It's magic.

I wrote this article for my school newspaper, on how Harry Potter has affected my life. It's a little sappy, but what can I say, I get sappy when it comes to Harry.


Harry Potter and the End of An Era

As everyone not living in the Amazon jungle or under a rather large rock knows, the seventh and final Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, was released last July (July 21, to be exact, a date that had been inscribed in my mind for months beforehand). Across the globe, people lined up at bookstores, many of those people dressed as characters from the books, waiting for midnight to come. Amazingly, the biggest pop culture event of recent memory, perhaps even in history, was not a movie, or an album release, but the release of a book. And this wasn’t just any book—this book could more accurately be described as a tome, weighing in at 784 pages and one-seventh of a very complicated and complex series; not your average breezy summer read.

The book broke records left and right, becoming the fastest selling book in history, but none of this really mattered to the fans who had waited for years for Deathly Hallows. Perhaps the most incredible thing about the Harry Potter books was the effect they had on people, and how they changed so many lives in the process. Some may think the books are just that—books—paper and ink. But to the fans who grew up with these books, they are so much more.
I first picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in 1999, when I was seven, at the recommendation of a neighbor: “Have you heard about these ‘Harry Potter’ books? They’re so good for kids to read.” After I finished the first chapter, that was it, there was no going back. My now-nearly-nine-year-obsession had officially begun.

A huge part of the success of the books, in my opinion, was the huge, detailed world created by J.K. Rowling. From special wizard candies to a spell or potion for just about every purpose imaginable, no detail was overlooked, and as a reader, I felt surrounded and absorbed by this world so much that I started to wish it was real, perhaps even believe, a tiny bit, that it was real. In the books, Harry received his acceptance letter to Hogwarts on his eleventh birthday, so, of course, on my eleventh birthday, I expected the same. The whole day I told myself that I was being stupid, that the books were fictional, and so was everything in it, including Hogwarts. Yet, I couldn’t extinguish that tiny flicker of hope burning in my heart, and I eagerly watched at the windows, hoping, desperately hoping, for an owl to come into sight, a letter addressed to me clutched in its beak. I didn’t restrict myself to waiting for owl post, however, because that would’ve been silly. I also combed the area near the mailbox several times, reasoning that perhaps Professor McGonagall would have wanted to keep things very hush-hush, thus sending the letter through muggle mail.

Obviously, as you are reading this in the [insert school name here] newspaper, that letter did not come. The tears did however. Yes—I, a poor, disappointed eleven-year-old, cried over a nonexistent letter from Hogwarts, all my hopes crushed.

Harry was always with me. Whether dressing up as Hermione for Halloween or habitually inhabiting the fan site Mugglenet, my obsession never subsided. I reread and reread the books, over and over, and with each new book release, I would become permanently affixed to the armchair in my living room, reading for hours on end, desperate to finish before any spoilers could be found out. The characters seemed so alive. We saw Harry grow from an innocent child to an angst-filled teenager to a mature young man, we saw Hermione grow from annoying know-it-all to still-annoying-yet-slightly-more-endearing-know-it-all, and we saw Ron grow from, well…Ron was always a bit of a sheepish, bumbling best friend, wasn’t he? But out of all the characters, I, along with many people I know, loved Ron best. I cried for Cedric Diggory (along with, I’m sure, every other female fan), I cried when Sirius died and literally sobbed for the death of Dumbledore (and loathed Snape with every fiber of my being for said death). With each release, I realized that there was one less book left, that we were that much closer to the end of it all.

In the months leading up to July, my feelings about the release of Deathly Hallows ranged from anticipation to despair, from excitement to sorrow for the quickly-approaching end, which must come for all wonderful things. Finally, July 21 came, and I ran to mailbox, an odd parallel to my actions on my eleventh birthday, hoping that Amazon had shipped the book on time. I opened the mailbox, and there it was, in its own special box. I ran inside and slowly opened the box, relishing each moment. This was equivalent to Christmas times ten for me. I pulled the book out and felt its weight in my hands. Now more excited than sorrowful, I plopped into the armchair that had seen so many hours of Harry Potter, and opened the cover, expected to find a summary of the book as usual. Instead I found the simple inscription, “We now present the seventh and final installment in the epic tale of Harry Potter.” It was too simple, beautiful, sad, and poignant for me to handle. If before I had been excited, now I was utterly and completely depressed again. I started crying a bit (the vast majority of those reading this are most likely astounded at what a freak I am, but hopefully a select few fellow freaks can relate to me), and literally could not bring myself to turn the page. A few minutes went by, until I sucked it up and just started reading.

The book was incredible, and I was constantly in awe of J.K. Rowling’s story writing abilities, and how objects and storylines dipped, dived, and were woven within the fabric of each book, and how small, seemingly insignificant details made so much sense when explained in Book Seven. Loose ends were tied up—Ron and Hermione together, now who could’ve predicted that one?—many characters died (Dobby! Fred! Lupin! Tonks!) and, in the end, good triumphed over evil. Though, truthfully, we wouldn’t have accepted it any other way.
The story of Harry Potter is finished. There is no other way to say it. No more plots will be created, no new characters will be introduced, and, frankly, the fans will always have a small feeling of emptiness. While there will be no more anticipation, think of how lucky we are. Our children and grandchildren will read these books already knowing how they end, but we got to grow up with these books, and they are such a part of so many people’s childhoods. These stories will be classics, there is no doubt in my mind or anyone else’s of that, and they will survive as long as ink and paper do. Historians are having a lot of trouble naming the current generation—the Myspace Generation? Generation Next?

Perhaps the most accurate and telling name of all would be the Harry Potter Generation.




And in honor of my good old dose of die-hard Harry Potter-lovin', I give you my favorite groups out of the peculiar, over-the-top, and downright hilarious musical genre known as Wizard Rock. I must say, I kind of feel bad for these bands because they only get gigs when a bit Harry Potter event is occurring, and those will soon be nonexistent.




The originals: Harry and the Potters (Ironically, not one of the best)
The Remus Lupins
Ministry of Magic
The Whomping Willows
The Moaning Myrtles
The Parselmouths
Romilda Vane and the Chocolate Cauldrons
The Mudbloods [Check out "Freedom Is Only A Hippogriff Away)
Ginny and the Heartbreakers
The Cedric Diggorys

There's so many that it's slightly ridiculous. For a complete listing, check out http://wizrocklopedia.com/index.php/band-listings/


I'm going to Apparate.

expelliarmus!
a.