Acts Infernal

And I bethought me of my youth
When such men came around
And times I asked them in, quite sure
The scissors should be ground.
Vachel Lindsay

Tom, who was unused to people being upset or angry with him, looked down at Harry as he pushed them along the river.

"Black has told me his story, you know," Tom said.

"Small underworld," Harry answered skeptically.

"I tend to seek out those...touched by my other half, if they wish to see me."

"Touched?" Harry asked.

"His wrongs are my wrongs by proxy," Tom said. "That's not the point. There is a way of storytelling we have here, with the shift of the eyes, the way the hands move -- I didn't know your name, but you're his godson, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Look at it this way," Tom said. "It's not a grand life he had anyhow. He was some sort of soldier, wasn't he?"

Harry examined his hands. "I suppose," he said softly. "He ran away from home when he was my age."

"Ah! Yes. And then he was in prison and a fugitive. Trapped away from humanity. How can that make a dog happy? They need people."

Harry looked up at him sharply. Sirius wouldn't have told that --

"Jealous, Harry?" Tom asked, with a smile. "He was a good man, but not a happy one. I think he's happy here."

"Sirius will want to come back," Harry insisted.

"Sirius has spent his existence in dark corners. Nir is an abode of light."

The boat bumped against the dock, then, and Tom used the pole to vault ashore. He held out his hand to Harry.

"You'll see," Harry said resentfully. Tom smiled, and stretched his hand a little further, until Harry took it, and was pulled ashore.

"Welcome to the Museum," Tom said, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry stared up in wonder at the front of it, enormous white columns stretching upwards to the triangular, vaguely Greek-looking pediment, adorned with carvings. Nearby, a large metallic face sat on a pedestal, half-corroded.

"What is it a museum of?" Harry asked, awed.

"It's a copy of the British Museum, complete in every detail of architecture," Tom said proudly. "It houses the souls who most entertain His Lordship. Souls of actors and great writers and great blasphemers and such."

"Why the British Museum?" Harry asked curiously.

"Well, most of the really good Greek marbles are there," Tom replied. "Come inside. His Lordship is waiting."

Harry followed Tom up the entrance and inside; they walked, Tom nonchalant, Harry overawed, down a couple of corridors, until they emerged into a giant round room. Harry vaguely recognised it as the Round Reading Room in the museum.

At the far end of the room, Hades sat on a large, brass-coloured throne -- he was not much smaller in real life than he had been as the soil representation Harry had encountered earlier -- his skin was a dark brown, almost the colour of dirt anyway, and his eyes glowed yellow. Next to him sat a woman with olive skin and neatly braided vines instead of hair, in a green mossy dress. She looked human, except for her hair; her head was tilted back, eyes closed.

Hades, gripping the arms of his throne, leaned forward.

"I would question thee, child, before thy petitionee is brought forth," he said, gravely. "My wife, Persephone," he added, waving a clawed hand at the woman, who did not move.

"Is Sirius here?" Harry asked.

Persephone's head lowered, and she opened her eyes; they were a light, soft shade of green, and had no pupils.

"Isn't it a funny one!" she exclaimed, turning to Hades, who made a gesture with one hand.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry asked. Tom nudged him, gently.

"Why dost thou come here, sable boy?" Hades asked. "Thou couldst come for thy parents or the Diggory boy thou saw murdered. Why dost thou come for this one?"

Harry felt his fists clench.

"Because he isn't dead," he said flatly. "The others are. I know I can't bring them back."

"Wise," Hades said. "Wisdom from a boy on a fool's quest. I should know if one in my kingdom had passed by Anubis without death. I knew when thy friendling did pass."

"Sirius didn't go past Anubis." Harry said. His words seem to fall echoingly in the large chamber.

"There is no other path to me," Hades growled. His eyes flared, and Persephone put a hand on his arm, calmingly.

"There is," Harry answered, steadfast.

"You lie!" Hades' voice shook the walls.

"Ask Sirius." Harry tried to keep his voice from trembling.

"There be no entrance to the afterlife but through the Anubis gate!"

Persephone winced. Tom stepped forward, boots ringing on the bare floor.

"It's the truth, Lordship," he said softly.

All of Hades' wrath suddenly seemed to focus on Tom, but the boy merely smiled, and bowed his head slightly.

"YOU have worked this mischief!" Hades roared.

"Not I," Tom replied. "The Aboveway -- "

Hades looked murderous. "Ten thousand curses upon the Aboveway!"

"Yes, sir."

"Not in millennia have the living broken a hole into my realm!"

"Would you like me to show you?" Tom asked. "I've seen it. Only Black has come through it. If you believe Harry lad."

Hades' claws tapped on the end of the throne arms.

"Thou shalt show, and soon," Hades said finally. "Thou shalt, Tom Riddle. Bring the man," he ordered, and Tom bowed, and vanished. Harry was left standing, alone, with Hades and Persephone.

"What about Malfoy?" he asked, mostly to keep Hades from staring silently at him.

"The silver boy? He was weighed," Hades said dismissively. "He is mine now."

"But he's still alive," Harry pointed out.

"His vitality be no concern of mine," Hades answered. "He chose judgment. Tis a sad thing. His whole self was more than his weight of sin."

Harry considered this. "D'you mean, because he had a body, he was judged worse than he might've been?"

"Aye."

"But he didn't know!"

"Ignorance is no excuse."

"It is if you're Malfoy," Harry answered. Hades broke a smile.

"Did you not wish to see him suffer? It is our way," he said.

"That's a stupid way of running things, then," Harry said, before he could think about how unutterably foolish it was.

"Thinkst thou could do better, little sable? Cheater of death?" Hades asked.

"Guess who's here!" Tom's voice called, breaking the tension. Hades glanced over, and Harry turned.

Sirius stood in the doorway, head bowed; Tom was vanishing into the shadows behind him.

His hair was cropped short, and scars were visible on his chest and neck; he looked hollow-eyed, though not tired; simply as though he was weary, not of anyone thing, but of life. He reminded Harry of the first time he'd seen him, though there was still more flesh on him, and his hair did not hang down.

"Sirius!" Harry shouted, starting forward. Sirius lifted his face, then, and Harry saw there were scars there, too.

"Harry," he said, roughly. Harry stopped, and stood very still. "Damn you."

***

This is the great city Nir Dis, the city which has no foil, no mirror.

It is divided by the river Styx, which I punt my boat on. Charon and I have boat-races, when there aren't any souls to be taken to the Museum.

When I came here Charon brought me up to the Museum, because Anubis saw that I did not have a full heart. Such a thing does happen; we are sent here to await our other half, and then when we are reunited we are properly judged. Until then we are free to roam, not confined to Nir as the good are, nor to Dis as the wretched. We are sent wandering on his Lordship's or her Ladyship's pleasure.

I've heard I could even go Aboveway, if I liked. I wonder if it's true.

I've also heard talk of the silver boy who came with the sable boy. I listen at doors. I see things. I've seen the story of the silver boy in Harry Potter's eyes. A vicious little child, slaving as the least of the wretched in the kitchens of Hell.

Do you know, his Lordship has said that we, the castoffs -- the good or evil that was killed by our still-living twins -- are like the creatures of the Christ-worshippers. Those who are the remnants of all a mortal's evil, the castoffs of a saint or a genius, are disfigured, mean-spirited, spiteful monsters. They are not seen often in the Museum; they guard the gates of Dis and patrol its streets, vicious and unforgiving beings.

We, on the other hand, those of us who are the remnants of a mortal's good qualities, are like myself. Proud and young forever, or until our second half rejoins us. Her Ladyship calls us angels.

Angels know what justice is, better than Hades, whose judgments are not tempered by compassion.

***

Tom was well known in the city of Dis, and barely gave the monstrosity guarding the gate a nod as he passed through. He didn't like Dis, but he still spent time there; he was drawn to the suffering, felt that someone ought to witness it. Pain seen is pain shared, and Tom was a cheerful, joyful lad who tended to bring comfort rather than any sort of strange pity.

Today, however, comfort was not what Tom had on his mind.

He let his fingers drift out to touch the stone of the gate as he passed, and smiled slightly when his fingers came away covered in black soot.

Tom was an angel, but he was the castoff of worse evil than many could achieve if they tried. And it was not necessarily true that, when the good in Voldemort was killed, no evil came attached to it.

There was a city square Tom knew, where he often went to watch the aimless, the hopeless, gather to stare about them. It was a cold sort of torment, having nowhere to go, nothing to do, no aims, no hopes, no dreams.

Well, he might as well make things a little exciting for them.

He reached out and picked up a claw-handed old man, whose toothless gums flapped in protest. Tom, with all the power of divine righteousness behind him, held the man off the ground and snarled.

"Take me to the eating-place," he said grimly.

They walked through the filthy streets, Tom occasionally kicking some bit of rubbish out of his way. The old man moved surprisingly fast; probably well-experienced in dodging the demons that filled the city. When he finally stopped, Tom took a moment to look around him, and nodded.

"Now go away," he said, and the old man scuttled to comply.

His presence, pale and tall and perfect, was like a bright flare in the middle of the wretched, greasy eating-place. All around him people hunched over their awful scummy soup, or strange greyish lumps of food best not examined closely, if at all. There was no way to tell the silver boy apart; he could be any one of a hundred cowled figures.

"Well," Tom murmured to himself. "There's one sure way."

He raised his hands, the quidditch glove shining dully in the dim light, and shouted "DRACO MALFOY!"

A small figure behind the counter looked up, so suddenly that the hood covering his face fell back. Tom saw two things distinctly, before the Overseer of the place hit the boy with a stick so hard that he crumpled to the ground. The first was that the silver boy had scars on his face; the second was that, under the hood, a small tabby cat was crouched.

"Back to work, worthless excrement," the Overseer snarled. Draco did not move.

Tom was over the counter in a heartbeat, feet on either side of the unconscious boy, hand catching the stick even as it fell.

"Let him alone, Overseer," he said, softly.

"Half-breed!" the Overseer shrieked. "Even you wouldn't dare -- "

"Watch me," Tom replied, never taking his eyes from the Overseer's face as he knelt to put an arm under the silver boy, to help him up and support him.

"Against the law! Unright!"

"I can dare," Tom replied calmly. He felt the boy struggling to stand on his own, and put a helpful shoulder under his armpit. "I am one of Lordship's messengers. I can dare."

The Overseer lunged, and there was a sound like metal grating across metal; Draco stumbled and caught himself on the counter as Tom left his side. One of Tom's hands had gone around the Overseer's head, grasping the hair firmly; the other held a small, oddly-shaped, transparent blade at throat-level.

"Shall I sever your connection to this place and let your soul sink down to Valhalla?" Tom asked, still in that smooth, soft, dangerous voice. "They rape the serving-wenches there. I don't really want to, but if you insist..."

The Overseer began to back away slowly, bumping into things, eyes never leaving the dagger.

"I am a servant of Hades, and I walk where I will. Stir your own filthy soup from now on," Tom said with finality. He grasped Draco again and was pleased when the boy did his best to stand on his own. They walked away from the eating-place, carefully, and Tom did not re-sheath the dagger until they were well gone.

"I knew it was a mistake," Draco murmured. "I knew I wasn't supposed to go here."

"That was no mistake," Tom replied blithely. "You were sent here for your sins. You're a horrible, petty person, and I'd leave you here, except that your punishment, while just, was unjustly meted."

"What?"

"You came to Hades for reasons of evil. But your whole body was weighed, not just your heart. No doubt you would have been allowed quite a different set of choices if you hadn't been stupid."

Tom reached out and plucked Draco's arm up, examining the Dark Mark tattooed on it.

"Don't I know?" he asked. "Don't you serve dark things? I suppose he sent you to bring someone out. Voldemort. Who were you to rescue?"

"Don't be stupid," Draco answered. "Saving the dead is idiot's work. Let Potter do it."

"Then why did you come down here, silver boy?" Tom asked, curiously.

Several things happened in very quick succession.

Draco's hand darted out and pulled the dagger from its sheath at the same time he danced away from Tom's supporting arm. Tom twisted with the move, and nearly caught him, but he couldn't grasp the weapon by its blades -- he risked the fate he had offered the Overseer.

"I came for one of these," Draco said, dagger out, jerking it this way and that as Tom moved forward with him, and others appeared in a circle to look on curiously.

A series of emotions ran their way across Tom's mobile face, in quick succession; first surprise and dismay, and then a narrow-eyed anger, but neither lasted more than a second before he settled on amused condescension.

"Now you can go. I've got what I came for," Draco said nervously. "I won't kill you if you run away now."

"You came to Hades, risking death and torment, suffering in Dis, for a spirit dagger?" Tom asked, crossing his arms. "Do they have such power in the Aboveway?"

"More than you can dream of," Draco answered.

"But I did dream," Tom replied. "I am Tom Riddle, silver boy."

Draco's eyes grew round. "No -- he's still alive -- "

"Part of us, certainly," Tom replied. "It's an interesting irony. You know, I liked you up until now."

Tom's fist shot out faster than even Draco could react, and caught him across the mouth, bloodying his lip. Draco reeled, and tried to slice with the dagger, but Tom ducked and dove, one hand catching Draco's wrist even as he twisted in the air.

Tendon pressed to bone; Draco shrieked in agony, and let the dagger fall. It clattered to the ground with a noise that was deafening, even above the raucous cheers of those watching. Tom, in a move that seemed to defy gravity, scooped up the blade before someone else could, hand still clamped around Draco's wrist, and twisted the boy's arm up behind him. Draco seethed, writhing in pain. Tom, quite deliberately, pressed the dagger to the boy's throat.

"This IS interesting, isn't it?" he asked, amiably.

Then he looked up.

At the mob.

***