My mom first handed me a copy of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone" when I was six years old. It was a worn and tattered paperback, its pages folded over and corners chewed by my little brother years before when my mom had first read the novel. I wasn’t much of a reader— I doubt most six-year-olds are— but, that little, beaten book changed my life forever.

I devoured "Sorcerer’s Stone" in a few days, with the assistance of my mom; I remember sitting at the kitchen table, asking her how to pronounce “Dumbledore,” and “Quirrell,” and “qauffle”— words which would soon become an integral part of my lexicon. I was hooked on Harry, and I quickly read each successive volume, catching and surpassing my family members’ progress into the series, and becoming the little brat to spoil "Order of the Phoenix" for my cousins.

I remember anxiously waiting for my sister to finish "Half-Blood Prince" so I could borrow her copy. I remember checking JK Rowling’s website every day for any updates on the final book, and one day being surprised by a game of hangman, revealing the title "Deathly Hallows."

And when "Deathly Hallows" finally came out, the air was alive with an enthusiasm that I have never felt since and doubt I will ever feel again. On July 21st, 2007, sitting in possibly the worst traffic Deptford, New Jersey has ever seen— and that’s saying something, considering how bad it gets around the mall at Christmas time— I remember watching people shouting out the windows of their cars, not in anger, but out of excitement. They were all on their way to Barnes and Noble, and wanted to share their experience with other total strangers whom they’d likely never see again. The bookstore’s parking lot was packed with tailgaters (yes, people were tailgating the midnight release party of "Deathly Hallows"), washing down their homemade treacle tart and cauldron cakes with swigs of pumpkin juice, all the while playing Butterbeer pong. I was in awe of it all, the bonds that a series of books had forged between people who had never even met each other.

It barely took me a day to finish "Deathly Hallows," but when I did my satisfaction was nearly suffocated by the emptiness inside myself; Rowling could not have written a better conclusion to her epic series, but with the end of Harry Potter, it felt as though a chapter had closed on my childhood. I had lost a friend who, no matter what, was always by my side.

Harry Potter inspired a love of reading that’ll stick with me until my dying day. I was enchanted by JK Rowling’s words; as Dumbledore says in "Deathly Hallows," “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic.” And nothing could be more true; the real magic of "Harry Potter" was Rowling’s ability to string words together in such a manner to create a complex world with rich, endearing characters, a place that outsiders could call home. Harry’s world became an escape for me and millions of others who felt as though they could relate to the Boy Who Lived. Harry was seemingly an unspectacular, bespectacled boy who lacked a friends or a home; and, sure, while most of us didn’t live with our evil aunt and uncle, trapped in a cupboard under the stairs, we all had a little bit of Harry within us. Rowling transported us to Hogwarts, instilling in us a sense of wonder and possibility that we had never felt before; if something magical could happen to Harry, it could happen to us, too.

I thank JK Rowling for this, for my love of reading and writing and all the joy that her books brought to my childhood (and, although she’ll never see this, I would like to apologize to Ms. Rowling for apparently not reciprocating her “Hello,” the one time I was lucky enough to “meet” her. I wasn’t ignoring you, Jo, I just never saw you. I had no idea the chair you were signing books in happened to be so low to the ground).

Harry comes back in less than two weeks— fitting, considering the concurrent returns of Pokemon and Blink-182. Although I consider myself a Potter purist and don’t recognize "Cursed Child" as a legitimate entry in the series, I love the excitement surrounding the play’s release. Skimming my copies of the books these last few days has left me with a childlike enthusiasm that I haven’t had for several years, and I hope this is how I feel every time I pick up a Harry Potter book for the rest of my life.