It took three years, a lot of coaxing and putting him in a partial food coma to seal the deal, but I finally got my husband to convert.
“Read the first three books,” I wheedled, “and you’ll be a believer.”
My husband loathes children’s books, science fiction and “anything with gnomes and wizards and all that lame stuff.” His idea of a pulse-quickening beach read is a thousand-page tome on US foreign policy from 1918 to 1939. But one night a couple of months ago, after the fourth chicken taco, he began to give in. Six books later, he’s a bona fide Potterhead. Victory.
Now we’re waiting together for the seventh and supposedly final book in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. At one minute past midnight on Saturday morning, we’ll be among the salivating fans who’ll be snatching up copies of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.”
Finally, the answers to so many burning questions: Will Harry avenge his parents’ deaths? Will Severus Snape redeem himself? Will Ron ask Hermione out? Will Lord Voldemort, the biggest baddy in children’s literature, finally snuff it?
You’d think a theory-swapping, fan-fiction-loving superfan like myself would be ecstatic.
But I’m heartbroken.
I don’t want this journey I’ve taken with Harry and his plucky gang to end.
Once upon a time, I despised Harry Potter books. (That was, naturally, before I’d read them.) Like any self-respecting college student, I detested anything mainstream. And in my freshman year, Rowling’s boy-wizard books were more ubiquitous than Muggles on the Metro at rush hour.
“Children’s tripe,” I sneered. “I’d rather read something meaningful, like Faulkner or Joyce.”
But one sunny Saturday, when I was home with the flu and everyone else was at a music festival, a friend left the first book, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” on my bed. My stubbornness weakened by a virulent infection, I began to read.
By Chapter Two, contempt had been replaced by grudging interest. By Chapter Six, I was hooked. I finished the second and third books in days. And then I was introduced to the bane of every Harry Potter fan’s existence:
The waiting.
Months for Book IV, “The Goblet of Fire.” Years for the rest. The wait for each new volume was so torturous that I resolved to find company for my misery.
My brother, a film-development executive, was already planning to read the books. I lent him my copy of “Sorcerer’s Stone.” I bought my other brother, a product manager who’s a sloth about finishing books, the series for his birthday. After that, I exclaimed loudly about how great the books were whenever my roommate, a snobbish literature student, was around. She read them on the sly at work. Recent converts include my best friend and my mum-in-law, who alleges that she doesn’t like fantasy.
Far-flung fans shared in my misery as well: My cousins in Pakistan had to wait at least an extra month after each release date before they got their hands on Books IV and V. “Tell us what happens,” they pleaded over the phone. (I wouldn’t.)
But sharing the books’ brilliance and the agony of waiting for them just wasn’t enough. So — go ahead and laugh, I don’t care — I went online and discovered Harry Potter websites. I had no idea how many people visited them. One, MuggleNet.com, gets more than 30 million hits a month from visitors in 183 countries.
At first, I just checked out the news. I wasn’t so dorky as to participate in any of the discussions. But eventually I jumped in. That hurdle conquered, I was open to the next level: Fan fiction. This is where troubadours of all things Harry develop their own stories, extending Harry’s world and creating new ones. And some of their work isn’t half bad. Really.
When I’d had my fill of fan sites and fiction, I turned to other books ... about Harry Potter. The staff of MuggleNet.com released a book called “What Will Happen in Harry Potter 7?” Sounds silly, right? A book about a book that isn’t even out yet? Who would buy that? It has sold 300,000 copies.
The other day, I was in the living room reading another Harry Potter theory book, “The Great Snape Debate,” by Amy Berner, Joyce Millman and Orson Scott Card. My sister-in-law saw it and scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re reading a book about characters in another book,” she said. “That is so lame.”
Her comment made me wonder what it is that makes fans love these books, that has made us stick with them for years and seek out those who feel the same way. Is it, as so many critics say, just escapism? An addiction to cotton-candy reading?
Yes, it has its light moments, but the Potter series isn’t all fluff. Harry loses his parents and several allies, is tortured, has his mind broken into and faces all sorts of dangerous beasts, while retaining his good humor and a stubborn streak of bravery. Rowling comments on prejudice, loneliness, the often life-altering angst of young adulthood and the bonds of family and friendship. All with a wicked sense of humor.
As I’ve read and reread the books, I’ve been reminded of some important things. That the world isn’t divided into only good and evil, but that there are all kinds of people in between — with all kinds of stories. That you shouldn’t just fight for truth and justice, but hold your head high as you do it. That love is infinitely powerful and infinitely complex as well. And that you should never forget what it’s like to be young.
So on Friday night, I’ll sneak out of work early to meet my husband at a bookstore where we can join other Potterheads in the ultimate rite of nerdiness: Book-release revelry. We’ll get our copies of “Deathly Hallows,” and my husband will have to guide me through the parking lot as I start reading. We’ll stay up all night (or I will, anyway) to finish.
But when morning comes, I’m sure I’ll be in tears, even if Harry doesn’t get smoked by Voldemort. I’ve spent the past six years finishing Potter books and thinking, “All right, I’m ready for the next one.” But this time, there is no next one.
What could I possibly read that will capture my imagination the way Rowling’s books have?
Something tells me Faulkner and Joyce aren’t going to cut it.
