* Despite having read the last book at what feels like ages ago, then writing this piece shortly after, it is only now what I am posting it...Sheesh*

Now that the final page of the Harry Potter series has been turned, I find that I have become mildly depressed. The series first came out when I was approximately the same age as Harry- and now it ended with me precisely the same age as Harry. For seven years Harry Potter has been a part of my life, a significant part of my adolescence. I grew up alongside Harry, Ron, Hermione.

Faced with the awkward and mundane norms of everyday life, I found the world of Hogwarts engrossing and deliciously enthralling. That’s why, I believe, the series grew to such gargantuan proportions- everyone can identify with or want to be like Harry. He was a boy, living in the regular world-and in a particularly dreary situation- and gets to escape it all by an invitation to be a part of a beautiful, magical world. Now just what child, adolescent, or even adult has not had a similar wish?

Now that the final curtain has been closed I feel a deep sense of loss as I recall all of the places I would drag Harry Potter along with me and all of the late nights I spent reading the series. It even eventually came to be that the existence of Harry Potter was intrinsically tied with my own- unbeknownst to me till the series ended. For so long it was a part of my life-even a way of life as I remember the game my good friend, Morgana, and I would play, revolving around escaping into that magical utopia.

Alas, as the teenage Harry Potter moved on in his life, so, too, must I.

Another chapter closed.