"Snape is being particularly vindictive these days, I've noticed. And I've also noticed that you've failed to stop him tormenting me."
Darcy smiles at Harry as Max nuzzles against her chin, allowing her to hold him in her arms. "What am I supposed to do? Scold him in the middle of class?" Max beats his wings for a moment, filling her face with feathers. "I wouldn't leave that classroom alive."
The air is brisk now at the start of October, the leaves changing colors in earnest—the ones that haven't died off already. The wind has started to pick up, the mornings are crisp, and the need for a fire in the hearth is constant. Darcy has since abandoned her pretty dresses and thin blouses beneath her robes, instead favoring sweaters and cardigans, considering the even greater temperature drop in the dungeon classroom that Snape seems to have grown immune to. Even up in the owlery on this blustery Thursday morning, Darcy wishes they would have just gone down to the Great Hall for breakfast, where it's warm and crowded and much more comfortable overall.
She hasn't yet told Harry about the conversation she and Lupin had a few weeks ago after Gemma's ominous confession. She hadn't wanted to worry Harry with anything they weren't one hundred percent certain of, and Lupin had promised Darcy he'd talk to Dumbledore about it on his own time. Lupin hadn't told her what Dumbledore's response to this information had been, nor had Dumbledore mentioned anything about it to her directly. The only thing Lupin had said was, "It's taken care of. No need to worry about it." But Darcy feels that, if something was going to happen—if Dumbledore was genuinely concerned about someone's safety within the castle or otherwise—someone would surely let her know. She clings to this hope, using it to calm her feelings of guilt that gnaw away at her insides every time she refuses to tell her brother.
To make matters worse, Sirius still has failed to reply to Harry's last letter. Darcy had thought, if he was coming north, Hedwig would have been back long ago. Each morning at breakfast when the post owls came, Darcy had noticed Harry looking around rather anxiously, his eyes scanning the mass of owls, likely hoping for a reply from Sirius, as well. She had even asked Lupin a few times if he thought Sirius might have been caught, but he had been so sure that if anything happened with Sirius, it would have been front page worthy news, and so far, the Daily Prophet has kept silent in regards to Sirius. There are so many things Darcy yearns to tell her godfather, and the uncertainty of when she'll actually get that chance again weighs heavy on her.
"Stay still," Darcy coos softly, pulling a piece of neatly rolled parchment from the pocket of her robes, making to tie it on Max's leg. Her owl does as he's told, still as a statue and ever obedient, holding one of his skinny legs out for her to make it easier.
"Who's that for?" Harry asks, looking over her shoulder at the parchment.
"Mr. Weasley," Darcy answers quickly, stroking Max's chin. "Rest, Max, and then go to him." Max gives her an appeasing hoot and then flies up to the rafters, settling himself into a corner and immediately closing his eyes, burying his face into his wing. Darcy turns back to Harry and they begin their slow descent towards the Great Hall. "I want him to keep an eye on Emily. I'm really worried about her."
"Have you actually written to her?"
"Once, and she sent Max back without a reply," Darcy sighs. She had been furious that day, irritable and anxious upon seeing Max fly back into the Great Hall without an answer from Emily. All she had wanted was reassurance that Emily was all right. Gemma says you're working around the clock, Darcy had written. Take a break, Emily. Darcy had been so angry with her lack of reply that she'd given a second year a detention after spilling the contents of his cauldron over the front of her robes. She hadn't been quite sure she was allowed to do that or not, but Snape hadn't corrected her, nor did he bat an eye when she allowed her anger to take over her for a few seconds. "I'm going to see her this weekend."
"Does she know that?"
Darcy hesitates, avoiding Harry's eyes. "Er . . . well, no, she doesn't."
They make it to the Great Hall before breakfast comes to an end, plates still half-full and students still bleary-eyed. Harry wanders off to the Gryffindor table to join his friends while Darcy makes towards her vacant seat at the staff table, her absence seemingly very conspicuous. Eyeing the few pages of the discarded newspaper set down beside Snape's plate, Darcy clears her throat and gestures to them.
"May I?" she asks.
Professor Snape pushes the pages towards her and Darcy reads them absently, eyes scanning over advertisements and wanted ads, career opportunities and internships and opinion articles giving the odds of Puddlemere United winning the next Quidditch World Cup. After Snape finishes the article he'd been so invested in, he lowers it into his lap and looks directly at her.
"I have news that I think you might find exciting," he says, and Darcy lowers her paper, as well, raising her eyebrows as if she doesn't quite believe him. "Walk with me to the classroom. I would hate to be overheard."
"What? What news could you possibly have to give me right now?" Darcy asks quickly, and then she gestures to her empty plate. "I haven't even had breakfast yet. Can't it wait until after breakfast?"
Professor Snape gets to his feet, widening his eyes impatiently at her. Darcy sighs, accepting defeat, closing the newspaper and tossing it down on the table, atop her empty plate. Follow him through the Great Hall, other students begin to finish up their breakfasts, not as eager to attend their first classes of the day. Part of her is anxious, as she always is before classes, her heart pumping hard in her chest. She can't shake the feeling that Snape's news might involve Sirius . . . but how would he know anything about Sirius? Wouldn't Dumbledore have been the first to know something? Certainly Dumbledore wouldn't share such private information with Snape, of all people.
"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at the end of the month," he tells her quietly, slowing his pace as Darcy catches up to him.
She blinks up at him, cocking a single eyebrows, having expecting something completely different to come out of his mouth. "That means nothing to me."
Snape purses his lips, impatient all over again, sighing. "Didn't you listen to anything the Headmaster said during his start of term speech?"
"No, not really," Darcy answers. "I was busy talking to you."
"Hogwarts is not the only school participating in the Triwizard Tournament. A few handpicked students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be joining us for a good part of the school year, until the tournament comes to a close," he explains, his hands held behind his back as they walk slowly down the corridor. He waits for the Fat Friar to pass them before continuing. The friendly ghost passes them with an equally friendly smile that Professor Snape does not return. "Which means, for you, that you will be on your best behavior—"
"Excuse me?" Darcy scoffs, rolling her eyes. "My best behavior? Are you implying that I'm not on my best behavior currently?"
"I will not have you making a fool of me while we host the Triwizard Tournament, is that understood?" His cheeks turn slightly pink, his lip curling. "I did not ask for you to be my apprentice, but you are, and I ask that you do as I say. Your behavior and attitude is a direct reflection of my—"
Darcy smiles innocently up at him as he continues to scowl. "Professor, please," she interrupts. "When have I ever made a fool of you?"
"You can be infuriating, Darcy, do you know that?" He looks at her again down his long, hooked nose, his black eyes cold and unreadable. "After all that I have done for you, and you repay my kindness with—"
"I haven't heard this before," Darcy grumbles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again. "Hold on, I think I'm quite good at this little speech of yours by now, but feel free to correct me if I get something wrong." She clears her throat dramatically, and Snape raises his eyebrows, giving her another dangerous look, but not bothering to stop her. "You should be thanking me on bended knee, kissing my boots for saving your life from that horrible, terrible monster. Let those scars on your shoulder serve as a reminder, for all your days, of what I've done for you—"
"Careful, Darcy," Professor Snape growls, not looking at all amused. "This is exactly why I'm speaking to you now, before they arrive. I feel that I've been very tolerant towards you this past month, but I will not suffer any cheek from you while we are hosting our guests. There will be no eye-rolling like some petulant child, no mocking me, no pinning ridiculous badges onto me—"
Darcy laughs. "I know you're keeping that badge in your desk drawer."
"Don't you dare go through my things again!" Snape retorts hotly, flushing with color. "The next time, you will be sorry—"
"Did you keep it out of respect for me, or for Hermione?"
"Enough, Darcy."
"Fine," Darcy finishes, suddenly feeling much better and slightly lighter on her feet. "I understand. I promise I'll be a good girl."
"Are you quite finished?"
"I think so."
As they reach Professor Snape's classroom, he opens the door and holds it open for her to pass through, nearly slamming it shut behind him. Darcy waves her wand above her head, lighting several candelabras spread throughout the room and starting a fire in the dusty fireplace, giving the classroom a warmth that was always lacking when she was a student.
"Do not think I will not hesitate to send you straight home if I find your behavior intolerable," he snarls at her, finally safe inside the classroom. "One wrong move, one wrong word, and I will make sure you will not be here for the remainder of the tournament."
"You won't," Darcy says, seating herself atop one of the student tables, swinging her long legs back and forth and tucking her hair behind her eyes. "I know you would miss me terribly."
They stare at each other until the sound of approaching footsteps echo outside the classroom door. "Are you finally finished, Darcy?"
She chuckles, hopping off the table as the door opens and a few students trickle inside, talking quietly amongst themselves. "Yes, I'm done."
The Friday evening before Darcy plans on seeing Emily, she sits in front of the fire in her own room, fingering the rim of a wine glass, watching the crackling logs and dancing flames. Several times, she goes over the plan in her head, sipping her wine in hopes of easing her nerves.
Meet Remus in London, buy food from the market to bring to Emily's, try to convince Remus to come with me, give him the saddest face he's ever seen when he refuses.
Darcy knows that Emily wouldn't like it—Lupin showing up on her doorstep, offering unwanted help during her time of need. But Darcy is afraid of going alone, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to comfort her. What do you say to someone whose mother has died? What would Darcy have wanted someone to say to her? What words could have possibly given her reassurance after the death of her parents? Nothing Darcy can say or do will bring back Mrs. Duncan and she knows it. And what will she say to Mr. Duncan? Mr. Dunca, who is still likely grieving the fresh death of his wife?
Emily doesn't deserve this.
Sleep does not come easily that night. Darcy feels lonely without a body to sleep next to. She reaches out to the undisturbed half of the bed, grabbing the cool sheet and squeezing a fistful of it. Unbidden, horrible thoughts come to her—thoughts of losing Lupin at the hands of Death Eaters, the very thing he was afraid of when he'd pleaded with her to keep hidden away at Hogwarts. What would she do without him? How could she live? How had she lived so long without him? Life would become nothing but a chore, she thinks. Getting out of bed would be the hardest thing she's ever had to endure, knowing he's no longer with her.
Darcy wonders if that's how Mr. Duncan feels, wonders if he'll ever find it in him to love someone again.
She thinks of the things she would miss most about Lupin—the sound of her name being whispered, an almost seductive thing, to hear him say her name, the smile that makes him look a young boy again, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughs. His soft, crooning "good girl" when he touches her, the feel of his lips on every part of her body, the love she feels when he worships her with his fingers, the way he makes her feel each time he smiles at her—a feeling that Darcy is sure no other man could possibly make her feel.
Upon waking from her restless sleep, Darcy leaves the castle as quickly as possible, craving Lupin's presence, hoping that just holding his hand will give her the strength to face Emily and her father during such a difficult time. She Disapparates from Hogsmeade, finding her footing again in an alley beside the Leaky Cauldron. When she walks out onto the main street to find Lupin already waiting for her, checking his watch and giving it a few hard taps, she smiles.
He greets her with a kiss on the cheek, one that makes her skin burn hot, and they find the nearby market with relative ease. Darcy, with what Muggle money she has left over from the summer, buys enough fresh food for a few meals at least. Darcy holds onto his hand the entire time, squeezing tightly as if afraid to lose him in the crowd.
"Your hand is all sweaty," Lupin chuckles, pulling his hand away from her to take some of the many bags hanging heavy off her wrist. "Everything will be fine, my love. You shouldn't worry so much."
"Worrying is the thing I'm best at," she jokes.
"You don't need to tell me that."
Darcy sighs, hooking her arm through his as they leave, laden with shopping bags. "Please come with me, Remus. Please don't make me go alone."
"I'm sure Emily would take it as a personal affront upon seeing that you've dragged me along," he smiles sadly down at her. Darcy rests her cheek against his arm, frowning. "She'll be happy to see you, Darcy. It's nice that you've made time for her."
Darcy looks up at him, but Lupin quickly looks away, laughing.
"Don't you dare try to guilt trip me into coming," he teases. "You know I have such a hard time refusing you anything."
"Look at me, Remus."
"If I look at you, all will be lost. I know better than to look at you when you want something." Darcy persists for a few more moments, and Lupin glances at her sideways for a split second. "You're damn cute, though." He kisses her, causing butterflies to erupt in her stomach as he smiles against her lips.
He bids her a reluctant good-bye around the corner from Emily's home, kissing her several times and peppering her face with sweet ones. Darcy giggles, missing the feeling of his beard rubbing against her face. And just like that, he's gone, and Darcy is alone again as the feeling of dread overcomes her, especially as she walks the pathway to Emily's front door.
Darcy has never felt such overwhelming anxiety at Emily's before, not even the first time she'd visited. But she raises a hand and knocks anyway, waiting for someone to come fetch her, praying that they'll hurry, as the bags are really starting to hurt her hands, wrists, and arms. She feels foolish, not having planned this, and she starts to wonder if Emily is even home. Mr. Duncan's handsome care is parked on the street, outside of the garage, and Darcy is suddenly very wary about seeing him face to face again, afraid to see the state in which he's been for weeks—almost months, now.
The door swings open after about two minutes to reveal, not Mr. Duncan, but Emily. They look at each other curiously for a moment and Emily leans against the door frame, sizing Darcy up, looking at her as if she's a ghost. The sight of Emily shocks Darcy—she had rather expected Emily to be disheveled, sickly, weak, depressed, maybe in need of a hot shower or bath, but she looks nothing of the sort. Emily looks radiant, her honey blonde hair shining as the sun catches it, combed and curled loosely; if anything, she looks stonier than usual, her eyes glossed over and her lips tight.
Emily seems to come to her senses, stepping through the doorway onto the small step with Darcy, closing the front door behind her. She wraps her arms around herself. "What are you doing here, Darcy?"
Darcy opens her mouth to answer, but closes it almost instantly. She swallows hard, holding up the shopping bags. Emily's eyes flick from Darcy's face to the bags and back again. "I thought I could make you dinner tonight," she offers, but Emily doesn't respond. "You didn't answer my letter."
Still without answering, Emily puts her hand on the doorknob and lets Darcy inside. When she's completely inside the foyer, Darcy stops in her tracks, looking around. She can see straight into the kitchen, just a small sliver of it, but enough to see that there are dirty dishes stacked up beside and in the sink, some of them plates with food still stuck on them. To Darcy's right, in the sitting room, beer cans and half-empty cigarette packs litter every inch of table space, an ashtray spilling over onto their glass coffee table, old take-out boxes with the cans. The television is turned on to a loud volume, but no one is inside watching it.
Darcy walks herself fully into the kitchen to put the fresh food away, horrified by the sight that assaults her. What once had been a beautiful and pristine home has been turned into an absolute sty, uncared for and dirty, trash overflowing from the waste-bin and the smell of rotten food wafting in the air. Emily doesn't accompany Darcy into the kitchen, but she can hear the soft footsteps climbing the stairs, back to her bedroom. Darcy hurriedly puts away the food and follows Emily.
Even Emily's bedroom is messy; clothes, clean and dirty, are thrown on the floor instead of hung neatly in her closet, two empty bottles of wine sit on her nightstand along with a stained wine glass, her desk is covered with clippings out of the Daily Prophet that have no relation as far as Darcy can tell, and she spies some handwritten notes, flyers, and wanted pictures of wizards (though Darcy feels a rush of affection for Emily upon noticing that Sirius is not on a single one of them).
"Emily, how can you live like this?" Darcy asks, unable to help herself. Emily had been one of the neatest people she ever knew, and while Darcy is used to clutter and a slight mess, this is beyond anything that she's ever known. Darcy seats herself at the foot of Emily's bed, watching Emily pace frantically, not really doing anything.
Emily looks under her bed for something, flips through the piles of papers on her writing desk. With unwarranted roughness, Emily opens her desk drawer and pulls a pen out from it, along with a piece of blank paper, sitting down on the chair and putting the tip down to write.
"Emily," Darcy says again, rising to her feet. "Stop it."
"I'm very busy," Emily replies curtly. "You shouldn't have come here. I have a lot of work to do, and—"
"Emily, look at me."
"I really should be getting back to the Ministry soon, anyway—they really do need all the help they can get, and Tonks has promised to take me—"
"Emily—"
"You can stay here, I suppose, but I probably won't be back until late and—"
"Emily," Darcy says, running a hand through her hair. She walks up to Emily's side and slowly reaches for the pen. Emily's hand slaps hers away. "Emily, stop!"
And she does. Emily quiets immediately, turning her head to look at Darcy.
Chest heaving, Darcy looks around the bedroom and smiles incredulously when she meets Emily's eyes again. Darcy decides to adopt a softer tone when she continues. "What are you doing?"
Emily doesn't seem to have an answer for her. She only looks at Darcy with eyes so cold they could rival Professor Snape's.
"Why didn't you answer my letter?"
"What did you want me to say?" Emily hisses. "I've been killing myself with work, and I've picked up a few of mum's old shifts at the Prophet, mostly editing, but . . ." She trails off, turning towards the window overlooking the quiet street. "Why did you come here, Darcy?"
"To check on you," Darcy says, her brow furrowed. "I came here to make sure you were all right, and I come to find this is how you've been living . . . in filth, leaving your dad at home. He needs you, Emily."
Emily's eyes well with tears and she flushes from head to toe, her face blotchy and slightly swollen. "How do I do it?" she pleads, shaking her head. "How do you do it? How do I live after what happened to mum? When does it stop hurting?"
Darcy feels a great sense of sadness, remembering a better time, what seemed a much easier time. The last time Emily had asked her this question, the day of her mother's funeral, Darcy had repeated Lupin's advice to her, but now she feels the answer is inadequate.
"It never stops hurting, Emily," she says truthfully, wondering too late if honestly is best for her right now. "But I never had the chance to grieve. The day after my parents died, I was responsible for my baby brother. It took me . . . years to make peace with what happened, and it's a shaky sense of peace even now." Darcy touches Emily's shoulder gently, glad she doesn't shake her hand off. "You should take some time for yourself and grieve properly. Give yourself time to heal before killing yourself with work."
Emily turns her head slightly, but Darcy can still see the tears that slip down her cheeks.
Darcy is able to coerce Emily into bed after a few minutes of silence. Emily obliges rather easily, crawling under the heavy blankets and getting comfortable. With her father hidden away somewhere in the house, Darcy spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the house, not using magic at all to drag out the hours. She goes around the sitting room with a trash bag, picking up all the empty cans and bottles, throwing away old food, reorganizing Mr. Duncan's record collection that had influenced Emily's taste in music since she was eleven. She does the dishes and puts them away, dusts the tables, sweeps the floors, scrubs the counter-tops and the inside of the refrigerator, vacuums the carpets. By the time she finishes, the sun has begun to set, and she sets to work making dinner in silence, trying not to think, trying to focus on chopping vegetables, seasoning the pork, setting the oven to the proper temperature.
It isn't until the pork is nearly done and she's tossing a plain salad when she finally hears footsteps behind her. She turns, expecting Emily, but it's Mr. Duncan standing in the doorway, eyes bloodshot and face sunken and gaunt, looking bewildered.
"Darcy," he breathes, looking around the kitchen. "When did you get here?"
"A few hours ago, actually." She turns awkwardly back to the salad, not wanting to look into Mr. Duncan's pathetic face for another moment.
"Did you do this?"
"Yes."
"You cleaned the house?"
"Yes, I did."
"And you're cooking dinner?"
"Yes, I am."
Mr. Duncan is quiet. Darcy places the finished salad onto the table, making towards the cupboard to pull down some newly cleaned plates. "You . . . you didn't have to—Darcy, why would you . . . ?"
Darcy looks at him, three plates cradled in her arms. She can't think of an appropriate response, so she shrugs.
"You—you—" Mr. Duncan seems at a loss for words. "You are a good friend to Emily, Darcy."
She smiles weakly, setting the table. She pulls the meat out of the oven and it sizzles and sings, the smell incredible. Darcy looks it over, admiring her work. Deciding to let it rest for a few minutes, Darcy turns back around, leaning against the counter and looking Emily's father over once more. He hasn't moved from his place in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her. She's always thought Mr. Duncan a handsome man, but he's near unrecognizable now, scruffy and dirty, his hair lank and unwashed. And then Darcy makes her decision, not wanting to allow herself any more time to talk herself out of it.
"Mr. Duncan, I have to tell you something."
Mr. Duncan tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, but he sits down at the kitchen table, offering Darcy a seat. She sits, her hands shaking in her lap. She wipes her palms on her pants. "Go on, darling," he prompts her kindly. "What is it?"
"I . . ." Darcy pauses. How is she supposed to explain it to him? Mr. Duncan is a Muggle, she reminds herself, with little to no knowledge of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and what they'd survived. To explain that Mrs. Duncan is dead because Darcy failed to tell anyone about a dream her brother had . . . what would he think? Would he think she was crazy? The thought makes Darcy feel half a coward again and she splays her palms on the tabletop, staring at her fingers. "I'm just really glad to see you, is all."
He looks at her for a long time, very seriously, as if he knows she's hiding something from him. Then, he reaches out and pats one of her hands, standing up from the table. "You're a sweet girl, Darcy," he sighs. "Why don't you go fetch Emily? I'll finish setting the table here, and I'll slice the roast for you."
Darcy nods, a lump in her throat. "Yes, Mr. Duncan."