My childhood is coming to an end in the most profound way imaginable – with a movie franchise. But honestly, it’s not just any franchise, it’s Harry freaking Potter. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. Potty wee Potter. We’ve both grown up, and it’s time to part ways. But I’m not leaving his side without a fight. No way, no how. I’m taking the last stand at the Battle of Hogwarts. just like all of our classmates.
That’s right, our classmates. Because I was there, right along with him. Ever wonder why you don’t know all of the girls’ names in Harry’s year in Gryffindor house? Because one of them is me. Hermione, Parvati, Lavender, and Molly. Fit right in, don’t I?
And I’m trying really hard to keep my cool about the release of the final film. Though I know that I’m going to fail spectacularly, I have to at least try. Because, for the rest of the week, if not the entire summer, I’ll just be a blubbering mess.
The other day my brother said I used to be obsessed with Harry Potter. I thought it funny he used the past tense. I pointedly corrected him, saying that I am still very much obsessed with it and not at all ashamed. He found that odd, as he was used to using “Harry Potter fan” as a disparaging remark. He never really got Harry Potter, preferring JRR Tolkein’s world of Hobbits. To each his own, I guess, but I’ll stick with the wizarding world of Harry Potter, thank you very much. We got into a discussion of which world was superior, which characters stronger, who would reign supreme in a fight. (The wizards, obviously. All you need is the flick of the wand, and besides, Harry’s got the sword of Gryffindor on his side.)
One of my ongoing struggles with my dad is my seemingly futile attempt to get him to understand just how big a part Harry Potter has played in my life. I once told him that the best prank he ever could have played on me would have been to give me a fake acceptance letter to Hogwarts. He could’ve filmed it. My reaction would have been worth over a million hits on YouTube, easily. Because you better believe I waited for my letter. Not just when I was eleven, but until I was 20. I’ve now resigned myself to the fact that I’m probably just a Squib.
Anne and I have had many a conversation about Harry Potter, as well. Our topics of discussion would range from what house we’d be in to what classes we’d take. (Obviously I’m a Gryffindor, but I wouldn’t shirk away from being placed in Ravenclaw. Anne’s somewhere between a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw.) My favorite topics of thought tend to be what classes I’d get to take if I went to Hogwarts. Of course I’d take all of the basic, required courses, but when you get into your 3rd year at Hogwarts, you also sign up for some electives. Choices include: Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Whereas Anne would pull a Hermione and take all of them, I would restrain myself to Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.
The thing that I don’t understand about Harry Potter, (that’s not true, there’s a whole litany of things coming in a different post) is how every muggle-born student doesn’t excel at their schoolwork? How could they not be so freaking excited about being magical that they wouldn’t devour every book placed in front of them? That they wouldn’t practice every spell, charm, enchantment, and jinx until they nailed it. Because that’s what I’d be like. I’d be another Hermione Granger and I would never, ever apologize for it.
I can’t fathom not being a complete geek about Harry Potter or his world. I let it pull me in like it was Devil’s Snare. Because Harry Potter has a real world, it’s just not tangible. I’ve been a part of the world for the last eleven years and I don’t plan on leaving any time soon. I’ll know the spells, the secret passageways in Hogwarts, Mr. Filch’s list of banned items, the members of the Order of the Phoenix. I’ll cower away from Fluffy and those damned Blast-Ended Skrewts. I’ll defend Neville and Luna, jinx Pansy Parkinson, and punch Draco Malfoy. I’ll attempt to disarm the Death Eaters I happen across. I’ll drive away dementors and obliterate boggarts. I’ll keep Hagrid and Fang company and be a faithful customer at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Hell, I’d probably have been one of their test subjects during the early days of their Skiving Snackboxes. (That’s not true, there’s too much Hermione in me; I’d try and confiscate their goods for my own nefarious purposes.) I’ll have an Arnold, a Crookshanks, and a Hedwig. I’ll own stock in sugar quills and always have a bottle of color-changing ink handy. But I will never, ever, buy that putrid pink parchment that the deplorable Dolores Umbridge favored. Oh, and I’ll own a broomstick, but I still haven’t decided between the new Cleansweep or the new Nimbus yet.
After tomorrow night, once I’ve seen the final premiere, can someone just come over and obliviate my memory? That way, I can enjoy Harry Potter again, just as if it were the first time. Otherwise I’ll just be here, sobbing. Because it’s the end of an era, dammit. At least I’ll have Pottermore to look forward to.