'Am I supposed to be / grateful / to have survived this?'

Brenna Twohy

"Darcy Potter—where have you been?"

Darcy freezes as soon as she steps foot inside the Gryffindor common room. Emily and Harry are sitting on the sofa nearest the fireplace, the best spot in the entire room. The fire is blazing, crackling merrily, despite most students already being tucked into their warm beds. A few older students are still awake, finishing their homework last minute, but at Emily's shrill voice, they look up at Darcy. Darcy checks her watch; it's a little later than half past nine. Her cheeks turn bright red and she slinks towards the couch, trying to ignore everyone's eyes on the back of her head.

"Out," Darcy replies, sliding out of her cloak and warming herself before the fire.

Emily snorts. "This is Hogwarts, not Soho," she shoots back. "You don't just 'go out' at Hogwarts."

Darcy doesn't respond, turning her back on Emily and Harry, holding her hands out in front of the fire, her cloak draped over her forearm. She closes her eyes, letting the warmth wash over her.

"Darcy, we were worried sick about you," Emily presses on quietly. She touches Harry's shoulder, resting her head against his. "You were gone when I woke up, and I haven't seen you since last night. Carla, Gemma, and I looked for you all day—in the owlery, the library, Hagrid's… you weren't anywhere. What could you have possibly been doing?"

Turning around, Darcy sighs. "I couldn't sleep, so I went up to the owlery to see Max," she recalls. "Then I ran into Professor Lupin and we went for a walk, and then we went back to his office and just—talked."

Emily and Harry exchange a meaningful glance that Darcy doesn't fail to notice. "You were with Professor Lupin all night?" Emily asks warily. "He promised us that he would send you straight to us if he found you!" She looks over her shoulder at the other students huddled against the opposite wall to make sure they aren't listening. "Did you walk to London and back?"

Darcy stares at Emily and laughs awkwardly. "All right, mum. I get it. Check in with you before I go anywhere."

"Darcy—" Emily hisses. "You can't just spend the entire evening with your teacher. That's unnatural."

Scoffing, Darcy crosses her arms defensively. "I thought you were on my side—Professor Lupin would never hurt me—he said so himself."

"I know he wouldn't hurt you," she answers, her voice going up an octave. "I believe you. I truly don't think he would hurt you, honestly. But it's not about that. He's your teacher and you can't just—just —you know, do things like this with him. There are—rules and boundaries. It's not right."

"Professor Lupin knew my parents, Emily," Darcy protests, frowning. "Forgive me if I'd like to spend some of my time with someone who has connections to my mum and dad. Like you would have any idea how that feels."

Emily sighs, pursing her lips. "I understand you, Darcy, and you know that I do. And you must also know that I want what's best for you, and I just—" She sighs heavily again and stands, smoothing Darcy's hair and smiling weakly. "Get some sleep, would you? You look exhausted. I love you."

Emily retreats up to the dormitory, leaving Harry and Darcy alone by the fire. She sits down next to him, chewing at her lower lip and throwing her cloak over the arm of the sofa. "Where are Ron and Hermione?" she finally asks, once she's sure Emily is in the dormitory. "Surely not sleeping already?"

"Bed," he says. "Once Emily made it clear that she would be confronting you, I think they were a bit uncomfortable with the idea."

"I'm sorry I worried you," she grins, trying to flatten his hair, knowing that no matter what, his hair will do whatever it wants. Darcy sits back, tucking her legs underneath her and hesitating before continuing. "That wasn't my intention. I just needed to… get away for a little. Clear my mind."

"I wasn't worried," Harry shrugs, giving her a half smile. "Emily wanted me to sit with her so you might feel a little guilty about wandering off."

Darcy laughs softly, shifting in her seat. She watches Harry's tired eyes stare into the fire, his eyelids heavy behind his glasses. "Harry," she whispers. "Can I ask you something?"

Harry hums in response.

"That day on the train, with the dementor," she starts, suddenly feeling ashamed for asking. She knows what his answer is going to be. She knows already the only thing that could have made him faint on the Hogwarts Express, but she wants to know if he'll tell her. "What did you see?"

He looks at her, with a look that speaks volumes. It's clear that he doesn't want to talk about it, and Darcy doesn't want to press him anymore if he's not ready, but he answers anyway. "It's not really what I saw," he says, suddenly shivering. "It's what I heard. Screaming—a woman's—and when I woke up, I realized that I was the only one who'd heard it." Harry looks at Darcy with a very solemn look, pleading almost. "Is it mum? I'm hearing her dying, aren't I?"

Darcy looks away, back towards the fire, a vivid flash of green light visible in her mind's eye. "Yes. I think so."

"Tell me about your nightmares," he begs, resting his head on her shoulder. Darcy can't help but smile. "Tell me about her."

"I've already told you all I remember about her, and you know about my nightmares," she says softly. "Why would you want me to describe them to you in painful detail?"

"Because I thought we don't keep anything from each other."

She inhales deeply, running a hand through her hair, remembering the most painful memory she's ever known, all for the sake of her brother. All because he asked. The nightmare comes easily to her, ingrained in her brain. "It's the three of us—you, mum, and me—in your bedroom. We're in your crib, and there's a soft blue blanket hanging over the rail, a stuffed bear in one of the corners. Dad got it for you when you were born." She licks her lips, leaning back on the sofa, closing her eyes, reliving everything. "It's raining outside. I can hear it against the window, softly. Mum talks to me through the bars of your crib." The corners of her lips turn upward slightly. "She whispering to me, telling me she loves me, kissing me—my mouth, my nose, my forehead. She's so beautiful, Harry, and she's saying goodbye to me."

Harry listens, still as a statue. Tears well up in Darcy's eyes and they burn as she tries to keep them from falling.

"Then I see red eyes, a flash of green light and mum—she's dead, on the floor in front of me." She swallows the lump in her throat painfully. "You're crying. I'm crying—and then… it—changes… the house is gone, it's destroyed, and I'm lying in the remains of our home, and my legs are being crushed under the weight of all of it." She touches her shins as a dull pain shoots up her legs. "And someone comes to me, and they pull me to them, and I—I love them, I think. They're familiar and they hold me and I don't want them to let go and then—I wake up. I never get to see their face."

"You dream that every night?"

"Recently, yes," she replies. "But I haven't dreamt that for a long time." Darcy looks down at her hands, which are trembling violently. She wipes the sweat on her palms off on her pants. "Then the dementors came onto the train and it started to come back to me."

When she looks at Harry, she can see that he's paled. There's sweat forming on his hairline and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He composes himself and looks at his sister. "Where were you tonight?" he asks. "Where were you really?"

"I was with Professor Lupin," she says. "We went for a walk and then I helped him grade some papers."

Harry nods. "Oh."

"Did you finish your homework?"

"Yes, I did," he frowns. "And Hermione's already asked, thank you."

"Then go on," she says with raised eyebrows, nodding towards the spiral staircase. "Past your bedtime, don't you think?"

Harry stares at Darcy, his lips parted, looking ready for a fight. "All right. I'm going to bed now, but not because you said so. Because I'm tired."

Darcy doesn't go up to her dormitory that night. She sits by the fire, keeping it going with the occasional flick of her wand. Her hands continue to shake, and her mind is plagued with images of her mother's face, cold and frozen and lifeless, her green eyes staring up at Darcy, unblinking. But she knows that sleep means reliving it—sleep means being there while it happens and not being able to do anything to stop it. So she forces herself to be awake, alone with her thoughts.

She thinks of Harry, of his fear of the dementors, passing out at the sound of their mother's dying screams. She thinks of Dumbledore, and how he could have allowed those monstrous beasts to even be near the castle. She thinks of Mr. Weasley, the closest thing to a father she'll ever have now, despite only knowing him for such a short time. Often, Darcy thinks of Mr. Weasley as her true father, but the thought of even slightly betraying her father's memory disgusts her and guilt eats away at her insides. Mr. Weasley, the father she's always dreamed of having—loving, understanding, honest—all the things that her own father was, or maybe, all the things she hopes her father was. But when she thinks about her father, she can't remember much of anything. The only things she knows about him are the things that other people have told her.

Of her mother, she remembers more. She remembers her mother's impeccable beauty, the songs she'd sing to Darcy before bed, the stories she'd tell her. Darcy remembers her mother's love—hugs and kisses and snuggles and laughter, hiding under blanket forts and baking cakes when Harry was sleeping on their father.

But her parents are gone, not that she has to remind herself. Her family is Harry now, Emily and Gemma and Carla, and Mr. Weasley.

And then her thoughts settle on Professor Lupin, and things aren't so clear. She isn't sure how to speak to him, how to act around him, what to say or what not to say around him. Emily's talk of boundaries with teachers makes Darcy uncomfortable—in another life, Lupin could have been a close family friend, someone who would have watched over her. They could have spoken freely as adults, as friends, without the awkwardness that comes with an unnatural and possibly inappropriate relationship. Yet despite that, there's a sense of comfort that Darcy finds in him that no one else offers, a feeling that puts her at incredible ease around him—Emily, fiercely loyal and overbearing at times, won't hide her brutal and honest opinions; and Harry, thirteen-years-old and naive still, doesn't need to know the kinds of things Darcy keeps tucked away in the very depths of her heart and mind.

When the house elves come to Gryffindor Tower to clean, they're surprised to find Darcy still awake, her eyes heavy with sleep. She ignores them for the most part, and they do the same, not making any conversation, but one of them recognizes Darcy and pulls a blanket up over her lap. Darcy thanks the elf with a small smile and she hurries out of the common room quickly after her fellows.

The blanket makes her sleepy, though, so she throws it off. The heat of the fire makes her tired, so she puts it out. Darcy sits there the rest of the night, staring into the black fireplace, begging the sun to rise.

And finally, it does.

When Emily come downstairs into the common room and finds Darcy waiting for her, bag slung over her shoulder and bags under her eyes, Emily scrunches her nose. "Your bed hasn't been slept in," Emily comments as a few third year girls push past her towards the portrait hole.

"I fell asleep on the couch," Darcy lies.

"Aren't you at least going to brush your hair?"

"Can we just go?"

The Great Hall gives Darcy a headache, almost as if she's hungover. The light streaming in through the windows is far too bright for her liking, and the noise level is above where she'd like it. The scraping of cutlery on plates is magnified, echoing in Darcy's head, and despite Darcy's fondness for Hermione, every time her jaw moves to chew some food, a vein throbs in Darcy's temple.

Hermione talks to her kindly, as if nothing were wrong, but Darcy barely hears her. She catches a few words, something about a Potions essay that she could use help with, and Darcy nods politely, pushing her food around and not really eating anything. Halfway through a story about a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that Hermione is telling Darcy, Carla approaches and talks into her other ear, making her entire head throb. Darcy closes her eyes and blocks them both out, feeling Carla's fingers working furiously to untangle the knot in the back of her hair.

Glancing up at the teachers table, Darcy's eyes automatically find Lupin in his usual spot. He smiles a tired, easy smile at her and returns to his breakfast, but seems to be eating just as much as Darcy.

When the owls arrive to bring mail, it sets Darcy over the edge. A newspaper smacks her in the face and Max tumbles into a cup of orange juice, spilling it onto the front of her robes. Emily, sensing her frustration and embarrassment, quickly clears the mess with a hasty spell and dries Darcy's robes, but the damage has already been done. Darcy's face is set, as if carved from stone, and no one speaks to her for the rest of breakfast.

Eager to get away from the crowd, she and Emily are some of the first students to exit the Great Hall. Emily talks her ear off the whole time, but Darcy doesn't hear a single thing she says. She swears that she sleepwalks to the classroom because once she sits down at the back of the room, she can't remember getting there. Darcy props her head against her hand, her eyes growing heavier by the minute, and when Professor Lupin begins to talk, his voice lulls her to sleep.

Thankfully, Professor Lupin wakes her before the nightmares start to come on. He gently shakes Darcy's shoulder and her eyes snap open. Darcy's heart is racing as she glances about the classroom, hoping that she hadn't been talking in her sleep. The class is doing silent work, the only sound the scratching of quills and the occasional chuckle. No one seems to be paying her much attention. Darcy rubs her eyes and looks up at Lupin, her eyes bloodshot and bleary. He kneels at the side of the desk, eye level with her.

"I can't let you sleep here, Darcy," he whispers sympathetically. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," she mumbles, combing her knotted hair with her fingers. "It won't happen again." But she yawns and as she takes her quill in her hand, her eyes begin to shut.

Lupin shakes her again and sighs. "Have Emily take you to Madam Pomfrey," he says, standing up tall again. "I'll give your homework to Carla. She has my class after lunch. Now go and get some sleep."

"No," Darcy snaps, keeping her voice down. "No, I'm fine. I just—"

Lupin isn't about to argue with her. With a single, firm look at Emily, she packs up her things and then grabs Darcy's bag, leading her out of the classroom. Darcy stumbles to the hospital wing with Emily at her side. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey lets Emily linger for a little while, her fingers combing through Darcy's hair, fingernails massaging her scalp.

Madam Pomfrey closes the doors to the hospital wing quickly and rushes back over to Darcy, pushing her down onto a bed, fussing over her just like she always does. The mattress isn't very comfortable, not like her four poster, where she'd rather be, but even so… she's so tired… she closes her eyes, letting sleep wash over her—

Darcy opens her eyes again, forcing herself to stay awake. She looks around the hospital wing and sees one first year covered in hair, sleeping. On his bedside table are a bunch of handmade cards, colored sloppily. There's another girl, too, three beds down from the boy. Darcy recognizes her as a fifth year Slytherin that Gemma had introduced her to once. She's sleeping, as well, and both of her hands are wrapped tight in bandages. A bouquet of pink and purple flowers sits on the girl's bedside table.

"Nightmares again, Potter?" Madam Pomfrey asks sternly, walking past Darcy's bed to her office.

"I'm fine," Darcy murmurs, but Emily shushes her.

Darcy can hear Madam Pomfrey digging through her potions and medicines for something. When the matron is standing in front of Darcy again, she nods slowly, accepting defeat. Madam Pomfrey is already prepared, however, and holds out a bottle of purple potion, to which Darcy is no stranger.

She reaches out for it almost greedily, drinking the whole thing quickly, ignoring the bitter taste. Madam Pomfrey takes the empty bottle and pulls the blankets up over Darcy as her eyes close once more. She sends Emily away as the bell rings, and Emily lowers her hand from Darcy's red hair, taking her hand.

Darcy doesn't fight sleep this time. Sleep without dreams—without nightmares—is just what she needs.