'Beauty of blood. / Innocent beauty / flowering in my / weeping.'

Julia de Burgos

When the cool night air hits her face, Darcy's eyes open just a crack. She can hear her pulse pounding loudly in her ears, a steady thump-thump-thump that drowns out the howling wind. As sound grows louder again, in her ear she can hear Snape panting as he climbs the sloping hill, getting closer to Hogwarts with each long, quick stride. The pain in her shoulder grows and she tries to look, but all she can see is red, blood flowing from the three deep wounds. She closes her eyes again, her shoulder throbbing and burning like fire. Darcy lets out a moan, and before Snape can say a word, the world goes dark again.

When she wakes next, she's in a dark room, a few lit candles around her, but nothing else. She's sitting in a chair, slumped over the arm of it, and she forces herself to sit up. Her right hand automatically goes to her shoulder, and warm blood continues to ooze through her fingers. Touching it makes it hurt even worse. Darcy grimaces, tears falling freely from her eyes, and she looks to her right, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a cracked mirror, unable to catch her breath.

She hadn't realized her nose was bleeding. Blood has dried below her nostril, covering her upper lip. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her face is ghostly white, drenched with sweat. Her dark auburn hair sticks to her cheeks and forehead, matted with blood from the cuts on her forehead and cheek. Her face still aches from her tumble down the staircase, from landing on her face in the tunnel. Her head lolls, and she can't find the strength to keep it still, but when Snape appears suddenly in front of her with a rag soaked with potion, she stiffens, suddenly very afraid.

"What is that?" she croaks. "What—what are you —"

"This is going to hurt, but I need you to stay still." He moves to place the wet rag on her shoulder, but Darcy squirms, moving with a quickness that surprises even herself. Darcy smacks his hand away and sees anger flash in his cold, dark eyes. "Stay still, girl."

"No! Not you—"

"Then who? You're more than welcome to bleed out," he scowls. "Just don't do it on my classroom floor."

Snape moves to use the rag on her shoulder again, but she grabs his wrist, her hand shaking violently. "Don't," she whispers, pleading and desperate, terrified. "Please…"

Snape jerks his wrist out of her grip, his lip curls, and he looks her in the eyes, his face inches from her own. Darcy doesn't falter and stares back at him, her face set. He grinds his jaw, inhales deeply, and when he speaks, his voice rings in her ears and makes her head throb. "You ungrateful, arrogant, fool girl," he hisses. "I just saved you from a fatal situation, possibly a fate worse than death—if you were lucky, he would have killed you—and yet you sit here and refuse my help and speak to me with the boldness of your lousy, good for nothing father—I told you to return to your common room—"

"I didn't ask you to save me, sir," she interrupts, her voice low and shaky. "I didn't ask you to follow me out there."

"But I did," he says, holding up the rag again, "and you're alive and you haven't been bitten because of it."

He's right, and she knows it, and Snape knows it. A long moment passes as they continue to stare at each other, and then Darcy shifts and closes her eyes. "Go on," she replies. "Do it."

Snape doesn't hesitate. He presses the rag to her shoulder and the pain intensifies tenfold. She screams out loud and grits her teeth, sobbing and kicking her legs. Darcy grabs Snape's arm, trying to pry it off her shoulder, but she's too weak and all she can do is dig her fingernails into Snape's arm as he applies pressure to her shoulder. The potion he's applied to the rag runs down her arm, and Darcy looks at her shoulder to see her skin knitting back together before her very eyes, as if being sewn. Her flesh feels as if it's being stretched, stretched beyond its limits, at its breaking point, about to be pulled off her shoulder. She opens her mouth to scream again, but no sound comes out, and all she can do is squeeze onto Snape's arm harder, and he flinches as her nails break his skin through his sleeve. Her tears run into her mouth, drip from her chin.

As the wounds seal, the pain becomes less intense, and when Snape pulls the rag off her shoulder, Darcy slumps in the chair, breathless and exhausted. She manages to look at her shoulder again, caked with dried blood and wet with some fresh blood, as well. Across her skin are three scars—an angry red color, raised and ugly, a permanent reminder of tonight.

Snape tosses the rag behind him and it lands with a squelching noise on his desk. Darcy lightly fingers her scars, hands trembling. Just thinking about the werewolf rearing, lunging at her, makes her shoulder twinge. Then she remembers—it wasn't just a werewolf, it was Professor Lupin. Lupin did this to her. Lupin scarred her for life, and she can't help but remember the words he'd spoken to her: No harm will come to either of you. That I can promise. And what was it that she had said to him? She had called it an empty promise. Because all she's ever known are empty promises—she doesn't know why she'd expected Lupin to deliver on that promise. All she knows is that she wanted it to be true. She had wanted him to be telling her the truth. She'd wanted to believe him and every word he spoke to her.

She looks up at Snape, trying to piece everything together. "It was Wolfsbane, wasn't it?" she asks quietly. "The potion that I saw you carrying—the potion that I…"

"Yes," he answers. "Wolfsbane."

"It's my fault, then. It's my fault he turned into a werewolf—oh, I should have seen it… I should have recognized the signs, should have noticed the full moon, but I was so certain that he—" Darcy stops, sighing heavily. "It's all my fault."

"Why did you follow him?" Although his tone is slightly gentler, Darcy still hears the harshness behind his words. "What could have possibly been going through your head when you decided to leave the school to pursue him into the Whomping Willow?"

Darcy shrugs, sniffling. "My friend made me suspicious and I thought that… I don't know." She looks him in the eyes again and he looks back. She shivers, feeling as if he's staring into her soul. Darcy quickly averts his gaze, glancing at her reflection in the mirror again. "Professor, what happens now?" Her color has returned, but she still looks unwell.

"Madam Pomfrey will clean you up," he says curtly. "Forgive me if I don't wipe your face myself."

"That's not what I meant."

"Dumbledore will be made aware of the situation, if that's what you're afraid of."

"I'm not afraid, sir." But it's a lie. Once Dumbledore finds out, she knows punishment will be delivered, and not only to her, but to Lupin, as well.

"Go," he replies, turning his back to her. "Go to the hospital wing right away, and tell Madam Pomfrey exactly what happened, and do not leave out any details, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she says, standing. Darcy wobbles on her feet a moment, then steadies herself and walks to the door, opening it and hesitating. Darcy looks over her shoulder at Snape, who's cleaning off his hands in a stone basin. "Professor—thank you."

Darcy, trusting Madam Pomfrey with her life, tells her the entire story of the night. She explains how she'd followed Lupin, seen him as a werewolf, how she'd been attacked and Professor Snape came to save her. She doesn't spare the matron any of the gory details—explains the tumble she'd taken down the stairs and Snape carrying her back up to Hogwarts, to his classroom, tells her of her skin magically fixing itself. The entire while, Madam Pomfrey stares at her in disbelief, as if it's all a big lie, some made up story. But Darcy has the scars on her shoulder to prove it (Madam Pomfrey's eyes widen at the sight of them) and the fear in her eyes and her trembling hands and quivering lip is enough to convince Madam Pomfrey that's she's telling the entire truth.

Madam Pomfrey reacts just the way Darcy expects her to. She fusses and panics, the worry written across her face. Because of her panic, Madam Pomfrey's touch is not as gentle as usual, and Darcy hisses when one of her fingers dig into her scars too harshly. She doesn't speak a word to Darcy—loud enough for her to hear, anyway. She mutters under her breath, and sometimes her lips move but no sound comes out. Forcing Darcy onto a cot, Madam Pomfrey pulls the curtains around them shut despite them being the only people in the infirmary, then retreats to her office quietly, gathering some things.

Darcy waits patiently, her eyes flicking towards the shadow of the great doors of the hospital wing. She knows that any moment, Dumbledore will come through those doors, will storm up to her bed and chastise her, interrogate her, look at her with that disappointing gaze he saves for occasions such as these, and quite possibly expel her. Snape will likely be with him to sneer from behind the Headmaster's back, reveling in her expulsion.

I shouldn't be the one getting expelled, she thinks all of a sudden. Professor Lupin did this to me. And Professor Dumbledore allowed him at school, knowing what he is. He should have known this was going to happen eventually.

But then, another part of her fights back fiercely. I was the one that caused the Wolfsbane Potion to spill. It's my fault that Professor Lupin didn't get his dose. She scrunches her nose. I was the one that followed him. If I hadn't followed him, he wouldn't have hurt anyone. If I had just done what I was supposed to do, he would have gotten his potion and nothing would have happened at all.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Madam Pomfrey ripping back the curtains again, eyes wide as saucers. She wrings out a clean rag and when she touches it to Darcy's skin, Darcy flinches, but it's only water. The matron wipes the blood off her skin, cleaning her shoulder with the utmost care, wiping her face with warm water, bandaging the small cuts on her cheeks and forehead. Finally, she places damp gauze on her shoulder, soaked in a potion that stings. With skill, Madam Pomfrey wraps her shoulder tightly with a thick bandage, putting as much pressure on the wound as possible.

"It'll keep the swelling down and ease the pain," she explains in a whisper. "And if we're lucky, it'll reduce the size of your scars. But you know they won't ever completely go away?"

"I know."

With the curtain hiding them from sight, Madam Pomfrey requests her to strip. Darcy, embarrassed, does as she's told, standing in her bra and underwear as Madam Pomfrey searches everywhere for signs of a bite. She has Darcy revolve slowly on the spot, her arms held out to either side, as the matron checks every inch of skin. Darcy knows she hasn't been bitten, but she's still afraid that Madam Pomfrey will find a bite, somewhere Darcy can't see. She's thankful when Madam Pomfrey gives her fresh clothes to dress in, content with her search. The shirt lacks sleeves, the better to tend to her shoulder.

Unable to lift her left arm very high, Madam Pomfrey pulls the shirt over her head and helps her into it. Once completely dressed again, Madam Pomfrey sighs with relief, patting Darcy's cheek. Though she smiles, it isn't a very reassuring smile, but one full of worry. "You've always been a frequent visitor, Miss Potter," she utters, sighing. "But I find that I'd rather treat you for hangovers and nightmares than this."

Darcy can't help but chuckle nervously, still shaken from the events of the night. "Me too. I promise, from now on, only hangovers and nightmares."

The matron looks exasperated, but happy with Darcy's reply nonetheless. She urges Darcy into bed and sits at her side, talking gently with her, opening the curtains to let the moonlight brighten everything.

It isn't long until the doors open and Darcy's heart sinks. Professor Dumbledore doesn't storm in like Darcy had thought he would, but he walks with a determination and purpose. Behind him, Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall follow him; McGonagall's lips are pursed and her eyebrows are furrowed with worry. Madam Pomfrey stands at their entrance and nods politely at them all in greeting. She touches Darcy's knee before taking her leave, retreating to her own private office.

Dumbledore sits at the foot of Darcy's bed, eyes flicking to the bandages on her shoulder. His eyes, that bright blue of his, find her own green ones, and for a long time he stares at her until Darcy feels vulnerable and violated, as if he's just penetrated the secrets of her very heart. She can't stand it any longer and looks away, her face red, and fighting tears.

"You look much better than I'd expected for someone who has just come face to face with a fully grown werewolf," Dumbledore finally says, looking slightly relieved. "I'm going to assume that you weren't bitten."

"No, sir," Darcy answers. "Madam Pomfrey checked."

"I am very thankful to hear that," Dumbledore says again, smiling a very small smile. "Professor McGonagall was very worried about your wellbeing. We all were."

"Professor," Darcy starts, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Snape. "Am I going to be expelled?"

Dumbledore considers her. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape—if you would give Darcy and I a moment alone to talk," Dumbledore continues, turning to McGonagall and Snape. "We will not be long. Severus, I appreciate all you have done for her, but I have no further need of you."

"Of course, Headmaster. Send for me if you need me," Snape says, giving him a small bow and seeing himself out.

Professor McGonagall lingers for a moment, her lips as tight as Aunt Petunia's often get. Dumbledore nods at her, and McGonagall gives Darcy a long look before letting herself out, as well.

One Darcy and Dumbledore are the only two in the hospital wing, he sighs, rubbing his temples. "I must impress upon you the severity of your actions tonight, Darcy," Dumbledore says, too seriously for her liking. Darcy can't bear to meet his eyes. "It is essential that Professor Lupin takes his dose of potion every night in the week preceding the full moon. This denies him the opportunity to attack. However, should he miss a dose, Professor Lupin does have a safe place to transform. What none of us anticipated is that a student would follow him out there."

"Yes, sir. I understand. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You are a curious girl, and you always have been," Dumbledore tells her. "But there is such a thing as being too curious. Some things are better left alone—this being one of those things.

"Should word of this incident make its way around Hogwarts, or even beyond our walls—to the Ministry, Professor Lupin would be in very serious trouble, and his condition would be exposed to the entire Wizarding world." Dumbledore hesitates, frowning at Darcy. He doesn't speak, and when Darcy finally looks up into his eyes again, he smiles a small smile, if only to reassure her. "Do you know how the Wizarding world sees werewolves, Darcy?"

"Yes, sir," she repeats, stomach churning. "I do, and it's awful. But it's all my fault—please, I don't want his condition to be revealed because of me. I was the one who decided to follow him. I was the one who spilled his dose of Wolfsbane. Ask Professor Snape, it was me—I was…just curious, is all."

"What did you hope to find?" he asks, leaning closer to Darcy. "What did you expect to see?"

While Darcy has never been extremely close with Dumbledore, she thinks him more understanding that Professor Snape. Hesitantly, Darcy gives him the truth. She tells Dumbledore of her and Lupin's weekly meetings, of Carla's ominous warning, and of the doubts that her friend had planted in her brain. "I thought that I might find Sirius Black," she finishes. "I thought that maybe he was sneaking out to meet with him, but…I was wrong. I was terribly wrong."

Dumbledore smiles weakly at that. "Taking the blame for this incident is quite admirable. Surely you only want to protect Professor Lupin, but I want for you to understand that this is not entirely your fault, and you need not take the blame."

His statement catches her off guard. Why is she taking the blame in the first place? Of course she had followed him out to the Whomping Willow out of sheer curiosity and recklessness, but Dumbledore had allowed a werewolf at Hogwarts, packed in a castle with hundreds of students. He and the other teachers had been made aware, but kept quiet about it. Professor Lupin had attacked her, could have possibly bitten her if Professor Snape hadn't shown up in time, or worse—killed her. And even though the rational thing to do would be to blame him, to beg Dumbledore to get rid of him, Darcy can't bring herself to ask the headmaster to relieve him.

"I—I don't want him to go, Professor Dumbledore."

Dumbledore listens carefully, his eyes occasionally darting to her shoulder and back. "Something like this cannot happen again, Darcy. If it does, not only will there be severe consequences for you to face, but I will have no choice but to let Professor Lupin go. And I'm sure that would be a great disappointment to all the students who are enjoying his lessons. And to the students who have found him to be a tremendous friend, but I am also loathe to take any risks by having him here."

"You aren't—you aren't going to fire him, sir?"

"Did you want me to? You told me you don't want him to go, and I understand. What do you want me to do?" Dumbledore asks, tilting his head. "If I am to be a fair and just headmaster of this school, I must respect your wishes after what you've been through tonight. I will not keep a teacher at Hogwarts if any student of mine feels he is a danger to themselves or others."

She isn't really sure what she wants. "But he is a danger to others, sir," Darcy replies quietly. "He's a werewolf, he—he—"

"Yes?"

She thinks of Lupin, of the kindness he's shown towards her, his usual gentle nature. She thinks of Lupin as a boy her age, friends with her mother and father, beloved by them. My father would hate me. My mother would hate me. They would never let him down. If Lupin were to be fired, she wonders where he would go—where would he work, or live? Darcy looks down to her lap, accepting the truth of it. "He would never hurt me if he could help it," she says. "I know that. And I don't wish for him to be fired, but…aren't you afraid of him, Professor? Afraid of what he could do?"

"You have every right to be afraid," he answers kindly. "Don't think that I am forgetting what has happened. It makes me ill to think what could have happened had Professor Snape not come to you in time. When he told me what had happened, I was so worried for you. But Professor Lupin is just a man, and he never asked to be what he is once a month, and I know Professor Lupin to be a very kind, patient, and understanding man. Has he, so far, been anything less than good to you?"

Darcy swallows the lump in her throat. "No," she says. "He has been very good to me."

"I am glad to hear it. Now, I have already spoken to Professor Snape. From now on, he will brew Professor Lupin an endless supply of Wolfsbane, available to him at anytime. If a goblet were to be spilled, he now will have a backup. If the backup goblet were to be spilled, there will be yet another. I will make sure this will not happen again, Darcy. I have no wish to relieve Professor Lupin just yet, as it was so difficult to convince him to come in the first place." Dumbledore's eyes twinkle, strangely out of place during a time like this.

"Why?" she asks, but she thinks she knows the answer already.

"He was afraid of something like this happening," Dumbledore says, lowering his voice and becoming much more solemn again. "I have no doubt that when Professor Lupin wakes in the morning and hears of what's happened, he will begin packing immediately. He is nothing if not overly hard on himself, and I fear he'll attempt to slip out the doors before anyone realizes he's gone."

Darcy considers this. She chews on her lip, her shoulder starting to throb again underneath all the bandages. "I'd like to speak with him, sir," she says, unsure if that's really what she wants. "When he's—better, I'd like to see him."

"I'll send for him at first light," Dumbledore nods. "Once he finds his way back into his office, I'll make sure he comes straight here."

She swallows hard, wetting her cracked lips, forcing herself to ask one last time. "Will I be expelled?"

"No," Dumbledore says more gently. "But that does not mean that all is forgiven. Neither you nor Professor Lupin will be free of some kind of punishment. But Professor McGonagall is the one who will determine yours."

"What will you do to him?" she asks quickly.

Dumbledore doesn't answer right away. "That's between Professor Lupin and myself. If he wishes to share it with you, then I will not object, but that decision is up to him, and I do not want you pestering him about it, do you understand?"

"I only meant—I mean, he'll be all right, won't he?"

A smile flits across the Headmaster's face again, but he doesn't answer her question. "There is one more matter I'd like to discuss with you, and then I'll let you rest," Dumbledore adds. "If you would like Professor Lupin to stay with all of us at Hogwarts, news of this may not get out. I would like you to tell your friends a different story, if you would."

"You want me to lie about what happened?"

Dumbledore studies her for a few moments. "Yes, I would like you to lie."

"One look at my shoulder and they'll know that this was no simple accident, sir. What could I possibly tell them?"

"Of course. Madam Pomfrey can keep your shoulder bandaged until everything calms down. I will let your friends know that you are here and they can visit you, but should they ask questions—and I've no doubt they will—you must make certain to not reveal the truth."

She hesitates. "Okay."

Professor Dumbledore stands at that, bids her goodnight, and exits the room. When Professor McGonagall comes in, Darcy notices that her hands are clenched into fists and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other constantly. Darcy's punishment is a handful of detentions to be served in her office, as well as fifty points from Gryffindor for sneaking out. Not wanting to keep Darcy up too late, McGonagall retreats quickly, promising that they'll speak in a few days once things have settled and returned to normal. Darcy thinks that's almost laughable, as if she hasn't just been attacked by a werewolf.

Once Madam Pomfrey attends to her shoulder and face one last time for the night, the candles around the infirmary are blown out and Darcy sighs heavily, forgetting that it's so late in the night. She shuts her eyes, but sleep does not come easy to her. Her shoulder hurts still, and the cut on her forehead stings. Her entire body aches after being pounced on, slammed into a wall, and her head is pounding. She wonders how Lupin is, if he's all right, if he realizes what he's just done. She wonders if he'd recognized her, a prisoner in his own body as he'd lunged at her.

All she can see when she closes her eyes is the shape of the werewolf's face only inches from her own. The long, pointed teeth that were bared, the long, sharp claws that had come down on her. The feel of its hot breath on her face, smelling her. Then its face transforms into Lupin's, ruggedly handsome and always tired and exasperated and amused. She sees him smile, his teeth bared, but they're not long and pointed, and his smile is kind and crooked and slightly mischievous, making his eyes crinkle. And his fingers are thin and calloused, gentle and reassuring, not painful and bestial.

The thought of Lupin as himself instead of a werewolf makes it easier for Darcy to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep, one devoid of dying mothers and faceless men.