The other day I was with my daughter in a restaurant near King’s Cross. The Asian family sitting next to us had clearly been to the Harry Potter store: the little boy (who was no older than seven) had a stuffed Hedwig under one arm, a copy of HARRY POTTER AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS under the other and a wand in his hand, and babbled happily (and adorably) throughout the meal about Patronuses, Horcruxes, Hogwarts houses and all manner of Harry Potter lore.

It struck me then how long it has been since I heard a child talk about Harry Potter. Over the last ten years or so, nearly all the conversations I’ve had on the subject have been with adults – many of them fans, many of them passionate. Books, films, a mountain of merchandise; a play – not to mention Pottermore, with all its recent controversies - and eighteen years after its birth, the Harry Potter phenomenon shows no sign of abating.

But where have all the children gone? Where is their place in Potter’s world?

I remember reading my early copy of HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE to my daughter when she was six. She loved it –even writing a fan letter to J.K. Rowling, to which she received a charming, handwritten reply, which she still treasures.

Later, when I promised her the audiobook of the new Harry Potter for Christmas, and found, too late, that it wouldn’t be available until the following spring, I recorded the whole thing myself onto cassette tapes – a labour of love that took me over fifty hours’ recording time, but which turned out to be worth every minute.

I remember her reaction, aged seven, to the casting of the first Harry Potter movie. Having followed the story with immense interest, when Daniel Radcliffe’s casting was finally announced, she ran into her bedroom and burst into tears. When I asked her why, she said; “Because I wanted to be Harry.” When I pointed out that Harry really had to be a boy, she sniffed and said: “That’s just sexist.”

When she was nine, I remember getting her a day pass onto the set of the second movie (a birthday treat, wangled, with some difficulty, from one of my film contacts). We met Daniel Radcliffe (I’ve never seen my child so wide-eyed and star-struck) and Jason Isaacs (that was my turn to go weak at the knees), and although I wasn’t supposed to take any photographs of the set, I do have a single picture of Anouchka, on the Night Bus: long plaits and dungarees, and an expression of sheer delight.

Later, we went to first screening, a week before the première: the audience was almost entirely made up of happy, excited children.

Since then, over the years, I’ve watched the rise and rise of J.K. Rowling’s boy hero with great admiration. Never before has a children’s book attracted such a following. The Harry Potter books, with their clever marketing (a “serious” jacket for older readers, a brightly-coloured one for children) transcended genre and challenged the boundaries between “adult” and “children’s” fiction. For the first time, many adults felt they had been given permission to enjoy reading children’s books; and children, after years of schools imposing worthy and improving (but often quite dull) reading lists, had something of their own, that was definitely not on the curriculum.

The benefits to literacy were immense. Boys have always lagged behind girls where reading fiction was concerned: but with Harry Potter, boys too were reading and enjoying books. Adults, too, experienced the benefit. I’ve written extensively about this elsewhere, and I’ve been outspoken in supporting the right of adults to read and enjoy fiction intended for children. The same “Get a life”-ers who are now deriding the adult players of Pokémon Go were vocal about Harry Potter: they sneered at grown adults getting excited at the adventures of a boy wizard; they sneered at the cosplayers and the fanfic writers and the people who stayed up till midnight to buy the new books as soon as they came out. But the fans didn’t care. They kept going. Not just children, but adults deserved to enjoy the world of Potter.

To a certain extent, J.K. Rowling became a victim of her own success. The woman who had once sent handwritten notes to her young admirers soon found that she was being mobbed everywhere she went. It was alarming; especially when it became clear that in such crowds, the children were often being pushed aside by adults who wanted to get close to her. She almost stopped appearing in public altogether, except on occasions when she could ensure an audience of children.

The films expanded the fan base. Merchandising grew out of control. At first J.K. Rowling tried to curate the Harry Potter merchandising, but with hundreds of new designs and products being suggested daily, it became impossible. Online, the forums went crazy. Cosplay went crazy. Reading groups went crazy. Fanfic abounded. It was amazing; magical, but it must have been a little frightening, too. Like Disney’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice, J.K. Rowling had started something no-one could stop, not even the magician herself.

But where were the children among all this? Where were the children’s voices? Little boys like the one at King’s Cross? Little girls like my daughter?

Nowadays, the shop in King’s Cross is mostly filled with adults. The people queuing up to be photographed at Platform 9 ¾ are almost always adults. My daughter (still a Potter fan) currently happens to be a spot operator at the Palace Theatre, where THE CURSED CHILD is opening. There too, the audiences consist overwhelmingly of adults; many of them Americans; many of them having flown over expressly for the performance. And the online presence – articles, reviews, controversies, fanfic archives, discussion groups – is also, overwhelmingly adult.

Following the controversy over THE HISTORY OF MAGIC IN NORTH AMERICA, the term “cultural appropriation” has been much used.

Wikipedia defines the term like this:

“The… adoption of …. cultural elements in a colonial manner: elements are copied from a minority culture by members of the dominant culture, and these elements are used outside of their original cultural context—sometimes even against the expressed, stated wishes of representatives of the originating culture.”

And yes: I can totally sympathize with those affected. A story, or series of stories, originally belonging to one group of people, has been appropriated and used to promote the agenda of another group of people, thereby taking power from the first group and giving it to the second. It has happened before: many times. In every case, the source material has mostly been lost, corrupted, and even outright claimed by those appropriating it.

Norse myths were appropriated by Christian scholars in the 12th century, and re-interpreted with a Christian agenda. The Victorians bowdlerized Greek and Roman myths to remove all mention of “immoral” sexual practices, and rewrote them to suit their own culture. The Arabian Nights were traditional stories appropriated from sources in the Middle East, and given an increasingly European slant.Grimm’s and Perrault’s and Andersen’s fairy tales were all appropriated from ancient sources - and often given a moralistic, patriarchal bias.

Ironically, these fairy tales were originally meant for adults. Only recently have these tales been thought of as stories for children. And now, we have come full circle: adults, without meaning to, have somehow appropriated one of the most successful children’s stories ever written, and, with the best of intentions, are making it all about them. Their ideas; their fandom; their agendas; their concerns.

Which isn’t to say that we, as adults, don’t have the right to these books, or to the ideas within them. But we don’t own them. We have to remember that. Ours is not an exclusive right. These stories were not meant for us, even though a story can – and should – be read by anyone who wants to. But not at the expense of the children for whom they were written; the children who were elbowed out of the way by adult fans in 2013 when the Hogwarts Express set off from King’s Cross; the children who were unable to pay the enormous ticket prices for a handful of author readings, held in sports stadiums and concert halls instead of bookshops and libraries.

I’m not saying adults should feel bad about loving Harry Potter. Nor am I saying that anyone should give up the books they loved as a child. They will be with you forever. That’s the magic of reading. But adulthood is a privilege that comes with responsibilities. Adults are a dominant group. Children are the minority. When I was a child, there was very little contemporary literature expressly written for children. Harry Potter changed all that. It gave power to a generation. The power to choose what they wanted to read; the power to own their story. To take that power away from them - to the benefit of the dominant group - seems like another kind of appropriation.

So, adults, please: enjoy the show. Enjoy the books; write the fanfic; cosplay your favourite characters. Share fan theories; write blog posts; argue to your heart’s content: after all, that’s what stories are for.

But don’t forget; you’re visitors in the world of Hogwarts. And if, while you’re there, you find yourself standing in the way of a child, step aside. If you ever find yourself silencing children’s voices, shut up. Remember this: it’s still their world. Without them, it wouldn’t exist at all.

1$��>�