Returning to Hogwarts

By- Srijani Jana

Editing and Cover Page by- Diksha Sharma

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There are some books we read, and then there are some books we reside in. For me, the Harry Potter series was never just a fictional world but a doorway to imagination, to something magical. As a child, this magical land of Hogwarts felt real in every way possible. That impossible yet persistent hope of a letter arriving at my doorstep—one that would take me away to a place I could only dream of. That silly excitement of trying every wall on the platform just to see if it would suddenly teleport us to London. Everything about the world created by J.K. Rowling felt as if it were waiting to be discovered. Back then, I read it wide-eyed, full of wonder, enchanted with spells, adventures and with the certainty that the trio will always triumph.

Whenever I open those books now, it feels like meeting an old friend I grew up with—a return to comfort and nostalgia.

Now I understand that there were layers to this not-so-simple tale of magic. Harry's loneliness at the beginning feels relatable and heavy. His longing to be seen, to prove himself so that he could belong, to be chosen, resonates differently now. As a child, I used to admire him for being “the chosen one”, but now I admire him for his resilience. I used to look at the bond between Harry, Ron and Hermione through the lens of a fun companionship that shared laughter and adventures. Now, it's a mirror image of what an actual friendship should be, a clear reminder that the people who stand beside us in our most uncertain moments shape who we become.

Even the idea and understanding of magic have changed over time. As a kid, magic meant spells, flying broomsticks – in short, something impossible in real life. As we grow up, magic becomes more symbolic. We gradually understand that magic exists in small acts of bravery, in choosing kindness even when it's difficult, in standing up for what is right even when no one is watching. Hogwarts becomes more like a reflection, teaching us to maneuver our own reality. 

What makes this truly nostalgic is not just the story itself but the version of ourselves who first read it. The child who was waiting for their letter to arrive any moment, the child who found warmth and comfort in the imagination of an idea where anyone could belong. Reading the books now is like meeting that child again.

On sunny Sundays, I let my world slow down just a little and return to this book. And once again, I let myself dive into the limitless plots, into a world that once made my childhood brighter, full of thrill, and continues to do so.