Elemental Alchemy

Elemental Alchemy

Chapter One

10:55 am - Kings Cross Station -- London

13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5

O, Draconian Devil.

O, Lame Saint.

The Fibonacci sequence: mathematical perfection. The anagrams: linguistic perfection. Robert Langdon gave a great sigh. He longed to put these phrases, and the horrible memories they invoked of the past year, out of his mind for good.

Unfortunately, though, he believed he would never be able to.

P.S. Find Robert Langdon...

Even two months later, the image of the words seared his mind, haunting him. "Find Robert Langdon." It still gave Robert chills knowing that the two parts of his name were the last words scribbled in desperation by a man dying a violent and painful death.

For once in his forty years, Robert Langdon felt his age, felt his certain mortality, even though he somehow skirted death more times in the past year than most would in a lifetime. "The Dolphin," as he was known around Harvard for his prowess in swimming and water polo, now felt more like "The Manatee" - slow, lumbering, and in a seemingly perpetual stupor.

Robert often prided himself on his ability to keep fit and handsome, even with the mild crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the gray snaking through his thicket of black hair. His female colleagues even considered him somewhat desirable, despite his rather erudite - no, he thought, resignedly - nerdy occupation.

Boston Magazine, naming Robert one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, dubbed him "Harrison Ford in Harris Tweed," a comparison that still made Robert's cheeks flush pink. Now, however, he felt more like Harrison Ford's alter-ego, Han Solo - only, when Solo was frozen in carbonite.

Where Robert would normally walk through a place like London's Kings Cross Station at a militaristic clip, today, tired and worn, all he wanted to do was sit. Sit and think. No, he thought, sit and not think. Not think for a while, if he could help it.

Two days ago, Robert was in Paris, finishing the last of a whirlwind tour across Europe, sometimes vesting two cities -- or even two countries -- in one day. During this two-month tour, Robert gave lengthy presentations to priests, fellow symbologists, art historians, museum curators, students, and even the press, about his recent discoveries in Paris.

Quite by accident, Robert, a professor of religious symbology and art, gained instant fame when he discovered the location, and more importantly, the true nature, of the famed and elusive Holy Grail - the San Greal, or as he discovered - the Sang Real - Royal Blood. When he made this discovery, Robert could not have been happier, or more relieved, despite the gruesome clues and circumstances. "O Draconian Devil, O Lame Saint..."

The day before, Robert, upon checking into a posh hotel (a personal treat), received a phone call from a former student, Paolo Zabini, who, Robert knew, lived somewhere in the Highlands region of Scotland. Paolo, in his Italianate urge toward hospitality, invited - no, insisted - that Robert come up and spend time with the Zabini family. Weary and (as his students often said) brainfried, Robert had no reason to refuse and likely had no chance of arguing his way out of it. Robert didn't even stop to wonder how Zabini could possibly have known where he was.

Eight years ago, Paolo Zabini began at Harvard as what Robert termed a "Harvard Fogey;" one of those unique students who began study at a late age. Paolo was the same age as Robert, and, when Robert would get exceptionally testy or overly condescending in lectures, Paolo would not-so-gently remind him of that fact.

Paolo's love for ancient runes and other, as he would call "magically religious" symbols endeared Paolo to Robert, and the two became fast friends. Robert worked an inordinate amount of time to help Paolo present his final thesis on the dualities and contrasts found within runic writings, alchemaic symbols, and modern symbolism.

Paolo's wife, Victoria, was beautiful, and she was as brilliant and curious as Paolo - even moreso - and was one of the best hostesses Robert had ever met. Robert was also looking forward to getting reacquainted with Paolo's son, Blaise, who was only nine years old when he last saw him, and would now, knowing the size of his father, be a strapping man at age seventeen.

Robert sat on a hard, plastic bench near a bank of British Telecom payphones. He fished his train ticket out of the breast pocket of his Harris tweed jacket. Paolo, bless him, had saved Robert the trouble of waiting in a long queue at the station to purchase a ticket. The small, silvery sheaf of paper was couriered to Robert's London hotel room that very morning.

Robert, assuming everything was in order, had not taken the time to actually read the ticket. All he knew was that the train was going from London to some little town Robert had never heard of called Hogsmeade, and that the train would leave at 11:00 am on September 1^st. Until now, Robert had not even checked to see from which platform the train would leave.

Robert's bench sat facing a large computer monitor hanging from the ceiling near a ticketing counter. He looked up, his overtired eyes squinting at the multicolor-coded display. "Hogsmeade, Hogsmeade," he mumbled to himself, looking for the destination entry. "Eleven o'clock." To Robert's chagrin, and mild surprise, there was no listing for Hogsmeade and in fact, there was no train scheduled to leave at 11:00. "What the?" He cursed silently. Robert unfolded the ticket in his hand and read it again. "London to Hogsmeade, 11:00 a.m., Kings Cross Station."

Then, Robert's eyes fell on something incredible. Impossible. This shining silvery ticket in his hand actually did state the platform number. He read the number, then read it again. "No way." Still in disbelief, Robert scrubbed at his eyes, blinked, and then read it again, this time, out loud. "Platform 9 and 3/4." Robert was incredulous. "Is this some kind of joke? If it is, it isn't funny." He muttered. "I'll kill Paolo for this!"

He reached for his cell phone - normally kept in the same breast pocket as the ticket - and pulled it out. The battery was missing, and the top hinge was broken. He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes again. "Crap!" He forgot that he accidentally dropped and broke the same cellphone outside Notre Dame three days ago. The battery was lost in the River Seine. I should just pitch this thing, Robert thought, Verizon owes me a new one anyways. He looked at his watch. Mickey Mouse was telling him it was five minutes to eleven.

But then, Robert's curiosity, as it always does, got the best of him. Instead of turning around and buying a ticket straight for Edinburgh and the plane home, he walked forward, toward the platforms, and found the door leading to both platforms 9 and 10. Well, he thought, if there is a Platform 9 and ¾ it must be through this door. He knew it wasn't beyond Paolo to pull a joke, but one like this, especially when he knew Robert was so, as Paolo says, knackered? Robert didn't think so.

There had to be some rational explanation, and some reason - and that reason, Robert thought, was that there actually is a Platform 9 and ¾. As ground down as his brain felt, Robert, being who he is, could not pass up a challenge, and certainly could not pass up this apparent puzzle - which Mickey told him he now had four and one half minutes to solve.

Robert strode with renewed vigor down the aisle connecting the two train platforms and looked around. He almost approached a trainsman and asked for directions, but thought the better of it. He imagined it would sound, as the trainsman would likely put it, "nutters" to be asking for directions to a platform that, as far as Robert saw, did not exist. Instead, Robert began searching for a staircase, a tunnel, something hidden, an elevator, a door, anything... but he found nothing. Four minutes to go.

And then, he heard it. The name wasn't "Hogsmeade," but it was awfully, thankfully, close.

"... last year at Hogwarts, Ron, dear. We're so proud that you made Head Boy..." A woman's voice echoed just ahead of Robert. He moved closer and listened more intently. "When you get there, we'll send an owl with your new robes, darling. Oh, we couldn't be happier, Ron, just like your father and brothers before you..."

The lanky red-haired boy called Ron muttered under his breath to the tall, muscular, dark-haired boy standing next to him. "New robes? I'd rather have one of those Firebolts like you've got, mate!"

Robert noticed that both boys carried, besides their overlarge trunks and a smattering of oddly-shaped packages, birdcages upon their trolleys. Ron's cage held a small, puffball of a bird, and the other boy's cage contained a large, majestic snowy-white owl. The snowy owl looked directly at Robert, blinked, and hooted haughtily.

The woman spoke again, now making a seemingly futile attempt to straighten out the dark boy's rather scruffy hair. "And you, Harry. Take care of yourself, dear. I'll tell Tonks and Mad-Eye that we got you on the train on time and in one piece. And Harry, don't worry yourself overmuch about anything this year, especially about You-Know-Who. You know you're safe at school." She planted kisses on Harry's and Ron's foreheads.

Send an owl? New robes? Mad-Eye? Hogwarts? Firebolts? You-Know-Who? Robert shook his head. I'm in the Twilight Zone.... It was as if these people were speaking a different language - moreso than the usual Anglo to American dialect barrier he often experienced in London.

Then the black-haired boy, Harry, spoke, his frighteningly green eyes twinkling behind his round glasses. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. Thanks for letting me stay with you again this summer, and er... for not minding me dragging Ron and Ginny out for Quidditch practice every day."

There was another new word. Quidditch.

"Think nothing of it, Harry, dear," said Mrs. Weasley. "You and Ron more than made up for it by de-gnoming the garden every week for me, saved me the trouble it did." She smiled. "Besides, Harry, it was good of you, you Quidditch captain, you, to help train Ginny to be your alternate Seeker on the Gryffindor team this year."

Robert scratched his head. I must be in the Twilight Zone... He heard three more strange words. De-gnoming, Seeker, and Gryffindor.

Mrs. Weasley apparently had noticed Robert standing there, and to his chagrin, also noticed that he had been listening. She turned around, looked at the ticket in Robert's hand, then up at Robert. She gave a maternal smile. "Can I help you dear? Lost, are we? Needin' to find the train?"

Robert was momentarily taken aback. But then, heck, he thought, why not. Maybe this woman could help, maybe she could lead him to the elusive Platform 9 and ¾. Silent, Robert held out his ticket for Mrs. Weasley. The large, kindly red-haired woman took it, still smiling. "Ah," she said. "Yes, the Hogwarts Express. You're going to Hogsmeade, then?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am. I'm going to visit some friends from --"

Mrs. Weasley cut him off. "Oh, Merlin's Beard! You're American!"

Merlin's Beard, Robert thought, that's a new one.

Mrs. Weasley then turned and called to yet another red-head -- a portly, middle-aged man standing near a support column. Robert presumed him to be Mr. Weasley. "Arthur, come here a mo'. This American needs some help finding the platform." Arthur came striding jauntily up toward the group. He looked at his watch.

"Oh, dear, the boys only have two more minutes to meet Ginny and get on the train." Arthur eyed Robert wearily, seemingly taking in his clothing. This made Robert feel suddenly very self-conscious. "Ah yes, American, eh? Musta gone to the Academy, then. Ever been to Hogsmeade before?"

"Uh, no, sir. Uh, Academy? No, um... What Academ-- "

Like Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley interrupted Robert's apparent stammering. "Pish on that sir stuff my good man," Arthur held out his right hand. Robert shifted his now defunct cell phone into his left hand and returned the handshake. "Arthur Weasley. I'm with the Ministry of Magic."

"Ministry of what?" Okay, I can't be anywhere but the Twilight Zone...

"Ministry of Magic! Even American wizards....you can't tell me you've never heard of..." Arthur stopped suddenly, looking Robert up and down again, fixating on the cell phone, the leather suitcase, the turtle neck and finally, the Harris tweed jacket. "Wait a minute! You're a Muggle, aren't you? How'd you get a ticket? Imagine that, Molly, dear, a Muggle taking the Hogwarts Express!"

Arthur's voice suddenly began to catch and waver, and his words tumbled out one on top of the other. "Well, he does have a ticket, don't he, Molly dear? Must be somethin' serious, bringing a Muggle to Hogwarts! Last time we got Muggles involved in our affairs was when Sirius, rest his soul, escaped that horrible place, Azkaban, and everyone thought he was an insane murderer! Remember, Molly? Fudge had to tell the Muggle Prime Minister all about it, get out the word to all the Muggles about his escape! Ruddy waste of time that was, we all know poor, poor Sirius was innocent, eh, Molly?"

Yet two more new words - Muggle and Azkaban. He also thought he distinctly heard Arthur say, "American wizards." Robert was now feeling very stupid, very stupid indeed.

No, I'm not in the Twilight Zone, Robert thought. Wizards? Yes, that's it. Witches and wizards. I'm in Oz.

"Muggle?" Robert shook his head. "A friend, he sent me this ticket this morning, and I'm supposed to meet him at this Hogsmeade place."

Robert saw Arthur stare hungrily at the cell phone, as if it were the Illuminati Diamond itself. Robert immediately pocketed it. He could swear he actually saw disappointment in Arthur's eyes - as if a valuable treasure or the vital clue to a puzzle had slipped away. Robert knew that feeling all too well, resulting from things like failed Crypteces, mistakes in interpretation, or unintelligible symbolic clues - but never over something as mundane as a cell phone.

"Oh, dear," said Arthur, now looking around. "Listen, boys - Harry, Ron - you two'd better get through the barrier and get on the train. We can't have you missing the train again now. Get a move on."

Both boys nodded and began to move their trunk-laden trolleys toward the barrier. "Wait," Robert said. "They're going to...where are they...Oh my good heavenly Lord!" Robert's eyes bulged. Both boys, Harry and Ron, ran full-on at the barrier, and, incredibly, disappeared through it. Robert felt as if his jaw would come unhinged from the rest of his face. If this was a hoax, it was becoming a damn good one.

"Where did they - what just happened - what is that?" Robert pointed at the barrier. Apparently, despite Robert's skepticism, these people maybe, just maybe -- actually were wizards. Stranger things have happened in Robert's life. If a modern-day Illuminati can really exist, or if the Holy Grail could actually be a person, why couldn't there be real wizards?

"It's the way to get to Platform 9 and ¾," Arthur explained, calmly. "Mr..."

"Oh, sorry. Robert Langdon. Robert." Robert was still staring at the barrier, his usual cynicism and disbelief ebbing away.

"Yes, Robert," Arthur continued, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Er, was that a fellytone you had there?"

Fellytone? "A what?"

"In your pocket there, a fellytone?" Arthur seemed in awe. "Can I, er... see it?"

"Fellytone....Oh! You mean my cell phone? Telephone!" Robert couldn't believe this guy was so pumped up about a stupid, non-functioning cell phone. Robert retrieved the mangled phone from his pocket. Arthur beamed, wide-eyed, obviously having never seen one before.

"Yeah," Robert continued, "this is a cellular phone - like a regular phone, but without a cord. Works with radio waves, kind of."

Who were these people and what rock did they climb from under - not knowing what a cell phone is? Robert couldn't believe he was actually explaining how a cell phone works! "Doesn't work, and its busted, but it is a cell phone. Haven't you ever seen one?"

Arthur shook his head. "We use the normal, traditional ways to communicate...floo powder, owls, and the like. Most wizard houses have too much magic - it interferes with eclectrizzity and rallidio signals."

Electricity and radio, Robert thought, but he did not have the heart to correct Arthur. "Here," he said, extending the cell phone toward Arthur. "You can have it."

It was as if Robert gave Arthur the keys to the Vatican's secret archives. Arthur took it gingerly, and turned the object over and over, a broad smile breaking over his face. Molly, on the other hand, scowled. Uh oh, Robert thought. I think I just fed the habit of a - what's the word - Muggle - gadget freak.

Arthur, seeing his wife's disapproval, snapped out of his reverie. "Well, Robert, thanks for this." He held up the phone and gave a nod and a wink. "If you're going to get on the train you'd best do it now." He looked at his watch and pointed at the barrier.

Robert had momentarily forgotten about the barrier. "You mean, go through there?" Robert felt his heart pound against his sternum. "No way. Nuh-uh. Run at that column like those boys did? I'm not a wizard! I can't do that! That's impossible!"

Molly smiled and handed Robert back his ticket. "You do have a ticket, don't you? Means you must be meant to be on that train, Muggle or not! Believe me, son, it's not impossible, and you can -- if you hold tight to your ticket. You only have about a minute before the train leaves. Get going!" She gave Robert a motherly shove toward the barricade. Robert just continued to gawk, thoroughly and completely nonplussed. Molly sighed. "Okay, Robert, we'll take you through."

Molly took one arm, and Arthur the other. Robert, trying with all of his might not to flinch, allowed himself to be carried forward, his suitcase in tow. He thought for sure he was going to smack his face into the wall and break his nose. But, as he brought his hand up to protect his face, just the opposite happened.

Robert felt strange -- a melting, almost pulling sensation around his middle for a spilt second, and then he felt himself emerge, as if breaking the surface of water, into a grand, expansive, old-fashioned train platform. Robert read a brass and plastic sign above him. He knew instantly that Paolo did not hoax him, and he knew that he was in the right place.

"Platform 9 and ¾."

Chapter Two

10:59 am - Platform 9 and ¾ -- London

Robert had never spent a day feeling so out of place in his entire life. Even as a bookish scholar walking across a campus quad full of hip adolescents, he felt a sense of belonging. Here, he knew for certain that he was the odd-man-out. The utter strangeness of these people seemed to make them common here.

While most of the kids boarding the train were dressed -- well, as normal teenagers -- their parents wore bright-colored cloaks, tall pointy hats, or extremely mismatched or worse, outdated outfits. One man was actually wearing a green pinstriped suit with a bright yellow fedora - a Zoot suit. Robert, in his conservative Dockers, was the weirdo here. He was the "Muggle," as Arthur had called him. But, what is a Muggle? A Muggle among what? Wizards? Luckily for Robert, with the bustle of the platform and with the train preparing to leave, no one seemed to notice him.

"There y'are, Robert," Arthur said. "There's your train. Hop on and you'll go straight to Hogsmeade." Arthur's lips pursed. "You look like you're a professor."

"I am. I am a professor." Robert said.

"You're not the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, are you? The Minister'd be beside himself if Dumbledore hired a Muggle for that job..."

"Dumble-who? Defense against the whatsits?" Robert's otherwise sharp mind was reeling with all of this new information. "No, no, no. I'm an art professor at Harvard in America. I'm going to Hogsmeade for personal reasons."

Arthur looked relieved. "Well, you probably wouldn't want that Dark Arts job anyways. Last six professors never made it past one year there." He smiled. "Some say, y'know, that the job's jinxed!" Robert nodded weakly.

The great black and red steam engine whistled melodically and belched forth a great parti-colored billow of smoke. Arthur looked at his watch. "You'd best be boarding, now." He shook Robert's hand. "Well, whatever your business in Hogsmeade, I wish you the best."

"Thanks, thanks a lot. I never would have found this without you two. Enjoy the fellytone!" Robert handed his suitcase to the porter, and boarded the train.

It seemed to Robert that he was the only adult on a train full of students. From what he saw, the students ranged in age from about eleven to seventeen. British secondary school, the equivalent of grades 6 through 12 in the U.S., Robert thought. Boarding school - but a boarding school for whom? The thought crossed his mind again, strange as it was. Hogwarts was a boarding school for budding witches and wizards! "Incredible." Robert said aloud. This, Robert thought, was a major find.

Robert walked toward the rear of the train, looking for a seat. All of the compartments were bursting with chattering, excited students. Some of which, Robert could have sworn, were playing with wands and performing what appeared to be actual spells - changing objects different colors, shooting sparks from the wand ends, turning tea cups into cakes, and the like. Robert quickly realized, to his astonishment, that these kids were learning much more than the "pick a card, any card," slight of hand type of tricks. These children were gifted with real, true magic.

Robert even passed a compartment where a blond-haired, doe-eyed girl had what looked like a wand stuck behind her left ear. Stranger more, this girl was reading a magazine called the Quibbler - upside down. In the same compartment, another girl, a red-head (another Weasley?) was levitating a long, red and yellow scarf. As the door was open, Langdon could hear her say over and over, changing the syllabic intonation each time, "Wingar-dium Levio-sa, Wingard-ium Levi-osa!"

Robert was nearing the end of the train, and still had not found a seat. Then he heard someone call out to him. "Oy, you! American!" It was the red-haired boy, Ron Weasley. Thankfully, Ron and the boy called Harry had been waiting for him, and saved him a seat in their compartment. Robert jogged the length of the rest of the coach to the now open compartment.

"Thanks," Robert said. "I think I would have had to stand the entire trip if you hadn't grabbed a seat for me."

"No problem," Ron said. "By the way, I'm Ron Weasley, and this is my best mate, Harry Potter."

Robert shook both boys' hands. "Robert Langdon." As Robert sat down he saw a pretty, bushy-brown-haired girl whose nose was buried in a book. The title of the book was The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven. Wizards, Robert reminded himself. Wizards.

The girl looked up and began speaking rapid-fire. "You're a Muggle, I hear. I'm Muggle-born. My parents are Muggles. Harry's aunt and uncle are Muggles, too. So, what are you doing on this train if you're a Muggle? Do you know about magic? You look like a teacher, do you study it?"

"Muggle." Robert repeated, becoming quite sick of hearing this heretofore meaningless word. "Please tell me, what does that mean?"

The girl piped up again, still speaking rapidly. Ron rolled his eyes, unseen by the girl. "Muggle means a person who has no magical talents or abilities and has no family members who are magical." She rattled off the definition as if reading it from her textbook. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger, by the way." She, too extended a hand.

"Robert Langdon, pleasure to meet you." Robert scowled. "But, is this train for witches and wizards only?"

"Normally, yes," Hermione replied. "The train takes Hogwarts students to school at the beginning of term and back at the end. But it runs every day, too for Hogsmeade residents. It's pretty rare that we get other passengers on the first day of school, unless, of course, they're Hogwarts teachers..." Robert could see the gears turning behind Hermione's eyes.

"No, I'm not the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, if that's what you're going to ask." Robert chuckled. "Your dad asked me the same thing," Robert said to Ron. "Must be a prized position that one. Sounds like it has quite a history. No, I'm heading to Hogsmeade. An old friend, a former student of mine, asked me to spend a couple of days with him and he's picking me up at Hogsmeade station."

Suddenly, a thought hit Robert like an anti-matter explosion. Holy crap! Paolo. Alchemaic symbols and ancient runes! That's it! Paolo Zabini - he's a -- wizard!

The same thought must have crossed Harry's mind. "Uh, who's your friend? Did you even know he's a wizard? He must really trust you if he gave you a ticket to this train - wizarding's supposed to be secret from Muggles."

"No, I didn't know," Robert mused. "Not at least, until now. His name is Paolo. He studied runes and alchemaic symbology under me at Harvard. But yeah, I guess he does trust me. I've kept bigger secrets. Still do."

"Alchemaic what?" Harry asked, "and where's Harvard?"

Hermione chimed in yet again. "Alchemaic symbology is the study of the symbols and nomenclature used by alchemists - like Nicholas Flamel - to keep track of experiments and write formulas. These symbols were all based off of the symbols for the four scientific elementals - earth, air, fire and water."

Robert smiled approvingly at Hermione, quite impressed that she knew the elementals, and, moreso, that she who Nicholas Flamel was. "Very good, Hermione."

"And," Hermione continued, "Harvard University is in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It's the U.S. equivalent of our Oxford."

"Ruddy show-off, that one -- gets anywhere near a teacher and bloody well can't keep her mouth shut." Ron muttered, making an open-and-shut gesture with his hand. Harry grinned conspiratorially. Hermione, likely too prideful at Robert's praise, did not seem to notice - or to care.

"But, come now, Hermione," Robert chided, "I wouldn't go so far as to insult Harvard by saying that Oxford's its equivalent! But yes, Harvard is a top University in the United States. My passion is symbolic interpretation, solving symbol puzzles, so to speak. I teach art history and religious symbolo..." Robert stopped, suddenly fixated on a spot just above Harry's glasses and over his left eye. "Speaking of which..."

Harry, previously smiling, suddenly became self conscious and slightly morose. "What?" He rubbed his forehead. "Oh, yeah, that." Harry deflated. "That's my scar."

"Wow," said Robert. "That's some scar. May I ask..."

"Sure, everyone else does." Harry moped. "I got it when I was a baby. A wizard named Voldemort..." Ron shuddered. "Oh, blast, will you come off it, Ron!" Harry continued. "You-Know-Who killed my parents and then tried to kill me. The curse he used on me backfired and left him powerless. All it left me with was this scar." Harry appeared tired and weary of the now rote explanation.

You-Know-Who -- Voldemort, Robert thought. That's who Molly was telling Harry not to worry about. He made a mental note.

"Thanks, Harry," Robert said. "My guess is you're sick of telling that story?" The look on Harry's face confirmed it. "It's just that the shape of your scar - it is a powerful symbol. It has meaning in a lot of cultures." Harry suddenly appeared interested, as did Hermione and Ron. Robert continued.

"The lightning bolt, or the shrek mark, is based on the Germanic Sigrune -- the victory rune, meaning military prowess, violence, battle, death or war. It's also a symbol for energy. In some contexts, it could also mean anger or wrath or hatred -- fire, or the presence of an extremely energetic reaction. It's also a symbol for unleashable, unfathomable power, or maybe a dangerous, hidden or unseen power source - like a warning sign. Zeus' symbol was a lighting bolt. The lighting bolt was used as a mark to demonstrate power and evoke fear in Nazi Germany - the SS." Robert was again in his element.

"Say that again, Mr. Langdon, please," Harry leaned forward in his seat "About the power."

"Unleashable, unfathomable power?"

"No, the other part. The warning."

"A hidden power source?"

Hermione, Ron and Harry stared at each other for what seemed a long moment, in utter disbelief and awe. Robert suddenly felt left out again. "What?"

"Harry, then maybe its - its true," Hermione's eyes darted from Harry to Robert, as if she were asking Harry permission to divulge a strictly-kept secret in front of Robert. Harry remained silent.

"The prophecy!" Hermione continued, "but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not." Harry's eyes widened. "That might confirm it. Your scar, the shape of it, the," she looked at Robert earnestly now, "the symbology of it."

"Power that is hidden." Harry mused, his head bowed, cupped in his hands. "Power the Dark Lord knows not." Like Hermione before, Robert could almost see Harry's brain working. Harry snapped his head up, his preternaturally green eyes now boring into Robert's. "Mr. Langdon, how long are you planning to stay in Hogsmeade?"

"I don't know, a few days, maybe, but why?" Robert's curiosity was again piqued, as if he was privy to a conversation he should not even be hearing. His mind raced anew. Wizards? A prophecy? A Dark Lord? This whole situation - the platform, the strange words, the train, these kids, Harry's eyes, the magic - it was all sounding more and more like something out of a Tolkien or C.S. Lewis novel than real-life. But here it all was, sitting right in front of him, literally staring him in the face.

"This Dark Lord, in this -- this prophecy you talk about -- is that the same as Voldemort, the one who tried to curse you, Harry?" Again, Ron shuddered. Although Robert didn't fully understand why it was taboo to speak the name, "Voldemort," he got the clue. "Um, You-Know-Who?"

"Well, yes. One and the same." said Harry, with a sudden, frigid calm. "And, he's back now. I think, but I'm not sure, that the prophecy says either I will kill him - or I will die trying. But, I'm not certain that the prophecy is actually about me. There are too many uncertainties."

"Right," said Robert, with some of his skepticism thankfully intact, "but that's all it is - a prophecy? I mean, it doesn't have to come true, right? It doesn't have to happen that way. I mean, we all control our own destinies, don't we?"

Harry blinked slowly and deliberately, his bright green eyes suddenly darkening, as if controlled by a dimmer switch. "Oh, but it does, Mr. Langdon. Trust me, Voldemort has to die, and he will if I can help it. If I'm the one -- I almost hope I'm the one -- meant to do it, I will fulfill that prophecy." The steely, lethal growl permeating Harry's voice made the hair on the back of Robert's neck prickle. This boy, Robert thought, was quite unlike any seventeen-year-old he'd ever met before. Truly, there was something intensely odd about Harry Potter - and that oddity made this boy quite frightening.

As quickly as the hatred arose within Harry, it disappeared. Harry continued, the air of malevolence lifting. "Mr. Langdon, if you wouldn't mind, if you have time -- we may have one of those symbol puzzles for you to figure out."