My fault, my fault, my fault.
"Emily . . ."
"Don't touch me!"
My fault, my fault, my fault.
"Darcy? Emily—Merlin's—they're over here! We need help!"
My fault, my fault, my fault.
Arms wrap around her—skinny arms, shaking arms—pulling her away from Emily and her mother. Darcy closes her eyes, her cheek against a flat chest, listening to a rapidly beating heart, matching the pace of her own.
All my fault.
Harry's hand touches her face, holding her to him. The ground is starting to hurt her knees . . . when had she fallen to the ground? Her thigh throbs with every shaky breath she takes. Voices are getting closer, and people are starting to take notice that something is very, very wrong.
All my fault.
"Darcy, sweetheart, come here," Mr. Weasley whispers, and his hand takes hers, gently prising her from Harry's chest. Harry's arms release her somewhat reluctantly, but Darcy is afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to Emily's mother, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to her best friend. "Come here, Darcy . . . I'm going to bring you and Emily home, all right?"
"And what about my mother?" Emily snaps suddenly, her voice hoarse and pleading and desperate, all at once. "I'm just supposed to leave her here?"
"Your mother will be taken care of," Mr. Weasley says soothingly, but when he wraps his arm tighter around Darcy, she can feel him trembling. "Don't worry, Emily."
Mr. Weasley squeezes Darcy to his chest and she nuzzles into him, tears spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks, staining his jacket. His skin is damp and sticky with sweat and blood, but she doesn't quite mind. Emily's light and hesitant footsteps approach and Darcy hears her sniffling. When Emily's clammy hand closes around Darcy's wrist, Darcy finds the strength to open her eyes, knowing that Emily doesn't hate her enough not to touch her. Slowly, very slowly, as Mr. Weasley issues instructions to his eldest sons in regards to the other children, Darcy lifts her head from Mr. Weasley's chest. Emily is looking right at her, eyes swollen and puffy, cheeks stained with tears, but her gaze isn't an accusing one—it's sad, pathetic, apologetic—and Emily quickly looks away, holding onto Mr. Weasley's arm.
"I don't live far from the Ministry's visitor entrance," Emily tells him in a soft voice. "I can get us home from there."
Darcy looks past her at the legs that belong to Emily's mother—long and pale, just like Emily's. Her torso and head are hidden behind a couple of Ministry workers, talking quietly amongst themselves. Guilt overwhelms her and Darcy sobs, Mr. Weasley's arm tighter around her than she's ever been held. She takes one last look at her brother before the three of them turn on the spot, and the campsite around them dissolves into a rush of colors, disappearing altogether, and within seconds, Darcy's feet hit the hard ground of an empty, dark alleyway.
Emily leads them home.
Seated at the top of the carpeted stairs, Darcy listens to Mr. Weasley speaking with Mr. Duncan in the kitchen, her packed trunk at her side and Max's empty cage on her other side. Max is wrapped in her arms like a stuffed animal, not writhing in her grip for once, rubbing his face all over Darcy's and hooting quietly every so often. She hears Mr. Duncan break down into great, heaving sobs, his grief becoming Darcy's grief. Darcy's tears fall into Max's feathers as she cuddles him, allowing him to nip at the tips of her fingers as she rubs underneath his beak.
After several minutes of hearing Mr. Duncan crying, refusing to believe his wife is dead, unable to comprehend what kind of people would kill his beautiful wife—his Beth—his daughter's mother. Darcy sits quite still, forcing herself to. Why hadn't she told someone about Harry's dream? Why hadn't she told Mr. Weasley? Or let Emily tell Tonks? Why did it matter if Harry would be mad at her if it meant Emily's mother had lived? Darcy buries her face in Max's feathers, crying quietly. All she can picture is Mr. Duncan holding his daughter, trying to understand what exactly happened, thinking of Mrs. Duncan's beautiful face, a face normally full of color and life and energy and happiness, now cold and white and devoid of any life.
After another fifteen minutes of nothing but Emily and her father crying, Darcy hears Mr. Weasley's footsteps at the base of the stairs. She lifts her head from Max's feathers and looks at him for a long time. Darcy doesn't move, and Mr. Weasley climbs a few stairs closer to her. He looks exhausted, drained of everything that he has, and he takes his foggy glasses off to rub his eyes with his thumbs before replacing them on the bridge of his nose.
"Come on, Darcy," he whispers, his voice breaking. Mr. Weasley holds out a hand for her. "They'll be all right. Let them grieve together."
She wants to tell Mr. Weasley that it was all her fault, that Emily's mother is dead because of her, because she was too afraid of angering Harry, too afraid of compromising his privacy. She wants to tell Mr. Duncan—he and his wife, who had brought her into their home, who had given her safe haven from the Dursleys, who had fed her and clothed her, taken her out to dinner and the theater and shopping—that it's all her fault Mrs. Duncan is dead, that Emily will never have a mother again. It's her fault that Mrs. Duncan will never cook dinner again, that she'll never come home to kiss her husband after work again. Darcy is all too familiar with the pain of missing a parent, all too familiar with the gaping hole in her heart, the aching in her chest. She would never wish that pain upon anyone, and to know that it's her fault her best friend now has to live with that pain . . .
"Darcy, please," Mr. Weasley begs, beckoning her to him, desperate now. "I'm going to take you back home, now. Molly will take care of you until we're able to catch a Portkey back."
Finally, Darcy coaxes Max back into his cage with little resistance on his part, and she gets to her feet. Mr. Weasley waves his wand at her trunk and it floats down the stairs towards him. Darcy carries Max's cage in her sweaty and shaking hand, moving down the stairs. At the bottom, she chances a glance into the kitchen, where the sound of sobbing is still audible. Mr. Duncan has Emily enveloped in his arms, kissing the top of her head and crying into her golden hair, the same golden hair her mother had. Emily sobs against his chest, grasping his shirt tight to keep from collapsing. Darcy stumbles backwards, unable to watch the scene any longer.
She follows Mr. Weasley outside and the cool night air hits her, chilling her bones in the way a dementor might. Darcy suddenly wishes there were warm arms wrapped around her, comforting her, soothing her. The prospect of having to face Mrs. Weasley's coddling becomes too much, and as Mr. Weasley extends her hand to her again, Darcy reaches out to take it, but hesitates. She eyes her trunk sitting on the ground beside him, close enough for Darcy to grab hold of it. She looks into Mr. Weasley's eyes warily and kneels down, under the pretense of letting Max out of his cage. She goes to kiss his head, whispering to him (and feeling quite foolish while doing so). Max flies away instantly, hooting loudly as he soars out into the night.
"Take my hand, Darcy. Come on, sweetheart." When Darcy hesitates, it's clear that Mr. Weasley senses trouble, shaking his head. "Darcy, come with me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley," she cries softly. "I'm so sorry."
He narrows his eyes, brow furrowing. "What—?"
Darcy holds tight to Max's cage, fumbles for her wand and grabs the handle of her trunk before Mr. Weasley can say another word. She turns on the spot, disappearing from the front of Emily's house and leaving Mr. Weasley standing on the lawn, bewildered.
What feels like an eternity later, Darcy lands flat on her back in tall, unkempt, and swaying grass, crying out as a sharp pain shoots up her spine. She pushes her trunk off her legs and sits up, rubbing her eyes and looking around her. Directly in front of her, the half moon casting it in an eerie, white light, is a dark cottage. There's no smoke coming from the chimney, and all the light inside seem to be off. But at the sight of it, Darcy lets out a sob and, quite forgetting her luggage, staggers up the overgrown path to the front door. Through swollen eyes, she checks her watch, almost forgetting the unreasonable hour.
3:59.
Darcy isn't sure if knocking loudly in the dead of night is a good idea when he isn't expecting anyone, but she throws caution to the wind, slapping the door as hard as she can, calling out for him, crying, begging him to wake up. She slaps the door for three minutes until her palm begins to sting, and when she stops, there's the clicking of a lock and the door is pulled open quickly.
Lupin is standing there, tousle-haired, eyes still puffy from sleep, his wand held out hesitantly in front of him as if expecting someone dangerous. "Darcy," he rasps incredulously, looking beyond her and examining the empty and quiet field. When he comes to the conclusion that she is indeed alone, he looks at her again. "What are you doing here?" Darcy doesn't answer, and Lupin lights the tip of his wand, taking a step back in order to get a good look at her.
She's sure she's a terrifying sight, especially for so late at night. Darcy had caught glimpses of her reflection in shop windows on the lonely and quiet walk to Emily's house. Her face blackened by soot, hair tangled and a mess, her jeans and thigh covered with now dried blood, face tear-stained and more tears spilling from her eyes.
Her throat aching, Darcy manages to whisper, "Can I please come in?"
"Where are your things? Why didn't you write to me? What's happened?" Lupin takes her hand and pulls her gently into his home, turning on a few lamps and sitting her down on the sofa. He retrieves her trunk and empty cage, leaving them at the door to return to Darcy. "Why are you bleeding? Why are you here at four o'clock in the morning? What happened to the World Cup?"
The words come so easily to her, as they always have. Darcy has always been able to say anything to him, has always been able to tell him things she'd never tell anyone else. "Emily's mother is dead," Darcy says weakly, as Lupin's hand cup her face, tucking hair behind her ears. His eyes robe over her face, taking in her appearance, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "It's my fault."
"Why would you say that?" Lupin asks her gently. He lights a fire by magic in the over-sized fireplace. "Why would you ever think that it's your fault? What's happened, Darcy?"
He fires her questions at her without hesitation, hardly taking breaths between them, but Darcy feels at such ease for the first time in hours and she feels up to answering them. She has to tell someone or her own thoughts will drive her insane, but she requests a drink first, and Lupin happily obliges, bringing her a bottle of wine and a glass. So Darcy, with many tears and moments where she's nearly incoherent, racked with sobs, tells Lupin about her suspicions of something happening at the Quidditch World Cup, of her stupid decision not to tell anyone, of how she's chickened out of telling Mr. Weasley, how the Death Eaters had stormed the campsite and Emily crying over her mother's dead body and Mr. Duncan's heartbreaking sobs in the home that he wife will never return to. Lupin doesn't say a word throughout this, only shushes her quietly when Darcy begins to get hysterical again.
"If I had told someone, I could have stopped it," Darcy finishes, not shaking half as bad with a little wine in her. "If I hadn't been such a coward, they could have been ready for the Death Eaters and Emily's mum would still be alive and she knows it's my fault—"
"It's not your fault," Lupin says, shaking his head slightly and topping off Darcy's wine glass, pouring a little more than she thinks he would during a normal situation. "You can't blame yourself. It could have just been a dream, like you said—"
"I should have said something!"
"Darcy, how could they ever have been prepared for that? Even if you had told someone, I don't think many people would have taken a tip you gave them based on a dream. Even if they had . . . going off what you've told me, how would they have known Death Eaters were going to come?"
She doesn't answer. Darcy stares into the crackling fire for a long time, her eyes heavy. It's all catching up to her now, making her tired, and she wants to sleep for days. "Don't let me fall asleep tonight," she breathes, eyes still fixed upon the flames. "Please." When Darcy turns back to look at him, it's only then that she realizes he isn't wearing a shirt, and her eyes sweep over him. She looks away quickly, disgusted with herself.
"You need to get some rest," Lupin insists, trying to sound firm about it, but failing miserably. "The wine will help. I'll take care of you, Darcy."
Darcy smiles a sad little smile. "I know you will."
A heavy silence hangs over them for a few minutes. Darcy can feel Lupin watching her, waiting for her to say something, to do something. Finally, he says, "I'm so glad you're all right."
She's alive, at least—that's the only thing she's sure of. Darcy is alive, yet anything but all right. She feels like a part of her has died—someone she considered a mother figure is now dead, a casualty that Darcy could possibly have prevented. But Lupin's words soothe the aching in her heart long enough for her to tear her gaze completely from the fire and wrap her arms around him. His arms snake around her waist, and Darcy cries into his shoulder.
Lupin presses his lips to her temple, placing a soft kiss on an area of skin relatively free from soot. "Does anyone know that you're here?"
Almost certain that Mr. Weasley will likely deduce where she's gone, it still leaves a small chance he won't guess she's come to Lupin's, but Darcy is absolutely certain Harry will know. "Yes, I think so," Darcy murmurs into his skin. "I'll write tomorrow. Max is on his way here."
"Would you like to get cleaned up?"
"Yes."
He brings her trunk into the bedroom and Darcy enters the bathroom, deciding at the last moment to lock the door for reasons unknown to herself. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror as the shower runs, heating up and making the mirror foggier and foggier until she can no longer see her face clearly. Slowly, she strips out of her clothes—or more like, peels them off—and slips under the scalding hot water, letting it wash everything off her—dirt and blood and sweat and soot, guilt and sadness and pain and remorse. She lets the water numb her, beating hard against her back, slightly lightheaded from the heat of it and from the furious pounding of her heart.
She's so tired. Every time she closes her eyes—for a little bit longer each time, leaning against the tiled wall—all Darcy can see are flashes of green lights, hear the thumping of a body hitting the floor, see her mother's terrified face frozen in front of her, see Voldemort's red, red eyes. Thankfully, knocking at the bathroom door startles her into a more alert state, and when Lupin asks, "Are you all right?", Darcy decides it's time to exit the shower.
When Darcy exits the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet, Lupin is reading a book through half-opened eyes on the bed. As much as she doesn't want to fall asleep, to relive her mother's death over and over again, Darcy knows the comfort of waking beside him, being able to nuzzle into his chest after those dreams would be welcome. To just lay in bed and not be alone would be a blessing right now. Without removing her towel or drying her knotted hair, Darcy crawls into bed beside him, closing her eyes automatically.
"Don't fall asleep, love."
"I'm just resting my eyes," she murmurs.
"Don't fall asleep."
The words are soothing, reminding her of better days, of easier days. Darcy had been happy, happy in a way she hadn't been in so long. Now, it's hard to remember how she'd felt mere hours ago, her excitement during the match, the peaceful feeling she'd felt being with her friends again. It's far easier to remember the fear, the suffering and aching, the chaos.
As soon as Lupin turns the lamp off and settles back down beside her as the dawn begins to break, Darcy falls asleep.
Her dreams, as expected, are plagued by some of Darcy's worst memories—her mother dying, the Chamber of Secrets, the image of Emily's mother's blank face. But every so often, Darcy feels a steady hand on her arm, or fingers brushing against her cheek, lips against her forehead.
When next she wakes, the sun is shining through the windows and Lupin isn't in bed anymore. Darcy's hair is still heavy and wet and the blankets are tangled around her, the towel revealing the more private parts of her body. The sound of knocking makes her jump, and it's then that Lupin sees she's awake. Dressed as if done in a hurry, he kneels at the side of the bed, coaxing her back down onto the pillow.
"Stay here," he whispers. "Go back to sleep. I'll take care of it."
His voice is calm enough, but Darcy doesn't fail to notice his wand clutched in his hand. Darcy does as she's told, however, and Lupin leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. She rolls over and checks the time—1:42. Darcy gets comfortable again, pulling the blanket up to her chin, listening carefully for any sounds of a fight or of a sign that whoever is at the door isn't a Death Eater.
But when the visitor speaks, Darcy's heart begins to hammer. She knows that voice—she's incredibly familiar with that voice, and Darcy suddenly feels that if the owner of that voice were to see her like this, naked in Lupin's bed, it would not end well for her.
"Is Darcy here?" Mr. Weasley asks, his voice uncharacteristically curt. Darcy can tell he's inside the cottage now.
"She's sleeping," Lupin answers. "Leave her. She didn't fall asleep until dawn."
Darcy keeps her eyes shut, willing herself to go back to sleep. The last thing she wants to do is talk to Mr. Weasley, either about last night or her current situation. He's not my father. I wasn't obligated to go back to his home last night. But even just the knowledge that Mr. Weasley had tracked her down to make sure she was safe makes Darcy feel a surge of affection for him.
"She told me what happened last night," Lupin says again. "I was . . . shocked, for lack of a better word. Have any Death Eaters been captured?"
Mr. Weasley seems to have been waiting to say something to this effect, because he answers quickly, "No, not as yet, but we definitely have a certain idea as to who they were, except . . . no one can prove anything." There's a short pause. "The damn Ministry is in complete disarray. I had the opportunity to slip away and I wasn't sure I'd have one again."
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"Gin, if you're offering."
They both chuckle, but it's only to fill silence. "No gin, but firewhisky. Please . . . sit."
"Don't let Darcy know that." They share another laugh, this one a little friendlier. "All right, maybe just a small glass, for medicinal purposes, of course." Darcy hears the clinking of glasses, the closing of the cupboard door. "Is she all right?"
"She will be." Someone sets their glass on the table. "I'm sure she'll be glad to know that you've stopped by. Is there anything I can do? I'm not . . . really in a proper position to be going out in public and aiding the Ministry, but please, let me know if there is someway that I can help."
"The Ministry needs all the help it can get," Mr. Weasley confesses, sounding frustrated. "It doesn't help that the Minister is a prideful . . ." He uses some colorful language that makes Lupin laugh again, and even Darcy can't help but agree with him. "You'll let Darcy know that I've stopped by, then? Molly is worried sick about her, but she's been worried sick since word came from the World Cup."
"I'll let her know," Lupin promises. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the thought. I'll have her check-in with you, if possible. She mentioned her owl was on his way here."
There's another long silence as someone puts their glass on the table. "I know she's not my daughter, and perhaps it's not my business, but . . . I wasn't sure if there was anyone else who would confirm that she was safe after last night."
"Excuse me?" Lupin doesn't ask the question unkindly, but rather as if he hadn't heard correctly.
"Did she ever tell you about the first time we met?"
No, please don't tell him. Darcy prays for sleep to take her; she doesn't want to hear this conversation. She prays that Lupin will show Mr. Weasley out before he tells his story. But he doesn't—Lupin doesn't say a word, and allows Mr. Weasley to continue.
"My sons decided to stage a rescue mission with a flying car I had been tinkering with, and they came home in the night with two guests—Harry and Darcy." Mr. Weasley chuckles, but it falls flat, sounding very strained. "Sixteen-years-old, skinny and starved, afraid and exhausted . . . very much an adult next to her brother." Tears stain Darcy's pillow, a cool wetness against her cheek. "Polite, you know . . . incredibly so. She could teach my children a thing or two about proper manners. There was just such a . . . melancholy about her, something that made it hard to believe that she was still so young."
There's another silence and Darcy hears another faint clinking. She imagines Lupin refilling their glasses, listening closely.
"And that night . . . I thought someone was being murdered beneath my own roof," Mr. Weasley says, and Darcy has to listen hard to catch everything. "I heard screaming and I thought it was Ginny. She'd never screamed like that before. And when I got to her room and realized it was Darcy, I . . . the girl was clearly starved for affection. I was still half a stranger to her, and yet when I approached, she . . . I don't think she'd been properly comforted before, or even held." He pauses again. "I'm sorry—I should be heading back before someone notices I've gone. Thank you for the drink, Remus."
"Of course," Lupin replies. "Look, it's like I said, if there's anything I can do . . ."
"Truthfully, the best thing you can do right now is stay here with Darcy." There's the shuffling of footsteps as Mr. Weasley makes his way back to the door. "You'll send her our way, then? When she wakes up?"
Lupin clears his throat. "If she wants to go, I won't stop her, but if it's all the same to you, Arthur, I'd, er . . . I'd prefer she stay with me."
"Harry is worried about her. I promised I'd let him know how she is."
"You can tell Harry she'll be fine. Tell him I said so, would you? I'll have her write him straightaway when Max arrives." The front door creaks open and Lupin's voice grows fainter. "She's in good hands here, Arthur. She's safe here."
"Yes, well . . . I think I quite believe that. Tell her I'm sorry, would you?"
"Sorry?" Lupin asks. "Dare I ask for what?"
Mr. Weasley clears his own throat awkwardly. "She'll know what I mean. Thank you . . . Remus."