In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Book Four of the series), Hermione goes “full SJW” (if we might borrow a phrase from the last decade), creating the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, Ron Weasley sneeringly describes her initiative as “SPEW” and the “House-Elf Liberation Front.” House-elves, for those unaware, are slaves in the Wizarding world: Hermione’s goodhearted efforts to free them by knitting them socks, the token of their freedom, is widely mocked and her efforts come to nothing. SPEW fizzles away, and no more is said of it in subsequent books. 

  

Previously, at the conclusion of the Chamber of Secrets (Book Two), Harry frees his loyal house-elf friend Dobby via an unwitting Lucius Malfoy: he gives Lucius Tom Riddle’s old diary wrapped in a dirty sock. Lucius, disgusted, throws it at Dobby, thereby freeing Dobby at once. 

  

A beautiful act of conscience where the villain is upstaged and humiliated? On the surface, yes. But looking deeper, Harry’s action is presented solely as an act of mercy, not part of a wider, liberal political movement to liberate the house-elves from bondage.  

 

Lucius is condemned for being a BAD master, not for being a master himself: the system of slavery is not actually critiqued. And any real attempts at abolitionism—as Hermione engages in two years later—are undermined, ridiculed, and defeated by Wizardry’s decidedly anti-Woke social structure. 

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Dobby’s tragic death in Book Seven only obscures the reality of the brutal and barbaric Wizarding custom of house-elf slavery. Indeed, JK Rowling's writing has created a lasting meme in the Potter fandom, and pop culture at large, that prevents the reader from critically engaging with a social practice presented as wholesome and natural. 

 

What do I mean by this? That Dobby’s death at the hands of the Death Eaters engenders pathos in the reader – “Dobby is a FREE ELF!” – at the expense of the reader being able critically analyzing Dobby’s condition. For if the reader were to truly consider Dobby and the house-elves' tragic state, and how it is unwaveringly accepted and outright defended by the “good guys,” the books' entire moral universe would be found rotten to the core. 

  

Let’s zoom out from the issue of house-elf slavery and see what the rest of Potter’s moral landscape has to offer. Let’s go straight to the Big Bad himself: Voldy. 

 

If house-elf slavery is practiced and celebrated by the “good guys,” what does this say about the villain? Considered from this perspective, Voldemort emerges not as an oppositional force within Wizardry, but rather its telos—the embodied fulfillment—of the Wizarding World’s extreme social inequities. I loath to make excessive comparisons to the Third Reich, but alas, we are left with little choice here. In the same way Adolf Hitler played on Germany’s pre-existing antisemitic prejudices rather than creating them outright, Voldemort takes the existing power imbalances within the Wizarding community and drives them to their logical conclusion. Who’s the bad guy now? (With protagonists like Harry’s colleagues, who needs a villain?) 

  

Let’s consider Voldy for a minute from the perspective of the Ministry of Magic and Wizardry more broadly. Voldemort is not a decent human being in any way whatsoever. Unpresentable. He is “bad optics,” a stain on Wizardry’s reputation, and therefore has to go.  

 

If anything, Voldemort’s parallel is less Harry Potter himself (as Rowling leads the reader to believe) and more the portly, pompous, respectable Cornelius Fudge, the long-serving Minister of Magic who gaslights the public about Voldemort’s return. — What? Cornelius Fudge, another Voldemort? Another type of Hitler? How—? 

  

In the same way Hitler attempted to create a warm and happy “Volkisch” community based on prejudice towards, exploitation of, and violence against the “Other” of the German imagination, the Wizarding World likewise aspires to a sense of “hygge,” coziness, and quaintness based on prejudice, exploitation, and violence against the “Other” of their own imagination. Wizardry’s oh-so-happy lifestyle is established and survives upon systemic abuse. It is a system built on the backs of vulnerable bodies and marginalized communities: magical creatures, Muggle-borns, Squibs, low-income individuals, and yes, house-elves. 

  

Wizards thus have a bad conscience when they encounter Voldemort, for he reminds them of the true nature of their supremacist community: Voldemort is Cornelius Fudge in his purest, most distilled form.  

This all brings a deeper meaning to Voldemort’s old moniker, “He Who Must Not Be Named.” 

  

Ostensibly a verbal talisman against the Dark Lord to prevent his return, might it also have been a desperate spell, uttered by the guilty host of Wizardry, to expunge their bad conscience for participating in this inhumane system? Did Harry’s own unique connection to the House of Slytherin, and Voldemort himself, betray the “light” side of Wizardry as merely a reflection of its “dark”—? 

  

Let us return to the real world and consider how Rowling’s fictional universe aligns with her controversial personal politics. Prior to her going rogue and becoming the most prominent anti-trans crusader in contemporary Britain, Rowling enjoyed a massive left-of-centre fanbase that was enamored with the (ostensible) central motif of Potter: the struggle of decency against unkindness. Rowling’s further endorsed bourgeois liberal cause célèbres by tying them to her work – most notably, Dumbledore’s sexuality and Hermione’s racial identification. These were taken as proof of the inherent “goodness” of her works, even if such endorsements were, from the literary perspective, extracanonical. 

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However, as so-called “Woke” reminded us, separating the artist from their work is not, nor should not always be, a cut-and-dry matter. Art will, at some level, reflect the artist’s character and deeds: thus, literary and artistic criticism assumes not merely a technical dimension, but an ethical one too.  

 

In this light, what was needed for the Potterverse was not cheering adulation over Rowling’s bourgeois window-dressing, but rather critical examination as to why she was doing this. Yet no lesson has been drawn from the whole Rowling debacle. To this day, Rowling’s former fanbase considers her “bad” while still considering her books “good” – but is this really an accurate reading of the situation? 

 

Considering the scope of her work, Rowling’s anti-trans tendencies really should not come as a surprise. Her fictional universe is founded on exploitation, marginalization, hierarchy, and supremacy; where good-faith efforts to create a more just society are mocked; one where even the conflict between the "good” and “bad guys” might just be a glorified cosplay between competing factions rather than a battle royale between genuine rivals. And here’s the kicker: this very dynamic went undetected by Rowling’s (previous) fans, and still largely does. 

  

Well, perhaps not entirely. One suspects that the fandom might have some realization about the nature of the books they love. But they might prefer to brush uncomfortable truths under the table. In this sense, Rolwing becomes an IRL Voldemort, and the Potter fandom the Wizarding community – one that chooses to remain oblivious to the moral dimensions of the universe they participate in, only developing an oppositional framework when it’s too late. 

 

Rowling and her work show us that the proclamation of liberal values can, indeed, paper over the worst of atrocities. 

 

In the Potterverse, feelings don’t care about your facts. And feelings of pathos and affirmation triumphed over the ugly facts of Rowling’s creation. In the same way Voldemort is feared as the “bad conscience” of the Wizarding community, Rowling is feared for the same reason by her fanbase. Rowling is guilty – but the Potter fanbase isn’t exactly innocent.