The room was longitudinally dissected by seven horizontal
tables each of whose tops was filled with exactly twenty-seven glass jars,
expressive in their own individual taciturnity. Indiscernible shapes floated in
a gelatinous solution within the jars. If
one entered suddenly from the outside, the room provided the impression of
being enveloped by a dirty yellowish mist. The raw smell of blood and anaesthesia
pervaded the atmosphere.
He looked around perspicaciously. As his eyes gradually got
adjusted to the murky darkness, he felt a faint chant-like buzzing hovering
about near his ears. “Lumos”, he whispered and holding aloft the lighted tip of
his wand like a torch, he stood near the end of the first table, his scorched
hand playfully stroking its surface.
They had obstinately remained blind to his arguments. This
was a gift- a precious and rare talent. Why must one willingly demolish the
sanctity of a pure species by contamination of blood? How can he erase from his
memory the sight of his mother being mercilessly hurled into the pyre by those
filthy ignorant bastards? And now he was condemned to watch their children walk
about like clumsy clowns in robes and learn ‘magic tricks.’ He spat on the
ground in disgust.
It was three against one. Rowena had eventually caved in
last night. He had to do something. Putting out the light he raised his head
and sniffed the air. He glided towards the third table in an inebriated trance.
“Yesss”, he hissed, the glint in his eyes matching the reddish sparks that flew
out of his wand. “Basilisk eggs”-he flicked out an unusually long tongue and
licked his thin lips.
He cradled his trophy adorably in his lap. Then with a quick
swish of his wand, he breathed an incantation into it, and the rest of the jars
came shattering down one by one. Just like the multiculoured glass beads from
Mammy’s necklace, during the ’66 witch burning incident.
