THE END

It has now been exactly a week, to the day, since I went to see the last Harry Potter movie in theaters. The weird part is, I don't feel any different.

When I went to the midnight release of the last book, I was a mess of nervous hysteria. I shrieked and stuttered when I first laid my hand on the cover, and stayed up to read the first chapter, forcing myself, in the days following to read only one chapter a day. I was both exhilarated and terrified--not ready for the end to come, but anxious to reach it; depriving myself of the bittersweet satisfaction of devouring the book over night, just so I could spin out the tiny thread that connected me to what I saw as the metaphorical end of my childhood.

Whether or not my childhood's over, I can't really say for sure. I have a feeling that the change is more gradual than we imagine, and the transition one we will only recognize once we have long passed through it. So even though I set up the final end of Harry Potter as a marker for my paradigm shift, I have found very little changed in actuality.

Although I hate to concede to being affected by it, it may have something to do with the cynicism I felt surrounding the release of the last movie. In former times, Harry Potter was the major topic of conversation among me and my friends, and we would eagerly discuss each upcoming book and movie with an overwhelming excess of excitement and investment in the outcome. As I've grown older and my friend group has shifted, I find myself mentioning Harry Potter only briefly, and referring to it as a relic of my former glory. On July 15th, I posted a status update on my facebook profile: "It All Ends." People knew what I was referring to, but only one of my friends commiserated with me, commenting: "I don't know if I can handle this!" Other responses poked fun at over-the-top Harry Potter fans and "squeegirls," of which I am apparently known to be one. All in all, feelings towards the movie were mildly interested or apathetic. Some people even expressed a dislike towards the whole Harry Potter phenomenon (*gasp!*) And while I hate to admit to being affected by peer pressure, the lukewarm response did put something of a damper on my excitement and trepidation. Also, the fact that my plans to see the movie kept getting delayed week by week wore on my initial sense of elation and doom.

When I finally did make it to the movie theater, I sat next to my friend and held her hand as she cried during almost the entire second half of the film, wondering what was wrong with me. I was enjoying myself; I was filled with a sense of awe and contentment, punctuated by a few anxious giggles and squeals. I felt curiousity, and perhaps resignation, but no overwhelming emotion. And how could it be that the cinematic interpretation of "The Forest Again," a chapter which always and unfailingly brings me to tears, which was quite well done, left me completely dry-eyed? It's true that I cry very rarely in movies, and didn't even cry during the scene of my favorite character's death, but I was somehow expecting a bit more, and I was oddly dissappointed. The movie itself went beyond my expectations in nearly every way; it was merely myself I was dissappointed in. Instead of losing myself to the plot, as I usually did, I remained anchored in my own body, retaining the detachment and larger perspective which seems to be both the blessing and the curse of adulthood. Maybe this was the end of something, after all.

Or maybe the reason I was so composed was because I knew it wasn't really the end--already, a new generation is picking up the books, and the experience begins all over again. I have no doubt that I will re-read them at some point in the future, and I will probably watch the 7th movie at least one more time this year before laying it aside for a while. If Harry Potter is the truly great story that I know it to be, and that its detractors miss out on, it will stand the test of time. The books will be around for generations to come, whether or not their popularity survives.

Nevertheless, it still feels as if some of the magic has gone out of it. What I really loved about the experience of reading Harry Potter is that it was an experience: my friends and I would spend our time endlessly debating theories about the next book, and trying our best to emulate the things we read about. We would play "Quidditch" in my back yard (and apparently, we weren't the only ones, based on the new and successful intercollegiate Quidditch organizations), try to make butterbeer, draw our own chocolate frog cards, and even organized our own Hogwarts-style classes. Most of the people I did those activities with have now moved out of my life, but the memory is no less sweet, just as the end of the series does not lessen its value. I will always be grateful to J.K. Rowling and the magical world she has woven for countless fans like me. But I also accept that it is time to move on.