Tap-tap-tap.
"I'm awake . . . I'm awake."
Tap-tap-tap.
"Go away!"
Tap-tap-tap.
"Fine—fine, I'm coming!"
Tap-tap-tap.
Darcy opens her eyes and lifts her head from her pillow. The other half of her bed hasn't been disturbed, and when a shadow crosses the blankets, she lifts her eyes to the window to find the silhouette of her owl, Max. Darcy rushes to the window, throwing it open and letting him in. He doesn't have any letters or packages, but his presence alone makes her smile. Only then does she remember she has things to do today and checks her watch.
Breakfast has already started, and Darcy dresses quickly and clumsily, throwing her robes on over her outfit, and upon looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she feels very out of place in her own body. For seven long years, she had donned the standard Hogwarts school uniform beneath her robes, and Darcy slightly misses the ease of dressing in the mornings, not having to worry about what to wear. As strange as it is, Darcy still feels rather attached to the uniform, seeing how she'd lived in it most of the year, had thought the gray sweater looked decent on her, had many adventures in that uniform, had not only dreamed of Lupin tearing at her tie and unbuttoning her blouse with an unnecessary ferocity, but lived it.
Max is fast asleep on the top of the shelving by the fireplace when Darcy leaves the room for breakfast. Students are already seated at the tables, reading through the schedules already distributed by their Heads of Houses. Carla is already there, drinking orange juice from her glass, poring over her schedule with a brown-haired seventh year boy. Darcy looks away, taking her seat beside Professor Snape, and when she looks back towards the Hufflepuff table again, Carla is beaming at her and mouthing the word Potions! while holding up her index finger. Darcy can't help but to smile back—if there is one thing that will make her first day easier, it's being able to see Carla in the first class of term.
"You're late," Snape notes, his face hidden behind the morning's newspaper.
"I didn't sleep very well." Darcy, having not eaten dinner the previous night, loads her plate with breakfast before it has the chance to disappear. "Did an owl come with a paper for me?"
"Yes." Professor Snape flips to the next page of his paper.
Darcy blinks, waiting for some elaboration, but he only continues to read. "So, where is it?"
"You weren't here to receive it."
"You couldn't have spared a single Knut to pay the owl for me?" Darcy stuffs her mouth full of food and glances at the back page of Snape's paper. "Can I at least borrow the parts you're not reading?"
To Darcy's great surprise, Professor Snape obliges, handing her the front page. Immediately upon seeing the picture below one of the smaller, shorter articles, Darcy's heart sinks. She studies the photograph carefully, running her fingers over the tall shape of the Burrow in the background, watching Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shuffling uncomfortably in front of their home. She skims the article quickly, the memory of crashing the flying car into the Whomping Willow almost fresh in her mind as the article drones on. It's not particularly nice, either, but it's not as foul as it could be, and when Darcy spots Mad-Eye Moody's name in the next paragraph, she looks down the staff table.
"Mr. Weasley involved in a tussle with policeman?" Darcy scoffs, giving her head a shake. "Over aggressive dustbins? That's outrageous . . . 'Once again raised a false alarm' . . ." She chances a glance down the staff table at Moody again, watching him sniff at a piece of half-eaten sausage speared on the prongs of his fork before shoving it in his mouth. This alone seems to confirm her suspicions about him, but she asks Professor Snape in a low voice anyway, "Is Professor Moody a little . . . er . . ."
Snape lowers his newspaper to look at her with a raised eyebrow, before turning his gaze upon Moody, as well. "Some say that half the cells in Azkaban are full of Dark wizards because of him," he muses quietly. "He supposedly retired after the war, but . . ."
Both he and Darcy watch as Moody nearly attacks Professor Sprout, who had done nothing but touch his shoulder without announcing herself beforehand.
"Well . . ." Snape finishes, looking back down at his paper, as if Moody's behavior has just answered Darcy's question. "Retirement doesn't suit some people as well as it does others."
But Darcy is hardly listening anymore. On the next page of the paper, another photograph jumps out at her forcibly—a photograph that makes her instantly want to cry. It's an older picture—Emily must be only six or seven, sitting on her father's shoulders, his arm wrapped around the waist of a beautiful woman, his wife. They're all smiling, looking up at each other with face full of love and adoration, and Darcy is reminded of the old photographs she keeps of herself and her parents from long, long ago. This is a family who loves each other very much, a perfect family, a family that never deserved to feel the pain of losing a loved one, a family that never deserved to be broken just like Darcy's had.
Below the photograph, Darcy reads the headline, her heart beating quickly. "Can I see that page?" she asks, tearing it from Snape's hands before he has the chance to give it to her.
FAMILY GRIEVES DAILY PROPHET REPORTER KILLED AT QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
Tragedy struck Daily Prophet headquarters when Elizabeth Duncan, 42, Lead Sports Writer for the Daily Prophet was found dead after Ministry wizards found her body at the Quidditch World Cup. Her body showed no signs of trauma, and Healers have determined Elizabeth to be the victim of the Killing Curse.
The Duncan family requests that donations be made in her name to St Mungo's Magical Maladies and Injuries in lieu of flowers.
Elizabeth Duncan is survived by her mother, Victoria Miller, 73; her siblings Anthony Miller, 44, Delilah Yocum, 40, and Sarah Miller, 37; her husband Thomas Duncan, 47; and their daughter, Emily Duncan, 18, who has just recently graduated from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
To read Elizabeth's obituary, contributed by her daughter, see page D2.
Darcy reads the article several times, a mixture of feelings rising inside of her. The past week at Lupin's, Darcy hasn't read much of the Daily Prophet, busy sleeping and sulking and trying to avoid any news of other deaths. The article makes guilt gnaw at her again, but the lateness of the announcement makes Darcy slightly wary. Emily's mother had died just over a week ago—the funeral service had already come and gone.
She's glad Max has returned. A quick and inquiring letter to Mr. Weasley might get her the answer she's looking for.
As much as she doesn't want to read Emily's mother's obituary, Darcy can't help herself. Her curiosity gets the better of her, however, and she hastily switches papers with Professor Snape, snatching page D2 out of his hands before he has time to offer it to her. Darcy finds the article quickly and begins to read, wishing Emily were with her.
DAUGHTER OF MURDERED JOURNALIST REMEMBERS HER MOTHER
My mother was the most beautiful woman I've ever known. Smart, and not only in a bookish way, but in the ways of the world, wise and dedicated to her family and friends and career, always hungry and eager for more knowledge, the best writer the Daily Prophet has ever had. She was the best woman I'd ever known, and the woman I aspire to be.
I grew up with loving parents in a loving household, a luxury I now realize I have taken for granted for my entire life. My mother doted on me, her only child, as mothers often do upon their children, buying me everything I required in order to properly express myself, whether it be art supplies or dancing lessons. She never brushed me off whenever I expressed interest in a certain activity, showed such excitement when I showed early signs of magic, always made sure that I never felt out of place, that I always knew my worth as a woman in a world of men.
My mother contributed hundreds of articles to the Daily Prophet, and was the recipient of two Golden Quill Awards—once in 1979 and again in 1984—for her exemplary journalism skills. I was very young when she won her first award, but I remember clearly the second one. We had gone out for dinner the following night, just the two of us, and by the end of the week, my mother had written a very short article about our dinner together, an article that hangs in my bedroom even now.
In it, she had described our excitement over just being near each other. She described, in great detail, how much she loved me and how much she loved spending time with me, the exact outfit I had picked out for that night (an outfit that I felt my mother might wear herself). She let me talk the whole night about everything and nothing, things that children talk about, and she listened to everything I had to say with a smile on her face. And she loved me so much that she wrote a public article to express it.
That is how I remember my mother. Kind almost to a fault, beautiful, loving, smart, and quite possibly the best mother any young girl could ever have asked for.
My world is darker without her, but if I have learned one thing, it is that our mothers, when they are gone, live on inside of us. My mother will never truly be gone as long as I live.
Below the article is a photograph of Emily and her mother. Darcy imagines that when Mrs. Duncan was a young girl, she probably looked very much like Emily in the way Darcy resembles her own mother. The picture is lovely—Emily, maybe five-years-old, holding onto her mother's hand, both of them wearing yellow sundresses and black hats to shield them from the sun. It's a Muggle photograph, presumably taken by Mr. Duncan.
Emily's words leave Darcy feeling hollow, and only when she looks up from the newspaper does she realize her cheeks are wet with tears.
Our mothers, when they are gone, live on inside of us.
Darcy lowers the paper, looking down at her breakfast plate. She feels cruel for every thinking Emily hadn't understood her, had never understood Darcy's longing for her dead mother, but now there's no way around it: Emily does understand. She wonders if Emily had been thinking of her when she wrote the piece, wonders if Emily had cried while writing it.
Without thinking, she tears Emily's article out of the page and folds it up, tucking it into her pocket.
Carla's Potions class is much smaller than Darcy's had been. There are a small handful of Ravenclaws, who outnumber the other students, two Slytherins, two Gryffindors, and Carla. Carla seats herself with the other Gryffindors around a table and Darcy smiles, imagining herself and Emily, joined by Gemma. The image makes her chuckle to herself as she recalls the looks on the Slytherins' faces when Gemma had seated herself with the Gryffindors.
Professor Snape looks down at the open book on his desk, detailing a complicated potion, and Carla smiles encouragingly at Darcy from between the two Gryffindors. Darcy smiles back, but the sight of Carla with new friends makes her feel slightly uncomfortable, and the familiar feeling of disgust comes creeping up—disgust at the jealousy she feels, at the anger she feels towards these innocent Gryffindors who hadn't asked Carla to sit with them. Flattening her robes and looking helplessly towards Snape for some guidance, Darcy lingers behind him as he addresses the class.
"As you all have likely noticed," he begins slowly, glancing at Darcy over his shoulder, as if to make sure she hasn't run away, "Miss Potter will be joining us for the year, and will be helping where I see fit. I will expect you to show her the same amount of respect that you would show me, or any other of your professors."
A few students clap awkwardly (Carla included), unsure of what else to do to welcome her. Darcy blushes.
"Now, if you will all turn to page sixty-eight, we'll get started . . ."
Darcy doesn't do much for the first class. When the students begin working on their potions, Professor Snape beckons Darcy to follow him as he wanders about the classroom. He points into each of the cauldrons, murmuring quietly about what has gone wrong, why, and what the students have done right. In fact, Darcy rather enjoys it. She enjoys learning as much as she can, and Professor Snape doesn't snap at her once, to her surprise. She even thinks that, if he were like this all the time, he might even have been one of the best teachers she's ever had.
Snape intimidates the other students whenever he approaches with Darcy at his side, but refrains from being overtly cruel, however, she knows this will likely change when they encounter a less experienced class with younger students. In fact, Darcy absolutely dreads having to witness Harry's Potions class, knowing that Snape will likely not hold back upon seeing Harry again after his patience has run thin.
At the end of the lesson, the classroom smells like a mixture of burnt rubber and lavender and nutmeg. Carla packs up slower than the rest of her classmates. Snape turns his back on her and Darcy approaches her friend, smiling a genuine smile, feeling foolish for having been so anxious.
"How did I do?" Darcy asks with a weak laugh.
"You were great," Carla jokes, giving her arm a playful punch. "You're perfect at standing around looking pretty."
"That's exactly why Dumbledore gave me the job, didn't I tell you?"
The two of them laugh softly, and Darcy swears she can hear Professor Snape grumbling in a rather exasperated fashion under his breath, but he keeps his back to them to allow them some privacy. "I'll catch up with you during dinner," Carla says, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. "You can show me your new place."
Darcy grins, nodding. "Sure."
She watches Carla go, her heart a little lighter.
Darcy takes lunch alone in the courtyard, seated cross-legged in a sunny corner. She eats slowly with one hand, the other hand gripping a quill, attempting to keep her piece of parchment flat while writing hurriedly.
She'd decided to write to Emily first about her first day at Hogwarts instead of Lupin (it had been a fierce internal debate, really, between her head and her heart, who to write first) for several reasons. Instead of wasting time and energy writing to Lupin, she decided she'd just wait to tell him everything this weekend when she returns to his home, and Darcy wants to bring up to Emily the lovely article she'd written about her mother. Darcy wishes she would have just written to Lupin, though—the idea of him not being around all the time to talk to is becoming more and more distressing to Darcy, but she refuses to admit this to anyone, afraid of coming off as childish or needy, two things she desperately doesn't want to be.
After lunch, the day continues with every class beginning relatively the same as the first class. Professor Snape informs them before beginning his lesson that Darcy will be with them for the year, letting them know what he expects from them, and the students seem disinterested for the most part. They mostly ignore her, except for a few first and second year students who look hopefully towards her whenever Professor Snape scrunches his nose at their cauldrons. To these frightened and pale children, Darcy whispers in their ears, helping them along, and while Snape seems to notice, he decides to let it go and not say anything at all.
When classes end for the day and dinner nears, Darcy waits outside the doors of the Great Hall, scanning the crowd of hungry students for dark, curly hair, her stomach rumbling. Darcy checks her watch and jumps when someone calls her name from over her right shoulder. She turns to find Harry, Hermione, and Ron walking up to her, Hermione leading them.
"Darcy, did you know there are house-elves here at Hogwarts?" Hermione asks, and Darcy cocks an eyebrow, looking from Harry to Ron, hoping for an answer to all of her unasked questions—the most important being, what? "House-elves make the food—"
"That's not the only thing they do. They stoke the fires, clean the common room, tidy the dormitories. They're quite nice—they used to give Emily and me food whenever we were hungry . . ." Darcy chuckles nervously, looking past Hermione to Ron, who's silently trying to tell her to shut up. Darcy blinks, meeting Hermione's eyes again and feeling that it would have been better to just feign ignorance or ignore her completely. "What's wrong, Hermione?"
"You've known that they've been here all this time?"
"Er . . . yes?"
"You've known that Hogwarts uses them as slaves?"
Darcy laughs out loud, but Hermione scowls for a moment before rearranging her features into a more pleasant expression. "They aren't slaves, Hermione."
"They don't get paid!"
"What would a house-elf even spend money on?" Darcy asks, catching sight of Carla making her way down the marble staircase with her friends. She turns back to Hermione. "Anyway, they're treated well and they're given a roof over their heads, a place to sleep. And they aren't used the way the Malfoys used Dobby. No one is hurting them—"
"Weasley! Hey, Weasley!"
"Speak of the devil," Darcy mutters, as Draco Malfoy and his two usual cronies push past the queuing students waiting for dinner. In his hands is the day's copy of the Prophet, a broad smile on his pointed face, his eyes alight with malice.
"Your dad's in the paper, Weasley. Did you see?" Malfoy shouts, drawing the attention of everyone around them. Darcy swallows loudly as Carla reaches her side, and Ron frowns as Malfoy shoves the paper into his hands. "Couldn't even get his name right!" He continues to grin, ignoring Darcy completely, giving Ron time to read the article in its entirety, by which time Ron's ears and the back of his neck are bright red. "I love the picture, Weasley. Is that really what you live in? That dirty hovel? And your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?"
Harry opens his mouth to respond, his expression deadly, and Carla cuts him off. Darcy snatches the newspaper from Ron's hands and curls it up. "That's enough," she hisses, her cheeks turning pink. Darcy puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and the other on Ron's, turning them away from Malfoy.
"What are you going to do?" Malfoy continues to jeer, even with their backs turned. "Give me a detention? Do you even have the authority? Can you even take points?" He elbows Crabbe and laughs. "We all know the real reason you're here . . . little baby Potter needs his mummy nearby, isn't that right? Can't go anywhere without his big sister around to tuck him into bed—"
"Shut up, Draco," Carla calls from behind them, her right hand deep in the pocket of her robes, probably fingering the handle of her wand. "You're just bitter that your parents have never shown you any love—"
"What do you know about my parents?" Malfoy snaps.
"We all know who and what your parents are," Carla retorts, shrugging her shoulders.
Malfoy scowls at them all, looking back at Harry last. "At least my parents are still alive."
Harry tears himself away from Darcy, lunging at Malfoy, his wand outstretched and aimed at Malfoy's chest, but Ron catches him before anything serious happens. Darcy doesn't punish Malfoy, despite how badly she wants to, unsure if she even does have authority to give detentions. Trying to keep herself composed and dignified, Darcy grabs at Harry's robes, pulling him back.
"Leave him, Harry," she whispers. "He isn't worth it."
Harry seems to agree, at least grudgingly, turning his back on Malfoy and meaning to walk away with his sister.
BANG!
A jet of white light flashes dangerously close past Darcy's face, very close to Harry's. She lets go of Harry immediately, and both she and her brother ready their wands again. Malfoy's spell has missed them by mere inches, yet before either of them can draw their wands to defend themselves, there's another loud BANG! and Darcy jumps, spinning around and searching for the source of the noise. Expecting it to be Carla, Darcy glances over her shoulder, but Carla's wand is at her side, and her left hand is covering her mouth in shock, her brown eyes wide as dinner plates.
"Oh, no you don't, laddie!"
The gruff voice is unfamiliar to Darcy. She, Carla, and Harry all turn to face the marble staircase; Mad-Eye Moody is stumping down the stairs, his wand held high in the air. The entire crowd goes silent, and when Darcy looks back to Malfoy, she shrieks. Draco Malfoy isn't standing there anymore—instead, Moody is pointing his wand at a white ferret, squirming on the ground and squealing like a pig about to be slaughtered. She takes a few steps back, disgusted and terrified.
When the ferret tries to crawl away between Crabbe's feet, Moody lifts his wand, cackling happily. "I don't think so!" Malfoy rises high in the air, a few feet above Darcy's head, and Moody allows him to fall to the ground. Darcy and Carla scream each time the ferret bounces off the stone floor, afraid that Malfoy will break every bone in his body, afraid that Moody will let the ferret free fall without magic and crush itself. "I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back is turned! What a cowardly thing to do!"
The white ferret rises again, thrashing in midair, squeaking frantically. Moody lets him fall, bounces him off the floor (Darcy shrieks again), and shoots him right back up in the air once more.
"Stop!" Darcy shouts, but only Moody's electric blue eyes acknowledges her. A great wave of dislike for Moody and wariness overcome her as she continues to shout him down in vain. "Please, stop it! Turn him right!" But Moody doesn't oblige. Darcy points her wand at Malfoy, but someone's hand closes around her wrist and lowers it.
"Professor Moody!"
Professor McGonagall's long, thin fingers release Darcy's wrist. Her nostrils are flared, her eyebrows pinched together, her face white. Darcy, from experience, knows this is a bad thing, and she takes a step back, trodding on Ron's toes. Moody looks quickly at McGonagall, his face stony, and Malfoy the ferret falls back to the ground with a sickening crunch. McGonagall flicks her wand casually, and in less than a second, Draco Malfoy is back the way he was, his hair a little messy and a horrified and painful look on his face.
Professor McGonagall looks angrier than Darcy has ever seen her, angrier than when she'd caught Darcy mid-cigarette with a glass of firewhisky in her hand a few years ago, and Darcy has been truly scared of her then. "We never use Transfiguration as a punishment," she says curtly, tucking her wand safely in her robes. "Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?"
Moody clears his throat, unabashed. "He might have mentioned it."
"Detentions will do . . . or you may speak to their Head of House," Professor McGonagall finishes, her lips pursed tight.
"I'll do that," Moody growls, grabbing Malfoy by the arm. The crowd begins to scatter at the scathing look McGonagall gives them all, and before Moody leaves, Darcy watches his magical eye flick from herself to Harry and back again. Professor McGonagall stands by Darcy's side, unflinching. "The Potter siblings, eh? Let me have a look at you, then."
Darcy and Harry exchange a nervous glance before looking Moody full in the face again. His blue eye travels from Darcy's head to her feet, and then he does the same to Harry, his regular eye narrowed.
"Just like your parents, aren't you?" Moody asks them, but neither Darcy nor Harry answer.
"I think they're quite aware of the resemblance. Don't you two have somewhere to be?" McGonagall asks them, eyes widening.
"Yes, Professor," they say at the same time. Harry takes off into the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione on his heels; Darcy grabs Carla by the hand and drags her back up the marble staircase, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Moody.
Once she and Carla reach the safety of the first landing, Darcy lets go of her hand and they slow their pace. Darcy's heart is still racing, and she craves the comfort of her own room. "He's mad," Darcy says breathlessly, climbing another flight of stairs. "What was that?"
"I had his class right after lunch today," Carla answers, looking rather shaken as they approach the portrait that conceals the door to Darcy's apartments. "You know how he began class? He started by talking about Harry, and the way that Death Eaters torture people, and it . . . it was terrible. Fred and George had his class before lunch and said he was the same way, too."
Darcy gives the password and holds the portrait open for Carla to climb through. Their dinner is already sitting on the dining table, steaming hot, making Darcy salivate. "What did he say about Harry? Why would he do that?"
"He was just trying to scare everyone, I think," Carla sighs, shrugging. "He was talking about how Harry is the only person to have ever survived the Killing Curse."
"So . . . he's not Professor Lupin, then?"
"About the furthest thing from Professor Lupin. I'd kill to have him back."
"Me too."
Carla glances quickly around the parlor, smiling. "Nice digs, Darcy."
"Thanks." They both sit down together at the table, starting quickly on their dinner, eating in silence for a few minutes. It's strange, eating with Carla, considering they'd been in different Houses and never spent much time together at meals. "How's Gemma? Have you spoken to her lately?"
"She's back at work," Carla says, a cheek full of sweet potato, making her look like a pretty chipmunk. "Mum and dad know what her parents are. They were all right letting her stay at our place until I came back here."
Darcy doesn't dwell too long on Gemma, knowing they'll be meeting up again soon. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about, but Darcy's heart aches for Gemma and Emily, both of whom were not doing well at the end of summer. Darcy feels horribly guilty, feeling she should have done more to help her friends instead of running back to Lupin . . . but surely they won't hold that against her? It's not like Darcy could have had either of them stay with her at Privet Drive, nor could she drag them to Lupin's cottage for safekeeping.
Both she and Carla make small talk for a little while, laughing and joking, reminiscing and missing their old friends. Darcy appreciates Carla's ability to make her laugh, appreciates the habits and mannerisms that she's picked up from spending years at Gemma's side. Finally, Carla reaches the subject of the Triwizard Tournament, and Darcy sighs contently, pushing her empty plate away and leaning back in her chair, balancing it on two legs. Carla laughs out loud when Darcy confesses she'd known about the tournament before Dumbledore announced it, impressed that she'd been able to keep such a big secret.
"I'm going to enter."
Darcy slams all four legs of her chair back on the ground. "What are you talking about? No, you're not."
Carla blinks in surprise. "What are you talking about?" she asks sharply, bristling. "You don't think I could win, is that it? I'm more than capable . . . and it sounds fun!"
"No, no! That's not it . . . I mean, I think you could win," Darcy says quickly, smiling in a forced way. "It's just . . . you know, people have died, and—"
"You worry too much."
"Carla, no, I—" Darcy sighs heavily, exasperated. "It's dangerous, didn't you listen?"
"That's half the fun of it." Carla gives a forced laugh to match Darcy's smile. "Darcy, no offense, but you sound like a bore. I'm of age, and I'm entering. I mean . . . glory, riches . . . what isn't exciting about that? Besides, Hufflepuff is due for some glory if you ask me, and who better than me to represent my House?"
Pain. Danger. Suffering. Potentially losing a friend. Darcy can't bring herself to say these things, however. Carla's eyes are bright with excitement, reminding Darcy of the manic gleam in Oliver Wood's eyes when talking about Quidditch.
"Come on, don't act like you haven't enjoyed your little adventures," Carla scoffs, waving her fork in the air. "You know that if this had happened last year, you, Emily, and Gemma would have been the first three people to enter."
Darcy isn't sure that's necessarily true. Gemma likely would have done it, Darcy's positive about that. And Gemma would have tried to convince Emily, and Emily—ever competitive—likely would have joined, as well. And Darcy can hear Emily's voice in her head, as if she were standing right behind her: Come on, Darcy, it'll be fun! Darcy wants to believe that she wouldn't have entered the Triwizard Tournament if she was able to. She wants to believe she'd see the danger and allow someone else to enjoy the glory.
But for Carla to assume that Darcy's enjoyed every other dangerous thing she's done angers her. How could Carla think that? How could Carla truly believe looking a young Tom Riddle in the face was exciting? Or even fun? Carla wouldn't have made it five minutes into the Chamber of Secrets . . . she wouldn't have thought the adventures were so fun if she had tagged along, if she had been forced to come face to face with giant spiders and three-headed dogs. And Darcy, enraged by Carla's presumption, finds herself unable to hold her tongue any longer.
"Is that what you think?" Darcy scowls. Carla frowns at her, almost looking as if she'd been prepared for an outburst. "I didn't sign up for those adventures, Carla. I didn't volunteer for that, nor did I do it for a taste of glory. I did it because my brother was in danger and I wasn't going to let him go it alone."
"All right . . . I'm sorry."
Darcy stands up and paces around her sitting room, glancing up at the pictures propped against the wall above the fireplace.
"What are you so afraid of, Darcy?"
Darcy whirls around to face Carla, still seated at the small, round table. There are so many things she's afraid of—losing people she cares about, another war, being abandoned by those she loves. Her fears make her feel weak, not worthy to be a Gryffindor, nothing like her parents . . . her brave, brave parents, who had sacrificed everything for their children without hesitation.
"It's just a game," Carla whispers, her tone gentler and reassuring. "No one is going to die."
"It's not just a game . . . it's not just the Triwizard Tournament." Darcy crosses her arms over her chest, softening. "You were there, Carla. You saw what those Death Eaters did. You know what happened to Emily's mother." She runs a hand through her hair. "It makes me think, who's next? Emily? Me? You?"
Carla gets to her feet, attempting to flatten her hair, but it refuses to lie flat. Her corkscrew curls spring up around her head, making her look like an angel with a halo of dark ringlets. Darcy has always seen Carla as rather soft, a girl who frightens easily, who feels other people's pain as her own, who worries about her friends too much. And when she speaks, her voice is soft, too—it's not commanding like Emily's, or laced with sarcasm like Gemma's. It's reassuring and comforting, and it slowly deflates Darcy as her heart hammers inside her chest.
"Why can't you just enjoy things?" Carla asks, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. She smiles incredulously, taking a few steps towards Darcy. "You've graduated, living at Hogwarts again, you're in love—you're free! And all you do is worry about the next thing, and the next thing, and whatever comes after that. You need to stop and appreciate what you have now."
"Before I lose it all?" Darcy snaps. "It's good to be prepared for the worst."
"Of course it is," Carla says, still smiling. "But you can only prepare so much. How could you possibly prepare for anything that you've witnessed? Anything that you've done? You're going to drive yourself mad if you keep worrying."
Darcy swallows loudly, shaking her head. "I already am. I'm so paranoid, Carla. Something is going to go wrong, I just know it—"
"Darcy," Carla interrupts in a hushed voice, holding out a hand as if to calm a wild animal. "Stop."
But Carla's interruption only makes Darcy furious. She clenches her fists, her face darkening. "You don't get it, do you? You think Dumbledore would have insisted I return here if he didn't expect trouble? You think there won't be more attacks like there were at the World Cup? You think Dumbledore's brought in Moody to teach because he's a decent guy?" Darcy rubs her face with her palms, turning her back on Carla to look at the photograph of herself and Harry, smiling and waving from the photograph. "I've always had to worry. I've always had to think about the future, about keeping Harry safe. You don't understand the stakes!"
"I understand the stakes well enough!" Carla squeaks, her hair bouncing again as she takes an angry step forward. "Don't think I'm indifferent to your suffering, and to Emily! And to whatever keeps Gemma awake at night! Don't think that I don't feel for you, or that I don't know the dangers of being close to you!"
Carla's words calm Darcy. To have that reassurance and validation, that her pain is real, and felt by someone other than herself, is a massive relief, and her heart swells with love for Carla. To know that Carla does understand what it means to be close to a Potter, yet chooses to love her anyway . . .
"I worshipped you and Emily the moment you started talking to me," Carla confesses, her cheeks flushing. "You were Darcy Potter. You were cool, and pretty . . ." She averts her eyes, looking down at the floor. "I wanted to be you, and now I just feel sorry for you."
"Wh—what?"
"I believe there's a war coming," Carla continues, looking back up into Darcy's eyes. "I do. Maybe not for years, or maybe tomorrow, but I know it's coming. And I know how this might end. Emily's mother was the first, and she will not be the last."
Darcy frowns, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, whether from anger, shame, or humiliation, she isn't sure.
"I'm going to enjoy my life before I can't anymore. I could die tomorrow, and I want to know that I didn't waste my time worrying about the future." Carla moves back to the table, her demeanor much calmer, and she picks up her schoolbag and heaves it onto her shoulder. "That's why I want to enter the tournament. Because I can . . . and I will."
Darcy doesn't know what to say, only sits there in stunned silence.
As Carla heads towards the door, she surprises Darcy even further by flashing her a beautiful, charming smile. "So, I'm thinking . . . dinner once a week?"
It takes Darcy a moment to respond. "Yeah, sure, of course."
Carla shrugs sheepishly. "I got the idea from you and Lupin."
This makes Darcy laugh, a strange sound when not forced. "Yeah," she chuckles.
"You could help me with my Potions homework."
"Sorry . . . Remus never helped me with my Defense homework," Darcy says, smiling. "I think that may be breaching some kind of teacher-student code or something. One-on-one teaching sessions are highly discouraged, I believe, especially ones held inside a teacher's own living space."
"We all know what was really going on during your one-on-one teaching sessions," Carla teases. "Certainly nothing Defense related." Her eyes flick to the mantel, at the photo of her and Lupin. "Cute picture, Darcy. Good-night."
Darcy lays in bed for a long time that night, the stillness and quiet of the room like a crushing weight on her chest. The darkness blankets her, isolates her until the only thing that's left with her are her thoughts. Moonlight spills through the lone window above her bed, making her think of Lupin, of how badly she wants to love him, to kiss him, to have him hold her, to remind her that there are still good things in the world, good things she has now that she may not have in the future.
She thinks of Emily, how the death of her mother had happened so suddenly, how Emily was taken away from her mother's body and brought home by a stranger and Darcy, sobbing and shaking. They hadn't had time to prepare, hadn't had time to say good-bye . . . did Emily watch her mother die? Or did she just find her like that?
Carla has always fretted over Darcy, not to the extent that Emily did, but she worried. But Carla has always been impervious to the perils of her future—Carla has never fussed much over a career, has never worried much about life after Hogwarts, big picture things. Darcy knows Carla's stressors: homework, Herbology, non-verbal spells. Little things, things that won't matter later. Things that matter to her now, in the present.
How wonderful it would be to be able to live in the moment, to not have to worry about things that could happen ten years from now. Darcy tries to imagine her future, tries to imagine a life where she's married and has children and a loving husband . . . a husband with brown and gray hair and a patchy beard on his face and mischievous eyes . . .
But it's hard to picture that life. Suffering and pain and sadness and guilt are the only things she can imagine, a future where she's alone, broken, and thrown into a war she never asked to be apart of.
Carla knows it, and so do I.
She knows that when the war comes, Darcy will not be part of the war the way Emily will be, or the way Lupin will be. She will be at the forefront with her little brother—an instrumental piece in the a war that Darcy can't quite explain yet. All she knows is that each year Harry has been at Hogwarts has proved that Voldemort will not rest until Harry is dead.
And Darcy knows that she will not rest until Harry is safe, even if that means sacrifice.
I am my mother's daughter.
Darcy rolls over in bed and closes her eyes, reaching out instinctively for a warm hand to hold, for a body in bed beside her. She clutches at the sheet, sighing. For a moment, she thinks of walking straight down to Hogsmeade, of Apparating in the field that surrounds Lupin's cottage. But the idea of running into someone's arm, of needing someone to hold her, makes her feel weak and ashamed of herself.
Professor Snape was wrong. I don't need someone to hold my hand to be a Gryffindor.
But it would be nice.