Chapter eight: the sanitarium

Harry sent a message to the Ministry offices. He was unspecific, but assured them that he was following up a lead on the whereabouts of the new Death Eaters, and that he suggested they precede with investigations as they were. James was out of school for a week and a half, so Harry had nothing to worry about there, he hoped to have this whole mess cleared up by then, and part of him wanted James to be safely back at school once the fireworks started. He hadn't bothered to argue, but he would much rather be on his own, when it was this dangerous. Albus and Lily were safe, so that much was in order.

On the way, the pilot from the obscure muggle airline Harry favored when on auror business flew past the Nazca lines. James had slept through the pass, but Harry, who had never seen the lines, pressed his face against the glass. Below, the twisted drawings of a spider, a monkey, a hummingbird, and other creatures were etched against the ground, made so as they could not be glimpsed from the ground, truly pictures only the gods could see.

Harry had been in Peru once before, at the beginning of the Lost Ark incident, as it was dubbed within ministry circles, and assured James that he still had contacts. It would not be difficult to discover the skull's whereabouts.

Five days later, they had gotten absolutely nowhere. No one had heard of Orellana's cradle, or the Crystal Skull. And, from what research the pair had conducted, Orellana had been born in Spain, so whatever the cradle was; it was not his actual place of birth.

James had seen a bit of Europe, and thought himself rather world-wise. But he had never been anywhere like Peru. It was hot, and damp, just uncomfortable. Made all the more so by the insects. Flies, mosquitoes, spiders, James didn't enjoy any of them.

The locals had stopped approaching him, questioning him to by their wares. He didn't speak a word of their language, having thought French a higher priority. Now he did his best to ignore them, all the while feeling for the reassuring weight of the wand in his pocket.

James had established a habit of speeding the heat of the day out in the square where the local market took place, barter for food, textiles and weapons. He would sit in the shade of the buildings, working his way through a crate of lemonade, as Harry would speak to the local merchants or law-enforcement, searching for someone with any leads of Neville or the skull. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that Harry spoke the language hardly any better than James. The pair would retreat to their room, disappointed, and try the whole thing again the next day.

Until today. James saw Harry walking toward him across the square far earlier than usual, with a self-satisfied look on his face. "Finally," he said reaching James. "We have something."

James drained his cheap lemonade; the warm sugar turned his stomach, and followed his father into the bustle of the market. As they wound around stalls of dead animals, and fat men nursing bottles of local brew, James came up along side Harry. "So what's our lead?" he asked, the need for secrecy scant among so few who spoke English.

"Somebody remembered Neville," said Harry, calmly. "Say he stumbled into town a few weeks ago, ranting like a wild man. They didn't know what to do with him, so they locked him up in the sanitarium."

"Sanitarium?"

"Basically an insane asylum. Ran by an order of nuns. It's the first lead we've had, and I think it's worth checking out."

As Harry and James exited the square, following the directions Harry had been given, eyes followed them. A short man in a grubby cloak leaned against the corner of an alley. As they disappeared from view, Mundungus Fletcher pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, and retreated back down the alley.

It seemed that Potter had finally caught on to something. And it was about to become a great deal more interesting.

The sanitarium was a squat building of old stone and adobe, nestled between larger, newer buildings on either side. Very little about the place suggested it's true purpose; it was unmarked save for a line of script above the door. James didn't understand it, but Harry read it and laughed.

"Saint Anthony de Padua," he said in explanation. "The patron saint of lost things."

Harry rapped on the door and it was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a black robe and a kind, but wary, expression.

"We're looking for a European by the name of Neville Longbottom," said Harry, making sure to speak clearly. He was ready to try the same phrase in Spanish if English proved ineffective. But the nun's expression turned to recognition, and she opened the door wider, inviting them in.

Harry and James followed her inside, and down an arched stone corridor. It was cooler in here, which James felt grateful for.

"The man you seek was here," the nun said. "But he did not stay with us for long. He was disturbed, but not violent. Still, the other patients stayed far away from him, they were scared of him. Then the men came. Men with magic, men we could not turn away. They took him."

"Death Eaters," said James softly.

"Thank you," said Harry. "Could you perhaps show us where he was confined?"

The nun nodded, "Come with me."

Harry and James followed the nun down a flight of bare stone stairs, into the basement. Where the most disturbed patients were kept. It was dark down here, the only light issuing from naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a sickly yellow glow. The air stank of urine and blood.

The nun seemed unperturbed by the surroundings, and though Harry seemed expressionless, James could him clench his muscles in reaction to the change in the environment. James himself was openly disturbed of what he saw.

The place was dirty, for one thing. The floor was of cold stone. The patients were enclosed behind iron bars, in bare rooms, the floor strewn with straw and sand. They were a diverse bunch, mainly imprisoned alone, but sometimes with up to three in a cell. Men and women, disheveled, gaunt, dressed in rags. They ranged from those that were nearly catonic, to others who gestured and twisted wildly, screaming, jabbering laughing.

James found his eyes drawn to a young girl, a child, who sat cross legged in the center of her cell, her hands clasped in her lap, her legs splayed out around her. She was entirely motionless, except for her eyes, which darted about inexplicably, not following anything around her, simply moving, sometimes rolling so far back into her skull that only the whites were visible. As James watched fascinated, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see that a lank, starved looking man, hair ragged around a thin face. The man had reached through the bars, to seize hold of James's shirt, not ungently, as if to relay to him a message. But the man said nothing; his eyes spoke for him, a look of fear, intense, even primal. James felt sick. He pulled away and scurried after Harry and the nun.

The left the open cells behind a turned into a corridor of more secure holding areas, shut behind a heavy wooden door. The nun stopped before one of these. "Neville spent most of his time in here," she said. "Drew all over it. Now none of the other patients are willing to go inside, they'd rather die, it scares them that much."

"Thank you," said Harry. He pulled open the door, which scraped against the stone floor, and stepped inside. James followed him, just in time to hear his father say, dryly, "Professor Longbottom's been busy."

The room was about twenty feet by twenty feet. It was musty, and filled with dust, but a pleasant yellow light fell in from two bared windows near the ceiling, illuminating the room. But James had eyes only for the walls.

They were completely covered, floor to ceiling, with pictures of skulls. They were gouged into the walls, as if with a stone. No two drawings were alike; they were all different sizes, different angles, some abstract, some masterfully detailed. The far wall was a single, huge drawing, using the conveniently placed windows for eyes.

"These aren't human," said James. Who had gone to the wall, running his fingers over the various skulls. "The back part is way too big, and the jaw is tiny."

"It reminds me of some kind of ritual," said Harry. "Ancient South American peoples who would mold the head of an infant like that, deforming them for life."

"Why?"

"Fashion, or religion. Trying to look more like a jaguar, or trying to imitate the gods."

"God doesn't look like that," James muttered.

"Depends on who your god is," said Harry, his memories filled with a temple deep in India, revolving around the horrific goddess of destruction.

"Whatever that skull was, it must have really screwed him up."

"Exactly." Harry crouched his fingers tracing a groove in the floor. "Help me clean this off. There's something underneath."

James shut the door, and both of them produced their wands. It was a matter of seconds to sweep all the dust and straw into the corners of the room. Another massive drawing was revealed, but this time not of a skull. It was a multileveled graveyard, built into the face of a cliff, dotted with gravestones and crosses.

Harry gazed up at the massive skull, to its eyes. The light from them spilled across the now clean floor. "Follow the lines only the gods can see…"

"To Orellana's cradle, guarded by the living dead," James finished. Orellana was born in Spain, but…"

"Cradle can also be any resting place," said Harry. "Neville didn't mean where Orellana was born-"

"He meant where he was buried," James finished the sentence.

They paused for moment. "Good job," said Harry, "But don't interrupt me."

"So the skull's hidden in that graveyard?" James asked.

"I would assume so,' said Harry.

"Guarded by the living dead. Is that Inferi?"

"I hope not," said Harry. He twice encountered the malevolent reanimated corpses, and both times still reoccurred in his nightmares. "Guess we'll find out."

"I thought you said Orellana disappeared without a trace?" James said.

"Well, maybe Neville found him."