A Pinch Of Magic 

    It was my mother who picked the book up, in a remote library situated on the outskirts of Atlanta. Its walls were crumbling from age and its paint was pealing, most of its color faded. I was walking through aisles surrounded by towers of novels and magazines when she came to me with a book in hand and said, “The librarian recommended this one.” I distinctly remember the sneer which crept across my childish face as I gazed upon the tattered old book entitled “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s stone.” Running my hand over the embossed lettering I remember giving her a skeptical look as if saying “What is this sorcerer’s rubbish?” Although by then she was giving me one of her intimidating piercing glares so I decided to give the book a gander. When I look back on this incident, I thank god for the old librarian at the front desk who pitched the idea, because if it wasn’t for her I wouldn't have ever flipped the pages of the book phenomenon which changed, or in a way, started my life. And so it began. 

    Days later I distinctly recall lying on my bed in the sultry hot interior of my bedroom, clutching the book in between my hands. A bumblebee was circling the room “BUZZZZ” it went distractedly as it came perilously close to my ear. As I turned the first page, a flash of scarlet caught my eye; it was the shining eye of a lion emblazed upon a coat of arms. Underneath this coat were several wise words. “Never tickle a sleeping Dragon.” I remember the puzzled feeling of uncertainty I felt as I gazed upon the crest which I then realized also contained: A timid badger, a bronze eagle, and a glistening serpent. Finally after much pondering and consideration I hesitantly turned the page. “The Boy Who Lived” were the first words that punctured my mind’s eye, like a pin popping an inflated balloon. Mildly interested, I began to read. 

    It was several minutes, or it could have been a trivial couple of hours or even four brilliantly sun lit days before I finally put the book down. All I knew was that I had immediately left the place I had known as reality and was enthralled into a realm of magic and mystery. A world where wizards truly exist but are hidden from other humans, a world where a half giant can raise his sopping wet  boot and send a door cascading to the ground. I had entered J.K Rowling’s fantastic imagination, and unbelievably it was as though I was staring through the glasses of the young lanky boy with jet black hair and almond shaped green eyes. I genuinely felt as if I was there, standing in the entrance hall shuffling my feet, my stomach rumbling from butterflies, so nervous to be sorted. And then there was the start of term feast, oh the feast; in my opinion the most marvelous of occasions in the story. My mouth literally watered as I visualized all the scrumptious looking food which magically filled the hundreds of empty plates scattered across the table. There was roast beef, skewered chicken, pork chops, lamb chops all of which sizzled like Helios’s chariot as they came to rest with the surface of my tongue, sending my taste buds on a roller coaster ride. And of course turkey, with pillowy mounds of mashed potatoes, butter drenched dressing, and tiny onions swimming in a sea of cream sauce.

Suddenly these marvelous sensations disappeared, and I was Harry gazing into the cold slit pupils of Lord Voldemort as he stood, his spiderlike white hand clutching the gold rim of the mirror of Erised. I felt rage and fear. I compared this to the salivating feeling I had experienced at the beginning of the novel, both were equally exhilarating. And just as suddenly as this image appeared, it was fading. I was now speaking with the one and only Albus Dumbledore, questioning him, I wanted answers, I felt betrayed. Why were my parents killed? All these questions swirled around my head banging against the inside and once again as though someone had switched a channel in my head, the scene before me ended. I was now gazing lustfully as the castle retreated and the great scarlet steam engine was taking me back to Privet Drive. I could feel the rain beating against the train window as the smell of pumpkin pasties wafted through the cabin door. Just as this was happening I seemed to be speeding down a light spangled tunnel, back to where I truly belonged. And I awoke, back in the heated confines of my attic bedroom, feeling as though it’d been a year since I’d last been there.

    And now, it’s as though a film is playing in my head, as these memories of my first encounter with the book flash by. Today as I sit on my porch, I stop and ponder; how much of an impact Harry has made on my life? If I look back, I realize my friendship with Harry Potter couldn’t have had more perfect timing. Apart from helping me survive plane rides, my sisters whining and my parents countless arguments; Harry ignited my relationship with my best friend which has probably been his most valuable contribution to my world, for I couldn’t imagine life without her. To many, “Harry Potter” is a story of flying broomsticks, evil dark wizards and talking spiders, but to those of us who get it; this story will intricately be woven into our own lives. To those of us who understand it, these characters will forever and always be our true friends. Even though the book and film franchises are over, I will always remember the tattered pages of the book that launched me into a whole other world.