"How could he say that?"

"Pretty easily, it seemed."

"And you haven't heard from Emily? She hasn't written you?"

"You think her dad won't let her?"

"Since when has a man ever been able to tell Emily she couldn't do something? Even her own father?" Carla swallows her mouthful of food, choking a little as it goes down. She takes a sip of the wine Darcy had so generously provided for their dinner, licking her lips. "She'll come round. She always does. They're both sick with grief . . . give them time. You must sympathize with them."

"I do sympathize, but . . ." Darcy sighs, unable to eat anymore, not because she's eaten too much, but her appetite is completely gone. "I also know what grieving wrongly does to someone. I would have gladly welcomed someone to care for me after mum and dad died."

"You were also five-years-old," Carla counters, making Darcy frown. "Emily's mum and dad were together for a long time, and Emily's eighteen now, and . . . and the shock of not having her around after so long . . . and Mr. Duncan is a Muggle, he doesn't understand about You-Know-Who and Harry's scar and everything. It must be especially hard for him."

"Why aren't you backing me up on this?" Darcy asks incredulously, angry that Carla's attempt at making her see sense is working. "You're supposed to tell me that what he did was wrong. You are my friend, aren't you?"

"If you wanted someone to baby you, then you should have asked Harry to come."

Darcy blushes furiously. "I don't need to be babied!" she retorts hotly. "I just wanted to hear that, maybe, what he did was cruel and hurtful!"

"Of course what he did was cruel and hurtful," Carla says, pushing a few dark curls out of her face. She's lost a lot of the baby fat in her cheeks since last year. "It was hurtful and insensitive, but they never asked you to show up at their house, either. You just appeared on the doorstep of people who lost a mother and wife not so long ago and you just expected them to be overjoyed at the very sight of you."

"Emily and I are best friends," Darcy protests. "She would have done the same for me. And if I were her, I would have been happy to see my best friend."

"People grieve in different ways," Carla says, firmly this time. "You had to keep going. With Harry, you didn't have a choice. It's different for them."

There's a heavy pause that weighs over them for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of cutlery, the splash of wine being poured into glasses, the adjusting of their chairs on the hard floor. Then Carla breaks the silence once more, sighing again. "How's Lupin doing? Gemma still using him as her pet project?"

"It's not like that," Darcy answers feebly. She fingers the rim of her wine glass, staring down at the dark red liquid within. "It was very . . ." Darcy scrunches her nose, unable to find a single criticism. "It was very well done, and quite professional."

"Did you expect anything less from Gemma?" Carla asks, and there's rather a wistful look about her.

Darcy merely shrugs, remembering the way Gemma had touched him so easily, without hesitation, as if his skin didn't burn her fingers and send fire shooting through her veins, how she had put her hand up his shirt without warning and without so much as batting an eye. "She touched him a lot."

"Since when has Gemma ever been bashful about putting her hands on a boy?" Carla laughs, her wine glass barely touching her lips when she sees the look on Darcy's face, lowering it quickly. Wine sloshes over the sides and only the table, but Carla doesn't even seem to take notice. "Darcy Potter . . . are you jealous?"

"No!" Darcy snaps, feeling hot all over. "I mean . . . all right, maybe a little! But—but you should have seen the way she was touching him like she'd done it so many times before! And he didn't even seem to care much!"

Carla continues to laugh. "Gemma would never try to steal him from you."

"I know she wouldn't, but . . . Gemma's quite pretty, isn't she? Not just quite pretty . . . very pretty." Darcy groans, running a hand down her bright red face. "How many necks has she broken just walking down the corridors here? Truly, how many?"

"Of course she's pretty, Darcy, but that doesn't mean anything," Carla responds, waving an airy and distracted hand. "As terrible as it is, Gemma's family would disown her if they ever caught wind of something romantic between she and a werewolf. Plus, she's your best friend, and you know that Gemma adheres to the girl code."

"I don't even know what girl code is," Darcy counters, her eyebrows knitting together. "It's made up, anyway."

"All right," Carla leans back in her seat, raising her thick eyebrows to her hairline. "So, remember fourth year? Or . . . your fifth year, I suppose it would have been. And you remember that Emily was going out with Ben, you remember that? Gemma was so in love with him, and I think Ben sort of fancied her, as well, but anyway—"

"Emily only went out with Ben so he'd look over her Ancient Runes work," Darcy interrupts, rolling her eyes. Ben had been a nightmare to spend time with, and had the loudest laugh she's ever known. "She didn't actually like him."

"Right, and Gemma knew that, of course," Carla continues, as if Darcy hadn't interrupted at all. "But she still didn't go after Ben even after they had broken up."

"No offense, Carla," Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair, exasperated. "But I think this is a little different from when we were all fifteen and sixteen."

"Gemma hasn't changed one bit. You know the three of you have only been out of school for a few months."

"Don't you remember what Gemma said about Remus?" Darcy insists, and Carla only smiles at her, sad and small and tired. "She talked about kissing him, and she told me he had a nice ass. I remember that because I thought it was true, as well."

Carla's smile falters, and it's her turn to look exasperated. "Why are you so concerned about Gemma? You know she would never try and steal him from you. No one is, and you know it."

"Even you?"

"Merlin, Darcy," Carla snorts, laughing heartily across from Darcy. "Especially not me."

Darcy can't help but laugh with her, but it's nervous and high-pitched laughter. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asks again, bristling. "Is he truly that repulsive to you? He's so handsome, charming and witty and brilliant—"

"I can appreciate an objectively handsome man, Darcy," Carla teases, scrunching her nose. Out of all of Darcy's friends, she's always thought Carla the most childish—not because of her behavior, but just the expressions she makes, always teasing and always sweet and cute. "Lupin's rather plain-looking, I think."

"Ouch," Darcy scoffs, and Carla throws one of her sprouts across the table, hitting Darcy in the cheek. "That's cruel. I don't think he's plain-looking at all."

"It's not cruel to give an opinion on someone's appearance," Carla jokes, shrugging her shoulders innocently and crossing one of her legs over the other. "I didn't say he was dead ugly. But enough of this . . . you shouldn't every worry about how I see him, anyway."

Darcy pauses, looking Carla up and down, unnerved by the smug smile on her friend's face. "And why shouldn't I?"

"Because I don't like boys."

Darcy blinks a few times, staring into Carla's rich brown eyes, unsure if she's heard correctly. The words had been spoken so matter-of-factly, so quickly, that she isn't sure Carla has actually said them at all. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "What?"

"Darcy, I like girls." Despite Carla's very serious tone, she's still smiling.

"But—but—you—you never told me that!"

Carla shrugs again, her cheeks darkening, looking rather pleased with herself overall. "You never asked."

"Oh, it is good to be back. Miss me, Madam Pomfrey?"

As soon as the doors of the infirmary open, the matron gives a tired sigh. Gemma inhales deeply, as if inhaling the castle's atmosphere, walking into the hospital wing, though Darcy thinks it's more of a strut than anything. The sight of her makes Darcy grin.

Gemma looks more like herself than the last few times Darcy has seen her, even if she does look a bit tired. Clad in handsome and rich-looking emerald green robes that fit her perfectly, Gemma saunters right up to the bed Darcy is sitting on, staring at Madam Pomfrey while smiling from ear to ear. Darcy's been waiting thirty minutes for this, skipping lunch for a mere glimpse of Gemma, her stomach roaring.

"Can I call you Poppy now?" Gemma asks the matron, pulling Darcy to her feet by her hands. She wraps thin arms around Darcy's neck, holding her close and pressing their cheeks together. The faint smell of stale smoke coming from her breath is somewhat comforting, a smell that she will always associate with Gemma, one that others might think displeasing. When Madam Pomfrey only purses her lips, Gemma laughs into Darcy's ear. "All right, all right . . . we're not there yet. But we will get there."

"Congratulations, Smythe," Madam Pomfrey says in a clipped tone, and Darcy—her head still resting upon Gemma's bony shoulder—suppresses another smile. There's something behind Madam Pomfrey's curt words that makes Darcy think Madam Pomfrey is slightly pleased to see Gemma again, even if she doesn't want it to seem like that. Infamous for hangovers and an illness that was never diagnosed properly (though Darcy is well aware Gemma's mystery illness flared whenever there had been a surprise test in class or homework due that Gemma hadn't prepared for), Gemma has likely spent more time in the hospital wing than even Darcy or Harry. "St Mungo's was considerate enough to warn . . . I mean, notify me of your return far enough in advance for me to mentally prepare."

She pats Gemma on the shoulder regardless, giving a gentle squeeze. Gemma smiles proudly. "Did Darcy tell you what I'm doing these next few months?"

"Thankfully, I haven't seen much of Potter this year," Madam Pomfrey replies, flashing a sharp look at Darcy. "Though I wouldn't mind a visit or two after all I've done for you the past seven years."

"Sorry," Darcy mutters sheepishly, blushing.

"There's still time," Gemma adds quickly, eager to shift the conversation back to herself. "Professor Lupin is helping me with some research on lycanthropy. We're testing new potions to combat the illness in the days before and after the full moon."

"How very ambitious of you," Madam Pomfrey notes, raising her eyebrows and considering Gemma, looking as if she rather approves. "You'll be keeping busy this year, then."

Gemma releases Darcy and mock-curtsies for the matron. "I was a Slytherin, after all. If I weren't ambitious, I would be nothing."

"Well, it's inventory day," Madam Pomfrey says, gathering her robes and starting to head back towards the office. "Ten minutes with Potter and then come straight to my office. Hopefully your Arithmancy skills have not escaped you . . . it will certainly be a lot of counting."

As soon as the door to Madam Pomfrey's office closes again, they both turn to each other. Darcy speaks first, looking Gemma up and down, holding her out at arm's length and grinning. "You look really good, Gemma."

"Thanks," Gemma smiles, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I got a haircut . . . nothing special, just a trim, really. And I almost got my nose pierced this summer. Some girl came into St Mungo's and hers done, but when I brought it up to mum, she freaked. So I just decided to get another ear piercing."

"No," Darcy laughs, taking Gemma's hands to squeeze them for a moment. "I mean . . . yes, your hair looks very good. You look good, Gemma."

Gemma catches on, but Darcy thinks Gemma knew what she was talking about before giving her vague answer. "I'm . . ." she hesitates, choosing her words very carefully. "I think I'm beginning to come to terms with everything. I know I was taking it pretty hard, but . . . I'm helping, you know? I can't fight like I want to, but I'm doing my part at St Mungo's."

"You've always been a rebel, haven't you?" Darcy sighs happily, so happy to see Gemma that her heart is ready to burst with love.

"In my own way, yes, I suppose I have been," Gemma says, puffing her chest out. "Tell me true, my lion—what's a more badass way to rebel against your family than to heal all the people your parents want to kill?"

Gemma laughs again, unbothered, but Darcy falters. The joke doesn't seem to affect Gemma in the slightest, and her laughter doesn't sound bitter, but Gemma has always seemed to have thick skin and the ability to deflect any cruel joke or insult meant for her, but the entire thing makes Darcy uneasy. "You're doing a good thing," Darcy says quietly, and Gemma thanks her with a smile. "Remus told me you were able to secure him a room for next week."

"That bastard!" Gemma groans, running a hand through her hair and rubbing her temples. "I told him to keep it a secret! I wanted to surprise you! You know, one night when you and I go to have dinner at the Three Broomsticks, and all of a sudden, he's right there, and—"

"I get it," Darcy answers, shaking her head and chuckling again. "I appreciate the thought, truly, but you didn't have to do that."

"Ah, it's nothing. The hospital allowed me a budget for easy access to my patient, and anyway . . . I scratch his back and he scratches mine, right? One day, I might need a huge favor, and he'll just so happen to owe me a huge favor." Gemma puts her hands on her hips, exhaling contently. "Don't tell him this, but it did take quite a bit of convincing on my part. Madam Rosmerta was really hesitant about having him stay during the full moon, but Dumbledore suggested he use the Shrieking Shack during the night of the actual full moon. I had to convince her that there was a safe place for him to transform, and she agreed that, as long as he's gone during the night, he can stay during the week."

"You got Dumbledore involved?" Darcy asks, slightly shocked, but rather impressed. "You just . . . asked Dumbledore if Remus could stay?"

"Well . . . I mean, yeah," Gemma shrugs, as if it's nothing. "He was really kind about it, too. I've never really spoken privately with Dumbledore like that before . . . there was one time, but Professor Snape was there, too, since he was my Head of House. But anyway, Dumbledore listened to what I had to say and we came to an agreement." She takes Darcy hands again, bouncing on her feet. "He even promised to donate to our cause the next time he visited his vault, which will be fantastic! With a little more money, we may be able to get fresher ingredients for our potions and better quality ingredients overall." She drops Darcy's hands again, frowning. "Truth be told, Darcy, we weren't given a huge budget to begin with, so Healer Bavaria and I have been pooling a lot of our own money to fund the—"

"Your research is being funded with your own money?" Darcy interrupts, folding her arms over her chest, shocked by this piece of throwaway information. "Gemma, you shouldn't have! You should have come to me!"

"It's not that much," Gemma replies coolly, but Darcy doesn't quite believe her. "And anyway, what does it matter? Once we find our big break, I'll have offers from hospitals all over the world, and they'll pay better, I'm sure. But . . . I've been growing rather fond of St Mungo's if I'm being honest, and I get to be near all my friends."

Darcy takes a moment to digest this. Rarely has Gemma ever spoken so quickly and so passionately about something. The spark in her reminds Darcy slightly of Carla. "Why are you doing this?" Darcy finally says, and it comes out a bit more accusatory than she'd have liked. "Do you actually want to help werewolves, or is it just about the money? I don't understand."

"This is what I've always wanted," Gemma smiles, unfazed by Darcy's accusation. "As far back as I can remember, I've wanted this. And now, I'm not only doing it, but I'm good at it. I enjoy it. Helping find a cure to lycanthropy symptoms—and possibly, in the future, lycanthropy in general—that rarely anyone has even bothered to research is exciting to me. Of course I would like to help him in the end . . . you love him, don't you? And money will always be a perk."

"I'm happy for you." But the words are forced and insincere. Gemma's smile falters, and Darcy wants to talk about working with Professor Snape, but Madam Pomfrey calls Gemma away and she doesn't get a chance to continue their conversation.

As Darcy walks back to the dungeon classroom for her first class after lunch, she can't help but feel incredibly unsettled by her meeting with Gemma. Gemma truly does love what she's doing, and the excitement had been plain enough across her pretty face. Whenever Darcy speaks of her experiences with Professor Snape during classes to Lupin or Carla or Harry, it's never with the same fervor or passion—there's always something to complain about, whether it's the way Snape talks to her, or the way students speak to her out of turn with pure dislike.

She thinks of Emily, training to become an Auror, despite her mediocre Potions grade—her dream all throughout school—and of Gemma, excelling at her own dream career. Darcy had always known Gemma was born and bred for greatness, and people had always told her the same thing: You'll do great things, Darcy Potter. Her teachers had told her so, her friends had told her so, people who knew her that she didn't know had told her so.

Is this greatness? she asks herself. Sitting in a dark classroom with Severus Snape?

For the first time in a while, Darcy begins to worry about Sirius again. How wonderful it would be to see his face again, let alone receive a letter from him. His reply to Harry's letter still hasn't come, and Darcy wonders where he is now, if he's close enough that she'd be able to see him, to talk to him, to tell him about everything that's been worrying her lately, and maybe even get of a hug out of it all. She wouldn't even care about telling him about she and Lupin, because at least he would be around for her to tell him. The thought of him lying dead in a field somewhere where no one has found him yet, or the thought of him being captured again by the Ministry makes her heart race . . . but no news of him has broken lately, and for that she has to be glad.

Her anxiety must read plain across her face, for Professor Snape takes one look at her when she enters and lowers his head, not speaking, his face hidden by his dark hair. Darcy wishes he would speak, if only to fill the silence and distract her from her own thoughts.

This particular class has been Darcy's least favorite class since the very first time they had all come together in the classroom. Fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, always talking in low voices, their eyes always fixed on Darcy as she sits at Snape's desk, or in the corner, or makes her way through the aisles of tables. She's never actually caught them talking specifically about her, especially because whenever she gets too close, their conversation always breaks off immediately, but Darcy doesn't like the tone of their voices or their eyes all fixed on her all of the time.

Today's class is no different. While Professor Snape writes instructions on the blackboard in silence, Darcy hears the soft cackling of a Ravenclaw boy. She glances at him and they meet eyes for a split second before the boy laughs quietly again. Snape turns around slowly at the sound, his black eyes scanning the room for the source of the laughter.

The Ravenclaw boy, Noah, silences immediately, but Snape has already caught sight of him. He'd been drawing something on a spare piece of parchment, and he hurriedly tries to tuck it away into the pocket of his robes, but Professor Snape flicks his wand and the paper zooms out from under Noah's scrabbling fingers, coming to rest in Snape's upturned palm. He unfolds the parchment and flattens it with his thumbs, looks at it for a moment or two, and then scowls, crushing the parchment in his fist.

"Congratulations, Mr. Griffin, you've just earned yourself detention this Friday night, with me," he grows, raising his eyebrows as Noah's face turns red. "Should we let Miss Potter see what you've done?"

Noah flushes harder, burying his face in his hands. Darcy frowns, rising from Professor Snape's desk and taking the crumpled paper from his hand. She unfolds it and smooths it out on the desktop, feeling her heart ache painfully and her cheeks sting with embarrassment. It's a crudely drawn picture of Darcy, her breasts and hips terribly exaggerated. She blushes almost as fiercely as Noah, throwing the paper quickly into the waste-bin.

"Do you have anything to say to her, Mr. Griffin?" Professor Snape hisses, his voice dangerously low.

Noah clears his throat and lowers his hands from his face, looking at Darcy with a horrified expression. "I'm sorry."

The classroom is dead silent. Snape turns back to the blackboard and Darcy feels a rush of affection for him—affection she's never felt for Snape in all her seven years at Hogwarts. "Perhaps now we can continue."

When the class exits the room after the bell rings, Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, feeling quite shy. She steals glances at Professor Snape, but he doesn't seem to have anything to say. However, Darcy wants to say something before students for the next class begin to filter in, and she can already hear footsteps approaching from the outside corridor.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs, her cheeks turning painfully red again. "He's just a stupid boy."

Professor Snape raises his eyes to look her in the face. "I should have done nothing," he answers. "If I recall correctly, your friend, Duncan . . . she used to do the same thing with pictures of me."

Darcy purses her lips. "To be fair, sir," she says slowly, "I always told her I thought they were rude." The footsteps are growing closer, and Snape hovers over his desk, looking back down at the stacks of parchment. "But . . . thank you."

"It really does feel damn good to be back," Gemma sighs, uncorking a bottle of Darcy's red wine and pouring herself a glass. Darcy smiles at her, starting a fire in the hearth. Hermione is standing alone next to it, and when the fire springs to life, she holds her hands out for warmth. "Hermione, would you like a glass?"

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Gemma, frowning. "No."

"I'll take one!" Ron says quickly, hopefully.

"Leave them alone, Gemma," Darcy pleads, shaking her head. "Don't get me into trouble for serving alcohol to underage students."

"I wouldn't have really poured them a glass," Gemma says, turning away from Hermione and Darcy to speak with Carla in a low voice.

Darcy watches Hermione, watches her eyes scan the mantle and the shelves both from left to right, studying each picture placed upon them, those that are framed and those that aren't. Since first arriving at Hogwarts, Darcy has accumulated quite a few photographs, mostly of she and Lupin, or of Lupin himself, and Darcy suddenly feels warm around the collar—she tucks at the neckline of her shirt when Hermione's eyes fall upon the picture of Lupin lying innocently in bed, the blanket pulled up to his chest, his bare shoulders visible and his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes as he sleeps. There's a small and slight smile on his face that nearly takes Darcy's breath away at the idea of him dreaming of her, yet Hermione seems very composed and moves onto the last photograph.

"These are nice," Hermione says quietly, picking up a moving photograph of Darcy and Harry from the end of her seventh year. "I like this one." She replaces it and turns back to the room at large, taking everything in.

Harry and Ron are playing chess at the corner table, while Gemma and Carla watch on, sipping at their drinks and giggling quietly like young girls as the boys' chess match progresses violently. Darcy's heart aches again, knowing Emily should be here with them, just like old times, and she forces herself to tear her gaze away from her friends. Hermione takes another look at the pictures and sits down on the sofa. Darcy follows her, falling into the cushions.

"I still can't believe you're going out with Professor Lupin," Hermione smiles, making Darcy laugh.

"Yeah?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Sometimes I can't believe it either."

Hermione lowers her voice. "He is quite handsome, isn't he?"

Darcy smiles, leaning into Hermione, their voices barely whispers. "I certainly think so." They both laugh quietly together, and when their high-pitched giggling dies away, Darcy bites down on her lower lip. "Hermione, have you given any thought as to what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

"Hm," she hums, tapping her chin. "I haven't really thought about it much. But maybe something to do with S.P.E.W., if house-elves still aren't free by then."

Darcy forces herself to smile weakly at Hermione, taking a long sip of wine. When she lowers her cup, she brushes her thumb across the engravings upon it, thinking of the badge still tucked away in Professor Snape's desk drawer. "Do you think I'm good at what I'm doing? Do you think I'm doing a good thing coming back here? Helping Snape?"

Hermione looks almost startled to have been posed such a question. She blinks a few times before answering. "You've always been good at Potions . . . probably the best in your year. Professor Snape wouldn't have taken you back if he didn't think you capable, at least," she answers, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "And maybe it doesn't seem like you're doing a good thing because Professor Snape can seem so . . . awful, but look at all the times you've helped Neville already. He does love you, you know."

Quiet, Darcy looks into the fire, feeling sorry for Neville Longbottom.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here, too," Hermione says in a hushed voice, leaning closer. "It's nice to have a girl to actually talk to sometimes. I would never have dared tell Harry or Ron I thought Professor Lupin was handsome." She sighs heavily, blushing. "Ron still won't let me forget about Professor Lockhart."

"Don't worry, Hermione," Darcy chortles, placing a hand upon her shoulder and giving Hermione a gentle shake. "Your secret is safe with me."

The rest of the night goes by too quickly, with many more drinks poured and shared, and many more chess games played. Harry allows Darcy to wrap an arm around his shoulders and ruffle his hair and kiss his head; Gemma and Carla plan another get-together, much like this one, but with Emily and Lupin next time; Ron begs Gemma over and over again for a taste of alcohol, but she refuses him, and Hermione seems slightly impressed by Gemma's will to resist his insistent pleading. Jokes and laughter are shared together, the fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, and Darcy feels so at home with most of her friends in one place that her apartment feels suddenly comfortable and warm and a place she wants to be.

It's that night, combined with Professor Snape's coming to her defense in class earlier that day, that Darcy comes to a conclusion: if she's going to help Professor Snape during classes for the rest of the year, she's going to do a damn good job.