Do you remember the first time that you read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone? Can you still remember the exact spot you were in when you reached the big reveal that it was SPOILER ALERT Professor Quirrell the whole time and not Professor Snape?

I know that it’s not Thursday yet and technically not yet the correct time to post throw backs but for some reason, during the ride to work the other day, the memory of the first time I read J.K. Rowling’s worldwide sensation of a novel entered my head.

Now I don’t think that there was a logical reason for this to happen; I was just staring out the window of a moving car, totally blanking at the way the scenery just whizzed by and then BAM! Suddenly I’m in the middle of memory lane.

I was a freshman in high school — OHMYGOD that’s thirteen years ago, what happened to my life — when the series was introduced to me by a couple of boys from class who shared the same interest in reading. One was a walking-buddy of mine — his journey home was part of the commute I take every day — and the other was the resident weirdo in class. The Weird One actually lent me his paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I do sort of feel bad that I never really took the effort to know this kid because Harry Potter literally changed my life. Unfortunately his grades weren’t good enough to make it to second year and he was cut. I never saw him again.

Freshmen were let out at two (2) o’clock in the afternoon, which meant that I had to suffer through the daily commute home – short walk, train ride, walk through a mall, another two (2) jeepney rides – in the lazy and sleepy afternoon heat. I remember cracking the book open on one of the jeepney rides to keep myself awake and I distinctly remember being bored. The first few chapters, after all, were very slow going but things got interesting when he finally got to Hogwarts and before long, just like everybody else, I was hooked. I couldn’t put it down. I was staying up late and foregoing watching television just to reach the end. I remember always thinking, ‘I’ll sleep at the end of this chapter‘ but since the chapters always end with (sort of) cliff-hangers, I’d end up repeating the process.

Fast forwarding to the end, after countless cycles of ‘one more chapter‘, I lost track of time so it was well past midnight (on a school night) when I got to The Big Reveal. So there I was, alone in my room on my stomach and suffering through the heat, on the tips of my toes willing myself to read faster while the whole of our house slept.

I think it was at this point that my mother went into my room in a panic, wondering why the lights in my room were on and why I was still up. She very quickly ordered me to go to sleep and forbade me to read any more non-academic school book during school season.

Of course I couldn’t sleep without finishing it — I was so close to the truth. After a few minutes to make sure that she was back to sleep and won’t come in again — I got up and walked over to my study table. It was a miserable way to finish possibly the greatest book ever: in the wee hours of the morning while reading in a weak light with no one to share your mind blown emotions with.

The following day, true to my mother’s words, I was groggy and irritable from the lack of sleep. It was only the sustained high I got from The Incredible Ending that kept me going. It was a miracle that I made it through school in one piece. After profusely thanking The Weird One for lending me his book, I quickly schemed up a way to collect all four (4) books that were published at the time.

That’s how my obsession relationship with The Boy Who Lived started.