According to the Harry Potter website my patronus is a stag. Great honor, indeed.
Do you remember when you started reading the Harry Potter series? I do. I was thirteen years old and my mom brought the book home to me at night. Ten years ago my mom used to sell perfumes, so along with the first book of the series she also gave me this peculiarly citric fragrance that I immediately tried on my wrists. As I read about the boy who lived, my nostrils were inebriated by that perfume, which my memory learned to associate with the book.
I loved the books. I identified with the characters, particularly with Hermione. For some strange reason everything that Rowling said felt real to me. She could describe everything in such level of details that only if she had met Harry and the others she would have been able to write about them the way she did. In my childish naiveté I then waited for them to show up in real life, I waited for owls holding letters to flutter by my window, I searched the sky at night for signs of magic. I still do.
It's strange that the series is over. I wanted more. I wanted to see more. I wanted to join Harry's adventures for the rest of my life.