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 took pride in 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 visiting 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 London 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 more so – 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 1st. 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 cell phone 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 believed, 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? I'm in the Twilight Zone…. It was as if these people were speaking a different language – more so 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, 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. Wizards? Yes, that's it. Witches and wizards. I'm in Oz.

"Muggle?" Robert blinked, then 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 wanted to correct him, but did not quite have the heart to do so. "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 laughed inwardly. 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.

Robert noticed that 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. 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, truly, 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 revelation 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. 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 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."

Chapter Three

5:59 pm – Hogsmeade Station - Hogsmeade

Seven hours later, the train came to a halt at the Hogsmeade station. The early September sunset was painted pink and orange over the Eastern sky. By the time he had gotten off the train and claimed his baggage, it would be dark.

During the remainder of the train ride, Robert, Harry, Ron and Hermione shared mainly small talk. Robert told them the stories of how he and Vittoria Vettra had been a part of the very, well, interesting Vatican conclave and Illuminati mystery just a year ago.

"I read about that! In the London newspapers!" Hermione said. "Your picture was all over it! No wonder why you look so familiar!"

He also told them about how he and Sophie Neveu broke the code Sophie's grandfather left on the floor of the Louvre Museum, leading them to his killer and the location of the Holy Grail. "O Draconian Devil, O Lame Saint…"

The kids, while impressed and engrossed in Robert's stories, were not as forthcoming about their own histories. Judging, however, from the jadedness Robert sensed in Harry Potter, Robert knew that the boy must have lived through some horrific experiences. Even after hours of conversation, all Robert knew was that Harry Potter was essentially a marked man, and that he played some part in the resurrection of his potential killer – or, according to the prophecy – his potential victim.

As Robert never really committed to helping the kids with the deciphering of the prophecy, Robert understood why he never really gained their trust. Here he was, a Muggle, an art scholar, and someone whom they perceived could blow the lid off the entire wizarding world and gain significant fame and profit from it. Harry, Ron and Hermione obviously were trained to keep their abilities a secret from Muggles like Robert.

Despite the fact that Robert's escapades were just as unbelievable and fantastic as the existence of true magic, and that a wizard, Paolo Zabini, had obviously trusted Robert explicitly with this secret, apparently, these children had been burned before. After a rather rude remark from Harry, albeit directed towards Hermione, about people putting their noses in where they didn't belong, Robert knew to quit asking questions.

As the doors to the train opened, Robert said his goodbyes and shook hands with his compartment-mates. He then followed the line of students out onto the platform. As he emerged, he heard a booming voice.

"Firs' years this way, now. Firs' years, yer comin' with me. Line up and get on yer boats! Firs' years goin' ta Hogwarts!"

As he was looking around for the source of the voice, Robert felt a large hand clap him roughly on the shoulder. As he turned around, he distinctly heard the silky, yet strangely-accented baritone voice of his old friend.

"Surprised, Roberto, il mio amico? Welcome to Hogsmeade, Dolphin! It's so good to see you. It's been so long! Dio mio!"

Robert couldn't help but smile. "Paolo, voi vecchio cane! You old dog, you!"

The two men clapped at each other's shoulders in a male version of an embrace. A second later, Robert found himself wrapped tight in the taller man's arms, and being lifted off the platform.

"Ugh! Put me down, man!" Robert exclaimed. Paolo put him down, and held Robert out at arm's length. Robert brushed at his now-crinkled Harris tweed. "Any excuse to show you're still stronger than me, eh?"

Paolo cocked his head, and his mouth turned up on one side in a smirky grin. His pale blue eyes flashed. "'Il Delfino ha capelli grigi!"

"Yeah, so what, so I do. Gray hair makes me look dashing despite my bookish occupation." Robert ruffled Paolo's salt-and-pepper mop of hair. "What about you? What happened to all that brown stuff up there? You have more gray than I do, so I wouldn't talk."

Paolo turned and wrapped his arm around Robert's shoulder, leading him toward the luggage claim. "Did you have a nice train ride?" Paolo asked.

"Now that you mention it, Paolo," Robert said. "The ticket could have come with some instructions. I had no idea I'd be looking for a platform that for all intents and purposes doesn't exist! I had to do what no prideful man likes to do – ask for directions!"

Paolo laughed. Robert stopped at the haphazard pile of luggage sitting on the platform. He immediately found his black Coach leather suitcase. It stood out like a sore thumb in among all of the immense, red, green, yellow, and blue student trunks. Paolo retrieved the case for him and the two continued down the platform.

"Seriously, though," Robert continued. "In all the years I've known you, you never told me that you were – well, about your – your, uh…"

"That my son and I are wizards, and my wife is a witch?" Paolo finished the sentence for Robert.

"Well, yes." Robert blinked.

"We all have our secrets, don't we, Robert?" Paolo said mysteriously. "I know our friendship meant, and still means, a lot – to both of us. Trust me, Robert, when I was at Harvard I wanted to tell you. I think it would have made you understand why I was so fascinated with alchemy and runes."

You're right, Robert thought. Not so strange now that you think about it. Makes sense.

"But," Paolo's voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "You must understand that you are coming here at great risk to me, to the wizarding world, and even, Robert, to yourself. You must also know that there are those who object severely to your being here, and may insist that your memory be modified before you are even permitted to leave."

Memory…modified? Yeah, great. Some vacation this will be. Just what I need, more danger, not to mention the opportunity to likely have my brains scrambled like so much egg.

"There is a statute of secrecy I am bound to uphold at all costs. No one outside our world is to know about magic and wizardry. It took a very special, and extremely unique set of circumstances to even get you that ticket."

"You make it sound like you had to ask for a special dispensation from Pope in order to let me come here." Robert joked, helping Paolo carry the suitcase down an immense flight of stairs.

Paolo, however, did not joke. "Essentially, I did." Robert stared. "I had to ask Professor Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster at Hogwarts, and a member of the Wizengamot, if you could come here. He, in turn, had to get a majority vote from the Wizengamot."

"The Wizengawhat?" Robert found himself muddling words in this fashion more times than he would have liked to today.

"The wizarding judicial council, so to speak." Paolo explained.

"So," Robert sighed. "I take it I'm here for more than some rest and relaxation as you so tantalizingly promised." Although Robert fought it, he could not help but allow his voice to swell with anger and frustration. Whether it was aimed at his friend or the situation, Robert did not know.

"Paolo," Robert's voice became hollow. "The last thing I want right now, especially after the past year – the whole Vatican debacle, almost dying in Paris -- is another quote-unquote adventure, another puzzle to solve." Robert could hear his voice percolate now with growing anger. "All I want right now is rest. Uninterrupted rest. I'm on sabbatical, man! Honestly, I don't want there to be another opportunity for something or someone to finally snuff me! Merda, Paolo!" He swore, "I hauled my ass on this bizarre train for nearly an entire day, all the way up here to get away from all that – not dive headlong into it again!"

Paolo's eyes fell, and he dropped his head into his hand. "I am sorry for la bugia, il inganno, the lie, Bobby, but it was necessary. You are needed here. If there was a wizard who had your knowledge and skill, trust me, they would have called on that person first."

"But you, Paolo! You have that skill! I taught you everything I know about symbology! You even taught me some things!"

"Believe me, Bobby. I do not, and I am not the person for this job. You are. I am, let's just say, too close to it. I, literally, cannot touch it."

Before Robert could continue the interrogation, the two approached a long line of coaches, drawn by something -- some creatures – looking like a rough cross between a dragon, a lizard and a horse.

"What in the bloody hell are those things?" Robert's jaw dropped.

"Ah, very interesting," Paolo said. "You can see the Thestrals?"

"Well, yes, of course I can see them, whatever they are. They're right there, right in front of me." Robert eyed Paolo suspiciously. "Why, can't you see them?"

Paolo shook his head. "Fortunatamente, no." Robert was again, completely nonplussed.

"What do you mean, 'fortunately, no'? What, are they, invisible, or something?" Paolo nodded. Robert noticed that the boy, Harry Potter, was standing next to one of these Thestrals, and was actually petting it -- stroking its long, scaly nose. Robert pointed at him. "That boy, the one I met on the train -- Harry Potter -- he can see them, why can't you?"

"Because, Bobby, I have not yet suffered ill effects from another's death. Young Harry Potter, on the other hand, has horrors in his past which are, well, most unexplainable. He has seen death, on more than one occasion, and it has scarred him severely." Paolo paused. "You can only see the Thestrals, Robert, when you yourself have met death, and have been emotionally effected by it."

Death. Over the past year, Robert had his fill of death. Leonardo Vettra, the four Cardinals, Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca, Jacques Sauniere, just to name a few. Yes, Robert mused, I most definitely have met death – know him personally, in fact.

As if purposefully breaking Robert's ruminations, a short, stocky, dark-haired young man walked up from the Thestral-drawn carriages and met Paolo and Robert at the edge of the paddock. He was wearing black, silver and green robes with a green patch over the left shoulder. The patch, Robert noticed, bore a single, twisted serpent, with the word, "Slytherin." Robert recognized him immediately.

"Blaise? Blaise Ettore Agostino Nicomedo Zabini, is that you?" Robert dropped his bag and held his arms out for the boy. "Dio mio, it's been so long since I've seen you! Look at you, Blaise! You make me feel like an old man!"

The boy, however, returned neither the embrace nor the smile. "Hello, Mr. Langdon. Hello, Father." Blaise shook hands with both of them.

"Hello…Mr….Langdon?" Robert blinked with mild surprise. "What happened to 'Ciao, Delfino!' or at least a 'Hi, Uncle Bobby?'"

Blaise was unmoved. "I am not nine years old anymore, sir," he snapped. "But, it is lovely to see you again." Blaise's face showed no sign of a smile, or that he actually believed it was "lovely" to see Robert.

Just then, the girl, Hermione Granger, along with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, walked past the front most Thestral, heading toward the carriage it pulled. Hermione caught sight of Robert, and waved heartily. Robert returned the wave.

Blaise scowled. "Anima fangosa," he spat. Whatever are you waving at her for? Do you actually know, actually consort with that – that Granger girl?"

Robert knew enough Italian to translate that phrase. Anima fangosa – Muddy blood. He had never heard that phrase before, at least in this context. Robert remembered that Hermione had told him her parents were Muggles. Was this some sort of quasi-racial slur? Judging from Paolo's now uncharacteristically stone-set and furiously-reddening face, it likely was just that.

"Leave, Blaise. Now." Paolo's words were sharp and steely. "I will not have you treat my friends – especially Robert Langdon -- with such disrespect! Furthermore, I shall not ever hear you use that horrible name again, whether in English or in Italian. How dare you, especially with your mother, la vostra madre, Blaise! Calling anyone, especially one's schoolmates Mudblood is not the proper way for a Zabini to behave. Even if that Zabini was, Dio mio, sorted into Slytherin House."

Silence. Without so much as a "goodbye, Father," Blaise turned on his heels and strode away, joining a group of similarly dressed boys at the edge of the paddock. After a moment, one boy, a pinch-faced lad with slicked back white-blonde hair, turned and looked at Robert with what appeared to be severe disdain.

It was as if Paolo was reading Robert's mind. "That boy – that is Draco Malfoy. He comes from a long line of, well, I will say, overly aristocratic and fanatically puristic wizards. I believe he is the reason – it is his influence that has made Blaise the complete asino that he is today. I'm only sorry that you had to see him behave that way. I am also sorry that you had to see me lose my temper so, Bobby. That was not the reunion with Blaise you were hoping for, I know."

Draco. Interesting name. The words flooded back. O, Draconian Devil, O, Lame Saint. Robert shook the thought out of his head.

"What was that emblem on Blaise's uniform? That snake?" Robert asked, as they climbed into one of the Thestral coaches. The coach gave a great lurch, and they headed down a darkened stone path.

"That is his House symbol. Blaise is in Slytherin House."

This symbol set Robert's academic brain into full motion. "The snake," he muttered to himself, but Paolo did not hear him.

This – the serpent – interested Robert greatly. Truly, it was a unique and rather appropriate symbol of choice for a group of adolescent students. The snake had many meanings, but they were generally common to all cultures. It was one of the few symbolic animals to have such a commonality. The snake meant elusiveness or stealth. It also stood for psychic energy, elemental energy, or creative power. Perhaps most importantly, the serpent signified the water element – which also, in turn, meant immortality, rebirth, resurrection, or transformation.

Robert wondered if the students in Slytherin were placed in that House because of qualities commensurate with those meanings. If so, the Slytherins would be quite a group to reckon with. The name of the House, Slytherin, was very appropriate. Robert also wondered if the other Houses, as there must be other Houses, had symbols of equal impact and power.

Paolo continued, as if answering Robert's mental ruminations. "The school, Hogwarts, has four Houses. On the first day of school, there is, well, let's just say, a process, for sorting students into the Houses. When I was at Hogwarts, I was in Ravenclaw, and Victoria was a Gryffindor. Your friend, Harry Potter, is also in Gryffindor. So is Hermione Granger. The other House is called Hufflepuff."

"You went to Hogwarts? You slick little bastard, you told me you went to Eton!" Robert laughed at Paolo's mock-innocent shrug. "And what about Slytherin?" Robert asked.

Paolo frowned. "Slytherin prides itself on taking in and teaching only pureblood wizards, to the general exclusion of others."

"To the exclusion of those, like Hermione, born from, well, normal parents?" Robert was beginning to catch on.

"Yes," Paolo sighed. "And, like Blaise, actually. Blaise is really a half-blood. I am pureblood wizard. Victoria's a witch, no doubt, but her family is pure Muggle. She's the exception in her family. She was Muggle-born, like Miss Granger."

"But then, how did Blaise get into Slytherin?"

"We pureblood wizards, Robert, are a dying breed. If Slytherin House were to take only purebloods to this day, no one would be sitting at that left-hand table. Slytherin House would be no more. So, you see, Robert, there's no choice. Even kids like our Blaise get sorted into that House. Even though Blaise is half-blood, he has pureblood ideals, pureblood thoughts, and now, thanks to that Malfoy boy, a pureblood attitude."

Knowing the symbol, Robert knew there must be more to this House than the "pureblood attitude." Robert had met up with his share of fanatics to know that a "pureblood attitude" was an erroneous and dangerous one – and often went hand-in-hand with ideals such as immortality, stealth, and psychic power. Opus Dei, the Illuminati, the Nazi Party – these were all groups upholding a zealously puristic ideal. All were, in one form or the other, deadly.

Paolo, again seeming to sense Robert's melancholy, broke the silence. "There it is," he pointed.

Robert strained to see. "There what is?" Robert saw nothing in the distance except for what appeared to be a large, run-down and burnt-out warehouse. "I don't see anything except that old rickety building. Looks like it should be wrecker-balled!"

Robert felt a sudden wave of panic. "Oh crud! I've got a stack of essays to grade before I get back! I have to do them now! Take me back to the station! I need to get back to Boston!" He turned and began to unzip the front pocket of his suitcase, searching for the non-existent papers.

"Oh, yes. I forgot. Robert, you're a Muggle."

"What is that supposed to mean? That doesn't change the fact that I'm a tenured professor at Harvard! I have duties to perform there! Exams and dissertations to grade, students to teach! My God! I have to go!" Robert looked out the carriage toward the Thestral, looking for a driver – someone to take him back to Hogsmeade Station, immediately.

Paolo laid a calming hand on Robert's arm. "It is okay, Robert. It's just a spell. Hogwarts – it has anti-Muggle charms on it. Any Muggle that gets within visual distance of the school sees only that dilapidated old building. Furthermore, that Muggle suddenly remembers something intensely important that he has to do – so he simply leaves. Let me fix that." Paolo pulled his wand from within his robes, pointed at the old building and intoned, "reseropatesco!"

The warehouse morphed – literally, morphed, into a stunning building -- a castle. Robert abruptly, and rather sheepishly, realized that he was currently on a semester-long sabbatical. There were no students to teach, no papers to grade, and no real reason to go back to Boston just yet. For the second time that day, Robert's jaw came unhinged.

Yes, Dorothy, you are in Oz….you and your little dog, Toto, too!

"See it now? Ah, yes -- you do. I can tell. Well, there it is, Bobby. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Paolo smiled.

"We're going – there?" Robert was mystified. "But, I thought we were going to your place! I've got my taste buds ready for Victoria's capellini pomodoro!"

"Not tonight, my friend." Paolo patted Robert hard between the shoulder blades. "I have been instructed to bring you to someone who needs most desperately to meet you."

Chapter Four

6:30 pm – Hogwarts School -- Hogsmeade

Robert's disappointment over not being able to gorge himself on Victoria's capellini pomodoro was short-lived. It was quickly blanched by a sense of awe and amazement at the building quickly looming before them. Robert craned his head out of the coach door, like a child seeing the circus, or an architecture student seeing Notre Dame or the Roman Colisseum for the first time.

The castle was immense, full of tall, sweeping archways, scattered flying buttresses, and towers that seemed to scrape the stars out of the very sky. Robert could not believe the sheer architecture of the place – it seemed like it was created by four separate designers with four separate goals in mind.

"Let me have your jacket, Robert." Paolo held out his hand.

"My jacket, why?"

"You'll need proper robes when you enter Hogwarts, especially tonight. You can keep wearing that silly, outdated Harris Tweed you always wear if you like, but if you do, you are likely to have an entire Great Hall full of adolescents and teachers staring at you."

"Yes, but, what does having robes have to do with my jacket?" At Paolo's impatient gesture, Robert began to inch out of the coat.

"I'll transfigure it for you."

"You'll what for me? Come on now, Paolo, this is an expensive piece of clothing! I actually bought this one in Scotland!"

"Well, you're in Scotland and you can get another one. Just give it to me." Robert gave Paolo his bunched up coat with trepidation. "Oh, don't worry, Robert, I can turn it back into that ugly piece of Highland apparel when you're done if you so desire."

"You'd better. That one's my favorite, too."

Paolo again retrieved his wand from within his inside robe pocket. He mumbled a latinate incantation over Robert's jacket -- a word, of course, that Robert did not recognize. Instantly, the jacket elongated, but it was still made of reddish brown tweed. The sleeves billowed outward and the elbow patches disappeared. The back of the jacket bunched up, forming a series of even, vertical pleats underneath the shoulder piece. The look of it reminded Robert of an nineteenth-century gentleman's coat.

The now robe-length tweed, starting at the collar, began turning a midnight black, the color working its way down the length of the garment as if it were soaking up a pot of black dye. Paolo picked up the robe by the shoulders, shook it out, and presented it to Robert. Robert saw that it had a shining, satin-like, bright red lining, and a silvery clasp.

Robert, as he was for most of the day, was utterly amazed. "Paolo, how did you do this?"

"Do you like?"

"Yes, I suppose I do." Robert swung the robe around his shoulders and put his arms through the sleeves. "Reminds me of my doctorate robes, only, more stylish." He fixed the clasp at his neck and smoothed out the front.

"I made the lining red," said Paolo. "If anyone asks you, you were in Gryffindor House. Knowing what you've been through the past year, and how you've braved it all, I think you'd fit in quite well in Gryffindor. I should think your friends from the train would approve. Red, Robert, is the primary Gryffindor House color."

Again, Robert couldn't help but see the meaning behind the symbolic color, and again, Robert's thoughts drifted. Red…strength, health, vigor, passion, protection, courage. On the other hand, it meant danger, warning, anger – all aspects of the fire element. Funny, Robert did see all of these qualities in Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Especially the courage and the anger – all wrapped up in Harry.

Robert wondered what the symbolic animal was for this House – Slytherin had a snake. Gryffindor must have something! A griffin? Regardless, Gryffindor was likely also a group to reckon with, and, as Robert could see thus far, it was the complete symbolic opposite of Slytherin House. Robert began to make a mental connection. Now, we have water and fire -- opposites -- the other two Houses must signify earth and air!

"Here we are," said Paolo. "Leave your case in the carriage. The Thestral will bring it to my summer home here in Hogsmeade, and Victoria will see to it when it gets there." The two men lit from the carriage. Paolo led Robert up a large staircase to a set of immense oak doors. "This way."

When Paolo opened the doors, Robert was, again, stunned. The entrance hall was expansive, with two immense staircases leading up either side. The walls were full of paintings Robert had never seen before, by artists he did not recognize. Robert could not resist but take a closer look at a large, rectangular painting of a Botticelli-like angel on the right wall.

"Paolo, this painting is beautiful! The lines of it, the symmetry, the color. I've never seen anything like it before! Who is this artist?" Robert reached out his hand, and leaned it gingerly against the painting's frame, peering in closer, soaking in the details. "This woman in the painting, she looks so incredibly lifelike!"

"Thank you very much, very much indeed." The woman in the painting batted her eyelashes and spoke in a sweet, flirtatious voice. She reached up and stroked the hand Robert rested on the frame. "You're not so bad yourself, Mister."

Robert leapt back from the painting, shaking his hand, and letting out a small, stifled yelp. "What the?" Robert turned and glared at Paolo, who was now doubled over with laughter.

"I should have warned you, my friend, with your penchant for fine art, not to go poking your nose into the works in this building. Enjoy these paintings from a distance." Paolo guffawed again. "If you touch one of them, you're liable to get your hand slapped. They're very sensitive, you know."

"They're…they're alive? These paintings, they actually talk?" Robert stammered, pointing at the Botticelliesque woman, who was now standing with her arms akimbo, an extremely annoyed look on her face. Robert looked around wildly to the other paintings lining the entrance hall. "But that's…that's"

"Impossible? No, Bobby, not here." Paolo smiled again. "The paintings even move from frame to frame. Some can even move from one of their paintings to another. You should meet Sir Cadogan. He's a real charmer."

Paolo chuckled. "You should know, Bobby, that this castle is full of wonders. You, amico, will be like a kid in a candy store, as you Americans say. If you continue reacting to the rest as you did to that painting, you will have un attaco di cuore, a coronary, before the night is done. So, Delfino, relax, enjoy the sights, and remember, suspend your disbelief."

"Suspend my disbelief? Yeah, Paolo. Right." Robert glared at his old friend. "Remember who you're talking to here? I'm a perpetual cynic! You know, horribly jaded? Believing nothing, trusting no one?"

Paolo smirked with mock sympathy. Robert sighed. "But you're right, Paolo. I've had enough surprises for one day. I should be used to this weird stuff by now."

Paolo again put an arm around Robert's shoulder. "Just follow my lead, my friend, and you'll be just fine. Don't stare too much, and try not to look like a Muggle. Remember, you're a Gryffindor! Chin up!" Robert led Paolo up the right hand staircase.

"See, I told you he's good looking."

Robert wheeled around and saw the Botticelli woman, now in another frame near the banister. The angel was whispering to the portrait of a young, blue-eyed woman in a bright red scarf.

"I think he's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher if you ask me. Fine choice, that one. I think he's even more dashing than Gilderoy Lockhart!"

Paolo renewed his fit of giggles. "That's quite a complement, Robert. Quite a complement." Before Robert could turn and correct the paintings, Paolo again led him up the staircase. "This, Robert, is the Great Hall."

Paolo was right. By the end of the evening, Robert was sure he was going to keel over and die from heart failure. Again, his brain had a hard time registering what his eyes were seeing. "Are those candles…are they actually floating there? And is that ceiling open?"

"Yes, and no." Paolo responded over the noise of the students' chatter. "The candles are floating, yes, but the ceiling is still there. It's just charmed to reflect the sky outside." Paolo beamed. "Such incredible memories of my first time seeing this room. I imagine I felt quite like you do right now."

"Can we go in?" Robert asked, tentatively.

"We have seats at the head table, my friend. Of course we can go in. It looks like we've missed the Sorting Ceremony, unfortunately, but the feast is about to start."

Paolo, again with Robert in tow, moved to the right side of the hall, and began walking up the aisle toward the front. As with the women in the painting, Robert kept hearing female whispers of "New Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," and "He's cute!" and "I hope I have him for my first class."

Robert noticed Hermione Granger at the closest table, and moreso, noticed that she looked particularly happy to see him. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, on the other hand, looked quite surprised.

"I thought he was up here on holiday," Robert heard Ron whisper to Harry.

Robert leaned over Hermione's shoulders, whispered to the three, and smiled. "Change of plans, thanks to Paolo, here. So much for rest and relaxation, I guess." Ron and Harry exchanged optimistic glances.

As he rose, Robert saw a dark-skinned girl with long, plaited hair lean over to Hermione. "You know him, Hermione? He looks so -- so dreamy!"

Robert laughed when he heard Ron Weasley. "Come off it, Parvati. He's out of your league, that one. He told us on the train that he once snogged an Italian physicist, who's also a yoga master! And his last girlfriend was a French Police cryptologist, whatever that is!"

Parvati continued to stare dreamy-eyed. "I don't care! I hope I have his Dark Arts class first thing tomorrow morning!"

It took everything Robert had not to stand on a table, spread his arms and shout, "I am NOT the new Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher!" By the time Robert had his fill of the whispers, they had approached the staff table.

A wizened man with long silvery white hair and a long white beard rose from his seat at the center of the table, and stepped down the side of the dais to meet them. Again, from the rest of the staff sitting at the table, Robert heard whispers of "Defense…Dark Arts…New professor…." Robert fought the urge to roll his eyes with annoyance.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Langdon," the wizard said, his blue eyes twinkling over a set of half-moon spectacles. "I trust your trip was a good one, not too, well, overwhelming?"

Robert felt a sense of awe just looking at this man. Obviously, he was extremely wise, and extremely powerful. "Overwhelming? To say the least, but, yes, sir, I did have a good trip, thank you." Robert wasn't sure if he should offer to shake the man's hand or bow, so he did a combination of both.

"Oh, Mr. Langdon, please," the wizard laughed. "We do not stand on ceremony here. I am Professor Dumbledore, but you may call me Albus."

"Call me Robert then."

"At least, Robert, I will not call you late for dinner!" Albus let out a happy cackle of a laugh that made Robert feel instantly more comfortable. "Please, Robert, join us for the feast. It's just about to start."

Robert and Paolo walked behind the table and sat at places on either side of Professor Dumbledore. A stern-looking woman in emerald green robes sat to Robert's immediate right. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall." She offered a hand, which Robert shook. "You are Robert Langdon?" Robert nodded. "Well, I am the Deputy Headmistress, I teach transfiguration, and I am head of Gryffindor House."

Momentarily, Robert looked past Professor McGonagall to a thin man with long, greasy black hair sitting at the end of the table. The man had a very pale, pinched face and an incredibly long, hooked nose. Robert caught his eye. The man stared at Robert for a long moment, and scowled. With a fluid motion, the man stood, billowed his robes out from behind him, and strode with seeming anger toward the table full of Slytherin students.

Professor McGonagall turned and watched the man leave. "That is Professor Severus Snape. He teaches potions, but," she whispered, "for as long as I've known him, he's desired the Defense Against the Dark Arts job." She smiled. "Am I to understand that you, Professor Langdon, are the replacement Defense…"

"No, Minerva, he is not." Albus interrupted. He then stood up at the podium, called for attention from the students, and addressed them. "In case you all are wondering, the fine gentleman to my right is not, I repeat, not, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." There was a collective mumble from the students.

"I regret to inform all of you, however, that the teacher I had hired to fill that position this year, Professor Juan Cortacabezca Matado, will be permanently unable to perform his duties. I have opened up a search for a replacement, and will fill that position as soon as possible. In the meantime, Mr. Zabini, here, has agreed to substitute for Professor Matado, and does so with my full and complete confidence."

"So who's the bloke with the turtleneck?" A thickly Irish-accented voice came from the Gryffindor table.

"Patience, Mr. Finnigan, patience." There was a collective laugh. "This, students, is Professor Robert Langdon. He is not here to teach. He is here on my authority to assist me with certain, shall we say, Hogwarts business. However, if Mr. Langdon requests anything of you -- anything at all -- please ensure that you cooperate with him fully and to the best of your ability. Like Mr. Zabini, Professor Langdon has my utmost trust and confidence."

Hogwarts business? If I request anything? Robert's sense of dread and foreboding at the supposed task ahead of him increased tenfold. What was he here for? What was he supposed to be doing? More importantly, what happened to Professor Matado? Robert couldn't help but wonder if Matado's apparent unavailability was more than it seemed, and unfortunately, was the likely reason he was here.

Again, Robert's thoughts were broken by an amazing sight. When Professor Dumbledore said, "That is all, students. Let the feast begin," the table in front of Robert seemed to explode with food and drink. Every coffer and every plate on the head table burst forth with an abundance of seemingly any and every kind of food possible. Robert awkwardly pulled up the sleeve of his robe, picked up a fork, and gingerly poked at a bowl of potatoes, checking to see if the food was real.

"Don't just sit there gawking at the mashed tatties, Mr. Langdon," chirped Professor McGonagall, startling Robert, "it is real food, you know! Eat. Now, before it gets cold, or you'll go hungry!"

Suspend your disbelief. This became Robert's mantra. Suspend your disbelief.

In spite of the incredible strangeness of the day, Robert found himself, in the face of this smorgasbord of food, incredibly hungry. After his stomach gave a nasty growl, he dove in with relish, piling food on his plate and working it down between snippets of conversation with Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore. Paolo merely smiled knowingly during the entire meal, consuming his veal and carrots with particular relish.

As Robert was finishing a particularly sticky, but delicious, piece of what Professor Dumbledore called treacle fudge cake, Robert saw yet another incredible sight. Flying around the room in front of him were four ethereal figures. At first, Robert couldn't distinguish what they were, and thought they were merely fog or mist rolling into the room from an open window.

But, as Robert looked closer, he saw that these forms were, "Ghosts!" Robert tried with all of his might not to gape, especially with a mouthful of dessert. Robert swallowed the cake with some difficulty. "Are those really ghosts, or is this some kind of show? A trick, or illusion, or spell or something?"

"No, Bobby," said Paolo. "Those are really ghosts. They're the four House ghosts." He pointed to each one in turn. "That is the Fat Friar from Hufflepuff. That one there in the chandelier, that's the Bloody Baron, he's the Slytherin ghost. That one is the Gray Lady from Ravenclaw," he gave the Gray Lady a familiar wave as she flew by. "This one here, this is…"

"I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. The Gryffindor ghost!" The ghost approached the head table, and bowed gallantly. Instinctively, Robert stuck out his hand for a shake, but quickly withdrew it when Sir Nicholas merely scowled at it.

"Oh, yeah, I guess…that wouldn't work would it?" Robert stammered. "I'm Robert Langdon."

"I already know who you are, Professor Langdon," said Sir Nicholas airily. "All of the ghosts in the castle are talking about you, wondering if you are going to replace poor old Professor Matado."

"Poor old Professor Matado?" He looked at Paolo, who merely shrugged. "No, sir," Robert said, trying to hide a rising irritation, "I am not. I am not the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." Robert muttered to Paolo, "You'd think word would get around by now."

Sir Nicholas continued. "I presume that Professor Matado will be joining us rather soon. Just what we need around here, another Ravenclaw!" Robert saw that Paolo was making a futile attempt to hush Sir Nicholas up.

"Lucky bastard, that Matado," said Sir Nicholas. At least he will be able to join the headless hunt this year. Alas, I have been turned down yet again!"

Poor Professor Matado? Headless hunt? Is Professor Matado…dead? Headless? Robert's previous feeling of dread just increased again, this time not tenfold, but one-hundred-fold.

Paolo interrupted, apparently trying to distract Robert, which, unfortunately, was not working. "Yes, yes, Sir Nicholas, most disappointing, that. Robert, we call Sir Nicholas 'Nearly Headless Nick' around here. He's a right legend."

"Nearly headless? Why do they call him…" Robert's nerves drove him to take another bite of cake.

"Don't ask," said Paolo, cringing. "Please, don't ask."

But, it was too late. "Because of this!" Sir Nicholas pulled at the scruff of ghostly hair on his head and pulled to one side. His head, much to Robert's horror, pulled away from the neck and was left hanging by a thin strand of sinew.

Robert swallowed. Hard.

Now, I've seen it all…