Harry Potter and when He Lived in My Closet

I was born into the Harry Potter generation. J. K. Rowling had published The Prisoner of Azkaban just before I was born, and my parents bought a copy of the renowned series (through the fourth book) in 2000, shortly after The Goblet of Fire was released. It was a gorgeous, completely hardcover set, and it spent several years in the back of my closet before my mom threw the entirety of it in the dumpster. I kid you not.

You see, I was afraid of my closet, and I never went in there alone, so the top shelf was the perfect hiding spot for Harry Potter. Harry Potter contained magic, and magic was dark, and darkness was evil, so Harry eventually had a three-second peek at my bedroom before disappearing down the upstairs hallway and into the trash.

I never forgot the cover of The Goblet of Fire, though, as Harry and I looked at each other for the first time, beneath my mother’s arm. There was a brief exchange, during which I asked her what she was carrying. She told me that they were books– bad, scary books. So I let them go.

At this point in my life, my mom is able to call my dog a “muggle.” She doesn’t really know what that means–Can a dog actually be a muggle anyway?–but she knows the word, so I feel partially accomplished. My dad, on another hand, has perfected the nonverbal spell which entails thrusting his wand (fork) upward at the dinner table and looking pointedly at Kaden (who immediately sits up straight).

We didn’t get to this point instantaneously. As a matter of fact, I thought Brody had gone mental when he asked my mom if he could read The Sorcerer’s Stone. I nearly passed out when she told him yes. A year later, I can’t imagine her saying no.

Most of my Harry Potter books are on my e-reader, and I love them so much more than those that spent so long in my closet– mostly because I got to read these ones. But I’ll never forget that moment–that fraction of a second–when I saw 14-year-old Harry for the first time, smiling from the cover of the latest book.

Through this series, I’ve learned one very specific thing: You cannot know a person 100% until they’ve been given two things: money and power. Ginny Weasley taught me that age is not a direct relation to power. All of the Weasleys together taught me the importance of family. Sirius Black taught me that who you are expected to become is not necessarily who you are to be in the future. Remus Lupin taught me never to judge people by what they are but by heart. Luna Lovegood taught me not to take everything so seriously. Neville Longbottom taught me to stay determined. Albus Dumbledore taught me to search for the good in others, even when it is difficult. Hermione Granger taught me that knowledge is beauty. Ron Weasley taught me to laugh whenever possible and for as long as possible. Severus Snape taught me that love goes beyond all magic.

Harry Potter–though he had to wait 15 years–taught me the power of friendship. He taught me to do what’s right instead of finding an easier way.

And J. K. Rowling. She taught me that little details, seemingly insignificant, are what matter most in the end.

The Deathly Hallows ended in an epilogue. I’m glad. It makes me feel that the story isn’t over. In fact, a new chapter has begun.