Abi Scaife

Harry Potter is dead.

In so many ways, this is true. It has been thirteen years since the final book was published; nine since the final film was released and fifty-five days since J.K. Rowling committed what should have been career suicide. Harry Potter should be dead.

So why isn’t he?

J.K. Rowling’s blatant disregard for transgender rights, her disgusting treatment of transgender people and the cisgender women allies she claimed to be acting in defence of, ended any admiration I felt for her. It doesn’t matter that she created the world that allowed me to escape an abusive childhood, because she has made it clear that the wizarding world is no longer safe; that this is not a world for us.

So why is it that, more than ever, the world of Harry Potter is one I am clinging to? Why have I suddenly reverted to the nine-year-old who clung to her battered, coverless, coveted copy of Order of the Phoenix, unsure how to venture into a world without magic at my side? Having not read the books for almost a decade I suddenly find myself desperate to absorb any and all content related to that world, whilst simultaneously rejecting its creator.

After much soul searching, I believe this to be a mourning period.

Harry Potter is not over. I truly, wholeheartedly believe this – Harry Potter is still alive, and can instil in others the magic it gave to an entire generation. Perhaps, not in the same way as it once did, but we have always known that Harry Potter was more than a book, more than a character. Harry Potter is – was – a worldview. It was a lesson that it is always right to fight against evil, always right to stand up for the little guy, and that, above all, love wins.

By no means were the Harry Potter books flawless (although they were undeniably better than the films. Sorry, Daniel Radcliffe). They were imperfect pieces of literature written by a clearly, imperfect person. But they were important; they left marks on our childhoods shaped like chocolate frogs; like pink umbrellas and round-rimmed glasses and a lightning bolt scar. For some it is hard to walk away from these marks; for others, they have been swiftly boxed away, lest they become more tainted than they already have been. Both of these things are okay; I can’t tell you how to grieve. But it’s important to know that that’s exactly what this is: grief.

Grieving fiction is like waking up from a dream where you had everything. Like Ron and Harry tearing themselves away from the Mirror of Erised, you are dealing with the loss of something you never really had. That in itself is difficult to get your head around; it may feel like you’re being ridiculous, like you shouldn’t be so affected by something fictional. But isn’t that the point of fiction? To reach into the deepest parts of our soul and shine a light, to touch part of you nothing else has and create a lasting imprint that leaves us changed.

So, is it wrong that all I want to do is watch Harry Potter? That I find myself listening to the soundtracks and reading the fanfiction? Is it wrong that I still reblog gifs and discuss headcanons, or that I still tell people I’m a Ravenclaw? I don’t think so. I hope not. Don’t misunderstand – I will never give J.K. Rowling another penny. Despite her status as the Creator, the Originator, Rowling no longer owns Harry Potter – and I don’t mean that in the legal sense. I mean that, the minute she published The Philosopher’s Stone, that world became just as much ours as hers.

The world of Harry Potter is no longer restricted to the books, or even the films. The beautiful thing about fandom today is that canon content is no longer the holy grail it once was, but a starting line. It may be the author that sets you up, that fires the starting pistol, but this is a marathon not a sprint, and there need never be a finish line.

So, buy the books second hand. Buy fan made merchandise, read the fanfiction and dust-off Steven Fry on cassette. If this is a world you can still love, then love it. Reclaim it. Write trans-Hagrid and nonbinary Neville and gay aunt McGonagall who lets you change dorms when you come out because as long as you can turn mice into matches, who cares what your pronouns are?

Some of you may have thought you found a world where you would be accepted and, like Hermione, have been rejected for something you cannot control. To those of you I want to say, I am so sorry. I’m sorry that your home turned on you for who you are and maybe not for the first time. I’m sorry that what was once sacred is now tainted and that some of you may never feel safe enough to enter there again. I’m sorry that I can’t rewrite the pages of history to make it safe for you, but your queer HP family are armed with hugs and hot chocolate and hundreds of trans Harry Potter headcanons to balm the wounds.

Most importantly, don’t forget the lessons Harry Potter taught us. Don’t forget that real friends stand by their friend when they transform, even when it’s as frequently as every full moon. Don’t forget that there is nothing as mysterious or as powerful as an act of love. And never forget that Harry taught us to stand by the underdog, and never to discriminate against someone for something they can’t control.

Harry Potter would have said trans rights, and you should too.