Acts Infernal

The old man turned and spoke to me
His face at last in view
And then I thought those curious eyes
Were eyes that once I knew.
Vachel Lindsay

-- Come, says the old man. Come and hear the story.

The day is bright, late in summer, a good day to sit and let old bones rest in the sun; the children who run along the bricked streets of Diagon Alley are tired in the afternoon. It is good to sit on the warm red walk and listen to the old man; he was a fine Scop in his day, say the children's parents to each other, and his stories do no harm.

-- Come and hear, says the old man.

-- Hear about what? asks a small child. Other youths crowd around, and some older children lean on walls or in doorways, pretending that they just happened to be there.

-- Hear a story about Harry Potter, the old man answers, and the childrens' eyes grow round. These are children raised on tales of Arthur and Beowulf, fed a love of Chaucer and Shakespeare with their mothers' milk, but Harry Potter is one of them, Harry Potter was a boy-warrior and he belongs to the children.

The old man spreads his hands, arms wide, invoking the gods of the Scops silently.

-- This is a story about the afterlife, and the gods of the afterlife, he says. This is a story of what happens when people die, and when they choose to live. It starts with two paths. For there were once two sure ways into the afterlife without death, two ways where the soul was not taken from the body and the body grown cold.

He looks at the children, and is sad that none of them are yet innocent enough to ask what death is.

-- There was an arch through which one could walk and not return; it was made by men, and an abhorrence to nature. And then there was a gateway, a footpath that led down through the earth and into a place which was not-earth, that some people call limbo. The souls of ghosts live there, awaiting the rest of themselves before they may continue. It was guarded by men but not made by men; it was most natural. And it was this path which was sought by the boy warrior...

***

The boy standing at the side of the road could have been a tourist, a hitch-hiker, a stranded motorist; with a book-bag slung over his shoulder, water bottle strapped to it and food-bag slung crosswise over the other, he was not all that out of the ordinary, for summer in England. There were a lot of kids who backpacked through the country in the summertime.

Except this boy carried a slim, beautifully hand-turned bit of wood in his back pocket, nothing more than a narrow stick with a handle. A casual observer would take it for a child's caprice, the keeping of a special stick. Any wizard, of course, would instantly know what he was, and considering the scar on his forehead, it would not be long before they knew who he was, too.

He had his thumb out for every car that passed on the dusty country road; no-one had stopped yet, but he wore the sort of look that said if he had to walk the whole way, he would do it without complaint.

Fortunately, the driver of the truck which slowed and stopped near the dust-coated boy didn't need to see the wand or the scar; he knew him on sight, and leaned out the window, grinning.

"Harry?" the driver asked, a sunny smile on his face. Harry Potter, heart swelling with relief, gave him a returning smile, though not quite as cheerful.

"Hallo, Colin," Harry said, taking the hand Colin Creevy extended in greeting. He threw the larger bag in the truck, alongside a couple of tarps and some rope, and climbed into the passenger's seat, buckling the safety belt as Colin pulled back onto the road.

"Bit young to be driving, aren't you?" Harry asked, gazing out the grimy windshield. Colin chuckled.

"When you grow up driving tractors, they're a bit lenient about when you start driving trucks. Nobody much drives these roads except farmers, anyhow, and all of 'em know Da. Here, you're the last person I expected to see on the road today. I thought you went home for the summer. You know, your Muggle home."

"I did," Harry replied, studying the buckles on his book bag.

"What happened?" Colin asked.

"I left."

"Oh." Colin bit his lip, nervously. "Going to see the country?"

"Something like that," Harry agreed. "I have business with a witch in York."

Colin drove effortlessly through the rolling green hills of the countryside, and Harry watched him, noticing how much more confident the boy seemed in the Muggle world. He didn't know many wizards who could drive a car at all, let alone as well as Colin was. The boy had learned tact, in the past year or so, and also a great deal of circumspection, for which Harry was grateful.

"I'm passing through York tomorrow," Colin said. "Stay on with us at home tonight and I could take you that far."

"I'd appreciate that. Haven't got anywhere to stay in town," Harry said. "I can pay for food and such -- "

Colin waved him off. "No need, not for you, Harry, you know that. Here, if you were headed to York, why didn't you take the Knight Bus?"

"I wanted to enjoy the journey."

"And have you?" Colin asked curiously.

"So far."

***

The Creevy house, nestled on a smart little piece of farmland, had the requisite chickens in the front yard and goats in the back. Colin and Dennis' father was a nice enough man, a bit on the gruff side, of good hill stock, descended to the (relative) flatlands a few generations back. It was easy to see that he was proud of his sons, though Harry thought he was also just slightly wary of their keen intelligence.

"Don't forget to take the ropes and tarpaulin when ye go, Colin," he said, as they made plans for the trip to York over dinner, Shepherd's pie and sweet hot rolls.

"No, Da, I won't," Colin said, offering Harry the water jug.

"And what business have ye in York, Harry?" Mr. Creevy inquired, while Harry poured himself some water and passed the jug to Dennis, who, at home, was rather less inclined to talk than at school.

"I'm going to see someone about a bit more travel. She has a map I need," Harry explained.

"Anastasia Elowen, maybe?" Colin asked. Harry glanced at him, surprised.

"Y...es," he said, slowly. "How did you know?"

Colin and Dennis exchanged a grin. Their father looked vaguely confused, but also as though he'd felt this way rather too often for it to bother him anymore.

"Miss Anastasia's a great one for maps," Dennis said, into his pie.

"So I've heard," Harry replied. "Dean told me about her a couple of months ago. Said he was going to get a talking map of Europe for when he did some traveling this summer."

"She doesn't take money for them, though," Colin continued. "You've got to have a map to trade to her, or a bit of magic or somesuch."

Harry thought of the book bag, upstairs on a cot next to Colin's bed. These days, he often thought it was ironic that the things he carried were things which, in the hands of a Death Eater, would be considered formidable weapons -- aside from a few items of clothing, he carried a two-person mirror (the new counterpart now belonging to Remus Lupin, who checked on him regularly), an invisibility cloak, a few slim volumes on the mythology of death, and the trade he intended to give Anastasia.

"I've brought her something," he said, reservedly.

They ate in silence for most of the meal, Colin's father occasionally giving him some advice on the trip, or adding in places of interest Harry ought to see in the city, if he had time. Harry promised dutifully that he would visit the museum under York Minster, if opportunity presented itself. Dennis argued that he ought to go to York too, to help his brother, but received in return only the promise that "next year -- if ye're ready, ye can go along. Isn't room for ye two great lummoxes and Harry to boot."

Harry was grateful to escape to Colin's small room, and spend the evening reading, taking copious notes and triangulating ley lines on a county map. Colin looked on interestedly, but didn't ask what he was doing, or why.

Still mad for photos though, Harry thought, as he curled himself up for sleep. Thousands of them, pasted all over the walls and doors, moved dreamily in the darkening room, like ghosts Harry only vaguely knew.

***

It was never the same, here, as it had been; it was seen with the fallible clarity that time brings to memory, which sharpens some edges not meant to be sharpened, and sometimes removes things entirely from view.

He could see every shadow on Bellatrix's face, every individual lock of Sirius' hair. He was here in this time now, but he knew what was coming, knew that Sirius would taunt her, the madwoman, the murderer, and there was a true bolt.

Harry knew that this was probably not truth, that it was his memory embroidering on things, but he was nearly sure that Sirius was still smiling, still caught in a laugh, as he fell through the archway, as the veil wrapped around him like a shroud for a moment before releasing him to the other side.

He felt Remus Lupin's arm wrap around his chest at the same moment Bellatrix laughed, and sometimes he felt as though it was that laughter, and not the werewolf's arms, which kept him from reaching his godfather.

It was not a nightmare in the sense that it made his heart beat faster or, once he was awake, overwhelmed him with fear; it was really just a startling dream, though he always jerked awake from it.

Colin was sleeping. So were most of his photographs. Harry put his hands over his face -- cold in the slightly stuffy room -- and breathed in the smell of his own skin.

"No more dreams," he whispered. It was mostly a plea, but also a sort of mantra; if he believed it, one day it might actually happen. "No more dreams. No more dreams..."

***

Miss Anastasia's Maps, tucked down a side-alley in the Shambles of York, catered to Muggle and Wizard alike. Harry had heard she sold rare hand-drawn maps, as well as modern printed atlases and the occasional bit of magic. He wasn't quite sure which of the three the map he took from her would be, but he knew she would have it, if anyone would.

When he walked through the door, bells tinkled on the doorknob; it opened into a long, narrow room lit only by sunlight through the windows.

Every square inch of wall was covered in shelves, or framed maps, or file cabinets. There were tables as well, on which were spread thousands of sheets of paper, some new and white, some yellowing, covered in crabbed mapmaker's script. Circular bins held giant rolls of paper; books were everywhere, even piled haphazardly on the floor. Harry wondered if there was any filing system for them at all; the complete randomness suggested that there was, but that it was of a subtlety only its creator could grasp.

Miss Anastasia was seated at the far end, bent over a desk.

She had not looked up yet, and Harry studied her, now that he had gotten his first impression of the rest of the room. She had pretty, curling hair, just beginning to go grey, and angular shoulders that suggested she had spent a good deal of time bent over a drafting table.

"Welcome to my shop, Harry," she said, without moving. Harry blinked. She hadn't seen him yet, he was sure of that, and nobody could have told her he was coming -- he hadn't told anyone but the Creevys he was going to visit her first.

"You know who I am," he stammered, walking forward, fingers drifting over the maps, not quite touching. She nodded, head still bowed.

"Of course," she murmured.

"Did Colin tell you? By floo?"

"Nonsense," Anastasia said. "Floo powder's being rationed, haven't you heard? No, living with Muggles, I don't suppose you would have."

He could see her face now, half-obscured by her rich brown hair, eyes moving along a line of text on a map. Her lips quirked in a small smile. "There's a war on, you know."

Harry nodded. "That, I knew," he said, for want of anything better to say. It didn't seem right to just come out and ask for the map; he would play the politeness game for a while. He had time.

"All over the world, wizards are in hardship. Beginning to waken to the facts. Aurors come and go as they please without so much as a by-your-leave; no unnecessary floo or broomstick flight, with rationing to enforce it," she continued. "It was better last time. It was better when at least we had our freedom, even if we were scared."

"They've cancelled the Quidditch World Cup," Harry put in.

"Just as well. Nobody really cares whether Brazil beats Argentina, at any rate."

"Except two hundred million South Americans."

Anastasia's smile widened. "You hardly came here to talk Quidditch, Harry Potter."

"How did you know I was coming?" Harry insisted.

"Before you left your home, the maps rustled. When you ate at the Creevy table, they made their own music. Maps are deep magic, you know. Like coins," she added. "And love. They go beyond what is taught about them by human voice."

Harry stood there, helpless. Then she knew everything; why didn't she just tell him what he wanted to know?

"The map you are looking for is four paces to your right, on the second shelf," she said finally. Harry walked to the unvarnished wooden shelf, whitened by age. The maps on it were the colour the wood should have been originally, he thought. He took down the top map, and gazed at it. It was pencil-drawn and inked over, but the smudges of graphite were still underneath. A plain map. No writing, no drawings. Just a series of lines detailing a complex, triangular maze with only one entrance, one exit.

"I hope it will help you," Anastasia said, drawing his attention back to the dusty, gold-lit room.

"Aren't you going to try to stop me?" Harry asked.

"Why would I try to stop you?" Miss Anastasia asked in reply. "You can tell me if the map's accurate or not."

"And if I don't come back?"

"Then the map was wrong, and good riddance," she sniffed. "Your life is your own, Harry Potter, and I don't begrudge you a quest, however foolhardy. In the meantime, there's the matter of payment."

Harry had expected this. He reached into his book bag and withdrew a scrap of parchment for her to see, placing it on the table where she was working, and from which she had yet to look up.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he said, touching the blank sheet. Words slowly swirled out of the parchment.

MESSRS. MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND PRONGS PRESENT THEIR RESPECTS TO MISS ANASTASIA ELOWEN.

Below the message, the outlines of Hogwarts School began to fade slowly into being.

"I thought perhaps...you could see how it was done. Or hang it up as a museum piece," Harry said, stumbling a little over the words. "It's all I've got."

"Your father was a friend of mine," Anastasia said gently. "He showed me that map when we were in school."

Harry nodded, accepting that she knew more about the art of the thing on the table than he probably did. He took his hand off the parchment.

"Then take it as a piece of history," he said, slightly bitterly.

"I will take it as collateral against a loan," Miss Anastasia answered, considering it.

Harry winced. "I'm willing to give it up," he managed.

"I know, poor boy," was her only reply. "But I am not that hard a bargain-maker. If you are willing, that is enough."

"You don't think I'm coming back, do you?" Harry asked. She smiled.

"Oh, I think you'll come back. But I think you'll be empty-handed for it."

She lifted her face and the golden light caught it. There was a long, broad scar across one cheek, and below it another one, shaped like a teardrop -- as if the first had wept.

"I came back, after all," she whispered.

Harry stared.

"I drew that one with my own hands, learning from my own mistakes. Now take the map, Harry Potter, and go with my blessing. And if you see Jennor Griff, tell him..." she stumbled, her fingers drifting up to touch the Marauder's Map, softly. "Say that I tried, but my map was not true."

Harry looked at the labyrinth map in his hands, suspiciously. She smiled, a bitter smile.

"That is the only map now existent. It was drawn by me. After I returned," she added. "If that map is not true, there is no true map. Now all you have to do, Harry," she continued, "is find the entrance to Hades. And not the one you're thinking of -- the true and natural one. Don't pass through the veil."

"I knew there was another entrance," Harry said. "Where is it?"

Anastasia opened a book, and laid it on the table. A map of the world.

"Good luck," she said with a smile. "I hear you've been studying ley lines."

"I have."

"Good," she answered, and closed the book. Harry understood that their talk was over; she had no more to tell him. He left her to her maps, walking back out into the sunny, tourist-busy streets of York with the precious labyrinth map, the last key to the puzzle.

He would need to catch a train.

***