CLICK!

A bright flash wakes her, but Darcy doesn't open her eyes yet. With half her face still buried in the pillow, a few strands of loose hair tickling the tip of her nose, she lets out a muffled groan and smiles slightly. "Don't take pictures of me while I'm sleeping," she murmurs, her tone playful, a blush creeping up the back of her neck.

"I couldn't help it, love," Lupin answers softly. "You looked adorable."

Darcy's eyes flutter open to find Lupin sitting up in bed beside her, the blanket draped over his legs, holding her camera in one hand and vigorously shaking the newest photograph with his other hand. He smiles at her when he sees that her eyes are open. Darcy admires the sight of him shirtless for a moment, flesh littered with scars of all shapes and sizes that all know the feel of her lips. She doesn't think she could ever grow tired of this sight, of waking next to him while he looks so vulnerable and disheveled, brown and gray hair tousled and falling into his face, a lopsided and rather aloof grin on his face, bleary-eyed. Lupin puts her camera down, noticing her staring at him and smirking to himself, giving the photograph a few more shakes and looking down at it.

"Let me see it," she rasps, reaching out for the photograph. Lupin gives it to her without protest and she examines it, still blushing furiously. The photograph-Darcy's eyes are still shut, a few stray strands of hair falling across her face, a slight pout on her still swollen lips. "Where are all the pictures I've taken of you?"

"Hidden somewhere no one will ever find them."

She chuckles, moving swiftly up from her place on the bed and placing a knee on either side of Lupin. He looks up at Darcy as she leans over to the reach the nightstand, her chest pressing against his as she opens the drawer and pulls out a stack of photographs. Lupin leans forward and kisses her exposed collarbone, his fingers brushing lightly over the scars on her shoulder. Darcy shuffles through the photographs—there are quite a few now. One shows Darcy sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, smiling drunkenly; another is of the two of them, Darcy beaming and Lupin's face buried in her neck shyly; others of Darcy cooking breakfast and candid ones of her reading and ones of her smiling at the television and giving the camera a deadpan look, as if annoyed by his fascination with taking pictures of her (not that she's really annoyed, of course). She eventually shows Lupin the one she'd taken of him at the market. "I like this one," she says, and Lupin rests his forehead against her chest, giving the picture a sideways glance. "I'm keeping it."

"Then I'm keeping . . ." Lupin quickly pulls one of the photographs from Darcy's hands before she can stop him. "This one." He raises his eyebrows, grinning, showing her the photograph only for a moment, but Darcy recognizes it immediately. Lupin had taken it two days ago as she lay in bed—in it, Darcy is smiling sheepishly over the top of a book, clad in nothing except her underwear, her long legs stretched out and crossed in front of her. Despite the embarrassment the photograph brings her (in the best way possible), Darcy has to admit that she looks a completely different person than when she'd arrived at Lupin's. There's some color in her cheeks now, and eating so much food the past week has filled her out a little bit.

Darcy reaches for it, but Lupin pulls it out of her reach, holding it up above his head. "Give it back," she says with a laugh, reaching for it again, the tips of her fingers just brushing against the corner of it.

"What are you going to do with it?" Lupin teases, tossing the photograph onto the nightstand. "I'll keep it safe for you." He leans back on the headboard, sighing contently. "Are you sure you won't stay?"

Darcy kisses his forehead. "If you keep asking me that, I may start to think you're falling in love with me." She smiles down into his face. "Can you imagine? Remus Lupin, falling in love with a Potter."

"And what if I am?" Lupin asks flatly, closing his eyes as Darcy kisses his cheeks and down his throat, running her fingers through his hair.

"Are you?"

Lupin only smiles innocently, looking up into Darcy's face when she sits up straight again.

"You'll come see me, won't you?" she whispers, resuming her kissing of his face. Lupin closes his eyes again and continues to grin as Darcy's lips leave tender kisses on every inch of his face. She drapes her arms around his neck. "When I'm at Hogwarts? Just like I'll come see you?"

"I'm sure I can arrange something," he says, his eyelashes fluttering against Darcy's cheek. "But if you want to continue this, you need to tell Sirius."

Darcy stops kissing him, sitting up straighter in his lap, shifting awkwardly. For some reason, talking about Sirius while wearing only her underwear makes her slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps it's the conversation they're about to have, however, that unsettles her. Of course she wants to continue this—whatever they have—but Darcy is being foolish if she thinks they could continue doing this in secret. She knows that Sirius will have to know, that both she and Lupin owe Sirius the truth, but Darcy also knows that other people will need to know the truth—Emily won't be happy about it, and Darcy can't imagine Mr. Weasley will be, either. She sighs and Lupin's fingers run up and down her sides distractedly.

But what does it matter? Darcy asks herself. They're not my parents—Sirius isn't my father, nor is Mr. Weasley, and what does it matter what Emily thinks about it? She's never understood. Harry's the only one that matters. But Darcy isn't sure how she'd even bring up the topic to any of them—is she supposed to just write a letter to Sirius detailing how she'd slowly fallen in love with Lupin while she was his student? Is she supposed to explain to Sirius how she'd stayed the week at his best friend's home, just the two of them, alone and in bed together? Sirius is a grown man—he would know what had been going on, would know that they'd slept together, would likely be furious at the prospect. But how does she know that? She barely knows Sirius—in fact, the only thing that she knows for sure is that she loved him—loves him. And he loves her, so why would he balk at the thought of them together? Here is someone that Sirius knows, very well, and wouldn't he be relieved that Lupin has stepped in where others haven't? Wouldn't he think—better Remus Lupin that some other prick?

Darcy can't pretend that she hasn't thought about others' reactions. Professor McGonagall has already seen them out and about, has likely already told Dumbledore—and what will Dumbledore say when Darcy returns to Hogwarts? She still has not forgotten Dumbledore's promise that the conversation would happen at a more opportune time. But there is nothing he can do—she can no longer be expelled and Lupin can no longer be fired, and Dumbledore wouldn't really kick her out of Hogwarts for going against his wishes—would he?

"I'll tell him," Darcy promises, kissing him gently again on the lips. "Just give me a little bit of time."

"Are you afraid of telling Sirius?" Lupin jokes, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He laughs into her skin, his hands snaking around her waist. "What's the worst he could do? Chastise you via letter? Send me a Howler?"

"It's not funny," Darcy whispers, lowering her arms to her sides and slipping off his lap. Throwing the remaining photographs on the table, she rummages in her trunk for her last clean outfit, shimmying into jeans that are slightly too tight and putting one of Emily's old t-shirts on. "Sirius's opinion means a lot to me."

Lupin doesn't answer, watching her get dressed. "Darcy, I don't want you going back there."

Darcy smiles at him, her cheeks pink. "I know," she replies, sneaking into the bathroom and leaving the door opened just a crack as she brushes her hair. "You've asked me to stay a hundred times already and—"

"No, Darcy," Lupin interrupts, and Darcy lowers her brush at the sound of his voice—low and serious and gravelly—and privately very glad she doesn't have to look him in the face. "I don't want you to go back. I don't want to have to worry more than I already do about you."

Darcy looks at herself in the mirror, her jaw clenched. The bruise that had adorned her cheek when she'd arrived is mostly gone now—all that remains are two fingertip sized bruises just underneath her eye, fading and painless. Her fingers are back to their normal, slender length instead of swollen and puffy, and the welts on her body from being hit with Vernon's cane have mostly gone, save for one on her back that Lupin had pointed out after waking with her for the first time. But even as she looks at herself, she has to wonder—how long until I am back to the way I was? How long until I am a canvas once more, colored with deep blues and purples and tinged with yellow?

"But I could come back here, couldn't I?" Darcy asks through the door, listening to Lupin shifting in bed, fumbling with clothes on the ground. "If it gets bad again?"

"You are always welcome here." Lupin opens the bathroom door and she jumps. He smiles weakly. "Does it make me selfish? Wanting you all to myself?"

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, nuzzling into his chest. "I'm Darcy Potter," she chuckles. "You'll never be able to have me all to yourself. I belong to the people—ever their public servant. Or something like that."

"I saw an article about you a few years ago in the paper," Lupin says, looking curious. "Naturally, I read it as soon as I saw your name—"

"They said I was naive, distant, odd, and unable to come up with an original thought," Darcy replies bitterly, remembering the article. Darcy and Emily had gone down to Hogsmeade, where they had met with some reporters at the Three Broomsticks completely by coincidence. They had jumped at the opportunity to interview Darcy, wanting to hear what happened the night that her parents had died, but she had been so overwhelmed that Emily took it upon herself to answer shortly on Darcy's behalf, barely answering their questions. Darcy had greatly appreciated her best friend's snappy retorts and passive aggressive insults, but the reporters hadn't been thrilled at the way a fourteen-year-old had spoken to them. "Dumbledore told them never to return while I was at Hogwarts. I remember. How could I not?"

"They'll have a field day when they find out about us," Lupin tells her quietly, pushing her hair back out of her face. "Are you sure you want that? Don't think the public will take kindly to us."

Darcy sighs. "I'm not sure what I want," she admits carefully, leaning back into him. "But I know that I love you."

Lupin smiles, as if completely disbelieving this statement—scoffing weakly as if the idea of Darcy loving him is completely ridiculous. Darcy stands on her tiptoes, reaching out to kiss him softly on his lips. "One last time," Lupin murmurs. "I have to ask one last time—stay with me."

"You must know what my answer is going to be," Darcy frowns. "I want to stay with you, but I can't."

Lupin is quiet for a long time and Darcy pulls away from him, beginning to clean all of her things and placing them back in her trunk. As she kneels down to fold some dirty clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor the previous night in a fit of passion, Lupin waves his wand and everything soars perfectly inside of her trunk. Darcy blushes, glad her back is facing him. Her camera is tucked on top of her clothes, the photographs beneath it, safely in place.

"Harry will be fine, you know," Lupin says as Darcy shuts her trunk and gets to her feet. "You're not the only one looking after him."

Darcy hesitates, turning around to face him. "You sound like Emily."

"Maybe she's right."

"Do mine ears deceive me?" Darcy teases, trying to shake the conversation before it actually starts. "Or have you actually said that outloud? She'll be pleased when I tell her you two have finally found something to agree on."

But Lupin doesn't seem to think her comment is funny at all. On the contrary, he stands stock still, his arms folded over her chest. "Darcy, maybe . . . maybe it's time to let him go. He's fourteen, and you are not obligated to be his mother forever."

Darcy looks down at her feet. "I'd rather not talk about this right now."

He obliges and, thankfully, doesn't say anything more about it for the rest of the day. He does load her up with food for herself and Harry to take back from Privet Drive—leftovers from what Darcy had bought at the market, snacks and fresh fruit and vegetables she'll be able to store in her bedroom without needing to refrigerate. He tries for a few minutes to convince her stay again, peppering her face with sweet kisses and whispering in her ear sweet words, but finally gives up when Darcy tells him for the thousandth time she can't, but Darcy knows he doesn't understand how badly she wants to. While Lupin voices his concerns about Darcy and Harry being starved, Darcy ignores him and takes the food while thanking him profusely. Now, with not just her trunk, but with several shopping bags and a small bag stuffed with food, Darcy steps out into the sunshine and onto the front step. Lupin walks with her, sighing heavily at the sight of her prepared to leave him.

"I had a good time this week, even if the week was far too short," he tells her, tucking her hair behind her ears. Darcy smiles, her eyes falling to his neck, where the top of a dark love bite is still visible. The urge to stay with him grows strong inside of her, but she fights it back, thinking of Harry—alone, hungry, and bored and Privet Drive. "Come see me again whenever you like."

"I'll miss you."

"I know." Lupin frowns. "As will I."

"Are you going to kiss me before I leave?"

Lupin laughs at this, leaning in and kissing her for a long time. When he pulls away, he suddenly looks very serious again. "Write to me straight away if things get bad, or if you need more food, or anything—you and Harry both. If there's trouble, I want to know about it. Give him my best."

Darcy looks at him for a long time, her heart racing for no other reason other than her love for him—a love intensified knowing that he cares deeply for Harry, as well—that he cares for her brother's wellbeing. For a brief moment, Darcy is reminded of she and Harry's conversation the previous year, about being a proper family.

"And one more thing before you leave, love," Lupin says with a faint smile, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. "Tell Gemma I'm interested in her proposal."

Darcy smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"All right," Darcy answers. "I'll write to her as soon as I get back. I'll let you know what she says."

"Be safe, my love." Lupin nods, kissing her once more and taking a few steps back. He watches as Darcy prepares to Disapparate, and as she turns on the spot and the scene around her begins to turn into a swirl of color, she thinks she sees Lupin laughing sweetly, holding in his hands a photograph of a girl with long legs and dark red hair.

After being gone for a week, Darcy thinks that she'll feel something when she walks up the garden path to Privet Drive, but all she feels is a sense of foreboding and regret towards her decision not to stay with Lupin. But then she remembers that Harry is inside, probably locked in his bedroom, and Max is in there, hopefully waiting for her to return to snuggle against her face and give her a few affectionate nips. If she's lucky, she may have a few letters waiting for her, as well—Gemma had been the only one to know where Darcy was really going, so she doesn't expect a letter from her, but Darcy's heart jumps in her throat at the thought that a letter from Sirius may be sitting on her desk right now.

Darcy opens the door and struggles with all of her belongings. She makes quite a bit of noise, but thankfully, no one seems to notice or care. Harry, however, runs to the top of the stairs and before Darcy greets him, she tosses the bags of food up to him, mouthing, "Hide it!"

Harry does as he's told, disappearing into his bedroom with armfuls of food. Darcy forces her trunk over the threshold and closes the front door, thankful to get out of the damp summer heat. "Aunt Petunia, I'm home!" she calls, poking her head into the living room. The television is on, but no one is watching it. Darcy goes back to the foyer, beginning to drag her trunk slowly up the stairs, but Petunia's sharp voice stops her halfway up.

Petunia is wearing her gardening gloves, her forehead slightly damp with sweat, her forearms very sunburnt. "Come help with the garden after you unpack," she says, sniffling. "And quickly!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

When Darcy enters her bedroom, she sees one of the best sights she ever remembers seeing. Harry's sitting on her bed, and when the door opens, his eyes flick to Darcy and a broad smile crosses his face. Max hoots from inside his cage, trying desperately to get to Darcy. Wrapping Harry in a one-armed hug, Darcy takes her wand out of her back pocket and waves it at Max's cage; the lock springs open and Max flies directly at her face, causing Darcy to stumble backwards as he rubs his feathers all over her face, clicking his beak and nipping Darcy's earlobes and the tip of her nose. She wrestles with him for a moment before Max finally flutters onto the dresser, at first burying his face in his wing to fall asleep, but then turning his large, dark eyes upon Darcy's face, his head moving with every step that she takes.

"How was it?" Harry asks, reminding Darcy forcibly of Gemma waiting for someone to reveal an incredibly juicy piece of gossip. "What did you do?"

Darcy shrugs, her cheeks turning red. "It was fun," she shrugs, trying to sound casual. "We went to the market and Diagon Alley—which reminds me . . ." She kneels at her trunk and looks inside for a moment before retrieving what she's looking for. Harry holds out his hand as Darcy places a heavy coin purse into it. "I thought I'd take some out for you while I was there."

"Thanks," Harry grins, dropping his money bag on Darcy's bed. "Are you going to go back this summer?"

"Dunno," Darcy replies, eyeing the two unopened letters on her desk. Her fingers twitch, eager to open them. "Maybe. I'd like to, but . . ."

"But . . . ?" Harry urges, leaning forward.

"It doesn't matter." Darcy moves towards her desk.

"Mr. Weasley wrote you," Harry says, eyeing the letters Darcy picks up. He looks down at her open trunk and pulls out the camera on top, examining it closely and noticing the photographs that she's brought with her. "His letter came with Ron's. I didn't mean to read it, I swear, it just kind of . . . fell out."

"Mr. Weasley wrote me?" Darcy asks excitedly, flipping between the two letters. She finds the envelope with his minuscule handwriting and tears it open as Harry looks through the pictures she's brought home. At that moment, she's very thankful Lupin had decided to keep the photograph of herself in her underwear.

Darcy,

I know that you've already made your decision, but I was wondering whether you'd like to accompany me to work in exactly two weeks. I've already gotten the okay, and I think you'll be interested to see what's going on here lately—but I shouldn't say too much here.

Send your response as quickly as possible. Should you accept my offer, I will arrive at your home in two weeks time to escort you to the Ministry.

With love,

Mr. Weasley

"He wants to bring me to the Ministry. When did this arrive?" Darcy asks, as Harry looks closely at another photograph.

"Few days ago," Harry says, looking up at Darcy over the picture. "These are good pictures of you, Darcy. This one's nice." He holds up a picture of Darcy dressed in an oversized sweater, her eyes shut tight with a huge smile on her face.

Darcy blushes furiously, grabbing some parchment and a pen from her desk drawer. She puts the point to the parchment before realizing she has no idea how to respond—it seems strange that Mr. Weasley would invite her to spend time with him at work instead of one of his own children. But she's grateful for an excuse to get out of Privet Drive even just for a day, and Darcy has always nursed a soft spot for Mr. Weasley (and she feels that he nurses a soft spot for her, as well), so she writes: Yes. I'll see you soon. "Is Hedwig away?"

"She's sleeping."

"Can I use her to send this to Mr. Weasley?"

"Sure. I was waiting to send a letter back to Ron anyway."

Darcy hands Harry her reply to Mr. Weasley and looks back down at the other letter. She tears into it, knowing it's from Sirius, and when she pulls out the parchment, she's slightly disappointed how short it is.

Darcy,

I remember that day. You were always climbing up in my lap—I'm glad you tore Wormtail out of the picture. I'm sure it's much nicer without him showing his ugly, traitorous face.

Are you excited about returning to Hogwarts? I can only hope, with Dumbledore being sympathetic towards me, I may be able to see you again sometime. I wish we had gotten more time together, but life can be cruel. I am glad that you have surrounded yourself with people who love and care about you.

As always, if you or Harry need anything, please let Remus know. He'll be able to help you much faster than I will be able to. Keep me posted on everything. We have years to catch up on.

All of my love,

Padfoot

Darcy decides she'll have to write to him later, unsure if she's going to tell him where she's been this past week. She remembers the internal struggle she had felt trying to decide whether or not to tell Lupin about Dumbledore's warning so many months ago. But she can hear Aunt Petunia calling up the stairs for her and Darcy ties her hair into a ponytail and changes quickly into clothes she doesn't mind dirtying, leaving Harry to join her aunt in the sweltering summer sun—not before taking off the necklace she'd gotten from the market, however.

Aunt Petunia is outside by herself, Vernon in the sitting room watching television and flicking through the day's newspaper, grumbling under his breath his own version of commentary. Dudley is nowhere to be seen, and Darcy's grateful for that much, at least. Ignoring Vernon, Darcy settles herself at Aunt Petunia's side at the garden as she pulls some weeds. Handing Darcy some gloves, Aunt Petunia moves closer, surprising Darcy.

Aunt Petunia quickly peers inside to make sure no one is listening, and then glances over each shoulder, looking for a sign of eavesdropping neighbors. "I have a job lined up for you," Aunt Petunia mutters, and Darcy gives her aunt a sideways look before reaching for some weeds.

"But I already have a job," she whispers, uncertain why Dumbledore hadn't added that in his letter to Aunt Petunia. Darcy keeps her eyes on the weeds. "It just hasn't started yet. I leave with Harry."

Aunt Petunia ignores her. "A secretary—Mrs. Willow has offered you a place at her husband's business. Can you type?"

"Aunt Petunia, I've never touched a computer in my life. Of course I can't type."

"Then you better learn quickly."

Darcy scowls, and knows that Aunt Petunia sees it. Mrs. Willow had always been one to demand Darcy play the part of a lady—reading poems and cooking dinner and showing off table manners—and had always spoken of her son, around Darcy's age, who was a perfect gentleman, and always hinted at a marriage in the future. Petunia had been half-delighted, half-cross about the idea, given that no one knows what Darcy really is. "I don't want to work as a secretary," she whispers back. "I'm going to be an assistant at school this fall."

Aunt Petunia gives her a withering glare. "Her son, Henry, is willing to marry you, and he's a good boy. It would be a good life for you, and the job would pay decently."

He's not a good boy, however, and Darcy knows it. They'd met on several occasions, and one of them involved Henry trying to touch between her legs while they were thirteen and out of sight of his mother and Aunt Petunia, but Darcy doesn't think this the sort of thing Aunt Petunia should ever know. "Aunt Petunia, I'm returning to school this fall. Professor Snape is going to—"

Aunt Petunia drops the shovel she's holding, looking horrified. Very, very slowly, she turns to look at Darcy. "What did you say?"

"Er—" Darcy's sure Aunt Petunia has heard her perfectly well. "I'm going to be an assistant for one of the teachers at school."

"Who did you say?"

Darcy pauses. "Professor Snape." And from Aunt Petunia's look of horror and her scrunched nose and purses lips, Darcy has to ask, "Do you know him?"

"Know him?" Aunt Petunia hisses angrily. She seems to be fighting some internal conflict as to whether or not to tell Darcy something very important. "Of course I knew him. Nasty boy, always hanging around your mother. In love with her, I expect. Is he in love with you, as well?"

Her tone is accusing, and Darcy flushes. "No, Aunt Petunia."

Darcy is quiet, hoping that Aunt Petunia will fill the silence. Her heartbeat begins to quicken.

"Until you came along, and then instead of one nasty boy, we had four of them at our house all the time during the summer."

Darcy thinks that now is a good time to tell Aunt Petunia something, but thinks carefully about how to word it. As casually as possible, Darcy's says, "Professor Lupin was a teacher at school last year. Remus."

This gets Aunt Petunia's attention. "I remember him," she murmurs bitterly. "Good friends with your mother. I'm sure he took to you quickly, didn't he?" But her tone suggests that it's not a good thing he did.

Darcy suddenly feels sick at these words. She stops fumbling with the weed she had been about to pull from the earth. He admitted it himself he took to me quickly because I am James and Lily's daughter, she thinks, but he always made sure to let me know he saw me as Darcy. Still, Darcy can't deny the effect Aunt Petunia's statement has on her. But Aunt Petunia has no idea of what they have together—has no idea the love she and Lupin share. Aunt Petunia doesn't think anyone could love me having known my mother—she doesn't think Darcy Potter could be loved. She wants to tell Aunt Petunia then where she'd been instead of Emily's—wants to tell Aunt Petunia that she had fallen asleep curled up in Lupin's arms, had kissed him all over, had loved him in every way she could possibly think of.

But she doesn't. She knows there will be consequences—knows that Vernon will likely find out, and the results won't be pretty. Darcy doesn't think she's ever looked pretty with her face covered in bruises. The memory of the last time he'd hit her in earnest still makes bile rise in her throat, and it's the only thing that stops her from admitting the truth to Aunt Petunia.

"Yes," Darcy rasps. "He did."

"Men in that freak world of yours will always take an interest in you," Aunt Petunia frowns, eyebrows furrowed. "Especially men who knew your freak mother." When Darcy doesn't immediately answer, Aunt Petunia lets the silence hang over them for a minute. Then, in a low voice, she says, "Go."

Darcy gets to her feet quickly, walking into the house and running up the stairs, feeling that she would have much rather Vernon hit her—at least then, after a few moments, the pain of it would subside.

Aunt Petunia's words haunt her for days, especially at night as she looks through the photographs she and Lupin had taken of each other. They look so happy in them, as if they've been together for years—comfortable and relaxed with wide smiles and shy glances. It makes her slightly sad to know the photographs represent their relationship—if that's what it is in the first place—in a much different light. Without him by her side, without his smile and touch distracting her and stopping her from overthinking, Darcy is suddenly very wary about his feelings towards her.

She had thought, at the end of the school year, that their relationship would continue—that they would love each other completely and unrestrainedly, without reservation. But Darcy had foolishly forgotten what the two of them are—Darcy Potter, sister of the Boy Who Lived and daughter of James and Lily Potter; no matter how much she wishes or dreams, that's all she'll ever be. And then she thinks of him—Remus Lupin, werewolf, outcast, friend of her parents and godfather and twice her age.

She looks at the picture of Lupin smiling at the market, looking a young man again. How many times has Darcy dreamt of another life? One that isn't plagued by suffering and tragedy? One that doesn't involve bearing so much responsibility at only eighteen. It startles Darcy sometimes to remember how young she is—eighteen. Surely she's older—surely she's lived longer than that—after all she's been through, it can't be possible that she's still so young. Too young, she thinks. Too young to have been through so much, to have lost so much—too young for him—I do look an awful like my mother when she was this age, when she was in school . . .

Don't be stupid, Darcy tells herself. He loves you, not your mother. You've had this conversation before.

And though Darcy knows the truth, and what Aunt Petunia has to say shouldn't matter, she can't help but to feel that if she's left alone, dwelling on these thoughts, they may eat her alive. She glances up at the calendar, where she's been crossing off the days until Mr. Weasley will be coming to get her to take her to work.

Three days.

Darcy throws the photograph down on the bed and opens her desk drawer, pulling out a pen and some parchment.

Emily,

Darcy pauses, wondering what will appeal to Emily most. Surely the pleading, begging Darcy—that's always worked in the past when she needed to leave Privet Drive quickly. But Darcy isn't feeling much in a pleading and begging mood. She decides to take a different approach and lowers her pen to the parchment once more.

Get me the fuck out of here.