"Wake up, love."

Lupin places a soft kiss on her shoulder, his lips brushing against the raised scars that mar her skin. Darcy stirs, not wanting to ever leave the comfort of his arms. She can feel his heart beating, his chest pressed against her back, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare stomach. His other arm, tucked underneath her head, helping to hold her in place against him, their legs entwined beneath the blankets.

Darcy opens her eyes an inch, the sunlight nearly blinding her. Her belongings are still strewn across the floor, clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown on the ground as they'd stumbled into the bedroom last night. Her trunk is wide open, revealing the mess inside, still needing to be packed for her return to Hogwarts today, and Max's cage is still empty, awaiting his return from a long night of hunting. Darcy hears a sleepy hoot from the other side of the bedroom and feels suddenly much more at ease knowing Max is back.

She sighs, closing her eyes again as Lupin kisses just behind her ear, making chills run down her spine. She grabs at the hand that's splayed across her stomach and laces their fingers together, burying her face in her pillow once more.

Everything is so uncertain. A few months ago, Darcy had been delighted at the idea of returning to Hogwarts, even under Snape's watchful eye. The idea of returning to Hogwarts with Harry was something she couldn't pass up, but that was before she'd known how it feels to have a true home—a place she feels welcome and wanted and loved, a place where she can wake beside Lupin, wake up to his kisses, to his arm draped around her, to his voice.

And while he has not asked her again directly to stay with him, to forego this opportunity not offered to many, Darcy knows he's been trying to convince her in other ways. Every time he kisses her, he kisses her a little harder than she's used to. Every time he touches her, he makes sure that his fingers brush the places she likes to be kisses best. These moments test her, make her long to stay with him, and she almost caves sometimes, especially last night, when his fingers had been tangled in her hair, the other hand on the small of her back. Over the slapping of flesh, Lupin had tugged gently on her hair in order to raise her head. He'd kissed the nape of her neck, murmuring affectionate words into her sticky skin—how beautiful she is, how lovely and wonderful, and over and over and over again, I love you I love you I love you, until Darcy had cried out for him in the darkness, her legs shaking violently and her knees weak and sore from kneeling on the mattress.

Maybe a week ago, Darcy would have changed her mind. Maybe a week ago, before the Quidditch World Cup, Darcy would have decided to stay with Lupin—or would she? Now, she knows she cannot stay. Not after knowing the vague details of Harry's dream, of Voldemort's desire to kill her little brother, of Peter Pettigrew's fervent loyalty (or is it mere cowardice that drove Peter to his old master?) to Voldemort. If Gemma is right, and there are more attacks, who's to say Hogwarts will not be one of the places the Death Eaters choose to storm? The very place were both Potter siblings will be—the perfect place to lay siege, or attempt to. How would it be if, while Death Eater stormed Hogwarts, she was lying in bed with Lupin, fucking him instead of protecting her brother?

Darcy inhales and exhales through her nose loudly and deeply, squeezing his hand again. She doesn't want to move ever again, wants to feel this warmth and safety every moment of every day for the rest of her life. Gemma's right—fuck what Sirius has to say, what Mr. Weasley has to say, whatever anyone has to say. No one will ever be able to tear her away from him—not her Remus, the man who has shown her love that Darcy never thought possible.

She rolls over in his arms, kissing one of the love bites on his chest—his skin is littered with them, small bruises that, when she's gone, will remind Lupin that he's hers. She shuts her eyes again, nuzzling into his chest, the sun beating on her exposed back through the window.

Lupin hooks his arm underneath her own, lining his fingers up with the scars on her shoulder. He settles his cheek against the top of her head, moaning softly. "You should start getting ready," he whispers, his voice tired and hoarse. "You don't want to make a bad impression on your first day."

"I have hours until I need to be there," Darcy says, opening her eyes a tiny big again to look into his face. There's a smile on his face, a tired smile, that makes her insides squirm. "Let me at least look at you for a little while longer."

"All you ever do is take pictures of me," he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against Darcy's before kissing the corner of her mouth. "Is that not good enough for you?"

Darcy shakes her head slightly. "No," she replies, giving him a small smile in return. "Of course pictures aren't as good as the real thing."

Lupin is quiet for a moment, looking down at her. His eyes flick from Darcy's own to her lips, to her shoulder, to her exposed chest, back to her eyes. "You know I have to ask," he breathes. "Or beg, more like. Please stay with me, Darcy."

"I'll visit as much as I can," Darcy sighs, touching his face, her thumb brushing over his rough cheek. "Every weekend—or until you get tired of me."

"How could you think I would ever tire of you?"

Darcy smiles fondly, kissing him.

They eat breakfast together, wearing the least amount of clothing possible to keep them somewhat modest, and Darcy cherishes the simple intimacy, the shy smiles and comfortable silence between them as they watch a news program on the television. The past night has been something out of a dream—something perfect to distract her from everything that's happened, and yet Darcy still feels weighed down by guilt and sorrow, her shoulders heavy from carrying the burden of knowing it was my fault. Emily may not believe it, but Emily is grieving—she didn't know what she was talking about.

Despite sleeping for hours and hours and hours all week (restlessly, due to her nightmares deciding to make a very sudden comeback), Darcy is exhausted in every possible way. Cruel thoughts creeps up every so often about Emily's mother, leaving her disgusted with herself.

Emily will finally be able to understand, the voice says, her voice, which makes it even worse. Darcy doesn't mention these thoughts to Lupin, afraid he will think her cruel and hurtful.

And just like so many years ago, when her own parents had died, feelings of resentment flood her on occasion. This is what she's always wanted—what she's dreamed of—to wake next to someone she loves, to fall asleep curled up on someone's chest, to be kissed and held and loved. And she wishes she were someone else—someone with the ability to choose her own happiness over her brother's, someone who doesn't have a brother who needs her, because—despite what everyone says—Darcy knows that Harry does need her. Her stomach churns each time she thinks of staying with Lupin, of finally giving in to him, but at the cost of her brother. And Darcy is forcibly reminded of her conversation with Mr. Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron, a conversation long forgotten after the World Cup.

If I had just thrown myself in front of Harry, as our mother did, she thinks, feeling the urge to cry again, maybe I would have died, and maybe a quick end would have been better than a lifetime of suffering and indecision.

Darcy looks at Lupin, sighing heavily. He lowers his fork, seemingly sensing something coming. "I'm sorry about Mr. Weasley," she says awkwardly, not wanting to jump right into a conversation about whether or not she should have died for Harry, or to save herself years worth of pain. "I didn't realize he'd track you down or show up on your doorstep."

"How much did you hear?" Lupin asks gently, frowning and looking incredibly apologetic.

"All of it."

He nods slowly.

"I went to the Ministry with Mr. Weasley a few weeks ago," she says. "Just for the day . . ." She recounts to him her day with Mr. Weasley, her meeting with Ludo Bagman, her reunion with Emily and the unwarranted jealousy she'd felt at the sight of Emily laughing with Tonks. She tells Lupin about Rita Skeeter approaching her and how Mr. Weasley had found out about she and Lupin. Quietly, shamefully, Darcy also tells him about Mr. Weasley chastising her in his office and, at this, Lupin rubs his face exasperatedly, running his hands through graying hair. And then Darcy's voice softens as she explains that, although Mr. Weasley had been angry with her, he hadn't seemed inclined in the slightest to lay hands on her.

"I'm sorry," Lupin says, shaking his head. In a matter of seconds, his demeanor changes, and he covers his face with his hands, groaning. "I'm sorry—Darcy, you shouldn't—we shouldn't—"

"We shouldn't what?" Darcy asks softly, looking into his face as he lowers his hands. He continues to give her that apologetic and guilty look. Darcy feels the sudden urge to be sick, and suddenly wishes she were anywhere but here. She lowers her voice and looks down into her lap. "If you don't want me to be here, just say so, and I'll go."

"No—no, not at all," Lupin says quickly, pleadingly. "Stay."

She hesitates, wondering if she should say the very thing she wants to say next. Part of her is worried about his answer, but Darcy has already heard Mr. Weasley tell her, to her face, that Aunt Petunia was right. That's the worst answer she could have received, isn't it? "When I went back to Privet Drive, after I had stayed here, Aunt Petunia told me something," Darcy begins, watching his face very closely for any sign of reaction. "She said that men would always take an interest in me in our world, especially men who knew my mother. A freak, she called her."

Lupin's jaw clenches. "I will not let you leave for Hogwarts believing I only care for you because I knew your mother."

"But you think it's true?" Darcy asks, and Lupin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck and grasping for words. "Tell me the truth."

He tenses, looking back at her. Lupin's face seems to harden. "The truth," he repeats, and Darcy raises her eyebrows and nods. "Fine, then. The truth is . . . of course it's true, Darcy. You are naive to believe otherwise."

"Don't say that—"

"Ludo Bagman seems very taken with you already, from what you've told me," Lupin continues bitterly. "And Severus seems to give you quite a bit less snide than everyone else—"

These words sting more than they should. "Please stop."

"You're so young, so beautiful, so desirably, with access to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, but so easily tempted by affection and attention, and men will use that to their advantage, always," Lupin finishes, ignoring her small plea to stop. "It's a game to them, Darcy, and getting into your good graces is the end goal."

She had asked for the truth, and she can't say Lupin hasn't delivered on that promise. But his blunt honestly still hurts her, because he's validating everything she's been afraid of, everything she doesn't want. "I told Aunt Petunia you were our teacher last year," she whispers. "She remembered you. She guessed that you'd taken to me quickly."

"How could I have not?" Lupin asks, his tone a bit softer. "You took to me because of your parents, too—because I had known them. Your parents are what brought us together, but they aren't what's keeping us together." His cheeks turn faintly pink and he looks away from her, towards the television. "I need you to know that this isn't a game to me. I care about you, very much so, and—as much as I want this . . . if this is going to ruin you, I . . . I don't want to add to your growing list of troubles."

"You—this—it's not going to ruin me. Please don't say that."

"It will in the end."

Darcy looks at him for a long time. "We have a very long time until then." Lupin doesn't answer her, and they both avoid each other's eyes for a few moments. Then Darcy remembers something else she'd wanted to ask him. "Do you think it was too much to expect of me to shield Harry from Voldemort's curse?"

Lupin looks incredulous, turning his face to look at her in the face. "You were barely five-years-old," he scoffs. "No one would have expected that of you. You could have died."

Darcy doesn't look away from him, and Lupin's expression seems pained.

"I know what you're thinking," he rasps, and Darcy believes that he does. "The feeling of losing everyone you care about in one night was the the hardest thing I've ever known , and the pain of knowing what I am . . . the pain of the transformations, the pain of being alone . . . I used to wish I'd have died when I was bitten. If I had just bled out, I would never have to know pain like this."

It momentarily stuns her into silence, how well Lupin seems to understand her, without her having to even explain herself. Never has she known someone to be able to relate to her on such a level—not even Harry. Of course Darcy has always thought of his feelings, but has never considered the possibility that he could be hurting just as badly as she does. "And now?" Darcy asks, unsure if she's ready for his answer.

"Now . . ." Lupin pauses, pursing his lips and thinking hard. "More recently, in fact, I feel as if living is much more preferable to the alternative. I have a roof over my head, money in my vault . . . and lovely woman who shares my bed."

Darcy smiles at him sadly.

"Come here."

She obliges, moving closer to Lupin. He drapes an arm around her, holding her to his chest, and Darcy rests her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. Is it possible all of her pain and suffering have been worth it? That being here now, with him, to know a man's touch and kindness and love . . . Darcy is overwhelmed with gratitude, thankful that Lupin is at her side, grateful that he hasn't chosen someone else. And if it does ruin her in the end, as he insists it will, Darcy thinks it'll all be worth it, as well. These little moments, when her heart leaps with love—his kisses and smiles and laughter—are surely worth the heartbreak that may or may not come later in life.

Let me have this one thing, she begs, unsure of who she's really addressing. Please don't take this one thing away from me.

Eventually, as time slips away, Darcy knows she cannot put off leaving any longer. She allows Max a head start after he pecks at Lupin's fingers ("Max! No! What did I tell you about that?"), and gives Darcy a cuddle. He flies off into the distance, and Darcy watches until he disappears into the sky.

Lupin helps her pack, and they both refrain from using too much magic; Darcy only does it slowly to prolong the time they have together, and she begins to feel nervous about returning to Hogwarts again—about seeing Snape again, who she knows will probably not be as fond of her as he once was after the events at the beginning of summer. But she is excited to see Harry and Carla, and even Ron and Hermione and Fred and George—the people she's missed dearly the past week. And only then does she remember something.

"Gemma wants to meet with us," Darcy tells Lupin as she pulls out some photographs and flips through them. "Can you make it into Hogsmeade in two weeks?"

"But that's—"

"I know it'll be close to the full moon. She promised to bring a large supply of your potion."

Lupin thinks for a moment. "All right."

Darcy holds out a photograph for him, the photograph of her sleeping that Lupin had taken weeks ago. "For you," she smiles. "So you don't forget what I look like."

He takes it with a toothy grin. "It'll go nicely with my collection."

With her things completely packed and a few hours to go until the Hogwarts Express arrives at the station, Darcy checks her watch and sighs. Part of her can't understand why it feels like she's leaving forever when, if she wants, she can return in just a week. But it does feel like she's leaving forever, leaving the life she could have, the life she wants, for a life she is having serious doubts about now. Why are choices so hard? Why can't she ever be confident about a choice she makes?

Lupin walks her out to the front of the cottage, watching her from the threshold as she prepares to Disapparate. "I'll see you soon, Darcy," he says, leaning against the door frame.

"I'll see you soon." Darcy hesitates, looking at the scene painted before her eyes. In another life, she wouldn't be leaving—she'd be returning to this every night, never sleeping alone. Darcy puts her trunk and the empty cage down, closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around his middle. "I'll see you this weekend."

She takes a few steps backwards, grabs hold of her things, and turns on the spot.

Hogsmeade looks more or less the same as she remembers it. She's always preferred the look of it around Christmastime—the roofs heavily laden with pure white snow, decorated Christmas trees in the shop windows, the tantalizing comfort and coziness of the nearby pubs and small shops. There are a few people already meandering down the High Street, some with shopping bags, others talking excitedly, heading into the Three Broomsticks for a drink. It's cooler and breezier here than it had been at Lupin's, and Darcy is grateful that the carriages are already waiting by the station. The thestrals paw at the ground—eerie looking horses with dragon-like features like their sinewy wings and the lack of horse hair covering their black bodies.

One of them looks right at Darcy, and she wonders, for an instant, if Emily has ever been able to see them before. Darcy's always been able to see the thestrals, and it never became a topic of conversation, as Darcy assumed everyone could see them. It hadn't been until her sixth year, when Carla had started preparing for her O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures that she'd mentioned in passing about thestrals only being visible to those who had witnessed death. She and Darcy had been alone in the library, and Darcy hadn't answered, but the newfound knowledge had given her chills.

Darcy looks around, searching for a sign of someone, but she's quite alone. Even Hagrid is nowhere to be seen, and so Darcy clambers into the carriage. As soon as she sits, the thestral begins to move, carrying her up the sloping drive towards the castle. It's a silent ride, except for the rumbling of the carriage's wheels and the snorting of the thestral; Darcy's trunk rumbles and the empty owl cage rattles, giving Darcy a headache. She leans back in her seat and remembers this time last year—sharing a carriage with Lupin, exchanging awkward smile each time they were caught looking at each other. Now, she's alone, and it only works on her nerves.

Upon reaching the front doors of the castle, Darcy drags her things out of the carriage, for some reason reaching out and stroking the thestral's neck. The sky overhead has begun to darken, threatening rain, and the wind begins to pick up when Darcy steps inside. She has to admit, it's a little spooky to be inside Hogwarts with little to no one around. The cavernous walls and ceiling seem larger than usual with no students to fill the corridors, and to not hear chatter and laughter from the Great Hall unsettles her, and Darcy wonders where to go from here. As the rain starts to pour down outside, Darcy takes a few steps closer to the marble staircase, realizing how strange it will be to not be staying in Gryffindor Tower.

As she places a foot on the marble staircase, quick foosteps come hurrying towards her, and Professor McGonagall approaches—not from the above floor, but from the corridor that leads down to Snape's dungeon classroom. Darcy lowers her trunk to the floor and smiles in spite of herself; McGonagall gives her a very thin, weak smile back and waves her wand, causing Darcy's trunk and Max's cage to levitate.

"Come, Potter," she says swiftly, making her way up the staircase. "I'll show you to what will be your home until June."

Darcy follows, taking the steps two at a time to keep up.

"I heard about what happened at the Quidditch World Cup," McGonagall continues, looking sideways at Darcy. "Is she doing all right?"

Darcy swallows noisily, looking at her feet. "Emily will be all right."

"And you?"

Feeling a rush of affection for Professor McGonagall, Darcy smiles at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm fine."

The rest of their walk is silent, until Professor McGonagall stops in front of a large portrait portraying an elderly couple playing cards, the background looking very hazy with multi-colored pipe smoke. The couple looks down at McGonagall as she gives what Darcy assumes is a password. At once, the portrait opens just like the Fat Lady does, and Darcy steps over the threshold in wonder as her belongings follow her inside.

"I'll see you at the feast, Potter. It's good to see you back." Professor McGonagall leaves her, the portrait shutting behind her. Her trunk and Max's cage sit at the entrance as Darcy looks around the room, half-amazed.

The room is beautiful—more beautiful that it has any right to be—more beautiful than Darcy had expected. It's almost slightly bigger than Lupin's own home, with almost the same layout as the hidden apartment in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom's office. There's a large fireplace, bookshelves built into the walls, dusty and empty. Opposite the fireplace is a small kitchenette, more counter space than Lupin had been given, with a large sink in the middle of it all. There's a table with four dining chairs set around it, a slightly worn sofa and coffee table before the fireplace. Towards the back is a bedroom, the bed much larger than what she's used to, and a tiny bathroom off the side.

It's impressive and freeing to be able to call this space her own, and somehow intimidating. The only space she has ever been able to call her own is the guest bedroom at Privet Drive, and even that hadn't been hers alone for that long, with Harry in and out of it and Darcy being shunted into Harry's room when Marge would come to visit. She wonders how many rooms like this are hidden throughout the castle, how many portraits are hiding secrets behind them.

Slowly, still a bit overwhelmed, Darcy begins to unpack her things. She takes out all the photographs she'd brought with her, putting them into the nightstand drawer, except for three of them—the unmoving picture of she and Lupin, she and Harry, and she and all her friends on the last day of school are propped on the mantle above the fireplace. Halfway through unpacking her clothes, she hears the portrait hole creak open again and exits the back room with her arms full of books, her heart leaping at the sight of Dumbledore brushing his robes off casually.

"Professor Dumbledore," Darcy says quickly, putting the books on the shelf without bothering to sort them, and she blushes fiercely as his bright blue eyes are drawn to the pictures on the mantle.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he smiles, looking back into her face. "I just wanted a quick word before the school year official begins. Is this a bad time?"

"No," Darcy answers, and Dumbledore takes a few steps closer, seating himself on the sofa. He sits up straight and motions for her to follow his lead. Darcy sits beside him, putting some distance between them.

"I hope you're satisfied with your living arrangements?"

"Very much," Darcy sighs happily, looking around her again. "Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore looks at her for a long time, his gaze making her feel small, a very familiar look. She keeps her mouth shut, unsure of what he's going to say—so many things rush through her head—Snape, Lupin, the Quidditch World Cup. "I was very sorry to hear about Miss Duncan's mother," he finally says quietly and Darcy feels her stomach knot. "I have to admit that the presence of the Dark Mark at the World Cup has unsettled me."

Darcy, thinking of Harry's dream, decides to say nothing. Harry had been so adamant about not telling Dumbledore his scar hurt, but what if he had just said something? However, the idea of confessing to Dumbledore that she had known something would possibly happen makes her ill—surely Dumbledore would blame her, would know it was her fault, would think her a coward.

"I have not come to chastise you, Darcy," Dumbledore tells her quietly, his lips turned upwards. "I know that you have been through a lot in the past few months, and I also know that you have been taken better care of this summer than you have before." At this, he smiles in earnest. "Imagine my surprise when, just a week ago, I received an urgent owl from Arthur Weasley, politely demanding the location of Remus Lupin's own home."

"And you just . . . gave it to him, sir?"

"You had just been through the terrible ordeal at the World Cup and disappeared without letting anyone know where you were going," Dumbledore replies, frowning. "You were missing after the Dark Mark had been sighted for the first time in years. Of course I told Arthur where he could find Remus. Next time, Darcy, at least tell someone where you are going before you just go."

"I didn't mean to run off, sir, I just—I couldn't go back to the Burrow. I couldn't be around all of them. I couldn't." Darcy hesitates, looking up at the photograph of she and Harry. "I've been thinking about mum and dad a lot."

"Naturally." Dumbledore waits for her to continue, but Darcy doesn't say anything further. "I would like to ask something of you . . . a simple request, and nothing more."

"What is it, Professor?"

"Given recent events, I think it necessary for you to be on your guard and stay alert. Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, and . . . as always . . . keep an eye on Harry."

Darcy blinks, sitting up straighter, her hands in her lap. "Gemma . . . my friend . . . thinks there's going to be another war," she says, narrowing her eyes at Dumbledore's lack of reaction. "Remus says it's hard to say. Do you think another war is coming, sir?"

Dumbledore thinks for a moment. Darcy is under the impression that Dumbledore isn't telling her exactly what he thinks when he answers, "I'm afraid Remus is right. It is very hard to say." He sigh and smiles, getting to his feet. Darcy stands with him. "I'll see you at the feast, Darcy. I've taken enough of your time already."

She watches Dumbledore cross the room to the door before one more thing occurs to her that she'd rather ask now, in private. "Professor Dumbledore," she calls out, and he stops, turning around and smiling at her. He waits patiently for her to speak, his hands held behind his back. "Has Professor Snape said anything to you about me?"

He gives her a disappointed look and Darcy blushes again. "You should not have said those things to Professor Snape, Darcy."

"I meant everything that I said," she whispers, anger bubbling inside of her again at the thought of Snape. "I hate him—"

"And yet you are still here, still willing to work with and for him."

"I didn't have a choice, sir."

"Of course you have a choice," Dumbledore says. "You chose to return, and it would be wise not to test Professor Snape's patience while you are here . . . he is not known for it. He has, however, done you a kindness by allowing you to return as his apprentice."

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore leaves her at that, but Darcy only feels worse. It's her own fault for sabotaging her working relationship with Snape (would there ever have been a normal working relationship between them?), but it's Snape's fault in the long run. Snape was the one who ruined everything—who forced her godfather to go back into hiding, living on the run far away from Darcy. Snape was the one who outed Lupin, potentially ruining his life.

It's funny, she thinks, seeing as she's no longer a student, but she's never dreaded a Potions lesson more.