Gollum

Miles was trying to take a nap in his rather large hidey-hole in the new bookcase; one shelf was stuffed with bits and pieces of newspaper, Harold’s old shirt, and orange peels. Miles loved the way the peels made him smell, kind of like the sounds of sunshine.

Harold crawled down the stairs. He looked like Gollum, with his only adornment, a gold wedding band coated in diamonds, sparkling on his long, thin finger.

“Nothing else matters,” said Harold the Ghost when he got to the bottom of the stairs.

Harold sighed, which sounded like a whistle. In fact, his two front teeth, twisted into each other as if they were dancers doing a pirouette, wow, I can’t believe I spelled that right, were the perfect whistle.

Miles pretended to be asleep, covering his long rat’s nose with his little paws. His paws, almost hand-like, served him well, the long nails, of which he was quite proud, digging sweet hidey-holes or carrying away treasures.

“I wish I were dead,” continued Harold, turning his head up toward Miles. His eyes, once a merry blue, were empty sockets.

“I’m too depressed to apparate, to move, to write poetry.”

Well, that’s a welcome relief, thought Miles, refusing to buy into Harold’s little game. Maybe I’ll get some sleep today.

“To be, or not to be, no longer is the question,” Harold said. His voice got higher, escalating to the top floor by the time he reached question.

“Oh cats,” said Miles….

“Ha,” said Harold. “I knew you were awake.”