It's odd to be looking down at the scene.
Students file into the Great Hall, smiling and laughing and glad to be back, though most of them look exhausted after the long train ride. She sees Carla walk in with two Hufflepuff girls, and she waves at Darcy before taking a seat at one of the elongated tables. Harry, Hermione, and Ron follow her inside, all flashing her bright smiles. The sight of them reassure her, especially the sight of her little brother, looking proudly up at Darcy as he takes his seat at the Gryffindor table.
Darcy glances down the staff table, eyeing the empty chair that Lupin had occupied last year, and she catches Hagrid's eye, grinning at him before looking back at the empty seat. Professor Snape hadn't told her who the new teacher was going to be, only told her that she'd soon find out.
"Stop that," Snape hisses in her ear.
Darcy's leg stops bouncing. Three times now he's asked her to stop shaking her leg, but she doesn't even realize that she's doing it. "Sorry," she replies breathlessly, her mouth hidden behind her hands. "I'm so nervous."
Snape doesn't answer. She takes this time to give him a sideways look, looking him over before he realizes she's staring. He looks the same as the last time she had seen him: ugly, greasy, hook-nosed, and menacing, glancing up and down the length of the Slytherin table with cold, black eyes.
Perhaps it's because all the eyes are on them now, and the fact that Dumbledore is seated very close by, but Darcy is surprised by Snape's behavior towards her. Since they'd met again in the entrance hall, Snape has been—for lack of a better word—polite. There is still a sharpness in his voice when he speaks, but nothing that suggests he's still angry about her yelling at him, when she had told him she hated him—which, of course, she still does. Snape had even pulled her chair out for her at the table, something that had both surprised and impressed her. Lupin's sentiment about Snape being fond of her reverberates in her head, and she quickly tears her gaze from him.
Looking up and down the staff table once more, Darcy can't help but feel incredibly out of place, incredibly inadequate seated beside all these fully-trained and qualified witches and wizards—to be seated at the same table as Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard to ever live, according to some, is an honor, but at the same time very intimidating. She had given so much thought about returning and being with Harry, that Darcy had thought very little about the actual job over the summer. She hadn't thought once about how students might receive her in classes, how odd it must be for everyone to see Darcy Potter seated at Snape's right side at the staff table.
When Professor McGonagall leads in a long line of soaking wet first years, Darcy smiles. She remembers being that frightened-looking, all eyes upon her eleven-year-old self, trembling and watery-eyed. Her stomach growls, however, as the Sorting Hat sings a song she barely hears—its songs of the qualities that define the four Houses become tedious after so many years, and Darcy starts to drift off, looking around the crowd of students listening raptly to the Sorting Hat.
Carla whispers to her friend and they share a hushed laugh. Darcy feels the same churning in her stomach the day she'd seen Emily laughing with Tonks. Darcy looks away quickly, observing the behavior at the Slytherin table, missing the presence of Gemma among the many other students, some of who glance at Darcy every so often. She wonders if the absence of both Emily and Gemma will weight on Carla this year, or if she'll just continue on with her new friends and not worry about her old ones.
Darcy then looks at the Gryffindor table, picking out her three favorite Gryffindors quite easily. Ron sits facing her and smiles, causing Harry and Hermione to shift and follow his line of sight. She smiles back at the three of them, before the smile fades. Darcy feels suddenly very lonely in this room full of people, feeling that having only Carla and a handful of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds as her friends is quite sad. Before the truth had come out in June, Darcy had envisioned Lupin being here, as well, sitting beside her at the staff table, able to spend time with her whenever she wanted company.
The Sorting takes a long time, and Darcy recalls the feeling of being swallowed by the hat for a few short seconds. That's all it had taken for the Sorting Hat to decide where to place her, for as soon as it was comfortably on her head, it had shouted, "Gryffindor!" Professor McGonagall had clapped loudly for her, as well as the rest of her fellow Gryffindors. The majority of first years this year happen to be Ravenclaws, but Darcy can't help but thinking Gryffindor is a crowded House already.
When her stomach roars, she and Snape share an awkward look—his expression is more one of exasperation.
When the feast begins, Darcy finds she's lost her appetite. She stares down at her empty plate, watching the other teachers load their own plates with piles of potatoes and meat and vegetables, steaming and delicious.
Everything is so real all of a sudden. Darcy can hardly believe that she's here—at Hogwarts, eating Hogwarts food and sitting next to Professor Snape upon the dais. Why had she wanted to come back so badly? Why had this job tempted her so much? How could she have willingly left Lupin in the threshold of his front door just to come live at Hogwarts?
Because Hogwarts is the only home I've ever known. Because Harry is here. Because I have to protect Harry. Because all I'll ever be is Harry's big sister. Because I'll never be able to be someone's . . . what are we?
"Darcy," Snape says again, irritated. Darcy looks up at him, just now realizing her leg is leaping, up and down and up and down and up and down. She stops the bouncing of her leg again, breathing rather heavy. "Stop doing that. You're shaking the entire table."
"I think I'm freaking out," Darcy murmurs, unsure of what she expects Snape to do about it. She wants Emily, or Lupin . . . the two people who could talk her down from anything, and for the first time Darcy wonders how she'll make it a whole year without either of them.
I lived for twelve years without Remus, surely I can live without him always at my side. But Emily, who has always been readily available whenever Darcy needs her, is a different story. Darcy looks down at her hands, splayed upon the table, slightly sweaty. Then, she looks at Snape again. Instead of two of her favorite people in the world, Darcy will be spending a good part of the year with someone she loathes, despises, and the idea of that is not at all appealing, but it's too late to change her mind and tell Dumbledore she wants to go back home to Lupin.
"I can't do this," she says again. "I can't."
Snape raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to her empty plate, looking almost amused. "You play the part of a Gryffindor well when someone is holding your hand," he tells her, lowering his fork down to his plate. He leans closer to her, glancing around at the other staff seated around them. "Not so brave when Duncan isn't here to walk you down the corridors, are you? Not so brave without Lupin to protect you?"
They stare at each other for a moment and Darcy frowns. She doesn't dare cause a scene here in the Great Hall. "You don't know anything about me," she growls, glad for the anger that Snape causes her, a distraction from her lonely thoughts.
"Still bitter about the loss of what I'm sure would have been a touching relationship with your felon godfather?"
Darcy leans in closer, lowering her voice. "He's not a felon, and you know it," she hisses. "The real killer is out there right now, thanks to you. He's likely helping Voldemort orchestrate more Death Eater attacks—" She stops abruptly, realizing too late she's said too much. Darcy quickly looks away from Snape, letting her next retort spill from her lips before she can stop herself. "I bet you'd love to join them, wouldn't you?"
Snape tenses and Darcy thinks that, if they were alone, she likely would have received a smack on the face for her comment. He doesn't say anything, but she knows she will pay for her remark eventually, when Snape is able to get her alone. After a little while of silence, Snape sighs and dumps some roasted potatoes onto her plate.
"You have to eat something," he tells her, returning to his own dinner, not looking at her again.
She doesn't touch anything on her plate, and the food soon disappears to be replaced by dessert. Darcy holds her head in her hands, not wanting to argue with Professor Snape, lacking the energy to even tell him how much she hates him. She thought coming back to Hogwarts would make her happy and bring back the joy she'd always felt when she was a student returning to school. But now she feels next to no joy—with half of her friends gone, with Lupin gone, it only makes her heart ache.
For years, she couldn't wait to grow up, to be an adult, out of school and flourishing in the world with her friends at her side. Now she wishes she could be a student all over again, returning for her seventh year, carefree and smiling. She wants to have dinner in the comforts of Lupin's apartments again, drink in abandoned classrooms and bathrooms. How easy life had been, and Darcy never stopped to appreciate it. She had always dwelled on lurking dangers and vague warnings, never able to fully appreciate those little moments she longs for now. To be able to sit under the beech tree with Emily, Gemma, and Carla . . . flipping through textbooks and finishing essays while having light conversation . . . or to submerge herself in the prefect's special bath with Gemma, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other . . . it sounds like something out of a dream. Why couldn't she have just taken one minute out of her day to be happy and at peace? Why couldn't she have just brushed off the dangers like Harry has always been able to do?
Because I know what's at stake, especially now that Emily's mother is gone.
The first casualty of a war that no one can tell her is really coming or not. Harry has never known loss to the degree Darcy has, and it shows. Darcy had been just five when her mother was killed in front of her. She was the one who'd been plagued with nightmares for years over it, cursed with the memory of it, and Harry had been so little and so tiny that it never affected him the way it had Darcy. Harry had his sister to look after him, to take up the role of his mother where Aunt Petunia had refused to step in. And while Darcy knows the loss of their parents has affected Harry, she can't help but to think: He doesn't know what it has done to me. He'll never know the pain that loss has caused me.
Harry had had his first taste of near loss during his second year, and Darcy remembers looking down at Hermione's Petrified body with Harry and Ron at her side. Darcy has always been fond of Hermione, and her being Petrified had shaken Darcy to her core. Darcy had been too familiar with death and loss, much more familiar with the feeling than her brother or Ron. They hadn't understood the severity . . . they were only twelve, after all, naive and still children. Darcy wants to believe that, had she been twelve at the time, she would have been the same—determined to solve the mystery, determined to cure Hermione, oblivious to what attacks on Muggleborns actually meant.
"Attacks on Muggleborns aren't new," Gemma had told her, a little while after Hermione had been Petrified. "There will always be people out there who will see Muggleborns as filth, people who will call for the removal of them from society."
"Like you?" Darcy had asked scathingly, still hurt after seeing Hermione.
But Gemma had only laughed. "You think because I'm in Slytherin, I must hate Muggleborns on principle? Where in all the Sorting Hat's songs was that core trait? Best think about your own internalized prejudices, Darcy."
Gemma had been right, though. The Quidditch World Cup proved that the Death Eaters were still out there, biding their time, still upholding their traditional values and not only attacking Muggleborns, but Muggles.
So engrossed in her own thoughts, Darcy doesn't realize that the desserts have disappeared, as well, and it isn't until there's a loud BANG! does she look up, jumping near out of her seat. The doors of the Great Hall have opened, and through them steps a man she's never seen before.
His appearance unsettles her—a clearly battle-hardened man with a wooden leg (she assumes, as each time he takes a step, there's a dull clunking sound against the floor), most of his nose is missing, and several long scars mar his face. These scars are not like the faded things that Lupin carries, but deep gashes that make the man look almost grotesque, especially with the way his scraggly gray hair frames his round face. But nothing startles her more than his eyes—one is completely normal, beady and dark and sweeping the Great Hall as he makes his way to the staff table, but his other eye makes her heart swoop, and Darcy momentarily forgets to breathe, feeling both disgusted and slightly curious. The man's other eye is larger than the other, bright electric blue, and it moves separately from his normal eye, magically and non-stop, rolling up and down and side to side and into his head and off to the side, and it even lingers on Darcy for a few heartbeats.
The man continues to limp towards Dumbledore, quickly shakes the Headmaster's hand, and takes the empty seat at the staff table that should belong to Lupin.
Dumbledore continues brightly, addressing the students once more. "May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher . . . Professor Alastor Moody!"
"What's wrong with him? Where did Dumbledore find him?" Darcy whispers in Snape's ear as Dumbledore keeps talking. "Why is his eye like that?"
Snape looks at her, looking at her as if he had expected this reaction completely. "Alastor Moody is an Auror, commonly known as Mad-Eye Moody."
"I can see that," Darcy breathes, bewildered still by the sight of him, but the name triggers something in her. "Emily's mentioned him before." And then something occurs to her that's even more unsettling than Moody's mad eye. "But why has Dumbledore brought an Auror in? He doesn't expect trouble, does he?"
"I don't think it's your place to question or demand answers of the Headmaster's staffing decisions," Snape replies shortly. They meet eyes and pause while Dumbledore glances at them, reminding Darcy of McGonagall giving she and Emily a look during one of her classes, silently telling them to be quiet. However, Dumbledore doesn't look half so severe. In fact, he turns away almost immediately and continues. "However, it seems applicants for the post were . . . lacking."
"And you were one of them, I'm sure?"
Professor Snape scowls down at Darcy.
". . . it is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
As the students erupt in conversation and laughter and disbelieving quips, Darcy uses the noise to keep her conversation going. She moves her chair an inch closer to Snape, and he doesn't fail to notice. "Is it true that people have died in the Triwizard Tournament?" she whispers, suddenly very worried as she looks at all the happy faces on the students. Carla, in particular, looks intrigued as she listens to Dumbledore give a brief history on the tournament. "I met Ludo Bagman over the summer with Mr. Weasley and they said—"
"Ludo Bagman?" Snape interrupts, narrowing his eyes at her. "You've spoken to Ludo Bagman?"
"Yes, I said that," Darcy replies slowly, annoyed that Snape has interrupted her. "Once at the Ministry, when I visited over the summer, and twice at the World Cup. He found me after . . . everything." She sighs, remembering Mrs. Duncan's beautiful face. "Is that why Dumbledore has put an Auror in Hogwarts? Because he's afraid people might die in the tournament?"
". . . the heads of the participating schools, along with the Minister of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year," Dumbledore booms. "Only students who are of age . . . that is to say, seventeen years or older, will be allowed to put their names for consideration."
Dumbledore's words make Darcy's heart lighter, but they do not have the same effect on everyone else. At once, the students from all four Houses erupt into shouts and yells. Fifth and sixth year students look the angriest, but most seventh years look relatively smug amongst their fellows. Carla still listens to Dumbledore with hungry eyes, and Darcy wants to take her by the shoulders and shake sense into her.
Darcy looks at Snape, bored with the uprising of students and looking immensely pleased when Dumbledore begins to quiet them. Their hushed conversation has made Darcy feel suddenly very comfortable asking him such a question—if there is anyone in the world who will not sugarcoat answers for her well-being or lie to make her feel better, it is Snape, and under cover of Dumbledore's speech, Darcy leans in and asks him, "Professor, do you think there's a war coming? Is that the real reason Professor Dumbledore has brought Moody here?"
Snape doesn't look at her, but absentmindedly rubs his left arm. He looks slowly at her again, considering her with a much softer expression than normal. Darcy waits, gripping the table, waiting for Snape to confirm her worst fears. "Why would you think that? Who has felt it necessary to fill your head with such things?"
Darcy purses her lips, wondering if it's a good idea to tell the truth or not. But she remembers that Gemma was in Slytherin House, and surely Snape would believe her. "My friend, Gemma, told me," Darcy whispers. "And her parents are—"
"I'm well aware of who and what her parents are," Snape retorts quickly. "But I would not rely on the wishful words of an eighteen-year-old witch, especially one with an inclination towards gossip, like Miss Smythe."
"Why shouldn't I believe Gemma? You think she's wrong?" Darcy asks. When Snape doesn't answer her, she persists, leaning closer and looking around. Everyone's attention is held by Dumbledore, and Darcy feels it's as good a time as any to speak. "Professor Dumbledore told me, just before the feast, that I should keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."
"What extraordinary advice."
When Dumbledore dismisses all the students for bed, a few linger to voice their anger, but as they file out, Darcy remains. Carla catches her eye and waves before disappearing with the tide of Hufflepuffs. Snape makes no move to leave either, and only a few other teachers have gotten to their feet—Hagrid gets to his massive ones. He wanders over to Darcy and beams at her, but Darcy can only offer him a very forced smile.
"Darcy," she says with a slight nod. "Happy to be back?"
"As happy as I can be."
Hagrid seems to sense her misery, and his smile falls. "Why don' yeh come visit on Friday? Could use some company after classes."
"Friday?" Darcy repeats, squirming in her seat. "That sounds wonderful, Hagrid, but . . ." She glances at Snape and then back at Hagrid, not wanting to reveal her plans to see Lupin in front of them and risk raised eyebrows and a scolding from Hagrid. "Sure, I'll be there."
Both Darcy and Snape watch Hagrid leave the Great Hall. When the staff table begins to clear in earnest, Darcy stands up and makes her way back to her apartments slowly, climbing the stairs one at a time. It takes her a few minutes of muttering the password to random portraits before the correct one swings open. To her surprise, a fire has been lit in the hearth, making the entire place seem much more cozy. Darcy looks to the sofa, wishing Lupin were sitting there waiting for her to return, his nose buried in a book, or just waking up upon hearing the door creak open. The photographs on the mantle are in the same position she had set them up in, and they make Darcy smile.
Despite it being relatively early, with thunder crashing and rattling the windows, and lightning brightening her modest bedroom, Darcy changes and crawls under the blankets, and it isn't long until she falls asleep.
Her dreams are jumbled, a mixture of happy feelings and terror—her mother crashing to Harry's bedroom floor, flashes of green light and the crushing sensation of something on her legs, Sirius holding her to his chest afterwards, helping Hermione pull Ron to the hospital wing knowing that Harry was likely about to die, the crunch of bones beneath her feet in the Chamber of Secrets, the vivid memory of handsome Tom Riddle, Sirius holding her in the Shrieking Shack and Darcy crying against his chest—
Darcy wakes with a start, her heart beating a violent tattoo in her chest, her skin sticky with cold sweat, her mind racing, and out of instinct she reaches out with her hand to grab Lupin, but her fingers touch nothing but air. Closing her eyes again, Darcy rolls over, hoping that when she opens them again, he will be there. But upon opening them, the other side of Darcy's bed is still empty. Loneliness consumes her suddenly and she curls up under her blankets, crying into her pillow. She's never been so alone—always, she'd been able to sneak into Harry's room if need be to sleep beside him, or climb under Emily's covers in their dormitory, or more recently, wake from a nightmare with Lupin's hand on her arm or his arm around her, grounding her—reminding her that she's safe.
She cries for her mother and father, wanting to be reminded of the safety of her parents arms. She cries for Sirius to come back, to take her into his arms and never let go. She cries for Lupin, miles and miles away, likely sleeping soundly or aching for Darcy's presence, as well. All she knows is that she doesn't want to sleep again, she wants someone beside her to hold her as she attempts to toss and turn during her restless sleep.
Darcy gets out of bed and looks out the window with her arms around her. The stars are visible tonight, bright against the inky night sky. She remembers Aunt Petunia trying to force her to say prayers before bed when she was young, when she had first started living with the Dursleys, claiming it would help her sleep. But Darcy never prayed. Even now, she can't find it in her to pray to someone who has always been indifferent to her suffering. But now, Darcy almost considers it, desperate for anything to help her sleep. The last thing she wants to do is wander down to Madam Pomfrey on her first night for something to ease her nightmares. Darcy closes her eyes.
Please don't let them come again. Haven't I suffered enough without having to relive it nearly every night?
It's a sorry excuse for a prayer and it doesn't make Darcy feel any better. She thinks maybe getting drunk would be better, or a 'stress cigarette' as Gemma called it. To be drunk would be a blessing, to be able to sleep through the night would be a blessing.
I can't do this, she thinks, but I must.
To be anywhere but here . . . to be anyone but Darcy Potter . . . would be a blessing.