Dear Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,
To borrow some words from Christina Rossetti (a woman with more command of language than I could ever hope for) “I wish I could remember that first day,/ first hour, first moment of your meeting me”. Yes, that’s more than a little melodramatic for a blog barely anyone reads but the sentiment rings true enough. I don’t recollect all of the circumstances of how you came into my life and it doesn’t seem right. You were a gift from my father, that much I do know, but I don’t know what prompted it. Was it a special occasion? Was it simply a consequence of everyone being Potter mad? Whatever the reason, one year after your initial release a copy with the adult cover was placed into my hands and an unbreakable connection was made.
I wrote my name in you because that’s what we did then. I took you to school and read you during reading time. I have a vivid memory of my form teacher rolling her eyes when she saw what I was reading and saying “not another one”. I was embarrassed. I felt like I’d got a question wrong even though I didn’t really know I was taking a test. Looking back now I’m just embarrassed for her. Yes, I was a 10 year old jumping on the bandwagon but I was passionate about reading. I’d always read as a child but you awoke something in me. You turned me from casual reader to book lover. You started me down the path that I’m still following to this day. The path of Bookstagram, buying more than I’m reading, and owning multiple editions of books I’ve not read for years. I’m stuck in a world full of things I need to read and cursed to live a life without the necessary years to finish the job. And it was you who created me.
You were the one. The Frankenstein to my bookish monster. I loved you. I consumed you. I lived you. This was the first time I’d experienced real, true book obsession. I read and reread you. I knew you inside and out. I craved the next instalment and I over-analysed ever detail in between. I discussed you non-stop with my friends and looked up theories on the internet. I read terrible fanfiction. I wrote terrible fanfiction. I loved your characters and I hated them. I loved you and I hated you. I needed you. You filled me with joy and you broke my heart. You pulled me in and never let me go. I’d never been through something like this before and, if I’m honest, no fandom has compared to this since.
But the course of true love never did run smooth. There’s no point pretending our relationship has alway been successful. As the years went by I grew up, as human beings are wont to do. But you, my dear Philospher’s Stone, remained as youthful as ever. You’re Peter Pan but I, my love, am Wendy. My memories of Neverland will never fade but, unfortunately, I cannot make repeated journeys back. In recent years, I’ve fully read you only once. I’m sorry but I can’t do it. You were never an example of groundbreaking and beautiful writing and that is more obvious now I’ve discovered examples of genuinely breathtaking prose. You are painfully naive and childish (and I’m saying this as a 30 year old who still plays with plastic swords). I can’t reread you as I once did. I’m sorry.
Don’t despair, though. You were never popular because of what you were but because of what you represented. You are a great story full of great characters. You are the feeling of being included and being part of something greater. You show us that no matter how bleak the outlook, there is always hope. There is always love. There is always you. I might never reread you or your siblings again but that doesn’t matter. I know that the person I was is still inside me. I solemnly swear that I’m still up to no good. I know the memory of our time together is still resides within. I’ll always shed a tear when I remember the pointlessness of Lupin’s death. I’ll always be angry about the way Snape ended up. I’ll always hate the fucking epilogue and The Cursed Child. I’ll always care.
I wish I could remember the moment we first met. That I could go back now and savour that moment when my life changed. But that’s the problem with significant moments: they’re only noticeably significant after the fact. For the sake of symmetry, let’s turn back to Christina Rossetti: “It seemed to mean so little, meant so much,/if only now I could recall that touch,/ first touch of hand in hand – did one but know!” It’s been quite a journey Philosopher’s Stone and, I’d like think, it’s not over yet.
Who is Murdocal? A casual critic who is a little bit too obsessed with pop culture. A young woman who swears and rants much more than she knows she should whilst trying to make her way in an adult world she isn't prepared for. A not as recent as she'd like literature graduate who, between job applications and subsequent rejections, has turned to the internet to fight the boredom and review the shit out of everything.
"Maybe, just maybe, I'm the faller. Every family has someone who falls, who doesn't make the grade, who stumbles, who life trips up. Maybe I'm our faller."