"How do I look?"

Lupin looks up, lowering the day's edition of the Daily Prophet. The Dark Mark stares back at her from the front page, still the top headline even days after the Quidditch World Cup. He closes the paper, his eyes sweeping up and down her body, giving her a weak smile.

"You look beautiful." Lupin throws the newspaper onto the coffee table and gets to his feet as Darcy slips her shoes on and decides where best to hide her wand. Eventually, she slips it into the waistband of her underwear, on the side where her clutch is able to hide the outline of the thin wand from view when held at a strategic position.

Darcy smiles at him, and she hopes he knows it means the world to her that he's here, that he's allowed her into his home again, that he can sit there and tell her she's beautiful after she's been crying for days. Lupin moves closer to her, running his fingers through her hair and letting his rough thumbs brush over her cheekbones. She closes her eyes and sighs, wanting to stay here forever, wanting to curl up beside him and sleep for years.

"How will I be able to face her? How can I look Emily in the face knowing what I've done?" Darcy whispers, holding onto his wrists.

"It's not your fault, Darcy," Lupin answers, kissing her cheek tenderly. The tip of his nose bumps against her own, and Darcy leans in to kiss him properly, but Lupin pulls away from her. "I'll have dinner ready for you when you come back."

She flattens the front of her dress, a plain black and depressing thing, the neckline revealing half an inch of one of the scars on her shoulder. However, the dress does hide the gash in her leg, now mostly healed over and scabbing, an ugly reminder of the World Cup. Darcy looks back up at Lupin, the urge to stay with him at the cottage growing stronger. She hadn't even wanted to attend the funeral at all, afraid of looking Emily and Mr. Duncan in the eyes. Lupin had done his best to convince her that none of it was her fault, that it was the Death Eaters that had done it, not her. He'd taken such good care of her in ways she hadn't known she needed caring for, and it's very hard not to believe him after such things.

Darcy had stayed in bed for the first few days, not eating or showering, only getting out of bed to use the bathroom. During the hours she spent awake, Darcy was tormented with guilt, and during the hours she slept, her nightmares had suffocated her, and they still do.

But Lupin had never forced her to get out of bed, instead leaving her alone as she slept away the days, giving her sweet kisses when she was awake, holding her at night, comforting her after a nightmare while she was drenched in sweat and crying for her mother and father. And finally, Lupin had convinced her to leave the bedroom with the prospect of her favorite foods, cooked the way she likes them, and they had eaten a silent meal on the sofa, Darcy picking at her food. She'd put her head in his lap afterwards, and dozed on and off while he carded his fingers through her hair, never wanting to leave his side. But privately, she's glad that Lupin has not asked her to stay again, because she isn't quite sure she'd be able to refuse him.

"I can't," Darcy croaks, her throat burning from days of crying, lack of use, and several long drinks of alcohol over the past week. "I can't do this."

"I know you can," Lupin says, his fingers tugging gently at the neckline of her dress to completely cover her scars. "I'll have dinner waiting for you tonight, and tomorrow you'll be at Hogwarts, where you belong."

Darcy lets him fumble with her dress for a moment, his fingers brushing against her skin, leaving the area feeling hot. "Come with me," she pleads, frowning. "Come with me to Hogwarts."

"I can't, Darcy, you know that," he replies. His voice is low and sad, and Darcy feels her heart ache for him. Lupin touches her shoulders, looking her in the face before his hands fall to his sides. "Go on, love. You'll be late if you linger any longer."

She nods and adjusts her dress one last time, the black pumps already hurting her feet. Lupin walks her the short way to the front door, leaning up against the door frame as she crosses the threshold. Before she can go too far, Lupin grabs her hand and stops her, murmuring, "Hey."

Darcy squeezes his hand, looking over her shoulder at him. Lupin releases her hand. "I love you," he whispers. "Do you know that?"

She forces herself to smile, wishing she didn't look so insincere. Darcy touches his cheek, cleanly shaven and as smooth as it can be. Standing on her toes, she gives him a lingering kiss. "I know."

Emily and her father greet the funeral goers, her arm wrapped around her father's. Mr. Duncan's face is gaunt, not as handsome as it usually is, and his hair is pushed lazily out of his face, a thin patch of scruff on his cheeks and chin. Even Emily doesn't look as radiant as usual, lacking her confident air, but she is still beautiful, always beautiful. Though with that beauty, it almost looks as if, along with her mother, something else has died within Emily. She looks hollow and empty, greeting family friends with a forced smile. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her long-sleeved dress makes her look elegant and much, much older than eighteen.

Are we all still so young? Darcy asks herself. When did we have time to have fun? When did we have time to be children? How did we all grow up so fast?

The price of being friends with a Potter, a voice reminds her. She'd been telling her friends for years that associating with a Potter means trouble and, for the most part, her friends have been lucky enough to avoid too much trouble. But now the world, for Emily, has stopped spinning. For eighteen years she had lived a perfect life, had a perfect and beautiful mother, and now . . . now she'll know how it feels when I crave my mother's presence.

Darcy's stomach does a back-flip. How could she think that? How could she ever be so cruel to think such things about her best friend?

"You came."

Darcy turns around quickly to find Carla alone, a strange sight to her. Darcy has grown so used to seeing Carla and Gemma attached to the hip, and it slightly worries her to see that they're currently not. Carla's ringlets are braided tightly to keep her hair from sticking up everywhere, clad in a black silk blouse and a pencil skirt. She takes Darcy's hand and pulls her away from the crowd now gathering in the lobby, bringing her to a quieter spot.

"How are you? What happened after we separated? How are your mum and dad?" Darcy asks, letting go of Carla's hand and touching her side to make sure her wand is still there. "I've been thinking of you."

"Mum and dad are fine," Carla smiles reassuringly, but it fades just as quickly as it had come. "Gemma and I made it back to the tent, and we hid in the forest with the others until everything passed."

Darcy pauses. "How's Gemma?"

"Gemma's been staying at mine for a few days. She took some time off work right after it happened and I . . . I thought she was going to drink herself to death." Carla laughs softly, shaking her head, and Darcy notices her eyes are wet and stinging. "She's been taking it really hard."

Darcy frowns. She had hoped that Gemma might be here to offer words of comfort, or even just a cigarette. "Is she here?"

"Somewhere. Sulking, most like," Carla says quietly, taking Darcy's hand again and leading her away from a group of solemn looking older men and women. "She was horrified after everything happened. She swears she didn't know about any of it. She's afraid that . . . that it might have been her parents that killed Emily's mother." Carla exhales through her nose and purses her lips. "I think she feels responsible, in a way. I've been telling her all week that she can't blame herself, that we know who she really is, and she's not her parents. I know Emily would never blame her for this."

Darcy wants to laugh out loud at this revelation, but bites it back. It's a strange feeling, considering she hasn't laughed once since arriving at Lupin's. "Gemma isn't responsible," Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair and trying to fight back the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes. "I am."

Carla blinks in surprise. "What?" she asks. "How could you say that?"

Her voice barely louder than a whisper, Darcy tells Carla about Harry's dream. Carla watches her with wide eyes the whole time, her brow furrowed as she thinks hard, looking absolutely dumbfounded. Darcy doesn't think she has anymore tears to cry, but they come. A single tear falls first, rolling down her cheek, and then more start falling until Darcy swipes at them angrily with the back of her hand.

"That doesn't make it your fault," Carla says, rubbing Darcy's arm and patting her cheek. "You're so insistent upon blaming yourself for everything. Darcy, we all thought You-Know-Who was gone, that it was all over. How were any of us supposed to know that we'd see his sign again?"

Darcy watches a few more people filter into the funeral home, able to pick out the Muggles from the wizards and witches quite easily by their style of dress. "I ran away," she confesses. "I ran away like a coward. But I couldn't go back to the Burrow. I couldn't look them in the eyes after everything that happened . . . I could barely look at Mr. Weasley."

"Where did you go?" But Darcy is under the impression that Carla already knows the answer. When Darcy doesn't say anything further, Carla looks away. "I don't think you're a coward. I think you're one of the bravest people I've ever met."

"I'm not feeling very brave at the moment. Just nauseous." Darcy swallows the lump in her throat. "I can't do this, Carla, I can't. I'm not as brave as you think I am."

Carla laces her fingers with Darcy's, and they both give a slight squeeze. "Just because you're afraid doesn't mean you can't be brave. I'm sure you were scared shitless when you jumped down to the Chamber of Secrets." She pulls gently at Darcy's hand and leads her to a back room, where the doors take them to the beautiful garden. "Don't worry. I'm here."

The weather is too perfect, too beautiful. The sun shines down on the crowd of funeral-goers, all dressed in black, a slight breeze ruffling the colorful flowers and leaves around them. At the front of all the chairs placed for guests is a handsome, brown, polished closed casket, a Muggle photograph of Mrs. Duncan and her family placed on top. The wooden chair that Darcy sits on is uncomfortable, and she looks straight ahead with Carla on her left, and an empty chair on her right. Darcy closes her eyes, listening to the buzz of soft-spoken conversation, wondering if her own parents were ever given a funeral.

Not likely, she thinks bitterly. Not with Peter Pettigrew in hiding and Sirius in Azkaban. Darcy can't imagine Lupin would have been able to scrape money together for a funeral, and Darcy can't imagine Aunt Petunia jumping at the opportunity to mourn for her sister and her freak husband, especially in front of their friends. When Darcy starts to cry again, Carla wraps her fingers around Darcy's bicep and rests her cheek on her scarred shoulder. Darcy covers her face, craving her mother's touch, her father's laughter, her mother's kisses, her father's hugs. She wants Sirius' arms to wrap around her, holding her to his chest, kissing the top of her head.

"Darcy," Carla whispers. "Look."

Darcy's eyes snap open and she looks to where Carla is pointing. Even at a funeral, Gemma is dressed to impress, but she looks different, just like Emily. In a floor-length, expensive looking black dress made of velvet that hugs her slight figure, Gemma's dark hair falls to her shoulders, as dark as ink. If Gemma had looked tired before, it's nothing to how she looks now, reminding Darcy more of Lupin than anything. The shadows under her eyes have grown more pronounced, and Darcy is in half a mind to ask Carla if Gemma has slept at all in the past week. Though Gemma holds herself well, she doesn't carry herself with the same dignity and grace she usually does, and Darcy's eyes follow her all the way to empty seat on her right. As soon as Gemma sits down, Darcy is overwhelmed with the smell of stale smoke and drink.

Darcy, Gemma, and Carla hold hands throughout the service. While Darcy and Carla cry freely as Mr. Duncan, Emily, and other friends of Mrs. Duncan tell stories and read poetry and deliver heartfelt and touching eulogies, Gemma maintains a stony face. Emily reads a poem that Darcy's heard before, and even through Emily's desperate sobs and sniffles, Darcy can't remember the poem being so beautiful. Every so often, Emily glances over her paper at her friends towards the back, seemingly finding strength and courage at the sight of them.

After the service, Mr. Duncan and Emily help carry the casket back through the building, silent tears streaming down their cheeks.

As people begin to disperse, preparing to leave to follow the Duncans to the burial and, eventually, the wake, Gemma mumbles something about a cigarette and Carla wanders off to let them alone. Darcy and Gemma find a quiet spot down the alley beside the funeral home and each light up a cigarette.

Darcy's hand trembles as she and Gemma smoke in silence. Gemma doesn't speak until Darcy's halfway done with her cigarette, ashing it a little exuberantly, unable to control the shaking of her fingers. "Can I ask you something?" Gemma says.

Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette. "Sure."

"Did you . . . see any unmasked Death Eaters at the World Cup?"

"No," Darcy answers honestly. "I didn't see much of anything." There's a long pause and Gemma puts a hand to her face. For a brief moment, Darcy forgets her suffering and grief at the sight of Gemma looking so stricken. She can't remember seeing Gemma looking so distressed before. "Gemma, you don't even know that your parents were even there."

Gemma looks up at Darcy again, sneering, her beautiful and clever face suddenly terrifying. "You don't think my parents were there? You don't think they were there laughing at those Muggles?" Gemma growls. "You don't think my parents would pass up the opportunity to torture Muggles?"

Darcy puts her cigarette out, unsure of what to say, or even what Gemma wants her to say. "I don't know your parents, but I do know that you're not like that." And unable to stop herself, she mutters, "At least you still have both of your parents."

This is, apparently, the wrong thing to have said, and Gemma's face darkens. Darcy remembers discussing Gemma's parents in the shade of a beech tree at Hogwarts, how calm she'd been, how accepting she'd been of her parents. "You think I want parents like that?" Gemma snaps at her. "Your parents died fighting against the very things that my parents stand for. Your parents died bravely and honorably, like the damn Gryffindors they were. My mother and father love me very much, would do anything for me, but how can I look at them the same when we've all witnessed what being a Death Eater truly means? How can I look at them knowing that either one of them could have possibly killed my best friend's mother?" Gemma quickly lights another cigarette, puffing on it to calm herself down. "What do you think they would say if they knew I was there? At a funeral for a woman who married a Muggle? The funeral for a woman they may have played a part in murdering?"

Darcy stares at Gemma, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean . . . I only . . ."

"I know, Darcy," Gemma sighs. "I know."

She can't bring herself to tell Gemma about Harry's dream. Everything seems so hazy and confusing to Darcy now. The only thing she can really think to do is wrap Gemma in a tight hug, which Gemma returns, crying into Darcy's shoulder.

"I'm so, so sorry for your loss, Mr. Duncan," Darcy says, as he pulls her into a hug. She falls into his chest, allowing him to cry softly into her hair for a few seconds before pulling away. "I wish there was something I could do for you."

"You're a good girl, Darcy," he murmurs. "Beth would have been glad you were here." Mr. Duncan leads Darcy towards the stairs with a hand on her shoulder. "I think Emily is in her bedroom, if you'd like to see her."

The moment she's been dreading all day. She'd been relatively good at avoiding Emily today, not that it had been purposeful. Emily had been quite busy during the funeral and much of the wake, but Darcy feels the best thing to do is to do as Mr. Duncan asks, as it's the least she can do for him. So Darcy climbs the stairs slowly, adjusting her dress again and attempting to cover up the scars on her shoulder.

Without knocking, Darcy enters Emily's bedroom. She's seated in the middle of her bed, flipping through a thick stack of photographs in silence. Their eyes meet for a split second as Darcy closes the bedroom door behind her and shuffles forward a few steps. Darcy searches for words of comfort to say, and realizes just then how absolutely terrible she is at this.

"The poem you read was beautiful," she says finally. "It really suited your mother."

"You're the one who introduced me to it, remember? When Gemma's grandmother passed, you recited it for us."

"Right," Darcy says, brought up short. She sits at the foot of Emily's bed. "Emily, I'm so sorry. I should have done more—"

"Stop," Emily snaps. "Just . . . please, stop." She puts the photographs down on her bed and rubs her temples furiously. Emily's eyes are still swollen from crying, her face lacking any color and seemingly gray, her hair slightly stringy up close. Darcy doesn't even think she's wearing any makeup. She looks hopelessly at Darcy, as if expecting answers to all of her unasked questions. "How do you live with it, Darcy? How am I supposed to live knowing my mother is dead?"

Darcy squirms uncomfortably, wishing Lupin had come with her. No matter Emily's feelings towards him, Darcy knows he'd at least be able to give Emily some sound advice. "Your mother may be gone, but she lives on in you," Darcy says. "Just like my mother lives on in me." She remembers what Lupin had told her all those months ago—a lifetime ago—when she'd confided in him her sorrow. "The pain never really stops, but . . . you learn to live with it."

"Mum didn't deserve that," Emily cries, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. "And neither did your parents, Darcy."

"Thank you."

They're quiet for a little while, appreciating each other's company. Darcy's heart races, and she wants to be anywhere other than here—far away from this, away from death and suffering.

"I don't blame you," Emily rasps. "We've been best friends for years, and I know that you're putting the blame on yourself, but it's not your fault." She wipes away her tears delicately. "I love you, Darcy."

Darcy smiles. "I love you, too."

Emily sniffles, picking the photographs back up, looking at them carefully. "Gemma says there's a war coming," she continues. "She thinks there are only going to be more attacks, just like the one at the World Cup."

"If that's true, then you and your dad should get somewhere safe," Darcy replies, trying not to imagine Death Eaters killing Emily's Muggle father for a single reason—his lack of magic. "I don't want you to know the pain of being an orphan."

"Dad can hide if he wants," Emily says again, a bit more confident. "But I'm not hiding. I'm not going to run away."

Darcy frowns.

"If there is a war coming, I'm going to fight." Emily pauses, letting her tears fall. "I'll fight for mum, for your parents—for all the people who were never given the chance."

Something in this sentiment stirs something inside of Darcy. Nodding, despite Emily not looking at her, Darcy feels anger overpower the grief she's been feeling—anger towards the Death Eaters, anger towards the world. She thinks of her mother, who had died to protect her children. She thinks of Harry, how she would die to protect him. She thinks of her father, who had died to give his family more time, who had been brave to the point of recklessness.

I am my mother's daughter.

Darcy nods shortly again, her voice steady for what seems like the first time in a week. "Me too."

It's perfect.

Seated before a fire, her hair still wet from a shower, a hot plate of dinner in her lap, seated on the sofa. And beside her, Lupin, his finished dinner set on the low table in front of them, along with her empty wine glass. He reads aloud to her, poems from a book he'd found at the bottom of his dresser. Darcy puts her plate on the table and picks up her camera. Lupin doesn't even stop reading as she takes a picture of him.

When he finishes the poem, he closes the book and looks at Darcy, who's shaking the photograph the camera has just spit out. Darcy smiles weakly at him. "I wish we could do this every night," she murmurs.

"We could."

The prospect is tempting, and when the photograph appears, she notices the corners of the picture-Lupin's lips are turned upwards mid-sentence. She shows him quickly and puts it on the table, along with her camera. "What will you do when I'm away?" she asks, curling up at his side and resting her head against his shoulder.

"Miss you," he answers playfully, but Darcy can tell by the strain in his voice that he's still wary of her emotions. "Think of you, ache for you . . . maybe look at the only photograph I have of you."

For the past week she's done nothing but avoid conversation, avoiding anything that would involve some kind of action, and now she regrets not doing more with him. Tomorrow, she'll be at Hogwarts, and Lupin will be here, far away from her, and when she falls asleep, she won't have anyone to hold her.

Lupin leans back into the sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table, pulling Darcy closer to him. With her cheek against his chest, she can hear the steady beating of his heart. "Why did you fight in the last war?" she asks.

He hums and clears his throat, thinking for a moment. "I suppose . . . it was the right thing to do."

"That's all? You didn't have something to fight for?"

"Darcy," Lupin laughs sweetly, "I didn't have anything to fight for. I had nothing to lose, so I decided to fight because I knew it was right, and my friends were doing it."

Darcy lets this soak in. It's not quite as romantic an answer as she had hoped, but it's an answer nonetheless. "Do you think there will be another war?"

"It's hard to say," Lupin answers slowly.

"If there is, I want to fight," Darcy says. "Just like my mum and dad fought. I'll fight with you this time."

"As if you don't give me enough to worry about," Lupin teases, giving her a squeeze. Darcy looks up into his face and sees the concern etched deep in it. "Now I'll have to worry about you fighting in a war that may or may not come."

"You shouldn't worry," Darcy whispers, kissing his jaw lightly. He lifts his head to expose his neck to her, and she places more soft kisses around the collar of his shirt. "You'll be there to protect me."

"As if you need protection," he mumbles as Darcy continues to kiss up his neck.

"But you'll protect me anyway, won't you?"

"You know I will." Lupin sighs when she kisses the tender spot just below his ear. "Or die trying."

She stops kissing him for a moment, inches from his face, looking into his eyes. "Don't say that," she says. All of a sudden, everything seems so real—people can die at any moment, without expecting it, without having a clue of knowing. "I can't . . . don't say that."

"Everyone dies, Darcy," he replies breathlessly, lowering his gaze to her lips. "When I die, I want it to be on my own terms. If I die knowing that you're safe and loved, then I will certainly die a happy man."

"And I'd soon follow, surely due to a broken heart."

"You're flattering me."

Darcy captures his lips in a bruising kiss, and Lupin returns it with a ferocity that's half-unexpected. He moves quickly, repositioning himself to face her. Darcy flashes him a genuine smile as he breaks apart from her to pull his shirt over his head. Darcy lays back on the sofa, admiring him for a moment.

"I love you," she whispers, the sight of him hovering above her making her slightly dizzy. She reaches up to drag a finger down his chest. "Do you know that?"

He kisses her hard, pulling away once again to settle himself comfortably between her legs, his long fingers curling inside the waistband of her trousers, ready to pull them down. There's a wicked smile on his face that makes him look only a boy. "I know."