Heather Anne

This is one part review and one part summary and one part love story. I am, like Dumbledore, a sentimental fool. This review is chock full of plot details and spoilers; please don’t read it until you have finished the book.

There was a time -- though I barely remember it -- when I didn’t own a single scarf striped with red and gold; when I didn’t have an iPod named Dobby, a laptop named Kreacher, or a little white truck named Hedwig; a time when I did not threaten my fellow morning commuters with the Cruciatus Curse, and I didn’t use The Mirror of Erised to explain my feelings to my therapist. I call that the P.P. (Pre-Potter) Period now, and will forever be grateful for the epoch that Amy ushered into my life many years ago during a snowstorm, when she handed me her copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She’d been rereading and affectionately dog-earing it since 1999, and smiled knowingly as I took the book from her hands. My days as an unwitting Muggle were over; my Magical Era had begun.

Two years ago I stood in line at midnight at my local bookstore, chatting and laughing and shouting out a countdown as I waited to pick up my copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Two nights ago I stood in line at midnight at my local bookstore, pale-faced and chewing on my fingers, as I waited to pick up Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I have scarcely loved real people the way I’ve loved Harry, Ron and Hermione. I wasn’t sure I could recover if they died. And I have never been good with endings, even happy ones.

J.K. Rowling opens Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with two passages from other works: one from More Fruits of Solitude, and another from The Libation Bearers. I read the last line of the Aeschylus’ quote with a lump in my throat, and echoed it aloud, as softly and reverently as a prayer. “Bless the children, give them triumph now.”

For six books J.K. Rowling weaved an intricate and complex plot, asking more questions than she answered. It is their varying degrees of depth that reveal her brilliance. There were simple plot questions that had to be answered in The Deathly Hallows (Who is R.A.B., and where is the real locket?) to complex ones (Is Severus Snape the most abhorrent villain ever, or is he the best covert operative literature has ever seen?). And then there were questions with eternal repercussions. What’s the price of liberty? What’s the penalty for ignorance? When knowledge versus courage versus goodness versus cunning, what wills out? Can evil really be defeated? Can people really be redeemed?

In book seven, J.K. Rowling answered. And how.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows has the most tightly woven plot of all seven books, in large part because we don’t need to be introduced to new people or shown around many new places. Unlike books past, there is little need for exposition. The dialogue is crisp and clever. Every scene is rich with texture. We know the magical world now, and the motives of these characters, often times more even than we know our own.

The pacing of the seventh book is my favorite of the series. There were times when Phoenix bogged down a little, and times when I wished Half-Blood Prince would slow enough to let me catch my breath. And while I certainly felt the urgency of Deathly Hallows, and the imminent approach of an unprecedented Wizard Battle, I never felt rushed. Oh, I felt panicked. And I felt nauseas. But I never felt as if the story was running away from me.

I was more acutely tuned into Harry’s emotions in this book than any of the others; more deeply, in fact, than any book I have ever read, or story I have ever been told. I understood Harry’s dilemma, his yearning to reach out to Ginny, yet his inability to do so because he wanted to keep her safe. I was conflicted with him as he wrestled with the idea that Ron and Hermione might die for him. I rested in his giving way to needing them. I was desperate for Kreacher to believe him, to help him retrieve the locket. I was destroyed when Ron walked out, and overjoyed when his hands grasped Harry through the ice upon his return. When Hermione was being tortured, I sobbed until I could not see. When Dobby died, my tears splashed so heavily onto the book that it crinkled the page. When the entire wizarding world stood behind Harry to fight, I was overwhelmed with pride. And when Harry pressed his lips to the snitch and said, “I am about to die,” all of the color drained from my face, the air from my lungs.

I imagined later that all of the fans in the world were reading together, the same page at the same time. I knew we would mourn the same deaths, and be outraged over the same injustices. I knew we would laugh at Ron’s jokes, and shake our heads with admiration at Hermione. We would pump our fists in the air when we finally saw the unabashed hero in Neville. When the prodigal son returned, we would all cry out “Percy!” with open arms. When Harry revealed himself to McGonagal and gave the Cruciatus to the man who spat at her, we would have given a collective whoop. When Ron and Hermione finally, finally kissed, we would have cheered. And when Molly Weasley came flying out of the shadows at Bellatix Lestrange shouting, “NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!” we would have come to our feet with such clamor that the earth would have been knocked clear out of rotation.

The story was amazing, the characters, too. But my favorite part of The Deathly Hallows was the beautiful, wonderful, merciful theme of redemption.

I have staunchly maintained Snape’s guilt for the last two years, and continued to hate him through nearly the entire plot of The Deathly Hallows. But when the truth came out, I humbly swallowed all my words. How hard it must have been for Severus Snape with the likes of people like me! I was moved by Dudley’s concern for Harry, and crushed with grief for Narcissa, who, it turns out, would have sacrificed everything just to see Draco live. I’m glad -- to quote Ron -- that they saved the bastard’s life twice. The world is not split into good people and Death Eaters. It is our choices, far more than our abilities, that determine who we truly are.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is my favorite book in my favorite series of all time. I anticipate that these stories will always hold the top place on my bookshelf and the deepest affection in my heart. That Harry Potter lived, and that I got to join millions of others in waiting and reading and waiting and rereading his story all these years, has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life.

There are those, of course, who will always be skeptics. But not me.

J.K. Rowling made me believe in magic. Of course it happened inside my head, but why on earth should that mean that it isn’t real?