The new Harry Potter book is only five days away. I've had it on pre-order since January. I'm above average excited. My husband could care less. I told him he should really care about this last one. Because Harry might die. And, let's just be clear, I could potentially flip my lid if Harry dies. He deserves to live. He's been through a lot. Life is unjust enough as it is. Kill anyone else. Just not Harry. Or Ron. Or Hermione. But that's it. I swear. Everyone else is fair game.
After I was done subjecting my husband to my whole "Harry Potter Can't Die" dissertation I reminded him about the last book. Specifically, how sad and blue I was at the end. His memory is practically a sieve so I recreated the scene for him. Me, teary eyed. Him, stuck comforting me for an hour. Technically, I wasn't crying the whole hour but there was a lot of moping and sighing. It lingered with me.
As my excitment builds for Saturday, I'm currently preparing my world for its arrival. I'm finishing up the book I'm currently reading. I'm plotting how I can trick my kids into letting me read 12 hours a day. And I'm opening a fresh box of tissues. Just in case. But that still doesn't mean it's okay to kill Harry.