Unlike the beginning of The Order of the Phoenix, which breaks from the standard Harry-focused opening for the first time in a way that feels startling but ultimately justified, the first two Harry-free chapters of The Half-Blood Prince seem like ways to dump information instead of just revealing it more elegantly via Harry later. I was struck, this time, by how pleasant it was to get back into Harry’s head when we finally reached Chapter 3. Especially in these first two chapters, none of Rowling’s more distant narration comes close to being as charming as when she sticks close to Harry’s point of view.
Breaking away from Harry at the start of the book is also a frustrating disruption to the arc of his grief. When we return to Privet Drive, we learn that Sirius’s death was mere weeks ago: Harry’s still in the thick of it, still hardly able to bear discussion of him or of the events surrounding his death. But the fact that the end Order of the Phoenix and the beginning of this book in fact come in incredibly quick succession not just temporally but emotionally for Harry is lost by the distancing info-dump of the first two chapters.
In any other story about a secret magical world, the first chapter in particular would be a turning-point. The barrier between Wizard and Muggle worlds has basically collapsed: Fudge (facing consequences at last) introduces the Prime Minister to the new Minister for Magic, and we learn that Death Eaters have been causing the kind of chaos even Muggles have noticed. In another novel, this would be the moment when wizard and Muggle join forces to fight their shared enemy… but that doesn’t happen. I felt suddenly very aware that never at any point does a single character—not even Hermione, not even Harry—propose telling Muggles about what is going on, propose turning to them for help. There’s the obvious and often-made joke about Harry just finding a gun and shooting Voldemort, of course, but the failure to consider collaborating really casts a strange shadow on the story’s continual protestations of equality.
Most other children’s fantasy stories would surely make this a moment for the main characters to discover that Muggles, despite their lack of magic, have things to offer— deserve the chance to be informed of danger and to actively protect themselves. But both the characters and the story itself fundamentally think wizards are better than Muggles. Even characters like Harry, Ron, and Hermione don’t actually see Muggles as equals. The kindly condescension towards non-magical people that Hagrid embodied in the first book, and that seemed funny then, when the fictional world existed in a tone of light parody, has gone completely unquestioned and uncritiqued as the story has moved to plumbing more realistic depths.
Is it going too far to say that this perspective is not at all surprising given what JK Rowling has revealed about her politics over the past few years: progressivism that’s rooted in nothing more than tepid tolerance, and thus doesn’t progress very far at all? I mean, it’s a series about a hate group that targets Muggles that never actually has anyone pause to invite Muggles in to help fight in their own defense.
After the frustratingly black-and-white morality of the last book, however, the introduction of Slughorn provides welcome nuance. I didn’t properly appreciate how realistic his gentle prejudice feels, his devout belief in his own meritocratic thinking. How can he hate Muggle-borns if Lily was his favorite student?! He’s the inverse of what interested me about James a few weeks ago: rather than an asshole ally, he’s a charming bigot. Harry wants nothing to do with him, but he’s the most intriguing new character we’ve had in quite some time.
Next time: Chapters 6 - 10.