'i am / afraid / that if i / open / myself i will not / stop pouring. (why do i fear / becoming a river. what mountain / gave me such shame.)'

Jamie Oliveira

Lupin dries Darcy's clothing with ease, waving his wand around her a few times, but he can't warm her bones. The dementors have left a coldness and emptiness in her chest that doesn't go away, even standing before a warm fire with a hot mug of cocoa in her hands. Still, she shivers uncontrollably. He drapes a heavy blanket over her shoulders, which is comforting, but doesn't help as much as she thought it would. It isn't until he urges her to eat just a bite of chocolate that the warmth spreads through her and she stops shivering and some color returns to her face. Sniffling, Darcy recounts to Lupin everything that's happened, finally able to speak without sobbing. He sits on the couch with her, facing her and sipping at the drink in his mug, occasionally glancing into the dancing flames. She tells him of the storm and how Quidditch should have been cancelled (though she never expected it to be in the first place), of the dementors that had swarmed the grounds, of Harry falling from his broomstick and Dumbledore saving him, of Cedric Diggory catching the Snitch so Hufflepuff emerged victorious without them even realizing what had happened.

Unable to stop herself, faltering under his gaze, Darcy tells him everything. She tells him of her fifth year—of Quirrel, and the troll in the bathroom, the three-headed dog that Hagrid had named Fluffy, the human chess match they'd played, the Sorcerer's Stone. She recalls the fear that she'd felt knowing that Voldemort had come here, to Hogwarts, and was here for an entire year before anyone found out. She tells him how she'd stayed by Harry's side day and night until he finally woke up and how she had cried tears of joy and relief when his eyes fluttered open to look at her.

She recounts her previous year—being denied entry to Platform 9 ¾ along with her brother and Ron, driving Mr. Weasley's car into the Whomping Willow, Professor Lockhart and his stupid saying about fame, Harry's ability to speak to snakes and the writing on the walls in blood. She talks of Hermione being petrified, Aragog in the Forbidden Forest, Ginny being dragged into the Chamber of Secrets. Darcy remembers the basilisk, and the memory of young, handsome Tom Riddle, staring her in the face. The nightmares had come back in full force after leaving the Chamber of Secrets, and she had thrashed in bed like a fish out of water for the entire summer. She tells Lupin of her nightmares frightening Emily's parents so badly, they thought she was possessed by something and were wary of her after that.

Thinking back to the Chamber of Secrets, Darcy recalls it as if it were only yesterday. She can clearly remember the look of the place—dank and damp, full of statues resembling serpents, half crumbling and cracked. There had been plenty of dark places hidden around the maze of pipes and sewers that the basilisk could move easily through. But the smell she remembers most of all, even now—the smell of death and decay, corpses of rats and other small animals littering the floor around her feet. Bones crunching with each step, she had forced herself not to look down because looking down could mean seeing a skull or bones that were not animals.

Darcy faces the fire and closes her eyes. Just like at the Quidditch match, everything around her fades away. All the sounds, the smells. She hasn't thought about the Chamber of Secrets for some time. Those nightmares had faded when the new dreams came along over the summer, and she was so thankful at first. Thankful that she was done dreaming of Voldemort and the basilisk and the eerie stillness of the Chamber of Secrets. But now she's there again, and Tom Riddle is there, standing in front of her—handsome, tall, lanky, brown of hair and brown of eye, eyes that seem almost black, extending a hand with long fingers that aren't quite the color of human flesh. She sees Ginny on the floor, just a little girl, dying as Tom Riddle steals away her strength, her life. And then, ringing in her ears is the sound of the piercing shriek Voldemort lets out as Harry stabs the diary with the basilisk fang, bleeding terribly from a puncture wound to his arm. Voldemort's screams are deafening, and she shuts her eyes tighter, trying to block it out, tighter, tighter—

"Darcy!"

Her eyes snap open, and everything comes back. Rain lashes against the few windows, and the fire is so warm on her face, the blanket heavy around her shoulders. Her heart is racing, pounding in her ears, and Lupin's gripping her arm tight, shaking her slightly, his face pale. Thinking about the Chamber of Secrets makes her feel as if spiders are crawling all over her body, up her arms, down her legs, on every inch of exposed skin. She reaches up and brushes the back of her neck, but there are no spiders, only stray pieces of hair that tickle her skin. Darcy looks at Lupin again and he lets go of her warily, holding out his hands as if she's about to fall over.

"I'm sorry," she says breathlessly, her cheeks turning pink. "I—I don't know what—"

"Are you all right?" he asks, cutting her off.

"Yes," she answers. "I'm sorry."

Lupin settles back into the couch slowly, watching her warily all the while. "Don't be sorry," he replies. "I just—you scared me, that's all."

Darcy looks away from him, clutching her mug of hot cocoa, willing her hands not to shake. "I know what you must be thinking—"

Lupin cocks an eyebrow, and to her surprise, he smiles. "What do you think I'm thinking?"

She searches his face, trying to find an answer written on it. He waits patiently, still smiling at her—that cool, easy smile of his, the smile he always flashes her when they pass each other in the corridors, when their eyes meet in the Great Hall during meals, when they look at each other during a lecture, when they're alone in his office. She's grown so used to seeing the smile on his face that she's forgotten how warm it is, how comforting it is, especially during a time like this. Remembering what Gemma had said, Darcy wonders it would be like to kiss him, to feel that smile against her own lips as he kisses her back.

Darcy takes a moment to look him over, to really look at him as if for the first time. He looks older in the days before and after a full moon, but Darcy knows that in a few days, he'll be himself again, after some well needed rest. The firelight does a good enough job concealing the gray streaks in his hair, and he's shaved recently enough that she can't see any sign of age in the rough stubble on his face. Darcy's always thought him handsome, the premature lines on his face making him look somewhat hardened, the faded pink scars on his face giving the impression that he's lived a long, hard life.

"Darcy?" Lupin says again, catching her attention. She blinks a few times. "Where are you?"

She laughs at herself softly, looking away from his face. "Sorry, I'm just thinking." Darcy looks down into her mug and takes a drink; her hot cocoa has gone lukewarm. The wind has picked up outside and she can hear it howling in the night. Darcy puts her mug on the table in front of her, and then tucks her legs underneath her, looking at Lupin and inhaling deeply. "When will it end? How much longer will I have to suffer like this?"

Lupin frowns. "The suffering never ends," he says quietly, but that only makes Darcy wants to cry. "But you learn to live with it."

His tone is bitter enough to make Darcy flinch, but soft and sweet as honey, too. There's pain in it, true suffering, and Darcy realizes that Lupin understands her, in the way that she wishes Emily could but never will. "How old were you?" she whispers. "When you were bitten?"

Lupin tenses and clears his throat. He chews on his lower lip, rubbing at his jaw and scratching at the coarse hair on his face. She doesn't think he's going to answer—he sits still and quiet for a long time, or what seems like a long time. And then—"Four. I was four." It's as if a weight has been lifted off his chest. He exhales loudly and runs a hand through his hair.

"Four," she repeats softly. Four. Almost the same age she had been when her mother was murdered before her very eyes. Almost the same age she'd been when Voldemort tried to kill Harry. She had been five for one month when her life changed forever. "I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what you—"

"You can't imagine?" Lupin retorts, not unkindly. "Darcy, you suffered a terrible tragedy—"

"I only lost my parents," she argues. "You were bitten, turned into a werewolf—"

"But you haven't only lost your parents," he says. "Do not think that because I'm a werewolf—because I, too, have known suffering—that I don't understand what you've been through. I understand the hardships you've faced, the burden that was placed on your shoulders. I admire you for it, and I have a great deal of respect for you, Darcy, but you shouldn't sell yourself short."

Darcy is quiet. Even though their talk of tragedies and suffering should make her feel bad, his words are comforting. She listens patiently, staring at him with a furrowed brow, curious. "Other people have had it worse," she says finally.

"That doesn't mean you're not allowed to hurt, to grieve. Other people may look at you and think that, compared to your sufferings, you've had it worse. It's not a competition, Darcy. There are no winners, no prize for the what we've been through."

She swallows loudly, looking down into her lap.

"The world has been cruel to us, love," he continues. "We must carry our suffering and our burdens wherever we go. Life will never be simple for people like you and me."

Her eyes snap back up to his face. She stares at him incredulously, and sits up straighter. "If I tell you something, I want you to promise me that you won't think any differently of me."

"Nothing you say will make me think of you any differently, Darcy," he promises. "Unless you're about to tell me you've killed someone, in which case, I'll have to tell someone."

His weak attempt at humor makes her laugh. At the sight of her smiling, a grin flits across Lupin's face, as well, just for a few moments. She hesitates and Lupin waits for her to speak, fingering the lip of his empty mug. I have to be careful, she thinks, or I may tell him everything. His face is so easy to look at while spilling out the truths of her life, and just having him near is enough. She remembers how hard it had been to tell Emily everything, how frightened she was when telling her the truths of her life. Emily had looked at her with a shocked expression, a disbelieving expression, when some things were mentioned. At first, there had been no secrets between Darcy and Emily, but now she finds it hard to talk about things with her. But he understands, she tells herself. There is nothing I wouldn't tell him.

"I remember being brought to Privet Drive," she starts, very slowly. The fire has started to die down, but Lupin makes no move to fix it. "Ushered to this house by strangers, sent to live with people I didn't know. I don't have many memories from that age, but I remember I was… distraught, and grieving in a way only a five-year-old can grieve.

"But I remember getting older, and with each passing day that I had to look upon that scar on Harry's head—every diaper I changed, every meal I had to feed him, every time he cried and screamed for no reason—I hated him more and more. I blamed him for my parents death, blamed him for the loss of my home. I blamed him for everything and I resented him and hated him with all that I had, but I knew that Harry had no one but me. Every time Vernon would shout at me or hurt me, it only nursed my hatred for Harry because I felt it was his fault that I was in this position." Tears well up in Darcy's eyes and she rubs them angrily with her knuckles. "But as Harry got older, and as he grew, he loved me. He depended on me, needed me, looked at me like a son looks at his mother. For a long time, he wouldn't even sleep unless he was next to me."

Lupin's eyebrows are furrowed as he listens intently, leaning forward slightly.

"And then one night, Harry came to my bedroom complaining of a nightmare. He crawled in bed with me and curled up at my side and I was just overwhelmed with love for him," she admits, remembering her brother as a young child. "I spent six years of my life hating Harry because I didn't know how to handle my grief. I knew it wasn't his fault, he never asked for this, and it was exhausting to be so angry and so hateful. After that, life was so much simpler." Darcy smiles incredulously, and she starts to cry again. "I love my brother. I would lay down my life for him—I would starve if it meant he could eat, I would die if it meant he could live."

"I know."

She watches him, expecting something else. It's then that she realizes her hands are trembling, and she's thankful there's no mirror around because Darcy is sure that she looks something terrible. "I've never told anyone that before," she whispers. "But that… I carry that knowledge with me everyday. To know that once, I looked at my brother and felt nothing but hatred. I can't even imagine what Harry would say if he knew."

"Darcy—" Lupin thinks for a moment. He raises a hand, holding it awkwardly between them for half a second, and then he rubs the back of his neck. "You were young and didn't know how to handle your grief. You went through a traumatic experience alone, and no one would blame you for how you felt."

She's quiet for a little bit. They both look into the fire as it dies, stealing glances at each other. The third time Darcy looks at Lupin, she finds him looking back at her and Darcy blushes, noticing Lupin's cheeks turn pink. Finally, she clears her throat and asks, "Will you walk me to the hospital wing? I'd like to see Harry once more before bed."

"Will I—?" Lupin tilts his head. "Ah, right. What god awful professor left you alone tonight? Knowing my luck, it was probably my night to watch out for you."

Darcy looks into the fireplace sheepishly. "You've some more than enough for me tonight, Professor."

Lupin escorts Darcy down the cold, dark corridors slowly. When they reach the hospital wing, they linger outside the closed doors. He leans against one of the doors, crossing his arms. "There is one more thing before I leave you," he tells her. "If you'd like, I may have some free time this week for dinner."

"Really?" She smiles, and Lupin nods. "I'd love that."

He laughs out loud, his laugh echoing throughout the empty corridor, warming her. "I don't think I've ever known anyone to get so excited about having dinner with me." Lupin stands up straight and puts a hand on the doorknob. "You're a flatterer, Darcy. What was it I told you before?"

"Flattery will get me nowhere," she chuckles, as Lupin opens the door for her.

"You're absolutely right."

Madam Pomfrey allows Darcy in right away and she bids Professor Lupin goodnight. Madam Pomfrey doesn't ask why she's out so late, or why she's with Lupin, only walks her to Harry's side. Her brother is awake, pieces of splintered wood at his side. The matron leaves them alone, retreating to her office, and Darcy combs his dark hair back out of his face, exposing the scar on his forehead.

"I was wondering where you were," he says. "Hermione and Ron only left a little bit ago."

"I'm sorry," she replies, sitting on the bed. "I came while you were still unconscious, but I just needed some time. The dementors were—well…"

Harry nods. "I get it. It's okay."

"How are you feeling?" Darcy asks, taking his hand into hers. "I was so worried about you."

His voice cracks. "My broomstick—"

Darcy's eyes fall on the splintered wood beside him and her heart sinks. "Oh, Harry…" she sighs. "I'm so sorry. We'll get you a new one, a better one. Any broomstick that you want."

"I liked this one." Holding onto one of the bigger pieces, Harry shrugs his shoulders, and Darcy knows that he's hurting. He looks up at her, and the pain on his face breaks her heart. "All those dementors—Darcy, I heard her again. Mum." He lowers his voice. "Is this what it's like for you? Every night, hearing her?"

She hesitates, not wanting to scare him, but she nods. "Harry, Madam Pomfrey will set you right and you won't have to worry about—"

"There's something else," he interrupts, not having heard a single word she said. Darcy narrows her eyes. "I didn't know who to tell, but…"

"What is it?"

Harry looks over his shoulder towards Madam Pomfrey's office, but her door is closed. "Do you remember the night we left Privet Drive?" he whispers. "That dog was there—do you remember?"

"Yes," she replies warily, unsure of where he's going with this.

"I saw it, at the Quidditch match," he continues quickly. "It was the same dog, I swear, but—Darcy, I think it's… well, the Grim."

Darcy stares at him, waiting for a punchline, for him to add something, but he doesn't. She bursts out laughing, a hearty laugh. She keeps laughing until Harry frowns and she stops, realizing that he isn't joking. "Harry, the Grim isn't real," she scoffs. "Did Professor Trelawney tell you about that?"

He rolls his eyes. "Everything gets around this school so quickly—"

"No one told me. My third year, Emily and I took Divination and Professor Trelawney saw the Grim in my tea leaves. All she did was predict how I was going to die a horrible, untimely death. And she was wrong—I'm still alive, aren't I?" Darcy squeezes his hand. "You just saw a dog, not the Grim."

"That doesn't make it any less weird," he protests. "Why would a dog be at my Quidditch match in the pouring rain? The same dog we saw on Privet Drive?"

Darcy releases his hand and exhales, nodding. It is weird, she can't deny that, but Harry's theory that it was the Grim is ridiculous, and she's had enough ridiculous tales in the past week. "It was the dementors—you were seeing things—"

"You don't believe me?"

She opens and closes her mouth, searching for comforting words, but she doesn't know what to say. For once, Darcy's at a loss for words. Is it possible he did see a dog at the match? She hadn't seen one, and to her knowledge, neither did any of her friends. Darcy makes a mental note to ask Carla and Gemma if they recall a black dog. "Of course I believe you. It's just been a long day," she murmurs. "I'm glad you're all right."

Darcy puts both hands on her brother's cheeks, kissing the top of his head. He doesn't object. "You've been crying," he notes, touching her wet cheeks lightly with his fingertips.

"I've been worried about you." She ruffles his hair. "I love you, Harry."

"I love you, too."

"I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."

"Okay."

"Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you?"

"No," he answers. "I'm fine. I wouldn't be here if Madam Pomfrey didn't force me to be. You know how she is—"

"I heard that!" Madam Pomfrey snaps, making both Darcy and Harry jump. "I only have your best interests at heart and you Potters' put so much stress on me sometimes that I don't know what to do with you." She stands beside Darcy, but instead of looking angry, she's smiling at them both. "No more accidents, or I may just have a heart attack. Now, off to bed with you, Miss Potter—I have a patient to treat."