A week ago, I returned home. Today, I came back to the city. The badly needed holiday ended. It is time for all of us, the people who were lucky enough to get a one-week break from college, to get back to work.
Even though some of us (ahem!) have already spent time studying during the last half of the said week.
However, despite all the studying that me and my siblings did, there were also other fun activities that we engaged in. But that is going to be a whole different post. This one will actually be dedicated to my selfishness and how I got to meet Harry Potter, the boy who lived.
Since no vacation can be great without a good book, I found myself in the library again—this time looking through old books, books I have already read a long time ago. My eyes fell upon the Potter series. I extended my hand and grabbed the first installment. Memories washed all over me, as the young boy on the cover flew his broom through all those old columns in the school courtyard.
I was in middle school again, goggling at the small package my brother was carrying around. Bewitched, I followed him to his room, asking, from time to time, what was it that he held.
The first thing he took out was a book, which seemed to be already flipped through. I imagined he had already started on it. A young dark haired boy was flying on a broom, trying to catch some weird looking golden ball. On the back, there was a hooded figure with half-moon spectacles, hiding away. Small writings praising the work in my hands stared back at me from the top of the cover.
Then my brother took out another one. Something that looked like a second volume.
The titles rang no bells to me, as I examined them, but I was extremely curious to read about the adventures trapped between their pages. So very curious. But my brother knew me all too well not to react and make his claim.
“These are all mine, so I read them first.”
“Can’t I read the first one? It looks as if it was read before.”
“No. I haven’t finished it yet.”
I knew what all that meant—that I had to wait. But then, a sudden thought rushed through my mind.
“Then… if you’re reading the first one, can’t I just read the second?”
“That makes no sense; you wouldn’t understand a thing. Besides, I must read it first. It’s mine.”
No puppy eyes followed because I simply can’t do it, so I bet it all on a the magic word. I asked even if I already knew his answer. It was a big flat no, which left me with no other alternative but sneaking around. So, while he was happily reading the first installment, I was secretly flipping through the pages of the second.
Reading the second book from the series was a piece of cake. Though I did get caught, eventually.
“How could you?” echoed once he realized what I had done. There was no point in covering it up once I used it as an argument against his slow reading. He, of course, sensed the danger that laid ahead of his journey. What if his book would be swept away like the other one?
“Don’t you dare play the same trick on this one!” And he resumed his TV show.
But my curiosity got the best of me, so every single night, after my brother would fall asleep, I would sneak into his room, get the book, read a couple of pages, then bring it back to him, and try my best in putting it in the same exact spot he dumped it after flipping through its pages. (The Marauders would be proud—I think.)
Sometimes, I would even dare stay in his room and continue to listen to Harry’s tale in a corner. When he stirred in his sleep, my hands trembled, the book was closed and tucked under the blankets, since that was the closest.
Thankfully, all was well. He did not notice. Or, at least, not until my mother gave me away. Unless it was all because of my big mouth, again.