I was working my part-time barista job when I saw a regular customer for the first time in a while. She approached the counter, sunglasses perched on her nose, her white fluffy dog, Marshmallow, in her arms. We exchanged the usual “Hi, how are you?” and the excited “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” She ordered her usual drip coffee with a generous amount of oat milk and then asked, “Have you read anything good recently?” I replied, “I’m actually reading the Harry Potter series. For the first time ever.”
Her reaction to my declaration was incredulous. “How had I never read the series before?” The same remark that I had gotten from almost everyone else I had told about this first time read. My answer is always the same: I had watched the movies with my siblings before I was at the age to read the books. A situation that made me fall in love with the movies and fear the books for the subtle differences their pages might hold.
I had even started the first book once. It was a battered copy that had been handed down from one cousin to the next until it passed from my sister’s hands to mine. Like an ancient relic, it was cherished. But when I opened it, ready to experience the excitement of the wizarding world all over again, I was immediately taken aback by any off steps from the movies I knew so well. I retired the book, never to be picked up again.
Being a “potterhead” was always a part of my personality. To this day that remains true. When prompted on dating apps, “The dorkiest thing about me is…” the following answer would always be “I’m obsessed with Harry Potter”. I watched the movies religiously. My childhood was filled with all-night Harry Potter marathons that barely ever made it past the third movie — the rest were too scary for me to watch at night alone. My most prized possession was the entire Harry Potter collection I had on CD.
Despite my pride as being Harry Potter obsessed, I felt that I always lived in this other world. I was ashamed to admit that I had never read any of the books. I feared its truth would make me less of a potterhead. It was my own dirty secret. The shock of my best friend in high school, who was also Harry Potter obsessed, when I told her the ugly truth was, in fact, shaming. She even bought me the first book as a birthday present to encourage a second attempt at reading the series.
It wasn’t until about two months ago that I decided to finally pick up that book. I was ready to give it a real chance. It was winter break at FIT and I was going to spend the ensuing month with my parents in Florida. What better time to return to childhood pleasures?
When I popped open the first page and began to read I had to urge myself along. I dropped any expectations and read through the differences. And what I found was a whole new perspective on the story that I had never heard before. Reading the book felt like watching the movie, but with bonus scenes. Extra details made everything seem more clear. I wasn’t just watching Harry at Hogwarts, I was there with him. I was another one of the characters.
I finished the first book in two days and before I had even finished it, I had ordered the whole series to be delivered the next day. And once they were delivered, I could not stop reading. I read through the first three books in about two weeks. I then started the fourth book right before I returned to NYC for the start of spring semester. I had to part ways with the rest of the series, knowing that the shopping I had done over break would not allow the last, and very thick, books of the series to fit in my carry on suitcase. I hoped to return soon to retrieve them.
After I got back to NYC I started right in on the fourth book but tried to make it last as long as possible, knowing that there would be a break before I could read the rest of the series. Early in the morning or late at night I would spend my time reading through the triwizard tournament and all of the challenges and mysteries that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were facing.
One of my favorite past times, reading in a cafe while sipping on a hot coffee, was slightly more daunting when carrying a four hundred page book. I considered the way I might look sitting at that cafe, a college student reading Harry Potter in her free time. I even googled, “Am I too old to read Harry Potter?” to see how this might be perceived. But, while the average age of the Harry Potter reader is 12 to 13, there is never an age that is too old to read Harry Potter. The excitement and mystery still remain the same at 22 as they did at 12. I find myself captivated by the books and reading far past my bedtime, except now my mom isn’t around to tell me to turn off my light and go to sleep.
Reading the Harry Potter series for the first time at 22 years old might seem surprising or immature, but it’s one of the greatest escapes from the stress of school and work that I could have ever imagined. And I truthfully cannot wait till I get to start the fifth book.