tickling sensation” (PA, p. 2). It’s not even clear that contemporary technology could pose much of a threat to the magical community. The places they live and work are, after all, invisible to Muggles. There is some suggestion, in fact, in Rowling’s descriptions of Platform 9 and Grimmauld Place, that the domain of the magical community is not present to Muggles at all. It does not seem to be the case that a Muggle could stumble into Grimmauld Place by accident. It’s not merely invisible to them; it’s not even there.53

  If these restrictions are not for the physical protection of the magical community, the most plausible justifications for them are that they protect the magical community in a different sense and/or protect others. We can see both justifications at work in the restrictions Rowling highlights. And these underlying justifications are clearly connected to the observations about good and evil magic articulated earlier. Consider the cases that most concern Arthur Weasley in his work at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, cases like the regurgitating toilets at Bethnal Green. Weasley comments, “it’s not so much having to repair the damage, it’s more the attitude behind the vandalism, Harry. Muggle-baiting might strike some wizards as funny, but it’s an expression of something much deeper and nastier …” (OP, p. 153). What “something” or “attitude” can he be talking about, other than contempt for Muggles, who are, in the face of magical powers, particularly vulnerable to domination? The community binds itself not to tamper with Muggle life, not to protect itself from physical harm, but to protect the character of individual witches and wizards and of the wizard community as a whole, and, not coincidentally, to protect others susceptible to domination.

  The same points can be made with reference to the various restrictions on the magical activity of witches and wizards in training. Such restrictions, targeted as they are toward minors, appear to serve an educative role. They might also be said to protect young witches and wizards (and those around them) from accidental injury, but most of the particular restrictions (against apparating prior to one’s O.W.L. exams, for instance) can’t very plausibly be argued to serve this purpose. They can, however, quite convincingly be defended on the basis of their contribution to protecting individual and communal character and thereby vulnerable others (in a long-term, not a short-term sense). As we have indicated, all magic manipulates and thus, to some extent, dominates the wizard’s environment. If, as we have argued, the worst thing that can happen to a witch or wizard is to become captive to a dominating spirit, it is of obvious importance that the immature are taught, not simply how to use magic, but also to restrain their use of it appropriately. They must not be allowed to use it utterly at their discretion, because the powers it puts at their disposal are great, intoxicating ones. Consider Fred and George Weasley’s first response to their mature freedom: apparating constantly and to no purpose. More seriously, consider how often Harry is tempted to hex his uncle, aunt, and cousin—to dominate them—rather than deal with them, with however much difficulty, as fellow persons.

  Thus we can see a strong, formative purpose at work in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, one connected, as every part of Rowling’s ethics of magic seems to be, to the fundamental distinction between good and evil magic. The Decree, like every principle of action the magical community imposes upon itself, exists in significant part to protect individual and communal character, here by training immature members of the community.

  Note also that without a Hogwarts or comparable degree, no one, regardless of talent, is permitted to use magic. The education at Hogwarts, which is as much an ethical education as a technical one, is the only authorized entry into the use of these powers. (Witness the recurring battles over the headmaster’s position, always motivated by the assumption that this office is a rudder by which to direct the formation of the youth.) The education in technical subjects is suffused throughout by the shared ethical standpoint of the educators.

  The magical community in Harry’s world is, in many ways, like the Amish community in ours: a self-segregated group characterized by careful self-regulation of their acquire
d powers, be they magical or technological.54 Within each community, there are those who regard the rest of the world with suspicion or distaste. In the magical world, these are the wizards and witches like the Malfoys, those obsessed with bloodlines (a characteristic obsession of Slytherin House). But there are just as many (including some Slytherins) who hold no objectionable prejudices and simply see separation and clear communal definition as good and necessary. The definition, in each case, is a matter of what powers one makes available to oneself, powers being assessed in terms of the effects they have on individual and communal character—in terms of the attitude they encourage one to adopt toward the world and its inhabitants. The community is willing to prohibit to itself and its members particular powers that it judges to be, on the whole, destructive of the common good. Such prohibitions are not simply a matter of withdrawal from the world, but are acts of self-definition ultimately grounded in a willingness to suffer inconvenience or even death rather than dominate others in certain ways.55 It is not beside the point that dark wizards and witches, precisely because they refuse to set limits to their use of magic, are the likeliest to violate the communal restrictions, including the restrictions on communal self-revelation: they are the ones who make toilets regurgitate and who twirl innocent Muggles in the air at the Quidditch World Cup.

  Back to Reality

  Briefly, what applications for our world are suggested by Rowling’s ethics of magic? Much should be clear from the preceding paragraphs. The powers made available to us by applied science are great, but intoxicating ones. All of them involve, to some extent, the manipulation of the world, and some of them carry this manipulation to the point of complete domination. The attitude one is driven to adopt, by availing oneself of the more dominating powers, is a bad attitude, one dangerous to oneself, one’s community, and anyone or anything else that happens to be in one’s path. What is required in the face of these facts is a willingness on the part of communities, whether political or civil, to consider which powers to permit to themselves, and to rule at least some entirely off-limits. This is not merely a matter of ruling out bad “uses” of essentially neutral powers. The Unforgivable Curses aren’t simply hurtful uses of essentially neutral powers. They are bad spells. The basic implications of Rowling’s ethic contrast sharply with the conventional piety that “technologies are neutral between our possible uses of them, and what we must do is use them well; no kind of power should be rejected by people outright.” Here’s one example to chew on: selecting the sex of one’s children to suit one’s preferences, a power that one may not be able to use without construing one’s children to some extent as consumer goods.

  Rowling’s ethic suggests the importance of limiting oneself, not just to “good application,” but to the use of certain kinds of powers over against others, based primarily on the attitude toward the world that these powers encourage. From such a willingness on the part of individuals ought naturally to flow a variety of self-imposed restrictions adopted by entire communities. Such self-restrictions will be part of the fabric of carefully structured educational programs, ones that include as a central component “technology education.” This is not technology education as commonly practiced: teaching children how to use computers. Most of them know more about that than their elders do, anyway. Rather, the required education is an education in the ways computers (and other technologies) encourage us to think about and treat our surroundings, and in how to make choices among possible uses of them. What is required is an education in how our “special powers” use us. Most of all, what is required is a communal commitment to the principle that there are fates worse than inconvenience, indeed fates worse than suffering or death. Whether we meet these fates is in part a matter of whether we learn to discriminate among our “special powers” and, sometimes, to say “no.” We have J.K. Rowling to thank for reminding us of that.

  7

  The Mirror of Erised: Why We Should Heed Dumbledore’s Warning

  SHAWN E. KLEIN

  What is your deepest desire? Maybe you know it and are actively working towards satisfying it. Or perhaps you don’t know what it is or find your desire to be like the Golden Snitch—fleeting and impossible to pin down. Maybe you think you know, but are mistaken and, in fact, it would surprise, even shock you to discover what you truly desired the most. While introspection or psychotherapy might allow Muggles to discover their desires, Harry Potter has an easier way. He can just look in the mirror.

  The Mirror of Erised

  In Sorcerer’s Stone, Harry accidentally discovers the Mirror of Erised in an unused classroom at Hogwarts. He immediately notices the Mirror’s odd inscription: “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi” (SS, p. 207). This is no ordinary mirror—little surprise in a world where cars can fly and portraits talk. When Harry looks into it he does not see his own reflection, but instead the images of his mother and father smiling back at him, even waving! He immediately looks around the room, but his parents are not there; they’re only in the Mirror. Harry, of course, is an orphan whose parents were murdered by Voldemort when Harry was just an infant. So seeing them in the Mirror fills him with joy—albeit a joy mixed with sadness (SS, p. 209).

  Although Harry has no idea what the powers of this unusual Mirror are, he continues to sneak out to visit it—even bringing Ron to see it. On his third visit, Dumbledore is waiting for Harry at the Mirror, and he reveals its secret to him. The Mirror, he tells Harry, “shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts” (SS, p. 213). It shows Ron what he always desired: to be out from his older brothers’ shadows and to outshine them all. It shows Harry what he desired more than anything: his own parents. This makes sense of the otherwise inscrutable inscription, for written backwards with rearranged spacing it reads, “I show not your face but your heart’s desire.”

  Dumbledore’s Warning

  After Dumbledore reveals to Harry what the powers of the Mirror of Erised are, he tells him:

  This mirror will give us neither knowledge or [sic] truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible. (SS, p. 213)

  He goes on to warn Harry that “it doesn’t do to dwell on dreams and forget to live” (SS, p. 214). Dumbledore tells Harry that the Mirror will be moved and that Harry shouldn’t go looking for it again.

  Going mad and wasting away are prospects about as attractive as a Dementor’s kiss, but why would such a Mirror produce such outcomes? Why doesn’t the Mirror offer knowledge or truth? Lastly, why should we heed Dumbledore’s warning that it is wrong to dwell on dreams?

  Knowledge and Truth

  Dumbledore hints that users of the Mirror can confuse its images with reality. This problem is an example of the traditional distinction between appearance and reality that, in Bertrand Russell’s words, is “one of the distinctions that cause most trouble in philosophy.”56 At the center of this distinction is a concern, one Dumbledore seems to share, about mere appearances preventing us from acquiring knowledge. What, then, is knowledge? Philosophers normally take knowledge to be some belief about the world that we have good evidence for and which is true. If we claim that “Sirius betrayed James and Lily Potter” but later discover this not to be the case, we don’t think this claim counts as knowledge—even though we believed it on good evidence—precisely because it is not true. For a claim to be knowledge it must be true.

  This, naturally, raises the issue of what it means for something to be true. While philosophers have debated for millennia what the full, proper account of truth is, many have said that a true claim is one that corresponds or matches up with external reality—the correspondence theory of truth. If Harry claims that Sirius is an Animagus, then this claim is true only if Sirius can actually turn into a dog or some other animal. Many have added to this view that a true claim must also fit well or cohere with the rest of our beliefs. Some philosophers have gone further, arguing th
at this coherence is not just a component of why a claim is true, but is by itself enough to show that a claim is true. However, a claim might fit well with our other beliefs without providing an accurate account of reality. For instance, before Harry discovers the truth about Sirius, the belief that Sirius betrayed Harry’s parents coheres well with Harry’s other beliefs—but he soon finds out this claim is false. Still, coherence does seem to be an important component of recognizing the truth of a claim. So, Harry’s claim about Sirius being an Animagus, if true, should fit well with his other beliefs: that there are such things as Animagi, that there’s been a black dog following him around, that Lupin and Harry’s father were also Animagi, and so on.

  A third account—newest on the scene—is the pragmatic account of truth. Developed by C.S. Peirce, William James, and others, this view looks to the usefulness of a claim. Truth, on this view, is tied to the observable outcomes we get when we apply our beliefs. So, the claim that Sirius is an Animagus would be true because Harry can act on this belief by seeking out the black dog that Sirius has transformed into and successfully find Sirius. Like the coherence account, the pragmatic account points to an important component of truth—true beliefs should be useful in some way and have some observable consequence—but it fails to account for truth on its own. A belief, though false, might still be useful or have an observable outcome. For example, while Harry believes Sirius to be dangerous, this belief is useful. It also is confirmed by Harry’s experience up until he discovers the truth in the Shrieking Shack.