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suburban diary
There's magic in being a wiz kid
My 12-year-old daughter's appreciation for all things Harry Potter has always been a trifle over-the-top. Some (including me) might even call it obsessive.
She discovered the boy wizard in a normal-enough way, when a baby-sitter gave my then-3-year-old the first book in the series. "Louisa," she wrote inside, "you're probably too young to read this now, but I know you're going to love it someday."
How right she was. I read the first book to Louisa before she hit kindergarten; soon afterward, her father read her books two and three. (As scores of moms and dads with aching jaws know, reading those tomes aloud is nearly an act of parental heroism.)
In first grade, she lucked out with a Potter-loving teacher who incorporated discussions of the books into the curriculum. Louisa tacked Potter posters to her walls, built Potter Legos with her brothers, and learned to play the Potter movie score on the piano. She forged herself admission letters from Hogwarts, and daydreamed that she was, in fact, Harry's long-lost twin sister. For five years running, she crimped her hair, darkened her eyebrows, and became Harry's brainy friend, Hermione, for Halloween. And she passed the time between books by rereading the old ones, 10, 20, 50 times.
My brother found an article on the Internet about kids who were dangerously obsessed with Harry Potter. "You really should steer her in a different direction," he told me. As if . . .
But we instituted a rule that she was only allowed to read Harry Potter on weekends. She wanted to know if that included Fridays. Only after dinnertime, we told her.
She stuck to the rule, but her devotion to the world created by J.K. Rowling (whom Louisa has long referred to, reverentially, as "Jo") never waned. She and her friend, Noelle, also an extreme devotee, created a formidable website -- officialpotteriteorganization.com -- that offers, among other things, Potter quizzes that few casual fans could hope to solve.
I was growing a little tired of the whole phenomenon by the time we heard that Rowling would appear at a benefit reading at Radio City Music Hall in New York City (alongside two writers with apparently less draw, Stephen King and John Irving) last summer. Louisa and Noelle begged to go. As someone who enjoys a free evening-with-the-author at a local bookstore, I was opposed. But Noelle's mom pointed out that Rowling was our daughters' rock star. Wasn't it better to support her than Christina Aguilera? I couldn't argue with that.
When Rowling took the stage to the thunderous ovation of kids, teenagers, and readers of all ages, I was swept up in her glorious aura. "I may not be the best writer on this stage," she told us, with a wink toward King and Irving, "but I will say I have the best shoes." I fell in love with her and her silver pumps in that instant.
So, I was in a more-supportive frame of mind last Friday when the Big Night arrived.
Our festivities began in the afternoon, with a matinee of the latest Harry flick. Then we met Noelle and her mother at a restaurant in the Derby Street Shoppes in Hingham, near
After dinner, we were off to Harvard Square -- renamed Hogwarts Square for the evening -- where we rocked out along with thousands of costumed fans to the tribute band, Harry and the Potters, who kicked off their set with their punk-rock anthem "Voldemort Can't Stop the Rock."
By the time we returned to Hingham, the girls' excitement had reached a fever pitch. At Barnes and Noble, we were greeted by more costumed fans and color-coded wristbands that promised we had a long wait ahead. I dragged myself to the café for grande mocha with an extra shot of espresso.
Along the way, I began to notice some familiar faces, all somehow connected with Louisa. There was the boy who we met at library storytime when she was a toddler; the mom who befriended me when our girls were in preschool together; the Potter fan-turned-teenager who'd once Harry-chatted with Louisa at a neighborhood party.
And there, right up front, was Louisa's first-grade teacher, the first grown-up who had shared her Potter passion. She hugged Louisa tightly and I asked if she was there with her kids. No, she said, she was there for herself. "There was no way I could wait until morning for this book," she said. Louisa grinned with knowing satisfaction.
Early the next morning, Louisa finished the seventh and final book with tears staining her cheeks. She was happy with the ending, she said, but sad, so sad, it was over.
And it occurred to me that Harry's story, with all its ups and downs, has moved right in time with Louisa's childhood. She'll turn 13 in the fall, and, like Harry, will never be a kid again. For both of them, it's been a good ride.
Freelance writer Kathleen McKenna lives in Hingham. 
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.
