I’ve never met another person who loved Harry Potter that I’ve hated. We are a type. For better or for worse, we are a type. We are potter-hippies who would hold hands and flash cell phones, swaying side to side, in a very weird potter reading concert. We always have common ground and we already love something about each other. We get along.
Potter fans are not afraid to hold their head high when non-lovers make fun of us. We will be 20-30-60 year olds, walking around with a HP book when we felt like it. We look at our books longingly and pretend to be back when we didn’t know those words by heart. We remember standing in line. We remember the blur of the days after, when nothing else mattered. A fire alarm could have gone off and we would run with our finger squished in the book marking where we had stopped reading. Out of the building, we would be walking and reading, following our family’s voices for direction. We vicariously live through our children, reading the books to them, trying to recapture the first time. We secretly pray our unborn children will love HP and wonder how we will deal if they didn’t.
Harry Potter fans feel pain and pangs over the loss. We read other books and love them but never love them quite enough. We touch our books fondly, remembering our favorite bits, how we felt and the people we shared that feeling with. We pick up a HP book, intending to flip through it casually for 5 minutes and lose our entire weekend to it. We devour pottermore to suck in every extra story Rowling lets out. You love her for writing it and forgive her for stopping.
Finishing a book you love is like moving to a new city and leaving all your friends behind. You know you can always visit but things are never going to be the same. You wonder if the years will change both of you and you hope a part of it never does.
Hey potter fan, I am re-grieving the end of Harry Potter and I knew you’d understand.