I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read the books in the Harry Potter series. For years I listened to the audiobooks on my morning runs (before I discovered podcasts... eh hem, Harry Potter-themed podcasts).
I’ve lost count of the number of children I’ve brought into the world of Harry Potter through the audiobooks, too. I’ve seen legions of them pass through my classroom doors, many wearing round glasses and a eyeliner-penciled lightning scar on their forehead on the way out.
Each reader brought a different response to the story, to the characters, to the voices actualized to perfection by Jim Dale.
But one student’s response will stay with me.
Always. ⚡
Susan had been working her way through the series via the audiobooks for the better half of a calendar year. She’d started midyear as a third grader in my multi-age homeroom class. By early spring of her fourth grade year, she was reaching the end of book 6.
Spoiler alert: If you don’t yet know what happens atop the Astronomy Tower at the end of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, stop NOW! Walk away. Read Harry Potter. Then come back. I’ll wait.
When I sat down at my conferencing table on the quiet, sunny Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the hum of readers around the room that would suggest that devastating and shocking things were about to happen within the pages of a beloved book. (See what I did there? Some of you will. If not, perhaps it’s time for a reread?)
Susan was sitting cross-legged on a dilapidated bean bag with the book in her lap about ten feet away. She didn’t have her headphones on that day, and Jim Dale’s voice could be heard just over my shoulder. I’d just finished up a conference with another student when I heard, “Severus… please…”
Many years and multiple readings since I first heard those words, and my stomach still drops on cue.
I looked over my shoulder. Watching. Observing a moment of pure book love.
I knew this moment. The shock. Disbelief. Despair. Feeling in that minute as lost, alone, and helpless as Harry himself. Susan wasn’t sitting on the classroom floor. She was atop the astronomy tower.
This is what our greatest stories do, isn’t it? They bring us joy, excitement, and love alongside our characters. And they are absolutely devastating.
I wanted to leap across the room, hit pause on the iPad, and knock the book from her hands. Instead, I walked over and sat down next to her. We listened side by side as Harry’s last and greatest protectors fell. Together a few tears escaped.
We didn’t discuss the book that day. I didn't track her progress or discuss word choice. This wasn’t a “check for understanding” moment or even an instructional moment.
This was a “being a reader” moment.
Teachers, we know this about stories. That’s why we spend our days sharing books with kids, giving them the tools to unlock the magic.
We know the depth of emotions we’ve endured at the hands of our favorite stories. That’s why our bookshelves are stocked and our online shopping carts are always full.
Our favorite teacher educators know this, too. Penny Kittle and Donalyn Miller. Colby Sharp and Kylene Beers. To become readers, kids need books. They need books that fit them. Inspire them, make them laugh, make them cry, make them want to turn the page again and again.
We know it because that’s how we became readers.
What this story reminds me of, though, is how important it is to keep my reading life healthy and abundant. There is another level to the craft of building a reader, of building a relationship with a reader, and that is the moment of shared experience.
When you, too, can say, “I felt that way, too!”
So keep buying the books (local and independent, if you please). And keep reading them. Then hand them to the kids.
Be readers together.
