The Wizard of Grimmauld Place

Part 1

Pigeons flocked the ceramic-tiled roof of Grimmauld Place, pecking at the tiny morsels of dirt, droppings and bread crumbs. They cooed at various intervals; the flapping of their wings creating a tempestuous cacophony. The sky was overcast laden with dull and heavy clouds, drifting eastward and seemed to be an omen of impending rain. Hiding somewhere in the horizon was the sun, and the breeze, although steady, was cooler than usual. It was almost autumn. The hill where Grimmauld Place stood was dismal and dim, with its flower beds filled with bluebells and poppies that swayed with the wind looking as though they had just woken up from a hundred-year sleep. Behind the gray stone building, just beyond the fence of electrified barbed wires that marked the boundary of the place was an expanse of thick forest. As strange as it may seem, it had always been a little silent around the area and over the dirt road that connected Grimmauld Place from the town proper of Pewter Hill, a hundred and seventeen miles away north of Thymes.

August had barely ended and yet the leaves that adorned the trees had already turned flaming orange and the drop in temperature likewise had prompted the people to take out sets of clothes more favorable with the weather. As Grimmauld Place stood away from the town, the surroundings were usually empty. A few cars perhaps but never was it marked with the utmost jolly ambiance that often hung about in Pewter Hill where the strangest circumstances are always the last thing that would ever occur inside the people's minds. The building was a tower from a distance, easily spotted with the naked eye as long as fog did not linger for too long during the dawn. And despite the heavy cloud that seemed to hover around that morning during the last few days of summer, the lawn that spread around like a carpet of emeralds was nicely trimmed and fresh and the flowerbeds of bluebells and poppies still carried some bit of attractiveness.

In the courtyard was a white marble fountain with a statue of an archangel, from whose wide span of wings were spouts where water supposedly ejected. The archangel was looking up east to where the sun usually rose, but his eyes were nothing but pale white sockets of hollowness. He carried a marble sword that he pointed upwards as though waiting for the sky to open and spit out a grotesque monster from the gates of the heavens. Nothing ran through the pipes and the basin was dry as bone, and moss covered half the legs of the angel, giving it a more sinister look. It was early in the morning and everything was still and silent, and amidst this one could hear a faint rasping sound of metal, rust against rust. On the far corner of the yard stood a swing set, an old ensemble which used to be bright blue in color, until the most terrible weather had turned it gray.

Jim sat on the farther right, his feet flat on the ground, bare and cold. He was humming an old nursery rhyme he knew from his childhood, something about the mouse and the clock, and then he would pause for a while to look over the hills beyond and resume humming again. Over his shoulder draped was a checkered red and yellow flannel shirt, on the chest pocket was an imprint of a lion, which he can remember was a gift from an old friend in school. His jeans were muddy down at the ends for they were a little big for his size, it always dragged when he walked, and he never bothered wearing his sneakers whenever he was in the courtyard during early mornings. He rocked back and forth the swing in sluggish movements, occasionally running a finger over the right of his forehead, which held a bandage plastered neatly on the edges. Something ached and the muscles in his face suddenly tensed; he had to purse his lips to ease it a little bit. And then he paused again, looked over the doorway that opened to the yard, observing a blurry figure materializing from across the field, approaching like a mysterious phantom. Narrowing his eyes, he found out it was Rubinsky.

'Mornin', Jim.' He heaved a sigh, looking as if he was catching his breath. The large man stood high in his stark white uniform, starched and pleated. A pair of black beady eyes peered under his bushy eyebrows and his hair, a thick mane of curls that quite needed a trim, was tied around in a ponytail. He marched in heavy footsteps, careful not to splash mud on his white shoes, and studied Jim for a moment upon greeting him. 'You okay, buddy? You left these by the door.' Rubinsky held out his big hand and revealed something in it: a pair of round spectacles that Jim should have been wearing.