Darcy wakes early the next morning alone. She rolls over in Emily's bed to find her gone, along with a lot of the papers that had been stacked on her writing desk. Sighing, Darcy lays back on the pillow, closing her eyes again to block the bright sunshine filtering through the windows.

Emily had cried all through the night, cried into Darcy's shoulder as she held her. Darcy hadn't spoken, only laid there until her arms felt dead and asleep from Emily's weight pressed against them.

For years they had laid in that same position, but instead of Emily crying, it had been Darcy, and it had been Emily who held her, typically after a nightmare or something that triggered some horrific memory of hers. Emily had always let Darcy cry to her heart's content, had never complained of falling asleep with Darcy wrapped in her skinny little arms, and last night, it had been Darcy's turn. But she'd never realized how hard it was.

Why hadn't Emily ever told her how taxing it was to listen and watch her best friend cry herself to sleep? Darcy had been overcome with grief herself at the sound of Emily's desperate sobs, wanting nothing more than to have arms wrapped around her, as well.

Darcy wanders the house while Mr. Duncan sleeps, his bedroom door shut at the end of the hall, and likely locked for good measure. The entire house is silent, but Darcy has learned in the last few years how to move about silently, instinctively walking on her toes while she climbs down the stairs and into the kitchen. She moves to the sink, filling it with soap and water to wash the dishes from last night's dinner. Through the window above the sink, she catches sight of an owl fluttering around outside, by the shed where she'd once led Max. Turning the water off, she leaves the dishes to soak and walks automatically out through the sliding glass door that leads to their fenced-in backyard, but she isn't prepared in the slightest for what she finds inside.

All of Emily's canvases, blank and covered with paint, have been moved from her bedroom to the shed. Photographs of Mrs. Duncan—both still and moving ones—adorn one canvas, clipped and taped and glued as references, where Emily seems to have sketched an outline of her mother with charcoal, lacking any color. While the sketch might be unrecognizable to an outsider, Darcy can place Mrs. Duncan's high cheekbones and pointed chin easily enough, the solemn look in her eyes that might fool someone into believing she was anything less than charismatic.

Another canvas is splattered with every color of the rainbow and some in between, as if Emily had done it in a rage. The image makes Darcy sad, and she tries not to picture Emily alone in here, painting with little light and the persistent smell of owl droppings.

Darcy spies pictures of herself with Emily hanging on a clothesline, pictures of Emily and Carla and Gemma, drawing and doodles on spare parchment that Emily had done in particularly boring classes. Darcy looks through all the pictures hanging in the shed, admires the paintings that look completed. There are still empty paint cans and tubes on the ground, pallets with dried paint all mixed together, paint brushes of all sizes stuck in old cans full of murky water. She spends almost an hour inside until she can handle the silence no longer.

The smell of cooking breakfast brings Mr. Duncan down into the kitchen. This time, he doesn't hesitate in the door frame, but approaches Darcy's side at the stove. His hair is wet and pushed back out of his cleanly shaven face. "Would you like some help?" he asks her, almost sounding half-guilty.

"No, thank you." Darcy smiles, not looking up from the eggs frying in the pan. "I've got it."

"Where's Emily?"

"Gone. She was gone when I woke up."

Mr. Duncan hums his answer, watching Darcy stir the eggs around, eyeing the bacon on a plate nearby. "She works a lot. My Emily, she . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence, and Darcy decides not to press him for an answer.

When Darcy retrieves two plates for them, Mr. Duncan fills his own with as much food as he can. They sit together at the kitchen table, eating in silence for a long while. And then Mr. Duncan lowers his fork, sighing heavily. "Is it all right?" she asks, frowning.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Darcy doesn't know how to answer, afraid of what he'll say if she answers truthfully. I'm in love with Remus, aren't I? Then why don't the words come easily to her lips? She only opens and closes her mouth like a fish gasping for water, looking foolish and childish and caught off guard.

"No . . . you're only a child . . ." He sits back in his chair, studying her. It's an odd sight to see Mr. Duncan looking so serious. "But you have lost people that you loved. Do you remember any of it? Or do you only remember what came after? The pain, I mean . . . the grief."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Er . . ." she says, flushing, trying to keep her tears at bay. "I had only just turned five. I don't remember very much of it." But even now, sitting at Mr. Duncan's kitchen table, it's hard not to remember the flash of green light that preceded her mother's untimely and unfair death. But she feels guilty for lying to him, especially after the death of his wife, so she shakes her head. "No . . . I'm sorry. People have asked me so much and so often, and I—I do remember. I remember it. The pain most of all. I miss my mother and father very much." The words feel forced—of course she misses her parents, but talking so openly about them with Mr. Duncan feels foreign and awkward.

He holds his hands on the table. "I loved Beth." There's a heavy silence that falls over them. Darcy wants so desperately to stand up and walk away, to leave the conversation, but she feel frozen in her seat. Mr. Duncan has always been so cheerful, always wide-eyed and smiling and joking and laughing. "I knew that she was different when I met her, but I never imagined she . . . twenty-one years I spent with her, and I'll never get another one. Can you imagine that?"

Darcy's eyes sting with tears. She looks away, feeling suddenly ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Duncan," she croaks. "No, I suppose I can't imagine that."

"Darcy," Mr. Duncan says, rubbing his face with his palms. Darcy's eyes flick back to him at the sound of her name. When he looks back at her, his face seems to have hardened. Darcy's doesn't falter, nor does she take her eyes off him, wishing she hadn't ever come here and hating herself for coming alone. "What you wanted to say to me last night . . . did it have anything to do with Beth?"

Darcy can't see any way out of this conversation this time. She can only look at Mr. Duncan with tears in her eyes, the familiar feeling of guilt creeping up on her, taking her by surprise. "Yes."

Mr. Duncan nods, running a hand through his damp hair exasperatedly. He clears his throat. "Darcy, I do not know very much about you. I know that you are Emily's best friend, and that you are kind and lonely and loving. And I know that your brother is very famous in your world, and I know—for the most part—why he is." He watches Darcy carefully as she wipes her tears away, looking down at her plate. "When Emily told us that you would be visiting for the first time, my Beth was very surprised. She told me about what had happened to you and your brother all those years ago. She made Emily promise that she hadn't been pestering you for details or asking questions. And she hadn't, had she?"

"No," is all Darcy can say.

"That man who brought Emily home that night—"

"Mr. Weasley."

He nods again. "Mr. Weasley," he repeats softly. "He told me that the people who killed my—" He stops again, rubbing his face. "They were Voldemort's supporters."

Darcy is quiet, the tears still coming, not wanting to sit and listen to Mr. Duncan add things up—not wanting him to come to the conclusion that it's her fault on his own, for surely that's the only reasonable explanation for what happened to his beloved wife.

"Thirteen years he had been gone, Mr. Weasley said," Mr. Duncan continues. "And all of a sudden, they're back, and my Beth is dead, and—" He leans forward, and Darcy feels an overwhelming sense of dread. She'll have to tell him now, everything. "What do you know about this, Darcy?"

It's much harder to say the words than Darcy had thought. She wipes her tears again, wanting to curl up in bed, to sleep forever, maybe with someone beside her to hold her hand.

"Sweetheart," Mr. Duncan urges her. "What do you know about this?"

It suddenly seems very odd that Mr. Duncan doesn't know much about what happened. Darcy had confided in Emily the contents of Harry's dream, and she feels a great rush of affection towards her for having kept the secret. "Harry had a dream," she whispers, her voice trembling. "A dream about Voldemort, and when he woke up, his scar was hurting."

Mr. Duncan doesn't look to understand her at all. Darcy feels it would take a lot of explaining to make Mr. Duncan understand, but she persists.

"He dreamt that Voldemort was talking about killing him," Darcy continues, feeling embarrassed talking about Voldemort with a Muggle. "And Harry woke and thought he remembered something about Quidditch, but . . . and when his scar hurt, I was thinking . . . well, I thought that maybe . . ." She begins to cry harder, remembering the look on Mrs. Duncan's unmoving and cold face when she had found Emily after the Death Eaters finally retreated. "Emily wanted to tell someone, but I was afraid . . . I didn't want people to wonder about Harry, and I thought . . . I thought it might have been just a dream, and I'm so sorry, Mr. Duncan, I am so, so sorry, I—"

She attempts to calm herself down while Mr. Duncan digests this nonsense, and she knows what conclusion he's coming to before he even opens his mouth to speak. Mr. Duncan watches her sob, eyes never leaving her face for a second. He holds his clasped hands to his mouth, his face stony, not a tear in sight. And finally he stands, putting his hands on his hips and sighing heavily.

"Darcy, I appreciate all you have done here for us," he tells her, looking down at his shoes. "But this is something Emily and I need to handle with alone . . . as a family. Perhaps it would be best if you . . . left."

Darcy barely registers what he's saying for a moment. She opens her mouth to protest, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if she can at least stay until Emily comes home, but no words come out. She flushes, getting to her feet with what dignity remains her. She walks back towards the staircase, her long legs carrying her three stairs at a time until she reaches the landing, where she runs into Emily's room and throws her things together.

Without saying anything further to Mr. Duncan, Darcy leaves the house, walking down the quiet street just for something to do. Humiliated and feeling shamed, Darcy's chest heaves and her heart races, and she finds a bare spot of curb to sit down upon, clutching her chest. She sobs openly in the street, holding her face in her hands and letting out a muffled scream. It's only when her tears finally begin to slow and her throat is sore from crying that she stands up, feeling prepared to Disapparate.

When she does, it's a quick thing, and when her feet hit solid ground again, she takes care to check her fingers for any signs of minute splinching, and then she makes sure both of her ears are still attached and there's no bleeding from anywhere. When she's sure she's all right, she takes a look around.

The first thing she notices is that she's exactly where she'd wanted to be. There's no tendrils of curling smoke coming from the chimney, but the very sight of the ramshackle cottage is familiar and comforting and warm. For a brief second, Darcy fears that he isn't home, but then she sees a shadow moving through the window, a silhouette she recognizes well.

When she knocks, Lupin receives her without question.

Ten minutes later, with a steaming mug of hot cocoa clutched between her hands and a warm fire blazing in the hearth, and after having given him a hundred tearful kisses, Darcy tells Lupin about her short visit to Emily's recalling the exact words Mr. Duncan had spoken to her—how he had made her loss seem so insignificant, how he had hurt her with his talk of suffering as if she knew nothing of it, how he had humiliated her by asking her to leave after she'd cleaned their home, cooked them meals, came by to check on them.

"He's struggling to cope with his wife's recent murder," Lupin replies after she finishes, his voice low and apologetic. He kisses her forehead. "People go mad with grief, and they will say or do anything to help ease the pain. Surely you know the feeling of shifting blame onto other people in order to lessen the suffering?"

Darcy frowns, wishing he hadn't asked her that. "I was only a child," she croaks. "I wasn't allowed to grieve. That was different, and yet I still cared for Harry. They aren't doing anything to help each other."

"Not everyone grieves the same, and not everyone is like you," Lupin answers. "If space is what they need, then you should allow them that privilege to grieve alone."

She looks at him, studying his face for a long time. Darcy knows now why Lupin had been so afraid of losing her—Darcy can't imagine the pain that would come with losing him the way Mr. Duncan lost his wife. "He blames me for her death."

"Because you blame yourself," Lupin sighs. "It's far easier to shift the blame onto someone who is willing to accept it." He pauses, searching her face for an answer to his next question before he even asks it. "You don't truly believe it was your fault, do you? How could you possibly think that?"

But Darcy says nothing, and Lupin takes that for an answer.

"None of it was your fault, I told you that," he says. "They didn't storm the camp because you were there, or because Harry was there—I don't know that any of them even realized the two of you were present. If you had told someone what you suspected, they would have laughed in your face if you told them it was from a dream that Harry had." There's another long pause. "Sometimes terrible things just happen, and there is no one to blame but the terrible people behind the acts."

"I'm afraid," she confesses, setting her mug down on the coffee table. "I'm afraid of being without you. Sometimes I feel that you're my only true friend . . . no one else understands me the way you do. They all think I'm mad."

"Perhaps that's not such a bad thing," Lupin shrugs casually. He looks flattered, even pleased. "Perhaps it's a good thing your friends don't understand what you've been through." But these words don't entirely reassure Darcy, so he tries again. "No one thinks you're mad, especially not your friends. They're only worried about you."

Darcy looks away from him, towards the fire. "Let's run away together," she suggests sadly, taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers together. "Go somewhere where no one would ever bother us again. We'd never have to worry about anything."

"It's a very tempting offer, my love."

"We could go to another country. Change our names."

"If that's what you want."

Darcy brushes her thumb over his knuckles. "It's lonely at Hogwarts," she tells him, pulling her knees to her chest and releasing his hand. "It's hard to sleep at night, and when I wake up from a nightmare, I'm always alone. Sometimes I reach out for you, hoping you'll be there beside me."

Lupin smiles weakly, his cheeks turning faintly pink. It's endearing, Darcy thinks, and it melts her heart. "I have to confess," he answers sheepishly, "that I've come to appreciate the appeal of having someone to sleep next to. It's lonely without you here."

She wonders what would really happen if she left Hogwarts for this. What could anyone really do about it? Professor Dumbledore would likely be disappointed in her—if anything, disappointed in her inability to finish out a commitment. Professor Snape would likely rejoice to finally be rid of her—a thorn in his side, he's called her before, and the bane of his existence. She knows the general response would be disappointment, especially upon finding out what Darcy would be leaving Hogwarts for, to spend the rest of her years waking up beside her father's old friend, to spend the rest of her years fucking him and loving him and holding him and kissing him.

But really, the only person's opinion that would truly matter to her would be Harry's. And Harry, fourteen-years-old and sweet and kind and full of love, would likely tell her to go, that he'll be fine, that she should do what she wants to do. But if she were to stay with Lupin, Darcy can't shake the feeling that she'd be abandoning her little brother—the little brother that, as a baby, she had fed when he cried at night, fell asleep curled up in her lap on the sofa sometimes, would wrap his arms around her legs and hide behind them. She knows that trouble follows Harry, and with the stakes so high now . . . to leave him, to potentially abandon him when danger looms so close now, it seems a waste of her life. If something were to happen to Harry, what was it all for? All those sleepless nights as a child and the exhausting days that followed?

"How long do I have you for, my love?" Lupin asks, and Darcy's head clears almost instantly at the sound of his voice. "Or are you returning to Hogwarts now?"

"No," Darcy says, making her decision right away. "A few hours."

"I'll take it." He inches closer to her on the sofa, close enough to kiss her in earnest, hard on the mouth.

Darcy squirms against him and Lupin pulls away. "That's all we are, aren't we? Just lonely people."

"I'm not lonely," Lupin says quietly, brushing back her hair. "Not anymore."

Darcy allows Lupin to kiss her tears away, allows him to lead her back to the bedroom and undress her with gentle hands and tender touches. He murmurs words of comfort and reassurance and praise and love into her skin, makes her laugh and solicits soft moans from her as his lips make their way down her body.

She writhes on the bed, combing her fingers through his hair, his fingers digging deep into her hips to keep her still. His laughter tickles her flesh, his hot breath on the insides of her thighs making her squirm, and his laughter makes butterflies erupt in her stomach and makes her infinitely glad to be with him. The sight of the smile on his face when she cries out for him makes Darcy blush, which only makes him smile wider.

And when they finish—Darcy's legs trembling uncontrollably, her stomach in knots, and feeling as if she could sleep for three days—Lupin settles his cheek against her stomach, closing his eyes and letting her continue to run her fingers through his hair, damp with sweat. His thumbs caress the smooth skin of her hips, and Darcy closes her eyes, as well, nearly lulled to sleep by his touch.

She looks down at him, half of his legs hanging awkwardly off the foot of his bed, his body held in place by her shaky thighs. Darcy can't help but smile, admiring this man between her legs, wishing things could be different—that she could be someone else with no other responsibilities, with a clear future that involves nothing but this.

Lupin presses a kiss to her stomach, shifting slightly. Darcy watches the muscles in his back shift as he moves, and she reaches out without thinking, tracing the scars on his shoulder blades, running her fingertips down his spine as far as she can reach without too much effort. A few months ago, while she was just his student, all she wanted was to be able to touch him freely, and now that she can, Darcy still isn't sure what to do with that knowledge.

"Come back with me," she whispers, bringing her fingers back up his spine to the base of his neck. "I don't want to be lonely anymore."

Lupin looks up at her, propping his chin on her stomach. He smiles, so sweetly. "I can't," he replies. "And I was going to surprise you, but . . . it's so hard keeping things from you, love."

"What is it?"

"Gemma happened to write me a little while ago," he begins, and Darcy frowns. This prompts him to chuckle and he grazes his fingers across her inner thigh, giving her goosebumps. "She explained that she'll be at Hogwarts a few days a week, and to keep a closer eye on me, St Mungo's has allocated some money for her to do so."

"Oh?"

"I'll be at Hogsmeade the week of the full moon," he finishes, kissing just below her breasts. "And the next five full moons after that."

Darcy smiles out of sheer relief. "Really?"

"Really."

She feels suddenly ashamed for thinking Lupin is her only true friend, when Gemma has done nothing but help and support her—and Lupin, as well. Remembering to thank Gemma the next time she sees her, Darcy sighs happily. "I love you, do you know that?"

"I do," he answers, taking her hands in his. "And as much as I think you're mad for saying it, I never tire of hearing you say it at all."