"What is this game? How am I supposed to get drunk if I don't understand the game?"
"Not understanding the game will likely get you drunker."
"You don't have to play!"
Gemma turns to Darcy, a blank expression on her face, almost exasperated. "You know if I don't play, I'll never hear the end of it," she whispers, giving Carla a sweet, amused smile. Gemma raises her voice, settling into a nearby chair. Darcy mimics her, moving her chair closer to Gemma. "Darcy and I will watch the first few rounds."
Emily shrugs as Carla empties a small bag full of Gobstones on the ground. She sets them up on a blanket, sitting cross-legged across from Emily, clutching a cup in her hand full of amber liquor. Emily drinks from a bottle of wine. "And here I'd thought we'd be sober for this," she cackles, raising her eyebrows in approval at Gemma.
Gemma smiles. "You thought I'd show up empty-handed?" she teases, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's like you don't even know me at all."
"Come on," Ron hisses in Darcy's ear, his eyes fixed on Darcy's cup full of firewhisky. "Let me just have one sip—dad's not here!"
"Don't do it," George laughs, pushing Ron away from Darcy with a sharp elbow.
"Unless you're sharing with everyone," Fred adds quickly, giving Darcy a sly smile.
"Your father has already given me the disappointed-father speech once this summer," Darcy tells Ron, pushing him lightly away from her. She adjusts the scarlet hat on her head and chuckles. "I'm not keen on receiving another one for giving his underage son firewhisky. Now, go sit with Harry and Hermione—I have important gossip to discuss with Gemma."
"Merlin, I've been waiting weeks for this." Gemma takes a deep swig of the firewhisky and puts her cup down in the grass beside her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the front of her shirt and offering one to Darcy. Darcy takes it without question, grateful. "You poor thing have probably been dying of stress without a cigarette, I'm sure."
"If Aunt Petunia ever found out I smoke, I truly think she'd kill me." Darcy lights her cigarette with a quick flick of her wand.
Hermione scrunches her nose, looking over at them. "Must you do that now?"
Gemma leans forward, looking past Darcy at Hermione and pointing a finger at her. "Of course we have to do this now," Gemma says. "I can't drink and not smoke a cigarette. I'm really in my element now. And no one is forcing you to sit by us, you know that, right?" When Hermione doesn't answer, Gemma smiles wider. "Or . . . you think we're so cool, you don't want to leave because you want people to think you're cool by association—"
"You're not funny," Hermione retorts. "And you're not cool, either."
"Ouch," Gemma laughs. "Hermione, no offense, but I'm a lot cooler than you are."
"If being cool means getting so drunk you can't walk right and stinking of cigarettes, then I don't think I want to be cool at all."
This makes Gemma laugh harder. "Oh, Hermione . . . you know that I love you, don't you?"
Hermione rolls her eyes, her attention caught by Emily and Carla both shouting and drinking deep from their cup and bottle. Darcy and Gemma toast their friends and drink again, chasing it with a long drag of their cigarettes. Darcy coughs, the liquid warm in her chest. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione start their own conversation and Fred and George begin to chat up a couple of girls, Gemma leans into Darcy once more, elbowing her playfully.
Gemma holds her watch out in front of her. "We've got about an hour. Is that enough time?"
With a surge of affection for Gemma, Darcy plunges into the story of her week at Lupin's, starting from the very beginning. When Darcy admits she'd slept alone for the first few days because she was too embarrassed to ask Lupin to join her, Gemma snorts and laughs kind-heartedly ("You guys are so gross, you know that?"). Darcy doesn't spare Gemma any details, even the ones that make her blush furiously, but Gemma listens carefully the whole time, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking from her cup. Unable to stop talking, Darcy then tells Gemma about her experience at the Ministry of Magic, and the conversation she and Mr. Weasley had in regards to Lupin. When Darcy finishes, it's like a weight off her chest, and she sighs contently, her head buzzing with drink.
Darcy and Gemma are quiet for a few minutes, watching Emily and Carla grow drunker and drunker with each round of Gobstones they play. Harry and Hermione watch Ron's miniature figure of Viktor Krum walk back and forth on his palm; Fred and George have disappeared, along with the girls they'd been talking to.
"I'm afraid to tell Sirius," Darcy whispers, glancing around at her friends once more. "I don't think he's going to be happy."
"Why?"
"For all the same reasons Mr. Weasley wasn't happy, and then some."
"Darcy, Sirius has been in Azkaban for the better part of your life," Gemma says very seriously. "No offense, but I don't really think that what he has to say about you and Lupin should matter very much to you. After all the shit you've been through, you deserve this, and if he can't see that—well . . . then fuck him."
"Don't say that, Gemma. I love him," Darcy says quickly, feeling guilty for even entertaining such a thought. "I love Sirius. What he thinks matters very much to me."
Gemma doesn't seem to have much else to say about the subject, and it discourages Darcy slightly. Gemma, who had been Darcy's steady and reliable source of comfort the previous year, who had kept her secrets and given her advice and listened to everything without asking too many questions . . . Darcy needs decent advice, but she doesn't like the advice Gemma has given. But she isn't given much time to think about it—within fifteen minutes, parents begin to arrive to collect their children.
Mr. Weasley comes first, decked in green to support Ireland along with his children and their friends—with Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Fred and George at his heels, he beckons to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They bid everyone good-bye and head towards the lantern lit path that will take them, presumably, to the stadium. Carla's mother and father seem agitated at the fact that Carla and Gemma have been drinking, but escort them away with smile, clearly not wanting to dampen the high spirits of the Quidditch Cup. When Emily's mother and her friend finally come to fetch Emily and Darcy, Darcy realizes they aren't the only ones who've been drinking, as Mrs. Duncan smells strongly of spiced wine, and her friend's eyes are bloodshot and heavy, a lopsided smile on her face as they follow the shuffling crowd between rows and rows of tents—small tents and large tents, tents with gardens out front and tents with weather vanes on top. Eventually, the crowd leads them to a path lit by dim lights in the evening gloom, and Darcy hears raucous singing and drunken laughing, and Darcy smiles, walking slightly unsteadily on her feet along with the sea of green and scarlet.
The stadium is larger than Darcy could have ever imagined—her eyes light up, never having been to anything like this before. Mrs. Duncan leads them to four seats that have been reserved for them, and Darcy sits on the end, Emily on her left. All around her, thousands and thousands of spectators file into their seats, talking excitedly, wearing their support for either Ireland or Bulgaria. Advertisements flicker on a large blackboard high above Darcy's head, and she pulls out the pair of Omnioculars, searching the stands dutifully for signs of her friends.
She sees the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione in the Top Box talking with several important and flashy-looking wizards, including Cornelius Fudge. At the sight of the Minister of Magic, Darcy's stomach begins to churn, but she can't take her eyes off him. All she can think about is his inability to listen to reason—to even consider for one moment that Sirius may be innocent, that he hadn't done what all those witnesses thought they saw him do. If Cornelius Fudge was a decent man, he would have listened to Darcy and set Aurors to hunting down Peter Pettigrew instead of her godfather. Forcing herself to look anywhere else, Darcy moves her Omnioculars a little ways away to watch Ludo Bagman, looking cheerful and excited as ever, and Darcy watches Ludo put his wand to his throat, not expecting to hear his voice boom throughout the stadium and her head.
"Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four-hundred-and-twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
The spectators roar their approval and excitement, clapping and whistling and stamping their feet. Mrs. Duncan and her friend cheer loudly and Emily wolf-whistles, waving her Irish flag in the air and peering through her own Omnioculars.
The match is already full of surprises and the game hasn't even started. Ludo Bagman announces the Bulgarian mascots and Darcy watches on curiously as they file out onto the field—hundreds of young women, incredibly and unbelievably beautiful, with long, silvery hair and skin that appears to sparkle beneath the light. Even though Darcy knows better (she doesn't need Emily to dig fingernails into her arm and hiss, "Veela!"), she can't help but feel extremely self-conscious. Suddenly, Darcy flattens her hair and looks down at her knees, feeling clumsy and plain and gawky. But it seems that she isn't the only one affected by these women, and when they start dancing, chaos suddenly ensues—men everywhere around Darcy are watching the dancing with too much intensity, some of them hanging over the railing that keeps them from plummeting to their deaths, other standing on their seats with a hand held to their heart, a glazed look about them.
When the Veela finish their dance and begin to leave the field, Darcy is surprised at the amount of angry shouting, men calling them back, expressing their desire for the women to stay just in view. But Darcy's privately glad they've gone, for her feelings of severe inadequacy (that so often come about when she's with Lupin) slowly begin to fade, pushed to the back of her mind again. And they disappear completely when the Irish mascots come out, distracting Darcy.
Darcy watches the sky as what appears to be fireworks light up the stands and draw the attention of everyone who'd been watching the Veela. Darcy grins up at the shamrock that appears against the dark sky and looks through her Omnioculars, zooming in as far as she's able, something hitting her hard on the top of the head. Lowering her Omnioculars, Darcy looks around to find golden coins raining down upon the spectators, and upon closer inspection, finds that the fireworks aren't fireworks at all—but Leprechauns.
"Don't take any of the coins," Mrs. Duncan tells them both, watching them scoop some golden coins from the ground. "It's all fake gold, you know—it'll disappear!"
Ludo Bagman introduces the players for each time, and when he calls Viktor Krum's name, the stands around her go absolutely wild. Apparently, Krum is a favorite player of the Bulgarian supporters and Irish ones alike, and when Darcy looks into his face, she gets the impression that Krum doesn't particularly enjoy it—or maybe he does, but his face just looks like that. He's young, maybe no older than her, with large, thick, dark eyebrows lacking any arch, making him look angry and sullen, and his curved nose reminds Darcy of a beak.
After the referee flies out onto the pitch, the game begins, and Darcy has a hard time keeping up. Seven years of watching Quidditch being played at Hogwarts, three years of watching Harry play, but this is nothing like she's ever seen. Despite being draped in scarlet, Darcy cheers along with Emily, Mrs. Duncan, and Mrs. Duncan's friend, Faye, when the Irish Chaser scores the first goal of the match, and Emily points out the dancing and teasing Leprechauns, who celebrate with the team.
The match is brutal, fast-paced, and Ludo can barely keep up with the Quaffle most times. His enthusiastic nature does nothing but engage Darcy, and while she hadn't thought she'd ever find herself fond of Ludo, it's hard not to be. Bulgaria scores eventually, and the Veela perform their dance again to the audiences' pleasure, and the Bludgers zoom around the pitch, hit by Beater after Beater towards any player near the Quaffle.
Viktor Krum, Darcy has to admit, is an excellent flyer. She's always known that Harry has real talent on a broomstick, but Krum is something else entirely, and part of her wishes she was in the Top Box with her brother, exclaiming and chattering about the players clean techniques and executions and flying styles. A little while into the match, the Irish Seeker follows Krum in a dive, crashing into the ground as Krum pulls up just in time, soaring away unhurt. It's a moment before the medi-wizards tend to the injured and dazed Seeker, and then the game begins again, picking up right where it left off.
Players are injured, penalties are awarded, even the Veelas reveal their true selves halfway through the game, jeering at the dancing Leprechauns with bird-like features, angry and shrieking madly. Ireland scores goal after goal, flying through the air with a kind of triumph as the Snitch continues to elude both Seekers. Darcy feels her voice grow hoarse as she shouts incoherently with the rest of the crowd, and Emily is barely audible over the shouts of her mother and Faye.
Watching Krum through her Omnioculars, Darcy sees him dive again, blood spilling from a broken nose down his robes and through the air behind him, catching the attention of the Irish Seeker. For a moment, Darcy expects Krum to lead the other Seeker into the ground again, hopefully earning himself a few more minutes to search for the Snitch without interruption, but . . .
"Ireland wins!" Ludo's voice booms suddenly. "Krum's caught the Snitch, but Ireland wins! One-hundred-seventy to one-hundred-sixty! Ireland wins the Cup!"
Darcy and Emily turn to each other, wide-eyed and panting and absolutely enthused. She can feel her heart racing with adrenaline beneath her chest, threatening to burst right out of her. As both team fly much slower towards the Top Box, Emily croaks, "How about that?"
"That was amazing," Darcy says breathlessly, unable to close her mouth. "Why don't we go to more Quidditch games?"
"Don't let mum hear you say that," Emily laughs, nodding at her mother, who looks to be almost teary-eyed as she applauds the Ireland team. Emily grins mischievously. "I'm sure Oliver Wood would give you free tickets whenever you wanted."
Darcy laughs. "I'm sure there's a price."
Despite the late hour, many people continue celebrating well into the night, including Darcy, Emily, Carla, and Gemma, who continue to drink and smoke, reliving the Quidditch match play-by-play. Sitting together in an empty camping spot, surrounded by Irish supporters who set off massive and beautiful and colorful fireworks and sink loudly and drunkenly, setting the mood, Darcy can't think of anywhere else she'd rather be right now.
"How about that Viktor Krum?" Gemma asks, looking around at all of her friends for approval with a raised eyebrow. "Handsome, isn't he? Do you think that I could seduce a famous Quidditch player?"
"Why does he always look so angry, though?" Carla asks with a shrug, uninterested.
"He was probably angry because his team lost," Emily adds.
"Yeah, but Krum was the one who caught the Snitch," Darcy says. "If I were Krum, I probably would have at least smiled once."
"So, what's the consensus?" Gemma asks again impatiently. "Am I going for it? You think I could do it?"
"You and every other girl here," Emily snorts, cheering with Gemma, clinking her glass against Gemma's with a mocking smile. "Good luck fighting your way through all of them."
Gemma bristles, offended and defensive. "You're trying to tell me that Viktor Krum wouldn't pick me out of a crowd of—"
There's a loud and sudden bang!, and the four of them quiet for a moment, uneasy. Darcy's ears perk up as she looks around her, looking for some small sign of disturbance, of something wrong, and her heart starts to hammer again and she can feel sweat forming on her face—cold sweat at her hairline. "What was that?" she snaps, hoping for a reassuring answer.
"It's probably just fireworks," Carla replies with a smile. "They've been setting them off every three minutes. What are you so paranoid for?"
"Do you even know Darcy?" Emily jokes, though Darcy can tell that her heart isn't really in it. She checks her watch, her leg bouncing up and down. Darcy stares at Emily, hoping she'll look up and understand Darcy's fervent desire to leave and find Harry. When Emily meets her eyes, she clears her throat, and both she and Darcy put their cigarettes out. "It's getting late. Darcy, mum will probably be waiting for us."
"You're leaving now?" Gemma frowns, getting to her feet as Darcy and Emily reach out for each other's hands. "The party's just started! Come on, at least help us finish this bottle of—"
Before anyone can give answer, the tent beside their empty spot erupts into flames, and the small explosion from inside knocks all four of them backwards. Darcy hits the ground hair, Emily falling on her legs with a yelp. They scramble to their feet, pulling Carla and Gemma up by their hands. By the light of the raging fire, Darcy sees the panic in her friends' faces, and as adrenaline courses through her veins, panic accompanying it, Darcy pushes Emily behind her as another tent goes up in flames.
"What's happening?" Carla shrieks, shielding her eyes from the blinding light of the hot flames, looking Darcy in the face. "What's going on?"
Darcy looks around as if searching for an answer right in front of her, but all she can hear is screaming, not singing. The shouts and cries of wizards and witches, the wailing of children, names being called frantically in the dark, the sound of heavy footsteps all around her as people rush back and forth, searching for family members and friends. It's hard to see through the dark, and now the smoke from the flames is clogging the clean air, but Darcy thinks she can see other people—hooded, their faces hidden, and suspended high above them are four people, clearly in pain and afraid, sobbing as the hooded figures make their bodies contort and writhe in the air. Darcy shakes her head, her eyes falling upon Gemma, whose face is set and white as a ghost.
Gemma grabs onto Carla's hand, turning to Darcy. Darcy swallows loudly, being shuffled around by the fleeing crowd as the hooded figures draw nearer. Gemma's grave expression frightens Darcy—it's almost as if the incident has sobered Gemma up completely. "Death Eaters," Gemma whispers. She looks to Emily and gives her a slight nod before turning back to Darcy. "You have to get out of here—we'll go check on Carla's parents, and we'll meet up afterwards."
Death Eaters. So this is what Voldemort had planned—he wasn't going to show his face, he was going to have his servants do it for him. When Darcy glances at the floating figures, her stomach lurches, recognizing them as the Muggles who had greeted them when they arrived at the campsite. They dangle in the air like rag-dolls. Darcy wonders very briefly if Gemma's parents are among the crowd—if Gemma had any idea that something was being planned, she's a very good actress. Judging by her pale face and the fear in her eyes, Darcy doesn't think Gemma suspected anything at all.
Without a plan, without any other instructions, Gemma and Carla run one way, away from the Death Eaters now closing in on them. Emily makes to run the opposite way, towards the campsite, and Darcy makes to run into the Death Eaters. Still clutching onto each other's hands, they both stumble, facing each other.
"Where are you going?" Emily screams, as a witch nearly runs her over attempting to flee the Death Eaters. "Mum's tent is this way!"
"I have to find Harry!"
"You heard Gemma, you have to get out of here! If they see you and realize who you are, they will kill you!" Emily starts to panic and she takes a step backwards. "I have to get to mum—please, Darcy, come with me and we can get out of here—"
"I'm not leaving without Harry!"
Darcy and Emily both hesitate, give each other a pleading look, and at the same time, they both turn away from each other, pelting off in opposite directions, wands at the ready. The Death Eaters are closing in now and Darcy is sure they've spotted her, sure that some of them recognize her—and sure enough, a jet of white light is shot towards her. Darcy tries to side-step it, but it grazes her thigh, cutting through her jeans and breaking skin. It stings, but the pain goes away just as quickly as it had come on, despite blood soaking the area.
Between the stampeding crowd, the Death Eaters, and Ministry workers and volunteers attempting to fight off the Death Eaters, Darcy can hardly tell up from down. Jets of red, green, blue, and white fly in every direction, narrowly missing her some of the time, and several times she's knocked to the ground when a fleeing wizard or witch barrels into her. She tries to find the area where the Weasleys had pitched their tents, but Darcy doesn't know where she is, and the only sound now is the pounding of her pulse in her ears, drowning out the screams and cries and jeers. How is she supposed to find Harry like this? She can't find a sign of red hair—the Weasleys are always easy to pick out of a crowd—and she can't find a sign of Harry or Hermione. Even her own friends are lost to her; Carla and Gemma are likely already gone, Disapparated as soon as they'd returned to Carla's parents—and where is Emily? Where was it that they'd set up the tent? Hundreds of tents are on fire and any one of those could be the one that she seeks, but thick black smoke keeps her from spotting any small details that could alert her to the owner.
Darcy continues to push her way through the thinning crowd, coughing and hacking as the smoke burns her lungs and her chest. "Harry!" she rasps, coughing into her elbow, pushing a wide wizard out of her way. "Harry!"
Between the excitement of the match and lots of drink, Darcy hadn't even been thinking about the possibility of an attack on the World Cup. Everything had seemed, for lack of a better word, fine. Security was everywhere, scouring the campground for signs of inappropriate magic, and now . . . how many people are dead or injured already? How many more frightened, trying to console their children? And what of the Muggles being raised high in the sky by the Death Eaters? Darcy continues to stagger through the burning tents, searching for a sign of someone she knows, hoping that her friends are safe and all right. How many people could she have saved by telling someone about her concerns? What would they have done? Darcy hadn't been expecting this—not an assault on the campground by cowards hidden behind masks . . . could any of this have been prevented?
Through the thick, black smoke, high in the night sky above Darcy, something floods the campground with light, and she looks up, momentarily frozen to the spot. She can't remember ever seeing anything like it—green in color, the shape looks to be a giant skull, horrible and terrifying, and when it opens its mouth, the tongue slithers like a snake from it and Darcy recoils. She doesn't know why—she can't explain it—but the sight of the skull in the sky inspires such fear in her heart, and Darcy continues moving, calling out Harry's name, stopping again when notices something off.
The appearance of this skull in the sky seems to have triggered something among the Death Eaters. They begin to scatter and break ranks, Disapparating as the Ministry workers close in on them with their wands brandished. Groups of Death Eaters disappear together, pointing at the sky, forgetting about destroying the campsites all around them. With most of the fearful witches and wizards hiding in the woods or gone completely, the Death Eaters missing, and Ministry workers putting out the fires, Darcy looks around her again, able to see by the light of the skull in the sky.
The sight of the campsite takes Darcy's breath away; her knees buckle and she falls to the ground, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene of utter destruction. Her chest heaves at the sight of bodies lying around her—dead or just Stunned, she can't be sure. The smoldering remains of the tents are all that's left in the area, the grass scorched and blackened, the sky looking almost cloudy with all the billowing smoke. Darcy looks to the tree line off to the side, wondering if it's possible Harry could be hiding in there—or had he wandered off to look for her? Would he have done that? Would Harry have needed to know his sister was all right?
"Darcy? Darcy! Oh, my—Merlin's beard . . . all right, Darcy, up you get, here now . . ."
A heavy hand clamps around Darcy's upper arm and pulls her to her feet. She turns to find Ludo Bagman, his normally smiling face looking very white and very scared. His eyes dart from burned tent to burned tent before gripping her arm tighter and looking right into her eyes. Darcy watches as he examines her face, looking her quickly up and down.
"Are you all right? What are you doing out here?" he asks her urgently, as if she should know better. Darcy only looks at him with a blank expression. "Come . . . come, Darcy . . . let's get you away from here . . . where are your friends, Darcy?"
"I . . . I don't know," she replies, keeping her eyes fixed upon Ludo's face, not wanting to see anymore of the devastation around her. Ludo grips her arm tighter and looks around. "I was looking for Harry . . . Emily and I got separated—"
"You there!" Ludo calls out, making Darcy jump. "Are you a Weasley? You look like a Weasley!"
"Charlie—!" Relief washes over Darcy at the sight of just his face, and Darcy reaches out for him. There's a large tear in his shirt and a few small cuts on his arms, but he seems otherwise all right, and wraps his arms around her in equal relief. She breaks away from him, breathing heavily. "Charlie, where's Harry? I couldn't find him anywhere—"
"Don't worry, I'm sure Harry's all right," Charlie answers, glancing down at her bleeding leg. "Dad brought all of them to a safe place—the forest, I think, just over there—are you all right? You're bleeding."
"I'm fine," Darcy replies, still not feeling any pain. She looks towards the forest Charlie had mentioned. "You?"
"I'm all right."
"Where's your tent? I got all turned around and I couldn't find—"
"This way," Charlie says, nodding in acknowledgement to Ludo before they take their leave of him. They seem to have wandered some ways away from the Weasleys' tents, but Charlie finds his way easily enough, his jaw clenched and gripping his wand very tightly. Darcy holds her arms around her as Charlie leads her into the untouched tent, and they both stop just inside of it upon realizing no one else is inside. "They'll be back soon. Let's just wait."
"I have to find Emily . . . she went to go find her mum, and I went to find Harry and . . ." Darcy stops, looking up into Charlie's face and feeling about to explode. Her thigh begins to throb. "Why did they run? Why did they just leave like that?"
"I think it was the Dark Mark," Charlie sighs, pulling out a chair for Darcy at the small kitchen table. She sits and he rummages around quickly in the cabinets, pulling out a yellowing cloth and examining it for a moment. "Here . . . I'm sorry, I'm rubbish at healing spells."
Darcy accepts the cloth, pressing it to her thigh to staunch the bleeding, and it does feel slightly better with pressure applied to it. When Charlie sits down across the table from her, she continues. "The Dark Mark? Is that what that skull was?"
"Yes," he replies grimly. "The Dark Mark is You-Know-Who's sign of sorts. Dad said that Death Eaters would put up the Dark Mark whenever they killed."
They look at each other for a moment, and are soon distracted by people stumbling through the tent flaps. Darcy and Charlie get to their feet, and for a second, she forgets about the pain in her thigh. Bill and Percy stop at the sight of them—Percy clutches a bleeding nose, and Bill's arm gushes blood onto the canvas floor. Immediately, Darcy and Charlie work together in an attempt to help them, and Charlie suggests a bed sheet after finding nothing large enough.
It's only a few minutes later when Fred, George, and Ginny enter the tent, looking shaken. Darcy strokes Ginny's flaming red hair as she settles in the chair beside her, but she addresses Fred and George. "Where are the others?"
"We got separated," George answers, falling into the chair beside Bill. "I'm sure they're fine."
For nearly fifteen minutes, they all sit in silence. Darcy wants to talk more about what happened, wants to keep her brain from coming up with disgusting thoughts, but it doesn't seem right to talk about these things in front of Ginny, who already seems very frightened. And then, Mr. Weasley bursts into the tent and everyone stands for him. Behind him, Harry, Hermione, and Ron enter—Darcy runs at them, meaning to hug only Harry, but scooping the rest of them into her arms, as well.
"Are you all right?" Darcy asks them, touching their faces and kissing the tops of their sweaty heads several times. "I was so worried—"
"We're all right," Harry says breathlessly. "You?"
Darcy nods, but Harry looks nervously at her thigh. "I'm fine, don't worry about me." Clutching his shoulders, Darcy takes a look around the tent, her heart racing again. "I have to get back to Emily. I just had to make sure you were all right."
"I'll see you soon," Harry whispers.
Darcy nods again, exiting the tent and ignoring Mr. Weasley's faint protests, stepping out into the cool, smoky air. Knowing exactly where she is now, it's easy to find her way back to Mrs. Duncan's tent. But Darcy quickens her pace about halfway back—the tents here are all still smoking, torn and burned canvas blowing in the slight breeze, most of the campsites deserted, and an ominous silence over them.
No, no, no . . . not Emily, not Emily . . .
And Darcy finds the tent easily enough. What once was a beautiful spot is now ugly and dry—Mrs. Duncan's tent is completely destroyed, nothing but a pile of ashes, some furniture still burning down to nothing. Darcy sees a flash of blonde hair a little off in the distance, the same blonde as Emily's hair. Darcy sprints to the treeline, panting as she reaches Emily, who's kneeling on the ground, hunched over something.
Relieved, Darcy asks, "Are you—?" But the question dies in her throat.
Emily doesn't even look at her, doesn't turn around to see who it is that has appeared at her shoulder. Darcy kneels down beside Emily and looks into the colorless face of Mrs. Duncan, as cold and lifeless as Lily Potter's is in Darcy's nightmares.