Okay, I've officially done it: I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. All in all, it probably took me somewhere between 15-18 hours, but I can't be all that sure because I got interrupted by a) sleep and b) my brothers raucous party going on all day.
So, I'm feeling a wee bit sentimental.
Without giving away the entire plot for you poor souls who actually have a life, I found the seventh book more than I had hoped for and imagined was possible. I cannot imagine being J.K. Rowling. Either she's a great manipulator of circumstance, or she planned out every damned detail from the beginning. Who would really know?
So anyway, why am I feeling sentimental? There is an easy answer for this. This is the end of an era. The first book was published in Britain in 1997. This is 2007. Ten years devoted to Harry Potter, ten years of fans and fortune (for the lovely Mrs. Rowling, anyway.) I hopped on the bandwagon in July of 1998 while in England with my family for a week or two. A cousin of ours recommended the books (amongst huffs and puffs, as he is also a children's book writer and not nearly as successful as Rowling) and dad purchased the first two books in a store to read to my brother and I. I remember sitting in the attic of The Limes, our aunt and uncle's house, listening to my dad read aloud The Philosopher's Stone, and becoming immediately enthralled. This whole other world of magic was just so cool! And when we came back to the states, I read the books in school. I remember a classmate coming up to me and asking what I was reading. I said, "Harry Potter! It's really good. You should read it!" I was a little disappointed when they said, "Sure!" without meaning it and walked away. And then a few years later, Harry Potter 3 was released in the states, and that's when the obsession hit America. I can remember finally being old enough wan the fifth book came out to stand in line and wait until midnight to get our copies at Book People. And then I found it subsequentally difficult to read at midnight on the car ride home. The sixth book I got while in England. I sat on the couch for a straight twenty-four hours and devoured the book. When Dumbledore died, I remember wanting to throw the book at the wall, but I couldn't bring myself to do it... I had to keep reading, you see... and it also would have damaged the book.
And so, with book seven being released, I don't know what to do. Sure, there will be movies for the next few years, and I'll be first in line to see them, but in truth, this is the end of Harry Potter. This is the end of the last nine years of my life. At this point in time, that's more than half my lifetime. My parents tell me that I've always loved to read, but Harry Potter was when I realized how awesome and wonderful reading truly was. 'You mean there's more out there than beginners books and school? Show me!'
I grew up with Harry. Yes, he was older than me when it first began (me being only 8 at the time and Harry being a whole 11!) but as writing the books caught up with Rowling, it just so happens that I am Harry's age at the end. The seventh book when Harry is 17. I am 17. I couldn't do what he did.
Harry will linger on longer than the obsession with the books and movies allow. He will, at least, stay with me in my heart for the rest of my life, having shaped my childhood and my way into adulthood.
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