![]() ![]() There is something vitriolic underneath his surface, just begging to be released. The press, encouraged by Fudge, have begun a smear campaign against the both of them, ruining their reputation.īefore we even know what is going on, readers can’t help but notice how downright pissed off Harry is. The weeks preceding when we first see Harry, lying supine in Petunia’s flowerbeds, have been harrowing for him and Dumbledore. After all, the fourth book ends on Cedric Diggory’s death, one of the first serious murders we witness on the page: more importantly, it ends on Voldemort’s return, and Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge’s cowardly decision to blacklist anyone who endorses the so-called rumor.įrom the onset, Order of the Phoenix stands at odds with the previous books. Maybe it’s because the previous book, Goblet of Fire, marked a turning point for Harry and the rest of the wizarding world that the tone of urgency inevitably carried over to Order of the Phoenix. For the first time, one was not so sure Harry himself would overcome anything at all, let alone himself. The obstacles he encountered were difficult to overcome, but overcome them he did: it was he, Hermione, Ron against the rest of the world.įor the first time, one was not so sure that those unwavering relationships would help. This is not to say he hadn’t known hardship before: Chamber of Secrets sees him endure the scrutiny and bullying of his Hogwarts classmates after they suspect him of being responsible for a string of attacks on students, attributable to the Heir of Slytherin in Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry learns the awful truth of how his parents were betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, in addition to dealing with long-buried issues about their death (through the Dementor/Anxiety metaphor).īut none of these manifestations of heartbreak compared to what Rowling laid out in Order of the Phoenix: Harry had always been steadfast, even when he was bewildered, even when he was temporarily confused. Rowling’s series, Harry goes through an intense period of unhappiness that, in retrospect, has all the markings of an undiagnosed depressive episode (I am even tempted to suggest PTSD). In the fifth (some would say darkest) installment of J.K. ![]() I had just finished reading the book for the hundredth time in the weeks since it had been published - my refuge against aimless wanderings, the lighthouse for my restless imagination -, and more so than in the other books, was beginning to find eerie parallels between myself and Harry. I laid there, a quasi replica of Harry Potter, aged fifteen, flat on his back under the stifling summer heat, in his Aunt Petunia’s garden at the beginning of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. And while the similarly in our pose had been a coincidence, still, it gave me comfort. ![]() It was the summer after I turned eleven, and I didn’t know that I was in the early grips of a despondency that would only get heavier as time went on. It wasn’t just the heat pinning me to the ground it was an oppressive, overwhelming sense of dread and loneliness that had become inescapable of late. I remember laying on my back one day, watching fan blades overhead chase each other lazily - uselessly, doing nothing against the high temperature. ![]()
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