Paper Wings

Paper Wings

Paper wings, all torn and bent

You made me feel that they were heaven sent

Paper wings, not real at all

They took me high enough to really fall

Your paper kisses faded too soon

Just like a paper rose beneath a paper moon

...

Prologue:

Fall like Water

There was a spell Remus Lupin and his three best friends had taught themselves in school. The charm involved folding a piece of parchment fifteen times and saying a single word, "Voluscrit." The parchment would then take wing, soaring, dipping, and winding its way to the place it was directed, carrying messages from one boy to another over short distances. The notes flew from the Shrieking Shack to the castle; they soared from dungeon to common room, from hospital wing to Gryffindor Tower, even from as far as Hogsmeade from detention in the trophy room. The shape of each wizard's message was unique; Remus' notes had always taken the form of a large parchment-coloured moth. James' were little birds that liked to tease Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's malevolent feline. Peter had folded his into balloons that floated lazily on the breeze.

To the best of Remus' knowledge, the messages had never been intercepted and were only lost when they ran out of magic midway through longer flights.

Four years after he had left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the spell returned to him easily. The moon had just sunk below the horizon; the sun had yet to rise. The world was bathed in the grey half-light of a late autumn morning, and only the brightest stars could still be seen, blinking down on a lone, naked figure, curled against the bars of a cage in back of a small cottage, one hand clasped around a small charm on his neck.

His mind wandered, reason struggling to surface as an angry and predatory nature receded. He tried to regain his bearings, pulling himself up against the bars of his cage, and sorting through memories at random: the Shrieking Shack, the lemon in his mother's tea, Lily Evans laughing and regaling a small audience with stories of her Muggle sister and friends. One of her mates, when drunk, would invariably use the telephone to contact ex-boyfriends and wax moronic about their lost relationships: the 'drunken phone call to the ex'. Lily had tried to explain it to the wizarding students, some of whom had never even seen a telephone. Remus had looked at her blankly as well, and Lily, regarding him with her earnest green eyes, had patiently explained.

"You see, this girl, when she gets really pissed, will call anyone; boyfriends, crushes, even old friends she's fought with..."

He found the whole thing rather asinine, not knowing why a person would wait until they'd imbibed far too much liquor to be rational before contacting someone they'd lost, not grasping why they would try to reclaim something that was never meant to be.

Now -- as his creaking fingers released the bars they'd been clutching, as his heart steadied its rhythm and the stifling weight of memory bore down on his conscious -- he thought he understood. In the first confused moments post-transformation, he figured out the 'drunken phone call to the ex'. It had little to do with drinking toxic liquid. In moments of weakness, the body simply needed to reach out to something it knew, something it had once, maybe, loved.

Blindly he searched within the robes folded beside his cage until he found a scrap of parchment and broken quill. In one word, he committed his most desperate question to paper and performed the familiar folds. Cracked lips whispered the well-known incantation. Sleep clouded his vision, and he sank to the ground as a large brown moth fluttered away from the sunrise.

The single word, "Why?" was written across its wings.

Remus didn't know how far it would fly before its magic withered and it disintegrated over the water. He didn't want to care, and under their own unbearable weight, his eyes fell shut once more.

***

Skin like soft tissue paper touched his cheek. A gentle voice whispered, "Come inside, dear. You must be freezing."

It was as easy to let himself be moved as it was to mumble, "No thank you," so he allowed her to transport his lethargic frame inside, feeling leaden weight in his limbs despite the Levitation Charm. She healed his wounds and fussed with his pillows, doing everything a mother thought she should, and in his sleepy stupor he did not protest.

***

Hours after collapsing onto the soft sofa, his eyes snapped open. Having yet to completely recover from the years of terror inflicted by Lord Voldemort on the Wizarding population, Remus woke with his heart pounding, hands ready to grab his wand or The Daily Prophet, dreading to discover that the Dark Mark had been found shimmering over the ruins of his loved ones' homes. He took several shallow breaths before remembering that that part of his life was over, and looked curiously around the room. His gaze settled on a figure sitting across the room, sipping her tea.

"Please, mum, I'm really alright," he insisted. He did not want to see the pity in her eyes. Alone, he could almost convince himself that his words were true, that he really was alright. Her sad, gentle face only served to make him feel more acutely the overwhelming burden of memory -- weight that reminded him he was about as far from 'alright' as he had ever been.

"Really, I am alright. You needn't have come here, you know."

"I know. I just thought, as it's the first month you've been alone for -- after... that you might want..." She looked guiltily into the steaming mug of tea in her hands.

"Thank you. I am alright though, really." This time he spoke the words softly, willing her to meet his eyes, to believe him. If she believed, he might follow.

"I know," she said finally, resigned. "There's stew heating on the range. Owl if you need anything."

She placed her mug on the table and, with a crack, Disapparated.

When she was gone, Remus drew a shuddering breath. He thought over the past night. It had been more difficult than any in recent memory. He had waited for moonrise alone. For the first time in a very long time, he had become a predator alone. Without his companions, he had lost his self and his control. Memories surfaced: a myriad scents on the wind, olfactory images that no human nose would ever know existed; burning silvery light, relentless, round, and inevitable; tearing jaws, finding purchase in steel and earth and flesh. And a parchment coloured moth flying away in the pale, pre-dawn light. He did not want to remember any more, did not want to know if he'd really written that note come morning. The memory was blurry, containing less fact than feeling.

No matter. He wrapped the wool blanket close around his shoulder as he walked unsteadily into the kitchen. No moth could fly all the miles to the fortress. The message would never reach Azkaban. He would never receive it. He would never know of Remus' momentary weakness.

Remus turned down the heat on the range, and leaned against the wall as he watched the stew simmer slowly. Regardless of what he'd done or not done in the night, dawn had come, and Remus was still alive. He had survived alone until morning and was going to be alright. If he could survive 'til morning once, he could do it again... and again... and again.