As I trace the last line of "The Deathly Hallows" I feel both elated and dissapointed. The prospect of never having to wait on a line in the thick of July, engulfed by a sea of strangers seems foreign and unsavory. The delight in the torture seems a distant ache of a memory.
From the moment my gaze reaches the first overproduced ink, I am a goner. Pausing only after the dull pounding in my head, sleep overcomes my curiosity. Fingers entwined around the binding, bookmarking my place. Finally Saturday afternoon (six anguished hours in the morning dedicated to a newspaper interview as a reporter comes to my house) I settle the book neatly onto the shelf.
Initial protests occurs early in the book, as early as page ten as questions lead me to ask if Rowling truly left her mark. Is Harry simply older, sophisticated and polished through a summer of anguish and unwarranted deaths? Or does Rowling relinquish the author's rights to corporate editors through and through. Is it an apeasement to public taste? Who knows? Because by page twenty, none of that matters.
Early reviews reveals book seven's violent nature and they're right... it's a blood-bath. Characters we hold dear to our hearts are forever lost. It's not fairy-tale trickery, there's no magic potion for their revival, no magic prince to kiss a poisoned princess... it's ugly, it's cruel and more than that, it's permanent. They die without reason or warning, and as Harry suffers through his twelfth (but not last... not last by far) death in book 7, it's numbing. He digs out Dobby's grave crudely by hand and I feel his heavy sorrow. He'll never be the same. But that's life, wizard or muggle... pain is inescapable and not even magic can erase the shadows of death.
I bow down to the author, whether it be Rowling, Scholastic-hired, WB-hired... it's inconsequential at best. May I dare say, brilliant? The character development is magnificent and the story-line boasts something even more beautiful. Love, deceptions, betrayal, friendship carries onto the bitter end. And just when you think that your heart might burst from the misery of it all, it picks you up with a tearful smile. The half-deserted hope is not unwarranted.
Snape... oh Snape.
Evoremore - It's Too Late (Dirty South Remix)