Paper Wings

All Dogs Go

Remus watched the white chalk cliffs fall away into the distance, listening to the loud, steady churning of the ferry engine. Peter had passed this way months ago, possibly with Death Eaters on his trail, travelling by land and sea rather than Apparating away, though why that was, Remus could not begin to guess. Alone in the stern of the boat, Remus drew his wand from his pocket. It thrummed with energy, ready to duel. He exhaled, felt the cold sea spray on his face, and said goodbye to home.

He left Calais on a train bound for Paris. The Hounding beam from the Remembrall pointed unerringly down the tracks, and the cows of rural France regarded Remus with limpid brown eyes as he sped past. They were not perturbed by the sight of a man riding atop a speeding train, looking up at the sky with his arms folded behind his head and his case by his side. They did not think it particularly strange that neither his hair nor his robes fluttered in the wind whistling atop the engine.

***

In Paris, Remus followed the pale beams of light through quiet neighbourhoods, around busy markets, and into the alleyways behind several cafés, not unlike those Peter would frequent back home. The beams crossed back and forth through the winding streets and along the icy Seine. Finally, Remus found a trail that appeared to lead out of the city and, in the hopes that this would bring him closer to Peter, he boarded a musty bus with his battered case at his feet and the scent of travel-worn Muggles all around him. He gazed through the fogged windows at the snow-covered square.

And saw him.

Dark hair fell over the black leather jacket, which in turn rested on lithe shoulder blades. One long leg was draped over a black and chrome motorbike.

Under Remus, the bus engine jumped to life. His chest tightened and his heart thudded dully against his ribs. Before he knew what he was doing, Remus was begging in inarticulate French to be let off the bus. He hurried up to the driver, carelessly dragging his case behind him -- much to the annoyance of the passengers whose legs it crashed into -- and began gesticulating toward the door. With an angry grunt and roll of his eyes, the driver let Remus off, then pulled away.

Now, shivering in the January cold, Remus was not entirely sure what spirit of reckless irrationality had possessed him. Mesmerised by the back of the stranger, he fought the desire to run across the street and hex him. The man moved with the casual elegance that comes of being young, handsome and charming, of having a purring motorbike between his legs, and of knowing that the world would yield to his every desire like pudding to a knife. He was seemingly unaffected by the cold, shaking his long black mane and flirting in rapid French with two young women.

Then he turned his head. A large crooked nose, heavy eyebrows, and a goatee shattered the illusion. This was no one he knew. The dark stranger was simply a Parisian playboy.

Remus swallowed hard and acknowledged, with appropriate mortification, that he was nothing more than a lonely voyeur who had just missed his bus out of Paris.

He turned away and began to wander the streets of the city. Usually he enjoyed riverbanks; stone-walled and adapted to life in the city, they whispered of places far away. Today, however, it was too cold to sit by the side of the Seine. The sky was wintry grey, and the few people about wore colourful scarves and hats. Remus longed for a warm wool scarf, but knew he must conserve his limited funds for important things. Like food.

As he was hungrily eyeing the displays in a small patisserie, a shaggy brown pup rolled into his life - or, more accurately, into his shin - whimpering at the end of the owner's broom.

"Vas-y!" yelped the lady, shooing the dog away from her stoop.

"Oh for love of the--"

Remus looked down at the furry animal that had crashed into him. It appeared just as surprised as he did, with a half-chewed baguette still sticking out from the corner of its mouth. It sorted out its mess of enormous paws and wagging tail and started to wobble away. Remus took a deep breath, reached down, and picked up the ball of fur. He placated the woman as best he could in broken French, paid for the baguette, and continued walking. If nothing else, the little creature wriggling in his arms helped to keep him warm against the cold drizzle falling on the city. From inside the squirming ball of fur, a pink tongue reached out and licked Remus' hand.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, smiling. He began speaking openly once they were out of earshot of the patisserie. Remus realised that he had not had anyone to really talk to in such a long time that the puppy seemed excellent company. "Well, pup," he said. "Are you ready to find a nice family?"

He held the puppy up, face to face. "You know, you want them to find you while that drool is still adorable. When you're big and it soaks the pillow at night, they won't find it nearly so endearing. Trust me.

"I know, you must be wondering, doesn't this shabby Englishman have better things to do with his time?

"The answer, unfortunately, is yes. I should be looking for my friend, Peter, right now. Perhaps you would like to come with me? Hmm, then again, you wouldn't really make an appropriate travelling companion for a werewolf. I've been told that I bite.

"Ah well. No need to worry about that for at least ten days, yet. We'll find you a nice home in Paris long before anyone gets violent. Besides, there's still lots of Peter-searching I can do here. He seems to have liked this city, and to have been wandering around free. You know, I think he might very well come back. Would you like to help me find a rat? How's that nose of yours?" He sniffed the puppy and winced. "It can't be very discerning after you've rolled in... whatever you've rolled in. What do you say we clean you up before doing anything else?"

He found a boarding house that was affordable and relatively clean, though animals of any sort were not allowed.

"Now, pup, you be quiet while I take a room. No yapping, barking or panting - follow my lead, soul of discretion and all. A few more months and you won't fit into one standard size elephant head, will you?"

He walked up to the desk, where a rather large woman called Mme Badeau eyed his bag sharply and wrinkled her nose. Before she could comment, she was distracted by the high pitched screams of a young girl behind her. Bouncing the fretting child on her hip, Mme Badeau turned back towards Remus, regarding him suspiciously through layers of caked mascara.

"Un room, s'il vous plait?" he asked.

***

He smuggled the puppy into the dull beige room, then pulled it out if his case and looked at it closely. Soft, floppy ears rose in expectation of scratches. Dark eyes disappeared into the black fur of his face, and were only visible by the reflected light shining from them. A twitching wet nose and eager muzzle pushed playfully against Remus' fingers. Long fur, fuzzy and wild, stuck out at all angles begging to be petted. Feet almost as large as his face paddled around the floor. Though sizeable and heavy, he was still a very young pup, clumsily hopping around the room, front and back feet often wandering in different directions. Remus coughed as the stink filled the room; the pup had rolled in something most unsavoury.

Their first order of business was clearly a bath; a dirty dog would never find a nice home. Padfoot had always enjoyed a warm bath, and Remus had no reason to think that this pup would think any differently.

How mistaken he was.

After an hour and a half, the tub, man, dog, and walls were covered in warm, sudsy water. Remus reflected that the room was certainly wetter than it ought to be, but definitely smelled better -- albeit of wet dog -- than it had before. He took a moment to change his clothing while the puppy enthusiastically shook the water out of its fur, in case there was a spot of carpet that had managed to stay dry.

"Scourgify," Remus muttered quietly, wondering why he hadn't thought of using the Cleaning Spell to begin with, and grudgingly admitting that it simply hadn't occurred to him because Padfoot had always preferred baths.

When Remus lay down to sleep that night, a dark ball of damp fur curled up beside him, tucked into the hollow of his chest. He wrapped an arm around the dog, having forgotten how nice it was to have a warm body breathing next to him while he slept. He grumbled only half-heartedly when a wet tongue and warm dog breath woke him the following morning.

Dressing and contemplating a map of Paris provided by the Badeau's free of charge, he considered travelling with the dog, giving it a name, and perhaps bringing it back to England with him. This hunt was a fool's mission born in the ramblings of a madman. The pup could sleep in the dog bed that Padfoot had never used. It could eat from a dish under the table, drool, chase sticks and be... just a dog.

Remus shook his head and decided against it. There had been only one canine companion in his life, and Remus was not ready to find another.

"Besides, tu parlez Francais," Remus said to the pup, who barked once in reply, "and I, unless absolutely necessary, do not."

Over the next two days, Remus tried in vain to find a home for the wiggly pup. He sat on park benches, willing children to come and play. They came but were always shooed away from the scruffy animal by overprotective guardians -- or perhaps it was the scruffy man they didn't like the looks of.

Back in his room at the boarding house, Remus sat at the desk, head in his hand, breathing deeply. He realised that he was growing too accustomed to the sound of panting following him wherever he went. He was saving too much of his food to be quietly passed to the canine resting under the table and was actually enjoying their long solitary walks in the frosty park. He hadn't looked at the Remembrall since he'd gotten off the bus.

Suddenly he reached into his pocket, gripped by the sudden fear that he'd lost the worn bit of parchment that had led him here in the first place. How could you forget? he censured himself. Frantically casting his fingers about his pocket, he realised that the message wasn't there.

Remus took several quick shallow breaths, heart pounding. How could he have lost the message, right after he'd moved it to his breast pocket for safekeeping? Of all the things he carried, why that? His eyes widened in fear and he strained to hear the sound of panting in the room. Where was the dog?

After a moment, and over the pounding of blood in his ears, he heard the faint sounds of puppy play and followed them around the bed.

Under a chintz armchair, the Parisian pup was wrestling with a scrap of weathered parchment.

Remus heard a quick intake of breath - his own - and before he could stop it, a bolt like white lightning shot through the room, overturning chairs and making the electric lights flicker.

Then he was clutching the parchment, and the puppy was cowering in the corner. Remus' heart finally began to slow.

"I'm sorry," he moaned. "It's just... It's just that...I'm sorry."

He sat down on the bed, head once more in his hands, shaking slightly. How could he explain his outburst to a dog? He hadn't lost control like that in a very, very long time. The message was still clenched in his fingers. Smoothing the edges flat, he read it again, touching the smudge of a paw print. He longed for the huge shaggy head to rest once more in his lap. Padfoot's restless energy had always helped Remus focus. Together they had found balance; now Remus feared that his balance was gone, that he was losing control.

He looked up to find the puppy.

There was nothing to be seen or heard in the small room. He began searching anxiously, calling after the pup, trying to ignore the guilt twisting his stomach. It was then that he noticed that the door had been thrown open by his own feral magic. He stepped into the hallway and began calling quietly. The rational part of him knew that he must look one bludger shy of a Quidditch match, frantically shouting "Pup" in a house where dogs were not allowed. Knowing that he risked being thrown out on his arse in the cold, he continued to call.

Remus felt a touch against his shoulder, nearly jumped and barely checked the impulse to raise his wand. Mme Badeau had stolen up behind him, very quietly for a woman of her size. She put a finger to her lips and led him towards her private rooms. In the living room, Remus saw a small dark-haired girl rolling on the floor with a dark furry dog, giggling excitedly when the pup licked her face. They were delighted with one another and clearly shared the same uncoordinated energy, looking as though they'd known each other forever, rather than for the few minutes since the pup ran away.

"Iz zis yours?" asked Mme Badeau in a disapproving tone, but with a twinkle in her eye.

Remus nodded silently.

She ushered him out of the room. In halting English, she tried to explain that her daughter had been in need of a companion, and then the "poupie" had found her. In minutes they'd become inseparable, and would monsieur ever consider parting with it... perhaps in exchange for his board?

Remus agreed, surprised by the magnitude of his own reluctance, and in less than an hour, was on the road once more. He had not even said goodbye to his Parisian puppy.

Remus found Peter's trail, just outside the city limits, heading south. He was reasonably convinced that Peter had been free when he left Paris, and could only wonder why and to where his friend was running. He conjured the rickety old bicycle, and followed the beam of light away from the glow of the city.

***

A gooseherd in Perigord waved to the man leisurely pedalling an old bicycle down the road. The man waved back, and the farmer turned to his birds. It occurred to him, a few minutes later, that the rusty bicycle had seemed to glide on top of the newly fallen snow rather than being mired in it. He turned back to watch, wondering if he had possibly seen what he thought he had, but in those few minutes, the meandering rider had cycled a shocking distance; he was now no more than a speck at the edge of the Old Woods. The farmer shook his head and turned back to the geese.

Remus found a quiet, sheltered spot by the side of the road and willed his bicycle to stop. It vanished as he jumped off and set his case down beside a fallen tree. He had selected the perfect spot for a traveller's lunch, followed by a fire and a quick kip by the side of the road.

Sitting down, utterly relaxed, he caught sight of the first insect from the corner of his eye.

"Bollocks," he whispered.

Where there had been one, more followed. Within seconds, a cloud of humming black bugs surrounded his face, periodically landing on his ears and nose. He swatted at them quickly. "You See 'Ems," he groaned. They were magical insects, largely unstudied by wizards, but highly frustrating to all with whom they came in contact. Related distantly to 'No See Ums' or gnats, 'You See 'Ems' could be seen only by the person they swarmed. More than one Muggle had been taken away by men in white jackets for ranting about clouds of bugs that no one else could see, especially in wintertime, when most insects had the decency to stay indoors.

One hand waving at the devilish blighters, Remus rummaged through his case until he finally found a paper-wrapped package. Though normally stubborn pests, You See 'Ems were easily placated by an offering of food. Remus sighed, opened his Marmite sandwich, and rested it on the tree trunk. Immediately, the cloud disappeared, and, bit by bit, so did his lunch. Remus shrugged, conjured the bicycle once more, and made his way down the lonely dirt road. The forest around him was silent, and Remus recalled an Herbology lesson about old magical forests, which were often the home to magical pests such as You See 'Ems. Heeding Professor Sap's warnings, he was careful not to stray from the road, lest he become lost in the woods. He wondered briefly about the ancient road, which had probably been built by the forest itself, long before Muggles or even wizards had settled the area. In the eerie silence of the woods, memories echoed in his ears.

"You want any help revising for the Herbology quiz? I know a lot about magic forests." A young, smiling face looked up at him.

" That'd be great Peter, I, um... didn't have time to, last weekend."

"Pete, how do you know anything about magical forests? You grew up in Oxford."

"What d'you know about them, Sirius? All those forests in London."

"Aw, relax. I'm just saying, me an' James could probably help you more, Moony. Professor Sap likes us." This comment had been followed by a devilish wink from under long black fringe and a suggestive waggle of dark eyebrows.

"James and I." His own voice corrected.

"Actually my Aunt Agatha lives in one, in France. We visit her on holidays," Peter piped up.

"Oh. Ta then. James, grab your broomstick. We can toss a Quaffle while these two sods revise."

The rumbling of Remus' stomach interrupted his reverie. As he pedalled along, fretting slightly over his missed lunch, Remus heard real voices ahead. He paid them little attention until one mentioned a name that made Remus' blood freeze in his veins.

"Lucius was certain we'd find him this time. Hiding with relatives. Ha!"

Quickly, Remus vanished the bicycle and ducked behind a bush, hoping that its leafless branches would provide enough cover. Around the bend strode two men and a large mastiff, all of whom Remus recognised immediately.

Drawing his wand from his pocket, Remus disillusioned himself and left his case behind the bush. Feeling the icy chill down his spine, he surveyed the trio.

They approached quickly; the enormous mastiff trotted ahead of the men, flinging drool with every movement of his giant head. The larger of the two men, built like a mastiff himself, was Walden MacNair, and the dog was his brother, Rufus, trapped in that form as the result of a transfiguration experiment gone rather badly wrong; rumour held that he had been trying to become an illegal Animagus. As an assassin-for-hire and suspected Death Eater, Walden never travelled without his brother or the large executioner's axe strapped to his back. Remus swallowed and tried not to think about his neck. The shorter, sniffling man beside him was Camphor Avery, a former errand-runner for Voldemort. Remus quietly followed them, straining to hear their conversation.

"-earest floo hookup in these parts?"

"Not far."

MacNair snarled. "Do you think he'll send us out again?"

"Lucius," Avery sneered the name, "wants to be certain that he is dead."

"It's been months. We haven't found even a trace of the man. He's dead. Black killed him."

Remus gasped audibly before he could stop himself.

The mastiff heard and turned his broad head in Remus' direction, sniffing the air cautiously.

Remus' thoughts spun wildly. They were looking for Peter but hadn't found him yet; this road must lead to Peter's Aunt Agatha, as Remus had suspected. Clearly Peter had come this way but moved on before the Death Eaters thought to look so far. He was still free, if only Remus could reach him first.

"Rufus, who's there?" MacNair asked quickly.

The dog growled low in an unmistakable attempt to speak. Walden fingered his wand carefully. "You don't say," he said slowly.

Before Remus could react, MacNair shot a barrage of Impediment jinxes into the space behind him. Remus could feel his limbs catch, as though the air around him had suddenly become thick and syrupy. Any movement at all was difficult. Reaching the side of the road would be impossible.

Bollocks, he thought.