Darcy and Mr. Weasley take lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, where much of the lunch rush has already passed. There's a table near the back corner where they seat themselves and for a long time, they eat slowly in awkward silence. Mr. Weasley tries for conversation every so often, asking about her N.E.W.T's, Harry, or Hogwarts, but after receiving one word answers from Darcy, seems to decide to finally give it up. Instead, he watches her push her food around—an overdone steak with dry mashed potatoes on the side.

It's not that Darcy is mad at Mr. Weasley or that she wants to be rude to him—in fact, her humiliation and extreme embarrassment has subsided much quicker than she'd expected—but her mind is racing with all kinds of nasty thoughts. How long until Rita Skeeter tarnishes her reputation with a single stroke of her vile green quill? How long until it's revealed to everyone she knows that she and Lupin had crossed a line while she had been his student? How long until Sirius catches wind of these rumors? How will he react? What will he say—if anything? Will he still want to speak to her? Will he still love her? Or will he see this as a betrayal of his trust on both she and Lupin's part?

Darcy feels foolish—weak. The slightest bit of attention and she had become so overwhelmed, so childish, just a young girl again. At Hogwarts at least, she had been safe from the outside world. Dumbledore had made it so after she'd been harassed just the once. At Privet Drive, she is safe, and the only person who dotes on her there is Mrs. Figg, one of the strangest people she's ever known, and even that isn't very often, as Darcy keeps her distance most of the time. There are no Ludo Bagman's at either of those places, no Rita Skeeter's—but how many of these people will pester her now about petty details of her life?

"Mr. Weasley," she rasps, stabbing her steak moodily with her fork. "Do you think I could tell you something? Maybe get your opinion on it?"

"Certainly," Mr. Weasley says with a small smile, seemingly eager at her attempt to finally start a conversation. Darcy smiles back weakly from behind her napkin, lowering it into her lap and looking blankly down at her plate. "What is it?"

"It's something Aunt Petunia told me a little while ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it," she murmurs, pursing her lips. Forcibly reminding herself of her aunt, Darcy relaxes her face and rearranges her expression, trying not to look as affected. "She told me, when we were out in the garden together, that men would always take an interest in me in our world—the magical world—especially if they knew my mother." Darcy pauses for a moment, toying with her fork again, but not eating. "Do you think—do you think there's any truth to what she said?"

Mr. Weasley tenses suddenly, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looks at Darcy for a long time before lowering it back to his plate. "Yes," he answers quietly. "I do think there's some truth to it. And I think you should be wary of it, as well. You're a pretty girl who survived a terrible tragedy—"

"I'm not a survivor," Darcy mutters, looking down into her lap, examining her fingernails. "Voldemort—"

"—don't say his name, Darcy—"

"—You-Know-Who never tried to kill me. It was Harry. Instead, I was hiding behind my baby brother, afraid and crying."

"You were barely five-years-old," Mr. Weasley replies firmly. "No one would have expected you to jump in front of him, to sacrifice yourself for him. And if you had, who's to say you wouldn't be the one wearing that scar?"

Darcy hesitates. "I'd rather it be me," she states very matter of factly, set in her beliefs. "Anything to take the burden off Harry's shoulders. It should have been me. I should have protected him."

"Maybe you would bear that scar, Darcy," he frowns. "Maybe the curse would have done the same to you—we'll never know. But it also could have killed you."

Darcy is quiet, resuming the pushing around of her food. She remembers the scene—she's dreamed of it so many time before, it's hard not recall it so vividly—and remembers her mother falling limply to the ground, remembers the hooded Voldemort moving closer to Harry's crib, where Darcy had sat there and cried. But she can't remember what had been going through her head at the time—but Mr. Weasley does raise a good point. Darcy had only been five-years-old. Is that too much to expect from a five-year-old? To instinctively protect their little brother? To shield their little brother from a curse that would likely kill both of them? Isn't that the job of the older sibling—to protect, to sacrifice?

She thinks hard. She can't really remember a time where she wouldn't have died for Harry. Sure, she'd hated every fiber of his being for a long time until she stopped dwelling on her parents' death—but that wouldn't have stopped her from sacrificing herself for him without hesitation. Harry is her brother—her family. Their mother died for them, their father died for them—they made the ultimate sacrifice for their children. What would my life be like now if I bore that scar upon my forehead instead of Harry?

Desperate to get her mind off of this depressing train of thought, Darcy looks back up at Mr. Weasley pleadingly. "But surely people don't just like me because they think I'm pretty," she says, hoping Mr. Weasley will not tell her truth, but just comforting things she wants to hear. "Why should people be concerned about who I—" Darcy blushes. "—love—and why do they treat me like I'm—I don't know—"

Mr. Weasley frowns. "Because you are a pretty girl and you are a Potter. And it will always be so." He sits up a little straighter in his chair, clearing his throat quietly. "Darcy, I believe, when you are a little older, the Ministry and the Daily Prophet are going to rely on you very much."

"Why me?" Darcy asks gloomily. "Why not Harry? He's the Boy-Who-Lived. I'm no one."

"You are older than Harry, much more articulate and well-spoken when you want to be, and a very charming girl. Your words and opinions will be very important to them, I believe, because they'll see those words and opinions as Harry's, as well." But Mr. Weasley notices that he isn't making things better and decides to try a different tack. "Darcy, you cannot listen to what those people say about you. They will write things that are true and they will write things that are not. But the important thing is, you're the only one who knows the truth—you, and the people who love you. That should be all you need. You have nothing to prove to anyone."

You have nothing to prove to anyone.

How many times has Darcy said those words, or a variation of them, to Harry? How many times had Harry approached her in the corridors at school, frustrated beyond belief, at what people were saying? Snape thinks I'm arrogant and foolish like dad, he'd said. They think I'm the Heir of Slytherin, he'd said. They think I'm crazy, he'd said—multiple times. Even at Privet Drive, Harry had become angry quickly at the Dursleys short retorts, rude jabs at their parents, especially Marge, who took pleasure in seeing Harry riled up. Darcy had always told him the same thing: "You have nothing to prove to those people."

But their words had still stung her, still made her heart ache at night, despite the brave front she'd put on for her brother. No matter how many times she had given Harry that advice with a smile, she'd never been able to apply it to herself. All that had mattered was that Harry wasn't dwelling on it, wasn't lying in bed unable to sleep because of it.

Darcy leans back in her chair, looking at Mr. Weasley very intensely, as if seeing him for the first time. She'd never asked him before, but now seems like a good time to, though Darcy isn't sure she's prepared to hear his answer. Regardless, she plunges on. "Why do you take such an interest in me, Mr. Weasley?" she asks, and Mr. Weasley looks surprised. "Why do you bring me to your work instead of one of your own children? Why do you visit me at Hogsmeade? Why does it matter so much to you who I'm involved with?"

Darcy realizes her tone must sound rather accusing, and her expression softens. She gives Mr. Weasley a slightly apologetic look. "Darcy, my children are old enough to want some distance between themselves and anything that proves we love each other," Mr. Weasley smiles weakly. "You were so frightened when I found you crying on Ginny's floor. You were sixteen-years-old and I knew that no one had ever comforted you after a nightmare, and it broke my heart."

"How did you know?" she asks quickly, feeling no older than ten-years-old again. "How could you tell?"

"Because you responded so eagerly, in a way my own children never have. You wanted to be held, didn't you?"

She pauses, nodding in spite of herself. "Yes. Very much so."

Mr. Weasley holds his hands out, as if to say 'I told you so'.

Darcy's cheeks turn pink again, and she has a hard time looking him in the eyes for a minute or two. It embarrasses her, for a moment, that Mr. Weasley could tell straight away that she had never known—as far as she can remember— the loving embrace of such comforting arms. But that was before Sirius—before she'd started dreaming of him again. Darcy almost feels as if what she wants to say is more of a massive betrayal on her part towards Sirius than being with Lupin is, but she wants to say it anyway.

"Rita Skeeter was right, you know," Darcy whispers. Thinking of Sirius, of the family she could have had, makes tears prickle painfully in her eyes again. "You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real father. I barely remember my own."

Mr. Weasley smiles, and Darcy thinks she sees his eyes shine wet with tears for the briefest moment. "In another life, Darcy, you'd have been my daughter," Mr. Weasley says. "You would have been loved and wanted, and none of this would ever have happened to you."

They finish their meals—Darcy not touching any of her food—in silence.

No story about Darcy is published in the Daily Prophet in the weeks that follow, and she makes sure to scour every page just in case.

July rolls into August, and with it comes letters that carry promises of an escape from Privet Drive. Emily arranges to have the same days off as Mr. Weasley in order for Darcy to leave at the same time as her brother; Gemma, who's made plans to go to the World Cup with Gemma, promises to talk further with her about Lupin's decision to move forward with her offer; Carla sends Harry and Darcy some sweets that they both find slightly repulsive, and many, many photographs for them to sort through. Darcy holds her breath when she receives a letter from Sirius, but there's no mention of her and Lupin in it, and he only makes empty promises of their being a family soon, how Darcy will have a place to go away from the Dursleys—but this doesn't make Darcy feel better. It only makes her feel like a child—is she really supposed to live with her godfather for years, while her friends make their own way in the world, starting careers and moving out of their parents' house. Each time she thinks about it, the gnawing sensation in Darcy's stomach gets worse as she thinks about the direction she's headed in life—stuck at Privet Drive, returning to Hogwarts to be with Harry under the pretense of being Snape's assistant.

Lupin writes her a few letters, as well, and these are always Darcy's favorites. They're always full of the same things for the most part—he pleads for her to come back to him, if only just for a day, promises to take care of her, sends her reassuring words of comfort when she needs them. She takes to reading them over and over again, and occasionally flipping through the photographs of themselves.

Looking down at the picture in her hands now, the first one Darcy had taken at the market, she smiles. He's handsome, just as she's always thought him—his hair a soft brown color, streaked with gray, always tousled and falling across his forehead; with such a smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners, it's hard to see the exact hazel of his eyes, but Darcy doesn't need to see them to know—of course she knows the exact shade of his eyes, just as she knows everything else without having to see.

She sets the picture on her bedside table, propping it against a framed picture of she and Harry on his first day at Hogwarts. The next photograph is of both she and Lupin, his face buried in her neck, trying to avoid the camera. Darcy can still feel his smile against her skin, the rough caress of his beard against flesh. She props hat picture beside the one of just Lupin and puts the rest of them away.

Settling back down in her bed, she stares up at the ceiling, suddenly deciding to go one step further. Darcy grabs the picture of her and Lupin and sticks it to the wall beside her other pictures, just above her bed. Her eyes move to the picture of she and Harry, of she and her friends, and finally—to the torn photograph of herself in Sirius's lap, surrounded by her parents and Lupin's smiling faces. Sirius is smiling up at her from the sofa, a wide smile across his still handsome face—a face that is much different than the one he wears now. Guilt washes over her like a tidal wave, ashamed of saying what she'd said to Mr. Weasley. But it's true—Mr. Weasley has been good to her for the past two years—far better to her than she deserves. And he's been good to Harry, and that in itself means a lot to Darcy. And maybe, one day, she and Sirius will rebuild the relationship they could have had, and he'll be the father she always dreamed of having.

And so the days tick away, and with each morning, Darcy crosses off another day on her calendar. Aunt Petunia keeps her busy, but doesn't mention anything in regards to the conversation they'd had weeks ago, and Darcy—when not doing chores for her aunt—spends her free time locked in her room with Max or else with Harry. The two of them are quite good at keeping her smiling, between Max nibbling at her earlobes and nuzzling against her while he recovers from a journey, and Harry telling stories of his time at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione.

One morning, Harry startles Darcy by bursting into her room before she's even awake. She sits up straight, grabbing her wand from under her pillow and pointing it at him in the threshold, her heart hammering. Harry freezes and Darcy lowers her wand, looking him over. His hair is a mess, having just woken up, and he's sweating slightly—it drips down his ghostly white face, and his lightning bolt scar seems angry and almost inflamed this morning.

Darcy sits up quickly, rubbing her eyes and stuffing her wand back under her pillow. "What's going on?" she asks quickly, pulling her knees to her chest so Harry has room to sit down. "You can't just barge in on me, by the way—I could have killed you."

"I have to tell you something, before I forget," Harry says quickly, ignoring her. "I had a dream—it was—" A crease appears between his eyebrows and Darcy cocks one of hers. "A dark room—" Harry closes his eyes and rubs his scar. "Wormtail was there, and Voldemort . . . and . . ."

Darcy feels chills down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

"There was another—I don't know who—an old man," he continues, avoiding looking at Darcy's horrified expression. "They were planning to . . ." For the first time, he meets Darcy's eyes, green into green. "They were planning to kill me."

Even in the dawn darkness of her bedroom, Darcy and Harry register each other's looks of shock. She gets to her feet and takes a look out the window at the dim street before closing the blinds ands and turning on the lamp on her desk. "Harry, you should write to Sirius," she whispers, holding her arms around her. "Or to Professor Dumbledore—if Peter actually managed to find Voldemort—"

"Which he has," Harry interrupts, and Darcy gives him a withering stare. "I haven't forgotten Trelawney's prediction."

Darcy feels her stomach churn. "You're sure this was real?" she asks softly. "You sure it wasn't just a dream?"

"I'm sure." Harry pauses, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "You do believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Darcy knows the feeling of being doubted—after all, how many times had people told her last year that her dreams about Sirius were only that—just dreams? It had felt better than anything to find out the truth, to know that they weren't only real, but that the love she'd felt afterwards had been real, too. But Harry's dream is terrifying, to know that Voldemort may soon rise again is terrifying. Anger bubbles inside of her at the thought of Peter Pettigrew. He should have died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I should have let Lupin and Sirius kill him. But she doesn't want to voice this to Harry, not wanting to upset him. "Look, Sirius might know some things about Voldemort after being in Azkaban for so long. Did you see his face? In your dream?"

Harry thinks hard again, his face screwed up in concentration. "I think he was—small, or . . ."

"He was small?"

"I woke up before I saw his face, just as he was turning around."

"He wasn't small when I saw him," Darcy says, more to herself. She faces the window again, peering through the blinds. Trying not to think of Voldemort plotting to kill her little brother, Darcy repeats herself. "You should write to Sirius and Dumbledore."

"You're not freaking out," Harry replies flatly.

Darcy turns around again to face him, looking confused. "Would you prefer I freak out?"

"No, but you not freaking out kind of makes me want to freak out. You always freak out when I'm in danger. Darcy, you cried at my first Quidditch match because you were worried I'd die, and I've just told you Voldemort is trying to kill me and you've barely batted an eye."

"That was an emotional day for me," Darcy snaps, and then she looks down at her hands, which are trembling very slightly. Her mind races, and she wonders for a brief second—why isn't she more scared? Harry has a point about her being so calm, but Darcy chalks it up to not being completely awake yet. "Dumbledore knew something like this was going to happen."

"What?"

"Why else would he have wanted me back at Hogwarts?" Darcy asks, her heart racing again. "He knew that you would be in danger this year—I don't know how, but . . . right? Why else would he want me to come back?"

Harry doesn't seem very convinced. "I don't know," he shrugs, shifting uncomfortably on Darcy's bed. "I mean . . . we don't even know if this was real . . . maybe we should find out what's really going on before I write Dumbledore about my scar hurting."

"Harry, your scar hasn't hurt for a long time," she sighs impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest. "Dumbledore would want to know. And so would Sirius."

"I'll write to Sirius, and if he thinks that I should write to Dumbledore, then I will." Harry waits for Darcy to reply, but she only nods slowly. "Do you think Lupin would know anything? Anything about cursed scars or—or what Wormtail is up to?"

"I don't know," Darcy says quietly. "I can send a letter with Max if you'd like to ask."

"No, no—don't worry about it," Harry grumbles, his cheeks turning pink. "I'll just write to Sirius . . . but you know what's funny . . ." He gets to his feet and walks to the door of Darcy's bedroom. With a hand on the doorknob, and a very distant expression on his face, he says, "I don't really remember the dream at all anymore . . ."

"Harry," Darcy croaks, stopping him before he can open the door. "You know, whatever it is, we'll handle it."

"I know. We always have."

But as Harry slips out of her bedroom, Darcy quickly locks the door again, pressing her back against it and sighing heavily. She rushes to the window and looks out at the street once more—surely they aren't being followed? Surely Peter doesn't know where they are—or does he? Darcy tears her eyes away from the window, afraid that she'll see something—someone—that she doesn't want to walking down the street towards their house.

Darcy digs through her desk drawer, finding a piece of old paper that's now slightly yellow instead of the white it had been, and finds a pencil. It's only then she realizes how strange it is to hold a pencil after writing with a quill for so long when she attempts to dip the tip into an empty inkwell out of habit.

I think Peter found Voldemort. We think Voldemort plotting to kill Harry. Please write back right away. Harry sending letter to Sirius.

Yours,

Darcy

Darcy opens Max's cage, where the owl has only just returned to, but coaxes him down onto her arm. Max shifts to make himself more comfortable, ruffles his feather, and then jumps to Darcy's scarred shoulder, holding onto her tightly with his talons. Darcy strokes his feathers once and then rolls up the letter, rummaging around for something to tie it to Max's leg with. After checking her floors and in her drawers and under her bed, she find a broken ponytail holder and uses that, which works out quite well.

"To Remus, Max," she whispers, letting Max rub his beak all over her face. "And quickly."

She opens the blinds and window for Max, and as he pushes off her shoulder and spreads his wings, she hisses after him, "And leave his fingers alone!"

There's a soft hoot that reminds Darcy of a child agreeing grudgingly to a parent, and Max soars out of sight.