harry potter generation

We were 11 when he was entering Hogwarts, and 17 when he defeated Voldemort. The books and movies were spaced just well enough to see us through not only Harry's childhood and maturation, but through our own, as well. Even the actors were our own ages, contributing to the intoxicating idea that it could have been us.

Late at night, clichéd flashlight under the bedcovers, I found myself apparating as well as a mere muggle could- I was not huddled in my bed, but was flying over the quidditch pitch or traipsing through the Forbidden Forest. The wizarding world was so real, all thanks to J.K. Rowling's cocooning writing style; once the book was open, I was sealed off from the world around me. Film-wise, it was supported by some decent visual effects and extraordinary acting (here's to you, Helena and Maggie), but of course, the true magic was always in the words themselves.

Now, I had a perfectly enjoyable adolescence- friends, piano lessons, obsession with horses, and the like. But there was always the back-of-mind thought that I really belonged in this world where you could read centuries-old books and transform mice into teacups, and most importantly, be brave and courageous and noble and defeat evil.

Even now, these seven tomes on my shelf are some of the most escapist literature I own. Whenever I feel that life is lacking in color or characters, I can open up any of the seven, and immediately be right back in that other world. Granted, a few characters' faces have morphed into those of the actors who play them (most notably in the case of Bellatrix Lestrange, but seeing as the actress completely superseded my imagination, I'm ok with it), but other than that, the words and my imagination are still in synch. Hogwarts will always be there to welcome us home. 

When the last film came out, I was ready. I'd watched the actors walk by on the red carpet in London,

(a blurry Weasley twin with an arm in front of him)

(Helena Bonham Carter blowing a kiss to the rain-soaked masses)

 and my heart beat had raced every time I passed one of those stirringly minimalist posters in a train station: "It All Ends." I saw it in Sweden, two days before it would be released anywhere else in the world, where the release was shockingly anti-climactic. The theater wasn't full, and only one little boy (dear to my heart) was in costume. Nevertheless, my eyes were glued to the screen for the full 130 minutes, though my vision definitely got a bit foggy at certain parts.

And then it was over. Not just the movie, but the era. Stepping out of the theatre into the Scandinavian sunlight, there was an overwhelming sense of conclusiveness. Never again would there be the excitement of waiting for the next book or the next movie. They would always be there to be revisited, but now we knew the whole story. Harry Potter had grown up, and so had his generation (though not to the extent seen in the epilogue. But here's hoping we age as gracefully as Hermione).

And now I'll finally get to the link that prompted this sappy, late night ode to the Boy Who Lived:

they miss it too.