How many of you have read a Harry Potter book? Or seen the movie? Be honest now. Judging from the number of hands, that's the majority of you.

I think it's safe to say that Harry Potter has become an iconic figure in America. And while children have predictably immersed themselves in the culture and lexicon, what has been less anticipated is the response that people our age and older have shown to the series.

So what is it about these books and films that interests so many people? The storylines and visual wizardry (of the films) probably has something to do with it, but I think it's predominantly the theme of magic that captures most people's imagination. Magic should be, after all, a fascinating topic: extraordinary phenomena consummated through fantastic and inexplicable means.

The thing is, these phenomena aren't confined only to the fictional and metaphysical realms.

Extraordinarily, they underlie our continuous, accustomed experience, from the metronome timing of our hearts, to the constant rush-hour subcellular traffic and delivery of essential biomolecules in our cells, to the craftsmanship and fidelity of our enzymes. And even though the mechanistic details of these processes have, to some extent, been figured out, there is still an element of magic to them that is no less phenomenal than that chronicled in the Potter series.

I suppose this was the reason I chose to study biochemistry -- to try to gain some insight into how these processes occur, some insight into how life happens. This interest in science is one that relatively few people seem to hold though.

According to the University Budget Office, only 14.7 percent of college students share my sentiment. That is, 85.3 percent of college students major in non-science and engineering fields. I find that hard to understand. I don't mean to suggest that science holds some kind of privileged status above other disciplines.

We need accountants, businessmen, lawyers, restaurateurs and bankers just as much, if not more than scientists. But it's more than the lack of interest in science that's confusing; it's the outright antipathy for it. If I tell people I'm studying chemistry, the response more often than not is, "I hate chemistry," or "I'm not good at that." On the other hand, while I may not be very good creating art or playing music, I find both very interesting and necessary.

I suppose some of the negative feelings stem from a lack of success in the subject. People don't like what they don't (immediately) understand.

But science isn't the esoteric it's portrayed to be. All it takes is a little interest and elbow grease, and most problems can be cracked open. Perhaps a science major's choice of study shouldn't be attributed to any kind of intelligence, then, but instead to a kind of stubbornness.

The good news is that even if you're already decided to go to law school or get your MBA, the science ship hasn't set sail on you. Computers and the Internet have brought experimentation into the public sphere -- the best thing to happen to science since Bill Nye. There are a growing number of grid-computing experiments in which you can participate by devoting a portion of your hard drive to solving seemingly intractable problems. The answers from thousands, perhaps millions of people can then be stitched together to create a model that would have otherwise been very difficult to come by. The Human Proteome Folding project is one such endeavor. It aims to decipher the rules by which proteins adopt their three-dimensional shape, given a one-dimensional code.

The great thing about science is its scalability. Whether it's the evolution of celestial tapestry, swirling of consciousness in the brain, dialogue between DNA, RNA and proteins, or the protons, electrons and maybe strings orchestrating the whole show, there is a domain out there for you to get interested in.

And if there's a description that's missing, then it's yours to invent.

That prospect is exciting enough to make Mr. Potter trade in his broomstick for a lab coat.