The hype is a bit much, concede the fans, who then invariably proceed to mount a lecture about how the Potter books and their author, J.K. Rowling, introduced a generation of children to the joy of reading.
As if in a cosmic gesture to slay the last living sceptic, I was asked to review the sixth and supposedly penultimate book: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. “Whatever,” I said.
When the highly coveted (and tightly guarded) review copy for volume six arrived a mere 24 hours before deadline, I started smugly enough. Oh, yes, here was a witty little hybrid of a parliamentary farce and Arthurian legend, I thought.
By Chapter 2, however, fireside goblin play gave way to chill foreboding and a scene in which pale women rush by night through an industrial wasteland to forge a deadly pact. By the end of the 652 pages, I was exhausted. Were children up to this kind of high drama?
This much can be said about Half-Blood Prince without spoiling the plot. Once Harry was 10 and stars rained down on England to augur his arrival. Now he is 16, and as the book opens, bridges are collapsing. Wizards from the Ministry of Magic are popping out of the Prime Minister’s fireplace to explain that the cause is not bad construction. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.
In what even a newcomer can detect as an alarming cabinet reshuffle, the charming Cornelius Fudge has been replaced as Minister of Magic by the shrewd Rufus Scri>