Until this year, I had never finished reading the Harry Potter series nor had I watched any movie past the third. I was at the peak Harry Potter age when the books and movies were first being published and the movies were being shown in theaters, so I had no excuse not to read them or at least watch the movies, except I had every excuse not to read them: “I don’t like reading” which was true or “fantasy books just really aren’t my thing” which might have been true, but I never gave fantasy books a chance. When I was ten I begged and pleaded with my mom to let me go to the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows release party at the local Borders (RIP) because 1. I could stay up past midnight 2. All of my friends were going and 3. There was sure to be some free food. My mom made me promise that if I went to said release party I would read at minimum the first two books in the series. Begrudgingly, I promised and went my merry way to the party. There was no free food, I had no clue what was going on, and the place was packed with people who were anxious to buy the 7th and final book in the famous series, something that I did not want nor understand why anyone would want to do. Although the “party” was not what I had been expecting, I still had to read the first two books and it was painstakingly awful. Needless to say, prior to this year, I was anything but a 'Potterhead".

As I grew older, I realized that everyone had read the series except me. There were countless times when people would make some joke pertaining to the series which I did not understand, so I nodded and laughed along. There were several times when people would begin talking about one of the books or movies and I would again just nod my head and pretend like I was engaged in what they were saying (I was not). I attended Harry Potter club at my school because it was run by one of my friends and there was usually free food, but never knew what was going on. When my friends got excited about the release of the Harry Potter coloring book, I could not join them in their celebration. To say the least, I felt like I had missed out on a central part of childhood. This spring, I decided that I was tired of being left out because of my old childish mistake and began reading the first book. It was magical.

A new world, which I had somehow missed the first time around, opened and I felt like I could finally understand the hype (although I never admitted this to my friends knowing that they would say “I told you so”). In three days I finished the first book. From there I read the second and third books in two weeks. The fourth book was read by the poolside and was finished in less than a week. Each time I started a new book I felt a childlike thrill rush over me even though I know what happens because of all those years that I swore I would never crack open a book in the series ever again (SPOILER: Harry lives, Voldemort dies, a lot of side characters also die after you feel connected to them, Ron and Hermione fall in love, and Harry falls for Ron’s younger sister). The fifth book took me a while to finish because, well it has a slow beginning and finals, but I finished the sixth and seventh books in less than two weeks. As I read the final words in the last book, I finally knew that “All was well” because for the first time, I understood the cult like following of the series. I’m a bit too old to say that the series made me love reading which is what I hear from a lot of my friends, but I understood the impact that the series could truly have. For the three months that I spent reading the series I was so engrossed in the story of the Boy Who Lived that I began to feel as though I knew him. Like in some way, what happened to him would somehow affect me. I’ve experienced this with a few books before, but never for such an extended period of time. The books were an escape from school, drama, and stress because once I opened the current book I was again wrapped up in another person’s life. I know that this is cheesy and millions of children experienced this at the proper to read this series, but I, for once finally understood.

Reading the Harry Potter series at eighteen is a double edged sword. You absorb more and probably understand more, but with this comes the late “Potterhead Phase.” Don’t get me wrong, I will not buy a wand or cloak to wear around like many of my friends, but I now crack way too many Harry Potter jokes. When someone is complaining about a stuffy nose I would say something along the lines of “at least you have a nose and aren’t entrusting your life in a snake” or something of the sort. Because I am such a late reader of the series most people are over hearing such jokes or talking about the books, but I am just now entering the scene. When I sent a text to my friends saying “DUMBLEDORE DIES???????” I recieved “lol you didn’t know that?” and “lol ya.” Reading the books as an adult means that you miss out on discovering this exciting new world with your friends, seeing it through the eyes of a child who believes that the wizards and witches and curses and spells could be real if you just imagine it hard enough.

I feel it is only right to end this article with a Harry Potter joke: How did Harry get down the hill?

Walking