Can't Catch Me

They come to visit me in my dreams.

Even as I sleep, I'm flying at my comfortable, moderate pace, holding on tight and leaning cautiously into my turns. Sirius, impossibly handsome, is shouting with joyful abandon as the wind whips across his face. Peter struggles to keep up, trying too hard to hide the fact that he's making such a concerted effort to match our pace. James is flying circles around us, sometimes literally, looping around each friend and giving us his cocky grin as he hangs upside-down, face inches from our own, glasses askew and hair wild. Then James flips upright and leans forward, impossibly fast, outstripping us all, yelling over his shoulder, "Can't catch me!" Sirius laughs at the challenge and follows, and Peter and I hurry forward. I always wake before I discover which of us catches up first.

Other times, Sirius is speeding along on that old motorbike, a portrait in teenage rebellion, all black hair and leather and silvery chrome and eyes. He revs the motor and sends a sly grin back at the three of us. "Can't catch me!" he calls over the noise, and starts forward. James immediately flies into a full-out sprint, going for a moment even faster than the bike. Sirius lags behind for a moment in surprise, then accelerates; a roar goes up, both from the engine and the laughing boy. Peter and I exchange a glance, then we're running too, neck and neck.

Sometimes, the dreams are much more ominous. James and Sirius look down from above, perched on some unknowable ledge on high, and their faces are full of sadness and anger and love. It is terrible to behold. The night sky shines around all of us, and suddenly, there appears something that is also at once beautiful and terrifying. The full moon rises, and I glance to the side. There stands Peter. "Can't catch me!" he says. As I transform, he does as well. Amidst a barrage of sound, over my howls of pain and a rat's frantic, scurrying feet, I lose sight of him as he disappears into the undergrowth.

My old friends. They visit me in my dreams, and they only ever have one thing - three words - to say.

Three words, and I know they're right. No, I can't catch them. At least, I haven't managed it yet. There are times when the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness seem to be too much to bear, and I am ready and willing to race with all my might, to throw myself at Prongs and Padfoot and laugh in triumphant glee when I finally reach them, as we fall to the ground, a tumble of limbs, all hale and strong and whole and together again.

James is always first. Sirius follows. Peter and I are left behind, left to face one another on opposite sides of Right and Wrong, of Good and Evil.

We are the last Marauders standing. I cannot help but wonder if, when brother faces brother, one will continue to stand, feet firmly on the Earth; if one will escape his mortal bonds, and race alongside the wind, and the stars, and forever, and friends.

Time will only tell which of us will be next to catch the laughing, black-haired boys who ran ahead, and left much too soon.