I was a senior in college when Harry Potter came out. My younger brothers and sisters devoured the books and tried in vain to get me to read them. I resisted–at first because I was in completely the wrong sort of place in my life to enjoy young adult fiction–and later because I got it into my head that I wanted to read the books with my children.

When I decided this, I didn’t have any children, but I was always planning what my unnamed, unborn children would read. My childhood had been spent devouring Ramona, Trixie Belden, the Little House books, Louisa May Alcott’s books, and every word written by L.M. Montgomery and I wanted to share every book with them. Dragging my husband through Powell’s, I would see a forlorn copy of Where the Red Fern Grows and purchase it, insisting that someday I would read it to my children. I spent years looking for a copy of No Flying in the House, which had been my favorite of the thirty books my second-grade teacher read to us. (It has since been reissued and is easy to find). But I realized that reading a book for the very first time and re-reading a book are completely different experiences. The desperation of needing to know whether Anne and Gilbert end up together created a feeling I never experienced again. No matter how many times I read the books (9 times).

When the subject of Hogwarts came up, I excused myself–mentioning my lofty goal of remaining spoiler-free. I did not want to know one event that happened in Harry’s world before I read about it with my own children. I was pretty successful. One of my most joyous parenting days was when I looked up to find both of my children with their heads tucked down in the particualr tilt of a reader. I knew then it was time for Harry Potter.

This summer we read the first book and most of the second. It was glorious–exactly what I’d hope. My daughter was hooked–reading ahead of me. I kept up in my own copies. But then, she went back to school and the one detail I failed to account for in my quest to remain spoiler free is third-graders. It turns out third grade is when the know-it-all-itis hits. Some of the children had seen all of the movies. One or two of the children had already read all 7 of the books. And once Sofia started to talk about her love of Hermione and Harry to her classmates, spoilers started flowing fresh and fast.

Harry marries Ginny.

I knew that would surprise you. It did me. My daughter managed to sneak that one out on me in the car when I was only half-listening to her chatter.

Hermione marries Ron.

Now, I’m not sure I believe this one. I think sometimes eight-year olds might get their facts mixed up, but my daughter assures me that this is absolutely correct and that I must come to terms with it.  Following this revelation (which I still do not fully believe) I explained to my daughter the concept of spoilers and she has promised to keep any other enormous revelations (especially about Voldemort) to herself. I shall trust my lovely internet not to spoil any other events in the series as well, because each of you know the joy of being surprised by a book.