Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: “Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey”.
“For right now, it’s between us, alright, just us. But please, if any of you fuss about it, or frown about it, or worst of all, if you bore me with your sympathy, that’s just seconds wasted, seconds that could be used for making music, which is all I want to do with the time I have left. I don’t have time to be their victim, their AIDS poster boy, their cautionary tale.”
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come… . Thanksss, amigo.”
