LINER NOTES:
RANDOM: Although this is listed as a chapter, it's more an interlude in response to an email a rabid reader (but not
reviewer . . . sniffle sniffle) sent me, demanding to know more. Standard LINER NOTES apply here, but I'm not typing them
all out for something this short.
The man reclined on a long cream sofa near the fireplace and reread the letter he'd received at dinner. It was a reply to that
fool ad he'd placed in a moment of extreme weakness (and then cussed himself for); and now he was cussing himself again
for actually finding the respondent interesting. The name of the letter writer was Rémy, or at least that was what his friends (he
said "almost everybody") called him. Rémy enjoyed books and music and the theater and seemed to be one of those overly
kind, generally naïve souls who "meant well." He sounded intelligent, however, and that mattered to the man on the sofa. He
wouldn't have been interested if this 'Rémy' hadn't sounded intelligent. He couldn't stand ignorance. Now he was
deliberating – did he write back to Rémy, or not? His instincts screamed not to – for all he knew it was some kind of trap set
by the other side and he'd be killed if he responded – but some smaller, nearly forgotten part of him urged him to take the
chance. It might not come again, this part argued. Finally he came to a conclusion. Sitting down at a table with quill and ink,
he began to write.
"Harry – Harry! Harry, wake up!" Harry let out an "Uhnn" and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. "Harry – Harry, he
wrote back –"
This was enough to pique Harry's interest. "Huh?"
"The man from the newspaper!"
"What about him?"
"He wrote!"
"I thought you had to write him first."
"I did, Harry, day before yesterday. Now do you want to get up and come get some orange juice and read what he said, or
do you want to lay here for the rest of the morning?"
Remus obviously meant the question to be rhetorical, so Harry reached halfheartedly for his dressing gown, cursing under his
breath when he saw the face of the alarm clock (it read 6:52 – on a summer Saturday morning, no less).
It took Harry almost half an hour to get out to the kitchen, even though he'd forgone his normal morning shower – he had the
feeling Remus would burst if he had to wait five minutes more to share his news. Harry had barely poured himself a glass of
pumpkin juice before Remus thrust the letter excitedly in his face.
"Here!"
Harry took the paper cautiously and examined it. It was nothing but plain cream paper, though curiously soft and velvety. It
was covered in a slightly sharp, square, linear handwriting. Having determined this, Harry read.
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Dear Rémy,
I must congratulate you – I hadn't intended to answer any responses I received. I placed that ad in a moment of weakness,
and I've been cursing at myself right up till now – I decided to stop when I realized somebody interesting had answered me. I
never expected an answer from somebody with a child or even a teenager. In answer to your question, no, I don't mind
children so long as they're not very small – my sister's five-year-old is sufficient to drive me to insanity within ten minutes.
I truly had to laugh when you said that 'almost everyone just calls' you Rémy. I also use a different name with my friends – my
first name is just an annoying reminder of relatives I've spent a lifetime running away from. Feel free to call me Natasha – a
strange name for a man, I know, but apparently it has some kind of ethnic meaning in some cultural group my mother was part
of, and I far prefer it to the alternative.
I'd be glad to hear from you again. Having intelligent conversation, even one with day long pauses in it, certainly is an
improvement over talking to the walls.
Yours ever,
Nat
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Harry sat looking at this strange missive with mixed feelings. The man's manner was slightly abrupt, but there was nothing
wrong with that. Harry felt some sort of kinship with the absent Natasha already – the mere fact that he preferred his middle
name to his first one was a big indicator for Harry. He knew he hated being called "my boy," even by Albus Dumbledore,
because of the connotations the word "boy" had taken on at the Dursleys'. No, there was some other reason for him to feel
odd about that letter – if only he could figure out what it was.