Once upon a time...

Once upon a time.
These were the magical words that opened most of my favorite stories when I was a child.
They had the power to open the "realms of magic" that I dreamt someday would open so I could live there happily ever after.
I didn't have dreams of knights or charming princes. Instead I dreamt of magic creatures, of fairies and witches and wizards and dragons, of places where I could have a wand and be free. When in my teenagehood I discovered Bilbo and his companion hobbits I could understand their fascination for the Elves "who left a trail of stars on the grass" when they walked across the woods.

But slowly the "realms of magic" vanished from children's stories, and authors told that the most magical feat they could perform would be going to the grocers for two pounds of sugar, going for a ride with a group of friends, playing with their cat or running with their dog. The cat would never be a witch and the dog would not have three heads. Those were myths. Children and youngsters need reality.

And suddenly something changed.
I remember reading some piece of news about a book that was bringing magic back to life. I found it piled on a shelf, still unnoticed, waiting to be opened. I didn't buy it straight away but it found its way into my house, into my life, into my family, into my heart.

At the end of the first chapter I was sure I had awaken the magic I had kept slumbering in a secret spot on my way to adulthood. At the end of the first book I wanted more. At the end of the second I dreamt of this world where friendship and loyalty were prized, where love was an invisible defense against enemies and extended beyond death, where you were supposed to be valued for your actions and not your riches.
I shared it with my daughter, discussed it with my students, teenagers asking questions about life and death, love and being loved.
Teenagers like the one Harry Potter was turning into ten years after that first chapter:

"A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"."


And I still hold up my glass to Harry Potter and the magic he brought into our life.


"To Harry Potter - the boy who will live forever!"