My Five-Year-Old-Self has found satisfaction.

Last night, on a spontaneous whim, my boyfriend took me to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: part 2. This series has been a constant throughout my childhood, woven into the fabric of my development, and etched into my heart. It is no exaggeration when I say I am emotionally attached to the characters of Harry Potter.

For the past fourteen years I have known and grown up with Harry, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. I can’t remember every plot detail but I can tell you silly things like: Remus’ son is named after his wife’s father, Teddy. Don’t try playing HP trivia games with me.

During the seventh film, when Harry discovers Snape’s past and learns what he must do to kill Voldemort, the tears flooded over my cheeks and down my neck. Here was the moment where my fantasy hero was closest and lost to me all at once: a moment where Harry – self-absorbed dick that he is – is braver than I could ever be. I wanted to wail, which is unlike me. I wanted to sob my heart out but somehow I manged to half-strangle myself into silence.

For those who have invested a huge chunk of themselves into the series, this film pulls it all together. It’s not the end, it’s satisfaction. Fourteen years is very a long time to love and wait for visual indulgence.

Many criticise the epilogue and I admit to hating it when I read it for the first time, too. It seemed corny, tacky and downright cheap to my fifteen year old self. But now that I’ve watched it, seen all the films this past week with an older perspective, I feel complete. Everything has been tied up and I think fans deserve that. Having watched the epilogue I feel utterly explosive (in an epic, liberated and satisfied sort of way) and perhaps that’s because I’m now planning and making my own future – my adult life: children, a career, a home…

I’ve grown up with Harry. Thank you, Joanne Kathleen Rowling. I can’t wait to read to my children, as my father did for me.