It all began, a couple of four years ago when I started. My Mom came across a book with a dragon(looked like it, anyway. It was a Hippogriff.) and a boy sitting on it along with a girl, on it's cover. By some impulse, she bought the book under the impression that her underage, handsome looking son might perhaps override his birthday demands for that year. Under a starry sky, at the eleventh hour, when the whole world was asleep and his highness was swatting mosquitoes at the bus stop with a rolled up newspaper that did not resemble a newspaper from any angle, his Mom came from behind and thrust this weird looking parcel containing ink, printed on pages and compiled into a book, into the hand that was not directly involved in 'Project Anopheles'. Surprise. Apprehension. And irritation as another mosquito entered the unspeakable region and stung rather hard.
I went home and shelved it away for another lighter day, after giving a weird look at the weirder cover and even weirder title. Who would name anybody Potter? Why not carpenter or Pilot or even Bootlegger? I slept peacefully dreaming of bikini clad females, sitting on dragons and whooping as the dragon breathed fire and burnt all my clothes and hair.
A couple of weeks later, after a rather terrible day that included a bad test and a squabble with my brother, Orangutan over a bar of Toblerone, I was searching for my map workbook when I came across it again. I took the book and thought: maybe it won't be as bad as watching Shaktimaan and settled to give it a read. The journey began.
The book was simply too good. I made my Mom get all the rest (The fourth part had just released). I was simply thrilled when I finished all the remaining three within two days. I kept re-reading and re-reading. The thrill never ran out. I could not wait for the fifth book. It did come. But it carried with it, a length tag that had many numerals. I started getting bored halfway through. Even though, I liked it on reading it again, the thrill was gone. It was a dampened chimp, awaiting the sixth book which was even dumber. I could not believe, that anybody could be that die-hard enough to expect the seventh to be good. My interest had petered out. The suspense built in the first four books was out and too many concepts were delved into, with neither coherence or sequence.
Eight years down the line, after those two nasty versions, here I am. Sitting. Reading. Racing against time. Waiting and revising the fifth and the sixth book.
In all preparation for the seventh.
For The Deathly Hallows.
It might have been weak but faith will rule. I am sure. And it has never failed me so far.