On Harry Potter

I was first read Harry Potter when I was seven years old. I had asked my dad if he would read it to me, because although I knew I could handle the first three books, I didn’t think I could read the last four because of their size (this was still that period of your life when you thought book difficulty was measured in how many pages they were). My sister had read almost all of them and because I wanted to be like her, I went to my dad. We read all 4,244 pages together. And it only took us six months.

I loved the books. I could imagine myself with Harry the whole way, and fantasized about what it would be like to be a witch. For a while, I think I was partially convinced this world was real and that J.K. Rowling had written an almost expose-like series on what life in this world was like. Although I knew deep down that there was little chance of this being true, I clung to this hope for years. I’d watch and rewatch the movies and bought wands with my sister and even bought a replica of Hermione’s time turner, just so I could feel connected to this world.

For years Harry Potter remained something I loved. When I turned eleven, I was fully expecting my letter from Hogwarts, just like thousands of kids my age. Of course, I was disappointed. But I moved on. When I reached middle school, I did something that unfortunately lots of middle schoolers do: conform to peer pressure. Even though a few of the girls who I made friends with at my new school liked Harry Potter, my best friend didn’t. So I pretended I didn’t either. For a few years, I forgot what I had loved about the series and feigned interest in Justin Bieber and Gossip Girl.

And then, as soon as it had come, I was leaving middle school. Over the summer between my last year at my middle school and my first at Uni, I went to live in Stockholm, where my parents had been for the last few months on sabbatical. There, my sister decided to reread the series. After almost two years of faking disinterest, I could finally read them again. I had forgotten just what I’d loved about them: the wizarding world, the genius female character, and the clear prose. I told myself I’d reread them every other year. I stuck true to this promise to myself. Two years later, in 2015, I reread the books, again while in Scandinavia. This time I caught things that I hadn’t before and noticed just how perfectly the storyline is woven throughout all seven books.

Just a year and a half later, I wanted to read them again. Reading them made me extraordinarily happy, and happy was what I needed to be. They helped me escape from my own life and surround myself in other people’s problems for a while. And six months later I reread them again. I’ve realized these books mean a lot more to me than any others I’ve read. And though many people who loved Harry Potter as kids read them for nostalgic purposes, if it’s possible, I love them more than the first time I read them just ten years ago.