Thestrals in the Moonlight: Existential Intelligence in J.K. Rowling's

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  Thestrals in the Moonlight: Existential Intelligence in J.K. Rowling’s
                Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

                                                                     Alicia Willson-Metzger

        In his groundbreaking Frames of Mind (1983), Harvard psychologist Howard
Gardner proposed that “intelligence” as such does not exist; rather, human beings exhibit,
to lesser or greater degrees, a variety of intelligences. His definition of intelligence is not
what he terms “the standard view of intelligence,” that it is “something you are born with;
you have only a certain amount of it, you cannot do much about how much of that
intelligence you have, and tests exist that can tell you how smart you are” (Checkley 9).
Rather, Gardner reworks the definition of intelligence considerably by dividing it into
multiple categories: linguistic, logical-mathematical, spatial, bodily-kinesthetic, musical,
interpersonal, intrapersonal, and naturalist.
        What is, then, an intelligence as defined by Howard Gardner? His initial
definition, explored in Frames of Mind, was “the ability to solve problems or to create
products that are valued within one or more cultural settings” (Intelligence 33). Over the
ensuing fifteen years, however, Gardner refined his definition to include the possibility
— or indeed, the probability — of some of these intelligences remaining “only”
potentialities. Given this probability, Gardner changed his definition of intelligence
slightly: “a biopsychological potential to process information that can be activated in a
cultural setting to solve problems or create products that are valued in a culture” (33-34).
To be considered an intelligence, a candidate must fulfill the following eight criteria: the
potential of isolation by brain damage; have an evolutionary history and evolutionary
plausibility; an identifiable core operation or set of operations; susceptibility to encoding
in a symbol system; a distinct developmental history, along with a definable set of expert
“end-state” performances; the existence of idiot savants, prodigies, and other exceptional
people; support from experimental psychological tasks; and finally, support from
psychometric findings (36-40).
        Gardner says that of all intelligences, linguistic and logical-mathematical are
those most highly valued in a traditional school setting, and, thus, are those most
frequently evaluated by standard intelligence tests. Linguistic intelligence “involves
sensitivity to spoken and written languages, and the capacity to use language to
accomplish certain goals” (41), while logical-mathematical intelligence “involves the
capacity to analyze problems logically, carry out mathematical operations, and
investigate issues scientifically” (42). Gardner notes that the next three intelligences are
closely related to the arts: “Musical intelligence entails skill in the performance,
composition and appreciation of musical patterns” (42), while “bodily-kinesthetic
intelligence entails the potential of using one’s whole body or parts of the body (such as
the hand or the mouth) to solve problems or fashion products” (42). Spatial intelligence
“features the potential to recognize and manipulate the patterns of wide space…as well as
the patterns of more confined areas” (42). The last two “original” intelligences, which
Gardner refers to as “the personal intelligences,” are interpersonal intelligence, “a
person’s capacity to understand the intentions, motivations, and desires of other people
and, consequently, to work effectively with others,” and intrapersonal intelligence, which

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“involves the capacity to understand oneself, to have an effective working model of
oneself — including one’s own desires, fears, and capacities — and to use such
information effectively in regulating one’s own life” (43). Finally, a person who
“demonstrates expertise in the recognition and classification of the numerous species —
the flora and fauna — of his or her environment” (43) exhibits the naturalist intelligence.
        Although each of these eight intelligences greatly expanded the manner in which
educators, scholars, and psychologists view intelligence, Gardner has long debated
whether or not other intelligences could be added to the list — namely moral and spiritual
intelligences. While the inclusion of a “moral intelligence” is rather easily dismissed by
Gardner because his conception of each intelligence as “morally neutral” or “value-free”
(67) would negate the existence of such, he has a more difficult time dismissing the idea
of a spiritual intelligence.
        Among Gardner’s chief objections to the concept of a spiritual intelligence is its
lack of connection to cognitive functioning. He does not discount the positive aspects of a
spiritual experience by any means, but is concerned about the ramifications of
considering spirituality as an intelligence. In a special issue of The International Journal
for the Psychology of Religion devoted to the concept of spiritual intelligence, Gardner
responds to Robert Emmons, an advocate of spiritual intelligence:
                 As I read his [Emmons’] opening pages, I note that he sees intelligence as
                 tied to motivation, emotions, personality, and morality. Now I have no
                 doubt that if these terms make scientific sense, it is important to be able to
                 connect them to one another. But that is a different endeavor from one that
                 seeks to erase the distinctions among these psychological dimensions. I
                 am leery of so stretching the term intelligence that it sacrifices its primary
                 ties with cognition and instead becomes cognate with the human psyche in
                 all of its wondrous dimensions. (“Case” 33)
        Among the chief requirements of an intelligence for Gardner is that it be a
cognitively-based entity, one that “involves any kind of problem solving or product
making” (Intelligence 57). In this respect, “spiritual intelligence” fails to fulfill the
requirements of an intelligence, as it does in its emphasis upon a value system or a moral
code.
        While Gardner has rejected the existence of a “spiritual intelligence,” he does
recognize the possibility of what he terms an “existential intelligence”:
                 Let me begin by proposing a core ability for a candidate existential
                 intelligence: the capacity to locate oneself with respect to the furthest
                 reaches of the cosmos — the infinite and the infinitesimal — and the
                 related capacity to locate oneself with respect to such existential features
                 of the human condition as the significance of life, the meaning of death,
                 the ultimate fate of the physical and the psychological worlds, and such
                 profound experiences as love of another person or total immersion in a
                 work of art. (60)
Ultimately, however, Gardner does not include existential intelligence among his list of
eight intelligences, although he does note that “existential intelligence scores reasonably
well on the eight criteria” (64). He “finds the phenomenon perplexing enough and the
distance from the other intelligences vast enough to dictate prudence — at least for now”
(66).

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         Whether or not existential intelligence makes Gardner’s “official” list of
intelligences, the concept remains a useful means by which to discuss events and
characters in Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Each of the main
characters in OotP has unique intelligences, among them Ron’s spatial intelligence,
which allows him to understand chess; Hermione’s logical abilities, guaranteeing her
success in analyzing the probable outcomes of the frequently life-threatening situations in
which the children find themselves; Neville’s naturalist intelligence that makes him
successful in at least one venue — Professor Sprout’s classes. Harry has a number of
intelligences which serve him well throughout the novels — bodily-kinesthetic, which
allows him to excel at Quidditch, and linguistic, in speaking Parseltongue, a language not
spoken by any other student at Hogwarts.
         But Harry is also gifted in a way he would arguably prefer not to be. Certainly,
among his closest friends, he is the only one with a visceral sense of existential
intelligence, one that grows throughout the series. Not only has Harry contemplated the
possibility of his own death at Voldemort’s hands, even before he is made aware of the
prophecy, but he has spent considerable time considering the deaths of his parents. In
each of these cases, however, he is somewhat removed from the events — from his
parents’ deaths by time and a lack of memory, and from the possibility of his own death
by hope, training, and the confidence of Albus Dumbledore. With the death of Cedric
Diggory, however, Harry joins a select group, even among those who have fought
Voldemort since the beginning — the few who have witnessed the death of another
human being. Harry fully understands his “otherness,” even if he expresses his
frustrations in a typically teenaged manner:
                You don’t know what it’s like! You — neither of you — you’ve never had
                to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells
                and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole
                time you’re sure you know there’s nothing between you and dying except
                your own — your own brain or guts or whatever — like you can think
                straight when you know you’re about a second from being murdered or
                tortured or watching your friends die--they’ve never taught us that in their
                classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that — (OotP-US 328)
         Along with a considerable amount of anger, frustration, and petulance, Harry
exhibits in this passage the first signs of really understanding what he’s up against in the
fight with Voldemort. He comprehends in a far less abstract way after Cedric’s death that
Cedric was the first in what will undoubtedly be a long line of deaths. With Cedric’s
demise, the fight has become far less localized, and far more than the certain death of
either a single Harry or a single Voldemort. Instead, the fate of an entire people and way
of life hangs on the outcome of the coming fight. In accepting this knowledge, Harry’s
existential intelligence increases exponentially. In earlier books, Harry often does not
seem to understand his uniqueness — he doesn’t mention his ability to speak
Parseltongue to Ron and Hermione because he assumes “loads of people here can do it”
(CoS-US 196). What others consider gifts are to him only natural and rather
unremarkable abilities. But with Cedric’s death before his eyes, Harry assumes a more
inquisitive, more combative, and more perceptive persona.
         Having seen someone die, however, obviously does not automatically qualify a
person for membership in the brotherhood of existential intelligence. A person might just

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as easily repress all memories of the event, decide to live only in the here-and-now,
refuse to consider the ramifications of the death — any number of coping (or as the case
may be, non-coping) devices employed by generations of humans. But in Rowling’s
world, the witnesses of death are special, and given the ability to see an animal only those
who have witnessed a death can see — the thestral.
        Unquestionably, Harry is accustomed to seeing things that others, particularly
Muggles, can’t — the Knight Bus and Hogwarts, to name a few. The difference between
those events and seeing thestrals is that all wizards can see Hogwarts; all wizards can see
the Knight Bus. Not all wizards, however, can see thestrals, and without that comfortable
“us” (Harry, Ron, Hermione) against them (everybody else), Harry founders. He is
seemingly less concerned with seeing the thestrals pulling Hogwarts’ carriages than he is
with seeing something that Ron can’t — and that Luna Lovegood can. Harry worries
throughout the novels about his commonalities with people he believes are bad, mad, or
just plain odd. He shares traits with Tom Riddle; he could have ended up in Slytherin as
easily as in Gryffindor; basilisks murmur to him from the walls of Hogwarts; while here
he shares a decidedly odd vision of skeletal horses with “Loony” Lovegood. As Maria
Harris has suggested: “Above all, ‘mad’ in the novels is a derogatory label for those who
look different and/or look at things differently from most people” (87). By accepting his
vision of the thestrals, Harry is moving one step closer to acknowledging the “otherness”
that will allow him to accept fully the challenge of fighting Voldemort for the last time.
What is more, in sharing visions of things unseen by nearly everyone else, both
figuratively and literally, Harry exhibits a strong existential intelligence.
        Hagrid’s lesson on thestrals in his Care of Magical Creatures class initially seems
somewhat odd, even for someone known for bringing such creatures as blast-ended
skrewts and hippogriffs into the presence of underage wizards. In the most literal sense,
Hagrid is fond of “interesting” creatures, no matter what their quirks — fire-breathing,
exploding, creatures of death — so in that way, the thestrals aren’t a big surprise. Of
course, Hagrid is happy about introducing another “different” animal to the class, saying
that he’d been “saving” the thestrals for the fifth-years, and that he has trained them, a
rare feat. But — why, really? Why introduce a creature that can only be seen by a very
few in the class — Harry, Neville, Luna, and a Slytherin? And why does Hagrid pick
that particular moment to show the thestrals?
        Introducing a creature that can be seen by very few people, and only by those who
have seen someone die, allows Rowling to reflect once again upon the differences
between appearance and reality, between the isolation of the few and the camaraderie of
the many. The thestrals also give Rowling a mechanism for discussing the reality of
death. Just as most people cannot see thestrals, they cannot see death, but our “lack of
vision” does not make death any less real. We may debate the exact nature of the death
experience, whether one begins with a step through a curtained archway or stops
breathing, but its reality is beyond question. As a plot mechanism, the thestrals give
Harry and Luna a basic starting point from which to move toward friendship, and a
means by which Harry can look to Luna at the end of the novel for some comfort
regarding Sirius’ death. In one of the more chilling foreshadowings in the series, Harry’s
friends ride to meet Sirius’ death on these creatures of death, with the implication that
perhaps many more of the children will be able to see the thestrals after their “rescue
mission” at the Ministry of Magic. Indeed, Sirius’ death, which results in Harry’s crisis of

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solitude, seems to be the existential focus of this novel. This is not to suggest that
existential intelligence is monolithic in form or content. In providing readers with two
very different characters, Luna and Harry, who possess existential intelligence, Rowling
shows the two extremes of existential inquiry.
        Until the final pages of the novel, readers see only the superficial “loony” side of
Luna Lovegood. She believes all the stories in her father’s publication, The Quibbler
(wizardry’s version of The National Enquirer); she wears a necklace of butterbeer caps;
she holds her magazine upside-down while reading; she is at once slightly irritating and
profoundly odd. Yet Luna is a decidedly free spirit. Seemingly unconcerned by people’s
reactions to her — irritation, bemusement, mockery — she is characterized as serene,
calm, detached. In essence, she has come to terms with herself and her environment in a
way few adolescents have, and gives Harry a much-needed alternative take on the
meaning of death in their final encounter in this novel. Luna’s description of her mother’s
death is matter-of-fact: “….‘it was rather horrible,’ said Luna conversationally. ‘I still
feel very sad about it sometimes…And anyway, it’s not as though I’ll never see Mum
again, is it?’” (OotP-US 863). For Luna, death is but a step away from life, just as one
side of the archway in the Department of Mysteries is but one step from the other. Luna’s
reminding Harry about the voices just behind the veil of the archway at least provides
him with some measure of comfort, some ambiguity regarding the finality of death and
the possibility of seeing Sirius again.
        Luna’s reaction to death is far different from Harry’s in one major way: her lack
of questioning. She is serene and sure about eventually seeing her mother once more, as
calm in this supposition as she is in assuming she will eventually retrieve her stolen
possessions. Luna’s acceptance of her mother’s death may simply be because she is far
removed from it in time — we can assume that Luna, like the other fourth-years, is
fourteen or fifteen, and her mother died when she was nine. Has she had time to answer
the questions Harry is only now asking, or has she never felt the need to question? Either
way, Rowling gives no definitive response as to whether it is the questions or the answers
that are more important in one’s lifetime.
        While Luna accepts the inevitability of death and the necessary physical
separation that accompanies it, Harry has had neither the time nor the inclination to
accept Sirius’ death. For Harry, the questions seem never to end, beginning with the
moment Sirius falls through the archway and continuing through his encounters with Sir
Nicholas and Luna at Hogwarts. Initially, Harry is concerned with two facets of
Gardner’s definition of existential intelligence: the meaning of death and the meaning of
“such profound experiences as love of another person” (Intelligence 60).
        Oddly enough, the first person Harry observes discussing death after Sirius dies is
Voldemort, during his duel with Dumbledore. While both the reader and Harry assume
that Voldemort will not provide the soundest assessment of any topic, his feelings about
death probably do accurately reflect those of a majority of people, including at that
particular moment, Harry himself. Voldemort tells Dumbledore that “there is nothing
worse than death” (OotP-US 814), and Dumbledore replies, “You are quite
wrong…indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death
has always been your greatest weakness” (814). It is unclear precisely what Dumbledore
means by this; at the very least, Dumbledore’s comments may foreshadow the horrors
that the entire wizarding world will experience before the war is over.

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         In the closing pages of the novel, Harry has three encounters that provide him
with, if not definitive answers, at least differing perspectives on the meaning and nature
of death. The first of these encounters is not with a person, but an object — the two-way
mirror Sirius had given Harry at Grimmauld Place. Harry is still desperate to see Sirius
again, to talk to him. The mirror’s failure to bring Sirius back as even a poor imitation of
himself frustrates Harry so much that he throws the mirror into his trunk, shattering it
almost as if to shatter death itself. Although he is unsuccessful in reaching Sirius through
the two-way mirror, the attempt prompts Harry to consider more immediate resources of
information: “But then an idea struck him…A better idea than a mirror…A much bigger,
more important idea…How had he never thought of it before—why had he never asked?”
(858-59)
         Harry’s “better idea” is to talk to Nearly-Headless Nick about the nature of death
and the possibility of Sirius’ returning as a ghost. In this encounter, Harry formulates
some basic questions about death itself and the character of life after death. Nick tries to
be helpful, yet honest, in his discussion with Harry, reluctantly but determinedly telling
him that Sirius will not come back, that he will have “gone on” (861). Harry asks the
questions one would expect from a person with highly developed existential intelligence:
“What d’you mean, ‘gone on?’…gone on where? Listen—what happens when you die,
anyway? Why doesn’t everyone come back? Why isn’t this place full of ghosts?” (861).
All Nick can tell Harry with any certainty is that he cannot answer these questions, as he
doesn’t really live and he didn’t exactly die, which leaves him “neither here nor there”
(861). Nick does know, however, that very few people choose “my feeble imitation of
life” (861), and that Sirius’ fate, whatever it is, will be much different from Nick’s own.
The encounter leaves Harry bereft, feeling “almost as though he had lost his godfather all
over again in losing the hope that he might be able to see or speak to him once more”
(862).
         Harry’s final encounter of the evening, his discussion with Luna regarding the
voices behind the veil and her unshakable belief that those who have died are simply
temporarily unavailable, serves two purposes within the novel. First, Harry is provided
with a marginal amount of hope from someone who is qualified to speak about the
specifics of love and loss. Secondly, the discussion reminds the reader that Luna and
Harry are part of a very small minority, those who have witnessed death. This serves as
one more way in which Harry is different and alienated, largely alone as he ultimately is
in the fight against Voldemort:
                  Perhaps the reason he wanted to be alone was because he had felt isolated
                  from everybody since his talk with Dumbledore. An invisible barrier
                  separated him from the rest of the world. He was—he had always been—a
                  marked man. It was just that he had never really understood what that
                  meant. (855-56)
         It is through his continued questioning that Harry will learn to deal effectively
with being separated from the dead and from the living. This knowledge, in turn, will
carry him to his final encounter with Lord Voldemort. Although the outcome of that fight
is far from certain, Harry has realized the necessity for the fight itself, and of the
importance of being “the one” largely responsible for its outcome.

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                                      Works Cited
Checkley, Kathy. ‘The First Seven…and the Eighth.’ Educational Leadership.
        55(September 1997): 8-13.
Gardner, Howard. ‘A Case Against Spiritual Intelligence.’ The International Journal for
        the Psychology of Religion. 10(2000): 27-34.
——— . Intelligence Reframed: Multiple Intelligences for the 21st Century.
        New York: Basic Books, 1999.
Harris, Maria. ‘Is Seeing Believing? Truth and Lies in Harry Potter and the Order of the
        Phoenix.’ Topic: The Washington & Jefferson College Review. 54(Fall 2004): 83-
        92.