The second Professor McGonagall pulls Oliver Wood from his charms class, I realize I’m in “Pinkalicious” territory again. In a flash, the entire sequence from “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” comes back to me: Madam Hooch orders the class not to fly; Harry hops on his broomstick; McGonagall catches him and introduces him to Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, as its new seeker.

Accepting the consequences of one’s actions is a theme in our house, so I hastily add a line in which McGonagall gives Harry a paper to write on the importance of following instructions. Then I underscore the responsibility of being on a team, so that getting to be seeker doesn’t seem entirely like a reward for bad behavior.

I do this sort of on-the-fly editing all the time when reading to my 5-year-old. I call it “pinkwashing” after the scene in “Pinkalicious” in which the poor, discolored child must stomach horrible green vegetables as a cure for her unfortunate pinkness. She chokes down artichokes, gags on grapes and burps up brussels sprouts. The passage serves important narrative and stylistic functions, of course, but Emmett loves artichokes, grapes and brussels sprouts. He never complains about eating them, so rather than hint at a generation-long struggle against the tyranny of green veggies, I replace the negative verbs with positive ones. Pinkwashing.

“Harry Potter” presents itself for pinkwashing from almost the first page. We’ve barely arrived at 4 Privet Drive before Dumbledore informs McGonagall that Voldemort has killed Lily and James Potter and tried to kill Harry. Immediately, I have to pause to decide how much of this information to share. Dead parents are gruesome, yes, but anyone who’s anyone in children’s literature has either been orphaned or abandoned; well-adjusted kids from stable two-parent homes don’t go on hero quests.

But the attempted murder of a helpless boy not hugely younger than my son is something different. It has the tinge of nightmare, and I downgrade kill to hurt. It’s a simple solution that works in the moment, but as I read on, I realize I’ve just pinkwashed the single most important plot point of the entire series. All seven books rest on the fact that Voldemort has targeted Harry for death. Somehow, when I agreed to this read-aloud, I forgot about that.

When I think of Harry Potter, I think of Hagrid breaking down the door of a ramshackle cottage in the middle of a storm-tossed sea to inform Harry that he’s special — special beyond the wildest imaginings of the most poorly treated poor relation (magical! famous! wealthy! beloved!). I picture Harry huddled in his tiny cupboard, suffering the humiliations of his cousin, unaware that in just a few chapters he’ll be revealed as a secret prince.

It’s these images I had in mind when I gave in to Emmett’s pleadings to read the book. A fall in the park had left his forehead with a scar so big that everyone who saw it said, “Hey, Harry Potter.” Naturally, he was curious. My husband and I resisted but eventually agreed, figuring we’re ahead of our own schedule by only two years; we’d planned to introduce him to Harry at 7.

Once we started reading, we realized our math was off by a few years. Seven is still too young. It isn’t so much the minor tweaks we make to soften the language (“shut up” to “shh,” “stupid” to “silly”), or the lessons we embed to conform with the things we’re trying to teach, or even the references to death and murder. No, the problem is that Harry Potter grows up fast. The image of a kindly Hagrid towering in the doorway gives way to a terrified Charity Burbage suspended upside down and begging for her life as Voldemort kills her. The first crop of readers had 10 years between these events, but now the only constraint on the reader is his own limitations. With sufficient deftness and speed, a 7-year-old can find himself standing among the dead at Hogwarts.

And it’s this thought that makes me realize that it isn’t only Emmett who isn’t ready for Harry Potter; I’m not either. As a kindergartner, he’s just learning how to read. Right now, it’s all painstakingly sounded-out syllables and sight words, but soon it’ll be whole sentences and then paragraphs. Once he masters the skill of reading, the world will be revealed to him — the mysteries of the Cheerios box as well as the miseries of Newtown. He’ll be able to learn about Voldemort’s murderous intentions all on his own, and no amount of pinkwashing can stop it.

As soon as we finish the first book, Emmett wants to jump into the second. His pleas are as unrelenting as before, but this time we resist. Harry Potter will come, and I still look forward to the day when we’ll read it with him. My eagerness to share it with him hasn’t dimmed, only my impatience.

So for now, Harry Potter goes back on the shelf. The world will turn into a dark place soon enough, and it should. My job as his parent isn’t to shield him indefinitely from the near-universal dislike of brussels sprouts; it’s to raise a son who’ll emerge from his hero quest triumphant.

In the meantime, though, I’m going to keep the world pink for just a little while longer.