Watching _The Goblet of Fire_ for the umpteenth time the other night and delighting in
the flying galleons and pet phoenixes, I came to the conclusion that the concept of H.P. succeeded because it made legitimate again the possibility of the hidden/mysterious behind the increasingly concrete world we were marking out for ourselves. I loved watching the credits because it burned paper the way I used to burn them for cards and as frames for photographs when I was a young girl. They spoke of enchantment, not beauty, charm, charisma, or personality. H.P. spoke of the things we do and
are embarrassed to acknowledge in presence of the hip digital world. The secret gardens, the fantasies before Freud, the backpack of reflexive fear. It is the world of the Snow Queen where a boy may be loved unto death, the world of Christie’s Bells and Motley and the Harlequin where Love and Death are the same path, a world not without terror or unknowing like our own everyday one, but a world that diminishes human presence and human endeavor to blind mechanism without diminishing a place for human egoism. Hence, we may believe that all in the world revolves around us while at the same time believing that strange and interstitial things such as H.P. exist. In the world of H.P, we are not required
to make sense of everything or know everything; the medium controls the message. That is the magic: we can be Hansel and Gretel again, swept into story by a whirlwind of words and the constant extinguishing of the material.