I have just finished reading J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone . This series follows the life of Harry Potter, a boy who lost his parents at a very young age to a wizard named Voldemort who went as bad as you could go. Raised by the worst muggles (non-magic folk) imaginable, Harry only learns that he is a wizard on his eleventh birthday when he is introduced to the wonderful world of magic. I chose to reread the Harry Potter series this summer for two reasons. Firstly, the second part of the seventh movie releases this summer and I want to be caught up on the series before the movies conclude. Secondly, rereading this series reminds me of the optimism I had in my childhood and my ability to believe that magic is possible. I unfortunately did not read this series as a child, and therefore never knew that as an adolescent growing up in the era of Harry Potter, I was supposed to be eagerly sitting on my front porch waiting for an owl to deliver my letter of acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Had I read the books, I am sure I would have been just as upset as my friends were when their front doors had neglected to be knocked down at midnight of their eleventh birthday’s by a friendly half-giant bearing cake and life altering news. However, even as an adult, the Harry Potter series has a very special place in my heart. And even though I have yet to receive my letter at the age of nineteen, I still hold on hope. Some day…