The characters in this book are fine. I don’t hate them. They aren’t very nice people but they are in a Shirley Jackson book, after all. Still, they are not too offensive. This book has most of the stuff I like: a eunuch librarian, a premonition of Armageddon, pie, unattractive shrubbery. But I crawl through it with a listless malaise that I haven’t experienced since I accidentally took nighttime cold medicine at 8 a.m.

I blame J.K Rowling.

In keeping with my trend of being seven years behind every trend, I have just now finished the Harry Potter books. J.K Rowling spent seven books ingeniously developing several story lines, several subplots, and – most importantly – several characters, and we all (some sooner than others) spent seven books loving them.

After spending so much time with Harry Potter and his talented companions, it’s sad to leave the land of Hogwarts and come back to the land of, well, other fiction. I trundle through this book with the sad knowledge that Hermione Granger is not going to apparate at The Three Broomsticks and say something very logical.

And nothing else Potter is going to happen, either. There is zero chance of a Patronus in any form, the Snape question has been answered, Ron and Tonks and Lupin will not make an appearance. I will not read about Dumbledore’s Army, Neville Longbottom, or Luna Lovegood.

I am clearly suffering from some sort of literary separation anxiety.

And before you say it, I know I’m coming late to the Harry Potter party. I stated my woes to my brother, an avid fan who was on time to the Harry Potter party, and he simply replied: “Yeah, the rest of us went through this shit seven years ago. Welcome to our world.”

But I don’t like this world!

This isn’t the first time I have been bit by the post something depression.

I had a similar problem after watching three seasons of The Walking Dead in three weeks – this was two years after it was popular; therefore I was five years ahead of my scheduled trend. Non-zombie television just wasn’t the same after watching the living dead eat people I had grown to like.

Frasier Crane might botch his Duck à l’Orange before a big date, but as long as his date doesn’t bite his face off he will get over it. Adrian Monk can’t find his wife’s killer, but his wife’s living corpse isn’t going to eat him in the woods.

Regular television gets a little boring when you know that everyone in the program is going to survive the episode. Average sitcoms don’t rouse that much adrenalin when there is no chance of a cannibalistic evisceration.

Still, this post depression is a testament to solid writing and character development. If Harry Potter and his chums weren’t lovable, relatable characters then I wouldn’t miss them. If The Walking Dead wasn’t engaging, intense, and full of real characters, then I might watch Frasier without secretly hoping for a herd of walkers to come through Café Nervosa.

I wish I had gone through this Potter depression seven years ago when there were support groups I could join. Guess I’ll start researching post Game of Thrones depression support groups now.

Any advice on getting over my Post Potter Depression?