HARRY POTTER

No, he’s not. This question is old, but I still feel the need to answer it, because this is one of the most pervasive myths about Harry Potter that I’ve seen on Quora. First, a bit of background: Harry is quite a divisive character, but not in the same way Dumbledore and Snape are divisive. Harry is the protagonist, but he’s usually not the character whom most Harry Potter fans like to focus on. It’s actually quite a testament to Rowling’s character writing that some people read her books for the supporting cast. Harry himself falls under the radar — some people think that he’s a blank slate (he definitely has an established personality), or a “Gary Stu” (showing they don’t know what a Mary Sue is), and other people actively hate him. The most common reason for this, at least on Quora, is that Harry is supposedly “arrogant.” I’m a person who has a very similar personality to Harry Potter. I’m similarly empathetic but temperamental, I have similar attitudes toward authority, and I’m every bit as moody. I think I’m arrogant, but I would argue that Harry is not. Harry is constantly mischaracterized as arrogant by multiple people in the series, most notably Snape. Fans characterizing Harry as arrogant is an indirect manifestation of the James Vs. Snape Debate — it makes sense that readers who sympathize with Snape would be more likely to perceive Harry the way Snape does: “—mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined rule-breaker, delighted to call himself famous, attention-seeking and impertinent—” “You see what you expect to see, Severus,” said Dumbledore, without raising his eyes from a copy of Transfiguration Today. “Other teachers report that the boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented. Personally, I find him an engaging child.” —DH, chapter 23 I hope to show that all the impressions of Harry that Snape lists are incorrect. A lot of Harry’s supposed arrogance is a result of him having been conditioned to mistrust adults, on top of a clinical disease known as “being a teenager.” Harry actually is extremely modest, likable, and reasonably talented. Harry and Authority The evidence for Harry’s arrogance that I see cited the most often is the many instances of Harry disregarding the rules — Harry setting off a firework in Snape’s classroom as a diversion, Harry neglecting McGonagall’s order to stay away from the third floor corridor, or his various sassy remarks. But it’s important to consider the context here: One, Harry is a teenager, and teenagers are naturally a bit anti-authoritarian. Two, Harry has every reason to distrust authority. Three, the anti-authoritarian message of the Harry Potter series is an important one. One of the many ideas that Harry Potter seeks to combat, especially in Book 5, is the idea that people in power must automatically be respected just because they’re in power. This is partly just a teenager’s way of thinking — I was facing much lower stakes than Harry, and I still acted like obeying authority was a surrendering of my soul. It’s the reason why a lot of YA novels, including Harry Potter, have teenage protagonists going up against mean teachers, abusive parents, and corrupt governments. Speaking just as myself and not as a literary critic, it sort of disturbs me that so many people consider defiance the same thing as arrogance. Defiance is one of my personal values, and I admire Harry for his unwillingness to simply bow his head and do what he’s told. But Harry’s defiance towards authority isn’t simply because he’s a teenager, and it’s not a personal value. It’s a direct result of having been abused as a child. The Dursleys’ physical abuse of him is more often implied than actually shown, but we know that Uncle Vernon hit him because of the following lines: [Hermione] “You don't seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles; all they want is an OWL in Muggle Studies: Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience and a good sense of fun!” “You'd need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of when to duck, more like.” —OotP, chapter 29 And: Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm’s reach of his uncle whenever possible. —HBP, chapter 3 That’s pretty blatant. Even as a teenager, Harry avoids being anywhere near his uncle because he knows he will be physically harmed. And indeed, Vernon tries to choke Harry in chapter 1 of OotP, and promises to “flay him to within an inch of his life” in chapter 2 of CoS. Aunt Petunia isn’t much better — she tries to hit Harry in the head with a frying pan in chapter 1 of CoS, which would have caused at least a concussion, if not worse. Then there’s the fact that the Dursleys put him in solitary confinement more than once. PS chapter 2 mentions an instance of magic for which he’s given a week in his cupboard, and he’s locked in it for nearly a month after the boa constrictor incident. Compared to that, being imprisoned in his bedroom in CoS seems more manageable. Putting a small child in a closet for even a few minutes can be utterly traumatizing for them, let alone weeks. Although Harry is used to it, keeping a child in a confined space for extended periods of time still constitutes child abuse. Even all that aside, making Harry sleep in a cupboard is enough to communicate to a young child, We don’t care about you. You aren’t part of this family. That in and of itself is psychologically damaging. The Dursleys go out of their way to make Harry feel unwelcome and inferior in their home, even in the most minor of ways: She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Harry. —GoF, chapter 3 They also spread malicious rumors about Harry to the townsfolk: Neighborhood children all around were terrified of [Dudley] — even more terrified than they were of “that Potter boy,” who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooligan who attended St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. —OotP, chapter 1. Growing up with the Dursleys taught Harry that the people who are supposed to take care of him and look out for him will not do so. He’s been conditioned to believe that the people who say they know what’s best for him do not, that adult interference in his life is usually malicious, and that he will be punished every time he tries to go to them for help. This is why he always takes matters into his own hands, whether it’s advisable or not. It is not because Harry is entitled, or because he thinks to himself, “I am so much smarter and more capable than these well-trained adult wizards!” His brain does not even go there. Like many abused children, Harry automatically assumes that he cannot trust adults, even when that isn’t necessarily true. That’s not arrogance, that’s a trauma response. It’s worth pointing out that Harry’s distrust of adults, especially Snape, does come back to bite him in the ass. The most obvious example is of course that of Sirius’ death — if Harry had correctly assumed that Snape did go to warn the Order of the Phoenix, and just waited for them to get on it, nothing would have happened. Harry instead takes matters into his own hands, and disaster strikes. He continues to blame Snape for Sirius’ death, because he’s a grieving teenager trying to distract himself from his guilt, and Dumbledore calls him out on it: “What about Snape?” Harry spat. “You’re not talking about him, are you? When I told him Voldemort had Sirius he just sneered at me as usual—” “Harry, you know perfectly well that Professor Snape had no choice but to pretend not to take you seriously in front of Dolores Umbridge,” said Dumbledore steadily, “but as I have explained, he informed the Order as soon as possible about what you had said. It was he who deduced where you had gone when you did not return from the forest. It was he too who gave Professor Umbridge fake Veritaserum when she was attempting to force you to tell of Sirius’s whereabouts…” Harry disregarded this; he felt a savage pleasure in blaming Snape, it seemed to be easing his own sense of dreadful guilt, and he wanted to hear Dumbledore agree with him. “Snape — Snape g-goaded Sirius about staying in the house — he made out Sirius was a coward—” “Sirius was much too old and clever to have allowed such feeble words to hurt him,” said Dumbledore. “Snape stopped giving me Occlumency lessons!” Harry snarled. “He threw me out of his office!” “I am aware of it,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I have already said that it was a mistake for me not to teach you myself, though I was sure, at the time, that nothing could have been more dangerous than to open your mind even further to Voldemort while in my presence—” “Snape made it worse, my scar always hurt worse after lessons with him—” Harry remembered Ron’s thoughts on the subject and plunged on. “How do you know he wasn’t trying to soften me up for Voldemort, make it easier for him to get inside my—” “I trust Severus Snape,” said Dumbledore simply. “But I forgot — another old man’s mistake — that some wounds run too deep for the healing. I thought Professor Snape could overcome his feelings about your father — I was wrong.” —OotP, chapter 37 I’m willing to cut Harry some slack here. He’s fifteen years old, he’s just been through yet another traumatic experience on top of a dreadful year, in which he’s likely been battling PTSD and depression, on top of having to handle Umbridge’s torture and the Ministry’s slander and the encroaching threat of Voldemort. That’s too much for anyone to bear, let alone a kid. Might this be arrogance under normal circumstances? Sure, I’ll grant that. But considering all Harry goes through, his mental health is in remarkably good shape. Harry is wrong to distrust Snape, but is it really any wonder Harry doesn’t trust Snape? Snape’s treatment of Harry is absolutely terrible. Their first interaction really sets the tone for their entire relationship: “Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking as stumped as he was; Hermione’s hand had shot into the air. “I don’t know, sir,” said Harry. Snape’s lips curled into a sneer. “Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” He ignored Hermione’s hand. “Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter. “I don’t know, sir.” “Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand. “What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?” At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling. “I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?” A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye, and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not pleased. “Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down? There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, “And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter. —PS, chapter 8 No matter what your feelings about Snape are, Snape is in the wrong here. Snape singles out Harry on his first day of class, before he can reasonably be expected to know anything about the subject, and then asks questions that Snape knows Harry won’t be able to answer. The first two questions are both sixth-year material (Ron also looks stumped, so the ingredients for the Draught of Living Death are not common knowledge among wizard children), and the third is a trick question. Snape is a teacher. He is in a position of power over his students, and abusing that power to humiliate them is wrong. Even if many teachers taught this way in previous generations, that does not mean Snape’s behavior in this scene is justified. (I should not have to say this, but apparently I do have to make this crystal-clear — Snape’s abuse of Harry in this scene does not mean that he deserved to be bullied by James as a teenager, or abused by his parents as a child. Snape did not deserve James’ bullying. We clear? Good.) Harry’s responses, meanwhile, are initially polite. Not knowing the answer to a question is hardly a crime, especially when you haven’t had any classes yet to have paid attention to. Honestly, I didn’t interpret his referral to Hermione as cheek, but I’m willing to concede that one. However, Harry has become the target of Snape’s hatred before he has done anything to warrant it, and he doesn’t have the power to do anything but snipe back. If Snape hadn’t projected James onto Harry during this initial scene, then maybe there wouldn’t have been so much animosity between them. Because Snape is an adult and Harry is not, he can be expected to have more emotional maturity than Harry, so this is all on him. If Harry is dealing with this sort of treatment from Snape lesson after lesson for six years, then, combined with all of the bad conditioning from the Dursleys, why should we expect him to trust Snape? Going to Snape for any sort of help means getting a detention at best, from Harry’s perspective. Even after learning that Snape is on his side as early as Book One, it does nothing to change this deeply-ingrained mindset. “It’s Dumbledore’s business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us.” “But,” said Harry, “just say — just say Dumbledore’s wrong about Snape—” “People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgement. I do; therefore, I trust Severus.” “But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry. “He says it himself. And you” — he looked Lupin straight in the eye, “do you honestly like Snape?” “I neither like nor dislike Severus,” said Lupin. “No, Harry, I am speaking the truth,” he added, as Harry pulled a skeptical expression. “We shall never be bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon.” “But he ‘accidentally’ let it slip that you’re a werewolf, so you had to leave!” said Harry angrily. Lupin shrugged. “The news would have leaked out anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage by tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I must be grateful.” “Maybe he didn’t dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!” said Harry. “You are determined to hate him, Harry,” said Lupin with a faint smile. “And I understand; with James as your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have inherited an old prejudice.” —HBP chapter 16 It’s important that we hear this from Lupin, because Lupin was part of the old animosity between Snape and the Marauders. Lupin doesn’t take any of Snape’s vitriol towards him in Book Three to heart, and he is immensely grateful to Snape for the Wolfsbane Potion. Lupin is capable of letting bygones be bygones to work alongside an ally, and Harry is not — but Lupin is also an adult, while Harry is an emotionally immature teenager, and Harry’s own confrontations with Snape aren’t far enough in the past to be water under the bridge. Snape’s trustworthiness is constantly in flux. Harry’s distrust of Snape is not justified, but it is understandable. It’s a pattern that Snape himself enforces, and it’s obviously contributed to by Sirius and (indirectly) James. But calling it arrogance is a stretch, because it’s not superciliousness that motivates Harry’s hatred of Snape. That’s how Snape perceives it, but that’s because Snape is projecting James onto Harry. Harry’s cheek is his only way of retaliating, and also just part of being a teenager. I’m going to come back to Snape, because his and Harry’s relationship is a running theme here, but there’s one more thing I want to touch on in this section about authority, and that’s disruption in Snape’s class in Book Two. I’ve seen people bring this up as a sign of Harry’s arrogance, and I seriously do not understand why. It’s not Harry’s idea to set off the firework — it’s Hermione’s, and the purpose of it is to gather ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion (which, again, is a manifestation of Harry and co.’s general distrust of adults, not a deliberate act of defiance). Harry is not causing disruption in Snape’s class just to stick it to Snape. He doesn’t even want to do it: Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. —CoS, chapter 11 But it is true that Harry respects Snape less and less as time goes on. And honestly, why should he respect Snape? Harry Potter makes it clear that many authorities — the Dursleys, Umbridge, and even Snape — simply do not deserve respect, because they refuse to show any respect towards their charges. Harry summarizes this sentiment in response to Scrimgeour: “Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” said Scrimgeour, breathing hard into Harry’s face. “Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!” “It’s time you earned it,” said Harry. —DH, chapter 7 Calling a person “arrogant” for refusing to put up with harsh treatment is insidious. If it’s self-important to believe that you deserve to be treated like a person, then that implies that you are not entitled to human decency. That’s a dangerous sentiment. If you’re “arrogant” for wanting to be treated with kindness by those in power, then they are justified in mistreating you, because you need to be “taken down a peg.” This is what enables people like Umbridge, the Dursleys, and Snape to be abusive. Having humility should not mean being a doormat. Harry and Celebrity The other big piece of this is Harry’s celebrity, and how he reacts to it. In-universe, one of the most annoying accusations against Harry is the assumption that Harry’s fame has gone to his head, and that all the crazy stuff he does is acting out for attention. But there’s no evidence to suggest that this is how Harry actually feels about being famous. In fact, there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary. Harry’s reactions to celebrity demonstrates his modesty. I remember being consistently frustrated by other characters’ assumptions that Harry is obsessed with fame. Aside from Snape, the first person to make this assumption is Lockhart, in this exchange: “Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the newspaper with me and you couldn’t wait to do it again.” “Oh, no, Professor, see —” “Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping his shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can’t start flying cars to get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead. “I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s a start.” —CoS, chapter 6 Lockhart, of course, assumes that Harry has the same feelings about fame that he himself does. But the reader knows that this is not how Harry thinks. The flying car is actually a great example of how and why Harry breaks rules — he missed the train, he needed to get to Hogwarts, the car was available. He simply wasn’t thinking about the attention, positive or negative, that he might get as a result. But Lockhart takes one look and assumes that it’s all an attention grab, that Harry is trying to boost his own ego. Of course he does, it’s Lockhart. But that’s another thing — Harry is never anything like Lockhart. He doesn’t drop phrases like “It’s not as good as defeating the Dark Lord, as I have.” And Harry’s achievements are 1. actually impressive and 2. real! Harry gets a similar accusation thrown at him by the whole Ministry in his fifth year: “Well, they’re writing about you as though you’re this deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he’s a great tragic hero or something,” said Hermione, very fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry to hear these facts quickly. “They keep slipping in snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story appears they say something like ‘a tale worthy of Harry Potter’ and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it’s ‘let’s hope he hasn’t got a scar on his forehead or we’ll be asked to worship him next —’ ” “I don’t want anyone to worship —” Harry began hotly. “I know you don’t,” said Hermione quickly, looking frightened. “I know, Harry. But you see what they’re doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. Fudge is behind it, I’ll bet anything. They want wizards on the street to think you’re just some stupid boy who’s a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous tall stories because he loves being famous and wants to keep it going.” “I didn’t ask — I didn’t want — Voldemort killed my parents!” Harry spluttered. “I got famous because he murdered my family but couldn’t kill me! Who wants to be famous for that? Don’t they think I’d rather it’d never —” “We know, Harry,” said Ginny earnestly. —OotP, chapter 4. The Ministry know that they’re lying. They’re accusing Harry of wanting attention because they’re trying to discredit him. Accusing him of attention-seeking is the easiest way to do that, because it makes sense to people who don’t know Harry. It makes sense that a kid who’s absurdly famous for having survived something by chance would want to milk his encounter with Voldemort for all it’s worth. The general wizarding public doesn’t know about Harry’s other encounters with Voldemort in years 1 and 2, so they don’t have that as added context. Celebrity becomes a weapon to use against him. And then of course, there’s Snape. Snape seems to especially resent Harry’s fame. “Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” The first thing he does in his potions class, as previously demonstrated, is attempt to take Harry down a couple of notches, when he’s been given no indication that Harry needed to be taken down. Snape just assumes that Harry is motivated by egotism, that his fame has made him feel like he is inherently more special and more deserving than everyone else. That, or he’s trying to get a rise out of Harry in order to punish him: All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head, Potter,” said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again. Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take a round of fifty points from Gryffindor before the end of the class. “You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him. […] “but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.” —GoF, chapter 27 I have already explained how Harry’s disregard for rules has more to do with his general distrust of authority figures from having suffered abuse as a child, and less to do with arrogance. So we can put that aside. Why does Snape keep bringing up Harry’s fame, besides provoking him? What Harry doesn’t know at this point in the story is that Snape is projecting James onto him. Snape automatically assumes that Harry thinks the same way that James does: “…Let the ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.” Harry stayed silent. Snape was trying to provoke him into telling the truth. he wasn’t going to do it. Snape had no proof — yet. “How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,” Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting. “He too was exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us, too. Strutting about the place with his friends and admirers… the resemblance between you is uncanny.” “My dad didn’t strut,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. “And neither do I.” “Your father didn’t set much store by the rules either,” Snape went on, pressing his advantage, his thin face full of malice. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen—” “SHUT UP!” —PoA, chapter 14 Snape is right about James here, but he is not right about Harry. Because James is what he wants to see, he ignores all the ways in which Harry isn’t like James. Much like Voldemort creating his own worst enemy by going after Harry, Snape therefore encourages Harry to act more like James in his presence. What stuns me is that plenty of Harry Potter fans on Quora make the exact same assumption, despite, presumably, having read the same books and therefore having Harry’s perspective. I understand that people who sympathize with Snape over James are more likely to think like Snape. I sympathize with Harry because I have a similar personality and, as I explained before, I perceive defiance against authority as an inherently noble thing (which Harry doesn’t, necessarily — he doesn’t have a martyr complex the way I did). A person who thinks more like Snape than like me is less likely to perceive Harry’s rule-breaking in a positive light. But I truly do not understand how they can think Harry is motivated by James-like arrogance, because there’s multiple scenes that show us he is not. Quidditch talent was the source of James’ arrogance, at least according to Snape (James being an only child probably had something to do with it). Although James was an incredibly skilled wizard for his age (the Marauder’s Map is a serious feat of enchantment), Quidditch was definitely what he was known for, and he was a lot more conceited about it than Harry: Lupin had pulled out a book and was reading. Sirius stared around at the students milling over the grass, looking rather haughty and bored, but very handsomely so. James was still playing with the Snitch, letting it zoom farther and farther away, almost escaping but always grabbed at the last second. Wormtail was watching him with his mouth open. Every time James made a particularly difficult catch, Wormtail gasped and applauded. After five minutes of this, Harry wondered why James didn’t tell Wormtail to get a grip on himself, but James seemed to be enjoying the attention. Harry noticed his father had a habit of rumpling up his hair as though to make sure it did not get too tidy, and also that he kept looking over at the girls by the water’s edge. “Put that away, will you?” said Sirius finally, as James made a fine catch and Wormtail let out a cheer. “Before Wormtail wets himself from excitement.” Wormtail turned slightly pink but James grinned. “If it bothers you,” he said, stuffing the Snitch back in his pocket. Harry had the distinct impression that Sirius was the only one for whom James would have stopped showing off. […] “Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just gotten off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can — I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.” […] “What is it with her?” said James, trying and failing to look as though this was a throwaway question of no real importance to him. “Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate.” “Right,” said James, who looked furious now, “right—” —OotP, chapter 28 Harry does not act like this. He doesn’t steal the Snitch just to show off with it, doesn’t try to draw attention to his Quidditch skills in front of girls just to impress them, doesn’t expect attention or praise from his friends. I think it’s interesting that Harry’s first impulse would be to tell Wormtail to get a grip, drawing a clear line between his and his father’s attitudes. Harry also notes how James probably wouldn’t stop showing off for anybody but his best friend. It takes Lily directly and brutally telling James how unimpressed she is for him to consider how he comes across, and it’s implied that this is what eventually motivates him to change his behavior. I can’t think of a single time in which Harry deliberately shows off his Quidditch skills with the intention to impress other people. Harry also isn’t a bully. How does Harry feel about his Quidditch skills? “So… got any ideas how you’re going to get past your dragon yet?” said Moody. “No,” said Harry. “Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play to your strengths.” “I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. “Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best at?” Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best at? Well, that was easy, really — “Quidditch,” he said dully. “And a fat lot of help—” “That’s right,” said Moody, staring at him very hard, his magical eye barely moving at all. “You’re a damn good flier from what I’ve heard.” “Yeah, but…” Harry stared at him. “I’m not allowed a broom, I’ve only got my wand—” —GoF, chapter 20 Harry’s first response to being asked what his strengths are is to say he doesn’t have them. This isn’t him putting on airs, this is genuine modesty. Harry is modest to the point of being self-deprecating. And when he does consider Quidditch as a strength, he immediately writes it off. It’s simply not in Harry’s nature to be proud of himself, even when he deserves to be. It makes sense that Harry doesn’t feel particularly proud of being famous for having survived Voldemort’s attack; that isn’t something he remembers or has control over. But that’s also not the only notable thing that Harry Potter has done. Harry spends very little time thinking, let alone talking, about the rest of the things he’s accomplished. When Hermione and Ron bring them up in fifth year, he’s uncomfortable and keeps trying to give other people credit: “You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.” “But…” Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg. “But I’m not a teacher, I can’t—” “Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione. “Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than ever. “No, I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test—” “Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat me in our third year — the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject. But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Look at what you’ve done!” “How d’you mean?” “You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry. “Let’s think,” he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh… first year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.” “But that was luck,” said Harry, “that wasn’t skill—” “Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.” “Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I —” “Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred Dementors at once—” “You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t—” “Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you fought off You-Know-Who again—” “Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. “Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all of that stuff was luck — I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help—” Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn’t even sure why he was feeling so angry. “Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any of that because I was as brilliant at Defense Against the Dark Arts, I got through it all because — because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right — but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!” —OotP, chapter 15 I love this scene. It’s one of the only times in the series that Harry is actually confronted with the reality of his own achievements, and his first reaction is to downplay them as much as possible. He actually agrees with Snape that he isn’t actually skilled, that “he has fought his way out of a number of tight corners through a combination of sheer luck and more talented friends” (HBP, chapter 2). This isn’t actually true — Harry actually is good at DADA magic, enough to get an Outstanding on his OWL, and he also has a remarkable ability to think clearly under pressure (instead of freezing or panicking). Harry actually has achieved things, but he refuses to acknowledge this. (His tendency to put himself down is also probably a result of the Dursley’s mistreatment.) If Harry were arrogant, he probably would be milking his fame for all it was worth. Like Lockhart, he would be bragging about his magical prowess and recounting how he kicked Voldemort’s ass to anyone who would listen. Or at least, he’d privately think to himself that he deserves to break rules or get better treatment as a result of his achievements. But does he? No. The closest we get is this scene from the beginning of OotP: “SO YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU’VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN’T YOU? YOU’VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I’VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS’ FOR A MONTH! AND I’VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO’VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO SAVED THE SORCERER’S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM THE DEMENTORS?” Every bitter and resentful thought that Harry had had in the past month was pouring out of him; his frustration at the lack of news, the hurt that they had all been together without him, his fury at being followed and not told about it: All the feelings he was half-ashamed of finally burst their boundaries. […] “WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME!” Ron was standing there with his mouth half-open, clearly stunned and at a loss for anything to say, while Hermione looked on the verge of tears. “BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?” —OotP, chapter 4 This scene is something like the inverse of the later scene. This time it’s Harry listing everything he’s done, and Ron and Hermione getting upset. But the context is different — Harry isn’t bragging, Harry is frustrated about having been kept out of the loop despite having been repeatedly at the center of Voldemort’s schemes, whether he wanted to or not. The narration also specifies that Harry feels “half-ashamed” of what he expresses here. This is one of only two instances, both in this book, in which Harry demonstrates anything like a sense of entitlement connected to his achievements. And it’s still a far cry from acting out or making up stories just for attention. The other example is when Ron gets a prefect badge and Harry does not: Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. He could not lie to himself; if he had known the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was better than Ron? No, said the small voice defiantly. Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing his own feelings. I’m better at Quidditch, said the small voice. But I’m not better at anything else. That was definitely true, Harry thought; he was no better than Ron in lessons. But what about outside lessons? What about those adventures he, Ron, and Hermione had together since they had started at Hogwarts, often risking much more than expulsion? Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the time, said the voice in Harry’s head. Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself. They didn’t fight Quirrel with me. They didn’t take on Riddle and the basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those dementors the night Sirius escaped. They weren’t in that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned… And the same feeling of ill usage that had overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them! But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because they’ve gotten themselves into a load of dangerous situations… Maybe he chooses them for other reasons… Ron must have something you don’t… Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering what Fred had said. “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect…” Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later he felt sick with himself. Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he, Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with the twins behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the first time, he had beaten Harry at something? —OotP, chapter 9 Harry actually wonders to himself whether he’s being arrogant, and I think that just asking himself that question suggests that he isn’t. Arrogance precludes self-awareness, to a certain degree — an arrogant person is attempting to cover up how insecure they feel by drawing attention to things about themselves that they consider impressive. Think Lockhart, who deliberately covers up the fact that he can’t really do anything by taking credit for other wizards’ achievements. But often, arrogant people aren’t liars the way Lockhart is. They don’t realize how insecure they actually are until someone digs into them and they get triggered, like James being “furious” when Lily tells him off. But Harry doesn’t show that kind of immaturity in this scene. Unlike in the previous scene, he doesn’t say out loud to Ron’s face, “But I fought Quirrel and Voldemort and dementors, why didn’t Dumbledore pick me?!” He keeps his indignance to himself this time, and ultimately decides to be better, because even just thinking it makes him feel “sick.” He puts his friendship with Ron first, acknowledging that Ron has been living in his shadow for years and needs something of his own to be proud of. It’s also notable that Harry considers Quidditch to be the only thing he excels at that Ron doesn’t, when (as previously established) Harry is significantly better at DADA. Harry doesn’t brag about or show off his Quidditch skills like James does. He doesn’t brag about having been the youngest Seeker in a century, or the youngest Triwizard champion ever, or about having won the tournament, or about having killed an mf’ing basilisk with a sword at age twelve, or about his corporeal patronus, or anything else. Harry’s won bragging rights multiple times over, I’d say! But it’s not just that he doesn’t brag, it’s that it never occurs to him to brag. The only time he comes close are in those two scenes I’ve already covered — in the first, his indignance is motivated by other things besides a pure James-like sense of entitlement, and in the second, he quickly shuts down that sense of entitlement in favor of being a good friend. There’s one more thing I want to draw attention to, and that’s Harry’s attitude towards money. Harry has a lot of money from his parents, and gets even more from Sirius after book 6. Unlike Draco Malfoy, Harry doesn’t throw money in anyone’s face. In fact, he feels embarrassed by it most of the time. Harry enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt even worse when they reached his fault. He tried to block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag. —CoS, chapter 4 Harry shows as much generosity towards the Weasleys as he possibly can without embarrassing them. When he first gets access to that money in Philosopher’s Stone, Harry’s first impulse is to buy candy and share it with Ron, because he’s delighted to have something to share and someone to share with. When Lockhart shoves a full set of free books at them, Harry immediately gives them to Ginny, because he knows that he can afford his own set of books and Ginny cannot. And of course, he gives his Triwizard winnings to the Weasley twins: “Take it,” he said, and he thrust the sack into George’s hands. “What?” said Fred, looking flabbergasted. “Take it,” Harry repeated firmly. “I don’t want it.” “You’re mental,” said George, trying to push it back at Harry. “No, I’m not,” said Harry. “You take it, and get inventing. It’s for the joke shop.” “He is mental,” said George, trying to push it back at Harry. “Listen,” said Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We all could do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before long.” “Harry,” said George weakly, weighing the money bag in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons in here.” “Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Think how many Canary Creams that is.” The twins stared at him. “Just don’t tell your mum where you got it… although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it…” “Harry,” Fred began, but Harry pulled out his wand. “Look,” he said flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re from you.” He left the compartment before they could say another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were still lying on the floor, covered in hex marks. —GoF, chapter 37. Calling Harry arrogant is extremely unfair to him. It’s as unfair as saying that he’s a blank-slate protagonist who lacks any personality. If you’re a person who consistently perceived Harry as an arrogant person because he’s disobedient, I sincerely wonder how long it’s been since you read the books.