Recollections of Happier Times
“Mom! I know who the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is!”
My eleven-year-old son yelled through my cell phone at 5:35 a.m., waking me up from my quiet slumber. Without waiting for my reply or apologizing for calling me at such an early hour, he instead asked, “Can I tell you who it is?”
“Wait a minute,” I mumbled, my head still in a fog. Then, finally, I got out of bed and whispered, “How did you get a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince?”
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