Chasing a Dream

For Meghna


They looked back at it all, and had no regrets, because it was for Remus.

It was not easy. None of it was easy.


James said it, when he stayed up until three in the morning, working.

Sirius said it, when he risked life and limb – and detention – hiding behind bushes and jumping nervously at the darting shadows, just to find out how to get into the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.

Peter said it, when he was tired, and stayed so long trying and trying to get the magic right, until his head swam and his face was hot and he felt as though he’d just been hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx.

But that didn’t matter, because Remus mattered more.

Days-weeks-months merged into a colourless haze, with exhaustion and worry being the most tangible things anyone could feel.

Remus asked them many times what they were up to. He asked Sirius, because he was looking unusually pale and drawn. He asked James, when he saw him pacing about in frustration. He asked Peter, when he had been unusually shy, and could be seen muttering frantically to himself in a corner.

By mutual agreement – the lift of an eyebrow, the upward quirk of a mouth – they did not say anything, though Peter was about to – he would begin “Remus!� and then break off with a muttered apology.


Some days, Sirius was sure that this day would be his last. The tiredness of body, of mind, of everything.

And on those days, he would climb to a high place – any high place – and stand there, letting the wind rush past him and looking down on everything else as though he was above it all. It gave him a feeling of power, of hope, and of indefinable, all-pervading peace.

And there he remembered that it was for Remus, all of it, and went about his work with a little more vigour, a little more happiness.

It became their mantra during those days, and whenever they felt in need of anything – some hope, some comfort, a little strength to go on, they said “For Remus� and they tried again.


It was Sirius who managed first, sitting and staring until he thought he must be cross-eyed.

And suddenly he thought he saw fingers growing shorter, and claws, and fur.

“Remus!� he shouted, on impulse, but he realised that there was no Remus to call, as it was the wrong time. He knew he should call James, or Peter, but somehow Remus was the only person who came to mind.

He had seen claws. Wolves had claws – Remus had claws.

But when James came, and asked what was the matter, seeing the large eyes in the pale face, the claws had gone, and Sirius swore it must have been a hallucination.


But hope-trust-pain-work did at last give them what they wanted. It came in the form of antlers, and pointed hooves. It came in shaggy black fur and a wagging tail; and two days later, just when unvoiced frustration was beginning to simmer, it came in small black eyes, and whiskers, and sharp square teeth, and they swore that that night was the night.


They were even more tired, when they got back; James looked haggard, Peter fell asleep almost as soon as they reached the dormitory, and Sirius was bleeding from a long thin scratch along his forehead.

But they agreed that it had been worth it, and it was going to be worth it. It was for Remus.

FIN