Work Text:
BY GEORGIE HARKINS
NOVEMBER 17, 2023
“Draco, one of your admirers is here,” was the first thing I heard upon arriving at Draco Black’s modest country home. After being greeted by a luscious, wild front garden and a rather cantankerous tabby, I was met at the door by Black’s husband, who identified me quite correctly.
To say it was a surprise to receive the invite for an informal interview would be an understatement. Black, while well-known and heavily awarded, has never been seen in public, and has asked that I keep my descriptions of him, his family, and his home to a minimum. Though, I will do my best, despite the restrictions, to paint of picture of the man behind some of the most inventive and mature fantasy novels the literature world has seen in quite some time.
A story of the heir to a great name and fortune, caught up in a war steeped in the supremacy of magical people over their non-magical counterparts. The early books paint a picture of childlike wonder, excitement, and naivety, with the threat of what is to come in the later books just around the corner. A devastating struggle between dark and light, with our anti-hero caught up in the shadows, unsure of whether to escape and lose all he holds dear, or stay and sink deeper into the mire. The tale has earned him critical acclaim and household recognition, but, admirably, he’s maintained his privacy, and let his work speak for itself.
The inside of his home–bright, airy, full of greenery–is in sharp contrast to the usually bleak settings of his novels. Decay, both social and physical, has been a key theme across his series of fantasy novels: The Poisoned Heir. Despite this, he surrounds himself with life. We sat down at the kitchen table, where I asked him about this.
“I feel… to write about the breaking down of all we hold dear, we must first appreciate what we have,” Black said, cradling a clay mug of Assam, his preferred brew, “I’ve loved, lost, and rebuilt. We all have. But, to write it on such a grand scale can send me into a sort of… spiral. So, I try to find joy and life in anything I can outside of my work.”
One thing I noticed about Black was the way he seemed to take his time while speaking. I watched him grasp for words from the surrounding air, and told him so.
He laughed, “When I was a boy, I had a quick, sharp tongue. It hasn’t dulled with age, but it’s definitely slowed, and that’s a good thing.”
“A very good thing!” came the voice of his husband from the adjoining living room.
“I’m conducting an interview!” Black called back.
“I’m conducting an interview! ” came the voice again.
“Excuse him.”
“No, no. It’s lovely,” I said, “How long have you two been married?”
His husband is an “unemployed layabout”, in Black’s terms, not mine, whom he met during his days in secondary school. Though they didn’t reconnect until much later in life. He showed me pictures of them together, young and rowdy, casting uneasy glances at each other among friends. Walking down the hallway crowded with photos, I followed their life. From unsure crooked smiles to comfortable family candids, Black claims their love story is one for the ages.
“Twenty years, now. Two children, all grown up.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Isn’t it?” Black replied, looking down into the remains of his tea, pensive, “You know, it was Harry who convinced me to finally publish my novels. I’d thought about it for years, had them all written out.”
“All seven?”
“All seven, just sitting in a drawer!”
“If you hadn’t originally planned on publishing them, then what was the purpose?” I asked.
Seven novels chronicling the tense political schism in a society of magic users, the journey from innocence to awakening, a war to end all wars– sat in a drawer collecting dust. Except, Black said, his children did hear the same story growing up. Though, less polished. I was reminded of a photo I saw in that hallway, of a little blonde girl resting on a younger Black’s knee, reading from what looked to be some sort of parchment.
“It was therapeutic. A… retelling of my entire life in a way that seemed just as all-encompassing as it felt when it was happening. I was raised to have an incredibly skewed moral compass, and as time went on I began to heal, and reframe, but there was always this need to let it out. All of it, every last bit, so I could see it laid out before me.”
“So, you wrote.”
Black nodded, “I wrote. Only then could I truly understand myself and the world around me.”
“Based on what you’ve said, is it correct to assume that the main character is based on yourself?”
“In a sense. I think my biggest fear during the publishing process was that people would not sympathize with Lucien… that they would see his redemption as undeserved, a feeling I’ve carried my whole life.”
Lucien, the anti-hero of the series, received mixed reviews in the press. His many crimes were never glossed over in the books, as the character struggled internally throughout– sometimes excusing himself, other times devolving into self-loathing and punishment. Some critics claimed that the character was too far gone to receive a happy ending, while others lauded Black for his ability to write such a morally dubious character in a way that could be seen as relatable or understandable by the end.
“Did you get the reaction you were hoping for?”
“To this day, I’m still not quite sure. In the end, though, I realized that I didn’t need people to understand or sympathize with him, I just needed them to see him.”
“Well, he’s been seen by over fifty million readers. How does that make you feel?”
“Rather exposed, wouldn’t you think?”
“I would,” I agreed, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to pivot a bit here, into something that may be a bit more personal.”
“Please.”
“You received criticism after the fourth instalment, in which Lucien realizes that he is gay, from both sides of the political spectrum. Some on the right were disappointed in his being gay at all, while the left felt that you were painting queer people in a poor light in an already intense political landscape. What would your response be to these critics?”
Black leaned back in his chair, comically stroking his chin, “I think I’d say… that I don’t fucking care what they think.”
“That’s quite blunt.”
“I’ve never been one for cutting verbal corners. More fictional queer people should be horrible and evil, until they equal the numbers of their real-world, heterosexual counterparts.”
“Well said.”
“Do you have anything else you’d like to ask me? I’m afraid my daughter will be arriving for lunch in just a few minutes.”
I thought about this for a few moments. Did I want to ask him about his current writing process? If we should be expecting a new work anytime soon? Ultimately, I decided on a question I felt would cater to him, as he’d given me this unique opportunity in the first place.
“Is there any specific character based on your husband in the books?”
A laugh resounded from the living room, and Black’s mouth turned up in a shy smile.
“Why, his school rival, of course,” Black replied.
“The one who Lucien beat to a pulp on the Quitchball field?” I replied, admittedly flabbergasted.
“Quite so.”
Harry joined us then in the kitchen, ruffling Black’s hair a bit before picking up the mugs we’d been drinking from, “I’ll have you know, Georgie, that I was the one who did most of the beating. You can go and tell that to the press.”
“Oh, I will,” I promised, and now I have.