Acts Infernal

New-gathered dew from the heavens
Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,
Cups from the angels' pale tables
That will make me both handsome and wise.
Vachel Lindsay

And this is the river Styx, and those, down below the high cliff that overlooks the origin of the Styx, are the twin cities of Nir and Dis, the highest domains of Hades. The river splits them neatly, and flows straight and true towards the delta, where it branches into two halves and flows off into places no man, mortal or eternal, has yet seen. On the Nir side of the river, opulent white houses with red tile roofs line the banks, where parks full of trees and green grass and dirt paths run down to the water itself. There are rowboats and punts tied to stakes in the river, and fruit grows heavy on the trees.

On the other side -- Dis, the domain of the hopeless -- giant smokestacks belch dark clouds into the sky, and they drift over the city, away from the river, choking whatever they come into contact with. Litter lines the riverbank, which is a deep, algae-covered swamp of mud, and a length of rusty chain-link fence hems in the damned.

Raised up, on the banks of the delta, is a large white building, engraved with many figures and supported by columns and bracings, nearly blinding in the light of the sun.

"Yes, it often strikes people that way," said a voice, and Harry, standing at the cliff's edge, turned suddenly. He had been enthralled by the view, and a little frightened, wondering how he would get down and where he would go from there.

Standing near him was the boy who had spoken -- not older than Harry, well-dressed, dark-haired. He had a narrow, sly-looking face, but friendly; his eyes sparkled and his lips curved in a friendly smile. He wore black trousers and a green shirt held tight against his body by a black silk waistcoat, and his left hand was encased in a Quidditch glove. There was a nasty, strange-shaped knife-- two blades crossed, to make it almost pyramidical in shape -- in a sheath at his hip. Harry recognized it from History of Magic classes -- a Tibetan ghost dagger, a phurba, used to kill spirits with.

There was also just a shadowy hint of transparent black wings, protruding from the boy's back.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, curiously. The boy held out his hand.

"I've been sent to take you to the Museum," he said. "My name's Tom Riddle. What's yours?"

Harry felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Tom Riddle?" he asked, skin crawling.

"You've heard of me," Tom said, slightly grimly.

"But you're not -- "

"Yes. I am dead. People keep saying that," Tom sighed. "I mean, obviously I am, I wouldn't be here if I weren't dead, would I? You're not dead, of course, but then you're special. Oh, I brought this for you..."

Harry watched, stunned, as he dug in his pocket and pulled out a grubby bit of card, offering it to him. It was scrawled with strange runes, and had a giant V printed on it, along with a signature in vivid red. "It's a visitor's pass," Tom said proudly. "Go on, take it."

Harry accepted the card, automatically, when Tom pressed it into his hand.

"But you're not dead," he repeated. "I saw you alive."

Tom smiled, almost gaily. "You probably saw Voldemort, didn't you? Nasty piece of work, him. He killed me off when we were seventeen. People can do that, you know -- they send the soul to the afterlife and they're still up walking around on earth. It's a sort of a split, I suppose. Anyhow, I reckon -- and Hades agrees -- that I'm sort of his...redeeming qualities. Mercy and a sense of humour and all that. Now it's just him."

He paused, as if realising he'd been rambling. "And me, I suppose. Anyway, Hades sends me on jobs like this all the time -- not that we get many visitors!" he laughed. "I say, did you tell me your name?"

"My name's Harry Potter," Harry said.

Tom looked interested. "That's a nice name."

"You don't know it?"

"Well, you look a bit young to have been around when I was. Are you famous? I don't follow what goes on in the Aboveway very closely, for the main part. Some of them do. Come on, this way," he added, over his shoulder, as he began walking towards a switchback-path in the cliff. Harry could see now that it led down to the river, where there was a small dock, and about a dozen boats tied up to it.

"I don't know why they take an interest," Tom continued, while they walked. Harry was still in shock, fiddling with his visitor's pass, watching the other boy. He seemed normal, almost a little geeky -- just a lanky boy who talked a little too much and laughed easily. "I mean, we've got a perfectly good afterlife," he added, "and all they care about is whether the Red Sox have won the series yet or if Tony Blair's still PM, or what's being done about the Middle East. I do follow the games, of course -- right pain they cancelled Quidditch Cup, isn't it? Do you play?"

"I'm a Seeker," Harry replied automatically.

"What team?"

"Gryffindor."

"Up school!" Tom cried. "A Hogwarts boy! Course I'm bound to hate you since I was in Slytherin, but you seem a nice enough chap, and you've got to be at least a little deviant to get into Hades alive." He paused, thoughtfully. "Though I guess the real trick is getting out alive too, eh?"

They arrived at a little pier, gravel crunching under their shoes, and Tom jumped down into one of the boats, retrieving a long, worn wooden pole from the bottom of it.

"Jump in," he advised. "Fastest way to get to the Museum."

Harry crouched at the edge of the pier, looking down at Tom and the boat.

"If I wanted to find someone down here, how would I do it?" he asked. He didn't think he could even talk about Tom Riddle right now, so he resolutely stuck to his mission in coming here.

"Why..." Tom's brow furrowed. "You'd just do it, of course."

"But how?" Harry pressed. Tom deepened his thoughtful frown.

"You just do," he repeated. "You say 'I'd like to find so-and-so' and then you know where they are and you go and find them. Oh, it doesn't work that way in the Aboveway, does it? You probably can't do it. You probably have to be dead.

Harry nodded, and slid his way into the boat, sitting on the little plank bench Tom indicated, while the other boy undid the rope fastening and pushed them out into the river. They skewed over to the side with the beautiful white houses, sticking near to the shore, while Harry thought quickly.

"Could you find someone for me?" he asked, as Tom piloted them forward, using the pole to push the boat along.

"My orders are to take you to the Museum," Tom replied.

"But if I just wanted to know where someone was?"

"Oh, sure, I guess. Heard you had a mate get sent down here alive by mistake, you looking for the silver boy?"

Harry watched the grassy banks roll by. "No, he can take care of himself."

"That's the Slytherin spirit!" Tom said cheerfully. Harry turned, to see the other side of the river -- all sorts of rubbish lining the bank, and big, ugly cement buildings beyond.

"I want to find Sirius Black," Harry said. "And..." he paused. "If you know where James and -- no...nevermind."

Tom looked down at him curiously. "You want me...not to find someone?"

Harry rested his chin on his hands, and closed his eyes. "They died," he said. "They're really dead. I can't bring them back with me. And if I can't bring them back I don't...I don't want to see them. They died, so they have to stay. But Sirius came in like...like Draco did. Through a gateway. So he might still be alive."

Tom shook some water off the pole, and continued his punting. "I'm sorry. Who were they?"

"My parents. Voldemort killed them."

"Oh." Tom fell silent for a while. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Black, you said?"

"Sirius, like the star."

"I know that name. He's on the Meadow. It's a big park in Nir." Tom scowled. "He spends a lot of time there, it's odd really."

"Are we going to pass the Meadow?"

"Sort of, but you won't see it. It's on the outskirts. Ah -- but that doesn't matter, Hades knows you're looking for him."

Harry looked up sharply. "What does that mean?"

"It means your friend Black is on the move. Hades has called him to the Museum. You'll see him there, I'm sure."

Harry trailed his fingers in the water, idly. Tom spoke again. "Harry old chap..." he shook off his pole, and continued. "Have you considered the idea that your friend may not want to go back with you? Even if Hades were to allow it, which he most assuredly won't."

Harry rubbed his cheeks, distractedly. "This can't be real," he said.

***

The city of Dis is the abode of the hopeless, where filthy workers make nothing in factories all day, and drag themselves home at night to bare empty rooms, sleeping on floors or sagging, filthy mattresses, piles of rags. They rarely sleep peacefully; they dream nightmares.

In Nir, there is no need to eat, though many enjoy it; each does what they love best to do. But here, in Dis, it is the nightmare of everyone who ever dreamed of Utopia, the horror of the humanitarian. Here, the deserving of punishment suffer a dull, endless despair. Those who live in such places on Earth at least have the dream of earning themselves a better life -- or, if not that, the hope of heaven. These have no such luck.

Of course there are the traditional punishments, rolling heavy stones uphill and being buried in filth and swimming in lakes of blood, but for most, the pettiness of their own selves dooms them to a petty, tired after-existence. They dine on the filth of their own souls, and it is the least of them who are the preparers of the feast.

In a wretched cafeteria on the Dis side of Hades, filthy workers moved about, preparing strange-looking food for rag-clad ghouls to devour. Through the windows, bare-chested men and women in plain view suffer physical torment. It was some little entertainment, and the wretched devoured it with their eyes.

A small figure in rags straightened, a handful of black tentacles clenched in one hand. Ancient scars crisscrossed the young face, and grey eyes burned from under a plain black cowl. The Overseer struck him across the back, and Draco sprawled on the filthy floor, whimpering.

"No stealin' the food," the Overseer barked.

"I didn't steal anything," Draco protested weakly. The Overseer swung his cane again, and Draco's ribs seared in pain.

"And no lip, look ye," the Overseer concluded, walking away.

"Yessir," Draco muttered, pulling himself to his feet. He tottered to a large soup tureen over a weak flame, and threw the tentacles into the scummy mixture, stirring listlessly.

How long have I been here? Time is nothing in this place, all times are the same, are one.

Which means that now is forever.

Oh god.

What happened to the time before? This now was not always...I remember. However long I've been here, I remember.

***

Lucius Malfoy stood in the foyer of the family manor, looking down at his somewhat diminutive eleven-year-old son. Nearby sat a trunk, stuffed full of school things, and a book-bag filled with new parchment, quills and inkpots, and a few books.

"Your things are packed," he said.

"Yes, father," Draco answered. He always stood a little taller in his father's presence.

"You have all you need?"

"Yes, father."

"Then come walk with me," Lucius said, turning to the front door. They stepped out into the fading warmth of the day -- summer was waning fast, this year.

The gardens of the manor were particularly cheery and well kept, mostly full of bright, large-petaled flowers, almost all of which were lethal in some fashion. Draco felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"I am the sole heir to the Malfoy fortunes, Draco," Lucius said. "And you are my sole heir. We name our sons to make the line proud; I was named to be a bring of cold, hard light, penetration to the heart of matters. I take that responsibility very seriously -- I penetrate." He paused. "And do you know why you are named Draco, my son?"

"To be strong," Draco answered. "Dragon-like."

Lucius gave him a mirthless smile. "We shall have to remedy the gaps in your classical education, Draco. You were not named for dragons. Dragons are noble but not very bright."

Draco looked up at his father, curiously. "Then why?" he asked.

"When you were born," Lucius said, carefully, "The Dark Lord was at the height of his power. You were the first-born of those in his inner circle."

They passed a statue of a satyr, doing something outrageous to a nymph -- Narcissa liked statues.

"The first strong healthy baby son born under his blossoming rule," Lucius continued. "You were my heir and you were to be his heir. First of the children who were fed dark magic with their mothers' milk."

Lucius stopped then, and regarded a planter of roses. "I have never told you this."

"No, father," Draco answered dutifully.

"You were therefore given a king's name," Lucius said. "Your mother held out for Augustus, but that's a silly name to give a child, I always thought."

Draco felt a creeping horror. "It was a choice between Draco and Augustus?" he asked, morbidly intrigued. Apparently nobody had, in their contemplation of his name, ever contemplated a life saddled with a name like Draco.

Lucius examined the head of his walking stick, then tapped the other end against one of the rose-bushes. The petals turned from red to white as they fell.

"There were other suggestions made. By close friends. A name is a terribly important thing, you see."

"And you picked Draco," the boy said, still horrified.

"It was the Dark Lord's suggestion," Lucius nodded. "Draco was a strong, a noble and a brave king. His rule brought mankind to its knees for the slightest offence. You were named to rule."

Draco picked up one of the white petals. It turned black and shriveled in his palm, revealing a tiny barb that Lucius picked up carefully.

"What about now?" Draco asked. Lucius tossed the barb back into the planter.

"Oh, there's nothing to stop you," he said lightly. "You may be the next Lord, you know. Bring Wizarding law to Muggles. Terminally, if necessary. So," he dusted his hands, "You must be a leader of children. This is the start. You must excel and lead."

Draco watched as a bird pecked among the roses. He rather hoped it would miss the barb. He liked sparrows.

"Yes, Father," he repeated.

"You are a king of men, Draco. The world is yours to rule. Remember."

"I will, Father."

***

I still remember, thought the boy in the rags. However long I am here, I will still remember.

***