Darcy,

I appreciate you writing to me. Unfortunately, I don't have much experienced with cursed scars, but I would suggest Harry write to Dumbledore immediately. I'm sure he'd like to know. I'm not sure there's much Padfoot would be able to do for Harry, anyway.

I won't deny that it's worrying, and we can only hope that it was only a dream, but all the same—you and Harry must keep your eyes open. If anything out of the ordinary happens, let one of us know. If it's true that Voldemort is gaining power again, the best thing to do is begin to fight back before he becomes powerful like he was before.

I'm sorry I don't have more answers for you. I hope the World Cup will distract you for the time being—I'm sure you'll have fun. Write me when you get back to Hogwarts—or before, if you find yourself missing me before then.

Yours,

Remus

P.S. My memory is slipping—I'm an old man after all. A picture of you would be sweet. I worry I may soon forget your face.

"Aunt Petunia, I'm leaving!"

Darcy lets her trunk fall noisily down the last few steps, and the noise attracts Petunia into the foyer from the kitchen. She gives Darcy a dangerous look, her hands shielded by yellow cleaning gloves, dripping onto the newspaper she's placed all over the floors. "Where are you going?" Petunia hisses, glancing from the trunk to Darcy to the caged owl in her right hand with disgust. "Are you coming back?"

"No, Aunt Petunia, I've told you," Darcy sighs, lifting her trunk and struggling under the weight of Max and her belongings. "I'm going to Emily's for the World Cup, and then I'm staying at Harry's friend's house until I go back to—er—school."

"And what of the offer I made?" Petunia asks, her voice lower. She peels her gloves off and crosses her arms, trying to look menacing, but Petunia's bony face and slight figure does nothing to Darcy.

"I don't want that," Darcy says with full confidence. "I want to go back to school with Harry."

"You leaving now, Darcy?"

Darcy glances up the stairs at Harry, standing on the second floor landing. She smiles at him and nods. "Yeah." Looking once more back at Petunia, Darcy purses her lips. "I don't want to work a job that I hate, or marry a boy I don't like. I have friends at school. I'm good at what I'll be helping with. I want to go back. I belong there."

Petunia purses her lips, glancing sideways at Harry, making his lazy way down the stairs. She leaves the siblings alone in the foyer, likely not wanting to catch any of their conversation just in case magic is brought up. Darcy puts Max's cage gently on the ground and releases her grip on her trunk as Harry jumps the last three steps and lands in front of her. Harry looks over his shoulder to make sure Petunia is indeed gone, and then rocks back and forth on his feet.

"Why'd you tell Lupin about my scar?" Harry hisses, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Darcy blushes, trying to act casual. "How do you know I wrote to him?"

Harry looks sheepish and turns his gaze upon Max, ruffling his feathers. "I saw the letter on your desk. You might try to take better care with leaving things like that out in the open."

She doesn't answer or apologize—for one, she isn't sorry. Max had returned within a day of delivering Darcy's letter, and while she had been disappointed by Lupin's lack of an answer, it was nice to see his handwriting again and his letter did leave a smile on her face. "Look, Harry, have you thought about telling Emily? I told you I'd tell her, and now is your last chance to let me know."

"What's Emily going to do?" Harry asks with a shrug, rubbing his scar out of habit. "Darcy, I told you, I don't know if they were really talking about the Cup . . . I mean . . . I can't really remember now . . . it was only a dream, I'm sure."

"Emily could tell an Auror . . . a real Auror," Darcy replies slightly desperate. "And you know she'd do all she could to protect you—"

"She doesn't need to know that I'm having dreams about Voldemort," Harry frowns. Without anything else to say to her, Harry sighs. "I'll see you there."

"All right. I'll see you. Put away Lupin's letter for me, would you?"

"Yeah, all right."

Darcy leaves the house, dragging her trunk down the street and deciding to Disapparate from the same narrow alleyway that Mr. Weasley had brought her just a few weeks ago.

The first time Darcy had visited Emily's house, it had been like walking into a dream. They had picked her up in Mr. Duncan's car, and Vernon had turned red-faced at the sight of it, surely because it's so much nicer than the company car he was gifted—shiny in the sunlight, so clean Darcy could see her reflection perfectly in the black paint, luxurious on the outside and inside, where Darcy's thighs had stuck to the leather interior. Emily had been there, sitting in the passenger seat and fiddling with the radio, her feet up on the dashboard as the wonderful sound of disorganized and messy rock music drifted from the speakers. Mr. Duncan had sung along with his twelve-year-old daughter and occasionally threw Darcy a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror as they drove back to their home.

When Mr. Duncan had pulled into the driveway all those years ago, Darcy had been struck dumb at the sight of Emily's house. Considering all Darcy really ever knew was Privet Drive, the sight of such a different style of housing had shocked her. The Duncan house was easily three times the size of Petunia and Vernon's cramped home and unlike anything Darcy had ever seen before. Even now, as Darcy rounds the corner of the street and the house comes into view, she's still rather impressed by it. The lawn looks to be freshly mown, greener than Darcy has ever seen a lawn at Privet Drive, and vibrant colored flowers line the path to the front door—shades of purples and pinks and blues and yellows. A large willow tree in the front yard casts the cobblestone walkway into shadow, protecting Darcy and the grass from the afternoon sun. By the trunk of the tree, a few birds peck at the cool water in a stone birdbath, tweeting happily and flying away as Darcy approaches.

Before Darcy can knock on the door, someone calls her name, and when she turns around wildly, she sees Mr. Duncan jogging towards her from behind the house.

Darcy's always thought Mr. Duncan a good looking man, his yellow-blonde hair parted off to the side, big blue eyes, and a smile that reveals his straight, white teeth—very similar in looks to Emily. Emily had once told her that Mr. Duncan was a star athlete when he was younger, a talented scrum half for his school's rugby team and was on the rowing team, as well. It's clear to her that this is the truth, especially with his thick neck, shoulders, and arms. When he approaches Darcy, he picks up her trunk with ease and allows Darcy to take care of Max's cage.

"We can go in the back door," he says, beckoning her to follow, leading her around the side of the house where he's just come from. "Emily said you'd gotten an owl. What's its name?"

"Max," Darcy answers and Max hoots softly at his name before tucking his beak in his feathers and falling asleep.

"You can keep him in the shed with Demeter. She'll be thrilled with company," Mr. Duncan continues. He chuckles, and Darcy smiles. "You know . . . magic, I've gotten used to. There's still some surprises here and there, but I'm not as shocked when I see it. I envy my wife sometimes, especially when it's my turn to cook dinner. But owls . . . I'll never get used to owls." He looks sideways at Darcy as he opens the door to the shed, where an eagle owl is perched up in the corner. Empty canvases and painting tools litter the inside—all Emily's. "Dursleys been all right to you this summer?"

"Better than usual," she confesses, and Mr. Duncan gives her an almost too-understanding-look. "How has work been? I miss going to open houses with you"

"Just last week I closed a sale on a beautiful house I know you would have loved. The most beautiful french doors you've ever seen leading into the sitting room, and a pool in the backyard," Mr. Duncan says, grinning at the sight of Darcy's excited expression. "If you're in the market for a home, now is a perfect time. I've been telling Emily. Prices are lower this time of year—and dropping steadily."

"When I'm ready, I'll give you a call. You know just what I like."

"I appreciate it."

Darcy opens Max's cage and he nips at her fingers before flying up to join the family owl, Demeter. She leaves his cage in a corner and then turns to follow Mr. Duncan through the backyard towards a screen door that leads into the kitchen. "Is Mrs. Duncan here?" she asks, peeking into the sitting room as she crosses the threshold.

"Beth's at work," he smiles. "I'm sure you've heard the news about the tournament they're restarting at your school? Beth's very well connected, you know, and she's been working very hard. She's going to be the reporter for it, so she's been given lots of information, but she can't write anything yet. It's a big secret, I'm told. Truthfully, I don't understand much of it, but she's happy when I nod along to what she's saying. I think she forgets sometimes that I'm not a wizard."

"Are you coming with us to the World Cup?"

"No," he laughs. "I'm sure it'll be fun, but no. Emily's in her room, Darcy. You know the way."

Emily's room is the same as Darcy remembers it when she'd first visited. Stationary and moving posters cover the walls—Muggle and magical musicians and movie stars, artwork that Darcy really doesn't find all that appealing and doesn't quite understand. In one corner, more blank canvases rest against the wall, surrounded by finished paintings and drawings and paint in every color Darcy can think of. In another corner, a large, white vanity with lights around the mirrors, the table covered with makeup and nail polish, brushes and smaller mirrors. The room is very clean, in contrast to Darcy, who's bedroom is always fairly cluttered and less than half the size. Emily's clothes and robes hang neatly in her large closet, and old newspapers are stacked neatly on her desk, beside a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Emily's sitting in bed on the other side of the room, her hair thrown up on the top of her head, thick-framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, watching television. This is new to Darcy, as Emily's never had one in her room before.

"Hey! I heard someone downstairs and thought it was mum." Emily smiles. "Come watch with me. I'm so glad you're here."

They lay in bed for a long time, eating popcorn from a large bowl, shoulder to shoulder as the sun continues to lower in the sky. Emily flips through the channels lazily, not with the remote, but with her wand. They share small talk—Emily apologizes again for what happened at the Ministry and Darcy tells her what she and Mr. Weasley had discussed afterwards.

Emily laughs when Darcy tells her of Mr. Weasley chastising her for her relationship with Lupin, and instead of feeling angry about Emily's reaction, she feels hurt. Feeling extremely resentful, Darcy thinks of Gemma—Gemma wouldn't laugh at her, Gemma would reassure her, would smile and tell her that Lupin is wonderful, that no one but they know the truth. Even so, anger does begin to surge through her anyway after Darcy fails to control it. "Don't laugh at me," she hisses at Emily. "You don't know what it's like. He's good to me."

"I'm laughing because Mr. Weasley yelled at you because of a boy," Emily says, chuckling still to herself. "You're not his daughter. He's not your father."

"But I love him like one," Darcy whispers. "Is that strange? Do you think Sirius would be hurt by that?"

Emily shrugs slightly. "Do you write to Sirius?"

"Yes." Darcy smiles at the thought of receiving another letter from her godfather. Her smile quickly fades, however. "I wish I could see him—talk to him. Just hear his voice. I wish I could hug him."

But Emily, not the hopeless romantic that Darcy has always been, only gives her a sideways glance, and Mr. Duncan, too tired to make dinner, brings them some food he's ordered. Lying in bed watching television and eating cheap food from takeout boxes, Darcy suddenly feels at such peace with the world that she only half-forgets about wanting to tell Emily about Harry's scar.

Struggling with chopsticks, Darcy glances at the television. "Too much dancing."

Emily replies with a mouthful of food. "It's a musical." She lowers her wand, letting the musical play out. "We've seen this one. With mum, remember?"

"It was better at the theater, but—" Darcy puts her chopsticks down and picks up a fork that had been resting on her thigh. "—the songs are pretty good, I guess."

"How's Harry? Did he get my present?"

"Yeah—clothes are always a good gift for him. Saves me from fixing his old one."

Darcy puts her food down, looking over at Emily, who's fixated on the television. "I rarely ever get to do this anymore," Emily sighs contently, expertly shoving rice into her mouth using chopsticks. "The Ministry's been working my ass off, and I've been helping mum down at the office."

"What are the Aurors up to, anyway?" Darcy wonders, trying to sound casual. "Are they still trying to find Sirius?" The idea has been plaguing her ever since seeing the wanted posters of him racked up at Auror's cubicles, and it angers her to know that Peter Pettigrew is still out there, breathing air, living, possibly at his master's side . . .

"A few are, I think," Emily shrugs. "Most of what they do is hushed up and kept secret—that, or they just don't want a brand new recruit listening in." Emily hesitates, raising a single eyebrow at Darcy. "They've told you what's happening at Hogwarts this year, haven't they?"

"Yeah," Darcy replies warily. "Mr. Weasley took me to meet Ludo Bagman and they told me about it. You don't think it's dangerous, do you?"

"Ludo and I aren't really best friends, so he hasn't told me much about it," Emily admits. "But they're supposed to be taking security and safety really seriously. They aren't permitting anyone under seventeen, and you know Dumbledore wouldn't allow it if it wasn't safe."

Darcy gives Emily an incredulous look, sitting up straight and tucking her legs under her. "Please tell me you're joking."

"What?"

Darcy counts on her fingers. "Last year, Dumbledore allowed dementors to be stationed at Hogwarts, despite knowing how they affected Harry . . . and me," she starts, and Emily listens with raised eyebrows. "There are acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest—spiders that almost ate Harry, Ron, and I, by the way—there was a basilisk Petrifying people, there was a three-headed-dog in the school, one of our teachers had Voldemort on the back of his head—"

"You're getting hysterical," Emily snaps. "Would you calm down and let me get a damn word in?"

"Go on, then," Darcy growls, laying back on the pillow and watching the television again.

"There were dementors there to protect us from an—assumed—mass murderer," Emily reels off. "Dumbledore told us every year that the Forbidden Forest was off limits, so that's on you—Dumbledore also got carted away after so many kids got Petrified, so what could he have done about the Chamber of Secrets? He couldn't have done anything. And all right—the Quirrel thing was weird, but he fooled all of us. We were used to odd teachers, weren't we?"

Darcy looks Emily in the eyes, thinking hard for a minute. But she stops herself quickly, knowing that she'll think her way out of telling Emily. "I think Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup."

Emily looks bewildered. "What are you talking about?" she snorts. "How could he possibly? No one really knows what happened to him. And besides, the Aurors would know."

"But you just said it yourself—they probably just don't want you to know about it!" Darcy retorts, her heart beginning to race. "Listen, Harry had a dream last night, and his scar was hurting afterwards . . ." She lowers her voice. "He dreamt Peter Pettigrew found Voldemort—they were talking about killing Harry, and Harry thinks he remembers them mentioning Quidditch and he couldn't really remember much . . . but things kept coming to him for a little while afterwards . . ."

"Like Harry was misremembering it?"

"No—it was just . . . I don't know . . . disjointed. Like every new memory filled in another gap."

"How do you know it wasn't just a dream?" Emily asks with a slight crease between her eyebrows. "As horrible as it was, it was probably just a dream."

"You said that about my dreams last year," Darcy reminds her, in a lower voice still. "And they turned out to be real memories, remember? And I told you—his scar hurt after it. That's has to mean something, right?"

Emily looks at her for a long time, considering her. Darcy hopes that Emily will believe her—why wouldn't she? Harry had questioned Darcy relentlessly for twenty minutes at one point before she'd left for Emily's, and Darcy had kept up her hollow reassurances that everything would be okay. Harry didn't wish Darcy to tell Emily, but if anything, she'd be able to help, wouldn't she? She would be able to go straight to the Aurors with this tip, she could stop something from happening—and Emily could do that without mentioning Harry, couldn't she? But Darcy has to admit, it would seem very suspicious for Emily to approach an Auror and give him this information without giving away a source.

"You really believe Harry? You truly believe Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup?" Emily whispers, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes," Darcy answers breathlessly.

"Then we have to tell someone," Emily says firmly, and Darcy nods. "There may be a few Auror's who would hear me out—Kingsley night listen, but he would definitely want to know exactly how I knew that. Oh—Darcy! We should tell Tonks!"

Darcy pauses, pursing her lips in a very Aunt Petunia sort of way. She remembers how it had felt to see Emily and Tonks giggling, heads together, working towards a career that Darcy always had tucked away in the back of her mind. "Maybe . . . maybe we could just keep it to ourselves." Darcy chews on her lip. "Maybe it was just a dream."

"If you think something is going to happen, we can't just let it," Emily insists. "If we tell Tonks, she can tell Mad-Eye Moody and he'll listen! I'm sure he won't ask too many questions of her—he'll take any lead he can get. I'm sure she's at the Ministry—she's been working long hours . . . we could send Demeter." Emily glances at her alarm clock on her bedside table.

Darcy knows this is the right thing to do, but she doesn't want to do it. "Maybe we could tell Mr. Weasley," Darcy suggests weakly. "He'd believe us. You know he would."

"No offense, but Mr. Weasley doesn't really have a whole lot of pull within the Auror office." Emily sighs, looking apologetic. "There's been no word of anything relating to Voldemort. Are you absolutely sure about this?"

But Emily's doubts have already burrowed under Darcy's skin, and now she isn't sure. On one hand, if she were to tell someone about Harry's dream, it could prevent very bad things happening at the World Cup—or could it? The Quidditch World Cup is only a day away, and Darcy isn't sure how long it will take to bulk up security—and Darcy doesn't even know what security will be like. She's never been to a large Wizarding gathering like this before. Surely the Ministry of Magic will be able to handle something? Yet on the other hand, if she does tell someone about Harry's dream and it turns out that a dream is all it is . . . Harry would be furious that Darcy had revealed such private information, would be furious that Darcy chose to go to the Ministry of Magic—to the Aurors. Darcy had already told Lupin after Harry asked her not to, but this is serious, isn't it? At what point is Darcy obligated to run to someone else?

"Does Lupin know? Has anyone told Sirius? Dumbledore?"

Darcy snaps out of it and drags a hand through her hair. "Harry wrote to Sirius and I wrote to Lupin, but—Harry didn't want to bother Dumbledore." She sighs. "But I wrote to Lupin before Harry mentioned that thing about Quidditch, and he doesn't know much about Harry's scar. There wasn't anything he could do, or much for him to say."

Emily is quiet for a long time and they both watch the finishing number of the musical on the television. The bright light starts to hurt Darcy's eyes in the growing darkness and she looks at Emily again, watching the actors and actresses dance in the reflection on Emily's glasses. Finally, Emily says, "I'm sure it will be fine." But Darcy has a feeling Emily doesn't truly believe that. However, she persists. "Look, the Quidditch World Cup is going to be under tight security already, and the Aurors will be there, as well. If Voldemort was planning something, I'm sure he would know the World Cup is a bad target. Everyone would know he's back."

Darcy doesn't reply, but Emily does have a point. It would seem stupid for Voldemort to openly attack at the Quidditch World Cup, where not only British wizards and witches will be, but wizards from Bulgaria and who knows where else. Voldemort isn't stupid, and he'd know better than to show himself to all of those people—to risk showing his face to the Aurors—if he even has a face. Harry had admitted he hadn't really seen Voldemort, only that he was small, but Darcy isn't sure what that's supposed to mean. Why would he be small? Does that mean he's not as strong?

Thinking about Voldemort makes Darcy's head throb painfully. She wonders how Harry is—the Weasleys were supposed to pick him up today to take him back to the Burrow. He wonders if he's told Ron about his scar and dream, or if he's told Mr. Weasley. She wonders if his scar still aches, and Darcy absentmindedly rubs her forehead, trying to ease the pain of her headache.

She puts all of her trash on the nightstand beside her, the leftover food she wasn't able to finish, her wand, her chopsticks and fork. Darcy settles back on her pillow and Emily imitates her, taking her glasses off and turning the television to low volume, barely audible. Darcy doesn't mind the flickering lights of whatever program is coming on next, and closes her eyes, one of her legs covered by Emily's, and their arms touching.

Until very recently, sleeping beside Emily had been more comforting than anyone could have imagined. But now, Darcy tries to hide her disappointment, wishing that it was Lupin beside her—her Remus Lupin, with an arm around her, holding onto her as if she is the only real thing in the world, clutching at her hand as if letting go means losing her. To have him beside her would be a blessing—a warm chest to nuzzle into, an exposed neck begging to be kissed, a tired smile playing on his lips when Darcy moves closer to him.

Upon waking the following morning, Darcy's groggy and still tired, having not slept well throughout the night. With Mrs. Duncan poking her head into Emily's room announcing the time (far too early for Darcy), Darcy is overcome with feelings of dread, probably intensified by the fact that she'd awoken beside Emily instead of Lupin.

Emily talks her ear off, excited to watch a professional game of Quidditch, but Darcy barely hears her. Plagued by images of last night's dreams—of flashes of green light, of Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew, of Harry lying motionless on the floor like their mother had been—Darcy showers and dresses in silence, her fingers flexing, itching for a hand to hold as she prepares to leave for the World Cup, unsure as to whether or not she and Harry will leave there alive.