More than two weeks have passed since I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and last of J.K. Rowling’s Potter series, and I find myself needing—not wanting, but needing—more. When my subconscious realized that I will not ever again get any new information about the Wizarding World, I began dreaming about it: I can recall at least two dreams in which I was chased by Death Eaters and in which I swung my wand and yelled things like, “STUPEFY!” and “PROTEGO!” (but never “AVADA KEDAVRA,” because I do not murder people, apparently not even in my dreams). In fact, in the latest of the two dreams—the one I had last night—I even ended up walking about a neighborhood populated with wizards in a time, apparently, after the death of Voldemort. Dumbledore was there, though, so perhaps this was not an imaginary vision of myself in a peaceful Wizarding World, but in Heaven…. Who knows? I’m no Freud.
Anyway, the obvious point is this: I am clearly going through some sort of grieving process. The Potter series is concluded, and I’m just going to have to deal with it.
But how am I going to deal with it, you ask? EASY: I’m just going to submerse myself in great children’s and adolescent lit! So far in the time since I finished The Deathly Hallows, I have read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, The Witches, and The Hobbit. Next on my plate: Bridge to Terabithia, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland/Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, and The Giver (ahhh, The Giver…I pause now as I remember with mixed sentiment my first venture into that cold—yet impossibly hopeful—world…).
Eventually, too, I will re-read the entire Potter series. But not now—the pain is still too near.