You know what happens on September 1? Wizards who have turned eleven board the Hogwarts Express for the very first time. For most Potterheads, that date lives like a bookmark in memory, the promise of a beginning, of adventure, of leaving the ordinary world behind.

For me, September 1 is more than just a line on the calendar. It’s a reminder of how Harry Potter grew alongside me, how my elder brother became my companion through the magic, and how those books turned into a mirror of my own growing years.

My Hogwarts Express didn’t leave from King’s Cross. It began in the form of books passed down by my brother. I didn’t have a circle of friends to huddle with over theories or heated debates. Instead, I had one person. my elder brother.

I would passionately rattle off my thoughts, predictions, and bewildering theories, while he, with infinite patience, listened. He humored my nonsense, and in doing so, gave me something precious — the feeling that my excitement mattered. That was my own ticket through the barrier.

Some memories of that era are etched into me with unusual clarity. I still remember begging my brother to take me to watch Order of the Phoenix again even though I was terribly sick with jaundice. Nauseated and weak, I should have been in bed. But magic doesn’t wait for fevers to subside.

Just two weeks later, Deathly Hallows released. This time, I was back in bed, still recovering. But the book itself became my medicine. I devoured it cover to cover, fever and all.

By the time Deathly Hallows landed in my hands, I was in my final year of school. Academically, later in that academic year, things didn’t go as well as I had hoped. I didn’t close that chapter of my life with shining marks or accolades. But strangely, the real sense of closure didn’t come from my exams anyway it came from those final pages.

Harry’s battles, his losses, his choices mirrored the struggles of growing up. For me, he wasn’t just a character. He was an alter ego, carrying lessons of resilience, courage, and belonging.

Even in college, Harry followed me. I remember going to see Delhi 6 with my mates. When Amitabh Bachchan and Abhishek Bachchan appeared on screen in that surreal conversation at terrace of Chandani Chowk house, I whispered excitedly, “That’s Albus and Harry talking at King’s Cross!” My friends stared blankly, they couldn’t comprehend what I meant, because the last book hadn’t been adapted yet.

It was one of those moments where fiction spilled out of the pages and into real life, but only I could see it.

The final two films I watched with my girlfriend who would later become my wife. She sat beside me, enjoying the spectacle, but couldn’t quite understand why the New Beginning Theme made me cry. For her, it was just music. For me, it was years of growing up, of farewells, of a chapter closing. Tears rolled down, and I couldn’t even explain it then.

When I turned the last page of Deathly Hallows, it felt like finishing a chapter of my own life. The books had grown with me, year after year, and suddenly, the journey was complete.

But nostalgia is stubborn. It doesn’t let go easily.

And now, the story doesn’t just belong to me anymore. I feel a heavy yet beautiful duty, to pass it on. I can’t wait to hand these amazingly illustrated Harry Potter books to my son when he finally learns the difference between tearing a book apart and truly reading one.

P.S. People sometimes give me that “are you serious?” look when I say “Hogwarts feels like home.” I get it, to them, it’s just fiction. Meanwhile, my friends still pump their fists at “Bring me Thanos!” But honestly? Harry walking back into Hogwarts will always give me bigger goosebumps than a giant purple villain and a Norse god with a hammer combined. If that makes me sound crazy, fine. I’ll proudly be that weird guy who treats September 1 like a holiday. After all, there are far worse places to call home than Hogwarts.

JD

06.09.2025