When I was nine years old, my world shifted forever. My parents gave me a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, and I devoured it in a single weekend, sprawled on my bedroom floor with a flashlight long after bedtime. Those pages weren’t just a story—they were a portal. Suddenly, my childhood imagination had structure: Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, Quidditch, spells I tried to whisper under my breath hoping for a flicker of magic.

The movies only deepened the spell. I can still remember the crackle of excitement sitting in the theater, popcorn in hand, watching Harry step into the Great Hall for the first time. The floating candles, the enchanted ceiling—it was everything I had pictured while reading, only alive and glowing. For a nine-year-old, it was like magic had been proven real.

When I turned ten, my parents made that magic official. On the breakfast table sat a parchment envelope, sealed with a wax crest. Inside was my Hogwarts Acceptance Letter. I screamed so loud I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t come check. That year we whittled sticks into wands in the backyard, painted them, and pretended Ollivander himself had guided us to the perfect cores. Mine had a bend in it that I proudly declared meant it had unicorn hair.

Every birthday after that seemed to carry a little more Hogwarts with it. My friends and I threw Harry Potter–themed parties, complete with makeshift Sorting Hats and chocolate frogs (really just gummy frogs dipped in chocolate, but it didn’t matter). At recess, we turned the monkey bars into Quidditch hoops and chased each other across the playground with broomsticks. When Pottermore launched, we were glued to the computer, discovering our houses, our wands, and our Patronuses like we’d been waiting our whole lives for the Sorting Hat’s verdict.

And then, of course, came the butterbeer experiments. I can still taste those frothy mugs—cream soda with whipped cream, sometimes butterscotch syrup if we were lucky enough to find it. It was sugary chaos, but it was ours.

Through it all, my mom was right there with me. She read the books too and adored them almost as much as I did. She has always had this uncanny resemblance to Professor McGonagall—her sharp eyes, her elegant posture, even her dry wit. Friends who came over would whisper, “Your mom is McGonagall.”

Fast forward to now, and Harry Potter is still with us—but this time, I got to share it with my own children. For my mom’s birthday, I planned something truly magical: the Harry Potter Forbidden Forest Experience, a light trail that transports you straight into the wizarding world.

The moment we arrived, we were spellbound. A towering blue Patronus stag greeted us at the entrance, glowing softly against the trees. My Gryffindor scarf—yes, the very same one I wore when I dressed as Hermione at ten—was wrapped around my neck, and I felt like I had stepped back in time. My mom wore her scarf too, looking every bit like McGonagall waiting to lecture Harry and Ron about their homework.

We wandered down the trail, lanterns lighting the way, meeting magical creatures around every bend. Hagrid and Fang made an appearance, larger than life. The kids’ eyes widened, and they clung to us tightly, but they couldn’t look away. When we came face to face with Aragog, his enormous legs shifting as he called out, “Bye, friend of Hagrid’s,” their mouths dropped open. One of them buried his face in my shoulder, peeking out with curiosity, while the other giggled nervously.

At one point, we stopped to bow to the Hippogriff—everyone bowed in turn, even the littlest one. And when the majestic creature bowed back, the kids’ faces lit up with awe, little gasps escaping them.

We discovered our Patronuses, too. My mom’s shimmered into existence as a sleek seal, gliding gracefully. Mine was a hedgehog—prickly but determined, which, honestly, felt about right. The children bounced and pointed at the silvery light dancing through the trees, clapping their hands without needing words to show their delight.

We passed the Flying Ford Anglia tangled in the branches, waved hello to Hedwig perched on her post, and laughed under glowing toadstools that pulsed with color when the kids waved their wands just right. The spell-casting stations were their favorite, especially the one with the light-up mushrooms. They squealed when the colors shifted, hopping in excitement.

By the time we reached the food stalls, we were ready for a feast. My husband dug into a hearty beef stew served in a bread bowl, while I opted for crispy fish and chips. The kids, predictably, went for chicken tenders. Hot chocolates warmed our hands as we sat under string lights, steam curling up into the cool night air.

Of course, we couldn’t leave without a stop at the gift shop. The kids insisted on Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, and to my horror, they actually enjoyed the disgusting ones—snot, barf, and all. They laughed and made silly faces, while I shook my head, thoroughly unconvinced. Kids will eat anything with sugar, it seems.

As the night wound down, we found ourselves around a fire pit, skewering marshmallows and roasting them until golden. My youngest focused intently on holding the stick just right, while my older one waved his proudly like a wand before biting into the gooey marshmallow. I looked around at my mom, bundled in her scarf with a smile, my husband content with his stew, the kids sticky-fingered and wide-eyed, and I realized something: the magic hadn’t faded.

All those years ago, I thought Harry Potter was just a childhood obsession. But standing there, scarf around my neck, kids by my side, marshmallow on a stick, I understood it was more than that. It was a language of love passed from me to my mom, from my mom to me, and now from me to my kids. It was proof that stories can stitch generations together.

We left the Forbidden Forest that night with glowing Patronuses in our memories, pockets full of half-eaten beans, and a renewed sense of wonder. And as we drove home, the kids drifted off to sleep in their car seats, cheeks pink from the cold, clutching their new treasures.

That nine-year-old girl curled up with her first Harry Potter book never could have imagined that someday, she’d be walking through the Forbidden Forest itself, holding her own children’s hands. But she would have believed in the magic—because she always did.

And as far as birthdays go, I can’t imagine a more magical one for my mom—our very own Professor McGonagall.