The timetabled rumble of the Northern Line
between King’s Cross and Euston stations
moves beneath the British Library’s
‘Harry Potter: A History of Magic’.
Aficionados like my granddaughter
are oblivious, focused on the wonder
of ancient texts and modern images,
the alchemy of ink, pigments, alphabets
transformed into art. Between trains there is
the clip-clopping of Centaur’s hooves.
We walk to King’s Cross to see Platform
9¾. People are queuing
to take selfies beneath the sign attached
to the wall next to The Harry Potter shop.
As famous in her lifetime as Dickens
in his, J.K. Rowling is a diligent,
erudite genius, creator of
a universal, compassionate brand.
In the deepest, darkest Library stack
my two volumes sleep, the second – even
slimmer than the first – dedicated
to my granddaughter. Every fifteen minutes
or so the pages stir. They can hear
the steady beat of Hippogriff wings.