Fidelius Charm

Noah Smith

 

Much to my grandmother’s dismay, I am rarely seen without a book in my hands, and 9¾ times out of ten that book is part of the Harry Potter series. It was on the most recent ten hour car ride to the beach when my grandmother finally aired her discontent at my obsessive rereading. Banned! I was banned, forbidden to read. Did it matter that I was right in the middle of the duel between Harry and Voldemort in the graveyard scene of The Goblet of Fire?! ABSOLUTELY NOT.

           But there was no changing it: turning another page of my beloved book was strictly outlawed. Outlawed until I was able to raise my ACT score, a thing I’m still not sure she fully understood was out of 36 and not whatever made up number she had floating around in her head. So I did as I was told, put down the book, and exchanged it for the programming schedule for the Quidditch World Cup VII that I convinced her was a poem I was to analyze for English.    

For the rest of the trip I read under the cover of darkness under the covers of my bed. I greedily ran my eyes over every word on every page, taking in each line much like Harry himself did while living with the Dursleys, which made the experience all the more enjoyable. My love for Harry Potter reaches an almost alarming extent. I know the series like I know my name. Despite my desire to enter into the magical world, I’m kept from crossing a barrier I so desperately wish to cross, to transcend the limits placed before me and wind up in greener, magic-filled pastures.

Though I’ve never physically been to Hogwarts Castle to attend classes, I’ve sat in on many. I’ve learned Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, History of Magic and so much more. While this knowledge may seem worthless for someone to posses living in the muggle world, I make good use of it by frequently returning to the world Joanne Rowling wrote into existence some twenty-four years ago. I return to see old friends, past mentors, and to relive the adventures I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing firsthand with Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

It was on another beach trip as I was piecing together my own theory of what was to happen in book seven when I was pulled from my dissociation and firmly planted back into the muggle world to be told, “You know that it’s not real, right?” I immediately answered affirmatively that it was merely black ink on white paper, but the uneasy feeling that settled in after the exchange never left until the best headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen said,  “Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” Even in death, Dumbledore still had the ability to the significantly impact me. I realized that these words were not ink but a world beyond our own and, while some may not be able to see it, Hogwarts and the world it contained are real— to me, at least.