Once upon a time, there was a 10th grader named Khanh who didn't get along with people very well. She wasn't an outcast in school, and all the bullying and teasing stopped with the commencement of high school, but she had always been a bookworm and has generally preferred the company of her own thoughts.
Lunchtime had always been dedicated not to eating, but to sitting in the library, browsing through books.
(Not to worry, she got her nutrition in 5th period in the form of a giant 6-inch M&M studded cookie and a package of Sour Patch Kids and/or a package of Reese's Pieces. Ah, the effortless metabolism of youth.)
One day, there were shiny new books on her school library's "New Releases" shelf. Harry Potter, books 1 through 3. She had heard of the books before, of course, since they were a constant presence on the NYT bestsellers list, but she had always avoided them, thinking of them as children's novels.
At the grand age of 14, surely she was too old for a little kid's fantasy novel. She had read the Outlander series earlier that year, after all. And it had sex in it. SEX! She didn't really quite understand everything in the book, but the point is, she had read them. Surely, at 14, Khanh was ready for more mature novels.
And that did not include Harry Potter. Harry Potter is 11. Khanh is 14. There is a vast difference in their ages. Khanh was a teenager, dammit.
But the Harry Potter books were new. Brand new. They were shiny, they had never been touched by another reader. And Khanh was tempted.
She picked up the first book in the series: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
Or rather, the beginning.