THOSE OF US WHO HAVE STUDIED CAMPBELL EVEN MARGINALLY WERE WELL AWARE THAT DUMBLEDORE WAS DOOOOOOOMED. LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS LAYS OUT THE ROAD MAP FOR THE JOURNEY OF THE MYTHIC MENTOR AND ITS INEVITABLE CONCLUSION, AND TELLS US WHY THE ROAD LEADS THERE.
“After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
—ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE
IN 1976 I WAS AN UNDERGRADUATE at Princeton University and took a course entitled “Myth and Religion,” taught by Benjamin C. Ray. One of the highlights of the course was a lecture on James Bond as a heroic archetype—a lecture Professor Ray gave every semester and which was well enough known that it had to be moved to a much larger room than the one the class usually met in, so that students who wanted to hear it but weren’t taking the course could sit in.
That lecture was where I first learned the outlines of the universal hero myth, the story Joseph Campbell called “The Hero with a Thousand Faces.” For me, as a fantasy writer, that one lecture pretty much justified the cost of the three years I spent at Princeton. Nowadays the idea is familiar to a large percentage of the population, thanks to Bill Moyers’ and Star Wars’ popularization of Joseph Campbell’s work, but in 1976 the notion that hero myths follow a standard template was new to me, and I listened to Professor Ray with intense interest.
And after that, anytime I encountered a hero of mythic stature, I just naturally tried to fit him into the mold I had been given by Ben Ray. It usually worked. If a particular hero’s story was new to me I could nonetheless predict much of what would happen in it, because that’s how “The Story,” the universal hero story, always goes.
Was that a problem, that things became predictable? No, the fact that some elements were predictable doesn’t mean the stories were boring—it’s not what happens that matters, but how it happens. Lots of genres have standard forms. Every category romance ends with a happy couple, but that scarcely means they’re all the same story. You know that in a Hollywood blockbuster the hero will defeat the villain, but you don’t know how. A formula is not in itself a story, but merely the frame into which a story fits.
Not every story with a hero in it fits the pattern of the universal hero’s, either. There are other ways to construct an adventure. But when you have a character who everyone instantly recognizes as a hero, and not merely a protagonist—when that hero’s story is immensely popular and resonates with people who ordinarily don’t care much about such stories—when the hero has a world and a supporting cast distinctly his own—well, then you’re pretty much always going to have that same mythic structure that Professor Ray described on that day in 1976. It’s just something in how people in our society think.
When Harry Potter came along, a little over twenty years after I heard that lecture, he was obviously exactly that sort of hero. He fit all the elements perfectly. Here was an outwardly ordinary person leading a boring life in the everyday world who is something more than he appears, and who is drawn from his humdrum existence into a larger world where he becomes the hero he was meant to be, going on to battle a great evil that threatens the world—or at least a part of it.
That description fits Clark Kent stripping off his suit and tie to become Superman. It could also be James Bond being summoned from his cover job in the offices of Universal Export to accept an assignment as Agent 007, or Sir Kay’s squire Arthur pulling the sword from the stone to become King of the Britons. It describes Billy Batson saying his magic word to become Captain Marvel, Luke Skywalker leaving Tatooine, Frodo Baggins agreeing to carry the One Ring to Mount Doom—and young Harry Potter leaving his home with the Dursleys on Privet Drive to attend Hogwarts.
The hero is generally an orphan, often with some tragic loss in his background. Superman lost his entire home planet; Bond’s background is vague but implied to be unpleasant, and his wife is murdered at the end of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service; Arthur is an orphaned bastard in a period of civil war; Billy Batson is a crippled, homeless newsboy; Luke Skywalker is told that Darth Vader betrayed and murdered his father and returns home to find the burning corpses of the aunt and uncle who raised him; Frodo Baggins is an orphan whose beloved uncle has gone off to live with the elves; and Harry Potter, of course, loses his parents to Lord Voldemort while just an infant.
There are many enemies that oppose these heroes, but one always stands out as the hero’s nemesis, his very opposite, whether it’s Lex Luthor, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Mordred, Dr. Sivana, Darth Vader, Sauron or Lord Voldemort.
There are friends who aid the hero, as well—Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, Q and Miss Moneypenny, the Knights of the Round Table, the staff of radio station WHIZ, Han Solo and Princess Leia, the Fellowship of the Ring and, for Harry Potter, fellow Gryffindors Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.
And to fit the classic formula, every true hero must have a powerful and mysterious mentor who will guide him through portions (though only portions) of his heroic journey. Superman has his father, Jor-El; Bond takes his orders from M; Arthur is guided by the wizard Merlin; Captain Marvel’s powers were given to him by the wizard Shazam; Luke Skywalker is trained to be a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi; Gandalf sets Frodo upon the road to Mordor; and of course, Professor Albus Dumbledore takes Harry Potter under his wing.
Harry Potter’s story fits right in, point for point. It is obvious that in Rowling’s seven-volume series we are seeing a new hero in the classic model being added to Western Civilization’s already extensive pantheon of heroes.
And thanks to Professor Ray, I know what to expect.
Therefore, when rumors were circulating prior to the publication of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to the effect that there would be a death in the story, I assumed it would be Dumbledore.
Instead, of course, it was poor Cedric.
But then there were rumors again, for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, that a character would die, and this time we were assured it was an established and fairly major character.
Again, I thought Dumbledore was doomed. Again, I was wrong.
And in retrospect, it was obvious why I was wrong—it was too soon. The climax was still too far away, the young hero still unready for the final confrontation. But by the end of book six, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore’s time had run out.
Sooner or later, Dumbledore had to die.
Why? You ask why I wanted poor lovable Dumbledore to perish? I didn’t want him to, but sooner or later, he had to. Because that’s what mentors do—once the hero is ready, once he no longer needs them, they die, often voluntarily. They pass away so that the hero can and must stand on his own and defeat his adversary, whoever or whatever it may be, without his teacher’s aid and guidance.
That’s what makes a hero-in-training into a full-fledged hero, guardian of the world, defender of the weak and all-around good guy—when he takes down the big bad guy all by himself, without a mentor’s help.
And he has to know he won’t get his mentor’s help; the hero can’t be just trying to hold on until his teacher saves him, he has to know that he’s it, he’s the last line of defense, the man who’s got to do the job, no matter what. That’s how the story always has to end, with the hero either alone or in command against the foe. He can have sidekicks and companions and friends and assistants and even minions, but he’s gotta be the top man, with no mentor to fall back on. It must be him, the fated hero, who finally confronts the foe.
That’s why the mentor must die—so the hero can’t expect his or her help when the chips are down.
The mentor doesn’t necessarily stay dead, of course, but he or she has to die.
Jor-El stayed on Krypton and perished with his planet—well, in most versions of the story, anyway. (Yes, I know about the Survival Zone story, but in the standard myth Jor-El died when Krypton exploded.)
M . . . okay, M doesn’t die, but M is a title, not an individual, and by the time we meet Bond, Bond is already an experienced agent, not a youth learning the hero trade. And M never leaves London, never comes to help the 00 section in the field.
Merlin doesn’t actually die, but he’s spirited away by Nimue and sealed in a cave for centuries; that’s close enough. He’s out of the story, in any case.
When Billy Batson first meets the ancient wizard Shazam, Shazam is sitting in a throne in an abandoned subway tunnel with a gigantic stone block dangling from a thread over his head. As soon as Shazam has given Billy his magic powers, the thread snaps and Shazam is crushed. None of this makes any sense at all in real-world terms, but mythologically, it’s perfect—the mentor has passed on the burden. When he’s done his job it’s time to go, so the thread snaps and it’s all over instantly. No waiting, no messy delays, just slam down the rock and get it over with. (Mind you, Shazam’s ghost hangs around the Rock of Eternity and advises Billy on occasion. As I said, mentors aren’t required to stay dead. They just need to be out of the picture at the crucial moment.)
Obi-Wan Kenobi dies on the Death Star, allowing Darth Vader to strike him down. He tells Vader that this will make him “more powerful than you can imagine,” so he clearly doesn’t consider death the end of his mentoring career and, as we see later, it’s not—but he’s still dead, and Luke can’t call on him for help in the final confrontation with Vader and the Emperor and expect a reply.
Gandalf falls battling the Balrog in Khazad-Dum, but he gets better. Of course, Frodo doesn’t know about Gandalf’s resurrection until after the Ring is destroyed—that would spoil his final struggle.
And Dumbledore? Well, right from the first book, as I quoted at the start of this piece, he plainly doesn’t see death as a major problem. He’s centuries old and ready to rest. He knows, thanks to Hogwarts’ many ghosts and portraits, that death isn’t necessarily the end of his career. As the hero’s mentor, he has his doom written all over him even without these extra details making his death palatable. He has to go so that Harry can save the day single-handedly. Dumbledore must die.
It’s not that I wished the old man ill; I didn’t. Like most of Rowling’s readers, I love him. I love all the details we learn about him. I love the fact that he has a pet phoenix named Fawkes and a brother named Aberforth who did inappropriate things with a goat. I admire him for using trading cards as surveillance devices. I’m delighted that he long ago gave up Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavor Beans after getting a vomit-flavored one. Little things like these make him one of the most lovable and entertaining mentors in all heroic fiction.
And he certainly does a fine job in the more traditional parts of the role, teaching and defending his pupils, as well. He’s generally acknowledged to be the most powerful wizard in Britain, perhaps the world, with the possible exception of Lord Voldemort; it’s believed by many people that as long as he’s the headmaster at Hogwarts, nothing really dreadful can happen there. He seems to know pretty much everything that occurs anywhere in the wizarding world, and when he deems it advisable he explains virtually anything Harry might want to know. He serves as Harry’s guardian, advocate, confessor, confidant and advisor. He is powerful, wise, trustworthy, kindly—almost infallible, really. He’s everyone’s perfect grandfather figure, a mighty protector and comforter.
And that’s why he has to go. Really, with a mentor figure as powerful as Albus Dumbledore in the picture, how can Harry Potter ever prove himself a true hero and single-handedly defeat his nemesis, Lord Voldemort?
If we look back at the other mentor figures, we can see that it’s the powerful and lovable ones who always die. M survives, but really, M’s just a bureaucrat; the wizards, such as Shazam and Gandalf and Obi-Wan, generally die. They have to, so the hero can win on his own.
The series is about Harry Potter, isn’t it? His name is on all the covers; he’s the person we follow through each book. He’s the hero. He’s not Dumbledore’s sidekick; he’s the one who’s supposed to save the world, all on his own. So Dumbledore had to die.
And Rowling certainly knew that all along. She gave him that speech in the first book; she established that he’s centuries old, that it would certainly be reasonable for him to die. Oh, tragic as anything, but still perfectly appropriate. It’s a necessary part of Harry’s heroic journey.
So at the end of Half-Blood Prince, Albus Dumbledore shuffles off this mortal coil, at least to all appearances. He’s gone, at least temporarily. He will not be there when Harry faces Voldemort for the last time; the existence of a living Dumbledore, another line of defense against evil, would vitiate Harry’s final struggle and triumph. His death adds poignancy and emotional depth. He had to go.
But you know, I liked Dumbledore, so I must admit—I hope he, like all those other mentors, doesn’t stay dead!
And we’ve certainly had enough hints that Dumbledore’s death may not have been quite what it appeared—this is a wizard who Rowling has associated over and over with the phoenix, a bird that rises from its own ashes. His death came after any number of reminders that magic can fool us, that Polyjuice potion can perfectly duplicate anyone’s appearance, that we can’t be sure anyone is who he appears to be. Was it really Dumbledore that died? If it was, was it a real and permanent death? We don’t know yet.
There are obvious reasons for Dumbledore to fake his own death—what better way to lure Voldemort out of hiding than to remove the one wizard he fears? There are equally obvious reasons to not let Harry in on the secret. Harry is unwillingly linked to Voldemort, and if the trusting Harry doesn’t genuinely believe Dumbledore to have perished, the deception could never fool the suspicious Dark Lord. The whole thing may just be an elaborate charade.
Or perhaps it was indeed Dumbledore who died—but even so, he might have been prepared, with some way to ensure his resurrection in place.
Or he may be genuinely and permanently dead—but that doesn’t mean he’s gone, any more than Obi-Wan or Shazam are. We already know there’s a portrait of him in his office, available to give advice; we already know that wizards who die with unfinished business can survive as ghosts.
We may have seen the last of Albus Dumbledore in person—or we may not have. I don’t know what Rowling has up her sleeve for book seven. We can all make educated guesses and try to assemble the hints into a coherent whole, but we won’t know until book seven arrives.
I can predict a few things with absolute certainty, though, thanks to Professor Ray.
Harry will confront and defeat Voldemort, and he will do so with no wise elder present to assist him—but it will be the lessons he learned from his lost mentor that allow him to triumph, and he will persevere despite all obstacles because to do any less would be to fail his mentor’s memory.
That’s how the hero’s story works. That’s how it has always worked.
Whether the mentor returns after the final confrontation, well, that’s a variable—but it’s a constant that the mentor is not there, cannot be there, when the hero confronts his foe and proves himself.
And that’s why Dumbledore had to die.
LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS is the author of some three dozen novels and over a hundred short stories, mostly in the fields of fantasy, science fiction and horror. He won the Hugo Award for Short Story in 1988 for “Why I Left Harry’s All-Night Hamburgers,” served as president of the Horror Writers Association from 1994 to 1996 and treasurer of SFWA from 2003 to 2004 and lives in Maryland. He has one kid in college and one teaching English in China, and shares his home with Chanel, the obligatory writer’s cat.