I never wanted us to part. Actually, I never believed that what we had could ever end. When I first met you, I was a malleable 11-year-old and had never heard of your books before. You accompanied me on long journeys in the car and impressed me so deeply that I had to skip the penultimate chapter to finish the first book before falling asleep. As I grew older, I couldn’t wait for your new appearances and regularly finished the new novels within two days.
I remember drawing portraits of you and all of your friends and secretly hoping that there had been a mistake at Hogwarts and that I would be getting my letter when I turned 12. The letter never came but I stuck with you and started reading your books in English, even though words like “wand”, “cauldron” and “broomstick” were a little too exotic for my language skills at that time. As time passed, another facet of your fascinating wizarding world was introduced: the First Harry Potter movie. I was stunned. Even though you certainly messed up some of my imaginary dream images (like for example the appearance of many characters. I mean: Sirius, seriously?) I devoutly went on a pilgrimage to the nearest cinema to see how other people imagined your world. You united me and my friends in our adoration of the magic castle and the inspiring things that you were taught there.
Now I’ve seen your last movie and this makes it more final than reading the last book. I wasn’t outraged at the sheer capitalist greed of making TWO last parts; I was simply relieved that the end was delayed for a little longer. I can’t quite explain why it feels irrevocably over now, even though I knew that it would end and how this would happen. Being prone to tears, I had to really pull myself together to not completely lose it during a few scenes in all of the books and the last movie proved to be particularly challenging in that regard. I was extremely relieved to hear the four men sitting to our right sobbing heavily and sniffling like 11-year-old me over the fate of the skinny little boy under the stairs.
To be honest, I must confess something: I never really liked you much as a person. You were really too incomprehensibly stubborn sometimes and annoyed the crap out of me when you ignored all the well-meant advice from your friends and teachers. Also, you were kind of a wuss at times. I felt much more related to the nerdy Hermione, also because my feminist 11-year-old self believed that girls made just as good protagonists as boys and really wished for “the girl who lived”. However, now that you’re old and married (and have annoying kids that you named after practically everyone you knew), I feel that you’ve earned your peace and don’t want to get sent on potentially lethal adventures by 22-year-old girls who don’t really want to grow up and therefore wanted you to stay young with her forever. Also, I realized that I can just flip open the first of the novels and pretend to be 11 again and look out of the window trying to spot an owl arriving with an envelope.