home           about           blog           archives           domain           exits           ask

Mischief managed.

When I was in Grade 3, I remember one of my mom's officemates, who was one of the "cool titas" that actually talked to me like an adult instead of the naive nine-year-old I really was, telling me about this new book that was taking the literary world by storm. It was starting to become popular in the States and in London, she said, and she thought it might interest me because she knew I loved books even then. When I asked her what it was about all she said was, "Magic."

That was almost eleven years ago. In between that time there had been six succeeding books, eight blockbuster films, a skyrocketing of sales in the broomstick department, and a hysteria that hit everyone from pre-pubescent teens to old, graying men who found hope in the renewed appreciation for their beard swagger. I must admit that I haven't been exactly an impassioned fan: I was never lined up at midnight on book releases or film premieres and I never got into fights with haters who tYpE lYk tHiS at forums. But I think I sufficiently dipped my foot enough in Potterland to consider myself well-versed in the universe. In grade 4, my classmates and I used to play with the "stick" part of the sliding folder and pretended they were wands - saying the now famous "It's levi-OH-sa, not levioSA," line over and over again. One Christmas, I got a Quidditch board game, and the next one, a howling notebook that screamed every time anyone without the "password" opened it. (Both from Santa, though I actually wished for an invisibility cloak.) And ever since Sorcerer's Stone, I had my eyes set out on Ron Weasley. The only person I was willing to share him with was Hermione. (Ron/Hermione shipper since the beginning!) I was just a simple fan, a mere reader, but I felt every bit a part of this fascinating new world as Harry was.

But as in all things, it has come to an end.

The last time I was this affected over a movie series was after Toy Story 3. After watching the Deathly Hallows Part 2 last Friday (and bawling my eyes out), I've come to realize that probably the biggest reason I'm feeling awfully sad about this is the fact that this conclusion finally affirms the end of our childhood. So we turned eighteen and learned to drink beer straight out of the bottle years ago - but we still subconsciously identified ourselves under the "kids" category. But now that huge chapters of our childhood have finally been finally brought to a close, it's like the universe is frantically pushing us out of our safety bubble. This is it, it taunts. No more toys, no more magic. Just reality and its unending battle of good versus evil.

I am now nineteen, just a little older than Harry and the gang when they won the epic battle against Voldemort. I guess you could say I really did grow up with them. I saw the story unfold before me; the narrative got as complicated and twisted just as much as my life did. (Although mine had a dark lord that kept me up at night named Stress.) It was such a reflection of our generation that saying goodbye without shedding a tear just isn't possible. More than anything, it gave us a glimpse of a realm we never could have imagined possible, a world so far-fetched but still so real. At the end of it all, wizards or Muggles notwithstanding, it's the classic tale of good overcoming the evil. It's a story of friendship, love, and loyalty. And wands and spells. These, I'm sure we will always carry with us, at nineteen and up until ninety.

Thank you for the stories, Harry Potter. Thank you for the magic.