The Magic of Growing up as a Muggle in the World of Harry Potter

My journey with the Harry Potter series, one milestone at a time.

In Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, the trio along with Draco Malfoy venture into the Forbidden Forest. 

(Photo: Facebook/Harry Potter, Altered by The Quint)

I was 10 when I first pulled out a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone from my school library shelf. It was a maroon, leather bound copy with the name of the book inscribed in smudged golden letters on the spine.

The year was 2003. I had already watched the film on a rented CD we got from one of the myriad video parlours which flourished in Delhi, at the turn of the millennium.

So when the book didn’t begin with a half-giant (Hagrid) on a scooter, delivering an infant Harry at the doorstep of No 4 Privet Drive, something seemed off.

It turns out the library had goofed up the binding and I began my journey with the seven-part Harry Potter series not with the first book, but with the second –The Chamber of Secrets.

Harry Potter and the Grumbly Teenager

At 11, I already knew I wasn’t going to receive the coveted letter to join Hogwarts. But the magic of the school was extraordinary enough for me to believe I went there too.

By the time I started reading the series, five of the books had already been out. I read them all hungrily, putting aside school work and successfully suppressing the horror of my rapidly metamorphosing teenage body, as I struggled with puberty.

While adults around me began to police the length of my skirt and made me conscious about being a ‘growing woman’, I found solace in Hermione’s endearing peculiarity, her bushy hair and crooked teeth.

Her academic brilliance made it ‘cool’ to bury my nose in books. She made me want to be the “brightest witch of my age.”

Hermione Granger, founder and one of the only few members of the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare (SPEW). (Photo: simplypotterheads.com)

In middle school we sat and scribbled names of characters, in the back of our notebooks, finding real life counterparts from school for each of them.

From our perspective as grumbling teenagers, we saw many Snapes (before we discovered he was a self-sacrificing ‘mahatma’ in The Deathly Hallows), Gilderoy Lockharts and Dolores Umbridges among our teachers.

As I look back on school and see the ‘tyranny’ of my teachers in another light, I realise there were some Lupins and McGonagalls too.

The series became progressively darker, and the books thicker. As I grew up, I understood the many layers to the characters. There was context to Snape’s hostility toward Harry, and to Draco’s entitlement.

WithThe Half Blood Prince, JK Rowling managed to give context even to Voldemort’s venom. In other words, nothing was black or white in the magical world.

Magic in a Muggle World

The series taught me to value friendship, love and courage – an important lesson for a naive 14-year-old heart. For me, it wasn’t about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. It was about the ability to believe in magic, even in a muggle world.

Along the way I met friends who were like characters out of the book. I found expressions of a dreamy Luna Lovegood, an impish Fred Weasley, an awkward Neville Longbottom in some of my closest friends.

My best friend’s home for me, began to house the magic and warmth of The Burrow (the Weasley’s household), and her mother the willful matriarch, Molly Weasley.

At 17, I introduced my niece, who had just stepped into her teens to the world of Harry Potter. Incidentally, I never ended up buying any of the books myself. I borrowed some of them from a quaint roadside lending library near my house.

A picture my niece sent me when she visited platform 9 3/4 at the King’s Cross station in London. (Photo: Suhasini Krishnan)

At the time I resented my parents for not buying me the books when they came out. But in retrospect, I know that it wasn’t about getting the (rather expensive) books first, but the experience of reading it.

Revisiting the Magic

When I lost my grandmother at 19, I crawled back into the wizarding world, finding a corner in our mourning household to curl up with the books. Re-reading the series helped me survive my grief.

It was that summer that I finally read the first book –The Philosopher’s Stone – long overdue since that accidental binding error at the school library in 2003.

As hundreds of owls carrying Harry’s Hogwarts letter ambushed No 4 Privet Drive, I wept quietly for my grandmother while everyone else was asleep.

The cover of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, also called The Philosopher’s Stone. (Photo: Twitter/PotterHeads)

It’s been a decade since the last book came out in 2007. The actors from the film adaptations have moved on too, and are now known for things other than the characters they played. Even the lending library near my house has shut shop, perhaps razed by the municipal corporation.

But on my journey with the series, I experienced something of my own, even as a whole generation experienced it with me. It was personal and profound.

While it gave me an alternate world to escape into, it also presented me with the means to deal with the ‘real’ world I inhabit.

From beginning with the wrong book, to never buying a single copy of the book for myself, to fantasising about Butterbeer at Hogsmeade, I have got to say, growing up a muggle in the world of Harry Potter has truly been a pleasure.

(This article was first published on 16 July 2016. It is being reposted from The Quint’s archives to mark 20 years of the release of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.)