Darcy thinks about Gemma that night for longer than she cares to admit.
There had been times throughout her years at Hogwarts when Gemma had been someone Darcy truly admired. Why wouldn't she have? Gemma had been confident, graceful, elegant, brutally honest to a fault and fiercely loyal.
What would Gemma do in my position? she wonders. Darcy can picture it clearly in her mind, can picture Gemma strolling through the Great Hall and whistling that stupid song, grinning like she always does and joking about her latest sexual escapade without the slightest tint to her cheeks. Gemma would embrace the article with all the dignity in the world, somehow twist it to her advantage, somehow sleep well at night knowing hundreds of people are whispering behind her back.
Could I do that? That takes a certain kind of bravery she doesn't possess, Darcy thinks. I have faced a basilisk. I've looked into Voldemort's eyes . . . yet I can't even summon the courage to walk into the Great Hall.
Darcy would rather just lay here in bed forever . . . or until someone comes to fetch her. And with her luck, it would likely be Professor Snape, come to pull her from bed by the hair after missing one single class. Or perhaps it would be Professor Dumbledore, here to berate her for shattering his trust, which makes guilt press heavy on Darcy's chest. Dumbledore has always been kind and good to Harry, and it makes her sad to think he could no longer trust her.
And what would her other friends do? Emily would likely snap in anyone's direction who dared reference the article. There would be a scowl on her face until the buzz of chatter died down after a few weeks. Her anger has always been something terrible to behold, intimidating and frightening when unchecked. That article would have made Emily turn icy cold . . . but Emily would never have gotten herself into a situation like that in the first place.
And Carla would shrink away, embarrassed and overwhelmed. She's always been more reserved, but of late, Darcy can't help but think she's grown a bit bolder, as if finally figuring herself out. She hopes Carla will be at her side to reassure her, to smile and let her know everything will be all right.
As humiliated as Darcy is, she feels more angry than anything—angry at herself mostly for letting Rita Skeeter walk all over her. I'm just a stupid little girl, a stupid blushing mess of a girl. But I don't have to be anymore.
When the Daily Prophet pointed the finger at Darcy for entering Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, she had been relatively dignified about it, but that had been so easy. Only stupid people truly believed she put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire. It had been nothing more than a ridiculous rumor, a pathetic lie.
And while this newest article is ridiculous, there's far more truth in it than the last. Maybe she and Lupin hadn't been fucking all throughout her seventh year as Rita Skeeter suggested, but things hadn't been completely innocent.
Darcy takes a deep breath, thinking of what their reckless and impulsive behavior have brought on them. Those days during her seventh year had been the best days of her life, the happiest she'd ever felt.
I will not let Rita Skeeter ruin that.
Darcy wakes to a faint rustling noise. She sits up quickly, pulling her wand out from beneath her pillow. Listening carefully, she waits for it to stop, but something is rustling just beyond her bedroom door. Tensing, she slides out of bed and tip-toes to the door, opening it quickly and startling both Harry and Hermione. Darcy exhales loudly, her wand pointing directly at them both.
Harry drops the parchment in his hands and they flutter back to the tabletop. He has the grace to blush, at least. "I told him not to!" Hermione says shrilly, her cheeks slightly red. "I told him not to touch anything!"
"What are you going through my stuff for?" Darcy asks, lowering her wand, her heart still racing. "That's private, you know."
"I was just wondering if you graded my homework yet," Harry frowns, straightening the stack of parchment, his eyes lingering on it.
"Nice try," Darcy replies. "Professor Snape doesn't let me grade your homework anymore."
"Walk with us to breakfast, Darcy." Hermione gives her a toothy smile, revealing her front teeth, now a bit smaller then they had been before she had been hit with a curse. Darcy smiles back, nodding, and disappears back into her bedroom to change as quickly as she can.
Twenty minutes later, with her hair and teeth brushed, her favorite dress on, her shoes slightly tight around her feet, and her robes heavy around her shoulders, Darcy and her friends make their slow way down to the Great Hall. It's hard not to notice the wide berth many of the younger students give them as they race past, and the older students give the three of them sideways looks before lowering their voices and picking up their paces.
Darcy watches them go warily, her palms starting to sweat. "Have they been giving you a hard time?" she asks the both of them.
"Yes," Harry answers, almost sounding bitter through his gritted teeth.
"I've been telling him to ignore it all," Hermione says. "It's not worth getting upset over."
Darcy hums in response.
"The first task is next Tuesday," Harry says casually, setting down the first flight of steps towards the Great Hall.
"What?" Darcy looks quickly at Harry, her eyes wide with shock. Without warning, the step beneath her foot disappears and she crashes awkwardly to the ground. Crying out in pain, one of her long legs dangling down and forcing her into a split, Harry and Hermione both grab Darcy underneath her arms and pulls her up. Rubbing her inner thighs and feeling a sharp stabbing pain between her legs, Hermione quickly gathers Darcy's spilled parchment and stuffs it back inside her bag. "Fuck . . . I think I pulled my groin. God, it hurts so badly—"
"I take it you heard me, then?" Harry asks with a grimace.
"What are you going to do? Didn't they give you any hints or . . . or clues as to what the task might be?" Darcy runs a hand through her hair, making sure to watch her steps carefully. "I should write to Remus. He wanted to be here for the first task."
"I haven't gotten any clues," Harry confesses. "But . . . I was thinking . . . Ludo likes you, and maybe if you just asked—"
"That's cheating," Hermione hisses, giving them both sharp and dangerous looks. "Besides, Ludo Bagman likely won't tell Darcy if he hasn't already. He probably knows that you'll tell Harry." She turns her eyes on Darcy, narrowing them. "And you shouldn't ask him, Darcy. The last thing you need is to add any more fuel to that fire . . . you could teach Harry some new spells, though . . . handy ones, basic ones. Just in case, of course."
"I don't know, Hermione," Darcy frowns, making her way down another staircase. "I'm not much of a teacher."
"Isn't that exactly why you're here?" Hermione retorts.
Darcy blushes and scowls. "Listen, Remus might come to Hogsmeade this weekend. Maybe you could practice with him, Harry, while you're down there."
"No," Hermione continues before Harry can answer. "That's a very nice offer and a good one, but Harry can't afford to wait until the weekend."
"Why don't we let Harry have a say?" Darcy snaps, and Hermione quiets, looking away with a pink tint to her cheeks. "He's the one who has to compete in the first place."
"I don't know, Hermione," Harry says, slightly irritably. "I mean . . . what spells would help me when I don't even know what I'm up against?"
The three of them continue to bicker all the way to the Great Hall, snapping at each other and making each other angry and jumpy. At the bottom of the marble staircase, a gaggle of young girls crowd around something, giggling and waving quills and Darcy can make out the top of someone's head in the middle of it all—dark hair cut short with a prominent forehead and a slightly aquiline nose.
"Hey! Hey! Leave him alone!" Darcy shouts at the girls, shooing them away. "Don't you all have somewhere to be?"
The girls turn around and find Darcy storming over, swatting at their shoulders and shoving away their quills and parchment. They scatter at once, leaving Viktor Krum looking bewildered and uncomfortable and, as he brushes himself off, slightly disheveled.
"Thank you," he grunts, and Darcy gives him a small smile. His dark eyes flick from Darcy to Harry and finally Hermione before he slouches off into the Great Hall.
"You're turning into Snape," Harry mutters, earning himself a fearsome look from his sister.
The three of them linger at the threshold of the Great Hall. Darcy knows that Harry and Hermione have only stayed by her side to give her comfort, and she appreciates it very much, but Darcy would rather be anywhere other than here. She catches Professor Snape's eye across the long hall and they look at each other for a long time before Darcy turns back to her brother, a hand upon Hermione's shoulder.
"I think I'm just going to wait in Professor Snape's classroom," she sighs. "I'll see you guys later."
"No, Darcy," Hermione says, taking hold of Darcy's hand. "Running away will only make it worse."
Hermione is right, and Darcy knows it. As she and Harry speed off to the Gryffindor table, Darcy forces herself to put one foot in front of the other, walking the length of the Great Hall. Her eyes wander to the Hufflepuff table for a moment, if only to see Carla, but when she looks and sees the pairs upon pairs of eyes on her, she looks back to her empty seat at the staff table. Darcy tries to will herself not to blush, but she can feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Even Professor McGonagall is watching her with her lips tight, and Dumbledore seems rather amused by the attention she's receiving.
Darcy takes her seat beside Professor Snape. "May I read your paper, please?" she asks softly.
Snape slides the paper in front of her without complaint. Darcy looks it over, too distracted to red anything, but glad for something to occupy her eyes. "Why do you want to read that, anyway?" he asks her, and Darcy lifts her eyes to meet his own. "After the charming article that was published?"
Darcy sighs, closing the Daily Prophet. There's nothing of importance in there anyway, and her eyes hurt from straining to read the words. She fills her plate with food, glancing up at the Great Hall to find that not as many people are watching her as she had thought.
The Slytherins are whispering to each other, though, giving her sideways looks and muttering and laughing, led by Draco Malfoy. The older Slytherins don't seem to be paying him much attention, and Darcy wishes Gemma were still in school, seated at the table to tell everyone to shut up. They'd listen to her. Darcy knows they would.
She takes little bites of her food, not as hungry as she thought. Her mind is buzzing with anxiety, and Darcy feels so angry with herself for forgetting about the first task so easily. It's approaching so quickly and no one seems to know anything about it. Darcy supposes she could try to ask Emily to snoop around the Ministry to try and find out, but what good would that do? Emily has yet to report back anything after promising to dig a little deeper into the entire situation, and even if Emily did find out what the task is, it leaves little time to properly prepare.
Perhaps Hermione had the right of it. It certainly couldn't hurt to teach Harry some new spells, and they could even do it in the privacy of Darcy's own rooms. But what spells would she teach him? Without knowing anything about the task that's constantly creeping closer, it's hard to think about what skills might be necessary to get him through it.
Truthfully, Lupin would be much better suited for this. After all, it had been he to teach Harry the Patronus Charm (which seems a lifetime ago now), and Darcy knows that he is ten times the teacher she ever will be. But to wait an entire week to see him only for a day before the task doesn't seem the best idea, and it's not enough time for Harry to really get the hang of some new spells, especially ones above his current skill level.
Darcy thinks briefly of Ludo Bagman. She could ask him for some information. He had promised her to help Harry through the Triwizard Tournament, but so far he's done nothing that she's aware of. Harry and Hermione don't know that, of course, and they don't need to, but Darcy thinks it might almost be too easy to charm Ludo Bagman, to smile at him and play the innocent little girl in order to weasel some information out of him. Out of all the judges, Ludo Bagman is the only one she's certain would accidentally let slip the details of the first task. She might need alcohol, or something to loosen his tongue.
How could she possibly have forgotten? Darcy's been so engrossed with other things and people lately that the Triwizard Tournament had slowly slipped her mind, pushed away to some back corner. Everything with Sirius, her relationship with Lupin, her shaky friendship with Carla and Emily . . . it still hurts, and Darcy's sure it always will, but she privately knew that everything was going to change at the end of last term. Sometimes Darcy finds herself even missing Ron Weasley's company, always good for a laugh and good at conversing, keeping awkward silences to a minimum.
Everyone had decided to go their separate ways, and anyway, Darcy still has Gemma and Lupin and Harry and Hermione. And some days, that seems enough for her. But how long will she have Harry for? Not very long if Darcy doesn't figure out what he's up against.
She feels childish and stupid, looking out at the sea of faces in the Great Hall. It's not as if she didn't see this coming. She had brought this on herself, had decided to be with Lupin and damn the consequences. Darcy wasn't content to keep themselves shut up in a single room or in his home—she wanted to do things with him, to show him off, to walk down the streets with his arm around her. She had always known it would be brought to the public's attention, a source of dull gossip for women like Aunt Petunia, who have to judge every single woman in the world as if they're any better.
But what had she expected? Darcy thought, months ago, that Lupin would be returning to Hogwarts to continue teaching, that they would be able to see each other all the time . . . not that they would have held hands in the corridors or loved each other against the grimy walls of broom closets, but people would have found out eventually. People would have guessed. It would have been difficult to keep a secret, and even then Darcy would have had to face the stares, hear the whispers.
There are more important things than what people think of me, she tells herself. The thought makes her slightly more confident. As breakfast ends, she walks ahead of Professor Snape. Carla catches up with her, making Darcy smile.
"She really is a foul woman," Carla begins, talking loudly so Darcy knows everyone around them can hear. "To publish lies about you and Harry."
"Are they truly lies?"
Darcy turns her head to find a seventh year Ravenclaw girl at her elbow, smiling wickedly. Stacy, a girl who has never been unkind towards Darcy in any of her Potions classes, but her smile unsettles her, white teeth bared and dirty blonde hair framing her face. Behind Stacy, listening closely, are two of her friends—Penny, another Ravenclaw girl, and Amelia, a Slytherin with dark, frizzy hair that nearly reaches the top of her buttocks with a nose that reminds her of a button.
"Er . . ."
"I'm only curious," Stacy continues breathlessly, giving her friends a haughty look before turning back to Darcy, clutching onto her arm. Darcy shrugs her off, holding onto Carla instead. "I mean . . . it's all very exciting, isn't it? Aren't you ever afraid of him?"
"No, I'm not." Darcy tries to hold her tongue, but the girls linger and show no intention of leaving her alone. After all, they're all walking to the same classroom, but Darcy isn't sure how much longer she can handle the hungry looks on their faces. "That's not how it happened . . . what she wrote, it's not like that."
"But you and Professor Lupin were close throughout the year, weren't you? Come on, Darcy, you can tell me."
Anger and impatience flashes in Darcy's eyes as her heart rate rises. I have nothing to prove to these people. I know the truth. She clears her throat. "Perhaps I don't think it's appropriate to discuss details of my relationships with students," she hisses, surprising Stacy and her friends. Darcy blushes, but continues without hesitation. "Especially students who, only a few weeks ago, believed that I was the one who put Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire."
"We didn't really believe it," Stacy mutters, but she grabs her friends by the arms and rushes ahead of Darcy and Carla towards Professor Snape's classroom.
Darcy's chest is heaving as she looks at Carla. Carla's eyes are wide, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. "Wow," she chuckles, giving Darcy a sweet smile. "You really channeled your inner Snape for that one. Good for you. You don't owe anyone an explanation."
Feeling slightly better, Darcy walks into the dungeon classroom with her shoulders back and her nose held high in the air, but the first part of the morning, Darcy is sure time has slowed. Carla's Potions class brings up the article every time she gets close, and there are only two kinds of people: those who attempt to offer support by not-so-subtly asking for details, and those who snicker quietly with their friends and make cruel, half-whispered jokes about Lupin. So distracted by this is the class that Professor Snape has to call for silence three times, promising a week of detention for anyone who says one more word about Darcy or the article.
When Professor Snape dismisses the class for lunch, Darcy waits until all the students have left before slowly gathering her things. She takes as long as she can, chewing on her lower lip. Snape watches her carefully, his black eyes fixed upon her so intently that she can feel the hole they burn in the side of her head.
"Go on, then," she murmurs, avoiding his gaze. "Just say what you need to say. I probably deserve it after all I've said to you." Darcy stands up straight, gathering the courage to turn on her heels and look him in the eyes.
Professor Snape sneers at her. "You are a fool, Darcy, to have believed anything good could have come of this. You are a fool to believe anything that he says to you. He is dangerous, a danger to you and everyone he comes into contact with."
Darcy purses her lips, blushing furiously. "You can say whatever you want about me, but you have no right to speak badly about him after what you did. It's because of you that Rita Skeeter and people like her know that he's a werewolf."
Snape doesn't answer, but looks at her for a long time afterwards, studying her critically.
"I think I'll stay here for lunch, if that's all right with you," she rasps, her rapid heartbeat echoing inside her head. "I don't feel much like going into the Great Hall." Darcy reaches inside her bag for some ungraded essays, seating herself at Professor Snape's desk and looking down at them.
"Just . . . don't touch anything," he snaps at her.
"I won't, I promise." She waits until his back is turned before rolling her eyes and holding up her middle finger to him as he leaves the classroom, slamming the door shut on the way out.
Darcy grades the essays perhaps a bit more harshly than she would if she were curled up on her sofa before a fire, drinking a glass of wine. They're only second years, she tells herself, but their failure to distinguish the difference between two completely different potions irritates her.
Her leg bounces beneath the desk, and after reading a particularly horrible essay in which the handwriting is barely legible and the essay itself is rushed and three inches too short, Darcy gives it all up and packs her things away again.
Checking her watch, Darcy grows impatient. She paces restlessly around the classroom, wondering if she should take a walk, maybe just step out onto the grounds before lunch ends, just to get some fresh air. Surely the suffocating dungeon classroom isn't doing her any good. But lunch is nearly over, and she knows Professor Snape likes to return early. She slumps over in the chair, looking out at the empty classroom and sighing loudly.
Darcy drums her fingertips atop the desk, scrunching her face up and crossing her eyes at nothing in particular. It's then that she begins to wonder if Professor Snape still has the S.P.E.W. badge tucked away in his desk drawer. A clever, impish smile spreads across her face at the very thought.
Certain that he must still have it, Darcy opens the topmost drawer slowly, her smile vanishing almost at once, as soon as she looks down inside. The badge is still tucked away in the back corner of the drawer, but there are letters inside, as well, all of them unopened and around fifty or sixty in total. She runs her fingers over them, flipping one of them face-up to see who they're meant for. Every envelope is addressed in a different hand, sometimes in green or pink or purple ink, but that isn't even the strangest thing.
They're all addressed to me.
Every single one of the letters has Darcy Potter written on the front, followed by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in loopy handwriting, cramped handwriting, tall handwriting, neat and messy. The envelopes are all different, too. Some are small and square, others large, the colors ranging from baby blue to deep crimson the color of blood. Some envelopes bear unfamiliar seals on them, others have been licked or taped shut.
Hesitation, Darcy glances towards the classroom door, her heart leaping in her throat. She checks her watch once more. There's still time before lunch is over, and Professor Snape might not be back for another fifteen minutes at the least. Making the split second decision, Darcy pulls out one of the letters, tearing it open and unfolding the parchment within.
They're horrible letters, all of the ones that she opens. Their senders write hurtful things, accusing her of terrible things and calling her disgusting names she's never heard anyone call her in her life, words she would never call anyone else. Several letters are from parents of students, calling for her immediate resignation and pleading with her to leave their children alone. The letters shame her, insult her, accuse her of entering Harry into the Goblet of Fire, but that isn't even the worst of it.
The letters insult and degrade Lupin, as well. They're pointlessly cruel, writing things about him that make Darcy sick to her stomach, outright lies and assumptions, suggestions as to what the Ministry should really do with such an untrustworthy and dangerous beast.
Darcy reads them with one hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks and staining the parchment. Each one seems to get worse somehow, and when Darcy picks up a brand new one from the drawer, the classroom door opens quickly.
Professor Snape freezes just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him again, but this time much gentler. His eyes flick from her face to the letters and back, his expression immediately hardening, but Darcy doesn't falter at the sight of him. She gets slowly to her feet and wipes her cheeks with her sleeves.
"What is this?" she croaks, gesturing to the letters covering his desktop. "These are my letters. Why do you have these?"
He doesn't answer, only looks at her with an unreadable expression. And when Darcy looks back at the letters, she suddenly remembers that not a single one had been opened or looked to be touched. He could have fixed them with magic . . . but why didn't he get rid of them? Burn them? Tear them to shreds? Darcy lifts her head again and the tears spill once more.
"I told you not to touch anything," Snape tells her sharply, and Darcy is glad to see him looking slightly uncomfortable. "Can't you follow simple directions?"
"You took my letters!"
"And what did they say, Darcy?" he asks, his tone still harsh. "Kind things? Or have they forcibly reminded you exactly what your blessed boyfriend truly is? A monster—"
"He is no such thing," Darcy cries softly. "And you know that. You knew what was going to be written in these letters, didn't you?"
Professor Snape hardly reacts, his lips pressed together. She can hear the footsteps of students echoing down the long corridor outside, laughing and shouting. Darcy wants to thank him for trying to keep these horrible letters and words away from her, but the idea makes bile rise in her throat. How can she thank him when Snape holds these same views? After all that he had said and done that night in the Shrieking Shack . . . after all the grief he had given Lupin . . .
Is it so far-fetched to say that he's jealous? Lupin had told her in confidence that Professor Snape was fond of her mother, had suggested that Snape was good to her because of that very reason. And it's not outlandish to admit that Professor Snape has been relatively good to her this year, better to her than she'd expected to be treated after how they parted before summer.
Her stomach knots and her cheeks burn bright red and she wants to run away and vomit. "I am not my mother," Darcy whispers, as the sounds of students grow closer outside in the corridor. "I am not Lily, and I don't want your kindness out of . . . some obligation."
"I know very well who you are," Snape answers very quietly, as the first students begin to file in, oblivious to the conversation that's just been happening, oblivious to her tears and the letters. "And you are certainly not her."