…if you found anything in these stories that resonated with you and helped you at any time in your life — then that is between you and the book that you read, and it is sacred.

-Daniel Radcliffe 

        Even people who do not appreciate good literature, have heard the tale of The-Boy-Who-Lived. Despite the wizarding world being concentrated in Great Britain, it has amassed a large following here in the states, even among immigrants such as mi mamita.

        As she and my father were bearing the weight of the world, they tried to fill my life with magic and encourage my imagination (I still put cookies out for Santa as a high school senior). So it only made sense that they introduced me to a land where I can fly higher than the clouds upon a simple stick of wood, or watch a frog made of nothing more than the finest chocolate bounce up and down the train cabin. A world where everything I could want was at my fingertips—literally! Unfortunately, I showed little interest at my young age; I was too busy struggling to understand 2+2, okay? How can you expect me to grasp pictures moving like movies? 

        But as growing up meant more deadlines and suffering from depressive thoughts weighing me down like a bag of stones I was forced to carry, I began to watch the Harry Potter movies (life was too kind when it gifted me HBO Max).

        To even begin to describe them—the gleam of the astronomy tower as the eager first years trudge across the water, the simple beauty of a paper crane fluttering with life, the sharp crackle and warmth of the fireplace in the common rooms, the nearly waftable smell and lively chatter of every great feast, or spells so Riddikulus, they can transform a spider, legs lined with prickly hair and cascading eyes that stare so harshly, like they are promising to murder me in my sleep—into a unicorn with a flowing mane of rainbows (I’m an arachnophobe, sue me). 

        Although not all was magical. Hogwarts came under attack; not just from You-Know-Who, but from the very person who built this place word by word—J.K. Rowling. Beginning in 2020, Rowling spewed hate like a forbidden curse. She made several transphobic comments on Twitter (I have never related more to Hermione under the crucio curse than when reading Rowling’s tweets). Just like young Tom Riddle, her self-hatred created a cocoon, from which something much darker emerged. This is further shown in her attitude toward the beloved character—Draco Malfoy (in addition to all of us Slytherins). Rowling expressed her disdain for Malfoy having any following, as she claims he has nothing but a cold heart. From my experience, such a belief only stems from the very thing it condemns. 

        But as luck would have it, the wizards and witches of the Muggle world, equipped with the spell of an open mind, intend to bring peace to the Wizarding World once again. Rowling’s words have given us all experiences and love that have no return policy. The excitement I felt screaming “Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire!?” with Ava in the lunch line, or drooling over Draco with a friend I was long disconnected from brought me much-needed happiness. At this time, I had just—broken up essentially—with my best friend of over 6 years. All the warm memories I had of them quickly turned sour. But Harry Potter gave me new memories to look back on fondly and distracted me from the demon shrilling for me to jump in front of the Lexus speeding by. As said best by Radcliffe, the wonder and fulfillment given to all of us, miraculously, by a little boy in spectacles, is ours to keep.