If and when I am unfortunate enough to procreate, I have decided that I will raise my child to believe that the wizarding world of the Harry Potter book series is actually real. From an early age, I will read him the "legends" of the great Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, at his bedside every night, to familiarize him with our cultural "history". I will dress in strange robes around the house and explain why we have to act "normal" around the "Muggles". I will set up elaborate illusions and magic tricks to give him the impression that I can perform magic. Most importantly, I will tell him that, one day, he will be old enough to learn the magical arts, and that I will take him to Hogwarts when that day arrives to become a student there. On his eleventh birthday, he will receive a correspondence addressed to him (written by me, of course) to inform him of his acceptance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We will celebrate the occasion with generous helpings of British "treats" and magical foods like "butterbeer". He will be so excited, and I will be so proud of his accomplishment. We will take a plane to the United Kingdom (to blend in with the "Muggles") and travel to King's Cross, where we will share an emotional farewell before he embarks upon the journey of a lifetime. Finally, he will be able to experience the wonderful world that I have described to him throughout his childhood. I will then give him a fatherly pat on the back, point him in the direction of platform nine and three-quarters, and remain stoically silent as he collides into the pillar at top speed. His life will forever be changed. I will act profoundly disappointed that he lacks the magical potential I hoped he would have, and he will be forced to live the remainder of his life as a Muggle, knowing that he has failed to make me proud of him, as I continue to watch disapprovingly from an ever-increasing distance.