He Who Must Not Be Named

He's been in my life since I was six.
He taught me how to read.
He made me love books.
He was the reason I stayed up until four in the morning after waiting outside for six hours.
He's been there for me in times no one else was.
He's had the same struggles as anyone growing up has had.
He's an inspiration.
He's not real.

I'm talking, of course, about Harry James Potter.

I can't say I remember the first time I picked up a Harry Potter book. It was, I'd estimate, around August 2001, when my mom was on bedrest, pregnant with my little sister. She decided to read the Harry Potter books, and I assume I just took one and started reading. It may sound hokey, but that was one of the best decisions I've made.

Let me explain. If it weren't for the Harry Potter series, I'm not altogether confidant that I would be such a reader-and that's something that has opened countless doors for me. It inspired me to want to write. Some of my best friends have been made over this common interest. I can't really think of any other decision I made at the age of six that are still affecting me today. It's shaped who I am in some respects. I truly feel like I've grown up with Harry; to me he's more like a person than just a character in a book. And it extends to all the characters besides Harry-I bawled my eyes out when Dobby died, cheered Neville on as he stood up to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, boiled with rage as Umbridge belittled Hagrid.

I sometimes got a little carried away, though. Once, when we were eight, my friend and I tried to make flying broomsticks by rubbing lavendar on a couple of brooms. We were forced to stop after attempting to jump out of a tree. And in July before I was eleven, I still half-thought I might get a Hogwarts letter (I thought maybe they'd do some sort of foreign-exchange program). Reluctantly, I was forcd to admit that Hogwarts is not physically real.

Even so, it will always be a little bit real to me.

Thanks for all the awesome years, Harry.