The Wizard of Grimmauld Place

Part 3

Jim lay awake on his bed at the dead of the night. Rain lashed ruthlessly against his window as booming sounds of thunder clapped in the sky every so often. It drowned his sense of hearing so intensely that he could barely hear the beating of his heart. He curled on the mattress like a fetus inside a womb, knees flexed and tucked close to his torso, the spine of his neck bent low. Dark partially veiled his eyes with inscrutable obscureness. When lightning cracked through the carpet of the night, he could see vaguely the shadowy images inside his room, the rough outline of inanimate objects that he imagined to be sometimes moving in their own accord.

He could not sleep. The cut on his forehead had started hurting since he had spoken to Brian regarding the shadows and his premonition that Tom Riddle will be back to strike them all dead--the man with the face of a snake that haunted him in his dreams. He felt every inch afraid to close his eyes for he surely would see his gaunt and grim face looming inside his head, with his red eyes and slits for a nose and teeth that looked more like a demon's than a man's. He squirmed, his gut burned all over, and the tranquilizer pill that Rubinsky provided him before he went to bed did not seem to do much help. Apprehension nibbled at his feet like a young beast with carnivorous appetite, up to his ankles and legs, to the pit of his stomach, and inside the caverns of his heart. He trembled in the sheets not because of the cold but the uncanny feeling that he was being watched. Rain continuously poured outside and not too long he heard the loud tolling of the clock out by Rubinsky's station, marking twelve o'clock midnight.

'If only...' Jim murmured under his breath. 'If only I had my weapon--If only I had it in my hands--I could fight him as an equal...I could still remember a few curses...Even after the sessions in the Shock Shack...'

His lips were shaking as he spoke. At the end of his sentence he clenched his jaw to ward it off, but then the shakes would return and take over again. He ran a finger on his forehead and the cut ached underneath the white bandage. The tape that held them together was losing its power against moisture and sweat. He writhed and gritted his teeth in excruciating pain. It felt as if white-hot iron was being pressed against it.

'Why plaster a bandage over there, Jimmy?' Darko's menacing voice echoed inside his head. 'Show them the ugly mark. Tell them the truth. Tell them that you lied to Brian when you said you tripped in the yard and bumped your forehead. Tell them that you cut yourself.'

Jim sat up in his bed and gazed through his window. When lightning struck again he saw his reflection on the glass for a brief moment; the sullen face of a boy filled only with anguish and hate. Carefully, he peeled the edges of the bandage and removed it altogether, and there in front of him he saw the ugly mark that he had created, a slit on his right forehead that still looked red and fresh--a physical memory of the shard of glass against the film of his skin.

'You must not tell lies, Jim. You must not tell lies.' He said to himself on the reflection. But he was not lying. They were back and it was the truth. It was the truth that nobody deemed to accept. And yes, after all these, he was the one behind the metal bars of insanity, accused for having been conjuring irrational images inside his head. 'You must not tell lies, Jim. You must not tell lies.'

He crept out of the bed and felt the cold tiled floor against his feet. Thunder rolled in the sky once more like a mad monster as wind howled violently against the window. Despite these, Grimmauld Place stood still and silent at the dead of the night. If only he could hear through walls; Jim was sure he could hear the muffled breathing of the residents. He got to his feet and gained his balance. He put on his eyeglasses, pressed it deep on his nose bridge that it sank to make a mark. The cut on his forehead was left exposed, air stinging his flesh.

'I need to get my weapon,' He murmured under his breath. The doorknob gave out a soft clink as he quietly made his way out. In the dark, he looked like a phantom haunting a manor, his pajamas hung loosely on his skeletal frame. Sticking his head out in the doorway, he saw the hallways faintly lit with tiny bulbs that lined the walls. 'You need to get it, Jim. Or else everyone is going to die. Their lives are in your hands, Jim.' He released a breathful of air as he began taking careful and silent steps.