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A review by reesepective
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone by J.K. Rowling
5.0
Reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone again as an adult is a bit like returning to your childhood home only to discover it’s somehow both smaller and infinitely more magical than you remembered. I mean, yes, we all know the story—The Boy Who Lived, cupboard under the stairs, flying broomsticks and chocolate frogs—but re-reading it now, it hits different.
Let’s start with the basics: poor Harry James Potter, orphaned and unloved, gets whisked away from the Dursley Dungeon by a half-giant on a flying motorbike (as you do) and suddenly finds out he’s a wizard. Not just any wizard, mind you—the wizarding equivalent of a rock star with a tragic backstory and a lightning bolt for a PR manager.
And Hogwarts? Still the cosiest fictional school to ever exist, with moving staircases, secret passages, and a three-headed dog casually guarding priceless magical artefacts. As you do.
The real magic though? It’s the characters. Ronald Bilius Weasley with his hand-me-down heart, Hermione Jean Granger with her righteous fury and encyclopaedic brain, and Harry James Potter—just trying to make sense of a world where he’s somehow both famous and deeply alone. Their friendship is the kind that makes you want to apparate yourself into their dormitory and join them for a game of wizard chess (or at least a treacle tart).
J. K. Rowling’s writing is deceptively simple—light and breezy on the surface, but laced with deeper truths about bravery, belonging, and the ache of growing up too fast. The world-building? Impeccable. It’s not just about magic spells and enchanted ceiling candles—it’s about hope, even when everything feels impossibly dark. You come for the wands, but stay for the feels.
Even now, knowing how it all ends, I still want to scoop Harry James Potter up and tell him he’s enough. That he’s loved. That he deserves the family he finds. This book isn’t just about magic—it is magic. If you’ve never read it before: firstly, how? Secondly, do it. Whether you’re nine or ninety, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone casts a spell that never truly wears off.
Let’s start with the basics: poor Harry James Potter, orphaned and unloved, gets whisked away from the Dursley Dungeon by a half-giant on a flying motorbike (as you do) and suddenly finds out he’s a wizard. Not just any wizard, mind you—the wizarding equivalent of a rock star with a tragic backstory and a lightning bolt for a PR manager.
And Hogwarts? Still the cosiest fictional school to ever exist, with moving staircases, secret passages, and a three-headed dog casually guarding priceless magical artefacts. As you do.
The real magic though? It’s the characters. Ronald Bilius Weasley with his hand-me-down heart, Hermione Jean Granger with her righteous fury and encyclopaedic brain, and Harry James Potter—just trying to make sense of a world where he’s somehow both famous and deeply alone. Their friendship is the kind that makes you want to apparate yourself into their dormitory and join them for a game of wizard chess (or at least a treacle tart).
J. K. Rowling’s writing is deceptively simple—light and breezy on the surface, but laced with deeper truths about bravery, belonging, and the ache of growing up too fast. The world-building? Impeccable. It’s not just about magic spells and enchanted ceiling candles—it’s about hope, even when everything feels impossibly dark. You come for the wands, but stay for the feels.
Even now, knowing how it all ends, I still want to scoop Harry James Potter up and tell him he’s enough. That he’s loved. That he deserves the family he finds. This book isn’t just about magic—it is magic. If you’ve never read it before: firstly, how? Secondly, do it. Whether you’re nine or ninety, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone casts a spell that never truly wears off.