Paper Wings

The Present Only Toucheth Thee

The world righted itself as Remus exhaled and stepped off the sky. As the Wrinkle's magic fell away from his skin in a sandy shower, he shivered and looked around the country in which he'd arrived. February winds buffeted his sunburnt skin. His breath was short in the thin, freezing air, and the cold had already penetrated his boots and threadbare cotton socks. Living creatures had no business being this close to the Arctic Circle in winter.

"Pedical." As the toasty tingle of a Caliped Charm travelled up from his toes, Remus noted that, however cold, the Kamchatka peninsula was shatteringly beautiful. Ice and snow blanketed the mountains as far as he could see; tall peaks dotted the horizon and geysers of smoke rose into the blue, cloud-speckled sky. Deep ravines of rocks and trees tumbled down to the ocean hundreds of miles away. The sun glowed orange along the descending path of the Remembrall's light.

Remus Apparated from point to point through the evening and night. Wide awake, his body acutely aware of the time lost to the Wrinkle, he postponed the search for shelter in this glacial land. He would yield to sleep eventually. For now, though, it was enough to follow the hauntingly luminescence of Peter's trail on the snow and boulders as it wound down towards the coast.

The next day, in the weak light of a wintry noon, exhaustion finally wound its tendrils around Remus' mind, making accurate Apparation difficult, and he began to look for shelter in earnest.

Finding nothing but bare rock, sparse, stunted trees, and a biting wind, Remus pressed on.

"Pedical," he said, shivering, for the twelfth of thirteenth time that day. His toes continued to ache with cold. Wrapping his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, Remus bemoaned the dwindling efficacy of the charm. He leaned back against a rock wall, took several deep, rattling breaths, and scanned the valley below.

There were two black specks in the distance, sharp against the rock and snow. Remus brought his hands to his face, exhaled warm breath, and rubbed them together. Either he was delusional, or the specks were moving closer, forms coalescing into that of two people. Pressed against the cliff, teeth chattering, he watched. Bundled in Muggle military garb, the men passed under his ledge, walking with the brash authority of people who know that they are where they are supposed to be, and everyone else is not.

Remus conjured a cup of tea, tasteless but sufficient to stop his shivering for a moment, cast a Concealment charm, and set off after them. Like a shadow, he followed the men down a wide, curving trail. Men meant shelter, a place to lay his head. Besides, he thought, pocketing the Remembrall, Peter had apparently gone this way as well.

As the last pink light of sunset faded into an early night, Remus found himself nearing a Muggle army outpost, likely a border control. He skirted the pools of light shining from the surveillance towers and noted that the Remembrall's beam led directly through the barbed-wire gate, right into the encampment of armed soldiers. Remus suppressed his amusement. Peter, for all of his cherubic smiles and matronly worries, seemed to have an uncanny talent for attracting trouble and a disturbing tendency to lead Remus unto unhealthy situations. Remus wondered why this should surprise him at all -- after all, the boy had unknowingly made best friends with both a mass murderer and a werewolf.

...twisted sense of humour, Moony.

Remus startled, heart pounding, when one of the Russians shouted towards the gate; he must have closed his eyes, drifting away from the snow-swept landscape as memory and exhaustion enveloped him in an icy delirium. Several more guards arrived and let the scouts enter. Remus darted behind a nearby boulder, forgetting that between the darkness and the charm, he was unlikely to be seen in the open.

He peered at the camp. Smoke. There was smoke rising from several chimneys. Gripping the rough rock, Remus watched hazy plumes drift up to the stars, yearning for a warm fire to sit by, a warm body to curl up against. Wary of the armed soldiers however, he made his way around the encampment, its hostile shouts and metallic firearms, and found a relatively sheltered overhang under which he could rest.

Exhausted but unable to ignore the rumbling of his stomach, Remus cooked warm porridge over dark, smokeless flames and ate it quickly. Despite the heaviness in his limbs and the warm food in his belly, he lay awake, eyes closed. He listened to the crackle of the flames and the crunch of boots on the gravel far below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking, and several people shouted in harsh, guttural tones. He shivered and threw an arm over his eyes, resting his head against the unyielding rock. Military sounds melded with memory.

They're going to take you down now, Remus. Whirling spoke so slowly, as though to a child. They're going to use Veritaserum. Do you understand?

A silent nod.

Remus, is there anything, anything at all you haven't told them? He told you he was the Secret-Keeper, and that's all? You didn't see anyone, speak to anyone?

Couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't swallow around the Bludger lodged somewhere in his throat. No one, he thought silently, no one left. A crup barked in the street below. They were coming for him.

They're going to want to know the last thing he told you, the last thing he said. Can you remember what it was?

He could remember. Wide eyes, pounding heart. "Go then, run away! You're no better than the rest of those monsters!" Not a word escaped his lips. Staring at the floor, memorising the patterns in the grain. This was real. This was happening. Wondering when this tree was felled, whether it would have chosen to become an office floor. Whirling's hands on his shoulders, shaking. The stomp of heavy boots outside the door.

They've taken your records... Listen to me, Remus. They know you moved out just days before it happened. They know where you lived before, that you were living with him. Stop. Look at me. They're suspicious. Tell me, did you know what he was going to do? Did you suspect a thing?

Breathing hard, boots stop, scrabble of nails on the hardwood, fists pounding at the door. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. A whisper from his lips. Nothing.

Arms around his shoulders. Voice in his ear. Nothing. So certain, such palpable relief.

Remus, you're going to be okay. Listen to me. Whatever happened, whatever happens today, you are going to be okay. Look at me. Turning towards the door, calling. Come in.

Three drops. Cold, icy oblivion.

***

For three more days Remus trekked through the wilderness, thanking Merlin that Peter had not decided to Apparate, though he could not fathom the cause of this lucky chance. Perhaps Peter was worried that any Death Eaters still placed in the Russian Ministry would be able to track his movements.

Dragging his toes, bent against the biting north wind and fighting a chill he thought he might never be rid of, he arrived at a forlorn house overlooking a large port. Below, the buildings were uniform, five-storied boxes with a few streetlamps lighting the roads between them. Muggles hurried to and fro, in and out of the pools of yellow light. Beyond the city were the dark, rippling waters of the harbour, and the Bering Sea disappeared into the moonlit distance.

In sharp contrast to the grey buildings below, the house he'd arrived at was clearly a wizarding establishment. Isolated in a clearing on a wooded hill, it was constructed seemingly in defiance of the laws of physics. Some walls were brick, others wood, and there was one crooked addition that seemed to be made of frostbit gingerbread. There were shingled roofs, gargoyles perched on various corners, two mismatched turrets, and a leaning bell tower. Bay windows as large as rooms hung precariously over the snow, the glass panes nearly opaque with dirt and grime. Buttresses and archways leaned against the walls in a half-hearted attempt to achieve structural stability. Ten or twelve crooked chimneys blew smoke rings into the cloudless starry sky. A weathered sign hanging by one hinge over the heavy black door named the building in several languages. 'The Nesting Dragon: A Home at the End of the World'.

Remus smiled at the irony; he'd made it to the end of the world. He walked to the door, glancing up at the picture of a peacefully dozing Ukrainian Ironbelly, tendrils of smoke rising from its nostrils. "Never tickle one," he whispered to himself as he crossed the threshold.

Remus made his way towards the busy innkeeper, looking closely at the pub and its occupants. It was a large room with myriad walls at odd angles, creating countless dark, shadowy nooks. Most, but not all, of the battered wooden furniture was right side up. Some of the tables had names and dates scratched into their surfaces, and all (even those with legs in the air) were lit by flickering candles. The ceiling in the centre of the room was several stories high; black bats flew to and fro in the rafters. A chandelier cast its diffuse glow through years of cobwebs and dust. The only other light came from a fireplace as tall as a half-giant on the far side of the room, which occasionally flared green as a customer came or left. Unmarked dusty bottles lined the shelves behind the bar.

The patrons sipping their tankards of ale were no more inviting than the fixtures. Most were tucked quietly in the shadows, dark hoods obscuring their faces, talking in hushed voices. A small scuffle erupted, punctuating the secretive mumbling in the room with curses and insults in various languages. In addition to several half-ogres and stumbling goblins, Remus glimpsed the all-to-familiar faces of several people he was certain had been Death Eaters before Voldemort's demise. Grapper, unmistakable with his bald, tattooed head, played chess in the centre of the room. Jugson, Remus remembered, was never far from Grapper's side. And in another alcove, the tallest of the ogres, the one with a green eye patch, Urk or Unt -- their names all sounded like the noise they made when waving their clubs around -- had led many a raid on Muggle families.

Remus smiled grimly, reminded of the Hog's Head pub that he and his friends had occasionally patronised at school. The Nesting Dragon was not an establishment frequented by reputable wizards, though after three days wandering the wilds, Remus hardly felt reputable. It would do as place to rest his head and remedy the lethargy that had descended during the past few days of sleeping in the bone-chilling cold.

Remus approached the bar, holding his case close. He wondered whether Peter had come here tracking Death Eaters, perhaps on some mission of his own. And why the man couldn't find a nice, safe place to bunker down and wait for Remus to find him.

Careful to avoid making eye contact with the other patrons, Remus requested a room for the night from the innkeeper, a tall witch with frizzy, grey-blonde hair and protuberant features. With a thick Russian accent, she gave her name as Duscha when Remus politely asked. She reminded Remus of Rosmerta, back at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, except without the merry cheeks and soft curves, good-natured brusqueness, ear for interesting gossip, or general friendliness. Actually, he amended his opinion, aside from their shared ability to balance an improbable number of glasses on a small tray, they weren't very similar at all. Nonetheless, Remus gave his best charming smile and paid in advance. James and Sirius had taught him long ago that the best way to get ahead of the 'rabble of unwashed masses' was to charm the pants off of every female you met. Remus did not know how winning his smile was, and the thought of her pants made him shudder, but she seemed to like him.

At least, he thought, I'm marginally less likely to upend her tables than that troll in the corner. Thanking Duscha for the key, a cup of tea, and a reasonably fresh towel, he went up the narrow staircase to find room four-ninety-eight.

Upstairs, after wandering the winding claustrophobic hallways for longer than he cared to admit, he finally found his room between numbers thirty-seven and fifteen-sixty-four. He opened the door and was greeted by the smell of dried sage and dust. In the centre of the windowless room was a bed, much longer than it was wide, covered by a luridly coloured quilt. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace at its foot, and several three-legged stools sat in the corner. Remus jumped as the clock over the mantel began to chime eleven o'clock and a small wooden door opened in its belly to reveal a dancing model of a Yeti.

The wood-framed mirror sniggered at him while he shaved. Remus placed his case on a stool, changed into soft flannel trousers, and curled up on a real mattress for the first time since he had left Paris. After a few moments, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, he stood and turned the mirror to face the wall.

He sipped the last of the cooling tea, set the mug on the bedside table, and lay down again. Scanning the corners of the room where intrepid spiders wove their webs, he recited 'To a Mouse' silently, listening to the crashes of furniture downstairs and a witch coughing somewhere nearby.

"Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, an' weary winter comin' fast," he whispered, fervently hoped that somewhere, soon, he would find Peter.

At some point during the long winter night, Remus fell asleep.

***

He woke, refreshed, to find a small house elf stoking his fire and humming merrily to herself. The Yeti clock read nine-fifteen.

The elf looked nervously at him when he sat up in bed.

"Nochi is sorry to have woken Sir, but the fire was dying," she said, wringing the hand towel around her waist between spindly fingers.

"'at's alright," Remus yawned, rubbing his eyes and stretching long, rested limbs.

"Sir, Nochi must put the hot coals in her ears now?"

"No!" Remus said, appalled. "Is that what you usually do?"

"The wizards here is being very private, Sir. They does not like being woken during the day. But they does not like the fires out neither. Nochi does her work as quiet as a mouse."

"You speak English, I see, and very well."

"Oh thank you, Sir, the house elves is learning the dialect of all visitors to the Dragon, Sir. Nochi is especially good at Gobbledygook, Sir. Most house elves is afraid to use it."

"And do you speak much with the other wizards here?"

"No Sir, they is a very private bunch, especially since, well, since they is been on the move, Sir."

"On the move?"

"Nochi doesn't talk, but Nochi hears things, Sir." She turned conspiratorially towards Remus, touching one finger to her squash-shaped nose. "She hears wizards say they is on the move."

"Well, thank you, Nochi, for building the fire."

"Sir is very welcome. Is there anything else Nochi can do for Sir?"

"I'm a stranger here," Remus began as Nochi giggled nervously at the obvious. "What can you tell me about this country?" Other than the name on Alim's map, Remus knew very little about the land through which he'd been travelling, only that it was rich with Wrinkles.

"Oh yes Sir." Nochi said brightly. She continued talking with shy smiles and growing enthusiasm. "The city below is Petropavlovsk, and Kamchakta the land is called. The Dragon has been here ages, Sir, but there was not many people here during the war. The Muggles is fighting a war, Sir; very wary of strangers, they is. But now lots of strangers comes to the Dragon. They speaks English and says they is 'on the move.' Duscha says for her visitors not to go into town. Not safe there, she says, but no one knows nothing about here, no ministry, that is. The officials stays well shy of Dusha, they does, don't never ask no questions at the Dragon. Nochi goes to the Muggle city for milk and eggs, though. She is good. The people don't notice her." The house elf smiled proudly at her ability to blend in.

Remus smiled back at her. "And the mountains?" he asked, curious about the places that had attracted the ancient creators of the Wrinkles. He dressed himself as she spoke, tucking the stainless steel chain into his shirt, shirt into trousers, and carefully lacing his boots.

"Above the city is the mountains. They is burning red at night. Nochi hears the people speak of them. It is said that the Great Ones, gomuls they is called, live in the mountains, and they catches big creatures in the sea. They roasts them in the fires at night. That is what the people say." Her voice dropped very low as she spoke, "Nochi does not go to the mountains. Dangerous rumblings there." Her bat-like ears flapped as she shook her head.

Remus nodded. Volcanoes. Kamchatka sat in the northernmost link of the Ring of Fire.

"And what about the Dragon? What sort of people come here?"

"We gets all sorts, Sir. Some of them be dangerous too, Nochi thinks."

"Do you think I should be worried?"

"Not to pry, Sir, but Nochi sees a wizard watching, Sir. Sir should be careful."

Remus frowned thoughtfully. "Thank you, Nochi."

"Is there anything else I can do for Sir?"

"I think I am going to have a look around. Can you make certain no one comes into my room, Nochi?"

"Oh yes sir!" The elf smiled brightly. "Trust Nochi, you can."

"Thank you, Nochi."

"It is Nochi's pleasure to serve."

As the house elf went around quietly dusting the room, Remus removed the Guide from his case. Tucked inside was the bit of old parchment, which he carefully removed and unfolded. It had become habit, reading it every morning, just to remind himself why he was here, and what he was here to do.

"If Sir doesn't mind Nochi asking, wossat, Sir?"

"This," Remus explained patiently, straightening the parchment out in front of him, "is the reason I'm here."

Find the Rat. For me.

Remus put the parchment away, donned his warmest cloak, and closed his case. Nochi, meanwhile, had finished dusting the room and stepped out into the hallway. He checked that the Remembrall was in his pocket, walked outside, and began to magically seal the door.

"Occuverbum Wormtail Colloportus," he said, wand pointing at the doorknob, which glowed momentarily in response.

"Sir," Nochi asked timidly.

"Yes?"

"Could Sir tell Nochi the secret word?"

"You don't have your own magic to get into the rooms?"

"Oh yes, house elves does, but we finds it easier to say the word."

Amused by the pragmatic elf, Remus smiled, and told her the password was Wormtail.

"What is a Wormtail, Sir?" she asked.

"A very long story, Nochi."

She nodded and trotted down the twisting hallway. Remus made his way through the empty pub and outside.

In the weak sunlight, he began tracing the web of lights from the Remembrall. Peter had walked all about this yard during his stay at The Nesting Dragon; the beams of light passed under the woodpile, through small gaps at the bases of various arches, and led to a nibbled corner of the Gingerbread Wing. As he poked into a small hole beside one of the larger bay windows, Remus heard a gasp from inside.

Finally, knowing that anyone watching him for the past few hours from the windows above thought him completely addled, he found a trail that led away from the inn. After a quick lunch, he followed the trail on foot for a while, inhaling the crisp air.

Despite the cold, he could almost smell spring, just a few weeks away. The bears would wake from their long winter nap, the snow would melt, and the salmon would run. Remus looked up at the distant volcanoes as he walked. Gomuls, he mused. They stood in sharp relief, casting long shadows as the low sun bathed the mountains in pink and orange light. At night they would illuminate the sky with an eerie red glow. He exhaled, momentarily at peace with the world.

Then the trail ended.

It didn't turn, taper away, go underground, or vanish into a Wrinkle. It just stopped.

"Merlin's balls," Remus whispered.

After leading him this far, Peter had decided to bloody Apparate.

***

Remus returned to the Nesting Dragon a little later that evening. The harmless day-crowd of odd explorers and tiny goblins had given way to the rougher folk of the night. Assorted hags and scarred fighters settled in to play cards; menacing figures drank in the shadows, faces hooded. Remus walked up to the bar.

"Good evening, Sir," Duscha said languidly, "Vat may I do for you?"

"A drink," Remus replied, "something warm."

"Very vell." Duscha walked away to brew her concoction. He had learned at lunch that it was better not to know exactly what went into his food or drink here. The end result would be palatable enough, and even if he'd seen her pluck spiders from the tea leaves, or sodden feathers from the roast chicken, he was almost certain that none of it would kill him.

Remus felt a small tug on his robes. Looking down, he saw a ruddy brown cat with white dappled markings over its back and dark rings around its eyes. A long, tufted tail identified it as a kneazle. The kneazle stretched up on its hind legs and dug its claws once more into Remus' robe. Remus tried to shift away, but it jumped onto the bar in front of him, purring.

"Ah!" exclaimed Duscha returning with a steaming mug of something. "You have met Levka. He likes you. He so rarely takes to strangers."

The kneazle sniffed Remus' drink and rubbed his head against the mechanical smile pasted on Remus' face. Duscha laughed.

"I see you do not like the cats, Sir. Come, Levka," she lowered the creature onto her side of the bar. "He is very useful to me."

Remus raised an eyebrow, cupping one hand around the warm drink.

"Betveen you and me, I vas havink complaints about the rats in the rooms. But since Levka, nothing! Ha!" She smacked the wood surface triumphantly, and Remus lifted his mug so as not to have its contents spill onto his hands. He smiled.

"You're very lucky to have found such a useful companion. How long has he been here?"

"Two month, give or take," she said, now scratching behind the ears of the kneazle, who'd jumped back on the bar.

Two months. That made perfect sense. Peter must have left here at the kneazle's arrival. They were notoriously good mousers; even a rat with human intellect couldn't hope to evade a true kneazle for long. "If you'll pardon me," Remus said, considering this new information, "I must be returning to my room." She waved him away, and turned to a large bald man with long pointed ears and a spiked club cupped in one hand.

***

Walking heavily up the stairs, Remus was thinking about the dinner he planned to send Nochi for once he'd settled in for the night. Then he would organise his thoughts, and see if he couldn't guess where Peter had gone to next. He whispered the password, "Wormtail," and unlocked the door to his room with the rusty, ornate key Duscha had given him the day before.

Something was wrong.

Remus reached for his wand and quickly scanned the room in the crackling firelight. No one was hiding in the corners. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Except...

That's odd, thought Remus cautiously, I could have sworn I'd put it away.

The Prankster's Guide was sitting open on the bed. Chapter six How to Keep a Straight Face.

He most definitely did not leave it like that. Quickly, Remus grabbed the book and thumbed through it for the small square of parchment. It was gone. Remus' heart began to pound. He flipped through the pages once again. There was no weather-beaten scrap, but a small, crisply folded note fell out. With trembling fingers, Remus snatched the note and opened it, book landing forgotten on the duvet.

Come to room eleventy-two.

That was all. The handwriting was small, tidy, and vaguely familiar.

Colour rose to Remus' cheeks in the heat of a building rage, but he forced himself to stop and think. Is it a trap? Probably. Set by whom? He would never know unless he let it spring. Why had he left his things unattended? He kicked himself in dismay; his locking charms weren't strong enough, and of course Nochi wouldn't be there to play guard over his room all day. She had a job.

He needed to get the parchment back.

Gritting his teeth, wand drawn and ready, he went in search of room eleventy-two.