Max arrives at breakfast the following morning, carrying a letter from Emily.

Darcy,

I'm glad you liked it. It took me a long time to write. Dad loved it. Framed it and everything.

I don't think dad's even showered since Mum died. He hasn't gone to work and he's picked up smoking again. We got a decent settlement from Mum, plus what was left in her vault, so I'm not too worried about anything just yet, but if dad doesn't shape up soon, I'm afraid we'll lose the house.

I'll let you know when I can get away from work. I hope all is well at Hogwarts. Give Harry my best.

Love,

Emily

Darcy folds up the letter and sticks it in her pocket. The idea of Emily's father succumbing to a severe depression due to the loss of his wife makes Darcy uneasy, partially because she still feels that it's her fault. Maybe she'd feel better if she could just tell him that, if she could apologize to Mr. Duncan for not being able to save his wife, apologize for not confiding in someone about her suspicions. She wonders if it would give Mr. Duncan some sort of closure, if it would give her closure to finally confess to the secret she's been carrying, to relieve herself of the weight of the world upon her shoulders . . . or, some of it, anyway. Would Mr. Duncan shift the blame onto Darcy, however? That's what Darcy would do—it's far easier to blame someone else who's willing to accept the blame.

Professor Snape is extremely on edge today, snapping at younger students who make simple mistakes, leaving Darcy to clean up after him by murmuring apologies to his students, helping them understand the material and how to fix their mistakes. Snape watches her, scowling, his eyebrows furrowed, black eyes following her closely around the classroom as she speaks in low voices to other students, making them smile and laugh nervously.

By lunchtime, Snape is near unbearable, growling unwarranted retorts at Darcy as she cleans up the classroom, clearly trying to hit her where it hurts. He brings up Sirius with a sneer, entertaining the idea that he might have been captured again ("When was the last time you heard from him?"), and while it stings, Darcy forces herself to ignore it. She knows if Sirius had been captured, it would have been plastered on every cover of the Daily Prophet for weeks. Her silence doesn't deter Snape, however, who finally reaches the subject of Lupin, an arrogant smile forming on his face.

"Indulge me one thing, Darcy," he says, watching her rush around the classroom from his desk. "What is the job market like for a werewolf these days?"

"What does it matter to you?" Darcy asks quickly, trying to control her temper, keeping her back to him. "He would still have a job here if you hadn't been feeling so vindictive that day."

"Would he?"

"Of course he would," Darcy answers, rather confident in that answer. She finally turns around to face Snape again, her hands full of leftover ingredients. Glancing at him, she makes her way towards the store cupboard and begins to organize the ingredients into small drawers and boxes inside. "He was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had."

"The bar was certainly not set very high," Snape remarks. "Perhaps your opinion of him is slightly . . . biased?"

"Why are you so hateful?" Darcy snaps suddenly, her anger overwhelming her. All of her hatred for Snape comes back again, and she remembers all of the things they'd said to each other only a few months prior. "He is a good man, and he is good to me . . . unlike you, who wouldn't miss an opportunity to insult me, or any other student whose work you find inadequate."

"A good man?" Snape hisses, and his anger becomes more genuine now, instead of just trying to upset her. "He's a dangerous creature . . . one that attacked and scarred you!"

"You know the circumstances!" Darcy counters, her face bright red. "You know he would never hurt me on purpose, if he could help it! He could have hurt me all those times we were alone, but he never did."

"Of course . . ." Snape replies, his frown deepening. "He may not have hurt you, but he did still think it a good idea to spend time with a student of his behind closed doors—"

"It wasn't like that." Darcy doesn't know why she says it, because she's quite aware it was very much how Snape is imagining it. She lowers her voice, blushing harder, feeling it creep up the back of her neck. "He's sweet to me."

There's thumping outside the classroom door then, and Snape stops talking immediately, getting to his feet and moving to the other side of his desk. Darcy's heart quickens, not due to her anger towards Snape, but because she knows who's making their way down to the dungeon classroom, simply by hearing the clunking footsteps drawing nearer. Darcy hesitates, taking a few steps back towards Snape's desk.

Snape grabs hold of Darcy's arm, pulling her behind him as Mad-Eye Moody enters the classroom without even knocking. She looks around Snape's body, up at his face, which he has quickly rearranged back into a scowl.

"Darcy Potter," Moody says gruffly, lingering in the threshold of the doorway. He takes another step forward, but Darcy stands close to Snape, partially hiding behind him. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time, and I don't think I made a good first impression. Not fond of ferrets, are you?"

Dark wizard catcher or not, there's something about Moody that sends shivers down Darcy's spine. She especially doesn't like that he's come into Snape's classroom, to come find her only to tell her this. She steps up to Snape's side, uncomfortable with the way the magical eye lingers on her, almost as if seeing her completely naked. The entire situation is ominous, foreboding, and Darcy reaches out instinctively to grab at Snape's arm, forgetting momentarily that she hates him with all of her heart. Her fingers only brush against his black cloak, but Professor Snape notices and gives his arm a shake.

"You wanted to meet me?" she asks Moody warily.

"Me and half the country," Moody replies with harsh, barking laughter. He limps towards the desk, closer to herself and Snape, and Darcy forces herself not to hide behind Snape like a helpless child. With both mismatched eyes, he looks her up and down, and Darcy crosses her arms over her chest impulsively, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "Thought you—of all people—would be interested in a more exciting job with a more exciting person."

"I'm happy with where I am," Darcy replies stiffly. "I've had enough excitement in my life."

"I'm sure you have," Moody says, more to himself than to her. His normal eye flicks to Professor Snape, but the magical one stays fixed upon Darcy's face. He doesn't speak again until both eyes are on Darcy again. "You were . . . what? Four? Five, when it happened? You must remember everything."

Darcy doesn't feel much like confiding in Moody the source of her worst nightmares and memory. She gives him the same answer she'd given all the others who had asked about it when first she came to Hogwarts. "No," she says, trying to sound confident about it. "I don't remember anything."

"Nothing, eh?" Another step closer. "You didn't see his face? The Dark Lord's?"

Yes, I looked into Voldemort's terrible face when I was only five-years-old. "No." But even as she says it, Darcy remembers the look of him—pale and snakelike, his gleaming eyes that flashed red before he murdered her mother and tried to murder Harry. "No, I don't remember what his face looked like."

She and Moody look at each other for a long time, and then Snape puts a hand on her shoulder, her scarred shoulder, and pushes her slightly roughly past Moody, who has gotten far too close for comfort. "Darcy, come," he commands, moving quickly towards the partially opened classroom door. "Lunch."

Darcy hesitates for half a heartbeat before obeying without question, taking a few long strides towards the exit and following Snape hurriedly down the corridor towards the Great Hall. She isn't sure if Moody's magical eye can see through walls, but Darcy feels like he's still watching them. Any faster, and both she and Snape would be running, but they don't slow down until natural light begins to filter in from stained glass windows. Darcy tries to appear relatively unbothered, but Darcy notices Snape's eyes finding her every couple of seconds, looking wary.

"You really don't remember anything from that night?" he asks her, no longer angry, but mildly curious.

"Of course I remember," Darcy hisses, looking back up into his black eyes. "You think I don't think about it all the time? You think that I don't dream of it? You think I've forgotten what Voldemort looks like? Or the look on my mother's face as she died?" She's pleased that Snape is the first one to look away. "Could you ever forget something like that?"

Finally, he turns his head again to meet her gaze, and she knows that Professor Snape isn't going to press the issue any further. But Darcy isn't being entirely truthful with him. She had forgotten for a few years. Or, maybe not forgotten, but hidden away, tucking the memory in a place where she couldn't see it any longer.

Truthfully, it had all begun at Privet Drive with Aunt Petunia. Darcy, only a young and traumatized little girl, had complained of nightmares, complained of a scary man in her dreams and seeing her mother collapsing after a flash of green light. She had begged to see a doctor, or someone who could stop them from coming every night. But Aunt Petunia had only ever gone white as a ghost and insisted that James and Lily weren't murdered . . . they were simply killed in a car accident.

Darcy had known it was a lie, had known she was remembering something important, but Aunt Petunia's unflinching confidence in her story had given Darcy horrible doubts over the months that followed. You're not remembering right, Aunt Petunia had said. That's not what happened, stupid girl. And Darcy had repeated Aunt Petunia's story to herself over and over again, had repeated it to Harry when he was just a little boy. And eventually, she believed it.

Upon coming to Hogwarts, she had denied and denied the whispers and insistence that Voldemort had killed James and Lily. I don't remember. I was too little, and I only made something up because I couldn't remember, she would tell herself. They weren't there when my parents died . . . how could they know better than me?

And even after she had remembered the truth, she had persisted in her lie to Harry, afraid that Vernon would beat her senseless if she revealed their lie. When Hagrid had tracked them to that small island cabin on Harry's eleventh birthday, Harry had been heartbroken by the fact Darcy had lied to him. Yet Aunt Petunia had surprisingly taken the blame, telling Harry the truth before Darcy could defend herself, insisting that she had forced Darcy to repeat the story. And for months after that, Darcy had tried to convince herself that Hagrid was just lying, that Aunt Petunia was telling the truth, that those kids at school were just making fun of her.

As a teenager, it was easier to just push the true memories aside. Darcy had found loving friends to distract her, had filled her schedule with classes she enjoyed, had learned to love the feeling of being drunk—she loved the burn of alcohol down her gullet and into her belly, the numbing powers it contained. Darcy had been introduced to Madam Pomfrey's wonderful Sleeping Draughts that gave her dreamless and peaceful sleep, she smoked cigarettes after curfew while laughing and splashing in the lake, discovered her budding sexuality, and those things had temporarily filled the gaping hole in her heart left by the loss of her parents.

What she wouldn't give to believe her parents had died in a car accident again. To not dream of the real thing so many nights in a row . . . to be able to sleep through every night without waking in a cold sweat, trembling and breathless and alone.

"Why would he ask me that?" Darcy whispers, her arms wrapped around herself, as if Moody is still listening in on them.

"He won't ask again."

Darcy looks up at Snape quickly and nods. "Thank you."

Instead of eating lunch at Professor Snape's side, having to suffer through Moody's staring, Darcy convinces Carla to eat with her in the courtyard after causing quite the scene at the Hufflepuff table. Darcy is then able to relay the interaction between she and Moody, and Carla listens carefully with her eyebrows knitted together.

"That's really weird," Carla agrees. "But he's a weird bloke, isn't he?"

"He came all the way down to Professor Snape's classroom to ask if I remembered what Voldemort looked like," Darcy continues, ignoring Carla's shudder at the sound of the name. "As if I'd tell him anything after seeing him torture Malfoy the way he did!"

"Darcy, look at him," Carla implores. "He's seriously deranged after years of hunting Dark wizards." She shoves her fork into her mouth, chewing slowly, watching Darcy narrow her eyes. Swallowing, Carla continues with a small smile. "My dad says that Mad-Eye Moody is known for seeing danger everywhere he goes. He doesn't even drink from anything except his own personal flask. He thinks people are out to get him. Off his rocker, if you ask me."

"Then why did Dumbledore hire him?" Darcy asks. "So far, he's scared nearly every student in this school, turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret and nearly killed him, and now he's just walking up to me and asking whatever questions he wants with no regard to me feelings at all?"

Carla chuckles, shrugging her shoulders, at a loss. "I think Snape might be right. There probably weren't a lot of people queuing up for the job. I mean . . . think about it," she says. "How many teachers have we been through now? And considering the fact that Quirrell died—"

"—he deserved it, he had Voldemort on the back of his head—"

"—Lockhart doesn't have a clue who he is anymore—"

"—also deserved it for trying to wipe out memories—"

"—and Lupin was outed as a werewolf. With a track record like that, not many people are bound to be jumping for the job, are they?"

Darcy can't really think of a counter-argument to that. "I guess you're right. But that doesn't change the fact that I think Moody is out of his goddamn mind."

"At least you don't have to attend his classes."

"Right. I'm only stuck with Professor Snape all day," Darcy replies coldly.

After lunch, Darcy returns to the chilly dungeons, eager to see Harry. It's rather a surprise to find that he, Hermione, and Ron are the first ones to the classroom. Harry grabs hold of Darcy's sleeve, jerking her away from Professor Snape and looking at her very seriously. "Remember . . . you promised to keep him in line."

Darcy laughs airily. "Did I?"

But Snape doesn't pay Harry too much attention at all. He introduces Darcy in a bored tone just like he had in the beginning of the other classes, but this time Darcy receives a hearty welcome from the Gryffindors—Neville Longbottom in particular looks ecstatic to have her in the room with them, a student who has never excelled in Potions (and, according to Hermione, is typically the unwilling victim on the brunt end of Snape's anger). The Slytherins that take the class with them—including one Draco Malfoy—are not so enthusiastic, sneering at her. Darcy frowns, wondering how Slytherin House could produce such wonderful people such as Gemma, while at the same time, so many terrible ones.

Professor Snape silences the warm applause with a single raised hand and moves on quickly, giving the directions on how best to properly brew the day's Potion and setting them to work.

Neville is, as Hermione had warned her, almost a disaster. Darcy feels so sorry for him when he melts his cauldron, and Darcy rushes over to him as his cheeks turn bright pink. She helps him clean up, provides him with a spare cauldron, and offers him a smile. She can feel Professor Snape's eyes on the back of her head and whispers to Neville, "If you need help, just ask me. I don't know that Professor Snape will ignore it if you melt another cauldron."

His cheeks turn pinker and Darcy exhales softly, not having meant to embarrass him. She pats his shoulder and looks across the table at Hermione, sharing a knowing look with her.

"Hey, Potter!" someone hisses. "Or is it Professor now?"

Darcy turns to find Draco Malfoy smiling innocently up at her from his seat across the room. Even while whispering, Malfoy's voice carries loftily, and Darcy raises an eyebrow. "You can just call me Darcy," she says coolly, moving closer to him. "What do you want?"

"Is it true?" he asks again, his face lighting up with a gleeful smile.

Darcy looks over her shoulder at Harry, wondering if he knows what Malfoy's going on about. But Harry only shrugs, only half-hearing the conversation. "Is what true?" Darcy answers.

Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson exchange sideways looks. "You and the werewolf?" Pansy hisses, giggling behind her hands.

Darcy's entire face floods with color as nearly everyone stops what they're doing. Harry, Ron, and Hermione make a noble attempt at ignoring the conversation, but Darcy knows all of the students are listening carefully, only acting very interested in their cauldrons and fingernails and the blackboard. Neville melts his second cauldron, looking at Darcy with a very desperate, strained, and humiliated expression.

Hurrying to help Neville clean up his mess again, Darcy replies, "I don't think that's any of your business." She lifts her eyes to find Hermione nodding encouragingly, as if that was the right thing to say. "Where did you hear that, anyway?"

"My father had it from Rita Skeeter herself," Malfoy chortles, and all of his friends laugh with him. Darcy scowls at the mention of her name, keeping herself from turning around to face him. She continues to assist Neville as Professor Snape begins to skulk about the classroom, towards Darcy. "I have to be honest, Darcy . . . I didn't really think you'd end up marrying into a good family, but I expected you to do better than a werewolf."

"Ignore him," Neville squeaks into her ear, making her jump. Darcy doesn't look at him, overwhelmed with embarrassment. "Professor Lupin was kind to me."

This makes Darcy smile weakly.

"I hope you've at least given the poor fellow some money to buy new clothes," Malfoy continues, his voice low. "It must be humiliating for you, being seen in public with someone who doesn't even own a shirt that hasn't been patched."

"Stop it," Darcy says quietly, wiping up the last of Neville's spilled potion. She knows that Professor Snape must hear the conversation . . . he must hear it, yet he does nothing, says nothing. "You're being very rude, Draco."

Malfoy only jeers, Pansy laughing harder. "Does kissing him remind you of your daddy, Potter? Is that why—"

"Enough, Draco."

Darcy jumps, not having realized Professor Snape was right behind her. At the sound of his voice, she straightens up and turns around to face him and Malfoy, who has quieted abruptly. Snape walks away as if he's said nothing, and Darcy finds she can only look at Harry. He looks apologetic enough, returning to his cauldron. The rest of the classroom is quiet, except for some whispering here and there, and the quiet, hushed laughter of Malfoy and Pansy.

When Neville melts his sixth cauldron, Darcy only apologizes under her breath after Snape gives him detention.

"That little prick—he should be a lot nicer to you, after you tried to stop Moody killing him and all—" Ron pauses, lost in thought as Darcy closes the door of her apartment behind him. "Merlin, I hope I never forget that. One of the best moments of my life. That and when Hermione hit him last year . . . remember?" He looks to Harry with a brilliant smile. "Just give him detention, Darcy, and get it over with."

"If I try to give him one and don't actually have the authority, I'm going to look like a proper fool."

Ron flops onto her sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table. He closes his eyes and laces his fingers together behind his head. "Don't listen to him. You know, I heard dad talking about Lupin the other day—"

"Your father showed up to his house unannounced while I was staying there," Darcy shoots back, and Ron laughs. "After the Quidditch World Cup."

"He didn't tell us that!" Ron answers, sitting up on the sofa and making room for both Harry and Darcy. "Why'd he do that?"

"Trying to bring me back to your place," Darcy says sheepishly, looking at Harry for a split second and blushing furiously. She decides not to tell them that Mr. Weasley had chastised her in his modest office at the Ministry about Lupin, not wanting to embarrass herself any further today.

"Why didn't he?" Harry asks finally. "We were really worried about you when you didn't come back."

"Come on, Harry," Darcy answers, waving a flippant hand at him across Ron. "You should have known that I would be safe with Remus."

"I know—I'm not—I'm just—" Harry clears his throat, defensive, trying to avoid looking Ron in the eye. "I'm just not used to you being off with . . . you know . . ."

"You shouldn't have to worry about me," Darcy says again with a small smile. "Especially when I'm with Remus."

The three of them are quiet for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the fire. Then Harry turns back towards his sister, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. "How's Emily? Is she all right?" he asks gently.

"She's worried about her dad." Darcy digs around in her pocket and withdraws the letter from Emily, unfolding it and passing it to Harry. Ron reads it over his shoulder and Darcy stands up, moving to the bookshelf beside the fireplace, picking up the torn obituary and giving it to Harry after he's finished with the letter. "I should go and see her, shouldn't I? I went to the funeral, but I didn't talk to her much."

"Maybe she's all right with a little space," Harry suggests. "She and her dad will get through it together."

Darcy nods in approval, but decides that she'll ask Lupin for his opinion when she sees him again.

The rest of the week goes relatively smoothly. Snape gives a sixth year Ravenclaw girl a detention after she illustrates a crude drawing of Darcy that happens to fall into his hands. Darcy continues to avoid Moody as much as possible, and all the while, talk of the Triwizard Tournament fills the corridors between classes and during meal times, even the topic of hushed conversations during classes. It isn't until Thursday night, around eleven-thirty, that something exciting happens.

Darcy is just making to leave her room, to go wander around the castle corridors (something that is still exciting to her, not having a curfew), unsure of how to spend her free time now that she doesn't have homework to fret over, when someone hisses her name just outside the entrance and something physically forces her back over the threshold. As the portrait hole swings back shut, Harry tears off the Invisibility Cloak and brandishes a piece of parchment in his hand.

"Harry," Darcy says breathlessly, her heart beginning to race. Harry leaps to the sofa and urges her to follow him. "What's wrong? Who's that from? What's happened?"

"It's Sirius," Harry replies, and Darcy's heart sinks. Her face must have betrayed her fear, for Harry adds quickly, "No, it's—he's not—he's okay! Look."

He shoves the parchment into Darcy's hands and she murmurs it to herself, skimming it over. "'I'm flying north immediately' . . . 'Dumbledore's got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he's reading the signs' . . . But he mustn't! He'll get caught!" She jumps to her feet, still clutching Sirius' letter in her fist, pacing in front of the embers left in the hearth. "He can't come back. I'll tell him. I'll have Remus tell him . . . he can't come back!"

But if Darcy's being honest, part of her is excited by this news, even thrilled. The chance to see Sirius again makes her stomach churn . . . she wants to tell him everything that's happened, to tell him everything that's bothering her, to get everything off her chest. Had he heard about the World Cup? Had he heard about the death of Emily's mother?

Darcy suddenly craves his presence, needing to talk to him, needing to see him, just to make sure she hadn't dreamt all that had happened in the Shrieking Shack last June. But on the other hand, the other part of her is fearful. Coming back north will mean possibly being carted back to Azkaban, killed, or worse—subjected to the Dementors Kiss. Darcy shudders terribly, giving the letter back to Harry.

"I shouldn't have told him," Harry says suddenly, running his hand through his dark hair and messing it up. Darcy looks endearingly at him, at the hair that sticks up at the back no matter what. "He thinks I'm in trouble."

But the part Darcy focuses on the most is Sirius' vague and ominous observation about Dumbledore and Mad-Eye. So I was right . . . Dumbledore suspects trouble. She remembers what Dumbledore had told her about the green skull in the sign being spotted, about how it had troubled him. She needs to have this conversation with Sirius, to get his take on things. What signs? Darcy wonders. Does Sirius think there's a war coming? Is that what the Dark Mark meant? That, combined with the sudden appearance of Death Eaters and Harry's strange dream that had caused his scar to hurt unsettles her.

"No," Darcy hums, staring into the fire, her mind racing. She thinks hard, tucking her hair behind her ears. "It's a good thing you told Sirius." She spins around to face Harry. "Do you think Voldemort is getting stronger?"

The idea doesn't frighten her as much as she thought it might. Maybe it's because she's with Harry—Harry, from whom she'd always drawn her courage. She isn't sure, but she knows that Voldemort gaining strength is something that should frighten her much more than Mad-Eye Moody and much more than the looming prospect of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Do you think Sirius and Dumbledore think Voldemort is growing stronger?" she continues, and Harry looks thoughtful, but slightly frustrated. They both ignore Ron's protest against the name. "What signs do you think they're reading that no one else is?"

"The Dark Mark, for one. It was Voldemort's sign, wasn't it?"

Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw. "When I first arrived, Professor Dumbledore came to see me," she explains. "He told me to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary . . . and to keep an eye on you."

"Me?" Harry repeats, slightly affronted. "If Voldemort is growing stronger . . . I mean, it's not like Voldemort could storm the castle while Dumbledore's here, right?"

Darcy hesitates. "No," she says. "I suppose not." Still deep in thought, Darcy checks her watch. "You should get back to your common room. It's getting late."

Harry groans, getting to his feet and wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around him, leaving his head to float in midair. Darcy frowns. "You have to tell him not to come," Harry pleads. "I'm writing him tomorrow. You have to tell him."

But Darcy says nothing, only purses her lips together in a very Aunt Petunia-like fashion. As Harry's eyes rove over her face, she looks away from him, but too late.

"You miss him, I know. I do, too," Harry says. "But you know what could happen if he comes around again."

"I know," she snaps. Tears spring to her eyes as she remembers their meeting back in June. She remembers crossing the Shrieking Shack to fall into his chest, remembers begging him to take her with him as Sirius soared away on Buckbeak. He didn't even look back. "It's not fair! I thought he'd be around for good this time."

Neither of them speak for a few moments as Darcy wipes at the tears that trail down her cheeks.

"I miss mum and dad."

"Me too." Harry pauses, taking a few steps towards the door. "You remind me of mum sometimes."

"Thanks, Harry." She watches him turn the doorknob. "I love you."

Harry gives an exasperated sigh and turns around to face his sister once more. "You get one 'I love you' for the year. Are you positive you want to use it now?"

Darcy laughs. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Harry pulls the Invisibility Cloak back over his head. As the door swings open, his disembodied voice floats over the threshold, filling her ears and making her heart swell with love. "Love you, too." The door is almost closed when it opens quickly again, and Darcy stares at a spot where she thinks Harry's head likely is. "Oh, and by the way . . . Hermione's probably going to track you down tomorrow and ask you to join—well— I suppose she'll tell you all about it. Just be prepared, all right?"

And with that cryptic warning, Harry leaves, closing the portrait behind him.

Darcy wakes the next morning groggy and irritable and overtired, snapping at Professor Snape throughout breakfast and hiding behind her newspaper. She had flirted with the idea of writing to Sirius, if only to appease Harry, but the thought of seeing him again, even if only for a moment, beats out her desire to write an angry letter, chiding him and telling him to stay far, far away from them. Aware that it's risky and reckless and extremely dangerous, Darcy also knows that a letter from her probably won't even change Sirius' mind about coming north.

To Darcy's surprise, Hermione does track Darcy down at lunch, a box in her hands that rattles with each step. Hermione walks right up to the staff table as soon as the food appears in front of them all. Smiling, Hermione places the unremarkable box down on the table before her.

"What's this?" Darcy asks, slowly lowering her fork.

"S.P.E.W.," Hermione says brightly, her chest puffed out.

Darcy cocks an eyebrow. "Spew?"

Hermione grumbles something under her breath. "You are just like Harry sometimes, do you know that?"

Darcy grins, stuffing a forkful of food in her mouth.

"It's not spew, it's S.P.E.W. It stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"Hermione, what are you doing? What is this? Are you taking the piss?"

Even Professor Snape glances at Hermione, not even slightly amused. Hermione ignores him. "The house-elves here and enslaved all around the world deserve fair wages and fair working conditions!" Hermione says shrilly.

Professor Snape clears his throat, waving a lazy hand at Hermione. "Miss Granger—"

Darcy glares at him. "Let her speak." When she looks back at Hermione, there's still a defiant look on her face, but it's clear Snape has made her a bit more reluctant to go on. "Go ahead, Hermione. What is it you want from me?"

"Two Sickels to join, and you get a badge," Hermione says with a little less enthusiasm, shaking the box of badges. "The money will help fund leaflets."

Darcy sighs, swallowing her food. She puts her fork down and rummages in her pocket, pulling out a few Sickels and putting them on the table in front of Hermione. "Go on, then. One for me, and I'll pay for one for Remus, as well."

Hermione's eyes brighten and it makes Darcy smile. Grabbing two badges from the box to give to Darcy, Hermione holds them out. Snape watches the exchange with a mocking expression. Darcy accepts the badges without complaint, but before Hermione leaves, she says, "Wait, Hermione."

Turning on her heels, Hermione waits.

"Give me another one." Darcy pulls out two more Sickels and Hermione gives her one more badge and a confused look. Darcy holds up the badge for Professor Snape, but he only scowls at her. Resigned to the fact that he's not going to take it, Darcy takes matters into her own hands, fastening the S.P.E.W. badge onto the front of his robes. Past Snape, Dumbledore chuckles while watching on, his blue eyes twinkling. "Looks good. Thanks, Hermione."

As soon as Hermione starts back down the aisle towards Gryffindor table, Professor Snape tears the badge off. "Don't you dare make a fool of me, Darcy."

"Fine, don't wear the badge, but I paid your two Sickel entry fee, so you're a member whether you like it or not."

Ron howls with laughter when Hermione tells him and Harry about it outside of Darcy's chambers that evening, before returning to Gryffindor Tower to freshen up before dinner. Even Hermione smiles sheepishly, and Darcy blushes.

Darcy and Hagrid share dinner in her own room (Hagrid provides his own chair). He talks mostly about the tournament, asking Darcy about classes and making sure Professor Snape is treating her all right. Thankfully, Hagrid doesn't bring up Lupin or the Quidditch World Cup—the two things that Darcy was sure he'd want to discuss with her.

Heart and stomach full, Darcy waits for Hagrid to reach his hut before deciding to make the long trek down to Hogsmeade, where she'll finally be able to Disapparate and finally arrive at Lupin's. When the lights come on in Hagrid's hut, just barely visible through her bedroom window, Darcy throws a jacket on and a bag over her shoulder, stuffed with a few pairs of clothes and Lupin's brand new S.P.E.W. badge. Without meeting anyone on the way through the castle, Darcy heads out the front doors, making her way to Hogsmeade.

She intends to Disapparate as soon as she gets there, but the shops seemingly call to her. She only visits one, however, buying a bottle of red wine and tucking it into her bag. Placing a firm hand upon it, not wanting to lost it, and within moments—extended, compressed, and uncomfortable moments though they are—Darcy is greeted with a beautiful sight.

The overgrown weeds and grass surround the cottage, tickling Darcy's fingers and legs. Lights are on inside, smoke billowing from the chimney. The television is on, judging by the reflection on the windows. The sound of her arrival seems to have alerted Lupin to something, because she sees him look out of one of the windows, unable to see her in the darkness.

Feeling fully at home for the first time in a week, Darcy lopes to the front door, her knees weak and her heart considerably light, knowing that Lupin is inside waiting for her.