There is nothing quite like the first time you get your hands on a new Harry Potter book; it’s an amazing moment, as magical as the story it holds within it’s pages.
I was seven-years old when The Philosopher’s Stone was first published, and along with many, many others of my generation, I went on to grow up with Harry Potter, to live and breathe Harry Potter, I even did work experience on one of the movies, and I will count myself eternally lucky that I got to do all that.
And now, here we are, nineteen years later, and we get to experience that magical new book moment all over again, with the release of The Cursed Child, but this time, something feels different. I don’t know whether they mixed up the Boomslang Skin with the Dandelion Root, but somehow it’s two weeks later and I still have a new unread Harry Potter book on my bookshelf.
Maybe it’s proof I’ve become a cynical adult. Maybe it’s like Wendy going back to Neverland, many years later, and realising Peter Pan is actually just really quite creepy and disturbed, but I’m really not sure whether or not I want to read it.
Deathly Hallows wasn’t perfect, and the less said about that epilogue the better, but it was the end. We’d done our waiting, ten years of it,
in Azkaban, and finally we had the ending the series deserved.
Yet here we are all over again, and I can’t help but think it all just screams…well…
And can you blame me? There are three new spin-off movies coming, there are theme parks popping up all over the place, and you can spend £100 to have a croissant and hot chocolate in The Great Hall.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no doubt that the play is enchanting, the roller-coaster is great fun, and that croissant is delicious, but it’s just making me feel that teensy bit sad seeing the thing so many of us treasured as kids become what is really starting to look like a sell-out.
And you know what they say…
…if it looks like a Hippogriff, squawks like a Hippogriff, and dances like a Hippogriff, then it probably is a Hippogriff.