Voldemortian

A twenty-seven year-old screenwriter stepped up to the table. Josh reached into the carry on and pulled out a bottle containing an anti-psychotic medication.

"Sorry, I have to confiscate this." He tossed it into the trash bin.

Seven hours later, over the Pacific Ocean, the screenwriter would notice that his fellow passengers had begun to morph in a strangely Voldemortian way.

"Snakes on the plane!" he would scream, "Snakes on the plane!"