Paper Wings

A Peck of Redheads

Though not much stronger than a good fairy light, the beam was brighter than Remus had ever seen it before. He followed the trail to the front door of a nearby hostel but surveyed the building carefully before entering, unwilling to trust his luck against any more of Voldemort's old followers. It was doubtlessly a Wizarding establishment; trees and colourful flowers grew from between the tiles on the floor, and monkeys carried trays of fruit and drinks up the spiral stairs. To Remus' relief, however, there were no trolls, hags, or hooded strangers to be seen. The disreputable element seemed to have settled further upriver. After apologising profusely to the grumbling wizard at the front desk for dripping all over the polished wooden floor, Remus asked for a room.

Later on, warm and dry after a change of clothes, settled by the sound of pattering rain on the roof, Remus went downstairs for a bite to eat.

The cafe was bright and cheery. Bamboo lamps hung from the branches of Kapok trees clustered in each corner, their extensive roots growing among the neat rows of while tile on the floor. The monkey waiters, in small tasselled hats and multicoloured vests, shimmied through the branches from the bamboo bar to the patrons sitting at white wicker tables. The room smelled clean and alive, with a hint of the forest outside, filled with low murmuring voices over the tapping of rain. A family of wizards on holiday examined maps at one table, and a tall, elegant witch surveyed the scene imperiously from another. Several men, dressed like the great white explorers of yesteryear, regarded the rain outside with a comical temerity. Remus felt slightly out of place in worn denim, Wellies, and a light jacket; his robes were upstairs drying.

As he scanned the room for a place to sit, he caught sight of a man beside the window on the far side and started, staring. Though they had never officially met, Remus would recognise that shock of red hair anywhere: Arthur Weasley. His curly locks were beginning to thin, and laugh lines crinkled around the edges of his eyes as he smiled from behind a glass of some pink and yellow liquid. For the past two years, Arthur had been a peripheral member of the Order of the Phoenix. As Junior Managing Director of the Muggle Liason Office, he had been well-placed to gather information from the Ministry, though he had declined a more active role as he had a young family to raise. Shortly after Voldemort's defeat, he had been reassigned to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, and from what Remus knew of the man, the new appointment would suit him well.

Pleased to have found compatriot and a friendly face, Remus waved to attract Arthur's attention. "Pardon me, but have we met before?"

"I don't think so, but you're welcome to join me," Weasley said, smiling and quickly hiding his surprise. "I'd enjoy the company, I'm sure."

"Remus Lupin." Remus held out a hand and counted on the fact that Arthur would not know his name; none but those in the innermost circle of the Order had been aware of Remus and his work.

"Arthur Weasley." Arthur stood and shook Remus's hand heartily. "Would you like to sit down?"

"If you don't mind. Despite the downpour, I'm parched. Is it possible to find a cup of tea here?"

"Nothing but an odd hibiscus brew, or the coca leaves that will keep you awake for weeks. But they do serve wonderful mango juice drinks. Would you like one?" He waved to one of the chittering monkeys and asked for another drink. Remus sat across from him, grateful, after wandering halfway around the globe, for the company of a familiar face that did not belong to one of Voldemort's followers.

"Remus Lupin," Arthur mused. "Where have I--Oh!" He looked sharply at Remus, who endeavoured to remain impassive, before falling into his usual, guileless expression. "You're a friend of -- were a friend of, er-- used to know the Potters."

Remus exhaled. "Yes," he said quietly. "I did."

"Couldn't hope to meet nicer people. Well..."

They spent several minutes sipping their fruit juices and making small talk, discussing the absurd Brazilian deluge and local Quiddich teams back in England, before Remus asked what had brought the other man halfway around the world.

The monkey left a second round of drinks on the table.

"Cheers," said Arthur, raising his glass casually as the monkey swung by his tail, chattered, and tipped his cap. "Actually, I've had to come here several times over the past few months. The Ministry's been trying to tie up a few, er, loose ends after You-Know-Who disappeared. Our problem, our solution after all.... There were some shrieking violins at the Opera house, sounded like banshees, they did, frightened whole audiences of Muggles away, poor dears." Arthur chuckled fondly. "It's just the sort of malicious fun that .... Well, I do believe we've got it all sorted out this time, though I haven't the foggiest of who's responsible or where to find them. The Aurors won't be pleased about that," he mused, a touch of worry creeping into his voice.

Remus thought of the old shaman in the smoky jungle cabaña and of the dark, stilted house on the Amazon where even the insects seemed to exude more than an evolutionary malice. "You know," he said slowly, "I passed a spot, upriver a way, that they might be interested in." He described the place, hoping that he wasn't calling the Aurors to his own path as well. He'd be in more than a little trouble if he were caught by the Ministry so close to a group of Death Eaters he'd been warned to avoid.

"Do you really think that's where they've gone?" Arthur asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm sure of it."

"Well, bless my soul." Arthur smiled broadly and raised his glass again. "It is lucky we met. Perhaps I won't have to come back to this infernal jungle again. Too many bloody bugs if you ask me; I itch from the moment I arrive until the moment I leave. My oldest boy will be disappointed, though. He begged me to let him come on this trip. He just loves playing with the stowaway beetles that jump into my bag." Arthur shuddered.

"Do you travel with your family often?"

"No. My wife's just had a child, our first little girl." He beamed the way that only a new father could. "Even the eldest are too young, really, to expose to all this." He gestured vaguely to the jungle and the rain.

"How many children do you have?"

"Seven," Arthur said, either glowing or blushing; it was hard to tell which. "Wait. I think I have a picture here somewhere." He began digging around in his pockets, producing a safety pin, packet of Toothflossing Stringmints, a cracked cigarette lighter, and finally a slightly crumpled photograph of a small herd of smiling faces standing, sitting, crawling, waving, and scuffling around a Christmas tree.

"That's Molly, my wife," he pointed to a round-faced and smiling woman; she was alternately cooing at the pink-bonneted baby on her hip and snapping to draw the child's attention towards the camera. "And Ginny is the baby."

Next he pointed to the tallest of the boys, an attractive lad of ten or so, looking directly at the camera and showing a full set of straight, white teeth. He proudly held a new, polished wand in one hand, and pointed it at the younger children in an effort to convince them to stand still. "That's Bill. He's off to Hogwarts next fall, so we went to Diagon Alley for Christmas to get him his wand. He's been keen to learn a few spells before September though, bright lad.

"Those are the twins," he pointed to two small redheads waddling around the base of the tree, balling wrapping paper and pieces of boxes and launching the corrugated missiles at everyone else in the scene. "Fred and George." He smiled and laughed a little as he said their names. "You should see the trouble they get into. Almost four, and they're already showing signs of magic.

"And that's Charlie," he said, indicating the second tallest boy, who was making monster faces at the baby sitting in his arms. Unafraid, the littler Weasley giggled at his older brother, blowing small bubbles of drool out the corner of his mouth. "He's holding Ron, the youngest boy. And this," he said of a thin, curly-haired lad in glasses, "is Percy." Percy was standing in the centre of the picture, back straight, pointedly ignoring the chaos around him. He was petting a small animal on his shoulder.

A fat, brown rat.

Remus' breath caught in his throat.

"May I see that picture?" he asked in a strangled voice.

Arthur handed it over. Remus examined the image closely. How many times had he seen his friend change, held that very rat on his own shoulder, seen the nose and whiskers wiggle in just that way, and looked into those shrewd, black eyes? There was no doubt in his mind. The rat was Peter.

Remus blinked once, twice, trying to steady his whirlwind of thoughts and concentrate over the rising chorus in his ears - wondering if it was possible to hear the opera house from so far away.

"That rat," he finally asked Arthur, "has he been in your family long?"

"Scabbers? No. Funny you should ask, though, I actually found him right here. It was the most extraordinary coincidence. I had just finished writing to Molly - I try to send her an express every day when I travel - and she was worried that we, er," his ears went a little red, "didn't have enough Christmas presents for the boys. Percy's been wanting a pet since he could talk. Charlie tried to help him tame a gnome once, and then there was the knarl that destroyed Molly's garden.... Anyway, I was trying to reassure her that we'd find something in time, and here, this great big rat comes and sits on the table in front of me, even tries to juggle a few grapes off my plate. Poor thing was sodden and had a toe missing - probably tried to pick a fight with a kneazle. Well, it needed a home, and I needed a pet, and as it was the week before Christmas, who am I to stand in the way of fate?"

Fate. "I think I know that rat," Remus said slowly.

"Really?" Arthur asked, incredulous. He looked searchingly at Remus for a minute. "Do you come here often?"

"Never been. Do you think there's any way I could see him?" Remus listened to his own voice as though from far away. He sounded so calm, so rational. Peter is in England. Peter is safe. Peter is living at Arthur Weasley's house.

"I'd have you over for tea the moment I get back to England. But if what you say about the place upriver is true, that could be a while..." Arthur frowned, then asked, "You're sure you know this rat? He's awfully common-looking, except for that toe."

"Perhaps I'm mistaken," Remus said. It's Peter. Peter's hair, Peter's eyes, Peter's long, bald tail. "Perhaps you could tell me a little more about him?"

Arthur frowned, his affable countenance faltering for just a moment. "Percy has found quite a friend in little Scabbers, but I think it made Charlie awfully jealous. He likes to take the rat from his little brother, and keep him in his room, even taught him to ride on his shoulder. Percy, of course, hero-worships his older brothers. Never says, 'no'. Sometimes I wish Percy would assert himself a bit more... You really are interested in this, aren't you?" he asked in the face of Remus' unwavering stare.

Arthur continued rambling proudly about his son's accomplishments. Remus had ceased to hear a single word. His head was spinning. He'd followed Peter halfway around the world to learn that Peter is living happily as a family pet in Ottery St. Catchpole.

"...He's an impressive little seeker that Adam Diggory. Comes to visit his uncle on holiday. Charlie simply idolises him...."

His journey was nearly over. Now he would solve the riddle. Peter was no longer lost. Questions would be answered; the end was in sight.

Unfortunately, Arthur was still sitting across the table, sipping his drink, and talking amicably about his children, unaware of the mystery he'd single-handedly solved.

"...The twins, they turn each other's hair all shades of the rainbow. No question that when they start at Hogwarts in a few years the little scamps will cause no end of trouble..."

Remus laughed cordially. He couldn't just excuse himself to run back to England. Good manners, as always, were paramount. He would have to invite Arthur to dinner.

But he could travel tomorrow. Peter is in England. Peter is safe. He felt his stomach squirming, much like when he was ten and had eaten an entire bag of Peppermint Toads.

***

Remus spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep despite the warm herbal tea he'd had after supper. He'd bid farewell to Arthur, mentioning casually that he was off to England first thing in the morning.

Before dawn, Remus stood as still as a stone by the window, watching colour bleed across the sky. Mist rose up from the damp earth around the hostel, his small case was securely packed, his travelling cloak was neatly folded over the back of the chair, and the Remembrall was in his pocket. He inhaled deeply in the warm Brazilian air, then left the room and walked down to the lobby, where a great stone fireplace was set between two kapok trunks.

He tossed the last of his Floo powder into the fire and gingerly stepped inside. Taking a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to do was foolish, reckless, and absolutely necessary, he gave the address of his mother's flat in Carlisle in a clear, firm voice.

Remus closed his eyes and tucked in his elbows as the world began to spin around him. This was an absurdly long journey to undertake by Floo, even if he was fairly certain that the transoceanic lines were in good repair. Remus knew he must be very careful to traverse the entire distance, not to hop out of a fire in Caracas or to get lost in the Bermuda Triangle.

Through the spinning and rising nausea, he opened his eyes; the rooms before him were still distinctly Latin in appearance, and he quickly shut them for another minute, gripping his case with white-knuckled hands. His muscles were beginning to shake with the effort of staying upright in the emerald vortex. Looking around once more and choking down the sickness, the fire was now surrounded by blue, and Remus hoped that the flames would hold against the seawater. The minutes ticked by -- or were they only seconds -- and his knees threatened to buckle, his neck was painfully stiff, and he bit his lower lip until he tasted the salty tang of blood. He was getting closer and imagined that he could hear Irish voices rapidly chattering beyond the fire. Just a little longer. He began to recognise the places he passed: Diagon Alley, St. Mungo's.

He lunged forward, pulling his case with him.

Remus lay facedown on the stone hearth, gasping for breath, scrambled to his feet and was immediately sick. Still heaving, he loosened his grip on the case and was vaguely aware of it falling to the floor, then of his own body sinking after it. Curled up by the fireplace, knees to his chest, Remus lay on the cool floor for long minutes before he was able to fix his eyes on a point in the room. Unsteadily, he got to his feet.

At that moment, a warm and welcoming figure entered the flat.

"Remus!" she called happily, immediately knitting her eyebrows and running over to him. "What happened? Where have you been? Are you alright?"

"Brazil," was the only answer he could force out, deciding that her other questions were rhetorical. She stood back and looked at him with the expression of mixed exasperation and fear that only a mother could manage.

"You shouldn't have travelled so far by Floo. You know better than that." She helped him to a chair, smoothing the hair back from his forehead and casting a cleaning spell behind her back.

"I do. I had to."

"Why?"

Remus smiled sheepishly. It wasn't an answer.

"You can't tell me," she said with a sigh. It wasn't a question.

Remus shook his head, regretting it as the room spun. He swayed in his seat.

"You'll be staying then?"

Remus looked at the floor. "I have to leave soon."

"Alright. However, I insist that you get some sleep before continuing on your way. You look wretched. Have you eaten anything since I last saw you?" She was all business, Helen Lupin, and Remus didn't mind relinquishing control of the next few hours.

He nodded again. Body still weak and spinning from the long journey, sleep seemed a wonderful idea. He allowed her to help him out of his robes, gratefully lay down in bed, mumbled several garbled syllables meant to be 'thank you', and fell asleep to the sounds and smells of a familiar place for the first time in months.

***

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form. "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm..."

Remus opened his eyes wide, reaching for his wand, unsure what woke him. Immediately, he dropped a hand to the sheets tangled around him. For a moment he could not remember what country his was in, or why. The sounds of a husky voice and strum of a steel guitar drifted in through the closed door. He did not know why daylight shone through the windows or for how long he'd slept. His heart began to thud against his ribs. The last things he remembered were... Arthur Weasley, Manaus, travelling by Floo, England, his mother's flat.

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail, poisoned in the bushes, an' blown out on the trail...

He could almost convince himself that he had left Brazil that morning, but he had no idea what day or time it was in England. Time to continue the journey. That's what time it is. Peter was waiting.

"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm..."

Gingerly, he sat up. He tested his bare feet against the wooden floorboards, found that he was able to stand without shaking, and thanked the fates for the small miracles that a few hours of uninterrupted sleep could work.

He dressed quickly, packed his case, and made his way downstairs.

But nothing really matters much; it's doom alone that counts.

His mother was sitting in her study, writing swiftly, long eagle quill darting back and forth across the page. The music came from a charmed turntable in the corner: Chopin when she was in need of inspiration, Dylan when it came, Charlie Parker for long nights spent thinking in front of the fire, and Joni Mitchell to sing a little boy to sleep. His mother lived life to a constant stream of music. She wore a look of patient concentration, focused entirely on writing, foot tapping to the lyrical poetry of Blood on the Tracks. He had loved this record from the summer he came home to hear it playing, and it always made her smile.

For minutes he just watched her; the afternoon light shone through her greying hair; her ink and quills were neatly lined on the desk in front of her.

The record paused and began again.

Early one mornin' the sun was shining, I was laying in bed.

She wrote with the smallest of half-smiles on her face, knitting her eyebrows slightly as she thought, then scribbling another line or two, humming along with the music all the while. His father had fallen in love with that smile, had once told Remus with awe that Helen would smile despite the world; despite, Remus mused, a child attacked by the darkest of creatures or a husband who died too young...

The only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keepin' on like a bird that flew,

Tangled up in blue.

He cleared his throat gently. She held her left hand up, finished scribbling her thought as the song ended, and looked at him as he entered, smiling.

"What're you working on?"

"You know, always something. I had this idea over breakfast..." She drifted off and glanced down at her notes, ensuring that the precious idea had been properly documented. She had published several important works on Physics, Metaphysics, and Magic, but still hoped to finish that ever-elusive novel.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Just a few hours. You could probably use more."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, hugging her from behind. He could feel, rather than see, her smile in response.

"Any time." She turned around and took in his worn travelling robes and the packed case in his hand and forced a small laugh. "You still look awfully peaky."

"I'm alright."

"You'll promise to take care of yourself?" she asked, standing and wiping a bit of ash from her grown-up son's face. Remus wrinkled his nose.

"Of course." He waved off her concern with a brush of his hand.

She nodded. "Until next time, then," she said calmly.

With a wistful a glance around the flat that had once been his home, Remus Disapparated.

***

He walked slowly up the garden path, trying to decide how best to ask Mrs. Weasley for her son's pet rat without receiving a rolling pin to the head. The path was winding and strewn with oddments from toddlers and grownups alike. Old batteries and jam jars lay beside bouncing balls and sticks clearly meant to be toy wands. To the left was a shed that Remus assumed was Arthur's workshop, with bits of wire, egg crates, and what looked like pieces of an old carburettor spilling out the door. With a quiet pang Remus remembered another garage full of disassembled engine parts, a surprised grin when he was caught watching from the doorway, grease-coated fingers against his face despite his half-hearted protests....

The Department for the Control of South American Rodent-Bourne Plagues. Yes, that sounded officially bureaucratic and intimidating enough. He would inform Mrs. Weasley that her son's rat was imported illegally, and the Department for the Control of South American Rodent-Bourne Plagues required its immediate confiscation.

He took a deep breath and knocked officiously on the door.

It was opened by a rather plump, smiling witch holding laughing baby on her hip.

"Good morning, ma'am, I am--"

"Remus Lupin, aye, come in. Come in."

Remus swallowed his farfetched story and, trying to hide his confusion and relief, followed her into the house.

"I had an express from Arthur last evening," she continued happily. "Fred! George! Drop those screaming yo-yo's this instant! George, you think I don't see that spit ball launcher behind your back. What did I tell you about bogies and company?"

"Not unless they say its okay," the twin boys responded in unison.

"Very good. Now, Mr. Lupin, yes, Arthur's message: says he was--"

A child in the crib had begun to whimper and whine. Both adults held their breaths as the sounds coalesced into the beginnings of a tantrum. "Berr... Berr... BERR!" The baby's screech grew, tear ducts ready to burst.

"Percy, quickly, go fetch Ron's bear. Make sure the twins haven't tried to turn it into a caterpillar again!"

"Yes, Mum." Percy scampered off.

"Where was I? Oh yes. Very pleased to meet you. Arthur had a feeling you might drop by today. Whatever you told him, he seems to think he might get a promotion out of it. Wouldn't that be splendid? Tea?"

"Er, no thanks. I'm here--"

"He said: odd fascination with Percy's new pet. Of course I would gladly show you little Scabbers, but I'm afraid Charlie's taken him for the weekend. He convinced Percy that the rat needed a change of scenery. So, tea?"

Remus agreed to stay for a cuppa, as the woman seemed desperate for the company of anyone able to string two sentences together. "Just a sliver of lemon, thank you."

She settled down into an overstuffed armchair and began to ask Remus' opinion on everything from the Brazilian weather (wet) to the new Ministry Housing Bill that would drive even the most conservative of magical architects to bang their heads against obliging walls and would, but for a grandfather clause to protect older houses, render the burrow in which they were currently sipping tea, quite illegal. Not that Remus actually said much; he was far to distracted by the information that the oldest Weasley boys, Bill and Charlie, were at Hogwarts visiting the fourth year nephew of their neighbour Amos Diggory. Adam Diggory was the Gryffindor Seeker, and the boys had gone to watch the Quidditch match on Saturday.

Hogwarts. That complicated matters a bit, but right then, waiting until the boys and pet rat returned to the burrow on Monday seemed as impossible to Remus as inventing self-spelling wands.

After listening to Molly stop the twins from putting Droobles Best Blowing Gum in Percy's hair and throwing Fanged Frisbees at the garden gnomes, after watching baby Ron finish three full bottles of apple juice in quick succession, and after dutifully praising Percy for reciting the opening lines of the International Statute of Secrecy, Remus gulped down the last of his tea, politely thanked Molly, and extricated himself from the chaos.

He'd seen battlegrounds, and none had been quite so hectic as the Weasley household; he'd known generals, but none had had quite the forceful command and gentle touch of this mother of seven. He quietly saluted her.

***

The moment he was clear of their garden, Remus slipped behind a tall Chestnut to think, settling on the ground with his elbows propped on his knees. Hogwarts. Today. Now. He considered Floo-ing directly to the headmaster's office, and quickly rejected that idea as his stomach turned uncomfortably and he imagined Dumbledore's penetrating gaze. He'd no doubt missed the final train to Hogsmeade that day, and did not have a broomstick on hand. Only one thing for it, he told himself and shrugged. Standing, he pulled his wand from his pocket and Apparated to the Shrieking Shack, thanking his stars that Dumbledore had never changed the wards surrounding it; they were designed to admit only Remus and a few others, and he was unlikely to be disturbed here.

He looked at the dingy room and sighed. Of all the things he'd been glad or sad of the day he'd finished at Hogwarts, he'd secretly been most relieved that he would never have to come to this place again. Seeing the clawed furniture and shattered French door, memories flashed through him; the first night he'd spent here, a frightened eleven-year-old determined to be brave, folding his robes in a corner; reading in the sagging bed as his muscles shook and skin healed; three boys proudly smiling, ready to show him their newest trick; a face framed by moonlight; I'm sorry. Damnit, Moony, what am I supposed to say.

Until he had met the dog, stag, and rat, he'd had only the most vividly wolfish memories from those nights, overwhelming in the intensity of perception, hunger, and power that they contained. Stepping around the faded bloodstains on the floor, he shuddered, tense with the recollection of anger and frustration, destruction of self and anything else he could wrap his teeth around.

Remus took a steadying breath and willed his muscles to relax, absently fingering the chain around his neck. He was here for a very different reason this time.

Dropping his hand quickly to his side, Remus began his preparations. He had already decided on a concealment strategy for his venture into the castle. A simple Shadow-walker Charm would hide him sufficiently from prying eyes and allow him to move as a barely discernable shade through the grounds. He wished that he had a little more of Snape's Vanishing Draught instead, then wondered idly where James's invisibility cloak had got to. Burned, buried beneath the ruins of the house in Godric's Hollow. Remus banished the thought; the Shadow-walker Charm would be enough.

There were surveillance charms on the castle, spells he had studied to create the Marauder's Map, but the map was gone and only the Headmaster knew how to work the wards. Remus would simply have to hope that Dumbledore wasn't watching.

In addition to the charm, he would have to select a safe time to enter the dormitories, preferably when he could follow a stray student into the tower, but would encounter few people once there. Dinnertime, less than an hour from now, would be best; he'd be able to trail the first Gryffindor up from the great hall.

With a deep breath, he tapped himself on the top of his head with his wand and muttered "Ambulumbra." Feeling a cool chill pass over his body, he set off through the tunnel to the castle grounds.