I don't usually write about Harry Potter because I tend to think that it's too brilliant for my words... but I guess this is more about life than him.

***Spoiler alert for those who haven't read the seventh book***

“Does it hurt?”
The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips before he could stop it.

I know you've read the book, because I put a spoiler alert for those who haven't (and they should've immediately quit out of the page before their eyes accidentally slipped over a few words). But if you've forgotten, this is what Harry asks his parents about death in the Dark Forest when he is on his way to give himself up to Voldemort towards the end of the seventh book.

It took me a long time to figure out what exactly made this line stick with me. Often the kind of sentence that wedges itself into my brain like that is 'deep' or beautifully metaphorical or will inspire me in some way. Often these kinds of lines are obvious in what made them stick to me. But this wasn't. This was so plain. This seemed topical, no hidden layers- it was just a simple question. A pretty fair question, really. Why did this stick out more than a sentence during Snape's last memories or part of Dumbledore's past? Why did it double my tear production, keep me up at night, make me think and think and think about I-don't-know-what.

It didn't hit me until a few weeks ago. Sitting on a plane with a finished book, a dead ipod , and a computer with no internet, I began to type. I wrote three little entries about nothing much really, just about my life or about moments that I thought needed to be captured, theories that needed further developing. I wrote about things that seemed more fitting to be in the pretty notebook lying at the bottom of my bag, but, somehow, came out better when I typed. One such moment that I tried to recreate and think slightly deeper about was this, you won't understand what exactly it is or who exactly I'm talking to, but I don't think that I'm going to try to explain:

-I just want it all to go away.

It was a whisper of an answer that slipped through my lips before I could stop it. Like when 17-year-old Harry asks his parents- at the end of the seventh book- if death will hurt. A childish question. A childish answer that happened all too quickly. It was a thought that made itself into audible sounds forming words without my permission- something I thought only happened in movies and books to characters who weren't real. It left my mind and then my mouth before I had the chance to realise it. Before I had the chance to take that thought and disect it- keeping only the vaguely acceptable parts as though to have some traces of truth left behind- and mix it with what she wanted to hear. Before I had the chance to carve and chisel and polish it into something that was not a thought in the rough, but a mature, insightful, and smart answer. Before I had the chance to create an articulate, adult-like response that showed the growth and acceptance I had been faking.

That was what I did with questions and answers and comments. That was how I talked, communicated, lived. I took every instinct and changed it to what I instinct I was supposed to have, and then into what I was expected to think or say. I remodeled my words to match the face that I was wearing, the wall I had put up, the other girl I was pretending to be. What would she say? What would she think? Then suddenly with one sentence, seemingly simple in wording and length, my cover was broken. I was suddenly vulnerable because this was my real answer. Not my fake response that the other girl inside my head had fabricated. This was my raw and true and honest answer. It was stupid, foolish and immature, irrational and far too hopeful. And it was mine. It was real. It showed that I was not mature, not insightful, not articulate- but, rather I was childish and weak and cowardly. It allowed a peek inside of me, into who I was, how I worked- something that was never meant to be seen or heard. I had, for the first time in what must have been forever, let someone in. Not to say that I hadn't let people in, because I had- friends and such- but this was letting her in on an entirely different level, in an entirely different way. And that, in and of itself, was terrifying.

Harry Potter lives in a world and a time where he is the most wanted boy/man/person alive. His parents are killed before he can remember them, years later he find out about and is reunited with his last remaining family member only to see him killed shortly after. The teacher who he thought to be his biggest supporter and defender, the only man he thought could understand him and protect him was now dead as well. He couldn't be with the girl he loved for so many reasons a teenager shouldn't have to face, had been hiding and running for months, had put his closest friends in danger. They'd all ricked their lives for him and, just moments ago, three had died, in part, because of him. Now he was walking into the forest to surrender and be killed. All before he's even eighteen. And though I often felt that Harry got annoying and slightly big-headed at times throughout the series, I think we can all agree that he has a lot on his plate. Yet he always seems to be brave, tough, persistent, and filled with answers- if not in the inside, in his actual thoughts, then at least on the surface for everyone else to see. He always played that part, depicted that image.

I'm not trying to say that Harry Potter is fake, because I don't believe he is. And in that small moment, I'm not even trying to say that I'm fake, because I don't believe I am either. But I think that, as humans, we often put up walls to protect ourselves or to protect others or for any number of reasons we come up with. And that could mean having a brave face so that the people around you can feel safe. It could mean telling someone what they want to hear so that things are easier, cleaner for them and for you. So that you can be the person you want to be, the person they want you to be, even if only on the surface. It could mean not letting yourself cry to prove to god-knows-who that you are not and never will be weak. But then I think, as humans, we also all have a breaking point. I think that we all, at some point, have a moment where the wall falls down- when you just need to cry or you feel so fake that you can't stand another moment of it or, if nothing else, you just forget and it happens before you can remember. We let our guard down, or it comes down without our permission. For some people, probably, it can happen in a bigger way- an outburst, or a breakdown. For Harry and I, it came in a short line, a simple spoken sentence that could, to others, almost go unnoticed. He, like me, had built up an image and a character for everyone to see- a personality that he had gotten himself into and was now committed to keeping up. Then suddenly in a simple question, he had (maybe even accidentally) shown a different side- perhaps a truer side- which wasn't weak or immature or cowardly. It was only human.

I need to get inspired

I've spent aproximately three and a half hours staring at the blank space where my entry should be. Occasionally I will take a break from that oh-so-hard work and get some water or a piece of gum. Then, of course, I will go back to my staring and thinking. I have no idea what to write. None whatsoever. This had never happend to me. Ok, that's a lie- it's happend to me a million times but, it never went on for this long and never for a reading response. Reading responses are fun to me, easy- I love writing essays and responses and entries- fiction is what I have trouble with (basically anything that requires the artistic side of my brain). I don't know why I have suddenly lost my ability to write.

I can't help but think that perhaps it has something to do with (go ahead, make fun of me) Harry Potter. After re-reading the seventh book a few weeks ago and then seeing the movie three times since then, my life has been practically filled with the best book of the best series, ever. I feel like it's risen my standards. I've picked up and dropped at least three books since then because they just don't draw me in as much. It seems as if nothing is or ever will be comparable to Harry Potter. I've noticed this in the past as well- everytime I read one of the HP books, it takes me a few weeks of no reading to be able to thoroughly appreciate the next book that I pick up, like a cool- down period almost.

The trouble with this is that I want to read. I love reading. I want something that will draw me in as much as Harry Potter does every single time. I want a book where I feel just as connected to every single character introduced. I want to be able to laugh and cry and think deeper into every word I see. Harry Potter is the perfect book and I don't expect anything to ever top that. but I wish that there was something just as good for me to read.

Molly Weasley And The Power Of Love *SPOILER ALERT*

Molly Weasley is not perfect. She is not rich or beautiful or flawless. But, she's strong- she's a fighter, and she's smart, and loving, and the most amazing mother that anyone could ever wish for. Mrs. Weasley lives for her kids. She doesn't love anything in the whole world as much as she does those six boys and one girl.

She's not the kind of mother who give their children whatever their hearts desire- even if she could. She pushes them, and disciplines them, and teaches them. She's not the kind of mother that kids dream about, hope for. The kind that let their children do whatever, the kind that leave them alone, let them go their own way, whether good or bad. The kind that let them have what they want, watch them make their mistakes and let them. The kind that can't be bothered- the kind that kids think they desire. She cares too much to be that type of mother.

She's the human kind- the kind that makes mistakes, the kind that knows what is best even if it seems like "the meanest thing in the world". The kind that's not afraid to be the bad guy once in a while if she knows that it will help her kid. The kind whose children complain about her endlessly- the real kind.

The realistic nature of this character is what makes everyone love her so much-- she's the mother that we all have or know or have met in our lives. And before the seventh book, that's all she was- just that motherly character. But, J.K. Rowling made an extremely intentional and strong choice that most people overlooked. The one and only curse word actually written in the entire Harry Potter series is said by Mrs.Weasley and it's said in defense of her child. After Fred is killed, all bets are off- her child is dead- she won't be calm anymore, she won't just watch as Bellatrix attacks her only daughter. I cannot help but wonder- is it love or hate that helps her kill Bellatrix? Because she is a powerful witch but, let's face it- Bellatrix is more powerful. So how does she kill her?

My first thought was hate. Is it hate so strong that builds up so much to her limit that it bursts through in a surge of power, of energy, of a sudden passion for what she's fighting for? Or is it the power of love? Does love, the same way that it helped Lily Potter, help Mrs.Weasley kill the cruel woman that poses as a threat to her family? Did love, something that Bellatrix most likely does not possess, defeat her?

The whole idea of Lily's love protecting Harry always seemed a little far fetched to me. It just didn't seem like something powerful enough but now, all of the sudden, when Mrs.Weasley put herself out there to save her daughter, it all made sense. Her love for Ginny and Fred was shining through. In this one split second of complete chaos and utter loathing, everything fit into place for me. And suddenly, I believed that Lily's love could protect Harry like it did.

Because, Molly Weasley showed me how strongly and fiercely a mother could love their child.

Silly how things end, isn't it?

SPOILER ALERT!!!! IF YOU HAVE NOT READ HARRY POTTER AND THE

DEATHLY HALLOWS, STOP READING HERE.

But seriously, what earth are you waiting for????

When I read over the scene of Hedwig's death I cannot help but be dissapointed by it's length and lack of intensity. The first time I read it, I felt so overwhelmingly confused and guilty. Why wasn't I crying? What the hell was the matter with me? This was Hedwig- Hedwig who just died and I was just sitting there. When Sirius died I couldn't contain myslef- my mom thought I was having some sort of attack, locked up in my bedroom. I cried when Cedric Diggory got killed and I cried when Hagrid's hippogriff nearly got killed, and god knows that Hedwig is far more important than Hagrid's Hippogriff. The last 100 pages of the Half Blood Prince is destroyed from my tears. So why couldn't I cry when Hedwig died? Her death was certainly important enough- that wasn't the issue. Was it simply that the way she died wasn't important enough? Sure, she can't talk so, it can't be dramatic in that respect- last words and all. But, somehow I feel like it should be more than just:

"No - HEDWIG"

A second's relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the cage.

"No - NO!"

"Hedwig - Hedwig -"

But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage. He could not take it in, and his terror for the others was paramount.

And that's it- she's dead.

Hedwig who has been with Harry always- through thick and thin.

Hedwig who was with Harry wherever he went- who stayed with him at Howarts and who left with him in the summers.

Hedwig- who served as his only connection to the world in which he belonged during those long months spent with the Dursleys.

Hedwig who was given to him by Hagrid days before beginning at Hogwarts for the very first time when he was 11 years old. And now, 6 years later, only 53 pages into the 7th and final book, she's dead. And, no more than a half a page was dedicated to this tragic event.

Now, you may say that I'm overreacting- she's just an owl, right? Not even a major character. Not nearly as important as Sirius or Dumbledore or Ron or Hermione or Lupin or even Ginny. She doesn't deserve so much attention. But that's not true- if I've learned anything at all about what Dumbledore or Ron or Hermione or Sirius or Lupin thought was right, it's that all creatures are equal- all types of living things should be treated with the same respect and, going by that rule, Hedwig is possibly Harry's very best friend in the world, right?

So why does she get this pathetic ending? It's as if she almost fades away without anyone even noticing, anyone even caring. Had someone skipped a paragraph of reading, they never would have even known she died. They would have assumed that she was just mentioned less or left behind on their grand adventure or killed so unimportantly that J.K. Rowling didn't even bother to mention it. I don't think that Hedwig deserves that, do you?

Real-world Mudbloods

Harry Potter is perhaps the most realistic fantasy book, ever. I know what you're thinking- I'm crazy. And though I do love Harry Potter with all my heart and though it pains me to say this, no- I do not believe that dragons exist, or hippogriffs, or giant spiders or 3 headed dogs. And though I pray to be proven otherwise everyday, neither does Harry. He's not real, Ron's not real, Hermione's not real, and Hogwarts is not real.

So, you're now you're thinking "ok, she's not crazy but, I still don't get it, if none of this is real, then what's the realistic part?". The realistic part is the people (and no, I don't mean that werewolves or giants or wizards are realistic) but, the realistic part is that the basic way that their society works is so similar to ours, especially as young people. Which is what, I think, make this books so universally loved- everyone can connect to it.

The feelings that go on in adolecents are similar to those of the ones in real-world teenagers. Fame still exists, stores and banks and schools still exist. It is our world, with an added element- magic.

But what makes it the most like the world we know is perhaps, discrimination.

The discrimination against muggles or "mudbloods" perpetrated by certain pureblood wizards throughout the series is similar to the discrimination that has been going on in our own world since the beginning of time. The thinking that they are superior to muggles is the same thinking Hitler had with killing so many jews, it is the same thinking Americans had in enslaving African Americans. It is the same thing that went through the settlers minds when they invaded and took over the Native Americans' land and resources, and when the English colonized America. J.K. Rowling took something very true and used it to make this book more human, more... well... real.

I turned page 607 and prepared to read the next word- I remember feeling so wonderful at that moment, curled up in a sleeping bag beside my fellow classmates on the hard but inviting floor of Ms.Wexlers 6th grade ELA classroom. I was the only one really reading in the reading marathon- it had just begun and i was already deep into my book while everyone else scanned magazines and ate starburst. My eyes searched the next page- nothing. There was nothing. Nothing at all. That was it. Then it hit me.

Harry Potter was over.

For good.

And that's when I started to cry.

In the middle of 7th period ELA I started to cry like a little girl.

I'd hit the end of the line- there would be no more long nights just reading Harry Potter for hours on end, there would be no more opening fresh pages and fresh books with words and and themes and ideas just waiting to happen. No more running out of rooms and hiding in closets with my ears between my knees singing Jingle Bells as loud as possible when my mom and brother talked about The Deathly Hallows to avoid accidental spoilers.

And at that moment- in my dorky flannel pajama's and L.L bean sleeping bag, in school with all the tears and running mascara and strange looks- my heart just broke into a million pieces. I've never quite been satisfied with any book I've read since that day. Nothing has ever had that strong of an effect on me. Don't get me wrong- I still have books I like and books I love, and reading remains on the top of my facebook list of hobbies and interests- there has just never been a book that touched me in the way that Harry Potter did.

So naturally, you would think that as soon as The Tales of Beetle The Bard came out I would, like every other devoted Harry Potter fan, snatch it up, ecstatic and devour the stories that were as close as I would ever get to another Harry Potter book. However, I did quite the opposite- since my brother bought it, it was on our living room bookshelf right next to the rest of the series- but, I avoided the book at all costs. I hated it. I really really hated it. It felt like a fake book. Like one of those books that are written by other authors once the original one is dead (even though J.K. Rowling wrote it). The kind that are written when everyone knows the book cannot continue and that's the next best thing. It felt like that book was just created for money, which disgusted me- I thought that Harry Potter was an amazing piece of literature and if it was over, it was over. It shouldn't be stretched out for more money. But, more than this, it felt like a tease- it wasn't Harry Potter- he wouldn't be in it, and neither would Hermione or Ron or any other character that I missed having the company of. It was just stories from their world- there would be no mention of how they were doing or what had become of their friends- it was just there to tease me.

The other day, however, rushing out of the house in the morning, impulse made me reach up to that shelf and take down The tales of Beetle the Bard. I'm not sure what or why but, something inside of me kept saying "why not? go for it! give it a chance, just a chance". And now, I'm about halfway through it, giving it a fair chance, and I'm honestly so glad that I did. I'll admit that about this one thing, I was wrong. This book is not a tease, not really. And it is, in a way about the characters that I love- not directly but, about their childhood. When I read these stories I can see them being read to Ron by Mrs.Weasley, Hermione studying them as a teenager, and Harry reading them to his own children, giving them the magical upbringing he never had and remembering his journey as a kid and young man.