Well just meeting J. K. Rowling was amazing because she created

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows of a small bookshop tucked away on a London side street, where the rain had just begun to fall — soft, silver, and rhythmic. The air smelled of paper, ink, and faint traces of coffee from the shop’s tiny corner café.

Host: Rows of novels lined the shelves like quiet universes waiting to be entered, each spine a door. Between them, a small wooden table stood by the window, two mugs steaming, two people deep in thought.

Host: Jack sat with his back to the rain, his grey eyes fixed on the condensation tracing slow rivers down the glass. Jeeny sat opposite, her hands wrapped around her mug, her hair slightly damp, her eyes alight with that spark she carried whenever the conversation turned toward imagination.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Evanna Lynch once said something I love. She said, ‘Well, just meeting J.K. Rowling was amazing because she created all this world. And all the fans, we all get so obsessed with it, and then you meet the one person who made it all up. It was just so amazing. And I was just so amazed that she wrote this book and all of the films have happened.’”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Sounds like worship.”

Jeeny: “No… sounds like gratitude.”

Jack: “Same thing sometimes. We build shrines for people who give us something to believe in. But at the end of the day, Rowling just wrote words on paper. The magic came from the people who read them.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him then, really looked — the kind of gaze that could slice through cynicism without raising its voice.

Jeeny: “And yet… without her words, there would’ve been nothing for them to believe in. Don’t you see? That’s the miracle — that one person’s imagination can shape millions of hearts.”

Jack: “Miracle? Or marketing?”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “Do you ever get tired of being cynical, Jack?”

Host: His eyes flickered toward her, the hint of a smirk fading into something quieter. The rain intensified, a soft percussion against the glass.

Jack: “No, I get tired of hearing people call ordinary things magic. Rowling’s just human. She sat at a café, wrote a story, got lucky. The rest is noise.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. She imagined something into being. You know how rare that is? She built a world that gave people shelter when their own lives were falling apart. That’s not noise. That’s alchemy.”

Host: A small silence stretched between them. The sound of a page turning somewhere in the shop filled the air like the breath of the universe itself.

Jack: (quietly) “So what? You think imagination saves people?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In more ways than you can count. For some, it’s a story that reminds them they’re not alone. For others, it’s a world where they can finally belong. Every word she wrote was an open door. Don’t you remember what that feels like — to walk through a door into somewhere impossible?”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, the question hitting a place he didn’t often let people touch.

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I used to. When I was a kid. Before life got… complicated.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We grow older and start calling wonder naïve. We forget that the things which saved us when we were children might still be able to save us now — if we’d let them.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not from weakness — from belief. Outside, the rain drummed harder, as if echoing her conviction. The streetlights flickered to life, painting faint halos around the puddles.

Jack: “You really think one story can do all that? Change people? Heal them?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think — I know. Look at Evanna herself. She was just a girl reading Rowling’s words when she was sick, lost, searching for something to hold onto. And then she became part of the very world that once held her together. That’s not fiction, Jack. That’s faith made real.”

Host: The fireplace crackled softly nearby. The shopkeeper hummed as she arranged new books on a shelf. The air was warm, golden, alive.

Jack: (running his hand along the rim of his mug) “Faith made real… You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t creation a kind of prayer? When someone writes, paints, or composes — they’re reaching toward something higher, something untamed. They’re saying, ‘I believe there’s more than this.’”

Jack: (leaning back) “And what happens when the world ruins it? When the stories get commercialized, criticized, torn apart online?”

Jeeny: “Then it proves they mattered. Nothing gets attacked more fiercely than something that moves people. The stronger the light, the sharper the shadow it casts.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windowpane, carrying the muffled sound of a bus passing by. The bookshop seemed to pulse in time with the storm — a sanctuary wrapped in thunder.

Jack: (quietly) “You talk like someone who’s never been disillusioned.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No. I talk like someone who still believes in resurrection.”

Host: Jack turned his head toward the window. The rain streaked the glass in crooked lines, like ink running from a page. His reflection looked older, sadder — but her reflection beside him was bright, unwavering.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like you? You still think the world can be made better with stories.”

Jeeny: “Not better. But bearable. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: Her words fell into the air like raindrops into still water, spreading quiet ripples. Jack’s hand, almost unconsciously, brushed against the spine of an old copy of The Philosopher’s Stone on the table.

Jack: (faint smile) “You know, when I first read this, I thought I wanted to be a wizard.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “You still are. You just stopped using your wand.”

Host: The rain eased, thinning into mist. Outside, the streets gleamed — the kind of glow that only follows a storm. The world felt rinsed, raw, new.

Jack: “Maybe meeting Rowling must’ve felt like meeting the architect of childhood itself. The person who built the place your memories live.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about fame. It’s about gratitude. To meet the one who dreamed the dream you grew up inside of — it’s like shaking hands with your own past.”

Host: Jack stared into his coffee, the steam curling upward like ghosts. He nodded slowly.

Jack: “I get it now. It’s not worship — it’s wonder. The rarest thing we have left.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Wonder is what keeps the heart young. And the world… extraordinary.”

Host: The clock above the counter chimed softly. The two sat in comfortable silence, surrounded by a universe made of pages. The light from the window bathed them both — one grounded in reason, the other burning with belief — yet now, they seemed less divided.

Host: Jack reached out and opened the book between them. The first words appeared, old but eternal: “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive…”

Host: Jeeny smiled as he read aloud, his voice carrying across the shop like an old spell remembered after years of silence. The storm outside had passed, but inside, something else had just begun — a quiet rediscovery of magic, the kind that doesn’t fade with age, only waits for you to turn the page again.

Host: And as the last line drifted into the stillness, the rain stopped entirely. The world outside exhaled. The lamp light glowed warmer. And in that humble bookshop, two souls — one skeptic, one believer — sat surrounded by infinite worlds, amazed again by the simple, impossible act of creation.