Harry Potter and the Deathly Readalong 1: Merlin had a saggy left . . . earlobe

I know this is the last book, and I haven’t been saying this for any of these posts . . . but it’s my duty to warn you that I am about to spoil the ever-fondled Horklumps out of this book. And that means spoiling the whooooole series. So watch yourself, you person who still hasn’t read the books and/or seen the movies. (I see you there, you last unicorn, you.)

So that William Penn quote at the beginning? “Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still”?

Just be straight with us, Rowling.

But I’m not ready to talk about that yet. NOT ready.

I just casually mentioned to my husband the other night that Rowling was getting out of control with her wand euphemisms, and he was AGHAST that I could be so horrible as to see phallic imagery in this most beloved of children’s series. And *I* was aghast that he didn’t already realize this series is chock FULL of phallic imagery. And then we argued. And then I went to Twitter, where I was sure to find support for my case. And Kayleigh came to my immediate aid with a “wands are wangs” comment. And now my husband just thinks we’re ALL dirty. (He's not wrong, ya'll.)

But I promised you penis jokes:

“He drew out his own wand and compared the lengths.” (I’ve HEARD that guys do this.)

Ron talking about a book that teaches boys how to get girls: “You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.” (I mean, come ON. It’s right there.)

On a more serious note, when I was reading that obituary Elphias Doge wrote for Dumbledore, I was thinking that could EASILY have been Ron writing about Harry. They met at the age of 11 on the first day at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was already notorious at the school because of something his dad did.

“Our mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders. . . .

Being continually outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend.” 

SCHOOL FRIENDS. And also Dumbledore being dead still. And also Elphias Doge's dandelion hair topped with a fez. *sniffle*

And with that, I can’t avoid it anymore. Two-hundred pages in, and there have been DEATHS.

1. Hedwig (I HATE EVERYTHING)

2. George’s ear (*weeps prematurely for twin things to come*)

3. Mad-Eye Moody (Meh)

**EDITED TO ADD that Laura's post reminded me Charity Burbage and Rufus Scrimgeour also died in this section. Sorry, Charity and Rufus, but I didn't care about you overly much.**

The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and how we should all be wary of small children

This made a perfect intermission between the Feelings Ravager that was Half-Blood Prince and the I-don't-even-know-what-but-I'm-terrified-to-find-out of Deathly Hallows. I had, of course, never read this. And I didn't have a good idea what it was; so when I went to pick it up from the library, I was a little surprised to find a book for small people on my holds shelf.

Here's the thing though: It's a children's book that doesn't feel too childish. Which I appreciated as a grown-up lady and also would have appreciated when I was a small person. Because I was one of those kids who read A Clockwork Orange at the age of 8 and immediately declared it my favorite book—until I read American Psycho. (Just kidding.) Little Megs wore howling wolves T-shirts (unironically) and simply had no time for sweet little tales of "hoppitty pots." The truth is, being a child is terrifying. The things that go on in our brains? You don't even want to know, adults. You don't EVEN want to know.

It's a horror show in there.

Probably the most gruesome story in the bunch, and therefore my favorite, is "The Warlock's Hairy Heart." In a nutshell, a fabulously wealthy and attractive warlock, to spare himself from becoming a silly boy in love, uses Dark Magic to remove his heart. He ages and continues to smugly mock his silly friends and their silly families, thinking himself quite enviable. But then he overhears his servants talking about him as though he is to be pitied, a poor aging warlock with no one to love him. So he resolves to get married and make them jealous once and for all.

He sets about trying to trick a lovely rich witch into thinking he can feel things. But she somehow knows he's not quite right in the feeler and casually says, "If only you had a heart." And then he says, "Aha! But that's where you're wrong." And he takes her into his dungeon to show her that he does indeed have a heart, and here it is in the crystal casket right where he left it. It just needs a little brushing because it grew hair from lack of attention. And the maiden begs him to put it back in his chest where it belongs, so he DOES. And she hugs him with her soft white arms. And he is overwhelmed with the feelings that he hasn't been feeling for so many years (and probably also puberty), and his heart is like a tiny misguided animal that urges him to rip out the maidens heart and . . . lick and stroke it, for some reason? And I guess he was planning to replace his hairy, shriveled heart with this nice shiny new one. But he died instead.

Isn't it romantic?

Other things I learned from Beedle (rather, from Dumbledore's commentary):

• There was a much worse Care of Magical Creatures teacher before Hagrid. Sixty-two probationary periods. Missing most of his limbs. So you can just shut right up, Parvati Patil.
• "There is not a witch or wizard in existence whose blood has not mingled with that of Muggles." So all that pure-blood business is malarkey? Excellent.
• It's all fun and games until someone is caught fondling some Horklumps.

Heart-Shaped Box: When I'm tired, I turn into a stuffy Englishman

It occurs to me, as I sit down to write this, that I am quite alone in my domicile with most of the lights off. Surely, I fear no power in this life or the next.

This was a poor decision.

And now that I’ve turned on every light in the house and woken the dogs so they can bear witness to my continued well-being, let us proceed forthwith.

Jude Coyne is a 50-something rock star (of the black metal variety, I believe?) who has semi-retired to a farm in New York because 50% of his original band is kaput (as in tragically dead, because rock stars). And Jude just lazes around his farmhouse, playing music when he feels like it and collecting artifacts of the macabre—for example, “the skull of a peasant who had been trepanned in the sixteenth century, to let the demons out.” (I mean, BIG deal, right? I have a collection of Princess Aurora figurines, which has been known to scare away the most manly of men. So.) But one day, Jude’s assistant, knowing Jude is into this sort of thing, informs him that someone is selling a ghost on an auction site. Jude jumps on THAT deal, throwing down $1,000 for someone’s dead stepfather—more precisely, for someone’s dead stepfather’s favorite suit. As promised, the suit arrives in a heart-shaped box (GET IT?) . . . followed in due course by its dead owner, who proceeds to make very clear that his mission in death is to drag Jude down into the fiery pits of hell.

I don't like this game anymore.

Considering Joe Hill’s lineage, I went into this book expecting something Stephen King–adjacent. And that’s . . . yeah, that’s pretty much what it was. As far as paranormal thrillers go, it’s not remarkably original; it is equal parts creeptastic and eye-roll inducing. Dogs figure pretty heavily into the story, which stressed me out more than a Westboro Baptist parishioner at a funeral. (Take the humans. SPARE THE DOGS!) But if I take off my Book Snob chapeau—won’t be a moment . . . just let me detach all these bobby pins—I can tell you that I lost sleep over this book and read it almost straight through instead of doing other things I should have been doing, like going to work. It hooked me, curse its eyes.

One notable aspect of this book, and one that maybe elevates it above the common paranormal thriller fare for me, is that Jude is introduced as this womanizing ex-rocker who cycles through one 20-something goth groupie after another, stripping them of their identities so thoroughly that he calls them by the name of their home state rather than their given name. This naturally sets up Jude’s live-in, ex-stripper goth-groupie-of-the-moment, Georgia, as nothing more than her bullet points imply. And then Mr. Hill flips that framework on its head, and the women (all the women) are so much more than they appear to be at first glance. Some of them are much better; some of them are much, much worse. But all of them are MORE. And so is Jude if you give him half a chance.

What I assume was supposed to be the twist ending was not so very twisty . . . but then this OTHER thing happened, and I was like, “I DO say, old bean. I had anticipated a completely different occurrence at this juncture.”

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Readalong 2: All aboard the SS Potterfoy (warning: not a party boat)

After several years of avoiding the Harry Potter series for this VERY reason, I’ve finally read through to the end of The Half-Blood Prince. I only survived with the help of alcohol and my good friends Simon and Garfunkel, but survive I did . . . unlike some *choke* people *SOB*.

A quick recap before we get into the finer points of Rowling’s sadomasochistic tendencies. This week, Ron said Hermione’s name in his sleep, casually dropped the L word, and comfortingly stroked her hair (mere CRUMBS for your starving readers, Rowling?); McLaggen is a bit overeager to replace Ron as Keeper the very same night Ron nearly dies from being mysteriously poisoned (McLaggen isn't invited to join my Crime Team . . . if I should ever assemble one *looks around shiftily*); Peeves gets his giggles in increasingly more pervy ways (Hey, remember when Peeves forced Neville to burn his own pants off? Good times.); Slughorn earns our pity, if not our admiration (But how DARE he twinkle? He is NOT allowed to twinkle.); there is a giant, bloody axe hidden in the Room of Requirement, which is concerning to no one; and we meet Disappointed Dumbles, the very WORST variety of Dumbles (“I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you.”).

This cone of shame belongs to all of us.

Our dear friend (and author of that book we all love to an unhealthy degree) Sunshine McSprinklecan (NOT her actual name, unfortunately) exhorted us to pay heed to the tell-tale signs of a possible romantic connection between Draco and Harry. And because we have not yet fully satisfied the unwritten rule of every readalong (i.e., MAKE EVERYONE GAY^TM), I have been taking this suggestion very seriously.

Evidentiary support from just THIS week’s section:

“I met Malfoy,” Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head.
“So?”
“So I wanted to know how come he’s up at the castle with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is down here. . . .”

“Yeah, we don’t need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher.

Harry tried every variation of “I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you” that he could think of for a whole hour.  

Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now, and what was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?

OK subtext...I see you now.

So here’s Malfoy, with this profound yearning to do something that matters, to earn the approval of his male authority figure (in this case, Voldemort), and maybe even to make up for the failings of his dad, who as we know has been somewhat of a dud Death Eater. But he’s wasting away under the burden of this horrible responsibility. He is so desperate to unburden himself that he turns to Myrtle. And when Myrtle is the only one you can talk to, your circumstances are dire INDEED.

So when Harry finally catches Malfoy in a moment of weakness, doubled over the sink in the boy’s lavatory, weeping and lamenting his fate, and when Malfoy looks up and their eyes meet in the hazy glass of the bathroom mirror . . . I briefly hoped that they would recognize in each other their twin hurts. That maybe they would call a truce.

But then the wands come out.

And it’s so curious to me that in the same chapter where Harry and Draco have this epic face-off (which is, in many ways, the culmination of every snide remark and resentful glare they’ve exchanged since their first meeting almost 7 years ago), Harry and Ginny share their first kiss completely out of the blue. That juxtaposition just doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me. It feels like blowing off steam.

And now sad things that are sad.

In this book, we really see the father/son relationship deepen between Harry and Dumbledore. Harry is finally confiding in Dumbledore the way he should have been all along. The conversations they have during their private lessons are some of the most poignant exchanges in the whole series. Dumbledore expertly dismisses the idea of manifest destiny and fate that the prophecy inevitably brings up for Harry. And with that, he sets Harry free.

It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world.

And in the cave, we see this heartbreaking role reversal. When Dumbledore drinks the potion to gain access to the Horcrux, he becomes childlike and weak, which FORCES Harry into the leadership role he has been reluctant to accept since Book 1. In so many ways, this is the moment when Dumbledore passes the mantel to Harry. This is where he declares to Harry louder than any words could ever do that Harry is strong enough to face the path ahead . . . without Dumbledore.

“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with you.”

I need someone to ruffle my hair comfortingly.

The Handmaid's Tale: Let's all put on shorts and use paper money

It's weird. I'm aware that this is quite a GOOD book. And yet . . .

The deal here is that it's the future, and culture has regressed to a sort of puritanical, uber-religious state, the most distressing feature of which is that women are property, to the point of being stripped of their names and assigned generic Biblical names in keeping with their given social position.

Not AGAIN.

Because pollution has rendered many men and women sterile (just don't suggest that the men are sterile, because this must all be the fault of the sinful WOMENS), the upper-level childless households are each assigned a handmaiden to act as a surrogate. The handmaiden's sole job is to get knocked up. And this morally debatable practice is justified as so many things are—using the Bible . . . because of that whole Abraham and Hagar thing.

Because that turned out SO WELL for everyone.

The particular handmaiden telling this tale gives us glimpses into how society transitioned from women-working-and-smoking-and-wearing-tennis-shoes to women-wearing-full-skirts-and-veils-and-being-absolutely-forbidden-to-read. In this present, women are divided into categories and color-coded accordingly (wives in blue, handmaidens in red, cooks in hospital green, etc.). Some women have more freedom than others, but none are free. For example, the women with the highest quality of life in this new society are the Commanders' wives. But their very special burden is that they each must house another woman and welcome her into their marital bed (once a month, in a very unsexy sort of ceremonial threesome). They, too, are miserable and bitter.

And that's one of the most compelling themes, I think (among many). The way that women, finding themselves in the same marginalized and repressive circumstances, will so often choose to go for each other's throats, rather than drawing strength from their shared misfortune and channeling their anger toward the actual oppressor.

When we boob-fight, the enemy wins.

It may also be important to mention here that men as a whole aren't demonized in the book. There are a few good eggs. And mostly, I think they just got swept up in it all—as I imagine many of the everyday citizens of Nazi Germany did, for example.

I hadn't previously read any Margaret Atwood, but people seem to think she's pretty swell. And dystopian-future fiction is my jam. So I was all geared up to love the modest red dress off this book. And while I greatly admire the tailoring and structure of the red dress, I will not be purchasing one of my own. How did I end up in this metaphor?

Anyway, important themes, good writing . . . but it didn't suck me in OR blow me away (don't be dirty).

Readathon Play-by-Play: In which I tell you about things that happened hours ago

For those of you who don't know, today is Dewey's 24-Hour Readathon, hosted by these fine people. I am participating in my own way . . . which is to say, not very well. And here is what has happened so far. (I'll give you a hint: noooot a whole lot of reading.)

Haaaa . . . I'm not reading all these.

5:30 a.m.

Why is it so early? It’s obscene how early it is. I’ve actually been awake since 5:12, but I spent about 20 minutes taking pictures of the dogs . . . because of reasons. Also, Paco and Gizmo are lying solidly across my legs, so getting up for coffee isn’t so much an option quite yet. So yeah . . . let’s read some Handmaid’s Tale! *suppresses urge to laugh hysterically*

"Explain yourself, human."

5:50 a.m.

Yeeeeah . . . I’m gonna need some coffee. Shove off, mutts.

Pages read: 17 in A Handmaid's Tale

Things consumed: Not one damn thing

7:12 a.m.

I have acquired coffee. I have consumed foodstuffs. I have read a chapter in The Half-Blood Prince. And now I’m back in bed wanting very much to return to my slumber. Must be time to read a comic or something.

Princess Aurora and Dumbledore. I would ship that.

Pages read: 24 in The Half-Blood Prince

Things consumed: 1 fried egg, 2 fake sausage patties, 1 coffee with Cool Whip (= fancy)

9:30 a.m.

Like any good thon-er, I'm bailing 4 hours in for a Filipino-style feast to celebrate a child's 1st birthday. There will likely be an entire roasted pig. Be back soon!

5 p.m.

Erm . . . 6 hours later. But I read the entirety of Chew Vol. 1 in the car on the way there AND took a power nap. So my body is ready, as our dear friend of the greasy hair might say. Chew, by the way? Amazing. It has the MOST delightful illustrations.

DE-LIGHTFUL.

Pages read: 128 

Things consumed: fried rice, chow mein, Thai salad w/ peanut dressing, various Filipino desserts, blue cotton candy

And now I journey homeward, where I have plentiful snacks and comfy seating options but, alas, no Internet. Just pretend I'm reading ALL the books and being awesome and not just swiping lazily at my phone screen. 

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Readalong 1: I would name MY Pygmy Puff "Tribble"

I don't know if I'm still recovering from the end of Order of the Phoenix or if Jupiter is in retrograde or my panties are in a twist, but all I have for you today are bullet points. Bullet points squeezed from what's left of my shriveled little raisin of a heart.

• NOOOOO, AMELIA BONES.

We hardly knew thee.

• Why does Narcissa Malfoy look exactly like her husband? I know there's a good deal of in-breeding in Wizarding World, but the physical evidence suggests that they are twins. And this might explain the curious shape of Draco's head.

• Bellatrix and Snape, I'm sure Voldemort loves you both equally.

"But what use have you been?" sneered Bellatrix. "What useful information have we had from you?"

"My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord," said Snape. "If he chooses not to share it with you—"

"He shares everything with me!" said Bellatrix, firing up at once. "He calls me his most loyal, his most faithful—"

"Does he?" said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his disbelief. "Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?"

"That was not my fault!" said Bellatrix, flushing.

• I rather like the sound of this sentence: "Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair."

• Even when the adult in question is of the naughty variety, it makes me uncomfortable when Harry mouths off. I would never, just never talk to a grown-up the way he talks to Narcissa in Madam Malkin's shop. I would, instead, quietly craft a passive-aggressive tweet to be posted at my earliest convenience.

• This is the greatest: "Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name 'U-No-Poo.' 'They'll be murdered in their beds!' she whispered."

• Ginny named her pink and/or purple Pygmy Puff "Arnold." Trevor and Arnold are sure to be the best of friends.

• "The usual," said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand gesture. "Not like him, though, is it? Well—that is"—he did the hand gesture again.

Just so we're clear . . . THIS rude hand gesture?