Friday, July 15, 2011

Harry Potter murdered my childhood like Voldemort murders muggles.

I just...Give me a moment...

I grew up with Harry Potter. It was one of the first actual books I ever read, one of the first movies I remember seeing, the first fandom I was a part of even before I knew what a fandom was.
I've bought all the books. I've got posters. Pictures. Wands. Scarves. Banners. Toys. I've dressed up, laughed, cried.  I'm pretty sure Harry Potter is the one who taught me how to feel emotions.

And now it's over? Just over?  No slow ease into it, no courtesy! Like getting to Hogwarts and having Dumbledore tell you he meant to send your letter to your neighbor that you hate.

Harry Potter is my childhood. It consumed me. It still does, don't get me wrong, but a body starves when given no nourishment. A Potter fan loses some magic when Harry grows up. In order to thrive we have to give the books to our cousins, our nieces and nephews, our children, and we have to hope that they love it like we do.  We have to hope that they get that little spark of magic, that they grow so attached we can get away with dressing them up like a Weasley for Halloween.

I'm not going to say anything about the movie, just that it was spectacular. That it was brilliant, and beautiful, and... *sob* ... magnificent.

I thought I felt bad when Toy Story 3 came out, and this eclipsed it by a thousand fold.

I mean really, what do we have now? Twilight? That's the next big epic, children. Sparkly vampires and pedophile werewolves. Great.

Now I have to cling to Sherlock Holmes as hard as I can and hope then make seven more of those, or hope J.K. Rowling decides to just write about Harry Potter for the rest of her life.

Oh! And Pottermore. We have Pottermore. And hopefully Monsters Inc. 2 will be good.

But I have to stop rambling now. It's making me feel worse.

Mischief Managed.


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