When the books originally came out I was like thirteen at the time (hold shit…really?). I devoured the first four or five. Literally, read as much as I could whenever I could. I finished the fourth one in two days. I’ve always been a bookworm, so Rowling’s words were like crack to me. I wasn’t one of those kids who dressed up and waited in line at Barnes & Noble (RIP bookstores) at midnight, or dress up and get super into it all. I just fell in love with the books, the words; not the characters.
I remember finishing the second book and being utterly depressed that quidditch, Hogwarts, none of it was real. It was the first time that I can remember a work of literature causing me to have an emotional reaction. I spent days mourning the loss of this world that had become so tangible to me. I didn’t even finish the series.
Now, nine years and an English degree later, I desperately want to read the entire series start to finish. But I am legitimately afraid that it will propel me into an inconsolable, irrational spiral of depression.