Is Snape good or evil? Is he even really one character?

Is Snape good? Or is Snape evil?


According to a report on the CNN website, that argument has again erupted, this time in the Twittersphere and this time focusing on why Harry and Ginny would choose to name their son "Albus Severus", honouring both Harry's biggest mentor and guide in the wizarding world, a man who was almost without fail kind and fair with Harry, and the man who was, for most of the seven-book series, sadistically abusive of Harry and his friends.


Even our favourite author, J.K. Rowling, entered the heated fray.

After what sounds to have been a long and surprisingly vitriolic debate, Rowling tweeted: "There's a whole essay in why Harry gave his son Snape's name, but the decision goes to the heart of who Harry was, post-war."

And further: "In honouring Snape, Harry hoped in his heart that he too would be forgiven. The deaths at the Battle of Hogwarts would haunt Harry forever."

And finally: "Snape is all grey. You can't make him a saint: he was vindictive & bullying. You can't make him a devil: he died to save the wizarding world."

Now, you can go back through my earlier posts on this blog and find snippets here and there that might help you understand my own interpretation, my "take" on this debate and on Rowling's approach to it (and I would encourage you to do so -- I've had a lot of fun writing all these posts and I hope you will be willing to invest some time in reading them) but allow me to summarise my thoughts on the subject here.

First, I agree in some ways with Rowling: Snape is an amalgam of good and evil. Shaped by his early personal experiences, he is a proud, angry, vindictive man. We know that his father was abusive and his parents fought all through his childhood. We know that he was bullied by James and Sirius and their gang and we know that, in the midst of all that, he fell very deeply and irrevocably in love with Lily Evans, one of the few major characters in the books who is presented as being without fault.

But I also think it is important that, while Snape turns out to be fighting on the side of good, he was also a brutal, nasty, horrible person in situations where such egregious behavior was not at all necessary. Nothing required him to bully Neville throughout his years at Hogwarts; nothing required Snape to pick on Ron and Hermione either.

Even if we buy the argument that Snape's terrible relationship with James Potter in some way explained and excused his behaviour toward Harry, I doubt very much it can possibly excuse just how awful he was to our boy hero. Not even the argument that Snape needed to convince and re-convince Voldemort that he was not an agent for Dumbledore could explain away just how unnecessarily cruel Snape was to Harry and his friends.

Further, even if we accept that Snape is a good guy, he did help bring about the deaths of two other of the good guys: Emmeline Vance and Sirius Black.

How does that fact impact the argument with regard to Snape? As I have written before, at its heart, this is a moral question. Is it morally acceptable to sacrifice at least two lives in hopes of avoiding the deaths of many many more? And, if we can forgive Snape the deaths of Vance and Black simply because Snape turns out to be willing to sacrifice himself to help defeat Voldemort, can we forgive him his earlier behaviour toward these children, when he was in the role of teacher, for the same reason?

I think our analysis of Snape has to take into account the evolving complexity of the books, the characters and their situations, from The Philosopher's Stone (which is a children's book) to The Deathly Hallows (which is a fully adult novel).

In the early books, Snape was basically a cardboard figure who represented evil. He was only and utterly Harry's nemesis. Whether or not Rowling had fully fleshed out, when she wrote the first three books, the complex and contradictory role Snape would eventually play in the later novels, Snape is presented early on as a flat, mysterious, horrible character.

More importantly, he was the key to one of the earliest examples of one of Rowling's favourite narrative strategies: misdirection. In The Philosopher's Stone, for example, Snape had to be presented as irredeemably evil in order to draw the reader's attention away from Quirrell, one of the two true villains of that story.

I would argue that, as the novels progressed and increased in depth and complexity, Rowling added more depth and complexity to her characters. She added shades of grey, to use that now horrible expression, to what had been black and white, flat, stock characters.


You see this most specifically with regard to Snape and Dumbledore, though Dumbledore's shades are mostly added only after his death in The Half-Blood Prince.


If I had to state things bluntly, I would say that the Snape of the first four books (especially books one and two) is not the same character as the Snape of the last three (especially the final one). To hold the actions of the early Snape against the later Snape is almost unfair.


In the end, this is not a question of Snape's personality or moral goodness; this is a question of Rowling's narrative strategy.

Explanations and Rowling's writing prowess

I have been re-reading the first Harry Potter novel in French. As I think I've mentioned on several occasions in the past, I have found that reading the books in French or listening to them in their audiobook format really helps me notice things that I miss when I read them in English.

Well, it's happened again.

As I read the confrontation between Harry and Quirrell/Voldemort at the climax of Harry Potter a l'ecole des sorciers, I was struck by how expertly J.K. Rowling handles a common problem faced by writers of mysteries and thrillers: how do you provide the reader with greatly needed background information and explanations as to certain plot points while keeping the action moving and suspense building?

The challenge is all too common. As an author, you lead your reader through a complex, fast-paced plot, filled with twists and turns, and then you arrive at the moment of discovery, the instant where all things hidden come to light. How do you explain to your reader how the resolution fits in with all of the various twists and turns from earlier in the novel without losing the sense of urgency required to carry the novel to its completion?

And, in some cases, how do you make it realistic that the villain, now discovered, will be willing to divulge all this information to the protagonist?

Anyone who has read mysteries and thrillers, or who has even watched these genres on television, has probably experienced dozens of examples where this explanation challenge defeats the writer. How many times have you encountered a climactic scene where the hero says something like, "But, how did you...?" and the villain says, "Well, since you are about to die, I'll tell you..." or "Since I am now caught and have nothing to lose, I'll explain everything to you."

If you watch "Foyle's War" at all, you've seen numerous episodes that end with the bad guy willingly explaining to our favourite Deputy Chief Superintendent what he did and how he did it, once it's clear that he has been caught. It's one of the few true flaws in what is otherwise an excellent and entertaining show. The writers got lazy.

In other cases, the writer simply has the hero explain everything to a minor character in the denouement:

Watson: "But Holmes, I don't understand how Moriarity managed to accomplish this!"

Holmes: "Elementary, my dear Watson. He bought a ticket on the 8 o'clock train but stowed away on the 7 o'clock train so that he could arrive an hour earlier and commit the crime at 7:30, with his alibi tucked safely in his pocket."

Watson: "But that doesn't explain how he got his hands on the poor victim's letter opener!"

Holmes: "I think you'll find that there were two identical letter openers at play here..."

Etc. etc.

In simple terms, it is a key component of mysteries and thrillers that things happen throughout the plot that go unexplained but either provide clues to the identity of the villain or serve to obscure his identity. In order for the story to be satisfying to the reader/viewer, these unexplained things must finally be explained in a manner that supports the resolution of the mystery.

Yes, that's a very long lead up to what I want to say about Jo and her first novel. Sorry. But I did enjoy writing it, to be honest.

What I find so impressive about Rowling is the fact that, in her very first novel, she found an interesting and exciting way to explain the unexplained that actually serves to heighten rather than undermine the tension of the climactic scene.

How does she do it?

By making the explanations a part of the suspense. Harry is trapped in the room with Quirrell/Voldemort and the Mirror of Erised, desperate to keep Q/V distracted so that they cannot find the Philosopher's Stone before help arrives to save the day. So Harry asks for explanations. He asks point for point about every key event in the story about which he (and the reader) needs more information.

Isn't it Snape who is trying to get the Stone? Why did Snape try to kill me in the Quidditch match? Why did Snape want to referee the second match? Who let in the troll at Hallowe'en? Why was Snape on the third floor rather than helping to deal with the troll? Why was Snape threatening you in the forest? Weren't you talking to Snape in the classroom when you finally gave in?

And he got his answers. Delivered by a Q/V in an offhand way as he tried to figure out how to get the Stone out of the Mirror.

We, the reader, were caught up in the suspense and fully engaged with Harry in his attempt to keep Q/V from working out how to get the Stone. The questions and answers not only did not undermine the tension of the scene: they were actually part of the build up of suspense.

Brilliant.

I have often said that book seven is my favourite of the Harry Potter novels, with book three close behind.

But, when I think about which book is the greatest accomplishment for Rowling as a writer, I have to say it must be Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Despite the fact that it represents the first novel she ever wrote, it is a virtual masterpiece of writing. In it, she handles with seeming ease challenges that have defeated much more experienced writers.

Including the problem of providing explanations without undermining suspense.

Comparing Challenges: Saving the Stone versus Hunting the Horcrux

I read the ending of The Philosopher’s Stone the other day (again). And I was reminded, again, about how J.K. so effectively tailored her stories to the level of sophistication of her target audience.

As we all know, one of the most impressive things about Rowling’s seven-book series is that the maturity of each successive novel increases as her readers mature: the first novel is, in essence, a children’s book; the middle novels are designed for teens and young adults; and the final book, especially, is a complex, mature adult work.

There’s an easy way to see the difference between the simplicity of the early novels and the relative complexity of the later novels. Just look at how Rowling deals with two extremely similar situations near the ends of the first novel, The Philosopher’s Stone, and of the sixth book, The Half-Blood Prince.

When we get to the climax of The Philosopher’s Stone, we find our hero trio testing themselves against the various protections that have been put in place to defend the philosopher’s stone itself. They face Fluffy, Devil’s Snare, the flying keys, the Mountain Troll, the chess game, the bottle puzzle and finally the Mirror of Erised. After that, of course, Harry must take on Quirrell and Voldemort but let’s leave that aside for the moment.

Now this is a children’s book, remember, so none of the challenges can be too scary or too difficult. The tension must exist but it cannot be terrifying and, even more important, the protections they must get past have to be beatable. By them. As 12-year-olds.

In fact, since they are so new to magic as a whole, Rowling ensures that the solution to each protection is available to them, even if it is completely unrealistic that the people who put the protections in place would make them so easily overcome.

So Fluffy goes to sleep if you play him a bit of music. Devil’s Snare retracts from heat and light. Flitwick kindly leaves a set of broomsticks nearby to help them catch the needed key. The troll is already out cold. The chess game is winnable and the bottle puzzle provides sufficient information for a smart-enough witch or wizard to figure out how to move on safely.

Think about all of that for a moment. The professors of Hogwarts have taken on the task of ensuring the most powerful dark wizard in history, Voldemort, cannot steal the philosopher’s stone and use it to come back to full power. And yet they have designed each of their protections in such a way that it can be beaten. By children.

It makes no sense from a dramatic point of view, until you remember that this is a children’s book.

Okay, now fast forward to book six, The Half-Blood Prince. Dumbledore and Harry set out to steal the locket Horcrux from the cave. In this case, it is Voldemort who has set up a series of protections to keep intruders away from his precious possession. Does he set up his protections so that they can easily be beaten? Does he provide hints, clues or aids to help people get past his protections? No way.

First, he chooses a hiding place that no one should know about or suspect. It is only the fact that Dumbledore learned of the orphanage’s annual trips to the coast when he first visited the young Tom Riddle that allows Dumbledore to find out the general location of the cave.

Second, even though an intruder must know where to look and have the wherewithal to swim through turbulent seas to get into the cliffside cave, Voldemort hides the entrance to the inner cave using strong magic. As Dumbledore points out, only someone capable of seeing the minute traces left by a magical spell has any chance of finding that entrance. Once found, the intruder must then puzzle out how to make the entrance appear and open up, with no clues provided. If an intruder manages to get into the inner cave, he faces the lake, the inferi, the hidden boat, the killer potion, the inferi again, etc. etc. etc. etc.

Voldemort makes nothing easy. The only reason it is at all possible to get to the locket is because Voldemort himself may need to retrieve it at some point in the future. And I’m willing to wager that only a wizard as powerful and capable as Dumbledore, who does his homework and prepares meticulously for the task, could be successful at stealing the locket.

The first novel is a children’s book, so the challenges are manageable and even fun. The sixth novel is for mature teens and adults, so the challenges are extreme and terrifying.

Two very similar situations; two very different approaches.

I sometimes get frustrated with The Philospher’s Stone when I am faced, once again, with the fact that the protectors of the stone actually designed their protections to be defeatable. I have to remind myself that Rowling was writing for kids at that point and that her decisions in this regard are completely defensible.

When she was writing for adults, she treats the scenario in a much more realistic manner. It is clear that only Dumbledore is capable of breaching Voldemort’s defenses and, in fact, that he ends up dying in the attempt.

Again, wow. Great writing.

Rushing past the hints Rowling gives us

It's funny to be re-reading the opening chapters of The Prisoner of Azkaban, knowing so well how the plot develops.

Everywhere you turn in the opening chapters of this book is Ron's rat, Scabbers, who ends up playing such a large part in the plot in the latter stages of the novel. He's in the Daily Prophet's photo of the Weasley family in Egypt, he's front and centre in the scene where Harry first encounters Hermione and Ron in Diagon Alley, Crookshanks attacks him in the pet store and, just to make sure we're aware of him, the pet shop owner actually tells us that it is highly unusual for a rat to have lived as long as he has.

So why is that, when I first read this novel, I didn't pick up on this sudden focus on Scabbers and recognise that he would play such a big role in the novel?

It's amazing, I think, how our mind works when we read. A skilled writer can give us all sorts of hints and clues about what's to come and yet, unless we're extremely observant, we just flow right past them.

Remember, in The Philosopher's Stone, how Rowling is very careful to tell us that Hermione bowls Professor Quirrell over as she rushes to distract Snape during the Quidditch match? Same thing happened to us there: we're so caught up in the action, so quick to accept the conclusions that the characters draw from the evidence before them, that we miss the hints J.K. gives us about what is really true.

It's good writing. And it makes re-reading the novels even more interesting.

Rowling handles evil in brilliant ways

As any reader of this blog will already know, I'm kind of in awe of J.K. Rowling and her story-telling skills. Every time I read one of the Harry Potter novels, I see something new and exciting about how she's structured her series, how she's developed her characters or how she's worked to capture and hold her readers' interest.

Just look at the villains in the Harry Potter series. Voldemort turns out to be, of course, the key villain and yet, when the stories begin, we're not even sure he's still alive. His shadow looms over the entire series and yet Rowling is wise enough to avoid over-using him even in the seventh novel.

We learn about him in so many ways -- through rumour, through his own 16-year-old self in the diary, through people's automatic fearful reactions when he is mentioned (or not mentioned), through his history, through Dumbledore's careful investigation of his life, through Harry's dreams and nightmares and visions -- long before we get a chance to meet him in any significant way in person.

Even by the end of book seven, however, we don't really know him beyond the legend, the image, the fear he instills in people.

We learn about him only as Harry learns about him and Voldemort dies before that knowledge is even close to complete.

And then there are the other villains: Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape.

Rowling's use of each of them is nothing short of brilliant.

Draco, for example. He serves early on as Harry's rival, his competition and nemesis at Hogwarts. While Voldemort (and other villains) lurk in the background, Draco becomes the embodiment of evil in young Harry's world. As the two boys grow, so does their rivalry. But, as Harry proves himself worthy of the role of Chosen One that has been thrust upon him, Draco proves himself incapable of committing the truly evil deeds he is asked to perform.

Draco is not so evil as we were lead to believe. He retreats from true evil (at the top of the Astronomy Tower when he has Dumbledore alone and defenseless, at Malfoy Manor when he could give Harry away to Bellatrix, and even at the end of the novel, when he weeps over the death of his friend and withdraws from the battle) and shows a depth of complexity to his character that is rare in novels of this kind.

Draco's father, Lucius, follows a similar path. As Harry grows (both in age and in strength), Lucius Malfoy starts to become the central representation of evil for him. But Lucius, too, begins to falter and Rowling does a wonderful job of showing him as a broken, lost man trying to regain his reputation, his place among Voldemort's minions.

And then there's Snape. What a great character Severus Snape turns out to be. All the way through the first six novels, Dumbledore (the living embodiment of wisdom and intelligence) firmly stands behind and trusts Snape and yet Rowling does a wonderful job of undermining that endorsement, of convincing us that Harry's suspicions are right, that they have to be right. Even when we find out that it's Quirrell who is the problem in the first novel, we still believe Snape is evil.

Why don't we trust Dumbledore's judgement?

And of course, then you have the end of The Half-Blood Prince, which proves to us fully and completely that Dumbledore was wrong, that Snape is truly evil. He kills Dumbledore. We see him do it. He must be evil.

The amazing thing for me is that Rowling, in book seven, continues to provide us with reason after reason to distrust, to hate Snape, to believe Dumbledore to have been mistaken in his trust. She's got us completely and absolutely convinced by the end.

And then she turns it all around. Not only does she make us believe that Snape was, in fact, on the side of good, she also gives us compelling reasons for why Snape, despite his decision to abandon Voldemort and support Dumbldore, could still hate Harry.

What we learn is that Rowling very cleverly misled us to believe that Snape's hatred of Harry absolutely had to be proof that he was evil. We never once considered that perhaps he could be good and still detest our hero.

And yet, in the end, we see that he is both good and perhaps justified in his antagonism toward Harry (as the son of James, his tormentor).

It's brilliant. It's unexpected. It's Rowling at her best.

The Prisoner is Hermione's film

Next up on my film festival, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azakaban. I have to admit, I am one of the many people who think of this movie as one of the best, and possibly the best, in the series.

I love the direction and editing, the very artistic transitions between scenes and the intense atmosphere the director creates throughout the picture.

But mostly I love this film because, let's face it, Hermione owns it. This is her film. Emma Watson is coming of age and so is Hermione, and both dazzle us in this third movie.

In the first movie, it was mostly Ron and Harry and, even when Hermione gets a chance to shine, she lets herself take a back seat to Harry. I hate it when, as Harry prepares to move on to face Quirrell and Voldemort on his own, Hermione dismisses her own impressive powers as mere "cleverness", telling Harry that he is the true hero. Yuck.

In The Chamber of Secrets, Hermione is petrified for most of the important events, leaving it to her male colleagues to carry the day.

So it's just great that, in The Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. puts Ron on the injured list and leaves it to Hermione and Harry to set things right, with Hermione firmly in the lead. I love the punch (both in the book and in the movie) and I love the fact that Hermione is the one who is in control as things get crazy at the end.

In this film, the kids are starting to grow up and the stakes are getting high. Emma Watson is proving herself to be the best actor of the three leads and it's nice to see that the script gives her a meaty role with which to show off her increasing skills as an actor.

She just continues to get better as the series progresses but it's in The Prisoner of Azkaban that both Emma and Hermione get their real first chance to flex their muscles and take over.

Recognising Rowling's interesting writing techniques

It's interesting to be reading J.K.'s first novel again, but this time in French. Because I'm not fluent, I'm forced to read more slowly and to pay a great deal more attention to the words.

Sounds funny, doesn't it? But I'm finding it a very worthwhile exercise because I'm seeing things, recognising strategies J.K. is using, that I had never really noticed before. For example, she does a wonderful job of pre-introducing characters, often long before they become regular parts of Harry's life.

McGonagall, Dumbledore and Hagrid all appear early at Privet Drive, then disappear for several chapters. Harry encounters Draco Malfoy in Madam Malkin's robe shop and then doesn't see him again until the Hogwarts Express. And Quirrell makes a similar appearance: at the Leaky Cauldron during Harry's first visit to Diagon Alley and then, chapters later, at the opening feast at Hogwarts.

It's a useful strategy because it gives the reader a feeling of familiarity with the character when they start to take on a larger role in the story.

It also highlights J.K.'s other neat strategy: she usually introduces a characteristic (either a physical or behavioural marker) by which the character will be recognised whenever he or she appears later. For example, Draco is known by his pale skin and his nose, the Weasleys are all recognisable by their red hair with Ron's long nose an extra marker, while Hermione has the infamous bottle-brush hair and big teeth.

Rowling is then careful to repeat the description each time the character re-appears on the scene.

This is a highly effective strategy since it gives the reader more than one way to remember the character. In fact, we are probably more likely to remember the witch with the stern face and tight bun than we are to remember the name "McGonagall", at least at the start.

It sort of reminds me of the way ancient Greek epic poets used to assign similar trademark descriptions to characters to help us remember them. I've never forgotten "the winged-footed Achilles" from my high school classes!

A Pair of Dynamic Trios

I've often wondered about the Harry, Hermione and Ron group of characters: the hero, the intellect and the humanist. On many occasions in J.K.'s books, Harry finds himself attempting to deal with new information, a new development, in the absence of Ron and Hermione and he just can't do it. He needs to speak to them to work things through. Sure, he's often forced to act on his own (he faces Quirrell on his own, he takes on the Basilisk by himself, he faces the challenges in the Tri-Wizard Tournament without help) but Rowling makes it clear that he's at his best with his two friends at his side.

In fact, it is this ability to have friends, to love, that finally sets Harry up as being capable of defeating Voldemort.

I like this aspect of the novels and the development of the characters but I can't help comparing it to another trio of fast friends who played very similar roles in their own adventures: Kirk, Spock and McCoy of the original Star Trek series.

Kirk, like Harry, was the hero, the man of action. Spock was the intellect, like Hermione, the one who had superior skills and knowledge but seemed to lack the passion to be entirely effective. McCoy, meanwhile, could always be counted on to bring a more human approach to the situation, never afraid to show fear, compassion, humour. Like Ron.

I don't know if anything fantastic comes from the comparison. But I do find it interesting.