Debunking the Myth

Debunking the Myth

What is he, some sort of Christ figure? That’s what they paint him as. What Would Jesus Do? What Would Harry Do? I can see him, in my mind’s eye, arms stretched out, benevolently like the figure on the crucifix in Father’s study. Crown of thorns on his head, leaving a jagged, lightning-bolt scar. Descending on the world like God Himself, robed in Gryffindor red, gleaming Snitch in his hand, a testament to the gold set before the Child by the kings of the East. Do they really not see themselves deifying this boy?

"Oh, did you hear Harry Potter’s on the train? Isn’t that wicked?" Greg said on the Express, his very first words as we shot off toward my first year of school. "I forgot he would be our age. He grew up, too. Isn’t that odd? He grew up. I just thought he was sort of a myth."

I never thought he was a myth. He was the Enemy, I was constantly reminded. That Boy was the one who destroyed my father’s chance at power, at taking up his birthright and ruling, of respectability. That Baby, who somehow had more power than the might of the shining force that was Lord Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin. No one knew how he’d done it. His name was a curse. And maybe a blessing. But his appearance on the Express that year took me by surprise, too.

That Baby was a baby no longer, and perhaps that was my father’s one mistake. He tried to ready me for the world, but forgot to ready me to face That Baby, the mythical hero with power beyond the reckoning of mortal man. His birth hadn’t been heralded with signs and stars but, like another hero with destiny, his childhood was an unknown. My father hadn’t been expecting a return so soon, though the years passed just as years should. For, as Christ went off on his mission, baptized in the wilderness by John, so Harry Potter journeyed through the wilderness to the steps of Hogwarts and took the Sorting Hat on his head, and was baptized by Fate or Providence or God Himself into the House of heroes and fools. That Baby had grown up into That Gryffindor.

I’ll bet he thinks of us all as Godless cretins, spawn of Satan, tempting him away from the glory of goodness with our dark ways and sinning hearts, like the snake that is our House’s symbol tempted Eve. Godless? I think not. I sat in front of that crucifix in Father’s study and learned the stories and the history, the tradition and the words. I can believe it too. Eve fell; Adam fell; does the Boy Who Lived think he’ll be any different? But to speak in those words... we are not Asmodeus, the evil shape of Satan in the garden.

What makes us evil? What makes them good? Just because they think they’re right doesn’t mean they are. I bet he’s never stepped back and thought about what my father fights for, or what it feels like to have the House Cup snatched away simply because the Headmaster wanted Gryffindor to win, or thought about the fact that every glare and every insult uttered by that pure, saintly, Gryffindor tongue teaches each new Slytherin that he is alone in the world.

It’s hard to look into the den of lions from afar, but the Golden Boy always stands above. He must feel fear sometimes. He’s not really Christ, of course that’s just an allegory, but sometimes...

In Mark and Matthew, Jesus cried out on the cross, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani? - My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Only Mark and Matthew keep those words. In Matthew and John, His most human words disappear. I relate to Him there, bleeding on the cross, moments from His own death — He almost loses faith, even though He’s God. Or His Passion in the garden. He sweats blood as he begs for God to change the course of the future. I think that’s why God sent Him, because it made God human, too. We can learn that life is suffering, and we can face it, because He faced it.

I don’t think HE suffers a bit. Dumbledore and McGonagall and even my father treat him like he’s the Second Coming, but he’s not human like Christ. Professor Snape knows. Professor Snape sees what he is. And maybe that’s why it’s so easy for me to see a sinister face on his pranks, or see the destruction of our world when he sits with those tainted friends of his. If he comes out on top, will there even be a world left for us?

That’s what father says Lord Voldemort fights for. I think his methods are crude, but isn’t fighting to save everything I know and love worth it? I feel like... like I’m standing on the edge of a sunset, fighting to snag the edge of light as it slips past my fingers and below the horizon. I can’t hold on to that last bit of familiarity, as the darkness takes over, but I’ll try with all my heart, until it fades and I have to face the night.

Does that mean I think we’ll lose? I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.

Dumbledore’s legions will overwhelm us, if we’re not careful, and their labels paint us as murderers, when we’re only fighting because they try to destroy us. That’s why they draw out Harry Potter in the shape of Christ, returning from beyond this world to save the so-called Light Side from being overcome. It’s so much easier to stand in the warmth of popular opnion than it is to stand on the fringe and fight for what you think is right.

Just because they make him look like Christ doesn’t mean he is. Then again... maybe when he faces off with Lord Voldemort, he’ll take that story and follow it to completion. Maybe one of these mornings, the Daily Prophet will proclaim Lord Voldemort’s final destruction at the hands of a boy whose final strength drove forth too late for his own life, but in time for the Light Side, full with a photo of Harry Potter with his arms outstretched, benevolently, like the figure on the crucifix in father’s study; dead, but wearing a smile of triumph as his death drives my future away, backed by a supplement on page two, creating a parable of his sacrificed life.