When I was 11, my mother took my younger brother and me on a trip to Salem, Massachusetts. We didn’t have a lot of money at the time but she always made an effort to take us on semi-annual trips down into the Eastern U.S. that were likely inexpensive but felt like vacations to us.

While in Salem, we went on all of the witch trial tours, starting with the Salem Witch Museum. While poking through cheesy souvenirs afterwards in the gift shop, my little brother came shooting over to my mum and I with a book clutched desperately in his little hands and a pleading look. My mother never said no if we asked for books, and as my brother was not a keen reader she was quick to agree to his pleas. 

Back at the hotel he lost interest quickly (typical), but I snapped it up and was immediately entranced. The book? Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I didn’t put it down the entire weekend. We did another museum, graveyard tours, witch walks, but I don’t remember any of it: my only recollection of that little vacation is of my nose in a book, tearing my eyes away only long enough to make sure to put one foot in front of the other.

I had always been an avid reader but that weekend marked the first of many times I learned how to also call a book a friend. It was also the start of a torrid love affair between myself and Harry Potter. For years I devoured each book upon its release, later pouring over online theories and re-re-rereading to absorb every word until the next release. Soon movies were sprinkled in to tide me over between books, and I found a great solace in an online community that was just as enamoured as I.

I know I’m certainly not the first and absolutely not the only to be filled with a sense of nostalgia and sadness with less than 2 weeks to the premiere of the 8th and final Harry Potter movie, but I lately find myself fondly looking back to that trip and subsequent book releases frequently and emotionally. This morning I had a vivid flashback to a plane ride on which I cried uncontrollably as I read Dumbledore’s death for the first time (sorry again, business-type man sitting beside me…) (and no, luckily I had not been spoiled). Last week I remembered the hot summer day I did nothing but obsessively read Goblet of Fire on my grandmother’s floral couch until I finished it and had flower imprints on my back for hours.

Half of my life has been spent in anticipation, hysterics, excitement, and absolute joy about these books and movies. To be sitting here on the eve of its end is both satisfying and utterly devastating. And so with less than two weeks to go, my midnight tickets bought and my Gryffindor scarf and sweater ready to be worn, I find myself frequently visited by these creeping memories which leave me increasingly hysterical. I know, though, that I have a lifelong friend in Harry and this wonderful series.

Usually it would bother me to not have the same editions of a set of books, but I love my American first book next to my Canadian (British) 2-7 (my Deathly Hallows isn’t there because it’s currently in my bed - I’m rereading). I love that it is from a witch museum and I love the memories that rush when I open the front cover. I can’t bear to buy the “right” version because for me, it is perfect.

I know that I don’t really have many followers and I mostly wrote this for me but if you’re out there I would love love love to see your Harry Potter collections! Please show me?

Stay strong, fellow Potterheads. We stuck with Harry ‘til the end and now we’ll have to stick with each other.