Paper Wings

Snow and the Sahara

So that was a Wrinkle in Place. Remus had read about them, but he had never actually stepped through one. They were powerful magic and, once created, nearly impossible to destroy. One of Peter's projects with the Office of Magical Cartography, in the Department of International Cooperation, had been to chart the known Wrinkles in Europe and Asia. He had been excited for the opportunity to travel and put his covertly acquired mapmaking skills to work, but that was before all nonessential Ministry personnel were reassigned to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to control the havoc wreaked by Voldemort. Amid the turmoil, Peter's project was abandoned.

Shaking the Wrinkle's dusty glimmer of residual magic from his clothing, Remus looked out across the endless dunes. He walked in the direction of the Remembrall's beam, afraid to Apparate lest he encounter another Wrinkle just over the horizon.

***

After several hours, certain that he'd followed the beam in at least two large circles, Remus had no idea of how far he'd trekked through the desert. His robes were soaked with sweat, but he knew that removing them would mean painful burns from the scorching sun overhead. Rather than watching the distant and ever-receding horizon, Remus concentrated on pulling each foot from the sand and placing it in front of the other. Breathe. Step. Breathe.

He moistened dry lips with his tongue. Soon his tongue was dry as well. His face hurt from squinting against the sun's glare. Step. One foot landed in the sand silently; the other followed. Breathe. Sweat evaporated and left a salty film on his skin. Water. Step. Breathe.

He couldn't recall the words to transfigure sand into water. Something to change the element, that much he knew. Water becomes Earth, Earth becomes Water. Step. Gods, the sun never stopped. Breathe. It never needed a rest; it could beat down on him all day long if it wanted. Step. Breathe. There were no obstacles ahead, nothing in his path, so Remus closed his eyes against the incessant glare. He was struggling for every foot, walking up hills of sand. Aqua, Fontis, Stillici-something, a cacophony of Latin words bounced around his mind. The sand remained stubbornly dry.

Opening bleary eyes as he crested another dune, Remus saw the most welcome apparition he could have imagined. But after a second's thought, he was relatively confident that he had done just that: imagined it. The small oasis could not possibly be real, with its picturesque palms rustling in the breeze, brightly coloured flags and tents just visible in the distance.

Mirage, he told himself. Just a mirage.

But the air suddenly felt cool on his face, and the sun stopped scalding his eyes.

He stumbled forward, slipping down the dune, embracing this respite from the desert heat, and running towards the water.

As the temperature fell, reason returned. By then it was too late.

The air was uncomfortably cold and the sky ominously dark. He felt sharp crystals of ice slicing through his muscles, but it was too late to turn around and flee when he heard the familiar voice in his head.

"Go then, run away! You're no better than the rest of those monsters!"

Hands -- not real, he knew, but strong -- seized him by the shoulders and shoved him back. He overbalanced and fell; the sand was chilled and rough against his skin. Remus opened his eyes. The oasis was deadly dark, and he saw several black shapes emerging from behind the palms, gliding towards him, before he looked up and--

No, he thought desperately. Not real. Not tonight.

Shutting his eyes against the brilliance of the silvery moon, glowing full in defiance of time and place, he smelled snow on the sand and the musky odour of a massive wolf. He felt the great spectral beast leap into the air. New pain seared through the faded scars, and Remus heard a deep rumbling growl beside his ear. He felt warm blood soak his clothing, the erratic pulse of a heart with nothing left to pump, torn muscles and broken bones.

He heard a young boy screaming, a mother sobbing, and a stern male voice ordering, Inside darling, now. Don't worry about him. He's gone.

No, not gone, not yet. Mum, Da, don't leave me!

Then nothing.

***

"Remus, come back."

"I am."

"I thought--"

"I'm still here."

"You are." Sharp cheekbones pressed against his shoulder. Cold breath exhaled across his neck.

***

Blink.

Light. Unholy heat, though his muscles still shivered inside. The salty tang of a split lip and the grinding of sand in his teeth. The smell of something sublime.

Shapes came into focus. Kohl outlined eyes, the crescent of a smile, and swirling ribbons of the heavenly smell.

He blinked again, as a throbbing began at his temples and quickly radiated through his entire skeleton. He rotated a shoulder to make certain he still could and closed his eyes.

All parts were present and accounted for, including his soul -- how else could he ache so? Rough blankets beneath him. What was that smell?

Eyes, open, began to clear.

A face leaned over his; something warm was pressed against his lips. The scent overwhelmed all other senses.

Drink.

Remus did not need to be told twice.

Warmth poured into him, filled him and drove away the cold, tempered the heat on his skin, calmed the throbbing, and soothed the ache. The taste mingled with the smell in flavours of lavender, saffron, citron, joy, smiles, chocolate.

Remus sat up and grinned. The face hovering inches from his own was veiled, but her dark almond-shaped eyes danced with amusement. He did not yet trust his voice, his taste buds still waltzing with the warm liquid chocolate. Nothing legal had ever tasted so good.

Someone nearby cleared his throat, and Remus turned to look.

A lithe old wizard stood in the doorway. His skin was deeply wrinkled and dark, like worn leather after countless years in the desert sun. From among the deep grooves in his face, bright black eyes shone merrily beneath thick, grey brows. A wand was tucked into the belt at his side, under layers of billowing brown robes, and a colourfully plumed parrot perched on his shoulder. He stood easily six feet tall, not including the yellow turban on his head. Remus blinked, and the wizard smiled, revealing a mouth full of bright white teeth.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. His thick Arabic accent contained a hint of formal British education.

"Much better, thank you."

The girl who'd held the cup of chocolate quickly stood and stepped behind the wizard in the doorway, eyes towards the ground. She moved with the ease of sand blowing in the wind. Her skin was dark and smooth, eyebrows delicately arched.

"I see you've met Kamilah," the man said.

Remus lowered his feet to the cool sand floor, noticing that his shoes, robes, and shirt had been removed some time after he lost consciousness. A quick inspection of his surroundings revealed that they were folded nearby, on a small stool beside his case. The tent was tall, spacious, and seemed to be filled with several lifetimes' worth of odd pieces of furniture and lamps. Light filtered lazily through translucent, hanging cloths, giving the space an ethereal quality that seemed to suit the people standing before him. Remus, in contrast, was bare-chested and pale, wearing only the small tag on a steel chain around his neck; several days' stubble itched on his chin and angry burns from the silver chains still ringed his skin. His wand was still in the pocket of his robes. He'd lost consciousness before he had even thought to defend himself.

Remus stood to greet his hosts, sheet wrapped around his waist, swaying and light-headed for a moment. He steadied as he extended a hand to shake the girl's. "Remus Lupin. Thank you," he added sincerely.

She looked oddly at his hand and said a few words to her father in Arabic. They conversed for a moment before he translated.

"She says that the pleasure is hers."

"Thank you, as well," Remus said, addressing the man,

He waved Remus' gratitude away with a quick gesture. "They call me Alim. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and to welcome you to my home."

"Thank you," Remus repeated, then hesitated.

"You have a question?"

"Actually, yes. Where, exactly, am I?"

"You are in my tent." Alim smiled mischievously.

"More generally."

"This valley has many names, Mr. Lupin. Some call it Eden."

"Eden? I'm sorry, the Eden? 'Of man's first disobedience' and all?"

The old wizard's face was momentarily inscrutable before a smile once again graced it. "The valley is also called The Land of Seven Portals for the Wrinkles of Space that ancient wizards built to surround it, portals that open around the world. By those afraid of magic it is called The Valley Where We Do Not Go, but for myself, these many years, I have called it Home. I am the keeper of this valley," Alim told him solemnly. "Kamilah is my daughter."

Remus paused and looked back and forth between the nubile girl, who couldn't possibly be older than sixteen, and the ancient-looking wizard.

Alim laughed. "You think she is too young, perhaps, to be the daughter of such an old man? Why, yes, she would be, if she were my offspring by blood. I have had many sons and daughters, Mr. Lupin, children of the desert and its nomadic people, children whose parents have died or were unable to keep them. Sometimes they appear without explanation, wrapped in little bundles by my tent." He smiled fondly at Kamilah. "I've seen a great number of children grow up and enter into the world on their own. I know and love them all." He paused, and whispered conspiratorially to Remus, "Though I do believe that my daughter has taken quite a fancy to you."

Remus blushed what felt like a dark shade of puce, though it seemed as though the girl had no inkling of what had just been said. He cleared his throat once or twice, and replied, "I see. What does it mean to be Keeper of the valley?"

Alim smiled again. "I keep wanderers from the Wrinkles. I also guard the spring." His eyes were downcast as he spoke these last words.

"The spring, where the--"

"Do not speak of them now," Alim told him quickly, his cheerful expression vanishing. "There will be time later to discuss such matters. Wizards come so rarely to our home. But first, you must rest."

"I really do feel much better. That chocolate," Remus said the word reverently.

"Cikolata. Do you like it?"

Remus only nodded. To say anything more, to describe such liquid ambrosia in the crude sounds of the English language, would be a sacrilegious injustice of which he was incapable.

Alim smiled again, and it was as though the spring had never been mentioned. "I am happy that you enjoy it. The Cikolata is my own creation."

"You make it here? In the desert? Where do you grow the beans?" Remus didn't bother to hide the excitement in his voice.

"Ah, you forget that in this little valley there are Wrinkles to the entire world. One opens on a delightful forest of Cacao trees, where the pink and yellow fruits drip from branches overhead. I collect their seeds, and bring them back to dry in the desert sun." He trailed off dreamily, presumably imagining a grove of gnarled trees where the fruit was always ripe. "And the secret ingredient, what makes you smile despite your troubles, that I find right here -- but I digress. Eat with Kamilah and myself tonight, but first, sleep. It was a great ordeal you survived."

As Alim spoke, Remus felt heaviness weave through his body once again. Sleep, a pleasant sleep free of the memories dredged-up by the dementors, seemed an exceptional idea. He yawned and thought of one more question before his eyes dropped closed, "Mr. Alim, how did you ever know to rescue me?"

"I am the Keeper of this valley," he stated simply. "And Kamilah has... a feel for these things."

***

Late that night, Remus dressed in a soft cotton shirt and trousers and stepped out of Alim's tent into the cool desert air. Though the moon had already set, he could clearly see his surroundings by the starlight and the glow of small fires dotted across the valley.

Camels, sheep, and goats grazed on thorny vegetation in the shadowy, orange light, their slow, steady movements lending the scene a bucolic calm. Small groups of turbaned nomads gathered around each of the fires, cooking over the open flames, laughing amongst themselves, or singing and dancing in the firelight. Tents of varying size and construction were scattered through the camp; patterned banners waved in the night breeze. Remus crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed them slowly. After the heat of the day, he had not expected the night to be so cool.

He looked up and breath caught in his throat at the sight of the expanse above; he was certain that England didn't have quite so many stars or a sky that was so excetionally big.

He stared upward for a moment, reciting the names of the constellations he remembered -- all but one -- before noticing that Kamilah was beckoning him to sit beside her. The fire's golden light flickered in her eyes. Remus welcomed its warmth, but carefully avoided her dark-eyed stare as he accepted a dish of spicy lentils and goat meat. A new caravan had arrived that evening, and several of its men were gathered around Alim's fire. They spoke rapidly in Arabic, reuniting after long months spent travelling the desert, telling stories and relaying gossip across the sands.

Alim attempted to introduce him, but after a few halting questions, they abandoned him to the stars. Not for the first time on this globe-spanning hunt, Remus wished that he had been born a Linguistamagus and had the rare gift, similar in nature to that of a Parseltongue, to speak the language of any human being after hearing only a few words. Silently, he listened to the nomads' musical speech and gazed at the stars. In the deeply magical valley, they sang and danced 'til sunrise, living the rhythms of centuries gone by.

***

Remus woke late the following morning, still pleasantly full from the delicious, spicy meal the night before. He saw Alim rummaging through a large steamer trunk across the tent. Not wanting to interrupt the man's search, Remus was content to simply watch, relishing the feeling of lazy lethargy, of the pillow under his head and the shadowy drapes and curtains around the tent.

Alim finally pulled a long, narrow roll of parchment from the trunk. His brow was wrinkled with concern, and his shoulders slumped as he unrolled it.

Remus watched him from under the lashes of half-closed eyes. Alim read the document, tracing a single line with his right index finger. Wearing a look that Remus recognised all to well, he stared through the doorway at the Muggles and their livestock scattered about the valley. It was the same look James had worn every time he was sent on assignment after Harry was born. I will do anything for you, his expression said. I will die to protect you. Remus shivered. Something in that look seemed to attract trouble, tempting fate to call its bluff. All of a sudden, Remus felt a surge of protectiveness for this tall old wizard, his family, his valley, and his way of life.

Remus sat up and softly said, "Good morning."

Alim sniffled once before looking over, his eyes bright as ever. "Good morning Mr. Lupin."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir--"

"I do not mind you asking," Alim promted when Remus paused. "Ask anything you would like. I have a question for you as well. What is it you would like to know?"

"What is that?"

"Mmm, this?" Alim asked, pointing to his parrot.

Remus smiled. "The parchment."

"Oh, this. This is the work I was charged with, by the International Confederation of Wizards, many, many years ago. "

"What work is that?"

"Would you like to see?" Alim replied, and Remus thought he heard a hint of wariness in his host's voice.

Remus crossed the room and read over Alim's shoulder.

The International Confederation of Wizards

Doth hereby declare on this first day of the third month of the year

One Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty-Nine

That Alim Hassam Sahdra is henceforth named

Keeper of the Valley of Letaq

And shall assume responsibility for the Valley and Springwater of Letaq

And all who dwell therein

To deliver from Peril and keep in Peace.

This decreement shall be retained until the day of death

Or until a suitable replacement shall be named.

The Confederation wills the Keeper Good Health and Happiness

Upon the binding of this magical contract.

Signed,

Edgar Sands-Beauregard,

Chief Mugwump

Witnessed by,

Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore,

Junior Mugwumpian Undersecretary

"You've been here for more than a hundred years? Have the dementors--"

"A hundred years is but a day to the grain of sand," Alim interrupted smoothly. "This is my home. These are my people. Do you see that caravan?"

Remus squinted through the drapery and out across the camp. "Yes."

"The man who leads it is called Hassan. He passes this oasis every spring, along the path walked by his fathers. Hassan and his family drive generations of livestock to a distant market; they transport the wool and trinkets from their village to Timbuktu. On foot and camel, they carry their wares across the desert. Every year they make this impossible migration. Hassan's great, great grandfather took tea with me the day I first arrived in this valley. Now, Hassan shows his oldest son, Amal, the path. For the past hundred years I have protected this valley, this water, from all who would have her. I do not wish to be replaced. Now--" Alim stopped abruptly, face reflecting a storm of fury. Then the expression was gone, smooth and placid as the desert sands. "Now I will continue," he slapped his knee with sprightly energy, "there is life in these old bones yet."

They sat in amicable silence, though Remus felt that there was something he didn't quite understand.

"And yours?" he said after a moment.

"My what?" Alim regarded him quizzically.

"You said you had a question for me."

Alim scrutinised him for a long minute. Remus felt himself shift under the relentless gaze that was as piercing as the desert sun. Then the old wizard smiled, and left Remus confused once more. "Your hair is very short. Is that the way young men wear it now?"

"My hair? I suppose... yes."

"It has been very long, you see, since we have seen a man who walks under the sky, his head uncovered. It fascinates Kamilah."

Remus waited a moment for further explanation, but the enigmatic wizard was absently stroking his bird, and did not seem ready to volunteer any more information. "So you know Albus Dumbledore?" Remus asked to break the silence.

Alim's black eyes lit with a mischievous fire. "Knew him, yes. But we have not spoken in years." He paused, then added. "We worked together once, many years ago. He is a wise man, not easy to refuse... Do you know he has a scar above his left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground?"

"Er." Remus said, unsure how to respond, as that was more than he had ever wanted to know about his former Headmaster. "So you must know that he's been fighting--"

"What I know beyond this valley is neither here nor there," Alim replied firmly.

There was an awkward pause. Remus considered asking several questions, rejecting each for fear it might upset his host. Finally, his curiosity overcame the desire to avoid further censure. "It says here the spring is called Letaq."

"A truncation of the Latin for 'Joyful Water'," Alim informed him, his tone less stiff. "Although the Roman wizards were not the first to find the spring."

"And the water?"

Alim sighed. "The water, Mr. Lupin, is the heart of this valley. It is why they created the Wrinkles. It is why the shepherds and nomads come here on their migrations across the desert. They would not survive the trek without joy."

"So the water is what attracts the dem-"

Alim put up a hand to silence Remus. "Listen to the songs of the nomad." He put a tongue to his teeth, and began to whistle a soft, pleasant tune in harmony with the sounds of distant voices across the valley. "They sing for the joyful water."

"Do these caravans pass through here often?"

"They come in the spring, before the hottest summer months. This is the last water before Timbucktu." He stopped at the expression on Remus' face.

"Spring?" Remus asked, disconcerted. "What day is it, exactly?"

"It is the seventeenth of February by your calendar."

"How long was I asleep?"

"One day only, but time is flexible here."

Remus exhaled, somewhat relieved, but quickly did the maths. "I found the portal five days ago. If I was only here for a day... what happened to the rest of them? How did I lose four days?"

"Perhaps you shouldn't be so careless," Alim answered slyly.

Remus didn't know whether to feel distressed or curious. It wasn't as though he had misplaced a week of his life. Time didn't slip between the cushions of his sofa. He wouldn't find it collecting dust under his bed. Something of his quandary must have shown in his face, because Alim laughed out loud.

"Neither should you take an old man so seriously." He sipped his tea. "The journey through the Wrinkle may have felt free of time, but that is the magic of it."

"It was the Wrinkle that stole it?"

Alim nodded.

"I was in the Wrinkle for almost four days?"

"You were."

"But it was so fast. I was there one moment and here the next."

"Ah, my young friend, you must be careful to not confuse speed for getting to where you want to be. Time is a funny thing, though people rarely share its sense of humour."

***

Over the next two days, Remus began to understand the desert's construction of time. This was a land of high contrast, with little room for grey. Light met shadow in clearly delineated designs. At sunset, the heat of the day yielded itself to nights nearly as cold as the winter he'd left behind. Life thrived in the droplets of water collected from the arid earth and perished to become no more than bones bleached in the sun. In a land where opposites touched, the minute gradations of time had little meaning.

He settled quickly into the rhythms of desert life, into the work and the infernal heat. He amused the nomads by attempting conversation using a few Arabic words Alim and Kamilah had taught him. Remus was impressed by the speed with which Kamilah was able to learn the English language. Though Alim said otherwise, Remus suspected that her father had taught her at some point over the last sixteen years.

By his third sunset in the desert, Remus was ready to continue searching for Peter but unsure how to broach the topic to his host. He decided to speak with Kamilah first, and he intersected her as she carried a large basket of grain in towards the tent.

"Let me help you with that," he offered.

She blushed but allowed him to take it. The woven basket was far heavier than it looked, and he grunted as he lifted it to his shoulder.

Kamilah giggled.

When they reached the tent, Remus put his burden down and wiped the sweat that had beaded on his brow. He began, "I have something to ask."

She looked up quickly, "Yes?"

"I need to leave soon, and I want to know if there is anything I can do to thank you and your father. You've been so good."

Her face fell, and she looked at the ground for a long moment. When she turned towards Remus again, her eyes were wide and pleading. "You must not go, please."

The request was so simple, Remus was strangely moved. "Why?"

"My father is a proud man. He will tell you when he is ready."

She spoke quickly and gracefully fled the tent before Remus could respond. Remus stood, listening to the echo of her plea in his ears. He thought about the things Alim and Kamilah had never said; neither had once mentioned the dementors. Torn between loyalty to his friend and to the people who'd been so kind to him, plagued by the curiosity known to kill many a kneazle, Remus resolved to stay a little longer. After all, time slipped away here, like grains of sand in the hourglass.

***

The following day, Remus sat outside Alim's tent, arms resting on his knees, chin resting on his arms, mind drifting on the desert wind. Periodically, he would look towards the oasis, the sparkling spring waters of Letaq, and the dark cloud that hung over it. The nomads, aware of the evil presence, avoided the spring, but Remus caught them watching it longingly on more than one occasion. Every time he'd attempted to speak to Alim about the dementors, the subject was swiftly, artfully, changed.

Remus was distracted when, to his delight, Alim announced that they would begin to make the Cikolata. From behind the tent, he retrieved a large basket of cacao seeds, dried in the desert sun, roasted in a stone oven, and ready for processing. Alim taught Remus the soothingly methodical work of shelling the seeds and winnowing out the nibs, his patient voice explaining the many steps of the process.

Working alongside Remus, Kamilah seemed nervous and agitated, and she would not be settled by Alim's soft words. She kept glancing towards the spring and back to the tents, looking significantly at her father.

As Alim brought out a large mortar and pestle to begin grinding the nibs into smooth chocolate liquor, they heard a shriek. Alim leapt from the tent and ran in toward spring. Remus stood to follow, but a gentle tug on his robes held him in place.

"Please," Kamilah said softly, "we continue."

Reluctantly, Remus sat down and continued grinding.

Several minutes later, Alim returned to the tent, looking tired, but smiling. He and Kamilah spoke rapidly, their voices fluctuating between concern and relief.

"You see," Kamilah said to Remus, "he has returned from the spring with a little water." She took a sheepskin from her father. "It is for the Chocolate. It is very difficult, now to get."

Alim hushed her, and smiled at Remus.

Remus looked at the pair, confused. "But someone screamed. What happened?"

Alim nodded, a smile pasted onto his weathered face. "Fine, fine. Everyone is fine. Shall we continue?"