If my childhood can be tied to anything, it is definitely Harry Potter. The first book was published in 1997, about a year or so after I learned to read. Being not quite five, I knew nothing about Harry Potter—my books were all about horses. However, the craze didn’t take long to reach my house once the book was brought to the US in 1998. Before I was seven, my Dad, in between reading us the Chronicles of Narnia and The Golden Compass, read the first two books to my two sisters, a few of my brothers, and I, at night before we all went to bed. Harry Potter from that time on became my childhood companion.
By the age of nine, I had voraciously read every book out, at least twice, and waited with baited breath for the next book. I remember how that same year, through much begging, my parents took all of my siblings and I to see the first movie. I remember covering my eyes when Voldemort first showed his face, and slowly un-hid my eyes as the scene continued. Quirrel was just as I had always imagined.
I would sometimes wonder, in the time before my eleventh birthday, if I did get a letter, if it would come the summer I before I turned eleven (my birthday being in November you see) or the summer after. I was never entirely sure on the matter, so I allowed myself to hope for two summers in a row. Although I, being the sensible child that I was, knew that Hogwarts was fiction and that I probably wouldn’t get a letter because none such letters existed, I still hoped and hoped for one. (It was rather like the time I hoped that I would follow in the footsteps of Mia Thermopolis from Princess Diaries and find out suddenly that I was a princess. This, much to my disappoint, never happened either.) The second summer I waited was particularly painful when I would be the lucky one to go to the mailbox, and unlock its contents. Sadly, my hope was never satisfied, and I continued at my completely normal, un-magical, private school, where the uniforms were not nearly as awesome as those at Hogwarts.
That was the point I started hating Harry Potter. Much like the character himself, I was a bitter, and somewhat angsty middle schooler. It didn’t help that liking Harry Potter was distinctly uncool back then. No worries though, because this ended before eighth grade did.
The summer before my freshman year of high school proved to be a treat with my dear friend. That was the summer that the Order of the Phoenix movie came out, and I went to my very first midnight showing. My two friends and I laughed throughout the movie, pretending that we didn’t love it as much as we really did. Sirius’ death was saddening, and the experience was simply wonderful.
The Deathly Hallows was released mere weeks later. The final book. Needless to say, I devoured it within two days as soon as I obtained a copy. ‘Twas a beautiful time, yet bittersweet as well, as I realized that this was it. I would not have any new adventures about Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Voldemort was gone. Snape, my favorite character dead. Fred, dead. All my favorite characters dead! It was heartbreaking. I wanted desperately for more. This turned my towards fanfiction for some time. However, I eventually rejoined normal society and waited with baited breath for the remainder of the movies.
This last July it all ended. I had been in college for a month the night it premiered, and drove to American Fork because all of the theaters in Provo were sold out by the time my roommates and I went to get tickets. We waited in line for a number of hours to get in, dressed up as if we went to the very School we dreamed of, rather than the slightly less magical Brigham Young University. It was there that my childhood officially ended. All in the theater clapped in joy when Ron finally kissed Hermione. Cringed when Voldemort hugged Draco Malfoy We burst into applause at the awkward moment when Neville became the hot one. I personally felt like crying when Snape fell to his death in the boathouse by the hand of Voldemort. I very nearly choked up on seeing Fred’s prostrate body. All were like old friends—dead.
Now, about 8 months later, I am rereading the books—some for the 6thsome for the 4th time—and recalling everything I love about them. That moment when Ron and Harry became best friends on the train, the first quidditch match, the second quidditch match, and all of the other ones. Going to Nearly Headless Nick’s death day party, sneaking into Hogsmeade, Fred and George turning the Hallway into a swamp and flying out of Hogwarts on Broomsticks. Learning about Lily and Snape. Loving Snape, but knowing it couldn’t be. That moment when Kreacher becomes a friend. All are cherished memories for me, and so are many more.
I always have fancied that I would be sorted into Ravenclaw, however Pottermore has placed me in Slytherin five times. I don’t think I would have been good friends with our hero, though perhaps with Hermione. I wonder if the History of Magic is really as boring as they say it is, and I feel I would have been fascinated by transfiguration. I would have tried to become an animungus, and would have wanted to be best friends with Fred and George. I would go to all the quidditch games, and rooted Ravenclaw to victory, and then booed Slytherin to failure when they went against Gryffindor.
I never got a Hogwarts letter (except for the one that Tate and I wrote), and I never bought a wand. I wasn’t sorted by the Sorting Hat, and I didn’t serve detention with Filch. But I did grow up with Harry Potter, from when he entered Hogwarts, to when he saved it. With his story’s end, my childhood ended as well (Or so I like to say, I can’t guarantee this to be the case). He was one of my best friends. We shall continue to be good friends for the rest of my life. I will relish the day when I can do what my Dad did for me and my sisters, and read the, the adventures of this wonderful boy.
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