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Health & Fitness

The End Isn't Near, It's Here

The final Harry Potter installment. Yes, tears will be shed.

The sidewalk normally filled with trampled popcorn kernels and the ticket stubs of various blockbusters is on this night crowded with people dressed up as witches, wizards, and the occasional house elf. It is only 9 o’clock, but already the lines for both Harry Potter midnight showings stretched far beyond one would imagine. People sit on the ground playing trivia games, singing songs from the online musical, and boasting about how many hours it took them to make their costumes.

And then there is me. Costume-less, no clue what people were singing about, and with only a friend and a phone to pass the time until midnight.

Like some people are brought up on trips to older sibling’s baseball games or swim meets, I was brought up on reading Harry Potter. I remember in second grade sitting down during free reading time with the first book, unable to hear the teacher alert us that now it was time to put down our books and head off to lunch. I had looked up a few minutes later only to find myself alone and afflicted with a grumbling stomach.

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While in second grade you are too old for fairy tales, you are still young enough to believe that magic exists in the world. Actually, it is impossible at that age imagining a world where miracles do not exist. Harry Potter provided that magic, provided a glimpse as to what the future could be like. Peers shared stories as to what they would do when they received their Hogwarts letters because it seemed a possible event, almost inevitable. Of course we would attend Hogwarts. We, after all, were special. We were magical.

Then the letters didn’t come, not like at the age of 11 we were expecting them anymore. We were too consumed with the looming prospect of middle school, new faces, and new expectations. Harry no longer offered a glimpse of a more exciting future, rather a means of temporary escape, mere pleasure. As he grew and experienced new hormones, raging emotions, and confusion as to what he was meant to be, we grew up along with him.

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I remember the night the last book was released and how it felt, after waiting in line for hours, to finally get that story in my hands. It wasn’t just a story; it symbolized the end of the magic, of a chapter, of anticipation and excitement. Once I reached the last page of the book, I would know the final fates of the characters, No questions would be left to discuss and no more surprises would be left. It would be over, done, le fin.

So tonight, surrounded by others who grew up with the series, who smiled at Harry’s triumphs and related to his fears, I am celebrating and mourning the end of the series. And even though I knew how it all ends and am prepared for it, I know that I will sit with my hands clenched, shaking a little, wincing and finding myself still surprised and amazed at the outcome of the characters.

I believe that the stories we read as children in some way define or shape us. They stay with us and continue to grow as we imagine possible futures for the characters. We take morals from the pages and reflect back on the stories with nostalgia and remember what we felt like when we were first exposed to that literary world, to those characters. Books have lasting impressions, and for me this series might have the most lasting of all. Because it wasn’t just a book I was exposed to, it was another world.

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