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.