Phew. Though it took two weeks longer than I had planned, I finally did it. I finally finished all seven books in the Harry Potter series. Wait! Do not be alarmed nor concerned, my dear readers! (ALL OF YOU!!!! SO MANY!!!!) For this certainly was not the first time I've finished the series. Merlin's pants, no! What kind of an English major do you think I am? No, I can at least assure you that I just completed my third run-through of the seventh book. I can with no certainty, however, account for the number of times I've read the other ones--I think it safe to assume I read each one immediately after it came out, and then each again in preparation each time the next book in the series was released. At least that much. The only paperback copy I own of the series, the first book, has been ripped and crinkled and water-damaged and taped and re-taped so many times I have to hold the poor thing in a sadly precise position while I read it to prevent a dozen loose pages falling out, and the loosening of several more. The third book, though hardcover like the rest, has almost completely freed itself of its binding in two huge chunks--that reminds me, tomorrow I need to glue that again. And while the most recent books are in considerably better shape, I don't have much faith for their continued safety.
BUT. It's worth the demolition of seven (probably) eventually valuable first editions to experience all that magic over again each summer, as has become tradition. And no, I'm not trying to be cliche--Ms. Rowling really did accomplish something miraculous in the creation of her series, as (mostly) everyone who has read her books (and even those Confunded Muggles who're content to merely watch the movies) will attest.
I planned on writing this blog post after I finished about how amazing the books are and all that, but I find that I don't quite know what to say. I feel as if I've grown up with Harry--is that a cliche thing to say too? Eh. Who cares?--and that the more I read these books, the more I appreciate their brilliance, their intricacy, and their appeal to anyone who has ever hoped to be special; especially since I read them, this time for the first time, with the fully-formed desire (and plan) to be a writer myself. I must admit, I looked for plot flaws diligently this time around and found a few, but I think there were about five, and they were very very minor. (But still. It is nice to know that even J.K. Rowling isn't perfect.) Which makes the titanic feat of actually pulling off a story so expansive and detailed from the beginning that much more impressive. (And people still sincerely compare her to Stephanie Meyer. Oh, the supreme blasphemy of it all.) But not only is the series so mathematically precise, it refuses to be merely an interesting plot, but demands a sense of familiarity, sincere emotional responses, and curiosity of its readers. Or at least it did in me.
Proof of familiarity: I find myself repeating spells and creative names over and over again in my head. Pius Thicknesse. Dedalus Diggle. Xenophilius Lovegood. ("Lover of the strange"?! Brilliant, I say! Rowling, you and your Latin roots, they get me every time.) And I must say, it's a bit frustrating when the half of you still stuck in the book wants to just mumble Accio glasses in the morning rather than getting out of bed to find them. Oh, and all this rain lately and the clouds that have swallowed most of the mountains for the last few days? Yeah, I keep wanting to joke that the dementors are breeding... but I don't know how many people would get it.
Proof of emotion: I don't want to admit to you how many times I cried in the seventh book even this time, my third time through that book. Not like outright weeping (okay.... just that one time.....) but, you know, a couple tears. I'll just say it was a lot. For me. And I know some of you have not actually finished the series so I won't tell you which parts made me cry, but when you read about the people you feel like you've known for seven books dying, well, it just feels a lot sadder than it should be. More proof of emotion? Dumbledore will, I don't think, ever be replaced in my heart as one of my favorite characters in all literature. That's right. All literature. There's just no one like him. And perhaps other bookworms may back me up on this, but have you ever fallen in love with a fictional character? Like, in love? Well, it just about breaks my heart every single time I remember neither of the Weasley twins will never return my adoration. Sirius, too. Why do they just have to be so gosh-freaking-darned attractive and NOT EXIST?! It seems so very unfair.
Proof of curiosity: What else would provoke thousands and thousands of people to speculate wildly and actually ask Ms. Rowling whether or not a certain character actually died after the sixth book? (Sorry, still no spoilers for you flobberworms that have not finished all the books yet. I'm talking to you, Melissa.) What else would prompt even more people to hound her, beg her, plead for her to continue writing books illuminating Harry's briefly-touched-on future at the end of the seventh book? And, above all, what else kept me aching for all the pieces to the puzzle, to find all the little foreshadowings and hints, and to see how it all worked out while I traveled through the series this time around, even though I've honestly read these books countless times? Pure, impervious curiosity, my friends: the kind that never goes away.
While I have hugely failed to express the miracle that is this series, I still feel like this has been enough gushing for one night. Now on to finish the 25-something books left on my summer reading list.
But just remember:
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Lily's Eyes -- Teacups
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