Everyone has a “home.” Not always made of bricks and walls, but a place where you feel safe, understood, and at peace. For me, that home lives in the pages of the Harry Potter books. Maybe it's just a fantasy story for some, but for me, it's been a refuge. I've read it over and over, and each time, the love, friendship, support, and quiet wisdom in those pages wrap around me like a warm blanket. Home can be The Burrow—filled with the smell of food, laughter, and real love. It can be the people who stood by Harry, and by extension, stood by us. They became family. And Dumbledore? He’s the embodiment of humanity for me. So wise, yet so humble in the face of his own mistakes. There’s this moment that gets me every time—when he’s about to drink the potion on the island, fully aware it might be killing him, weakening him beyond return. And yet, before taking that first sip, he looks at Harry and says not “cheers,” but “to your good health, Harry.” He knows. He knows this could be the beginning of the end. And still, in that moment, his instinct is to wish Harry well. Some say Harry didn’t matter to him—that it was all about the greater good. But how can anyone believe that? In King's Cross, Dumbledore tells Harry he suspected he’d survive because he chose not to fight back! And there’s no strategy in his voice—only admiration. Only love. Dumbledore didn’t do what was perfect. He did what was possible. The very best a human could do. And maybe that’s exactly why he means so much.
The Little Popcorn.