This is Henry, aged thirteen, at 9:00 on a Saturday morning. A voracious reader, he came of age in the Harry Potter days, but he hated fantasy books and spurned what the rest of world devoured. While I enjoyed the first one, and Oliver knew the first as it was read aloud in class, our family might have been one of the only ones in the universe that hadn't seen any of the movies or read the entire oeuvre (because oeuvre is the proper word for the Potter franchise, isn't it?)
One of the requirements of an elective at school this year is to read the first Harry Potter book, and that's what he did, three weeks ago.
He's now on Book V and only grudgingly admits that they're good, setting himself the challenge to read all seven by November.
