Harry, my love

I saw the movie, but I will spare you the recap (and spoilers for the insane people who have not read the book). I will just say that I've again realized that Harry Potter is done with. The movies, I'm afraid, don't count. I don't care one single whit that the last book has yet to be released (due to come out in two parts next year).

The books are done.

And it saddens me. I grew up with those fated books, beginning the first in third grade, and finishing the last the in high school. I ran around my backyard with my two best friends as we pretended to be Ron, Hermione, and Harry. I remember that I was always Harry, just because I had glasses. Alaina was Ron (her red hair), and Kelsey was Hermione (her heroine). We struggled to memorize the spells from the books and waved around sticks that we'd brake off of the apple tree. In fourth grade I was Ginny for Halloween, proudly wearing my red wig and black robe that my mother had made out of dad's old raincoat. I waited for my own owl delivered letter with spindly green writing that would invite me to Hogwarts, as I know many of my friends did, and cried when it didn't come year after year. In middle school my group of friends and I would sit around the lunch table and discuss the plots and fight over our favorite characters. Freshman year Jemma and I matched up all our friends with Harry Potter characters, giggling over our selection (I was paired with Fred). I went to two midnight release parties with my friends in high school, and we sat up all night reading until we fell asleep on our open books.

Gone.

I miss them. The characters, the waiting for another book, the guessing, the wondering, the reading. Another series like that will not come again. It's not an opinion- it's plain fact. Another series will never excite me as much as the world spun by J.K. Rowling, the creator of worlds, the breaker of dreams. I laugh to think of how long I waited for my letter. I wanted so badly for magic to be real. I checked the mailbox everyday each year a week before and a week after my birthday (just in case they didn't use the owls in America). I really did cry while reading the books. After I read Dumbledore's death, I had to put the book down for a few minutes to collect myself. I reread the final fight scene, and cried again when my Fred fell, dead. My heartbeat would speed up during fight scenes, my concentration would increase tenfold when I expected something, and I'd bite my fist when Harry had a close call. I laughed too. Inside jokes would link Potter fans, and I'd smile when I read a particularly witty comment. Some call it crazy, that they're all just characters. But when you read these books year after year, they (characters, even the story) start to become more tangible.

That's all I can say.

There is hope, though. I'll always have the books to re-read. I don't personally read them over again as often as some, and I can't repeat scenes word-for-word, or tell you what the first word of the third chapter in the Chamber of Secrets was. I'm not that bad. I space out my re-reads so that I forget little things. It makes it better when I'm still surprised by things even the third time around. And I'll give the books to my kids, someday (in the distant, distant future), and watch them read it. Though it won't be the same. Future generations won't have to wait another year or two between books. I think the waiting made the books more fantastic with the anticipation that was, for me, never let down. But that's how it has to be, I guess.

So goodbye, Harry Potter.