For the last time, I do not own Harry Potter or any of his friends, enemies, or assorted acquaintances. If you take offense to stories comparing Harry to Jesus or are still in denial about the fact that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were more than just friends, click the back button NOW. Keep in mind that flames will be used to warm my beta (who has been gone for ages and doesn't seem to be coming back anytime soon), and that I don't necessarily believe that Harry is equivalent to Jesus. I just do what the bunnies tell me to. R&R
.x. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene .x.
Once, when I was younger, my Muggle-crazed father told me the story of a man named Jesus Christ. The amount of faith he could instill in people over nearly a millennia was mind boggling to me, but, at the tender age of eight, I thought that it seemed a bit silly—after all, turning water into wine is something that wizards do everyday, but my father said that he was so special because he didn't have a drop of magic in his blood. When I asked him how He did it, then, he simply replied that He was just special like that. I told him that it sounded ridiculous and that I thought that he made it all up. My father simply told me that sometimes, in really dark periods, people need something to latch onto and will believe anything. He said that one day, I might think that people believing in Jesus wasn't so absurd after all, even if the stories about him were maybe exaggerated a bit. I scoffed then, but now, nine years later, I'm not laughing anymore. We have our own Jesus Christ now. His name is Harry Potter, and they only loved him when they thought that he would save them.
His story is, essentially, a sad one, and one that differs from source to source. The government will tell you one story, the papers another, the public another, until all of the sudden myth mixes with myth and you can't tell up from down anymore, it's become such a jumble. All of the lies get so blended together that you can't pick out the few and far between threads of truth out of the mess. Only those of us who lived his life as I did could truly recount events the way that they occurred, and even the majority of my information was collected second-hand. Throughout his life, he rode a see-saw of public opinion, constantly teetering between adoration and defamation. There were years that they applauded his efforts, dubbing him "The Chosen One" and "The Boy Who Lived," and others where the papers declared him an attention-seeking liar and the public would jeer and laugh. Regardless of what they were saying at the moment, however, he never embraced the public. He was never the type to desire their praise. He didn't need it. He didn't want it. He wanted nothing more than to be an average person in the sea of faces at Hogwarts, known for, if anything, his talent in the Quidditch pitch. He realized full-well that the only reason people knew his name was that he had survived what his parents could not, and that was no way to become famous.
For the last years of his life, the world cheered him on, something that would have been a welcome change had he not known how fickle the public could be. By the end of it all, he was holding everyone at arm's length—even us, his closest friends and confidants. They called him their savior, but we simply knew him as Harry. As quickly as they fell in love with him, however, they turned their backs on him once again. He died before he could kill Voldemort, leaving my brother to do the job. When people speak of Harry Potter now, it is never fondly. They will love him again one day, and when they come to love him, then I do not think that they will stop. I believe that one day they will decide to love him for good.
If he was their Jesus, then I was his Mary Magdalene. They will never quite agree on what we were, as even I don't quite know. I would like to believe that he loved me, but you could never quite tell with Harry Potter.
He died one year ago today, but they do not even speak his name. Instead, they celebrate the downfall of the darkest wizard to walk the earth and they praise my brother, as they should. Today, I remember Harry Potter for the rest of them, because one day they will wish they had not forgotten the boy who tried to save them. One day they will wish they had not forgotten the boy they mercilessly tortured for seven years and who still tried to do the right thing. One day, they will read this, and Harry Potter's name will become clear again in their minds and they will pretend it never left.
My name is Ginevra Weasley, and this is my gospel.
FIN