It was New Year’s Eve 1999, I had just started middle school in a new town, and I needed to read a book. Quick. I never really liked reading. I much preferred cartoons. But I only had until the end of Christmas Break (two days!) to finish my first book report. And as usual, I’d left reading to the last possible minute.
When our teacher assigned the book report in early December, she told us we could read whatever we wanted as long as it met certain guidelines. The book had to be more than a hundred pages. It had to have chapters. And finally no pictures! This was big kid business.
Letters from No One
A month after I received my book report assignment, I was in a panic, scouring my dad’s apartment for something, anything, that might satisfy my teacher’s requirements. But my dad was not the type of guy to keep books just lying around the house. Actually, I can say fairly confidently that neither of my parents has ever even finished a book.
I did remember my grandpa had gotten me a book for Christmas. But I couldn’t find it anywhere among the mess of Lego blocks and Pokémon cards that littered my bedroom.
New Year’s Eve also happens to be my birthday—a day I share with a certain dark wizard who shall not be named. So I spent my special day in misery secretly searching in vain for a book. I couldn’t bring it up to either of my parents, because then I’d have to admit that I knew about the report for a whole month and didn’t say anything.
I knew I at least had a second chance at my mom’s house later that evening. But that led to nothing as well. Unfortunately, neither of my parents are book people.
Journey from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters
Later, as my mom and I were leaving for my birthday party at the roller rink, we asked my new friends next door whether they wanted to drive with us (I’d invited them a few weeks ago). They told me they wouldn’t be able to make it to my party, because they were having their own New Year’s festivities at their house. But they were kind enough to hand me a birthday present before returning to their party.
It was about the size of a book. It was also rectangular like a book. And when I knocked on it, it was hard like a book, too. To be honest, I was pretty sure it was a book.
None of my new friends from school showed up to my birthday party. But that was OK, because the new Willennium was looking good. Y2K turned out to be nothing. Panama was finally getting their canal back. And I got Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for my 11th birthday.
Through the Trap Door
I didn’t end up finding the book my grandpa had gotten me until a few weeks later. It turned out to be Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets—the second book of the series. Apparently fate had this all planned out.
Sorcerer’s Stone was probably the first book I’d ever finished on my own. And I was done with it by the end of New Year’s Day. Not because I was so interested in getting my homework done (I still passed the book report in late), but because I actually liked what I was reading.
I was immersed in a way that I did realize was possible. I read the first chapter in bed as soon as I woke up in the morning. The next chapters I read over breakfast. Chapter seven still has crinkled pages from the steam of the shower I was pretending to take. And the last few chapters I read by nightlight curled up in bed.
The Mirror of Erised
I developed an actual relationship with the book in my hands, a bond created over time and physical intimacy which you can’t get with a half-hour episode of a cartoon.
That first day of the year 2000 I sowed the seeds of a twofold obsession. One that will probably last the rest of my life: An obsession with Harry Potter. And an even more treacherous obsession with books.