I read the first four Harry Potter novels eight times while waiting for the fifth to come out. So, at the very least, J.K. Rowling’s seven-book series taught me dedication. Some might say that was a bit excessive, but I’ve also not eaten beef or pork since 2003 because of a New Year’s resolution to “see how long I could do it,” so I just naturally take things seriously. This is especially true of things that have to do with reading, and spending my formative years with Harry Potter and the other magical misfits has qualified the series to be something I take the most seriously. Do not start a fight with me on this subject because you will not win, and we might not be friends at the end of it. I’m a peaceful person at heart, but I will throw down the gauntlet over HP; ask my husband.

These days, it seems fair to say that if a person threw a Harry Potter book into a crowd, it would hit several fanboys/girls before hitting the ground. It’s probably also fair to say that it wouldn’t touch the ground because said fans would throw their bodies under it like they were protecting a baby that tumbled out of a window. (Unless it was Chamber of Secrets . . .) Being a part of Harry Potter culture is a lifestyle. It’s like a low-level form of the mafia; once you’re in, you’re in for life. No exceptions.

I think that’s what I love the most about being a fan of the series — it’s the first time reading really made me feel like I was part of this secret-society family. Potterheads, party of millions. At any given moment, I am passing a Potterhead on the street, reading one of their tweets or status updates, or sleeping next to one (always the same one). Though I’ve now become privy to a whole digital world of people who love reading just as much as I do, the Worldwide Nation of Potterdom will always hold a special place in my heart. It made childhood that much more bearable.

I can’t rightfully call pre-middle school Nicole a loner. I lived two houses down from my best friend, participated in a team sport, and did jazz dance. But that same best friend was a competitive dancer, so she was often MIA, and my extracurriculars only took up a handful of hours every week; I had a lot of leftover hours to be dedicated to solo activities. Sometimes that involved playing Harriet the Spy in my house and backyard, but usually it just meant I was reading. As a result, I was way more into books than most kids I knew, and it got to be a bit of a problem. Youngsters tend to give you funny looks when you pull out a book during lunch. Some of the bolder ones even had the nerve to ask why I was reading instead of [insert more socially acceptable way of passing the time]. So for years, I was the weird yet sociable kid with a higher-than-average reading level and — surprise, surprise — glasses. Despite everything my current personality would suggest, I actually didn’t care at all about what people thought of my reading habits. What I cared about was the lack of people with whom I could fan-girl over books. Then, the world (and J.K. Rowling) saw fit to end my suffering and give the American children of 1998 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Suddenly, reading was the hip thing to do. That might be exaggerating the tiniest bit, but it felt true to me at the time. As the series continued and its popularity rose, there were a lot more people who were willingly ready to talk about books. Once Sorcerer’s Stone hit theaters in 2001 — and after I got over my initial distrust of Daniel Radcliffe’s ability to play a character I already considered to be iconic — I knew I was in the middle of something amazing. At the very least, I knew a big part of my life was going to involve riding on the HP bandwagon with my hands in the air and a good-natured whoop waiting in the back of my throat. When I moved (back) to Texas in 2002 and dealt with the traumatizing experience of being the new kid during the second semester of sixth grade, I theoretically had at least one icebreaker in my arsenal. When all else fails, talk Potter. In hindsight, I’m sure that would’ve worked a lot better than my go-to move, which was to complain about how much Texas sucked.

As if J.K. Rowling hadn’t done enough for me by bringing Harry and friends to life, she also helped me develop my critical thinking skills when it came to reading. This is arguably something that one learns in school, but it often felt like all I’d learned was to say the kinds of things that teachers wanted to hear about books that I didn’t really care about. The first time I actually had any fun digging deep into the mechanics of a book came from all the debates regarding theories, plot points, and character motivations in the HP series.

Years after the finales of both the books and movies, I still get excited when talking about anything even remotely related to the franchise. I recently reread the series after buying a box set (with new covers!), and I ended up writing out over 40 debate topics, questions, and theories that popped into my head while traipsing through the Hogwarts grounds. For fun! And I still carry those points around in my purse, just in case they become at all relevant in conversation.

The most consistent hits on my blog are courtesy of two posts I made theorizing how the series would be different if Harry had been a girl. Sure, it’s not a lot of hits, but still! Thinking about Harry Potter has been way more beneficial for me than any conversation about whatever dust-covered relic written by a well-off dead guy is being forced on me by the literati of today. And way more entertaining.

It’s an unequivocal privilege to be a first-generation reader of the series. I say first-generation because my ages over the course of the publication of the series aligned almost perfectly with the ages of the characters. It was much more accurate when the movies came out, but I think a three-year-or-less gap is perfectly acceptable. I can’t imagine being a kid today, reading about Harry, Ron, and Hermione for the first time. It just doesn’t sit right in my mind. It’s common knowledge that the subject material matured across the later books, delving deeper into the darkness of loss, the pressures of living up to potential, and the emotional cleanse of redemption, and I wonder how well kids today can appreciate that when they get to read the books as quickly as they want to. Having the time to mature little by little while waiting for the next book to come out is something I look back at and cherish. My mental and emotional capacities were ever-changing (and probably still are), and having the characters doing it alongside me was one of the best things that ever happened in my life. In a world full of trendy trilogies, my heart goes out to the children who’ll never get to have the experience I had.

Obviously, there are better books than Harry Potter; hell, there are better books that are also about teenage wielders of magic. And there are better authors than J.K. Rowling. There are plot holes and boring bits and unresolved issues that no amount of time on Pottermore will ever fix. But no book has done for me what the Harry Potter series has. There is no other author who has touched my life in this way. Not even Rainbow Rowell, as much as I love and revere her. These books helped me grow up (although I may never get over the injustice of not receiving a Hogwarts acceptance letter.) This British woman who I’ve never met made it possible for me to belong. She and Harry gave me a family both in and out of the real world. I could thank them a million times over for a million things. But I think the best way to say thanks is to simply say . . . mischief managed.