Paper Wings

Flowers From Stone

So he had sent it.

Remus exhaled, sending swirls of dust into the light filtering through endless aisles of literature, and pronounced the two perilous words once again: "Sirius Black." With each syllable he recounted the shadows and contours of the familiar face, the flash of cruel, grey eyes, the swirl and fall of dark fringe.

Sirius Black. The name rolled off his tongue awkwardly. Sirius had once been his idol, his dearest friend, a reassuring weight against his back, warm breath on his neck. Sirius had been the part of his life that was missing until the day they'd met.

Then he had destroyed everything that Remus loved, including himself. Sirius Black was a traitor and a murderer, his cold and calculating heart hidden under a brave façade. Follower of the cruelest Dark Wizard of the age, he was now suffering a fate worse than death for his crimes.

Yet, despite it all, he had managed to send this message into the world.

Remus looked again at the parchment clutched in his hand. Cut off finger and transformed. A single finger was all that had ever been found of Peter, the last friend that Sirius had slaughtered.

Find the rat. Peter Pettigrew -- Wormtail, a rat Animagus -- had always thought more with his heart than his head. Upon learning of Sirius' betrayal, Peter had confronted him in a crowded Muggle street. Afterwards, his mother had received the finger in a wooden box and a plaque posthumously granting him Order of Merlin, Second Class.

For me. Remus felt anger boiling up inside him, blending with the words, dissolving the image of the traitor's face. He would not do anything for Sirius; not now or ever again. This was clearly a trap, one final plot to ensnare the last of the Marauders.

Except -- Remus forced himself to consider the possibility -- he may not be the last.

Perhaps Peter was alive. If he had transformed, he could have escaped the explosion that killed twelve Muggles, gone into hiding, afraid of -- what? Perhaps this was Sirius Black repentant. Remus couldn't allow himself to hope. Sirius Black had never been one to repent his actions; he would not ask Remus to right his wrongs. Sirius was a traitorous Death Eater, and barking mad. So they said.

Remus leaned back in the wooden chair and repeated those words to himself. Traitor, Death Eater, madman. They'd become a chant, the background music to the life he was trying to rebuild. He'd convinced himself that if he repeated those words enough, he might one day believe them and move on.

But not yet. Now he had a letter and mission. In the towering, dusty stacks of the largest library in the world, ten enigmatic words swiftly replaced his mantra.

Perhaps Peter had survived. Perhaps Remus could find him. But Remus realised that he had no place to begin.

He regarded the parchment and cleared his mind.

It was a skill he'd perfected as a young boy, a defence against the silent agony of the grey hours after the moon set, when he awoke sprawled on splintered planks, too tired and broken to move. He would empty his mind of conscious thought and focus only on the passing time, imagining the earth turning steadily toward the sunrise, until he could almost feel the motion of the planet beneath him. In this semi-meditative state he found some modicum of peace and occasionally a solution to problems plaguing him. Alone, with the grave acceptance of a young boy, he had learned the value of silence.

Later, new friends, with their dark hair and bewitching smiles, had helped him find comfort in companionship. In their company, he had not needed silence for years. Now, surrounded by the intoxicating smell of leather-bound volumes, he allowed his mind to relax once more.

Ten words. His hands rested on the parchment. Ten inscrutable words. He repeated them over and over.

Unbidden images swirled before his mind's eye: fragments of news clippings, Ministry reports, rumour, hearsay, and ten mysterious words. He saw a street, heard wild laughter and a muffled confrontation. "You betrayed them, Sirius. Lily and James, how could you?" He swallowed painfully, imagining Peter's frightened, shaking voice. He saw blinding flashes, and felt the ground shudder with the force of the explosion. He saw a hand, bleeding where a single finger had been ripped away. He heard the screams, the roar of flames, and, like a whisper, the scurrying of tiny rodent feet.

Finally, all that remained was maniacal laughter and the whip of a bald tail disappearing into the gutter.

Remus opened his eyes.

Peter could have escaped. For once in his life, he could have beaten the odds. Sirius had, in sending a message from the island fortress. Remus recalled the first time he'd been asked for his opinion on the most profitable use of a large bag of dungbombs -- reluctantly curious to join in his friends' absurd scheme. Some things, he thought, will never change. He exhaled, knowing that he could solve Padfoot's riddle. He always had.

"But not for you," he whispered at the parchment. "For Peter."

***

By late afternoon, Remus was standing in a silent, barren cemetery. Nothing lay buried beneath the soil, Remus knew, except the lone finger of the man who had been Peter Pettigrew.

He placed a hand on the top of the headstone. It was a simple monument, rusty-brown granite, as unassuming as the wizard to whom it was dedicated, yet Remus knew that small purple irises had been lovingly planted around its base. They would not bloom for months, but he imagined that he saw the tips of their bright green leaves just emerging from the cold ground. In the first week of November, he had stood at this gravesite and others like it three times, for three friends. Frozen now, the grounds would soon be green and bursting with flowers. Though he had walked the winding lanes far too often, Remus found himself unable to hate a place that was so peaceful.

He traced a finger over the letters. "Peter Pettigrew, Beloved Son and Loyal Friend 1960-1981." As he read the words, more with his finger than his eyes, Remus remembered the the quiet sobs of mourners all around and the booming voice of Millicent Bagnold, Minister of Magic, eulogising a boy she had never met. Remus recalled the sharp pain from the thorn squeezed in his hand, saw the pale yellow rose as it fell onto the gravestone. He felt the unforgiving chill of that November sunset and remembered a squat stooped woman looking for support, her shoulders heaving as dry sobs escaped her lips.

He decided to visit her next.

Looking back at the headstone, in the silence of the cemetery, he made one last promise to Peter. "I'm going to find you," Remus whispered to the wind.

***

The following day, Remus tentatively followed Mrs. Pettigrew into a house that smelled of mildewing carpet and unfinished suppers. The rooms looked as though they hadn't been cleaned in the past three months. There was dust on every surface, and piles of old Prophets lined the hall. Intrepid spiders had made their homes in the wall sconces. Through the doorway to the kitchen, Remus could see the remains of a meal on the table and chipped plates stacked in the sink.

He had never noticed that from behind, Peter's mother looked quite a lot like Peter. But Peter doesn't look like anything anymore, Remus thought.

Remus shook the thought away. Focus. The top of Mrs. Pettigrew's head barely reached his chest, a difference accentuated by her perpetually hunched posture. Her greying blonde hair was cropped like a young boy's, and her black robes hung like oversized bags from her rounded shoulders. She led Remus into the sitting room, then turned to face him. Her eyes were wide and slightly unfocused.

She looked past Remus for a moment, and he tried to remember whether she had always been so... vague. She stared at a spot somewhere to his left; Remus fought the urge to turn around and see what was there. Finally, she sat down on a sofa decorated in a disturbingly cheerful floral pattern.

"I am so very glad that you came," she began. Remus blushed as he sat across from her. He had last seen her at Peter's funeral, when she was surrounded by daughters with streaks of tears and black makeup running down their faces. It was his third funeral in as many days. His robes had been wrinkled and stained; his tears had long since desiccated inside. Having nothing to say to Mrs. Pettigrew, he had simply taken her hand, and she had pulled him into a smothering embrace.

"Remus, dear," she said against his chest, her voice thick with tears and muffled by the woolen waistcoat, "will you come to see me sometime?"

Nodding mutely, Remus had carefully extricated himself from her arms. He hadn't thought to call for two long months, not until he received the message from Azkaban. A nagging guilt crept over him.

"It's so nice to see Petey's friends. He did care so much about you all, right up until the end." Her voice broke.

"We cared for him too."

She looked around the room, blinking rapidly. "And how is the other one, the boy with the glasses?"

She couldn't mean James. Remus swallowed audibly. He weighed his options, and decided to proceed with polite reserve.

"Fine. He's happy." Remus wondered momentarily if it were true.

Mrs. Pettigrew smiled.

They sat in silence for a moment. Uncomfortable with Mrs. Pettigrew's bemused expression, Remus looked around the drawing room, curious about the house in which where one of his best friends had grown up. It bore the unmistakable mark of a witch's taste in décor, with doilies and dried flowers in abundance and old potpourri dishes gathering grime on the end tables. There were a few household spellbooks and magazines on the desk. Cats in a range of colours purred and rubbed their narrow shoulders against the furniture. He shied away when they tried to do the same to his shins.

Remus thought of his own mother's house, as ordered and tidy now as it had been before his father's passing, and wondered if Mrs. Pettigrew had always kept house like this. Mr. Pettigrew had left when Peter was very young; Peter had been raised by his mother and older sisters, in a house full of women. The thought had always secretly horrified Remus, who used to dread coming here for fear of what he might find if he needed to use the loo. Peter had never invited him anyway; he, like his friends, preferred going to the Potter's during the holidays, wanting to escape his sisters for a few precious weeks. Remus looked around the room once more, carefully avoiding both the eyes of Mrs. Pettigrew and her cats. Peter was dead and his sisters married or moved away, and their absence tangibly filled the room. Remus did not want to disturb the quiet.

He could hardly give Mrs. Pettigrew the real reason for his visit, and so he decided to say as little as possible.

"May I... May I see his room?"

Mrs. Pettigrew was unsurprised. "Oh dear, of course." She shuffled down a dim hallway into a room that had apparently been untouched since Peter had left it. Books, clothes, and knickknacks waited, unchanged and unassuming, as though no one had bothered to tell them that their owner had been blown up in a street full of Muggles. "I'll leave you alone then," she said, and backed into the hall.

"Thank you." Remus took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold.

The room smelled like Peter, somewhat clammy with faint traces of old pastry cream. Remus breathed a sigh of relief; there were no flowers or doilies in here. He ran a hand over the books on the shelf - old schoolbooks, manuals and maps for Peter's work for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, gothic novels, and Quidditch playbooks. A sudden movement caught Remus' eye; there was a poster of the Wimbourne Wasps on the far wall over his desk. Players clad in yellow and black robes zoomed about with disconcerting vigour. Remus idly picked up a few stray items: Belch Powder, an Ostrich quill, a lump of brown wax. But he replaced them quickly. It wasn't that he had never handled the belongings of a dead man -- in fact, most of the books at Liberagus were exactly that -- but here, in his old friend's room, it felt like an intrusion.

The bed was made and wrinkle-free. He ran his hand under the mattress and found nothing but lint. There were no trap doors in the floor, no secret cubbies behind the wall, and no evidence of recent habitation by man or rodent. Everything was quiet and unchanged since the night Peter had left the safety of this room. Remus shivered.

What had Peter been thinking? How had he known where Sirius would be? What had caused him to confront a wizard who had always been more clever, more powerful, and more than a match for cheerful little Peter?

Perhaps it had been the other way around. Perhaps Sirius had come for Peter.

Remus' blood began to heat just thinking about it. The attack had taken place outside a favourite café of Peter's. Perhaps he'd simply been out for a cuppa when the traitor found him. But having given up the Potters' whereabouts to Voldemort, why had Sirius bothered about Peter at all? Remus wondered, cautiously, if he would have been next.

It makes no sense, Remus thought for the thousandth time.

He quashed the dark thoughts and forced his mind to focus on more practical tasks. If Peter wasn't dead, he was either hiding or held captive somewhere, and he needed help. Remus wanted to help him, yet it seemed he would find no answers in this comfortable shuffle of neatly stacked papers and sloppily folded socks.

He opened the cubbies of Peter's desk and found a glowing Remembrall in one of the drawers. Apparently Peter had died with unfinished business. Remus smiled sadly, recalling the birthday Peter had received it. He had grumpily stowed the Remembrall in his pocket, thanking James but stating in no uncertain terms that, with the exception of the Chicken Incident, he rarely forgot a thing, thank-you-very-much. Remus held the red, glowing marble in one hand, letting its warmth and memories course through him. With the other hand, he thumbed through a mess of parchment rolls all tied with Peter's signature blue ribbons. He paused when he saw one with his own name written on it. Carefully, and very slowly -- after checking to see that Mrs. Pettigrew wasn't lingering in the doorway -- Remus unrolled the parchment. It was a letter, dated 8 June, 1980.

Dear Remus, "Moony"

I don't know that I will ever send this to you, but I need to put my confession in writing. It seems more real this way. I know that you, of all my friends will understand what I've done. You, of all my friends, know how to forgive and move on. I've seen you do it.

You will understand that I had to do what I did. I only hope that you all can help me climb out of the hole I've dug for myself fallen into. You know I'm no good at doing these things myself. I HAD to do what I did. You understand what it's like to have no control. You will. I had no choice. Will you talk-

The letter abruptly ended, except for a note, dated more than a year later, scrawled at the very bottom of the sheet. The letters almost pulsed with anger.

Now you've left us, Sirius, James, and me. Now that your work has become so important, you will never read this. You've sealed my fate, and all the others'. You should have been there for us, Moony. You've no idea what's coming.

Remus read the emotionally charged lines once more, wondering what on earth Peter could have meant by them and why no one -- inept Ministry officials or distraught family members -- had seen this before. He wracked his brain, trying to ignore the sudden wave of guilt. The first part he could explain. It had been written shortly after Peter had left his girlfriend of three years, Stacia Vance. Peter had come to him for help, around the same time the letter was dated. He'd been nervous and twitchy, not unusual for Peter those days, and Remus hadn't been overly concerned. Remus had given him a cup of hot chocolate and waited for the story to unfold. Peter had been honestly smitten with Stace, but had broken off the relationship nonetheless. He wouldn't tell Remus why and Remus hadn't offered much in the way of advice, except to suggest that Peter do everything in his power to win her back, including love letters, chocolate, and off-key serenades.

"I can't," Peter had said miserably, "I'm scared."

Remus hadn't known how to reply, but seeing Peter's desperation, he had felt a renewed appreciation for the steadfast love in his own life.

That night, as the Dark Mark hovered above the roofs where innocents bled, Remus had clung to Sirius as though fear were contagious, as though by holding one another they might drive away the dark, as though it was the last time they would see one another on earth. Remus remembered the strong hands running through his hair, the teasing nibble at his ear, soft kisses on the small of his back, and whispered reassurances. They were in love. That was all.

Lily gave birth to Harry shortly after and with him had come hope. Peter seemed to forget his romantic troubles, caught up in the joy of doting on the youngest Potter. Harry's spontaneous giggles, James' paternal fretting, and Lily's quiet lullabies -- that was something to fight for.

But people continued to die, and the glow following Harry's birth rapidly faded. Remus was sent to spy for the Order shortly thereafter.

He had grown distant from his friends, constantly travelling and unable to communicate with them. The solid ground of his love had cracked and split under his feet. The last time they'd been together, Sirius had asked him to leave his work behind and go with him into hiding. But Remus believed his work for the Order was too important to abandon, as the army of Death Eaters gained ground every day. They had fought their last fight, Remus stubbornly silent against the maelstrom of a Black temper until the old oak door slammed behind him. He believed that there would be time later for reconciliation.

There was no later; there was no reconciliation. His work had not even played a part in Voldemort's eventual downfall. He had wasted months tracking formidable players who were never called to action.

He hadn't been there to see that Sirius was changing. He was the one person who could have seen what was coming, and he hadn't.

Since November, Remus had gone over every whispered word, every casual comment, trying desperately to see the treachery beneath each platitude and caress. He felt the ghostly touches on his skin, wondered how long the same hands had served a Dark master, how many times they had tortured and killed under a wavering green Mark in the sky. Had the long soft fringe fallen in front of Sirius' eyes when he bowed his head in deference to Lord Voldemort?

Guilt twisted his stomach again as he reread Peter's letter. Remus knew that he'd been gone when Peter wrote the bit at the end. He'd been away working for the Order when Voldemort fell, when his friends had died. "You've sealed my fate, and all the others'." Remus' stomach turned over, and sour remorse burned his throat. "You should have been there for us, Moony." He hadn't been there when they needed him. That much was true, and there was nothing he could ever do to change it.

Remus pressed a hand to his face and shut his eyes tightly for a moment, then composed himself quickly. He tied and replaced the parchment, admitting to himself that he had found nothing in Peter's room except rolled up confessions and regrets. After thanking Mrs. Pettigrew and promising half-heartedly to return, he left the house.

Back on the grey street, Remus plunged his hands into his pockets and bent his body against the wind. There was something small, round, and warm in his fingers. Curiously, he pulled it out: Peter's glowing Remembrall. Remus considered returning to the house but was afraid to look Mrs. Pettigrew in the eyes again. Hoping that she wouldn't notice the absence of such a small trinket, he dropped it back into the pocket of his robes.