Now that it’s been a few days, I think I’m emotionally stable enough to write this post.
I am a muggle. Gosh darn, that’s hard to admit.
I am part of the Harry Potter generation and Harry Potter is part of me. September 1st, two days ago, the Hogwarts Express departed at 11am from King’s Cross Station and every member of the Potter fandom checked their mailboxes one more time for that large envelope with the green ink and inexplicably specific address and sighed when, once again, there were none to be found.
I was introduced to Harry Potter when I was about 11 years old by a kindly neighbor. It couldn’t have been more perfect. And since then, I’ve read each of the books at least twice, and most of them at least five or six times. (How can someone read the last book more than twice?! Too many emotions. But those are feels for another day.) At one point in middle school, my mom confiscated my books because I wouldn’t read anything else. No, I’m not kidding.
I love the world, the characters, the magic, the adventure, the shenanigans, and every little detail of this series and I owe Jo my entire personal library for the rest of my life for the impact this series had on me. I will never stop reading these books. I hope to be 99 years old one day and reading them to my grandchildren.
After all this time? My fellow Potterheads know the answer to this question.
James Sirius Potter, I hope Hogwarts is ready for you.
As for myself, I’m still holding out that I’m a squib.
>Megan