Work Text:
Towards a New Magical Ethics
By Hermione Granger
I sit at my desk in the Minister's office, quill poised above parchment, and allow myself one long breath before beginning. The children are at the Burrow tonight. They are always at the Burrow now. The silence of my flat presses against me like water. Rose asked me last week if I was lonely. She is thirteen and sees too much. I told her I was fine, that I had important work to do. I didn't tell her that loneliness has become so familiar it feels almost like companionship.
The foundation of any coherent magical ethics must rest upon two interconnected principles: intention and consent. Yet as I write these words, I feel the weight of my own contradictions settling around my shoulders like an invisible cloak. How does one argue for clarity when one's own life exists in shadow?
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me begin with what I know to be true.
Magic, we are taught, requires will. Wand movement and pronunciation alone cannot produce effective spells. One must desire the outcome, must pour intention into the incantation like wine into a vessel. This principle undergirds our entire approach to magical education and law. We punish the wizard who casts Crucio with malice more severely than the one whose stunning spell accidentally kills, precisely because intention reveals something essential about character: the willingness to cause harm rather than mere carelessness.
His fingers brushing mine as we reached for the same volume of pre-Statute magical law. The marriage band still visible on his left hand, warm gold against pale skin. The way my breath caught. The knowledge that we were both thinking about the same thing, had been thinking about it for months.
Yet intention alone cannot justify magical action. A wizard might torture with the sincere belief that extracting information prevents worse catastrophe, might view Crucio as a necessary evil, a protective measure. We nonetheless classify the curse as Unforgivable because the action itself violates a fundamental principle: one must not cause deliberate suffering to another sentient being, regardless of the righteousness of one's ultimate aims.
This is where consent enters our ethical framework, as a necessary counterweight to even good intentions. The healer who forces treatment upon an unwilling patient commits a violation, no matter how beneficial the outcome. The Auror who casts Imperius to extract testimony crosses a boundary that noble purpose cannot excuse.
But here our comfortable framework begins to fracture, doesn't it? Because if we truly believe that non-consensual magic constitutes violation regardless of intention, then we must grapple with an uncomfortable truth: many supposedly acceptable spells breach consent as thoroughly as any Unforgivable Curse.
Consider the Imperius Curse. We have made it Unforgivable because it strips away will entirely, transforms a person into a puppet, overrides autonomy with such completeness that the victim becomes merely an extension of the caster's desire. The violation is clear, absolute, horrifying in its totality.
Yet Tarantallegra accomplishes fundamentally the same violation, merely narrower in scope. The spell seizes control of a person's legs, forces them to dance against their will, overrides their bodily autonomy completely. The victim cannot stop moving. Their body obeys the magic rather than their mind. If we object to Imperius on grounds of consent, on what basis do we excuse Tarantallegra? The principle violated remains identical; only the extent differs.
Similarly, Petrificus Totalus paralyzes the body entirely, removing all agency and leaving the victim helpless and aware. Locomotor Mortis locks the legs. Silencio removes the ability to speak. Levicorpus suspends a person by their ankle, inverting them against their will. Each of these spells overrides bodily autonomy. Each strips away control. Yet we teach them to children as though they are harmless pranks or useful utilities rather than violations of fundamental human dignity.
The Thursday evening I stayed late to review the Werewolf Registry reforms. His office three doors down from mine, both of us alone on the fourth floor. The way he appeared in my doorway, leaned against the frame with studied casualness, asked if I had eaten. The Italian restaurant in Muggle London where no one would recognize us. The wine that made me brave enough to say what had been building between us for months. His hand covering mine on the table. The unspoken understanding that we were both betraying something, though the exact nature of our betrayals felt too complicated to articulate.
One might argue that intent distinguishes these spells, that Imperius is cast with malicious purpose while Tarantallegra or Levicorpus aim at harmless amusement. But this reasoning reveals dangerous circularity. We have decided one spell is evil and therefore assume evil intent; we have declared another acceptable and therefore presume benign motivation. Yet the caster's actual intentions might be entirely reversed. I could cast Tarantallegra with genuine malice toward someone I know will be humiliated and traumatized, while casting Imperius with sincere belief that controlling their actions prevents greater harm.
More troubling still is the parallel between Cruciatus and a host of other painful or disorienting spells. We have made Cruciatus Unforgivable because causing deliberate pain represents fundamental evil. The suffering inflicted is terrible, absolute, capable of shattering minds beyond repair. We remember the Longbottoms. We remember Bellatrix's cruelty. We understand that such magic cannot be tolerated in any civilized society.
But suffering is not monolithic. Pain exists along multiple axes, and psychological torment can devastate as thoroughly as physical agony. Rictusempra forces uncontrollable laughter. Densaugeo causes teeth to grow grotesquely. Furnunculus covers the victim in painful boils. Conjunctivitis curses blind temporarily but agonizingly. Stinging hexes cause pain. The Bat-Bogey Hex, considered amusing by most of the wizarding world, causes the victim's nasal mucus to transform into flying creatures that attack their face.
For a person with severe anxiety about losing bodily control, for someone traumatized by childhood experiences of helplessness, for an individual whose dignity and composure form essential components of identity, any of these spells might produce genuine torture. The forced laughter, the physical transformation, the pain, the absolute inability to stop one's body from responding, all of these constitute profound violation for some victims.
The guest room at the back of the Leaky Cauldron. Wards so thick the walls seemed to hum with privacy. His wand moving in patterns I recognized from training sessions. Sensation hitting me like a wave. My body responding in ways I could not control, could not predict, could not stop. Watching my own reactions as though from a distance, understanding viscerally why such magic should be regulated even as I surrendered to it.
The distinction we draw between Unforgivable Curses and acceptable magic reflects cultural prejudice rather than coherent ethical reasoning. We have decided, as a society, that certain violations are absolutely prohibited while others merit perhaps a detention or a mild fine. This decision does not follow from principled analysis of intention and consent. It follows from historical accident, from familiarity with certain types of magic, from our collective willingness to excuse transgressions we ourselves have committed or might wish to commit.
Our entire educational system perpetuates these arbitrary distinctions. Hogwarts teaches eleven-year-olds to disarm opponents, to stun them, to petrify them, to levitate them against their will. We call this Defense Against the Dark Arts, as though the defense justifies the violation. We teach the Jelly-Legs Jinx in Charms class. We assign Switching Spells as homework, spells that transform parts of animals or people without their consent. We encourage students to practice on each other, normalizing non-consensual magic as merely part of education.
But Hogwarts merely reflects broader wizarding culture, doesn't it? Our society accepts casual violation as entertainment. We laugh at practical jokes that override bodily autonomy. We applaud dueling demonstrations where wizards use increasingly invasive magic on volunteers who may not fully understand what they have agreed to. We sell prank products in Diagon Alley that cause vomiting, fainting, nosebleeds, fever, boils. We market love potions to teenagers.
The Daily Prophet will crucify me for saying this. They always do when I challenge tradition. "Minister Granger Attacks Hogwarts Legacy," the headline will scream. "Bushy-Haired Know-It-All Wants to Ban Fun," they will jeer, because apparently that tired epithet never gets old. They will quote concerned parents worried about their children's education. They will interview former professors who insist that learning defensive magic requires practice on real subjects. They will frame this as another example of my Muggle-born sensibilities failing to understand wizarding culture.
Let them. Because wizarding culture is desperately, dangerously outdated.
We cling to traditions forged in an era when magical might determined right, when pureblood families ruled through intimidation and force, when consent was a concept reserved for treaty negotiations rather than interpersonal conduct. We have codified the prejudices of our ancestors into law and called it magical education.
The cognitive dissonance becomes unbearable when I consider it too directly. Our society teaches children that some violations are Unforgivable while others are merely mischievous. We draw arbitrary lines in sand and call them moral absolutes. We punish with life in Azkaban those who cast three specific spells while barely reprimanding those who cast functionally identical magic.
His wedding ring catching lamplight when he moved his wand. Elegant, fragile Astoria with her blood curse and her quiet dignity. Scorpius, who must be starting Hogwarts soon. The knowledge that he goes home to them carrying the scent of my skin, the memory of my surrender. The guilt existing alongside everything else I feel: desire and shame and need and self-loathing and something that might be love if I were brave enough to call it that.
Love potions exemplify our moral inconsistency most starkly. A potion that compels affection, that overrides genuine feelings and replaces them with artificially induced attraction, represents a profound violation of consent. We would never excuse Imperius when used to force romantic interest, yet we permit love potions to be sold openly in Diagon Alley, marketed to teenagers and adults alike as though compelling another person's emotions constitutes acceptable romantic strategy rather than a form of assault.
This is not merely an abstract concern. Love potions have been used in countless cases of abuse, coercion, and assault. They have produced children conceived without genuine consent. They have trapped people in relationships they would never have chosen. They have destroyed lives. Yet our law treats their use as a minor infraction, worthy of perhaps a small fine, certainly nothing approaching the severity with which we prosecute Imperius.
The same inconsistency pervades our treatment of other common spells. Memory Charms modify a person's mind without consent, yet we permit the Ministry to use them routinely on Muggles who witness magic. Confundus Charms alter perception and judgment, yet they merit barely a slap on the wrist when used maliciously. Compulsion charms, suggestion spells, emotional manipulation magic, all of these violate autonomy and consent, yet none carry significant legal consequences.
If we accept that intention and consent form the cornerstones of magical ethics, then we must reform our laws to reflect these principles consistently. This requires abandoning the fiction of three uniquely evil spells and acknowledging instead that all non-consensual magic exists on a continuum of violation. The severity of punishment should reflect the degree of harm caused, the context in which magic was employed, and the intentions of the caster, but the fundamental principle must remain constant: you may not use magic to control another person's body or mind without their permission.
Hugo crying when I returned them to the Burrow last Sunday. Only ten years old and asking why Mummy cannot just come home, why everything has to be so complicated. Ron holding him while I stood in the doorway, knowing I caused this pain, knowing my choices fractured our family beyond any Reparo charm. Rose looking at me with eyes too old for thirteen. "I hope your work is worth it." Meaning to wound, and succeeding.
I traveled back to London through the Floo, guilt sitting heavy in my chest, with the knowledge that I am failing at the one thing that should matter most. And yet that evening I went to him. Passed through his wards, he had keyed me into them months ago, which felt more intimate than any kiss. Accepted the wine he offered, stood before him while he studied my face and asked if I was alright.
I was not alright. I am never entirely alright anymore. But I needed what only he could provide: the surrender, the release, the permission to be something other than Minister Granger, the perfect, the accomplished, the always in control.
What followed was magic. Spells that made my skin hypersensitive, that sent cascading waves of sensation through nerve endings I did not know existed. Incantations that made my back arch involuntarily, that pulled sounds from my throat I would be mortified to produce in any other context. Magic that controlled my physical responses, that made my body obey his will rather than mine.
He knows what it is like to bear pressure as the head of an ancient wizarding family. The expectations, the constant scrutiny, the weight of history and obligation pressing down like water. Perhaps that is why we understand each other in ways I never understood Ron, in ways Ron never understood me. We both know what it means to perform for an audience that never stops watching.
Afterwards I lay in his bed, boneless and spent, feeling the weight of my own hypocrisy settling around me like evening fog. How can I draft legislation about magical consent when I cannot articulate clear standards for my own situation?
The problem is that public law cannot account for private negotiation. The law must be clear, must establish bright lines that protect those who lack power or knowledge to protect themselves. If we permit exceptions for "consensual" magic, we create opportunities for abuse, for claims that the victim secretly wanted it, that their presence constituted agreement, that absence of explicit refusal equals permission.
But neither can the law criminalize what occurs between informed adults who have genuinely negotiated boundaries and established methods of refusal. To do so would be to impose a puritanical standard that denies the complexity of human desire, that insists on verbal negotiation of every moment when sometimes the surrender of negotiation itself forms part of what is sought.
This tension cannot be resolved through legislative fiat. It requires acknowledging that consent operates differently in different contexts, that the standards appropriate for strangers differ from those applicable to established relationships, that trust creates spaces where advance agreement can operate ethically provided genuine methods of refusal exist and are respected.
The legislation I propose next month will focus on establishing clearer principles:
First, love potions will be banned entirely. There can be no circumstance where magically compelling affection is acceptable.
Second, magic cast upon strangers or acquaintances without explicit permission will be prosecuted as assault, with severity determined by the nature and impact of the spell. This includes jinxes, hexes, curses, and supposedly harmless pranks. Bodily autonomy is not suspended simply because wizarding culture finds violation amusing.
Third, the arbitrary distinction between Unforgivable Curses and supposedly acceptable magic will be challenged. All non-consensual magic exists on a continuum of violation. Imperius and Tarantallegra differ in degree, not kind. Cruciatus and Rictusempra both violate bodily autonomy, though the nature of that violation varies. The law must acknowledge this reality rather than perpetuating comfortable fictions.
Fourth, the Ministry will mandate that all magical education institutions, including Hogwarts, must incorporate ethical instruction regarding consent and magical use into their curricula. Students must understand that magic is not morally neutral, that every spell cast upon another person without permission constitutes a violation, that power creates responsibility rather than license.
This last point will prove most controversial. Hogwarts has operated with minimal Ministry oversight for centuries, has maintained its traditions and methods largely independent of governmental interference. Many will argue that magical education should remain free from political influence, that the Ministry has no business dictating curriculum to an institution older than the Ministry itself.
But the Ministry exists precisely to establish and enforce ethical standards across wizarding society. If Hogwarts teaches children that casual violation is acceptable, that bodily autonomy can be overridden for educational purposes or entertainment, then Hogwarts perpetuates the very cultural attitudes that make reform necessary. The school must adapt or acknowledge its complicity in maintaining outdated, harmful norms.
His hands on my wrists. His voice low. Magic crashing through me like drowning, like flying, like dying and being reborn in the space between heartbeats. The absolute loss of control, the surrender of everything I spend every waking hour maintaining.
The children are with Ron tonight. They are always with Ron except for those brief weekends when I attempt to compress two weeks of mothering into forty-eight hours. Rose will be doing her Arithmancy homework now, Hugo will be helping Molly with dinner. They have routines that do not include me. They have a life where I am the visiting parent, the one who disrupts their schedule every fortnight, the one who chose her ambitions over their stability.
The guilt never quite fades. It colors every decision I make, sits beneath everything I do. I tell myself I am building a better magical world for them to inherit. I tell myself that fighting for these reforms matters, that establishing clear ethics around magical consent will protect future generations. I tell myself that being Minister means sacrificing personal comfort for public good.
And then I go to his chambers and surrender to magic, and I wonder if I am a hypocrite or simply a woman trying to navigate the impossible complexity of wanting things that contradict each other.
Whether this framework will satisfy anyone remains uncertain. Those who favor absolute bright-line rules will argue I am creating dangerous loopholes. Those who value personal freedom will claim I am overregulating private behavior. The Daily Prophet will run editorials about government overreach and attacks on wizarding culture. Former Death Eaters who never faced justice will write opinion pieces about how I am worse than Voldemort because at least he respected magical tradition.
Let them. Because the alternative is continuing to pretend that our current system makes sense, that the distinction between Unforgivable Curses and acceptable magic rests on anything more substantial than historical prejudice and cultural inertia.
We live in a society where using Imperius earns life in Azkaban while using Tarantallegra earns laughter. Where Cruciatus is Unforgivable but Rictusempra is taught in school. Where modifying someone's memory without consent is standard Ministry procedure. Where love potions are sold to children.
This is not ethics. This is moral chaos dressed in the costume of tradition.
The fire burns low in the grate. I should finalize these arguments, should prepare for inevitable Wizengamot resistance, should be the Minister I promised to be. Instead I find myself remembering silver-blonde hair falling across his forehead when he bends over ancient texts, remembering the precise angle of his jaw, remembering the way his voice sounds when he speaks my name in the darkness, tender and possessive and sad all at once.
I remember sensation stripping away control, leaving me vulnerable and somehow more myself than I am anywhere else. I remember magic that operates in shades of grey that bright-line rules can never fully capture.
Perhaps we are all contradictory. Perhaps the law must be clearer than we are, must establish standards we can aspire to even if we cannot perfectly embody them. Perhaps fighting for magical ethics means acknowledging both the bright-line principles that protect the vulnerable and the complexity of contexts where consenting adults negotiate their own boundaries.
I shall fight for these reforms regardless of my own complications. I shall argue that intention and consent must guide our approach to magical law. I shall insist that the distinction between Unforgivable Curses and acceptable magic reflects prejudice rather than principle, that our entire system of magical ethics requires fundamental restructuring, that wizarding culture must evolve beyond the prejudices of our ancestors.
And I shall live with the knowledge that my private life contradicts some of what I publicly advocate. That I permit magic on my body that would horrify those who see me only as Minister Granger. That I have found something with someone I once despised, someone who belongs to someone else, that I never found with the man I married.
The law must be better than I am. It must protect those who need protection while permitting those who understand risks to make their own choices. Whether I have succeeded in balancing these competing demands remains to be seen.
I set down my quill and read through what I have written. The personal admissions will need to be removed before publication, of course. But perhaps writing them helps me understand what I am really fighting for: a framework flexible enough to acknowledge that consent is complicated, that desire is complicated, that magic, like love, operates in territories that legislation can map but never fully govern.
Outside my window, London sparkles with Muggle lights and hidden magical protections. Somewhere across the city, my children sleep without me. Somewhere else, he lies beside his wife in their marriage bed. And here I sit alone, trying to build a better ethical framework from the ruins of my own contradictions.