'My heart aches in corners I did not know existed.'

Najwa Zebian

Darcy expects Peeves's rendition of the Fat Lady's story will die down within the week, but she is dead wrong.

Peeves frequently recounts the story to wary first years in the corridors, scaring them until older students and teachers come along to shoo him away. The poltergeist zooms away afterwards, albeit begrudgingly, cackling to himself, his laughter echoing off the walls and ringing in Darcy's head. His tale grows taller and taller each time he tells it, and he soon has the first years spreading ridiculous tales about Sirius Black. However, Professor McGonagall puts a stop to it quick enough by threatening to go to Dumbledore and, after blowing several raspberries above her head for a long five minutes, he finally flies through the nearest wall and that puts an end to it.

Even Carla and Gemma's new favorite pastime seems to be finding a way that Sirius Black could have broken into Hogwarts undetected. While Gemma's theories are sometimes outlandish and absurd, her confidence in the idea that Sirius Black could not possibly attempt a break in again is infuriating. Although she doesn't convince Carla, who takes on a more worried and cautious approach. Her theories, while not as wild as Gemma's, are still quite far fetched and she begins to dote on Darcy like a mother would. Darcy finds the entire thing incredibly annoying, but she knows that her friends mean well, so she doesn't say anything or try to put a stop to it.

What is worse than Gemma and Carla's take on the entire situation is Emily's take on it. She takes Harry's and Professor Lupin's side, claiming multiple times to Darcy's face that something like this will never happen again and Dumbledore will make sure of it. This angers Darcy even more, and everytime she looks at Emily, rage burns inside of her. She's supposed to be my best friend, Darcy thinks, twisting her face into a sneer every time the thought crosses her mind. Emily, who hadn't been in the Chamber of Secrets with her and Harry, who hadn't seen the memory of Tom Riddle looking her in the eyes, who hadn't seen the monster that lurked in Hogwarts halls for years without Dumbledore realizing it. Emily, who hadn't had her brother almost killed by a teacher with Voldemort on the back of his head—a teacher that Dumbledore had allowed in the castle. Emily, who has never had to suffer through a nightmare of Sirius Black with his hands around her neck, who has never had to suffer through a dream of her parents getting murdered. Emily, who doesn't understand and who could never understand.

Emily's blind faith in Dumbledore sets Darcy over the edge. She can't understand how people—her friends—can look her in the eyes and tell her that Hogwarts is the safest place in the world with Dumbledore as Headmaster, when her last two years (and now this year, as well) have been nothing but trouble, nothing but danger and fear. And all of this leaves her with two different conclusions—either Emily, Harry, and Professor Lupin are lying to her to make her feel better, or they truly believe that there is no danger at Hogwarts. And she can't decide which one is worse.

But worst of all, worse than Emily's false reassurances, is the fact that Darcy cannot be left alone anymore. It's not just her—it's Harry, as well—but it's absolutely humiliating. Teachers follow her everywhere, from class to class, from lunch to the bathroom (where they stand outside the door and wait for her to finish as if Sirius Black is lurking through the school, waiting for a chance to pounce as soon as a teacher's attention is diverted), from the bathroom to dinner, from dinner to Harry's Quidditch practice (where Madam Hooch not only oversees practice for Harry's benefit, but keeps a close eye on Darcy, as well), and back to her common room. Teachers are at her side every second of every minute she spends outside of her common room, the Great Hall, or one of her classrooms. Even with her friends beside her, teachers escort her quickly from place to place. And while she feels sorry for Harry having to go through the same thing, she's glad that she isn't alone in this.

Professor McGonagall accompanies her around the castle the first day, and it really isn't so terrible. Darcy and Emily feel they can still speak rather freely in her presence, and Professor McGonagall even jokes with Darcy and her friends from time to time. Her stern nature keeps unwanted people away, which is nice, as well. It's then that Darcy realizes that maybe having extra protection may not be so horrible after all.

Tuesday, Professor Snape follows her around the castle, uncaring and apathetic, and making sure Darcy knows that if it were up to him, she wouldn't get an honor guard. The entire day is filled with awkward silences, sideways glances, and the anxiety that only comes with the possibility of losing a lot of points for Gryffindor for absolutely no particular reason. Emily and Carla stay far away from her that day, as does Harry, but Gemma sticks it out and for once, Darcy is quite glad that Gemma is a Slytherin.

Wednesday, Professor Lupin escorts her from place to place, and Darcy feels a sense of freedom as Lupin walks by her side, talking to her as a friend would. Emily rarely speaks in his company, however, and she finds convenient excuses to go to the library, or the bathroom, or back to the common room. Again, Gemma keeps Darcy company along with Lupin in between classes, and the three of them share a lot more laughs than Darcy thought they ever would. He doesn't speak of Sirius Black either, which is a relief. Lupin smiles at students in the corridors, greets others, and ushers Darcy away from people who want to talk to her that she doesn't want to. Though he looks weak—Darcy knows the full moon is very soon now—his charisma makes up for it.

That particular day, as Lupin walks Darcy back to her common room alone during a free period, Oliver Wood spills out of the portrait hole as Sir Cadogan shouts at his back, calling him names and making Darcy's head pound.

Five times she's wanted to blast Sir Cadogan's portrait this week, five times that he's annoyed her so much. He changes the password so many times in a day that Darcy is left outside for ten minutes or more sometimes, and he always shouts and clanks around in his metal armor. If not for the fact that he's the only portrait up for the job of taking over for the Fat Lady, his portrait would be destroyed by her hands already.

The three of them—or four, including Sir Cadogan—are quiet, and Oliver and Darcy stare at each other for a moment. Then, Oliver's face breaks into the widest grin she's ever seen.

"Hey, Darcy," he says cheerfully, taking a few steps closer to her. He gets too close for comfort and Darcy takes two steps back, trodding on Lupin's foot behind her. Lupin catches her, giving her a slight shove forward. Oliver doesn't seem to notice anything is amiss. "You're coming to practice tonight, aren't you?"

"To watch Harry practice," she replies, thinking that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to miss one practice session. Besides, she thinks, the rain will make for a miserable time. "We've been over this before."

"Right, well—er—" Oliver looks at Lupin with an apologetic smile, squirming. "Maybe if we could step inside the common room… just for a moment… it's so hard to get you alone these days…"

Darcy narrows her eyes, unsure if she wants to hear what Oliver is about to say. "Just tell me now," she tells him. "Surely whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Professor Lupin."

Oliver clears his throat and leans into her. This time, Darcy moves away wildly, actually falling into Professor Lupin, who catches her again, gripping her upper arms tight to keep her steady. Oliver apologizes quietly, and puts his lips next to her ear, whispering, "Meet me in the bathroom tonight—our bathroom. I need all the luck I can get before the match and the good luck charm between your legs will—"

Before Oliver Wood or Lupin know what's happening, Darcy slaps Oliver across the face hard and he crumples to the ground. "All right, that's enough—!" Lupin grabs her arm and holds her back as Oliver rises to his feet again, holding his cheek. Darcy can see an angry welt has already started to form in the shape of a palm with slender fingers. Where her fingernails met his cheek, his skin has broken slightly, and Darcy knows there will be a nasty bruise there tomorrow. "Darcy, just go into the common room—"

Darcy tears her arm from Lupin's grip, taking two forceful steps towards Oliver, blinded by rage. "Do not ever assume to proposition me again, Oliver Wood, do you understand me?" Darcy snaps. Oliver's face turns bright red. "Just because I kissed you does not mean that I am your girlfriend, and it also does not mean that you can whisper crude things into my ear as you please!"

Ashamed, unable to meet her eyes, Oliver continues, looking at his feet and muttering. "You've been hanging around with Emily too much. I thought we had a good time, and anyway—you kissed me."

Darcy scoffs, her hand itching to slap him again. "Emily has nothing to do with it," she hisses. "I know my worth, and you certainly do not deserve me. I only kissed you because—well, because I was bored."

Oliver's face turns bright red and he brushes past Darcy, his broad shoulder colliding with hers. She turns to watch him go and jumps, having forgotten about Professor Lupin. His face has gone just as red as Oliver's had and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Darcy suddenly feels warm and slightly ashamed of saying such things to Oliver. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I guess I got a little carried away." She holds up her right hand and it trembles, numb after slapping Oliver.

"Darcy, I—I could have just given him a detention," Lupin suggests. "What did he say to you?"

"It doesn't matter what he said. That was more satisfying," she admits, shrugging her shoulders, laughing nervously. "I feel much better now that I've hit someone."

Lupin promises with a small smile not to tell anyone.

The Invisibility Cloak becomes a treasure for both Darcy and Harry, and they begin to fight over it more often. She knows that Harry is only looking for some peace and quiet, but she wants that, too. The one time she is able to steal away underneath the cloak in the dead of night, she goes up to the owlery, but the wintery, night wind is bitter cold and the rain is loud, and with Max out delivering a letter to Mr. Weasley, she finds no comfort there. Even Hedwig acts cold towards her, pecking at Darcy's fingers like worms until they're bleeding and numb again. Darcy scowls at Hedwig, missing her own owl even more.

She'd written the letter to Mr. Weasley the day after Sirius Black stole into Hogwarts. Around three in the morning that night, unable to sleep despite the warmth of her bed, she had lit the tip of her wand, held it between her teeth, and scribbled on a torn piece of parchment. She had only meant for it to be a short thing, a plea for help, a plea for him to visit—a plea for something to give her some kind of comfort. Instead, she'd ended up writing him two pages, front and back, of what had happened according to Peeves and how the Headmaster had taken such drastic measures to protect her and Harry. After she finished, she had read it over three times, accepting the childish and desperate manner that it was written in. Even now, part of her hopes that the childlike part of it will appeal to Mr. Weasley as a father.

Friday night, Harry and Darcy stay up late together in the common room, sitting by the fire while the storm rages outside. Rain lashes against the windows, lightening brightening the sky before the thunder cracks, nearly shaking the castle. Crookshanks, Hermione's fierce cat, stretches out over Darcy's legs, laying on his back to show off his furry belly. She absentmindedly scratches his stomach, feeling the vibrations of his purrs. It calms her.

"How long will this go on, do you think?" she asks Harry. When he doesn't answer, she sighs. "I can't do this. I won't have them following me for the rest of the year. It's driving me crazy, and I think it's making me mad."

"Are you still afraid of Sirius Black coming back?"

Darcy looks at Harry, leaning back into the couch as Crookshanks crawls up her chest to perch on the top of the couch. He nuzzles into her hair, his long tail stroking her cheek. Darcy continues to scratch under his chin. The stress of everything else has gotten to her lately, and Sirius Black had been the least of her current worries. "I mean—of course, but…" she shrugs. "There's been a lot going on lately. More pressing things."

"I heard what you did to Oliver Wood," he chuckles. "He didn't say why you did it, but I'm sure you had good reason. So did the rest of the team."

Darcy smiles weakly. "He said some disgusting things," she tells him. "Things I don't want to hear come out of his mouth ever again."

"I'll be sure to pass it along to the rest of the team."

"No," she says. Crookshanks rubs his face against her's as soon as she stops petting him. "Don't embarrass him. He's already going to be playing tomorrow with a hand print on his face."

"Not like anyone will see it through the rain." Harry reaches out to pet Crookshanks, but the cat spits at him, jumping off the couch and running up the stairs towards the dormitories. "I'm worried about you. Your nightmares, your late night flying practice, slapping Oliver—"

"You're always worried about me," she laughs, ruffling his hair. "And what do I always say?"

"I know, I know—"

"What do I say?"

"That I shouldn't worry about you," he finishes, smiling. His smile is contagious, and Darcy smiles back at him fondly.

"You used to worry about me," she recalls, the smile fading from her face. "When you were younger. I don't know if you remember—you were so young. My nightmares were coming back, and I'd cry out and thrash in bed." Those nights had been embarrassing and shameful nights. In the mornings following a nightmare, Vernon would shout at her in front of Aunt Petunia, Dudley, and Harry, shaming her for being so weak. "You'd hear me, though, and you'd sneak into my bedroom and crawl into bed with me."

"I remember."

"I'd sleep too hard and you'd think I was dead," she continues. "I would skip a meal I didn't care for and you'd think I was starving or sick. I'd be gone for a few hours and you'd cry when I came back and you'd tell me it was because you were so happy to see me." Darcy feels like crying, remembering a time when Harry had worshipped the ground she walked on, remembering a time when Harry had loved her more than anything—when she'd been more of a mother to him than a sister. "I admire you, Harry, but it's my job to worry about you, not the other way around."

There's a comfortable silence between them as they look into the fire.

"Get some rest, Harry. You've got a big match tomorrow."

Darcy prays for better weather that weekend, but it's in vain. The rain falls harder and heavier for the game, the wind stronger and louder than ever. The sky is plagued with frequent flashes of lightning and thunder claps several seconds afterwards, growing closer all the while. She attends the game with Emily, Ron, and Hermione clad in red and gold colors, hoods pulled up over their heads, holding large umbrellas. Despite that, the rain soaks them on their way to the Quidditch field (Professor McGonagall makes sure to see Darcy there safely). A little behind Darcy and her friends are Carla and Gemma. Carla wears as much yellow and black as she can find to support her House, and Gemma, who had been looking forward to Slytherin playing, refuses to cheer for Gryffindor, deciding that she'll support Hufflepuff instead.

The Quidditch game is a massive disaster, as the players can't see where they're going, nor can they hear anything. Even Darcy is deaf to Lee Jordan's commentary over the screams and cheers and the storm. She can't see the Quaffle, either of the bludgers, and she especially can't see the Snitch. Through Hermione's borrowed binoculars, she tries to find Harry on his broom, but he's too quick on his broomstick and she continues to lose him. All she can see is a mass of red and gold and yellow and black, all of their robes clinging to their bodies, their hair dark from rain.

However, the cheers of the Gryffindors encourage her. Gryffindor cheers much more than the Hufflepuffs do, and Darcy hears Lee Jordan's voice boom throughout the air when Gryffindor scores a goal that she hadn't been able to see. Finally, Darcy finds Harry in the air again, circling around the field and looking for the Snitch.

"He won't be able to see anything through his glasses—" Darcy mutters to Hermione, handing her back the binoculars, but Hermione gasps "oh!" and slips away from her as Oliver Wood calls for timeout.

"This is miserable…" Emily groans. "I can't see a thing! This whole thing will be a huge waste of time if we lose!"

"We won't lose!" Ron counters. "Harry'll catch the Snitch! He always does."

After the Quidditch game resumes, Hermione appears back at Darcy's side, beaming. Darcy pushes her wet hair off her face, but it sticks to her drenched skin. "Harry can see now!" she says, and leaves it at that. Smiling, Darcy wraps an arm around Hermione and they continue to watch the match, passing the binoculars between them.

The storm continues to rage as the match goes on. Gryffindor keeps scoring, but Hufflepuff keeps up with them, narrowing the margin only to have Gryffindor score some more. Emily puts the binoculars to her eyes, looking at all of the players, watching Harry fly around the field with a newfound confidence and determination, watching Cedric Diggory—Hufflepuff's Seeker—follow him closely. The sky grows darker, the lightning comes quicker, and the thunder sounds louder.

"Why's he stopping—?" Emily asks, but Darcy grabs the binoculars from Emily's hands and looks for herself.

Harry doesn't stop for long, and as soon as Darcy finds him again, he moves swiftly and gracefully through the rain. She watches him for a little while until something makes the hairs on her arms stand up, and a chill creeps up her spine, her stomach turning. Lowering the binoculars, Darcy feels the cold wash over her, coldness not due to rain or to winter—coldness due to one thing, and one thing only. No, she pleads silently, no, no, no, not here, not now, please...

She looks down at the bottom of the field and she freezes, panic overcoming her. Dementors—hundreds of them—are crowding the field, making the grass look like a sea of blackness, pure darkness. At the sight of them, Darcy's world stops. The sounds around her dissolve, her own breath and heartbeat the only things she can hear. All around her, the stands are suddenly empty and the cold rain showers down upon her, warm compared to the chill of the dementors. She closes her eyes slowly, her deep breath the only sound in the world.

And then—kisses, on her forehead, on her nose, on her lips; green light and the thud of something on the floor, her mother's body crumpling before her very eyes; her mother's face, so beautiful and so kind and so loving, so frozen and stiff, green eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling; high-pitched laughter and crying, tears staining her pink cheeks, her hand holding onto Harry's tiny arm so tightly that she knows he'll have bruises on his soft, milky skin the next morning—

Screaming brings her back to her senses. There's horrified screaming and celebratory shouts from the other end of the Quidditch Pitch. Darcy comes back to reality so violently that she almost vomits, as if she's just Apparated, but someone is falling through the air and people are pointing and Dumbledore's wand is out, pointing towards the body, his booming voice echoing incoherently. And Darcy knows who's falling, knows whose small body that is sailing down towards the earth, towards the hard and unforgiving ground, and the dementors are scattering, almost gone completely from the field as something silver chases them down—a Patronus—Dumbledore's Patronus.

Darcy scrambles over her fellow Gryffindors, screaming herself hoarse, screaming her brother's name as she climbs down the tall spectators stand to reach Harry. Her legs are shaky and she can hardly breathe, but she runs. Before she can even reach the field, someone grabs hold of her, but through her tears and through the rain, she can't tell who it is. Dumbledore is making his way down to Harry quickly, but not as quickly as Darcy would like, and whoever is holding her arms holds on tighter as she squirms.

"He's all right," they whisper, and Darcy knows it's one of the Weasley twins, but she isn't able to tell which one it is without looking him in the face. "He's all right, look—Dumbledore's got him—it's all right, Darcy—"

"Harry!" she shrieks, fighting against the twin's hold. "Please! Harry!"

If Sirius Black or the dementors don't kill him, Quidditch will. She looks on helplessly as her little brother lies on the wet grass, where only a moment ago there had been hundreds of dementors. Dementors that had no reason to be on the field, that never should have been near Harry in the first place, that should never have been stationed at Hogwarts to begin with.

Dumbledore gets Harry on a stretcher and it floats him up to the castle. Darcy breaks free of the twin's grip, running to his side, and Dumbledore doesn't protest. Madam Hooch is rushing along beside them, as well as Professor McGonagall, looking quite worried. She follows them all the way up to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey allows her to stay while she forces a potion down his throat to help with the aches when he wakes, and checks to make sure no bones are broken, and making sure that all his bones are still there.

Madam Pomfrey lets Darcy have a moment with Harry alone, despite him not being awake. Darcy only registers half of what Madam Pomfrey says, ignores Dumbledore completely as he leaves her with Harry, and barely feels Professor McGonagall touch her shoulder as a farewell before she too leaves the hospital wing. She only sits there on the bed, looking down at Harry, her baby brother. Darcy brushes his hair out of his face, traces his lightning bolt scar with the tips of her fingers. His breathing is steady, and he looks to be unhurt save for a few scratches on his face, but he doesn't respond to her touch or her voice and all she wants to do is cry, but she refuses to do that in front of the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team. She wonders if he's dreaming, if he's dreaming of their mother or their father.

Darcy kisses Harry on the forehead, squeezes his hand, and stands. Madam Pomfrey walks her to the doors and shouts at Harry's other friends to move aside for her. They're all soaking wet, just like her, frightened and traumatized and slump-shouldered. At Madam Pomfrey's behest, the crowd of students part for Darcy. Emily stands off to the side, her arms wrapped around her, water dripping from her long coat and pooling at her feet. Her face is colorless, and her blonde hair sticks to her forehead. Ron and Hermione stand in front of her, just as afraid, and the rest of the Quidditch team—except for Oliver, who's nowhere to be found—begin to rush into the hospital wing, ignoring Madam Pomfrey's plea for them to stay calm and collected.

"Is he going to be okay?"

The only person who hasn't gone in is Emily, and she stays frozen to the spot. Darcy looks her friend over and nods. "He'll be fine," she rasps. "Madam Pomfrey has healed worse things."

Emily smiles weakly, hesitating. She swallows hard. "There were so many of them…" she whispers. "I saw things…"

Darcy can't imagine what Emily may have seen or heard, but she finds it hard to sympathize with Emily after what's just happened. Did you watch your mother get murdered in front of you? "What did you see?" Darcy asks, feeling ashamed after the words leave her mouth.

"Memories I thought I'd forgotten," Emily answers. "Things that happened a long time ago, that I have no wish to speak of right now." She combs her hair back with her fingers and Darcy notices her eyes are red. Darcy feels a lingering sense of curiosity, as there aren't many things Emily doesn't tell her. "Don't think I don't know what you saw. I know that what the dementors do to me is not half as bad as what they do to you."

Darcy softens. "You should be thankful that you don't have to relive what I do," she says. "I wouldn't wish that upon anyone."

"Let's go back to the common room, please," Emily begs. "Let's sit by the fire and warm ourselves and forget all of this."

"I'm sorry, Emily," she sighs, not wanting to be around other Gryffindors. "Give me a few minutes, and then I'll be up."

Emily nods and wraps her coat around her tighter, heading for the stairs alone. As Darcy watches her ascend, she looks around her and is struck with a sudden realization—she's alone. There are no teachers around to shuffle her towards the common room or the Great Hall, no one to bother her or talk to her or ask her questions. Even though she can go anywhere that she wants, Darcy can't choose just one place and stays still for a few minutes, tears welling up in her eyes as she thinks of Harry, thinking hard about what to do with this freedom, knowing it may only last a little while.

Her feet move on their own, carrying her to a closed door a little ways away from the hospital wing. She stands in front of it for a long time, her hand on the doorknob, trying to convince herself to open it. And finally, she does, only because she's so cold that she craves movement to keep herself warm.

The classroom is so still and untouched that it's like walking in a dream, or a photograph. Candles burn in a few sconces on the walls, giving the classroom the slightest bit of light. Without the sun shining through the windows, the room is bleak and sad, but still a thousand times better than the hospital wing. The Grindylow in its tank is hiding from her, silent as can be, but Darcy can feel its eyes watching her. With each step, her shoes squeak and make ugly squelching noises against the floor. She lowers her hood, not realizing that she still had it up over her head. Not that it helped any—her hair is still as wet as if she'd just got out of the bath and it's cold against her forehead and cheeks.

When she reaches the second door that leads to his office, she knocks, unsure of what she'll find behind it. He doesn't call out, nor does she hear him shuffling around inside. Assuming that it's locked, Darcy tries the handle anyway, and to her surprise, the door opens, squeaking on its hinges. The office is empty, cluttered, smelling strongly of tea. She wrinkles her nose and closes the door behind her, staring at the stone wall where the hidden door to the apartment is. She shrugs off her wet coat, letting it fall to the ground.

Darcy sits in the chair at his desk, resting her elbows on the top and holding her head in her hands and closing her eyes again. All she can think to do is cry, thinking about Sirius Black and Harry almost falling to his death and her seeing her mother's lifeless figure all because of the dementors that Dumbledore stationed there—dementors that couldn't even stop Sirius Black from getting into the castle.

"Who's th—Darcy?"

Darcy hadn't even heard the door open behind her, hadn't heard his footsteps coming to her. Strong hands take hold of her arms and his touch warms her in the same way chocolate can after meeting a dementor. He helps her to her feet, slowly, holding her out at arms length in front of him. Darcy looks at his face and feels overwhelmingly guilty. He's disheveled and weary, but concern crosses his face at the sight of her tears.

"You're soaking wet—what's happened? Why are you crying?"

Darcy only cries harder, trying to explain everything through her sobs. But Lupin can't make out anything she's saying and he looks at her, his eyebrows furrowed. As she starts to calm down, she briefly tells him about the Quidditch match, about the dementors, about Harry, about seeing her mother die again. And then, everything comes pouring out and she can't stop it; the words fall from her mouth before she can even think of what she's saying. Incoherent words mingled with sobs and recollections about the last two years of her life in broken bits and pieces is what Lupin gets, but he doesn't say a word while she's speaking, listening intently. "I never wanted this," she finishes, pushing her hair out of her face again. "I never asked for this—this life—who I am—I never wanted this—"

Lupin studies her face, dumbfounded, clearly not understanding anything she's saying. He hesitates, only for a fraction of a second, and then pulls Darcy to his chest. She falls into him, burying her face into his sweater, feeling lightheaded and weak and unsteady on her own legs. Darcy shifts, and she can feel the scruff on his face against her skin, the warmth of his cheek on her forehead. One of his hands smooths back her hair, the other holding her close. And as quickly as he had pulled her to him, he releases her, but keeps one hand on her back.

"Let's get you dry," he says, ushering her into his chambers. "I just started a fire—I have blankets, and I know you like hot cocoa."