When I was 10, I’ve religiously read the Harry Potter book series.
Like a bible, I clutched it with me, close to my heart.
Because I’ve always dreamed of going to Hogwarts.
To wear those black robes and live in the castle.
To let the Sorting Hat decide my fate.
Even if I’d known all along that I’m a Hufflepuff through and through.
To use spells like “Oculus Reparo” with my Ollivander wand.
To watch Quidditch and cheer for the Holyhead Harpies.
To go to Hogsmeade and fill my pockets with unimaginable sweets.
When I was 14, I tried to read the series again.
And I realized I wanted to be Hermione.
I wanted to find my own Ron and Harry
And continue with all of our misadventures.
I wanted to find the Room of Requirements with them and find uncanny items.
I wanted to get a hold of the Marauder’s Map
Sneak up on people and look for secret passages.
Because “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
I wanted the thrill and that unbreakable friendship.
But as I read it again, now that I’m 19.
I realized that I just wanted to attend Potions Class with Snape or even with Slughorn.
Brewing cauldrons of potions in unorthodox ways
Completing them without haste,
And I’m constantly curious to know what Amortentia could smell like to me.
For they said that it smelled differently to every person.
Emitting the scent of the very thing that you love
Even if you’re unaware of it.
And I wonder, will it be the familiar tangy perfume that you always wear?
Will it be your sickly sweet shampoo that I always wanted to get rid off?
Or will it be something else entirely that’s not yours?
But I’m just a mere muggle after all,
And these mysteries I’ve been pondering on will just stay as mysteries,
Forever bounded in the books I love as a kid.