My Mirror of Erised
I was seven years old when I first cracked open a Harry Potter book. I was not the most enthusiastic reader at the time. In fact, I was probably the slowest in my class. I spent what felt like eons cursing Poppleton the pig. It was difficult, and I was by no means interested in mastering the trade. I knew stories, I had every Madeline book ever written memorized word for word, why on earth would i need to read? There were trees, and hammocks, and all sorts of delightful things in the real world, I felt no need for anything new. For Christmas, imagine my horror at receiving one of these detestable items. It was from my uncle whom I’d always idolized and adored. The title, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. My uncle must have seen the disappointment written clearly over my wee face because he said to me, “You’ll like it Soli, really.
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