Okay, real talk: I would absolutely have been the kid in the back row of Potions class pretending I totally meant to turn my cauldron into a small, hissing cabbage. And I would’ve loved every second of it. There’s just something about magical school settings that hits harder than a Firebolt to the face—and I think it’s about time we talk about why these stories keep tugging at our hearts, especially those of us who grew up a little (or a lot) outside the norm.
We All Want to Get the Letter
Let’s start here: the fantasy of escape. One day, you’re stuck in algebra class thinking about how your life is aggressively unmagical, and the next? Boom. A letter shows up saying you’re actually destined for something bigger. Like, “Here’s your wand, here’s your roommate, and oh, by the way, you have latent powers because you’re special.”
Tell me that doesn’t hit differently when you’ve spent your childhood feeling like the odd one out.
Whether it’s Hogwarts, Brakebills (The Magicians), Hex Hall, The Scholomance, or even Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters (yes, that counts—don’t fight me), magical schools offer this built-in narrative of “Hey, you’re not weird, you’re just magical.” And if that’s not a queer metaphor, I don’t know what is.
The Magic of Chosen Family
Here’s the thing: a lot of us LGBTQ+ folks have a complicated relationship with traditional family structures. Magical school settings often create space for chosen family—the best kind of found friendships that grow out of survival, shared secrets, and late-night sneaking into the library to research forbidden charms.
Think about Will and Jem in the Shadowhunter Academy (The Infernal Devices), or even the chaotic friendship dynamics in Carry On by Rainbow Rowell. You get these intense, emotional bonds formed in the pressure cooker of coming-of-age, with extra bonus points for dragons and magical duels.
And honestly? Watching queer-coded or explicitly queer characters find that kind of deep connection in a magical environment feels healing. It’s not just about the spells. It’s about finding your people. Even if one of them turns out to be half-demon.
Structure, but Make It Sparkle
Another reason magical schools are so satisfying? The structure. As someone who lives by lists but also dreams of floating through a dark forest talking to sentient trees, I get the appeal.
You’ve got the school year, the class schedule, the dormitories… It gives a familiar rhythm. But instead of gym class, you’re dodging hexes. Instead of bullies throwing spitballs, it’s rival houses flinging minor curses across the dining hall.
It’s comforting and thrilling. There’s a safe framework—class, homework, exams—but inside it, anything can happen. Your professor might be secretly a vampire. Your best friend might turn out to be a reincarnated phoenix. And you? You might finally learn that being different isn’t a flaw, it’s your gift.
The Queer Allegory Is Not Subtle, and We Love That
Okay, can we just acknowledge how many queer-coded narratives exist in magical school books? There’s a whole subgenre of “Oops, I kissed my roommate and now our magical bond is spiraling out of control and also we might be soulmates.” (Looking at you, Witchmark and The House in the Cerulean Sea.)
There’s also the fact that magic itself is often portrayed as something hidden or suppressed until the character embraces it. Sound familiar? Yeah, it’s giving “closeted teenager finally coming into his own at wizard boot camp.”
Magical schools offer that sweet, sweet metaphorical buffet: repression, transformation, identity, power, found family, first love, and sometimes dragons. The queer parallels basically write themselves.
The Drama, Darling
Let’s be real—no one does high-stakes emotional drama like teenagers with magic. Especially queer teenagers with magic. The yearning? Off the charts. The angst? Breathtaking. The romantic subplots that simmer for 200 pages before exploding in a single magical kiss under the moonlight? Inject it straight into my veins.
If you’ve ever read “A Deadly Education” by Naomi Novik, you know what I mean. Or “The Witch King” by H.E. Edgmon, which unapologetically centers a trans protagonist navigating magic, trauma, and hot fae politics. There’s something deliciously cathartic about reading a story where the main character is both emotionally fragile and powerful enough to accidentally shatter a castle.
Closing the Spellbook (for now)
So yeah, I love magical schools. Always have. Probably always will. They’re not just fantasy—they’re wish fulfillment, especially for those of us who spent our formative years feeling like outsiders, hoping there was somewhere—anywhere—we might finally fit.
Give me a boarding school where the library whispers secrets and every student has a closet full of capes. Give me crushes that bloom under enchanted moons. Give me chaos and beauty and the kind of magic that makes you finally feel seen.
And if someone builds that school IRL? I’ve got my bags packed.