The next morning, as expected, a reply arrived, this time neatly packaged in a brown Manila envelope. Harry pushed away a platter of fish and chips and tore it apart.
Dear Harry,
This is Remus Lupin. You remember me? Of course you do. Harry, I'm sorry, but I've been instructed to reply to you this time, as Severus has gone out to sow his potato fields. He says he can't wait a moment, lest the rain come earlier than expected.
Harry, forgive me for being awfully rude and not enquiring after your weather, but I really have something of utmost urgency to tell. Harry, I think we've all gone mad. I mean, completely mad. Did Severus tell you about his life in his previous letters? It doesn't much sound like him, does it? Well, he looks like himself, I'll grant you that, but, I swear – if you see him dancing the polka with Bellatrix, who, by the way, is crazier than she ever was, you'll think it's either you that's gone batty or it's a trick of the light. Thought so myself when I arrived. Considering the fact that on Earth, he was ready to physically eat me whenever we met, bones and skin and all, I was a bit shocked when we hit it off like we were age-old chums.
I wouldn't have believed myself if the same didn't happen to Nymphadora. She never was quite right in the head initially, I'll grant you that, but here, she's absolutely unrecognizable! She's not a stranger to a choleric temperament, but now she's so happy she could fly! This monstrously fatalistic optimism is killing me, suffocating me under its robust folds, I swear on my werewolf form, which is the only thing even remotely evil in this bloody utopia.
Here's a thing that will humour you, Harry: d'you remember Tom Riddle junior? Of course you do. Well, he's taken up government service. And, I don't know whether it's the irony of life or his own singular sense of humour, but he became a tax collector. You know, one of those Jims in a strict suit, that looks a bit like Adolf with the moustache and all, that come 'round to your house and go 'hmm, may I be entitled to an audience with Mr. whatsisname – Lupin, please...' and snoop you over like hound dogs looking for foxes when you come out, and then tell you you've not paid £0.02 for your bills – and for some reason, the tax person's telling you that. Regardless, that's what Voldemort's doing now. Funny thing is, in heaven, we don't have taxes, because they're on the list of '10 Things Evil'. So, what's he doing collecting taxes that don't exist? I don't know.
Harry, I don't know, but all of this is as mad as the March hare. You're the only thread that leads me to sanity, Harry – don't leave me! I want out of here.
Sincerely,
Your good friend and teacher, Remus Lupin
P.S. don't tell anyone I wrote about this.
Harry smirked, then chuckled. Soon, his short snorts exploded into wild, insane laughter that rang out of the open window and ricocheted off the walls of narrow London alleys. Pigeons at Trafalgar Square soared into the air in a flurry of wings and bullfrog-like croaks and the great stone lions, it seemed, shifted their marble ears at the sound. A tray of antique crystal goblets shattered somewhere in a Chelsea antiquities auction. The waters of the Thames bubbled and spring apple blossoms quivered tersely on branches of lonely trees. Of course, it would be absurd to suppose that all this could've occurred out of just one laugh.
The young man shoved the letter into one of the messes on his writing desk and reclined on the chair, thinking. He already knew that the first thing he would write in reply to his friend is a description of his own life – if Lupin thought that things were crazy in heaven, he would certainly like to take a look at how things were in real life.