With Lupin's arm draped over her shoulder, Darcy nuzzles into his chest.
In her fist, she rereads the letter that breaks her heart. Please don't come tonight, Hermione has written, I'm sure Harry won't be back in time to give you the Invisibility Cloak. Darcy knows that Harry seeing the dragons is very important, but it still hurts knowing that she won't be able to talk to Sirius, to tell him about tonight. If anyone finds out about this, we'll all be in trouble. It's too risky. Darcy crushes the letter in her first, slamming it against the table. I'll tell Sirius you wanted to come. I'm sure he'll ask about you. Darcy means to throw it in the fire, to watch it blacken and curl. He loves you, he'll understand.
She knows there will be other opportunities. She'll have years to talk to Sirius, years to see him. She had waited over ten years to see him again, so what's a few more weeks? Months? Years? Then again, before June, before the Shrieking Shack, Darcy's heart hadn't ached for Sirius as it does now. There's a hole in her heart that Sirius left when he flew away from her on Buckbeak, when he hadn't looked back at her once in the night.
Why should Hermione be allowed to relish the comfort of her godfather's presence? Why should Hermione be allowed to speak with Sirius, and not Darcy? Perhaps Hermione had been the reason Sirius could be saved in the first place, but by what right does that mean Hermione can use up the time Darcy could be using to speak with Sirius?
Darcy looks down into her cup, half-filled with butterbeer. She hadn't felt like drinking very much, but now she would gladly welcome something to burn her throat as it goes down her gullet, something to light a fire in her chest to match her anger. What she wouldn't give to see Sirius face-to-face, to feel his arms around her again, to hear his rasping voice whispering I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you.
Lupin had made sure to tell her as soon as her friends had gone and they were alone in the shadowy corner of the Three Broomsticks. He had peppered her face with soft kisses, murmured the words against her skin, held her close with one arm around her. It had made Darcy smile, to feel the scratch of his beard against her face, to hear the words she'd longed to hear from someone for so long.
She looks up at him, their faces closer than she initially thought. Maybe she hasn't been drinking, but Lupin certainly has; she's all too familiar with the smell of firewhisky to not smell it on his breath. Even his eyes show sign of drink—heavy and tired, bloodshot. His cheeks are flushed, his hairline slightly damp with sweat. And the way he looks at her is better than any warmth that firewhisky could offer her, his chest heaving and neck barely stretched, looking for Darcy to kiss him.
"Don't keep things from me," she whispers to him, not unkindly, and Lupin raises his eyebrows. "I know you just didn't want to upset me, but I can handle it, I swear."
He considers her for a long time, finally breaking into a smile. "All right, I'm sorry," he answers quietly. "No more secrets. Have any that you'd like to share?"
"You already know all of my secrets."
This makes Lupin laugh. He touches Darcy's chin lightly and tilts her head back so her lips are inches from his own. She wishes it could be this way forever—anonymous among the other drunken patrons who pay them no mind. Rarely ever does Lupin touch her so boldly in sight of other people, rarely does he kiss her when there are others around to see.
She wonders if, when she touches Lupin so lovingly, he would do anything for her, as well.
"Come home for Christmas, Darcy," he breathes, kissing her very softly upon the lips. Darcy holds her breath and closes her eyes, drunk on his kisses. He pulls away far too soon and, when her eyes flutter open again, Lupin speaks once more. "I want you all to myself this year."
Darcy smiles, admiring him. She quite likes the vulnerable look he has to him now, the same look he has upon waking in the morning, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, or when he walks around his cottage without a shirt on and his hair a tousled mess.
Those moments remind Darcy of a much younger man, and part of her aches with the knowledge that she's missed so much of his life, that he has missed so much of hers. Darcy tries to imagine Lupin as a boy her age, at school with her—a boy without those premature lines on his face or the flecks of gray in his hair or the bitterness with which he speaks sometimes.
Home, she thinks. She's never really acknowledged Privet Drive as such, and never will. Hogwarts is home, she tells herself, and it has been for the last seven and a half years of her life. "I want to," she answers.
Lupin sighs, looking at her for a long time. "But?"
"Well," Darcy begins, blushing, "Harry and I have never spent Christmas apart."
"Never?" Lupin asks. "What about when you were at Hogwarts without him?"
She blushes harder. "I always went back to Aunt Petunia's for Christmas."
He's quiet for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Darcy," he rasps, kissing her forehead. "I do enjoy the time we spend together, more than you know. But I would like to spend more time with you than just during the weekends or a few stolen hours during the week." Lupin draws her closer, and Darcy takes hold of the hand that dangles around her shoulders, twining their fingers together. "Harry's had you for thirteen Christmases . . . let me have you for this one."
Darcy frowns, opening her mouth to protest, but Lupin stops her.
"Why don't we go upstairs?"
She nods. "All right."
It isn't until he gets to his feet that Darcy realizes how much he's drank. Lupin moves painfully slowly up the stairs with Darcy's arm snaked around his waist. At the end of the narrow corridor is the door to his modest room, and Darcy helps him undress. He falls onto the bed with a groan, closing his eyes. She smiles at him for a moment, undressing by the firelight before climbing into bed next to him, curling up against his chest.
She hates herself for it, for the tears that spring to her eyes, that fall down her cheeks and sear her skin. Only hours ago she had felt as if she could do anything, she had felt invincible, even powerful and commanding. And now she's nothing but a little girl, afraid that Lupin will leave her in the end, afraid that she'll have to live the rest of her life without his kisses and without being able to hold his hand, without his sweet words of praise and comfort and love.
Darcy looks into his face and tries to imagine never being able to fall asleep beside him again, wrapped in his arms. For years Darcy had slept alone, in a home where she wasn't wanted, wasn't loved.
I don't want to be alone anymore.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, combing Lupin's hair back with her fingers. He keeps his eyes closed, a pout upon his lips. The tears that leak from the corners of her eyes tickle her skin, dripping from the bridge of her nose and onto her pillow. Darcy touches his lips before kissing them, as if to make sure she isn't just dreaming it all. "I'm sorry that it's not enough for you."
"I've told you before," he replies sleepily. "Don't ever apologize for that. It's more than enough for me. Please don't cry, my love."
"I'm sorry—"
"I love you, Darcy," he breathes, putting his hand to her face to wipe her tears. "And I don't expect you to say it back every time, but I want you to know that you are loved."
Darcy kisses him again, gentle and hesitant, as if afraid he'll refuse to kiss her back. It reminds her of the first kiss she'd ever given him, and she wonders what was possibly going through her head when she did it.
"I spent fourteen years caring for Harry. I spent fourteen years in a household where I was alone with him . . . I had no one to talk to, no one to comfort me, or kiss me or love me or even touch me some days. Except Harry . . . it was always just Harry." It's true that she had resented her baby brother for a time, but it had been hard to resent him when he smiled at her, placing his tiny hands on her cheeks and putting his wet baby's mouth to hers to kiss her. "And he's not a little boy anymore, eager to curl up in my lap and fall asleep against me. He doesn't need me anymore, I know, but . . . I need him."
Lupin is quiet, stroking her hair, his eyes still shut. Darcy continues to cry quietly, even as he shushes her.
"Last year I told you my dream was to get married, to have children, to settle down and make my own family," she continues. "I still want those things, Remus, that's all I've ever wanted." Darcy nuzzles her face into his palm, callused and warm. "Maybe one day, when the grief has stopped eating at me and I don't miss mum and dad so much . . . maybe when the pain lessens, but until then . . . I need my brother."
"It's all right, Darcy." His eyes open for the first time and he gives her a small smile. "Perhaps I'll get you next Christmas."
"Maybe."
He kisses her cheek. "And if not that Christmas," he sighs contently, closing his eyes again, "there will be many, many others."
Darcy chuckles lightly, kissing him hard and deep, pulling away breathlessly. "I love you."
"I'll never tire of hearing you say that," he murmurs, a sly smile creeping across his face. "Now, sweetheart, please . . . let's go to sleep . . ."
"You are such a damn liar, Darcy!" Harry hisses, and his sister gives him a dangerous look, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. "You knew and you didn't tell me!"
"I only found out Friday night when Remus and I ran into Charlie," Darcy says, glancing at Hermione being adding, "And he was so jealous."
Hermione looks mildly curious before she catches herself and quickly rearranges her features.
"And Charlie promised me that he'd speak to Hagrid about it so I wouldn't have to tell you myself, Harry. And he did—but never mind that, did Sirius ask about me?"
"We can talk about that later. I want to talk about Karkaroff."
"I really don't think he put your name in the Goblet of Fire," Darcy answers automatically. She must have told him a hundred times already today, since departing for the Great Hall for breakfast. "Gemma says that he's a coward—"
"So was Wormtail, but he went back to Voldemort anyway," Harry retorts angrily. "Who's to say that Karkaroff won't go back, either?"
"Why don't you talk to Gemma about it tomorrow? She'll be here for the task."
"Listen, I know what Sirius said, and—"
"Harry, tomorrow is the first task, and you need to be alive if you want to figure out who entered you in the tournament," Hermione snaps at both of them, her voice low as a group of sixth year Hufflepuffs pass them. "What are you going to do?"
Harry isn't listening; his eyes follow the Hufflepuff students until they're out of sight. He turns to look at Darcy. "Madame Maxime was there Saturday night, with Hagrid. She saw the dragons, too. She probably told Fleur, don't you think?"
Darcy shrugs, pursing her lips. "Probably."
"And I'm positive that Karkaroff knows, and if he knows, then Krum definitely knows," Harry continues, ranting, "but who would have told Cedric? I mean . . . it's unlikely that Hagrid showed him, too." He inhales deeply. "I should tell him, shouldn't I?"
"I—" Darcy hesitates, looking fondly down at her brother. "That's very kind of you, Harry."
Harry rolls his eyes sheepishly and the gesture is so endearing that Darcy has to smile. "I'm not doing it because . . ." He scoffs loudly. "I should tell him because it's fair then, isn't it?"
As they reach the threshold of the Great Hall, they all pause for a moment. "Come have dinner with me tonight," Darcy tells the three of them, heading towards the staff table. "We'll talk about it more. And I want to know if Sirius asked about me."
The first half of the day goes by quickly. Darcy sits in classes, distracted, occasionally fetching ingredients that Professor Snape asks for or walking from table to table to give her legs something to do. Carla doesn't dare ask about the first task or bring up anything even relating to it in the slightest, nor does she speak about anything personal that Professor Snape wouldn't appreciate hearing in his classroom, so they talk very little.
All she can think about is Karkaroff for the better part of the day. Professor Snape had warned her about him at first, but never gave any specific reasons as to why, only that he likely has some interest in Dark Magic. She considers asking Snape what exactly he meant by that, wonders if he would actually tell her.
Darcy waits for the class to clear for lunch, lingering behind in the classroom as she cleans up her things. Professor Snape messes about with some papers on his desk, waving his wand and making all the small vials filled with the day's potion soar to a nearby shelf.
"Professor Snape?" she asks softly, as sweetly as possible. He glances up at her and holds her gaze for a moment. "I was wondering if I might ask you something."
He hums, looking back down at his work. "Go on."
"It's about Professor Karkaroff," she begins again, trying to read the blank expression on Professor Snape's face. "When he first arrived, you warned me of him. I just wondered . . . did you think he meant to do me harm, sir?"
"Igor Karkaroff can be a fool, as his pride permits," Professor Snape answers quickly, so quickly that is surprises her. "But he is not such a fool as to attempt to harm you under the watchful eyes of Albus Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody." His lips curls at the mention of Moody.
"So you don't think it's possible that he put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire?" Darcy continues, moving closer to his desk. She splays her hands atop it, across from Snape. "I know what he is, or what he was, rather. Gemma told me. I can't imagine Professor Dumbledore would just let a Death Eater walk through the doors of Hogwarts if he didn't trust him. And no one else seems to suspect him, sir."
Professor Snape narrows his eyes slightly, studying her face. His black eyes penetrate her own, but she doesn't look away. In truth, it had been Lupin that convinced her it wasn't Karkaroff. He was quite sure that, if Dumbledore didn't suspect Karkaroff, then he likely didn't do it. And Darcy had witnessed his rage first-hand the night Harry's name came out, and she doesn't believe Karkaroff could be that good of an actor.
"Listen to me carefully, Darcy," Professor Snape finally replies. "You and your brother have seemed to make it your sole ambition in life to toe the line. I am telling you now that it would be wise for you to stop. Let the adults handle it instead of attempting to deal with things that are none of your business."
"What are you talking about? Of course it's my business! Whoever put his name in the Goblet of Fire meant to do him harm, I'm certain of it!"
"It's very possible that someone put his name in as nothing more than a joke."
Darcy looks at him for a long time, outraged. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Don't you have somewhere to be? Lunch, perhaps? Or whispering advice into your brother's ear?"
She knows when to accept defeat, and knows that she will get no more truths from Professor Snape, so she gathers her things and heads for the door.
Harry and Hermione aren't at lunch, so Darcy treks back to the portrait her door is hidden behind, mutters the password, and finds she isn't surprised to find them both in her rooms. Harry's wand is drawn, pointing at a book held in Hermione's hand, but at the sight of Darcy, they both lower their hands to their sides.
Harry smiles brightly at her. "Darcy, I've got it! Kind of. I just need to practice."
"What is it?" Darcy asks eagerly.
"A Summoning Charm," Harry says, and when Darcy cocks an eyebrow, he explains. "Professor Moody talked to me about the dragons, after class. He was trying to help me, and—well, if I can summon my Firebolt, then I'll be able to get past the dragon."
"That's a wonderful idea," she grins, relief washing over her. No dragon is a match for her brother on his Firebolt. "Can you . . . actually do a Summoning Charm?"
Harry cheeks turn slightly pink and he crosses his arms defensively. "I told you, I need to practice. You could help teach me, you know."
They practice all throughout lunch, attempting to Summon random things lying about the room. Harry's attempts are weak and feeble, and he snaps often at Darcy whenever she tells him to concentrate harder, but she persists, not taking any of his anger to heart. He's ever reason to be anxious, and she might have already died of a heart attack if she were in his place.
When she demonstrates to Harry and Hermione how to cast a proper Summoning Charm, the book in Hermione's hands flies straight into Darcy's. Harry rolls his eyes and mutters, "Show off."
"If I wanted to show off, I would have done this." Without a word, Darcy flicks her wand at a framed picture on the mantle above the fireplace, and the picture comes straight to Darcy, zooming towards her in a straight line. She catches it and looks at Harry with a proud little smile.
They continue to practice during dinner and well into the night. Harry gets better at it with each and every try, and between Hermione cheering him on and shouting words of encouragement, and Darcy offering them bottles of butterbeer as treats, Harry is soon making the empty bottles fly across the room with surprising ease—sort of.
The knowledge that he'll be facing a dragon has shaken Harry. He does hide it very well, and Darcy is proud of the fight and vigor and confidence he exudes, but she knows him too well to be fooled by this facade. She sees the way his hands tremble when he holds out his wand, sees the worry in his bright green eyes.
A few minutes past midnight, Darcy's floor is littered with empty bottles, books, plates, photographs, parchment, quills, and even Darcy's clunky old camera. After helping her clean up the mess, Hermione urges Harry to return to Gryffindor Tower in order to get some sleep before the task.
Darcy agrees heartily with her. Harry seems to have a good understanding of the Summoning Charm and is able to do it relatively well, though she isn't sure how it will hold up in the face of a dragon with his Firebolt all the way in the castle. Her nerves have settled very slightly, however, knowing that Harry is walking into the first task better prepared than they could have hoped.
Before Harry and Hermione leave, huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Darcy stops them. "Did Sirius ask about me?"
Harry lowers the cloak so only his head is visible. He looks at Darcy for a long time. "Yeah," he answers quietly, and Darcy smiles. "He seemed disappointed you wouldn't be there. He said . . ." He hesitates, taking the Invisibility Cloak off both himself and Hermione, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "Darcy, what exactly happened the night you saw Sirius?"
Darcy licks her lips. Harry had been very good to her about it, and she sees no reason why he shouldn't know. She tells him all about what happened when she reunited with Sirius, leaving out a few key details of their argument, but Harry doesn't press her for details. She looks at Hermione, awkwardly shuffling her feet and trying to avoid Darcy's eyes.
"Sirius and I both said some things some things we didn't mean," Darcy tells Harry, sighing heavily. "A lot of things have happened in both of our lives that we are still coming to terms with, and we both have a lot of grief left in us. Now, get to bed. The both of you. Harry, you need your rest before tomorrow."
But Harry doesn't move. "I don't mind telling him that I was all right with it," he says. "I don't mind telling Sirius that."
Hermione touches his arm. "Harry . . ."
Darcy only gives him a tired smile. "Go get some rest, Harry. And you, Hermione. Good job tonight."
"You need sleep, too," Harry says, throwing the cloak back over the two of them. "Good-night, Darcy."
But Darcy hardly sleeps at all that night. Her mind races with thoughts of dragons first. Though she's confident in Harry's ability to fly, she isn't sure exactly what it will do for him. It will certainly keep him away from the dragon, and Charlie had assured her that it isn't a fight to the death.
When she's not thinking about dragons, she's thinking about Sirius and the argument they had had. She wonders if Sirius wanted to apologize that night—she knows she does. Darcy hates that they parted on bad terms, that she never got to tell him she cares about him. She didn't even get the chance to say good-bye, or hug him once more, or feel his hands on her face, hands that she imagines are so similar to her father's.
Next time, she tells herself, she'll take a picture of the two of them to sit upon her mantle beside the other pictures of she and Harry and her friends and Lupin.
Gemma is at Hogwarts first thing in the morning, greeting Darcy on her way to the hospital wing as breakfast starts. "Sleep at all?" she asks with a knowing smile, looking carefully at the bags under Darcy's eyes. "It'll be fine. I'll see you in a few hours."
Classes continue through the morning as usual, but even Professor Snape seems to realize there's no use in attempting to teach them anything of importance today. Students are clearly distracted by the first task, talking in whispers and excited murmurs. It only serves to make Darcy more anxious, her stomach rolling and churning and making her want to vomit.
She tries to ignore them all, to block out the whispers, but they crawl into her brain and burrow there, forcing Darcy to think the worst. She's quite glad for lunch when it comes, but she finds she can hardly eat one bite without her stomach refusing it.
"You must eat something," Professor Snape insists, his favorite thing to do seemingly being pointing out how little Darcy eats.
"I can't," she frowns.
When Professor McGonagall approaches Harry at the Gryffindor table, urging him out of the Great Hall, Darcy checks her watch. Lupin and Emily are to be in Hogsmeade soon, so she follows her brother and McGonagall out onto the grounds, catching up to them with ease in a few long strides.
The walk is silent, and Professor McGonagall gives Darcy a couple nervous glances. She speaks to Darcy once, but with her pulse pounding in her ears, Darcy hardly hears a single word of it. She replies with with a grunt, and when Professor McGonagall leads Harry towards the forest, Darcy splits down the path to Hogsmeade.
Lupin and Emily are bickering in the Three Broomsticks—or rather, Emily is giving him a piece of her mind while Lupin gives her a bored and exasperated look. However, upon seeing Darcy enter, the bells tinkling to signal her entrance, both Lupin and Emily rush over to her.
Emily is clad in a fine black cloak, a red and gold Gryffindor scarf hanging around her neck. She touches Darcy's face with cold fingers. "Darcy, you don't look well, have you eaten?" Darcy shakes her off. "Listen, everything is going to be fine."
"Can we just go, please?" Darcy asks.
Emily leads the way out. Darcy clutches Lupin's hand so tightly that she's sure she's hurting him, but Lupin doesn't complain. He looks down at her with the tiniest of smiles. "I know it's not what you want to hear," he whispers so Emily can't hear. Darcy hardly listens; she glances around the High Street and realizes almost the entire village is heading towards the forest to watch the first task. "But everything will be fine."
"Granted that Harry doesn't die today," Darcy tells him, laughing weakly. "Can we have dinner tonight?"
"Of course," he replies. "Look at me, my love."
She does, seeing Emily look over her shoulder at them out of the corner of her eye. Lupin doesn't seem half as nervous as she is, and Darcy wonders if he's faking it or not. How could anyone be so calm before something like this?
"What?" she asks again, her heart racing.
"It's all right. Just breathe, Darcy. You aren't walking to your death, nor is Harry." He gives his head a small shake, getting the hair out of his eyes. Lupin squeezes her hand. "I love you."
Emily grumbles under her breath in front of them, her back still to them.
"If there's something you would say, Emily, then say it," Lupin smiles, not the least bit angry. He sounds amused, and Darcy silently curses him for being so cool, calm, and collected. "It's not polite to mutter under your breath in the presence of friends."
Emily shoots daggers at him. "We are not friends."