It’s that time again. The day of my ordeal has come. Once every year, I must go to a darkened place and perform a terrifying ritual.

I arrive at the Place of Shame, quivering. The doors close behind me as if by magic. I join a queue of other initiates, some of dwarflike stature standing bright-eyed in unknowing wonder, others in pairs attached by clasped extremities. A few, like me, downcast and fearful, shuffling forward to speak with the Oracle-like being who holds the key to our futures.

My time has come. I speak the words no male over 15 can say without trembling in fear and shame:

“One ticket for Harry Potter, please.“