My mother has never been a great reader of fiction, at least in my lifetime. My grandmother tells me she was a voracious reader as a child. But I did manage to get my mom into the Harry Potter books when they were coming out. Traditionally, when a new book was released, I would read it in one sitting, then pass it along to her.

I remember when I read Half-Blood Prince for the first time, I threw the book across the room when Dumbledore died and sat with my arms folded, sulking, on the couch. I don’t know how long I sat like that my mom came in and found me and asked me what was wrong. I told her Dumbledore had died. “No, he didn’t,” she told me. “He did,” I insisted (apparently entirely unbothered by spoiling the ending for her), “Snape killed him. He fell off the astronomy tower. He’s dead.”

We continued this argument on and off for years, even after Mom had read book six and both of us had read book seven. A few months ago this topic came up again. “I still say Dumbledore’s not dead,” she told me. “Mom,” I said with a sigh. “It’s been over a decade since that book came out. It’s not up for debate. Dumbledore’s dead.”

“No, he’s not,” she said again. “Just open up book one, and there he is.”