Harry Potter: Love & Hate

Memory is a tricky thing. We like to think of it as a recording, something that faithfully captures events as they happened. But memory is more like a story. We revise it, retell it, and shape it around what mattered most to us. Sometimes two people can walk through the exact same experience and come away with entirely different versions of what happened.

One of my favorite examples is the time my mom and I visited the Harry Potter Studio Tour in London.

If you ask me about that day, I'll tell you it was magical.

If you ask my mom, she'll tell you I hated it.

The funny thing is, we're both absolutely convinced we're right.

The Harry Potter Studio Tour had been something I wanted to see for years. As someone who grew up with the books and movies, stepping into the world that had lived in my imagination felt almost unreal. I remember the anticipation during the drive there, the excitement of walking through the entrance, and the feeling that I was finally about to see a place I'd only ever experienced through a screen.

My memory begins with awe.

I remember standing in the Great Hall, looking around and trying to absorb every detail. I remember seeing the floating costumes, studying the props, and marveling at the craftsmanship that brought the wizarding world to life. I took photos. I pointed things out. I probably squealed more than once.

Most of all, I remember feeling overwhelmed, but in the best possible way.

There was so much to see that I didn't want to waste a single minute.

My mom remembers something entirely different.

According to her, I rushed through the entire tour.

Whenever she tells the story, she laughs and says, "You couldn't get out of there fast enough."

I always object.

"No, I loved it."

To which she inevitably replies, "Then why were you speed-walking through every room?"

And that's where our memories collide.

From her perspective, enjoying something means lingering. It means stopping to examine displays, reading every information panel, and taking your time. When she thinks about museums, attractions, or historical sites, she imagines a slow, careful experience. If you're moving quickly, it's usually because you're bored.

So when she watched me move briskly from room to room, she interpreted it through that lens. She saw someone trying to get through the attraction rather than someone trying to see every inch of it.

But my memory tells a different story.

I wasn't rushing because I was uninterested.

I was rushing because I was excited.

Every new doorway felt like another surprise waiting to happen.

I wanted to see the Hogwarts Express.

I wanted to see Diagon Alley.

I wanted to see the creature effects.

I wanted to see the sets.

I wanted to see all of it.

In my mind, moving quickly wasn't a sign that I wanted to leave. It was evidence that I couldn't wait to see what was next.

It's funny because neither of us is lying. Neither of us is deliberately changing the story. We genuinely remember the experience differently because we were paying attention to different things.

My mom remembers my behavior.

I remember my emotions.

She saw my pace.

I felt my excitement.

Those aren't contradictory facts, but they lead to completely different conclusions.

When I think about the studio tour, what stands out is the feeling of joy. I remember turning corners and discovering iconic sets I'd recognized from the films. I remember feeling like a kid again. I remember that strange sensation of being somewhere both completely new and deeply familiar at the same time.

I don't remember whether I paused at every exhibit.

I don't remember how quickly I walked.

Those details simply didn't register because they weren't important to me.

Meanwhile, my mom doesn't have access to my internal excitement. She couldn't see what I was feeling. All she could see was what I was doing.

And what I was doing looked suspiciously like someone trying to break a speed record through a museum.

The older I get, the more fascinating I find these kinds of disagreements. As a child, I probably would have argued until I was blue in the face, insisting that my version was correct and hers was wrong. Now I realize that memory doesn't really work that way.

The experience belongs to both of us.

Her memory is built from observation.

Mine is built from emotion.

Neither one cancels out the other.

In fact, her version has made me question parts of my own memory. Maybe I really was moving faster than I realized. Maybe my excitement made me impatient. Maybe I was so determined not to miss anything that I accidentally sped through things I would have enjoyed examining more closely.

At the same time, I know I wasn't miserable.

I know I wasn't bored.

I know I wasn't trying to leave.

The strongest thing I carried away from that day was happiness.

What's interesting is that if someone had filmed us, the video probably would support my mom's argument. The footage might show me marching through exhibit after exhibit with the determination of someone late for an appointment.

But the video wouldn't capture the reason.

It wouldn't show the excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

It wouldn't show me mentally checking off things I'd dreamed of seeing for years.

That's the limitation of evidence. Even when we have proof of what happened, we don't always have proof of what it meant.

Whenever the story comes up now, we both laugh.

My mom still insists I hated the studio tour.

I still insist it was one of my favorite parts of visiting London.

Neither of us has convinced the other.

And honestly, I hope we never do.

There's something charming about the fact that one day can exist in two completely different forms. In one version, a daughter drags her poor mother through a world-famous attraction as quickly as humanly possible. In the other, a lifelong Harry Potter fan is so excited to see everything that she practically sprints from wonder to wonder.

Both stories contain the same people, the same place, and the same events.

Yet they feel entirely different.

That disagreement has become its own memory now, layered on top of the original one. I don't just remember the Harry Potter Studio Tour. I remember years of friendly debates afterward, each of us defending our version of the day.

Maybe that's what makes memory so fascinating. The events themselves eventually fade, but the stories we tell about them keep evolving. They become less about what happened and more about how we experienced it.

So if you ask me about the Harry Potter Studio Tour in London, I'll tell you I loved every second of it. I'll tell you about the excitement, the magic, and the feeling of finally stepping into a world I'd cherished for years.

And if you ask my mom?

She'll probably roll her eyes and tell you I rushed through the whole thing.

The strange thing is, after all these years, I think we're both right.