Re-Reading Harry Potter as an Adult
The not-so-subtle undertones of child abuse in JK Rowling’s magical world
The First Foray into the Magical World
I first read Harry Potter when I was eleven.
Back then, all I used to read were Enid Blytons and Nancy Drews, and hence, when my best friend introduced me to the series, I laughed at her face.
“Magic doesn’t exist”, I told her. “Adventure books are fine because they can happen to us someday, but magic? Well, magic is only for those who believe in bhoot-pret and jadu-tona(superstition).”
“Just read one chapter of the book,” she told me, eyes shining with excitement. “You will love it, I promise.”
And so, I read the first chapter.
Then, the second.
Then, the third, fourth, fifth.
And before I knew it, it was 12 AM, I had dark circles around my eyes, but I had finished reading the book.
Gobbled it up, rather.
It was spell-binding. It had me hooked for seven glorious hours filled with Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions — all different forms of magic, none of them closely resembling jadu tona.
