Paper Wings

Under the Whispers of Marble

The dog stared through the darkness. The air was a stagnant, unchanging black, and he drew more into his lungs with every breath. He inhaled the thick smog, clouds of smoke without substance or taste, until the darkness inside him matched his surroundings. The dog stared for hours, days, seasons of shadow, his vigil unbroken but for food when it appeared. Then instinct reigned supreme, overcoming his single-minded gaze, and he devoured every morsel without regard to what it was. Sustenance entered him with the dark, torpid air and left him empty, at one with this place. Still the dog stared. There was something special about the spot to which his eyes were drawn, and though he did not know what it was, he could not look away.

Then a thing that was not dark appeared.

It was pale. It flitted around the dog's head, sunlight reflecting off its wings. The dog wondered where the light came from, but was quickly distracted by the movement of the thing around him. Tentatively, he reached a paw towards it. It danced away, flickering in its own private light, then flitted back towards the dog's ears. The dog was unsure what to do. Vague memories stirred; moth, they said. The waltzing insect retreated; he followed. It circled him; he watched and began to understand. It was a game! The dog's ears perked with excitement. He cocked his head to one side. He remembered. He remembered playing games!

The dog batted at the fluttering bug, as the thick mist around him swirled away, churned by the swipes of his giant paws. The dog grinned, an expression that felt strange to his face. His pink tongue lolled out. He danced with the flying light, touching it with a padded paw, only to have it dive and begin teasing him once more.

Then the darkness returned. The air was suddenly cold, so cold. Crystals of ice burned his throat. The pale moth, the only thing he could see in the darkness, began to fade. The dog whined and collapsed to the ground, grins and games forgotten.

The dementors passed.

Hours later, Sirius Black rolled over; stone cold stiffness seeped through to his bones. He pressed a hand to his throbbing temple, shivering in the damp chill that permeated the fortress. He remembered only the icy cold that had thrown him to the floor of his cell, and knew that he must have returned to human form while unconscious.

Quickly he catalogued the things he knew, the memories that were his treasures, anchors that held him steady against the storm. He remembered the cold, that this was a cell, and that he had not always been here. He remembered the night -- the smoldering remains of a house, a crying baby, a frantic search, an explosion, and a rat. He remembered the rat that had betrayed them. He knew he was Sirius Black, imprisoned in Azkaban for crimes he did not commit, that he had survived however long it had been since that night. And he would continue to survive.

He would have vengeance on the rat.

These were the things he knew. This was the mantra he repeated silently every time the dementors passed.

He opened swollen eyes to confront the world in which he now lived. The cell was the same, perhaps a little lighter than it had been before. He found it ironic that, as a dog, he could not see the stone walls or iron bars through the fog of fear about the place. As a dog, he could not even see the window that captivated his canine attention. He looked around now with human eyes that appreciated every thread of the ragged blanket, the porridge bowl licked clean, and the clawed scores across the floor. As he heaved himself up, his fingers touched something new, something that did not belong. Under one long, aching hand, lay a dirty square of parchment. He lifted it in the dim light of his cell, scenting a wisp of something familiar within its folds. A single word was written across the centre.

Why?

The handwriting was so familiar. Guilt fell over Sirius like a veil.

Remus, the parchment smelled like Remus.

He had almost forgotten Remus. Remorse threatened to drown him. Remus thought him guilty, didn't know. He didn't know about the rat.

Determination crept under the weight of his guilt, like water seeping through the cracks of a dam. Overwhelming desire to reach the world began to drive away the dark. Determination was something the dementors could not absorb, something they did not understand. Remus was alive, and on the Outside. Sirius could not remember the Outside, but knew that it existed in the same way he knew his name, his innocence, his Remus.

Remus had to know about the rat. He had to be told. Sirius would tell him.

He felt blindly around the floor of his cell for something with which to respond.

***

"Are you moving on with your life then?"

"I'm trying."

"You won't succeed."

"Don't say that."

"You won't succeed. I'll always be there, with you." Impossibly soft fingers brushed Remus' cheek.

***

Remus woke, chasing the tail of a particularly elusive dream. He was almost convinced that it had been a pleasant fancy, but he couldn't quite curve his lips into the once-familiar crescent of a smile.

He stretched lean muscles and detangled himself from the sheets. He rolled over to watch the January sun rise, burning the last wisps of his dream away in its yellow light.

He'd settled into a routine over the past two months. It was winter now. The New Year had come and gone, bringing celebrations he half-heartedly attended, feeling lost amid a sea of rosy cheeks and flutes of Fizzy Wine. He'd travelled some and read a lot. He'd drunk oceans of hot chocolate and tea, found work when he could, and wrote letters when he couldn't.

He always ended up back here, in the cosy cottage he'd inherited from a distant uncle, waking to find himself twisted in the worn flannel sheets, and clutching at the shadowy ends of dreams. Sleepily, Remus looked over the comfortable room. Amid old familiar quills, books half-read, and a chipped mug of cold tea, he felt less alone.

Suddenly, Remus sat upright. There was no way he could have seen what he thought he saw. That could not be here.

Remus closed his eyes. He must still be lost in the shades of his dream. But what he saw, when he dared to steal another look, was real and sitting on the desk in his bedroom.

Not possible, said his brain.

Right in front of you, said his eyes.

His brain told his eyes to close. He counted to ten and opened them again.

It was still there. The little paper airplane was resting innocently on his desk. It was sitting there as though it belonged, as though it lived there, as though it had never left, passed information to the enemy, betrayed and killed its friends.

The paper airplane was mocking him. This bit of parchment folded into the angular shape of a Muggle flying machine could only have come from one person.

Remus didn't understand how he could have sent it. The parchment couldn't possibly have come from him, but it couldn't have come from anyone else, either. Remus felt a cold shiver run up and down his spine. His heart was thudding painfully against his ribcage, and it took him a full three minutes to stand. Legs unsteady, he stepped clear of the blankets, nearly falling onto his bedside table, his eyes never leaving the paper plane. In a few uncertain steps, he crossed to the desk. His fingertips tingled slightly as he reached for the weathered parchment.

He touched it, and felt a curious heat rising off its surface. As he lifted it to his face, his breath caught. He hadn't even been aware that he was still breathing. Across the wing, written in his own familiar hand, was the question, "Why?" He touched it gingerly. It seemed real enough. Hands now shaking, Remus carefully unfolded the parchment. Little specks of gravel fell out of the creases. The words across the backside were clumsily scratched with what must have been a dirty stone. Large and ungainly, only ten fit on the page.

Cut off finger and transformed. Find the Rat. For me.

That was all. Remus' eyes searched it over and over again, looking for something more. He hadn't moved in minutes. It was a trick, had to be. It couldn't be real; yet here was his own parchment in his hands, his own question printed across it, neat and tidy despite the state he'd been in when he wrote it. He could even make out the traces of his own folds across its water-stained surface.

Could his note have crossed the miles from here to Azkaban? Never.

Perhaps? The condition of the parchment certainly suggested that it had.

Was it possible? Could he have sent this message back?

Remus took a steadying breath. He would not rush to a conclusion. He would go downstairs as usual, make himself toast with butter, tea, and read the Prophet. He would answer the classifieds, applying to any position he felt qualified for -- as well as a few he didn't -- and return upstairs to tidy.

Then, and only then, he would go to Liberagus, the Wizarding public library in central London, to research.

After he poured the boiling water over his tea leaves, Remus returned to his bedroom for the fifth time. He took the parchment in his hands and read its message again. He returned to a cup of overly strong tea and realised that 'as usual' was impossible today.

On a shelf in his sitting room was a handwritten book entitled, A Prankster's Guide to Life, by Padfoot and Prongs, edited by Moony Lupin, and illustrated by Peter 'Why did I have to be a Rat?' Pettigrew. It was the only copy still in existence, the first having been lost to the fury of an enraged mother, Peter's accidentally dropped into the lake seventh year, and James' buried in the wreckage of the house in Godric's Hollow. Remus now removed it from the shelf, thumbed through the pages until he arrived at Chapter Two -- Communication, More Important to the Prankster than Oxygen -- and pressed the note inside. His half-eaten breakfast forgotten, he pulled a comfortably-worn travelling cloak from its hook on the wall and stepped outside.

With a quick pop and disorienting spin, he Apparated to Liberagus' sweeping front steps. The white marble was solid and reassuring underfoot, and the statues of the two huge griffons guarding the entrance eased his worry. This building had never failed to yield the answers to his questions, provided that he knew what to ask. Its unchanging presence was one of the few things he could depend on. He walked past the statues, and smiled in greeting. They turned towards him and purred, a comfortable rumble of greeting rising from deep in their statuesque feline chests.

Inside the library, Remus sat in the rickety and worn wooden seat, wondering how many wizards had sat there before -- then quickly stopped, as such questions led to uncomfortable thoughts about the great number of bottoms that had rested on the wood. Instead, he began to sort through the great stack of books piled upon the desk in front of him. He had to read quickly, as the magical shelves continued to send literature zipping his way. Liberagus had always yielded answers to his questions; that did not mean that they were always easy to come by. His first question was simple: did the message, written on the parchment deep in the pocket of his robes, really come from him?

Remus made a habit of assuming nothing. Once upon a time, he had assumed that monsters were evil, love was forever, and friendships couldn't be broken. He had been wrong on all accounts and wouldn't make the same mistake again. He had to find out for certain who had sent this message.

He found one promising charm in Spells for the Petrified and Paranoid, a book that seemed, at first glance, to have been written for catatonic wizards afraid of being duped. Remus perused it anyway. The spell he found was simple. One could cast this Revealing Charm on an envelope, and ask the letter within to disclose its creator. The face of the wizard who had written the letter would appear above it. Remus paused and looked up from the book. If his suspicions were correct, and the letter was sent by the traitor, then his face would appear.

Remus wasn't certain he could retain his composure seeing that face again, though he could imagine it in meticulous detail. The grey eyes would stare through him. Would the lips quiver, begging for his? Or laugh as maniacally as they had on the front page of The Prophet? Truthfully, he didn't want to know which it would be. Also, he reminded himself, the charm probably wouldn't work as there was no envelope and, technically, he had created the message himself. No, he would not attempt this particular spell. Besides, it would not do for him to conjure the countenance of a mad mass murderer in a public space. People might talk.

Remus continued his research as though he had never seen Spells for the Petrified and Paranoid. He searched for any reference to the spell he had used to send his message. Was there any chance that it could have flown the miles to Azkaban fortress? He doubted that he would find much information about the spell itself, as the boys had found it in a book handwritten by James' grandfather during his schooldays and faithfully copied it into their own Guide. It was a Potter family secret, discovered and well-utilised by the Marauders, as all secrets are in the hands of teenage scoundrels.

After several hours of rifling through volume after volume, researching wandless magic, the history of wizard post, and the properties of parchment, the words began to swim in front of Remus' eyes. He focused on the page before him but realised he'd read the same sentence at least four times over. He shut the book, blinked several times to clear his vision, stood and stretched until his tight muscles relaxed. He paced the corridor in which he'd been sitting, ducking each time a book flew down the aisle, until he noticed the nasty looks cast his way by stern wizards and witches bent over their own dusty tomes. Hurriedly, he went outside.

He sat at the top of the great stone steps, between the two mighty griffons, and sighed at the world around him. His breath emerged translucent in the winter air like smoke from a dragon's nostrils. He was useless, unable to answer even the first of his questions. The great marble griffon to his right shook an unwary pigeon from its mane. The bird squawked and flew away -- hopefully, Remus thought, to warmer climes.

The thought that he might be trying to communicate, however absurd it was, filled Remus with both hope and dread; he was mired between continuing his research and turning away from the mystery entirely. There was no one whose advice he could seek, nor did he want to speak of this to anyone he knew. There was no precedent. No prisoner had ever sent a message from within the fortress' walls.

"What am I going to do?" he breathed, and watched the words dissipate in the cold air.

"Answers you seek, Young One?" spoke a deeply musical voice from Remus' left, almost as though it had been waiting for him to ask.

He looked up in surprise. The griffon an arm's length away had turned to stare at him. Remus nodded mutely, unsure how one properly addressed sentient marble.

"Our walls you have searched within?" The same voice emanated now, from the griffon to his right. This statue extended a massive polished paw towards the building behind them.

Remus nodded again, and listened quietly to their rumbling speech.

"Then yourself, you must ask,"

"Within yourself do the answers dwell?"

"Young One, I see."

"Young One, they do."

"Inside you will go, and yourself you will ask."

"Your answers you will find there"

"Your own questions you will answer."

"Young One, do not despair."

As they spoke, the white marble griffons had slowly approached him, and now he felt cold, calming breath on his face. It reminded him of the place where the mountains touched the sky. It smelled like time, if Forever had a scent. He closed his eyes for a moment, hand pressed against his forehead, then opened them. He must be going round the twist. His friends had always said that might happen if he spent too much time in a library. His friends -- mustn't think about them. Must focus on the task at hand. The statues were once again standing on their podiums, avian faces proudly surveying the world as though they had never moved. Remus began to question his own sanity as he re-entered the library to follow the marble griffons' advice.

Back in the rickety wooden seat, Remus drew the Guide from his pocket. Pressed in the pages of the volume was his parchment; the question "Why?" on one side, the return message on the other. Remus turned it over. He read the words again. He traced the folds, and moments later, an airplane sat on the desk before him, ready to take flight. Remus closed his eyes. He lifted the little paper model to his face, inhaled deeply, and smelled only the old books around him. He willed the parchment to tell him something, anything. If he could not be sure of the origins of this message, he would cast it back into the wind. He would not allow himself to fall into false hope. The griffons were wrong. He did not have the answer in his heart. He opened his eyes.

And he noticed the smudge.

It was just a little smudge of dirt, one of many, near the nose of the aircraft. It was faint, no more than a trace. Quickly he unfolded the parchment. Then, hands moving deftly, reshaped it until the moth lay on the desk before him.

"Padfoot," he whispered.

His heart screamed.

The faded remains of a pawprint crossed the wing, as though a large black dog had batted his paw at the insect landing softly on his nose.