'Every sound she utters is such / a cry of grief, all language could be / drowned in it. She makes me think that / the saddest words are only a failure to cry.'

Brendan Kennelly

Lupin had thought—strictly for the sake of comfort—that dinner would be better if seated upon a couch rather than two hard chairs. Darcy couldn't say no, and now she sits on his own sofa in front of a fire, Lupin beside her. Their dinner plates rest on the coffee table and he's provided himself and Darcy with a bottle of butterbeer. Famished, Darcy eats in silence for a little bit, listening to Lupin talk of upcoming lessons he wants to do for his seventh years, as well as his doubts about moving too quickly for his first year classes.

"—and stop doing Harry's homework for him. He won't learn anything that way."

This gets Darcy's attention and she looks at him, cocking an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I'm not doing Harry's homework, sir," she lies.

"No one else would use the word 'predilection' in their answer to a question about a hinkypunk. I've graded far too many of your essays to know that you're the only student who uses that word regularly."

Darcy scrunches her nose, watching him smile and go back to his dinner. "Did you give him full credit?"

"Yes," he replies between bites, laughing to himself. "I gave him full credit."

It's quiet again as they continue their supper, and Darcy looks around the room while his eyes are glued to his food. There aren't many decorations in his apartments, and it doesn't quite feel like Lupin has made this his home. There are no photographs hanging on the walls or propped on the mantle, and while the place is cluttered with parchment and quills and homework that needs graded, there isn't much of his own personal belongings scattered about. On the corner of the coffee table, there are two stacks of books—the first stack is four books tall, thick volumes relating to dark creatures and defensive magic, a history of the culture of British wizards and witches, their pages wrinkled and worn from years of use. The second stack is seven books tall, but the books are smaller and thinner, the spines starting to fall off and the pages turning yellow. These books, Darcy recognizes, are Muggle in nature—poetry books, one that doesn't have a title but is bound in black leather, and three short novels.

She reaches for the top one, the poetry book, and she flips through the pages. "I know this book," she says, putting her fork down on her plate. The book looks to be in brand new condition, and she touches the pages tenderly as if they're made of delicate china. Darcy turns to face Lupin, smiling weakly. "I didn't realize you were fond of Muggle poetry, Professor."

"My wonderful mother's doing," Lupin replies fondly. "I could say the same for you, however."

Darcy closes the book, keeping it close to her chest, tight in her hands. "When I was a little girl, Petunia made me memorize poems from books like these, and she would have me recite them in flowery dresses when she had company. They'd drink tea and eat biscuits while I made a fool of myself."

"Do you have a favorite?" he asks her.

"Truthfully, I don't know that I remember many poems off the top of my head," she admits, leafing through the book again. "But there is one… forgive me if I don't recite it correctly—"

"Should I give you time to change into something more flowery? I could put some water on to boil in the meantime."

Scoffing, Darcy shakes her head. "Are you mocking me?" she asks, trying hard to hide the smile that threatens its way on her face.

"Sorry." Lupin tilts his head and smiles at her. "Go on, Darcy. Tell me this poem."

Darcy thinks hard, trying to remember. "'When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself, and curse my fate, wishing me like to one more rich in hope, featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, desiring this man's art and that man's scope, with what I most enjoy contented least'—"

"—'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, haply I think of thee, and then my state like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate'—"

"—'For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings'." Darcy smiles sheepishly, blushing, and shrugs her shoulders when she finishes. Lupin claps softly and she inclines her head.

"Shakespeare," he whispers. "That one is in the book. It's beautiful. I enjoy that one."

"Petunia hated it," she recalls. "I think that's why I liked it so much." Darcy turns the book over in her hands, sighing and putting it back on top of the stack. "She wanted me to be a proper young lady—but I think she probably just hoped I'd become so fascinated with the life I could have by being a lady, that I wouldn't want anything to do with the magical world anymore."

"Clearly, she went about it the wrong way," Lupin teases. "Who could resist the magical world when they could be reciting poetry and curtseying and painting a smile on their face?"

"It's not funny," Darcy retorts, perhaps too sharply, but she smiles warmly at him all the same in the hopes he doesn't take it personally. "I dreaded those days. She taught me proper table etiquette, how to cook meals. I recited poetry, and she always made me sing to her—she put me in ballet when I was five years ago and refused to take me out of it for another two years. She told me that I should marry rich, live a comfortable life like her, stay at home with the children." Darcy picks up her fork again, pushing her food around on her plate, scoffing. "Can you imagine? Me—a socialite. Or worse—another Aunt Petunia." She brushes her hair out of her face dramatically, annoyed by the thought of her aunt.

"I'm sure she's incredibly disappointed that the allure of our world kept you in its clutches," he continues. "But living a comfortable life isn't the worst thing in the world."

"No?" she snaps. "While I was being taught how to act a proper lady, how to attract a husband, Harry was being kept in a cupboard under the stairs—ignored, neglected, hated, unloved by the last of our living family, and unwanted. I could have had a normal life, but at what cost? The cost of my brother's happiness and wellbeing?" Darcy sighs again, rubbing her face. "I will never be like Petunia."

"She sounds cruel," Lupin concedes. "You are anything but that, Darcy."

Darcy and Lupin look at each other for a long minute, studying each other's faces, examining each other closely. Darcy turns away, his gaze making her blush.

"What would my mother have wanted for me?" she asks quietly, frowning. "What would she say if she could see how Petunia raised me? My mother's sister, and she let us all down."

"I can't speak for your mother," Lupin says apologetically. "But I'm sure she just would have wanted you to be happy."

"I'm sure you're right," Darcy shrugs, looking back down at her plate, then into the fire. "But I don't have that luxury. I don't have the opportunity to do whatever I want—whatever my heart desires, whatever makes me happy." She turns to Lupin again, and falters when she realizes he hasn't looked away from her. As she resituates herself on the couch, her body facing his, their knees touch and Darcy pulls her leg away quickly, clearing her throat. It takes her a moment to say what she had wanted to say because that simple contact has her so flustered. "I'm going back home after I graduate. Emily is so convinced that I'll follow her into the Ministry, but—it's just a dream, and that's all it has ever been. I can't."

"Harry must know that you can't be at his side always."

Darcy gives a forced smile. "Who would I be without Harry?"

Lupin walks her all the way to the classroom door when they finish. It's past curfew, and he offers to walk her back to Gryffindor Tower, apologizing profusely about losing track of time. Darcy shrugs him off, grinning when he sighs, defeated. Before she goes, he remembers something. "About the lessons with Harry…" he starts, tilting his head. "Were you serious?"

"Well, sure—I mean, if it's all right with you. Emily's right, Professor, I shouldn't have insisted," she says. "I'm sorry. I forgot myself."

"Truly," Lupin laughs. "It's all right. I don't mind. I'd love to teach you if you're willing to learn."

"I just thought maybe it's a useful skill to have, conjuring a Patronus. And you're right, sir, I can't do it on my own."

"It's advanced magic," he explains, reassuring her. "I never expected you to conjure a corporeal Patronus during your first attempt. You did a wonderful job, better than I had expected. I never meant to insult you in the slightest."

Darcy chuckles. "It's all right, Professor. I'm not insulted."

Lupin lingers in the threshold of his classroom as Darcy wraps her arms around herself. Grinning a toothy grin, he raises his eyebrows. "Goodnight, Darcy."

"Goodnight, sir."

The rest of November passes quickly enough. Darcy looks forward to Christmas break, and looks forward to being in a near empty castle with more freedom than she's had in weeks. The overall atmosphere of the castle is spirited, and with the upcoming Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff Quidditch match, tensions are high, as well. Emily and Darcy—who are rooting for Ravenclaw in hopes that Gryffindor will still have a chance at the cup—butt heads with Carla and the ever competitive Gemma, who takes up the Hufflepuff colors for the time being, as well.

While Emily persists with her suspicions about Darcy and Lupin, Darcy finds that the nights she spends with Lupin are her favorite nights. She's started bringing her homework to his cozy apartment, and after dinner he's taken to reading the poetry book outloud after they finish dinner while she scribbles hasty answers or does some last minute research in one of her books. Sometimes she even brings her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework and he'll help her through it, explaining things patiently to her, always allowing her to reach the conclusion on her own. It was she who had made the suggestion he read aloud to her, and she had thought that the poems would bring up nasty emotions she still associates with her childhood, but Lupin's soothing voice makes her see them in a different light, and she comes to love each poem in its own way. Lupin allows her to read her favorite Shakespearean sonnet when they get to it—she stands before the fireplace, reading it dramatically and with a pink tint to her cheeks, and he flashes a wide grin at her throughout the whole thing, clapping again when she finishes and curtsies for him. Darcy thinks Lupin enjoys her rendition of the poem more than Petunia or her friends ever did, and it makes her heart lighter.

Harry lets her borrow the Invisibility Cloak for the nights that Darcy has dinner with Lupin, and she leaves it behind a statue outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom before entering. It helps her avoid a few teachers on her way back sometimes, something she's very keen on, not wanting another detention. Lupin still apologizes each night that he keeps her so late, offering every time to walk her back, but she always politely declines, not wanting to leave the cloak in the corridor. Underneath the Invisibility Cloak, she never stops smiling the whole back back to her common room.

Gemma begins to catch up with her work and eventually arranges something one Saturday, so Darcy, Emily, and Carla join in her an abandoned bathroom for a few drinks. It's the most fun Darcy's had in a while, and they all leave closer to dawn than dusk to return to their common room. Darcy and Emily end up falling asleep together in Darcy's small bed, drunk and exhausted and stinking of wine.

That night, Darcy's dreams are blurred and they run together, most like because of all the alcohol she'd consumed. She can feel the heavy weight of debris and rubble on her legs, and in her dream she screams and shrieks for help, and when the faceless man comes to rescue her, she wakes before he's revealed to her. When Darcy sits up straight in bed, Emily wakes with her, startled and confused. Emily holds Darcy to her, comforting her and stroking her hair, but Darcy isn't afraid. In fact, a surge of affection for Emily goes through her and she feels loved. She looks around the dormitory, allowing Emily to run her fingers through her hair until the world around Darcy begins to spin and she has to lay down and close her eyes again lest she vomits over the side of the mattress.

Despite the bitter cold, the conditions are perfect for the Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw game. Darcy and Emily shout themselves hoarse with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at their side, screaming in delight each time Ravenclaw manages to put the Quaffle past the Hufflepuff keeper. It's a long, exciting game as Ravenclaw scores points after points after points and when the Snitch is finally caught by their Seeker, Cho Chang, both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor students alike create so much noise that by the time they walk back to their common room, Darcy's head is ringing, but a smile is stuck on her face for the rest of the day. Fred and George Weasley even smuggle some butterbeer from Hogsmeade and the Gryffindors celebrate Ravenclaw's win that night, drinking to the possibility of Gryffindor winning the Cup.

With spirits running as high as ever, even teachers begin to feel the excitement of the holidays. Darcy gets less homework that she usually does, and most teachers skip lectures in order to have more "hands-on" lessons before break. This allows Darcy more time to spend with her friends, and they spend most of their time in the library or in an old bathroom, talking excitedly of their winter break plans. They all offer multiple times to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas with Darcy, but she refuses their offers politely, insisting they spend the time with their own families, and she'll spend time with hers. Part of her is privately very glad that she'll be able to have dinner with Lupin without having to worry about Emily waiting up for her, as she does each and every time.

She also busies herself with Harry's Quidditch practice. It's almost painful to watch Harry ride the school's broomstick, which is slow and clumsy, but she relishes the fresh air and appreciates the walk down to the Quidditch Pitch. More often than not, Emily comes with her, and sometimes Hermione and Ron when Emily is busy with schoolwork or another hobby. Harry complains daily about getting a new broomstick, and she almost puts in an order for one after practice one night to shut him up, but after overhearing him talking about what kind of broom he wants, she throws her order form into the fire. Harry still plays fairly on his school broom, and Oliver doesn't seem to have taken her words to heart—he's still friendly as ever to her, complimenting her after every practice and walking her back to Gryffindor Tower ahead of the rest of the team some nights.

A week before the end of term, Darcy receives an owl at breakfast. It's not a very handsome owl, in fact it's a small and rather weak owl, but it drops the letter onto her lap just fine and soars away through the open windows, presumably up to the owlery to rest. When she sees it's from Mr. Weasley, she tears the letter open, and Ron peers over her shoulder at it, sitting to her right.

"Why didn't dad write me?" he asks glumly, shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. "Do I not deserve a letter?"

"How many times have you written him this year?" Darcy asks with a sly grin.

"None," Ron answers.

"There's your answer, then."

Darcy,

Spoke with Dumbledore and the Ministry—I'll be able to visit this Saturday. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks and we can have lunch and a drink. We have a lot to discuss.

Tell my children, as well. I'd like to see them if they aren't too ashamed to be caught in public with their father. See if Ginny would like me to run up to the castle afterwards to say hello.

I'll see you soon.

Mr. Weasley

"He's visiting," Darcy smiles. "He'll be in Hogsmeade on our next trip. Saturday. He said to meet him at the Three Broomsticks, and told me to bring along any kids who aren't too embarrassed to see him."

Ron scrunches his nose. "Tell him I'll say hello in passing, but I won't have lunch with him."

"You should be thankful you have such a wonderful father," Darcy replies, ruffling his bright red hair. "I'm sure Ginny would like to see him." But Darcy's stomach turns at the thought of what he needs to discuss. She's sure it's just Ministry business, and she's sure that Mr. Weasley will offer her help getting into a Ministry, but part of her worries knowing that he's spoken to Dumbledore. Her hand goes up to her left shoulder instinctively, afraid that somehow Mr. Weasley's found out about the incident, but she won't know until talking to him, so she tries to put her fears out of her mind.

"What if he knows?" Darcy asks Lupin one night, fingering the scars on her shoulder, gazing into the fire. "What if Dumbledore told him?"

Lupin puts the book down in his lap, closing it. She's now interrupted him three times in five minutes, and he sighs, leaning back on the couch. When Darcy looks at him, she can tell that he's afraid of that exact scenario, but he does his best to keep calm about it. She does enough worrying for the both of them. "Why would Professor Dumbledore tell him? He's not your father," Lupin replies. "Why should he need to know?"

"I know he's not my father, but… well, Professor McGonagall wrote to him when she caught me drinking," Darcy counters.

"That's different," Lupin says, laughing. "She likely wanted to scare you into giving up the drink."

Darcy sits up straighter and bites down on her lower lip. "If I may, Professor Lupin," she begins, and at the sound of his name, he looks up. "What did Professor Dumbledore tell you, sir? After everything happened?"

Lupin hesitates, looking at her warily. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he utters. His eyes flick to her shoulder and linger there. Darcy lowers her hand. Lupin sighs deeply and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I'm so, so sorry, Darcy…"

"It's fine," she says quickly, nodding. "It's healed. It's over, Professor, and I'm all right."

But Lupin doesn't seem to think it's fine. "Darcy, I—you have no idea how guilty I feel," he whispers, moving closer to Darcy. He reaches out to her shoulder, but stops as his fingers hover above it. Thinking better of it, he lowers his hand back to his lap. Lowering his voice as if people are in the room with them, listening closely, he continues. "I could have turned you. I could have killed you. Just knowing that I could have… it haunts me, and I cannot apologize enough."

Darcy sits still as a statue, her eyes flicking to the hand in his lap, the hand he was about to touch her shoulder with. She can feel her face burning, turning red like it always does when he gets so close to her. "But you didn't," she says meekly. Darcy looks him over again, resisting the urge to reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes. He's so close to her that she would barely have to move to kiss him—just one kiss, just to see what it would be like, just to see if it's at good in real life as it is in her dreams… She clears her throat and stands suddenly. Lupin gets to his feet with her, breathing heavier than normal. "I should go. It's getting late."

"I'll walk you back," he insists, making her smile.

"I'll be fine."

Lupin nods and walks her to the classroom door, closing it after her. Darcy gathers up the Invisibility Cloak she's stashed outside of his classroom, walking slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, trying to think of what she was thinking. She knows that he's her teacher, knows that he's her dead parents' friend, knows what he is and knows that it's wrong, wrong, wrong… but sitting in his small apartments, listening to him read poetry to her, she forgets all of that. Listening to him read to her, eating dinner in front of a warm fire, telling him all of her fears and hopes and dreams, savoring small accidental touches—he's not any of those things then, he's just her friend.

Darcy shudders, mentally kicking herself and thinking seriously about taking a cold shower. Or possibly jumping in the Black Lake. Or taking a tall shot of whiskey. Anything to douse her feelings for Lupin.