Harry's nose twitched

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Harry's nose twitched. He was feeling sad for some reason – and when he felt sad, his nose always twitched. It was as if an ant had gotten into his nostrils and was tickling them from the inside. And even if he sneezed, the ant would stay there, stuck to his nostrils like the Giant Squid to its prey, and tickling them furiously. Or perhaps, it was his nose hair – it grew longer and longer every year, ever since he turned fifteen. It tickled the skin of his nostrils pretty often, too.

He was feeling nostalgic. Nostalgic wasn't the precise word, of course, as he couldn't feel nostalgic about something that never happened, but he thought that sad was all too ambiguous and thus termed his feeling as such. He felt like being tucked up in bed with a cup of hot cocoa and read to, by his mother, and then kissed good-night. That never happened in his life, ever, but he couldn't help but wish it did.

With a sigh, Harry James Potter stood up from his bed and, in a few quick steps in the confinement of his small cupboard-sized room, reached his writing desk. He sat in his old rickety chair, dug out a quill and a scruffy piece of paper out of the junk littering his workspace, and, licking the tip of his quill, wrote:

Dear Mom,

How are you? How's the weather up there? I hope it's not raining, is it? In London, it always rains. Even on Sundays. For instance, last Sunday, I went to the fair with Ron – that's my best friend – and we had a bloody good time, but then it started to rain and we got wet and cold. But Ron said that it was fine, because some of the rain ended up in his mustard, and that made more of it – though it wasn't as concentrated – and so he had more mustard for his chips.

I myself am fine. Despite the rain, I'm perfectly healthy. My lengthy nose hairs annoy me sometimes, but my agoraphobia (that's fear of open spaces) is ameliorating. Doctor says I got it cos I lived in a cupboard during my entire childhood. He says wanting to live like one did in his childhood is a common symptom of the mid-life crisis. Is it strange that I might be getting it at twenty-five?

Mom, please reply soon. And give my love to Dad.

Your loving son,

Harry J. Potter xoxoxoxoxo

Harry reread his letter a few times, then stared at it stupidly for a few minutes before giving it a generous, sloppy kiss. He stood and opened the small window that was the only source of inartificial light in his cupboard. He looked outside, to the bleak London streets, the fading dim glare of streetlights in the violent rain, the Abbey's Gothic spirals glowing a stony beige in the distance. Cars passed below and people scurried like ants under broad black umbrellas, eager to get home in time for the evening sitcoms. The air smelled of minty summer and wet earth, and the generally receding light of the washed-out solar giant winked at him, it seemed, through the sheet of water.

The young man spat at the street languidly – what's the point of living so high up if you can't spit on the unaware heads below? – and, with yet another heartfelt sigh, tore up his letter and set it to the winds. He then disappeared under the covers, ready to fall asleep even though it was only about seven in the evening.

Great was his surprise when, in a few minutes, he received a gust of wind that banged open his window and carried to his very arms a grimy piece of paper with, it seemed, a reply written on it.