Symmetry and Discord

CHAPTER SIX

LOSSES AND GAINS

Bellatrix Lestrange was a happy, happy woman.

For the first time in years, she actually felt happiness - a pride in her accomplishments. The first of her three goals was completed. The spoils of that task lay before her, unconscious, in a crumpled heap. Two to go. Two more. First step done. Done. Second step started. Started. Dutifully avenge. Third step...must wait. Must be patient. Dutifully perform.

The icing on the cake was Robert Langdon. It had been a decade since Bellatrix had last been kissed, since she had last been loved, since she had last been touched by a man feeling anything other than contempt or cruelty. Robert Langdon's touch, and Robert Langdon's kiss, were pure bliss - even if they were meant for another. The feel of his body under hers had sent through her an unfamiliar tremor of desire. She had felt -- beautiful.

It was unfortunate that she couldn't carry the charade on longer. Age reversal potions, even the most potent ones, only last so long. It was regrettable that she had to physically hurt Robert Langdon, that she had to make his body bleed, that she had to violate those soft lips. After all, he had fought against her, his otherwise kind eyes had burned with hatred for her.

Can't have that. That bad, bad, behavior. Bad, brilliant Langdon. Can't have it. There would be time for her own peculiar forms of enjoyment later - after her work was done - and there was much work to be done. Langdon had been in the way for the moment. He would get his, but killing him - that was never an option.

Killing others, that was no problem.

Second step started. Wait until Langdon wakes. He'll see. He'll see the second step. He'll hear. He'll know. Second step. He'll see. Langdon will know. Langdon will understand. He will understand soon. Brainy Langdon - lover Langdon -- handsome Langdon.

* * * * *

Robert Langdon's body was on fire.

Every muscle, every bone, every sinew ached with the intensity of thousands of licking, consuming flames.

There must be a hell, because I'm in it.

He lay on his back, half-conscious, emerging slowly from the utter darkness. He opened his mouth with difficulty, swallowed, and exhaled a caught breath. As the air passed his lips, he felt a new pain. His bottom lip was swollen and battered. His tongue instinctively sought out the damage. Robert winced as he tasted the remnants of dried blood around his mouth.

After the tongue, his next level of instinct called for him to run his fingers over his offended face. As he tried to move his right hand, he realized it was tied to his left above his head.

What the...?

As his hands were no longer bound to the headboard, he was able to bring them down over his head and lay them across his chest. He opened his eyes, adjusted to the screaming daylight, and studied the bonds. They were like no ropes he had ever seen. Every time he moved his wrists to try and wriggle out, the bonds dug into his skin, cutting and rubbing in more vicious burns.

Yes, I am in hell - I am in hell and I'm being punished for my sins.

He tried sitting up, using his joined arms as a cantilever. As soon as Robert lifted his head, a searing pain shot through his chest. Writhing in agony, he flopped his head back down on the pillow, and panted -- waiting, praying for the torture to pass. Mercifully, it did. Trying another tack, Robert turned on his side, and, with some difficulty, kicked his sore legs over the edge of the bed. In this position, he was able to push up on his arm with little offense to his chest. Sitting now, he looked down at his body.

He was naked, and he had the yellowish blossoms of two large bruises in the middle of his upper legs. His wrists were severely lacerated. The blood had pooled up and dried like stigmata in his palms, and had dripped in long ribbons down the length of his arms.

How did this happen? How did I get like this? Who did this to me?

His chest bore a large, linear tell-tale burn mark. It was just like one that he had seen in that very same place only days ago when Tonks was at his side, comforting him in the hospital.

Ten damn days. Eleven now...

Tonks... He looked around the room. But where is Tonks? A voice reverberated through his skull. She's gone. She won't, probably can't, come back. You only had her for ten damn days, and now she's gone! Robert couldn't understand why his thoughts became so fatalistic - why there was so much despair swimming around in his head. Then, like the blast from the curse itself, the revelation - the reason -- hit him.

Bellatrix. Tonks. Taken. And I could do nothing about it. I should have known it was coming, but I didn't. It's my fault. All my fault. She's gone.

Robert wanted to scream. He tried to cry out, but the noise stuck in his throat. In panicky desperation, he grunted loudly, pulling and tugging frantically at the bindings around his hands. The more he struggled, the more damage he did - to himself. The more damage he did, the more angry and frustrated he became. He tried biting at the cords, but they only tore into his already bloody lips and gums.

Settle down, Robert, he thought, his breaths coming in jagged gasps, take this logically. These are magical ropes. How do I get rid of them? Be rational. Use your brain. Think. One step at a time...one step...

...First step. First step done. Second step coming. Second step coming soon...

"No!" Robert pulled his hands over his head, trying to use his biceps to cover his ears - to block out the horrible echo in his head. Second step coming soon...brainy Langdon, brainy swot... Bellatrix's voice was relentless, poking, prodding, taunting.

"Stop, please stop!"

Robert sat quiet for a moment, trying desperately to gather his thoughts, to make his frontal lobe kick in and take over where his emotional centers were usurping control. Breathe, he thought, relaxing his arms again, breathe like Vittoria taught you. Breathe circular, breathe with your eyes. There is a solution, Robert, you just have to remember what it is. Not learn, not create, not think up, not problem solve - remember the solution. It's there. You just have to remember it.

Magical ropes. A spell. Finite. He heard Tonks' voice echo in his mind - a flashback from a brief lesson in magic days ago.

"To end a spell, the words are, Finite Incantatem, or simply, Finite."

Finite. But I have no wand. It's downstairs, in my jacket. Stupid of me to leave it there. Mr. Ollivander warned me. He heard Tonks again.

"... the topper is that it seems you can do it without a wand, which is very rare."

Without a wand.... Robert closed his eyes and began to concentrate. I can do this without a wand. He focused hard on the word, Finite, allowing it to fill his mind, ring in his ears, and flash behind his eyes. He could see -- in his mind's eye -- the bonds loosening, disappearing. His breaths came faster and faster, culminating in a large gulp of air. As he exhaled, Robert let the word, Finite, push up from his diaphragm, through his lungs, past his throat, and over his lips. It came out in an intense, primal, drawn-out yell, the sound filling the room, filling Robert's ears, and echoing throughout the house.

At the end of it, Robert felt the bonds dissolve, and felt the cords dangle loosely across his bare legs. His hands now free, Robert cradled his head in his right hand, still breathing heavily. He was utterly drained, but he was free.

I did it. Now, I have to find Tonks.

His wrists were bloodied and painful. Robert flexed and relaxed his fingers, trying to restore circulation and ease the ache. He rose from the bed, and stumbled into the bathroom. After turning on the shower, he leaned heavily on the vanity, and washed his wounded arms in the sink.

I have to find Tonks.

Robert peered in the bathroom mirror. His eyes, sparkling blue only yesterday, had reverted to a dull, lifeless, exhausted gray. The bags around his eyes had become trunks, quadrupling in size. His bottom lip was severely bruised, swollen, and bespattered with blood.

I have to find Tonks.

He took a handful of water, and splashed it on his face. He rinsed out his mouth, and gingerly chipped away the dried gore from his lips.

I have to find Tonks. I have to get her back. I have to find Bellatrix. I have to get back at her. I will find Tonks. I will find Bellatrix - and when I do...

* * * * *

Robert sat on the top stair, surveying the living room below through the gaps in the banister. The day before, Tonks and Robert had made an ersatz practice game of levitating their suitcases and bags up the stairs. The game continued in the bedroom, as they magically threw their clothes and shoes at each other in a playful fight. After creating a disaster in Robert's room, they each put away their things, still giggling like children. Robert had even made room in his closet and drawers for Tonks' clothes - something he never thought he would do - for anyone. It amazed him how natural his and her things looked together.

Now, the living room was devoid of luggage, but was instead littered with the wreckage of the happy night, one that now seemed so long before. Robert's suit jacket lay haphazardly on the back of his leather armchair. Tonks' shoes, pashmina shawl, and hair sticks were thrown in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. Her pantyhose hung, limp and lifeless, on the finial of the railing. Robert stood and trudged slowly down the stairs, his wet hair dripping down his neck, and his long bathrobe trailing on the step behind him. He picked up each of the strewn items and gathered them in a pile on the couch.

Plopping down dejectedly next to the pile, Robert lifted Tonks' pashmina. He stared at it for a long while, and then held the luxurious fabric to his face and inhaled. It smelled of clean linen and apples, just as Tonks did last night. Robert closed his eyes.

Ten damn days.

"What the hell do I do now?" Robert shook his head. "No clues, no notes, no physical evidence, nothing. Not a trace. Nothing in the bathroom. Just gone. How in the hell am I supposed to find her?" He clutched the pashmina in his hand, squishing the delicate fibers. "There has to be something. Wallowing here in self-pity is useless, and it's making me sick to my stomach. I'm just missing it. I must be." Robert closed his eyes again, willing his brain to work, pushing his dulled synapses to fire and find the solution.

For once in Robert's life, the solution found him.

The doorbell rang. "Oh, not now," Robert pleaded to no one, "just go away."

The doorbell rang again. Robert ignored it again.

Now the person was pounding on the door. A muffled, male voice came wafting through. "Mr. Langdon, open up, please. Mr. Langdon?" More knocking. "Mr. Langdon, it's Eli Dresner. Please. I really need to talk to you. It's important -- life and death." More knocking. "Mr. Langdon, it's about my mother."

That got Robert's attention. He stood and padded to the front door. Opening it a crack, he realized. Eli Dresner - Captain with the USWPC. He could help! He could help find Tonks! There was the solution!

The Eli that Robert saw was a shell of the man he had met only yesterday. He was dressed in Muggle street clothes instead of his sharp, pressed, blue USWPC uniform. Robert immediately noticed a large, deliberate, tear in the left side of Eli's polo shirt. It didn't take a professor of religious symbology to know what that meant.

It's about my mother, he said...torn clothes... over his heart... oh, God, no.

"Captain," Robert said, "what's wrong?" Robert wasn't exactly sure he wanted to hear.

Eli's otherwise round face was sunken and drawn, and his eyes were bloodshot. "Can I please just come in?"

"Yes, yes, please. Come in. Have a seat." Robert closed the door behind the Captain, and ushered him to the couch. "Are you okay?"

"Mr. Langdon..."

"Robert."

"Yes, okay, then, call me Eli, Robert." Eli seemed to be fighting back tears - and he was doing a poor job of it. His eyes were glazed over with liquid grief. "Did you... read the paper this morning?" He held up a copy of the Boston Globe.

"No, I didn't get it yet, I..." Robert saw the small tagline on the front page, and the stark reality hit him smack in the face. Torn clothes...

CAMBRIDGE STORE OWNER MURDERED...

He grabbed the paper from Eli's hands and scanned the article:

CAMBRIDGE STORE OWNER MURDERED. TERRORISTS SUSPECTED.

By David Paulson, Cambridge Desk. Helena Dresner, 76, of Cambridge, was found dead in her store, Granny D's Grocery, at 7618 Concord Avenue in Cambridge late Friday night. The police, called to the scene at 11:10 pm, found Mrs. Dresner dead. The front door of the family-owned store was unlocked, and police found no sign of forced entry. The exact cause of death has not been released. Because of Mrs. Dresner's connections to charitable Jewish organizations and State of Israel support lobbies, possible terrorist activity cannot be ruled out. The Federal Bureau of Investigations has been called in to assist with the investigation. If you have any information, please contact the Bureau's Boston office at...

Mrs. Dresner... Robert couldn't bring himself to read further. "My God, who did this?" Robert let the paper fall from his fingers onto the floor below. He sank into the armchair, shaking, his own eyes glazing over with anguish.

Eli shook his head. "I wish I knew, but I thought maybe you could help in that regard."

"Me? How could I possibly...? I was out with Tonks last night, I didn't see anything."

Eli handed Robert the small, folded sheaf of paper. "Because of this."

Robert unfolded it and pulled in a sharp breath. "Sweet Lord. How did you get this? What is this writing on it? That's not my handwriting."

"I know. I found it this morning in my mother's pocketbook as I was going through her things. Once the FBI got the case, it was turned over to the USWPC, seeing that Mom is what she is - or was." Eli scrubbed at his eyes, a new sadness overtaking him. "They called me out before they knew it was my mother. So, I was at the investigation, and I found this."

"But, why did you take it? Why didn't you turn it in?"

"Do you really think I want to implicate you? You know that's what would happen if they got hold of that paper. It would be their first lead and they'd jump all over you - but I know better. Frankly, Robert, I don't care a damn about the USWPC investigation. They won't do anything, they're so understaffed they'll just sit on it and never find out who killed her. Given what's on that paper, I thought we could ... well, just read it."

Robert examined the paper again. At the top were the words, "From the Desk of Robert Langdon." Below that, was the shopping list Robert had made the morning before, each of the items crossed out neatly. But that was not all that was written there. Scribbled on the side, in a completely unfamiliar, and rather child-like hand, were the words:

"Langdon, Bubulah, if you ever do want to marry your shaineh maidel, you'll have to find her first. To find her you have to find me, Bubulah. Just follow me...you'll know by the smell of death."

"Oh my God." Robert's eyes opened wide. "Those words - the Yiddish, the question about marriage - that's what your mother said to me yesterday when I was at her store...." He read the message again. "I told her all about Tonks and she used those words, she called me Bubulah, and wanted to know if I was going to... marry her...Bubulah and shaineh maidel. I have no idea how anyone else could have known this, Eli. No one else was there."

Robert and Eli stared at the paper for a long moment. "Well, whoever it is, killed my mother - they broke her neck, Robert -- obviously to get to you." Eli looked up, a questioning glint in his eyes. "What does that mean, 'you have to find her first?'"

Robert sighed and blinked hard. "Tonks was...we were... I was attacked...last night. Upstairs, in my bed. The attacker disabled me and took Tonks."

Eli's head snapped up. "Took Tonks, as in kidnapped?"

Robert nodded.

"Who was it? How did they get in?"

"Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure she Apparated in. I heard a loud noise before it happened and chalked it up to the neighbor kid's car backfiring. Now I wonder...."

"She? A woman did this? Apparated? A witch? Who was it?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Eli stood from the couch and glared down at Robert. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"So then, what you're saying is that Bellatrix Lestrange also killed my mother? Jeez, Robert, you know we've been after her for days? Why didn't you catch her?"

"Catch her?" Robert was incredulous. "Tonks looks just like her. Lestrange took an anti-aging potion to disguise herself, and made me believe she was Tonks. She distracted me, immobilized me, and finally stunned me." Robert pushed up the sleeves of his robe, revealing his mangled wrists.

"Ben zonah," Eli swore, and let out a low whistle. "That shikseh - that whore! No wonder you couldn't get free. I can't believe she used Biting Binds on you. That's some serious stuff. We don't even use those anymore on our worst offenders - they're considered cruel and unusual punishment!"

"Cruel and unusual? You wouldn't kid me now, would you?"

"Listen, Robert, my wife, Janie, has some essence of murtlap - come back home with me - she'll make you a nice, big breakfast -- you can soak those wrists, and your lip there -- the murtlap'll fix them right up."

Robert smiled. "Thanks, I think I'd like that. Can you help me find Tonks, too?"

"Damn straight I will. I still need her, she's a crack Auror and we need all the help we can get! Plus, if Bellatrix murdered my mother," his voice caught in his throat, "screw the USWPC, I get first dibs on the bi... I mean, at her." Eli's eyes filled again with tears.

"Eli, I'm so sorry about Helena. I loved her too, you know. She's been like a mother to me since I was a college kid. I'm sorry she got mixed up in all this, that she got mixed up with me. I honestly never suspected that Lestrange would come after Tonks, that she would come after anyone...anyone I..." Robert's feelings of guilt washed over him like a tidal wave.

He did the only thing he felt he could do that would adequately express his abject sorrow. Even though he was not a believer, Robert knew the rites -- the importance of symbols and symbolic gestures to the Children of Israel. He knew from his studies how one of Eli's descent - apparently, whether wizard or not -- expressed sympathy and grief at the loss of a loved one. Eli, and especially Helena Dresner, more than deserved that sign of pure love and respect.

Robert stood, and clutched his robe with both hands at the right-hand collar. He clenched his teeth, and, in one swift motion, wrenched the fabric apart.

"May the Lord comfort you with all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem, Eli."

Eli stood blinking for a moment, shocked at Robert's heartfelt gesture. With a sudden lurch of his shoulders, Eli let go and collapsed, helpless, to his knees.

Seeing Eli's renewed tears, and hearing his anguished sobs, Robert's demeanor changed. He knelt down, grabbed Eli by the shoulders, and glared steely-eyed. "We will find her, Eli, -- we will find" ...that bitch... "Lestrange. You'll get your shot at her, we both will, I promise. We'll need help, though - backup --and I know just where to get it."

* * * * *

"There." Janie Dresner lifted an angular, snub-nose pair of scissors and cut off the end of a long strip of white gauze dangling between Robert's thumb and forefinger. "Keep these bandages on your wrists and hands for an hour, Robert. Once the bandages are removed, the skin there will be good as new."

Robert looked down at his hands. After Janie forced Robert to soak up to his elbows in a bucket full of a smelly, slimy concoction she called "a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles" -- whatever that is - Janie smothered his wounds generously with an even slimier and even more foul-smelling ointment. She then bound the skin from the middle of Robert's lower arm to his second knuckles thickly and tightly with layers of cotton batting, gauze, and muslin.

Robert laughed inwardly, thinking that his hands looked like they belonged on a cartoon character - like the Mickey Mouse ticking away on his watch, now stashed in his shirt pocket. He turned his hands over and over, inspecting Janie's handiwork. "This...," Robert crinkled his nose, "this stuff - this will really heal me up and grow the skin back?"

"Yes, but you have to keep the bandages on for an hour exactly. Otherwise, if you take them off too early, you'll end up with some really nasty scarring. It'll look like a botched Muggle skin graft after a burn. Transplanting skin - yuck -- that's barbaric, if you ask me. And it may itch, but no scratching, got it?" She wagged a finger in Robert's nose, "N-O-no scratching, mister. I'll make sure Eli watches you closely for that." Janie smiled warmly. "You're just lucky I was off call today, Robert, otherwise Eli would have had to bring you in for this treatment - and I would have had to charge you," she winked.

"Off call? Where do you work?"

"I'm the Senior Apprentice Healer in the Immediate Treatment of Spell and Curse Damage department at Diane Cecht Memorial Wizarding Hospital."

That was a mouthful. "Healer?"

"Yeah," Janie thought for a moment, "I guess you could say that I'm the equivalent of the Chief Resident in the ER at a Muggle teaching hospital, like St. Eligius here in Boston."

Not a good comparison, Robert thought. If Diane Cecht Memorial is anything like St. Eligius, I wouldn't set foot in the place even if I was bleeding out of my eyes...

"So, don't worry, Robert. My wife really knows her stuff." Eli entered the kitchen, pulled out a chair next to Robert and sat down. Despite Eli's somewhat cheery demeanor, his reddened nose and swollen eyes gave away that he had just been crying. From the sympathetic, and somewhat pained look on Janie's face, she had noticed as well.

Some people simply hide their emotions around loved ones ...let him cope the best he can.

"Nice work, Janie, the horrible sting from that Skin Restorer is bound to drive Robert nuts for the next hour, isn't it?" Eli said.

Robert shot Eli a wary glance.

Janie pursed her lips and scowled. "He's only joking, Robert."

Eli winked. "No, I'm not." After a pause, Eli stood and clapped Robert, rather too heartily, on the shoulder. "Come with me for a minute. There's something my mother asked me to show you." Eli gave Janie a kiss on the cheek. "Is he finished, dear?"

"For now. Where will you two be?"

Eli's voice hitched slightly. "In Mother's apartment downstairs. We won't be long."

"Okay, but don't let him scratch those hands." Janie gave Robert a sympathetic pat on the back, gathered up her medical supplies, and trotted into the bathroom.

Robert called after her. "Thanks, Janie, and thanks for breakfast. It was fantastic."

"Any time, Robert, any time." She stopped and turned, "Oh, and Elisha?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Mom's cousin Daniela from Chicago sent an owl. She wanted to know when we were sitting shiva."

Eli hung his head. "Can you please - or better yet, ask Jake to when he gets back - you have too much on your hands with preparations - but ask him to please floo or owl her back and tell her it's immediate family only - just us kids and the aunties. The funeral is Monday because of the Sabbath, and she's welcome to come to that, obviously." Eli turned to Robert, smiled wanly, and took a deep breath, obviously fighting to keep the tears from flowing again. "Let's go downstairs."

Mrs. Dresner's apartment was, in a word, immaculate. It smelled sweet, like potpourri or scented candles. Robert let his eyes rove over every inch, every detail, of the expansive, rather old-fashioned living and dining room. There was no trace, no sign whatsoever showing that Mrs. Dresner and her family were magical. In fact, to a visitor, one would only think that Mrs. Dresner was a devout, orthodox Jewish widow who kept a very kosher house, and had a strong love for and strong ties to her family. There were photographs scattered on the upright piano, on the television, on the walls - all of Mrs. Dresner's much extended family.

God, I'll miss that woman...so many people loved her.

Robert turned to Eli, preventing himself from being too distracted by his surroundings and his own ruminations. Time to get down to business..."So, what was it you wanted to show me?"

"Sit down," Eli ushered Robert to a soft, sagging couch covered in a number of parti-colored, hand-crocheted afghans. "I think you'll need to." Eli left the living room and walked into Mrs. Dresner's bedroom. A moment later, he emerged with an old, tattered shoebox full of papers. "Let me find it. Mom told me to make sure to give this to you immediately if anything ever happened to her. She never told me what exactly it was, just that it was a bunch of letters tied with a blue grosgrain...oh, here it is." Eli pulled the letters, tied with a ribbon, out of the box, and handed them over. Eli also removed another stack of papers, this one tied with a black ribbon, and shoved it in his back jeans pocket.

"Do these have anything to do with Tonks or Lestrange, because I really think we need to go and get that backup I was talking about."

"No, I don't think so, but hold on a minute, I think I need to explain something to you first."

"But, Eli - Tonks is out there, she's probably hurt, and I know who can..."

"I know, Robert, but this is too important. Mother insisted over and over again for the last ten years that this was a matter of utmost importance should something happen to her - she kept saying that you had to know the truth immediately if she couldn't be there to tell you."

"The truth? The truth about what? Can't the truth wait? What about finding Tonks?

Eli nodded resolutely in an attempt to calm Robert's growing anxiety. "We're working on it, Robert - and hard, trust me. We have nothing to go on yet, anyways. The USWPC is sweeping your house right now as we speak. They'll pick up on the Apparition signature, and they can trace that potion. Potion masters have ways to find out who made a potion and when. If we find any, we'll floo it right to Severus Snape in the UK. He's the best there is. If Lestrange sweat at all, there's probably traces of it on your bedclothes that Snape can sample. Those will be a start, but we will find her.

The USWPC may be short-handed, but they're looking to save one of their own, you know. Tonks is USWPC now, and she's a ranking officer, so it's personal. They're also setting up an anti-Apparition ward around your house, and they're closing off your fireplace, so no one can Apparate or floo in our out of there -- at least no one that's not USWPC or Auror, or someone you invite in."

Try as Eli might, Robert wasn't placated, not in the least. The sooner we get this over, the better. "Fine, okay, tell me, but please, make it quick."

"For about thirty years, my father, Moshe Dresner, was the principal at the American Academy of Wizarding Arts and Sciences in Chicago. When he passed away ten years ago -- after we moved here -- he left these letters to my mother's care, and told her to give them to you when she felt you were ready. You never met my father, but with all the talking my mom did about you since you came to Harvard as a student, he felt he knew you. Mom never let me see them, the letters, never let me read them, but I think, Robert, that these letters have something to do with you."

Eli handed the stack of letters to Robert, who took them gingerly between his bandaged fingers. He pulled clumsily at the ribbon, his hands still bound and quite immobile. The letters fell in an awkward cascade out of his hands and onto the floor. Robert scooted off the couch, and sat, splay-legged on the olive-green shag carpeting.

One letter in particular caught his immediate attention. "This is addressed to...to me, at our old house in Newington." He scooped up the envelope, looked at the date - July 21, 1968 - and pried the flap open. He pinched the letter with his index and middle fingers, and pulled it out. He fumbled with it, and it fell open into his lap.

As he read the letter, Robert's emotions welled up inside of him and spilled over. He flipped the letter over, and saw his father's scrawly handwriting - a response to the original letter. The response was scathingly angry, condescending, and somewhat insulting - quite typical of James Langdon. Robert's ire at his father now bubbling, and his curiosity increasing, he opened the next letter. This one was from his mother to Mr. Dresner. The tone of this one was quite the opposite of his father's -- almost apologetic, fearful, and full of sadness and regret. The next letter was again from Mr. Dresner, and the next, again, from Robert's father. That letter, the last one, dated August 25, 1968, carried the unmistakable tone of finality.

Robert let the final letter slip from his fingers and tumble to the floor. He sat against the couch, and crossed his legs in stunned silence. He let his hands slump into his lap, laying there limp and lifeless. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. Robert Langdon felt utterly and completely numb.

For the second time in the short span of eleven days, Robert's neat, tidy, and ordered world had been shaken - turned upside down and altered - so much that he no longer knew who he was or, this time, who his parents were. After reading these letters, he realized that he never really knew his family - that he had been living a lie all of his life. The thought of it sank deep inside him like a lead weight.

He couldn't stop blinking, couldn't stop the anger, the hatred, the whatever emotions he was feeling -- he didn't know -- from filling him up, overtaking him. Memories started flooding into his brain - painful, harsh childhood memories of loss, and moreover, guilt so heavy a child should never have to endure it.

On top of that, his hands and arms started burning fiercely. That physical pain paled in comparison to the slings and arrows flying around in his mind. Why is it that nothing makes sense?

"Robert," Eli broke the silence with a whisper. Eli's touch on Robert's shoulder brought him immediately out of his reverie, "are you okay? The letters -- what did they say?"

Robert unfolded his legs and angrily shoved the letters over toward Eli with his foot. "Read them for yourself, if you're so curious."

Eli didn't flinch at Robert's show of temper. "I think it would be better for you if you told me." He sat down on the floor next to Robert.

Robert nodded, his lips curled in extreme sarcasm. "You want to know? Fine." He pointed at the first letter. "See that? That's a letter from your father telling me - that damn letter was for me, not for my father to read - that I was accepted into the Academy because I had magical ability and I showed promise - me - I was magical back then, at age twelve -- I showed promise. The back of it - my father wrote to your father telling him to go pound sand. That one there..."

Robert pointed to the second letter. "That one there - that's from my mother to your father. She felt she had to apologize for my father, had to tell him that my father was a Muggle, that he didn't understand, and that what he said in the house was law. She reinforced my father's wishes, and asked that your father please not bother me again."

Robert pointed at the third, "That's from your father to my mother, reminding her about her days at the Academy - crap, Eli - I thought my mother went to Brewster. My own mother, God dammit, she was a witch and I never knew it! No one ever told me!" Robert picked up the letter and whipped it like a frisbee across the room. The bandages around his wrist started to unravel.

"That last one, that last one is the topper, Eli." He picked up the letter and stood up, pacing the room like a caged animal. "This is from my dear, beloved, father again, telling Mr. Dresner that his son Robert James - yeah, me - that he would not go down the useless, rebellious path that his older brother did, and he would under no certain terms go to some Academy for freaks. My older brother - went to the Academy, and I didn't!" He wagged the letter in Eli's face.

He looked at the letter again, and slapped at it with the back of his bandaged hand. "Did you know that my father threatened your father in this letter - told him he would expose the secrets of entire wizarding world if your father didn't leave me alone. Trust me, James Langdon had enough clout that people would believe him. He said in this letter he would ensure that his son - his only son, he called me -- was going to have a normal life, go to a top prep school, be a top athlete, and get into Harvard if it was the last damn thing he did! Well, he got what he wanted, didn't he, the sanctimonious bastard. He got just what he wanted." Robert slumped back onto the couch.

Eli remained silent.

"Here's the kicker, Eli. My parents - my loving, wonderful, gave me anything I needed or wanted parents - they lied to me. Even after my father died, my mother kept up the lie. They told me my older brother - they told me he ran away when I was a kid. They told me he had left home, and he would never come back. I was only ten, for Christ's sake. I thought, in my ten-year old brain, that he hated me because I was so good at swimming and diving, and that's why he ran away - and my father let me think that! They never God damn told me he bucked my father's orders and ran off to go to some wizarding school! They never told me I had this - this - talent, whatever you call it. They took it to their damn graves, Eli!" Robert placed the letter on the couch and stared at it. "They took it to their graves," he whispered.

Neither Eli nor Robert said anything for a long time. Robert Langdon was not normally one to sit and stew, but in this case, he had no choice. The truth was right in front of him. He couldn't deny it. He couldn't brush it off and call it a coincidence or a lie, or a fairy tale. Everything about the last few days confirmed this very moment. The revelation that Robert Langdon had carried magical abilities since birth came as less of a shock in light of the wandless magic he performed just yesterday, in light of the corporeal Patronus he had conjured, in light of his feelings for and attraction to Tonks.

Now it all made sense. Now he knew why Dumbledore was so insistent on giving Robert Blaise's wand, why the jokes about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Now he knew why he was so drawn to Tonks - their commonality, their shared ability, is why he loved her when he could truly love no other Muggle woman before.

Ten damn days...Now eleven.

Now, more than ever, he really, really knew why he was able to survive in situations in which many people - normal people - would have lost their lives. Trapped in a well, trapped in an air-tight archive, trapped in a box, nearly drowning in a fountatin, falling from a helicopter, anti-matter annhiliation, fighting assassins...

There was no utility in staying angry at his father - for long -- or feeling sorry for his mother, they were both dead. It was no use hurting anew over his brother's leaving. In fact, somewhere deep inside, Robert's ten-year old self was relieved that it wasn't his fault, after all. Carrying the negative feelings around, Robert knew, would only eat away at his own soul. Robert knew that the best thing for him right now would be to feel and to let his emotions out in the short term, and then in the long term, accept that truth, make it part of him, and move on with his life.

Since his father wasn't there to take the brunt of his anger, Robert picked on the next best thing. He scooped his father's horrible, threatening letter back up off the couch with a level of violence, and -- as best he could with bandaged hands -- crushed it against his chest, crumpling the thick, heavy stationery into a small, loosely packed ball. With a grunt of frustration, he hurled the offending letter overhand, like a baseball, toward the far corner of the room. Robert hadn't intended for the letter to make contact with anything. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to happen. Unfortunately, however, it did.

The wad of paper shot through the air like a bullet. It was surprisingly aerodynamic, given its loose packing. It hit square-on against a photograph perched in the center of the top of the television. Robert could have sworn that the picture was not in the letter's original trajectory - but that somehow, perhaps magically, the letter veered toward it. The photograph toppled over, falling backwards and disappearing out of sight behind the large tube and screen. Robert heard a pop, a clatter, and a crashing sound as the photograph and frame tumbled over the hard plastic, landing clumsily on its side onto the carpeted floor. Robert could immediately see that the frame and its protective glass were both shattered.

Robert closed his eyes and covered his face, his hands still shaking. His adrenaline waning, his hands began stinging again. "I'm so sorry, Eli. I didn't mean...ah, shit."

Robert once again felt Eli's comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Robert. Don't worry. It's not like you actually knocked Jake on his tuckas. Frankly, I doubt you'd be able to." Eli crossed to the television, fished behind the stand, and extracted the picture, glass fragments, and wood pieces from the floor. He removed his wand from his pocket, aimed, and intoned, "Repairo." The component parts melded together again, each in their proper place. "No problem, Robert," Eli said as he replaced the photograph with extreme care on top of the television. "No problem whatsoever."

Robert moved next to Eli and peered at the image. It was a candid shot, partially blurred by a dirty lens, of a man about Eli's age. The man, with a rifle slung casually over his right shoulder, posed against what appeared to be a dusty, rudimentary military transport. He was dressed in a set of sand-covered, brownish-drab fatigues, some kind of combat vest, and high laced-up combat boots.

Robert couldn't discern many of the markings on the uniform, but he did notice what appeared to be a single maple leaf, a pin that looked like wings with a fleur-de-lis, and some Hebrew lettering on a badge. Unlike most of the pictures, where the family members, like Eli, were dark-eyed, swarthy, and very Middle-Eastern looking, the man in this photograph was decidedly Germanic.

Underneath the jauntily-cocked green beret, Robert saw a shock of dishwater blonde hair with traces of gray at the temples. The man's skin was extremely fair compared to the others, and his eyes were not dark brown. Rather, they were a deep, watery blue. His smile was the broad, infectious grin of a fun-loving college boy, showing off a handsomely-placed pair of dimples set in both cheeks. There was no doubt that there was something intriguing and rather charismatic about this man.

"That's the black sheep of the family, or the white sheep, as we call him," Eli laughed. "Seriously, though, Jake's sort of adopted, if you can't already tell that. Mom and Dad took him in to live with us when we were kids. Jake and I -- we were best friends at the Academy - met our very first year, the very first day. Jake was such a troublemaker, but man, the scrapes he would get us out of," he chuckled, grinning with obvious love for the man. "All Jake'd have to do is flash that you-know-what eatin' grin at old lady Professor Davidson, and boom, we'd be home free."

Eli's laughter died, and his smile suddenly morphed into melancholy. "Something happened with his parents early on in our first year, though. What it was, I never knew for sure - Jake always kept quiet about it - he never talked about his family. Mom and Dad told us his parents had died in a magical accident of some kind. Somehow, though, I didn't think that was the whole story.

"What do you mean?" Robert asked, trying hard to hide his growing impatience. Obviously, Jake was important to Eli, and Robert did not want his bubbling anxiety over Tonks to be mistaken as rudeness - especially after all that the Dresners had done for him.

"Well, you know how adults always try and protect kids from horrible truths, to shelter them? I think it was worse, much worse, than just an accident. I always had this sort of suspicion, I guess you can call it, just from things that were said, that Jake's real parents were actually murdered by some Dark Wizard."

Sounds like he's describing Harry Potter.... Robert couldn't help but see the traces of a deep-seated disappointment and even, maybe, a hint of betrayal behind Eli's eyes. Despite this, his demeanor sparked up again, his thoughts obviously roving to a more happy time.

"Well, when we were in the tenth grade - about sixteen or so, he somehow got permission from the wizarding courts to change his name legally to Jacob Elisha Dresner - Elisha after me, of course," he smiled, "and my parents took him in as one of us boys."

"What was his name before that?"

"Well, it's always been Jake as far as I know. Honestly, it's been so long and I haven't used his last name since then, but I'm certain it was Williams. Jake Williams. I never knew his middle name. He never told me."

A little secretive, too...now he really sounds like Harry Potter.

Eli squinted, apparently trying to ensure the correctness of his memory. "Yeah, that's it. Jake Williams. Anyhow, frankly, that day was the best day of my life. To have my best friend as an 'official' brother -- like a twin, almost -- that was the coolest."

Eli's eyes flashed with immense pride and a touch of admiration. "Now, Jakie-boy's one of those high-uppity guys in the Israeli Defense Force - a Rav Seren - a Major in the intelligence division. Mom was always so proud of him. For some reason, he decided to go all Muggle on us after he left the Academy. I never truly understood that guy or his motives," Eli shrugged. "You can ask him yourself, he's here. He's just went out for a bit with my other brothers to get the arrangements together. I'll introduce you."

At that moment, Janie entered the apartment, brandishing a pair of scissors and a white towel. "Your hour's up, Robert. Ready to get those bandages off?"

Robert shoved his hands toward Janie. "Yes, please. They do itch, in fact, by the way, they itch like crazy. Please get this crap off of me so we can get out of here and find Tonks."