'The rest of us can only run away from time to time, and however much we pretend to be free, we know it is only for a little while—our hands and our feet are tied.'

Daphné du Maurier

"Where's Harry?"

Hermione looks up at Darcy from the sofa, cradling a book in her arms. Her eyes are shiny, cheeks damp from tears. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, making her face look tired and gaunt and drained. "He's in his dormitory," she replies softly, holding out the book in her hands. "He wanted me to give you this. He marked a page for you."

Darcy approaches slowly, taking the leather bound book from her hands. She holds it gingerly, turning it over, and smiles weakly at Hermione. "Thanks, Hermione." She heads for the spiral staircase and Emily hesitates by the sofa, but decides to follow her. Darcy wishes she would stay with Hermione and leave her alone. All throughout dinner, Emily had talked as if nothing were wrong while Darcy moved her food around on her plate with her fork, every so often glancing up at the empty seat at the staff table where Lupin should have been. The very thought that Emily could just brush something like this off enrages her, but Darcy's hasn't the heart to tell her best friend off—afraid that if she were to push her old friend away that she wouldn't come back during a time of need.

Thankfully, none of the other girls have decided to come to bed yet. The dormitory is empty and Emily shuts the door behind her. Darcy flops onto her bed and Emily sits on top of her blankets, pulling a small chest out from under her bed, opening it to reveal several of her most treasured personal belongings—some books, nail polish, her favorite dress, pictures of her and her family. She takes one of the books and burrows into her bed, opening it to a marked page, but Darcy notices her eyes stare blankly at the page. She's only thankful that Emily isn't asking questions.

Darcy opens the book of photographs, ignoring the one that Harry's marked. She wants to see them all again. The first few pages bring such joy to her and she smiles fondly at the pictures. Her parents wave up at her, smiling and laughing, hugging and holding hands and kissing each other's cheeks in some pictures. She finds a picture of a her mother and father with a newborn baby—Darcy, sitting in her mother's arms, her eyes still a deep, rich blue. Even as a baby, she looks small and lacking the round cheeks that Harry had been born with. As a baby, she looks like James.

When she sees the picture of her parents with herself and a tiny Harry, Darcy smiles. She touches her mother's face, wanting nothing more than to feel her skin, to know that she's real. She imagines her mother alive today, sitting in bed with Darcy with her arms wrapped around her. And when she turns the page, it's to the page that Harry's marked—a picture of their parents on their wedding day. Her mother looks beyond beautiful, almost angelic, her red hair tumbling down her shoulders and back in loose waves, bringing out the green in her eyes. Her dress is white as snow, the long sleeves lacy. Her father looks just as he does in every photograph of him—messy, dark hair sticking up, a wide smile on his face. The both of them are about the same age as Darcy is now, and Darcy examines her mother's face, aware of the resemblance between them when she looks in the mirror, but she sees her father in her, too. His pointed nose, full lips, long eyelashes. At James's side, hugging his leg tight with a nervous look about her is Darcy, still a toddler, her long, auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun, clad in a cream colored dress that she wouldn't be caught dead in at this age.

And standing beside her father, careful not to step on Darcy, is his best man—a man that, before, Darcy hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about. But it's so obvious now—it's so painfully obvious that it's Sirius Black now that she looks at him carefully. His dark hair stops shy of his shoulder, wavy and unruly, clean and silky. His smile is bright and contagious and he has an arm around Darcy's father's shoulder. Darcy can't help but think he's incredibly handsome compared to what he looks like now.

Darcy shudders and closes the book immediately. All these long months of dreaming, of feeling the faceless man's loving embrace as he plucks her from the rubble of what had been her home. All those months of wondering who it is, why he's so familiar to her. She remembers Hagrid's words too clearly.

Poor Darcy cried the whole time—she wouldn't let go of him… I had to pry her off Black's chest and even then she was sobbin' and cryin' for him…

She opens the book to the photograph again, and touches Sirius's face, smiling weakly. How many times had he held her as a baby? How many times had he been there to wipe her tears? How many times had he played with her, smiled at her? Did he ever really love her? In her dreams he does, and she knows that she loves—loved—him too. But the idea of it makes her sick to her stomach and she closes the book once more, looking to Emily. She wishes it were Harry on the bed beside her instead. Harry would understand, he would talk to her, he would need comforting and she could give it to him. Darcy stuffs the photo album under her bed, laying back on her pillow and sighing heavily.

"It's Sirius Black," she says. Emily closes her book slowly and turns to her friend. "In my dreams, it's Sirius Black pulling me from the rubble."

Emily hesitates, and Darcy sees the discomfort and unease cross her face. "It's just a dream," she replies.

But it's not, and she can't blame Emily for not understanding that, she can't blame Lupin for not understanding, either. It's not just a dream to her, it's a memory. But how could she possibly explain that without coming across as insane? "That's what Lupin said, too," Darcy mutters, closing her eyes.

Emily repositions herself in her bed, tucking her feet under her. Darcy has a feeling she won't like the words that come out of her friend next, and she's absolutely right. "That wasn't the first time you've been in his—er—chambers, was it?" Emily asks quietly.

Rage boils in Darcy. After all that she'd heard, after all they had heard, Emily can't help but to bring up Lupin. Darcy has to admit to herself that even if Emily had waited months to ask, Darcy still would be just as irritated, but to ask now, after everything that has just happened, she can barely contain her anger. "What does it matter?" Darcy snaps, pulling the blankets up to her chin and turning her back on Emily.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for a reply. "I suppose it doesn't," Emily finally says, but she still sounds curious. Darcy can feel her eyes boring a hole into the back of her head, but thankfully Emily has no more to say.

When Darcy closes her eyes, sleep comes to her easily, too easily. All of her crying has left her exhausted, and staying awake with all this new information is too overwhelming. All day she'd feared the dreams that would come during the night, afraid to see Sirius Black's terrible, evil face. And she does see Sirius Black's face in her dreams tonight, but it's not the ugly, gaunt face that chokes her until her throat is raw and her eyes are bulging—it's the handsome face she sees as he pulls her from the debris, holding her close to his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped tight around her small, five-year-old body. Darcy has learned by now that she cannot control what she does in her dreams, but she's glad that the Darcy in her dream nuzzles into his chest. Compared to her other dreams, this one is a salvation, and when Sirius's face dissolves before her eyes, she almost cries out to him, to beg him to come back and hold her if only just for a little while.

As Sirius's face fades away completely, Lupin's face appears, lined and scarred. She can feel his hand upon her cheek, his warm skin against her's. He smiles at her then, his eyes crinkling—a true smile, his thin lips widening until he's grinning from ear to ear, laughing softly, and then he leans in and kisses her hard on the lips, his fingers tangling in her hair. He's still smiling as he kisses her, a deep kiss, a kiss full of longing, one that makes her heart flutter out of control…

Darcy's eyes open just a sliver. The moonlight filters in through the window by her bed, casting a light on her face. The wind rattles her window, howling. The blankets are bunched up at her feet, her face half buried in her pillow, and all around her, her friends snore softly. She lays still for a few minutes, the last of her dreams still swirling in her head.

I thought he was going to kiss me, she thinks. How could I have been so stupid to think he'd actually kiss me?

She rolls over, groaning, pulling her blankets back up. Emily's sleeping hard, her mouth wide open, one arm hanging off the side of her bed. Darcy wonders briefly what Emily thinks happened behind Lupin's door as she and the rest of their friends waited. She wonders what Emily would say if she told her what had actually happened behind Lupin's door. Darcy would be lying to herself if she said she'd never thought about it, because she had—several times, actually. But she never meant for it to go so far, to be mere inches from his lips, her eyes closed as she waited for him to press his lips to hers. She never meant to actually do it, she only thought about it, dreamed about it—a school girl's fantasy, that's all it is.

But had he really wanted to kiss her? Darcy remembers how quickly he'd pulled away from her, how quickly he asked her to leave. But for those few seconds, Darcy had thought Lupin was going to kiss her, and she'd been ready for it, she had wanted it, and she had been so flustered about all of it that she hadn't realized how excited she was, how ready she was to finally feel what his lips would feel like against hers.

He's your teacher. It's inappropriate for him to be so close to you. He's old enough to be your father. He shouldn't be abusing his position like this. She can hear her internal argument in Emily's shrill voice, and it rings in her head. Emily's voice of reason has been one and the same with Darcy's own mind since first year. Typically, Emily's voice decides to pop in and make its case before Darcy decides to do something stupid with a stupid boy, or something really stupid like following Harry in through a trapdoor guarded by a three-headed dog or even following Harry into the Chamber of Secrets like a fool. The only time she doesn't hear Emily's voice in her head is when Emily is right beside her, but even then, she has to listen to the real thing. And sometimes listening to Emily chastise her is hard, and Darcy can never look her in the eyes for a few minutes afterwards because Emily really knows how to strip a person down and make them rethink their entire life.

"It was nothing," she breathes, making herself comfortable again. Darcy listens as the wind dies down outside, the absolute silence suffocating her. "Nothing."

Emily wakes Darcy gently in the morning, whispering in her ear about leaving for the holidays. Darcy had almost forgotten, but she bids her friend a sleepy goodbye and Emily kisses her cheek before she leaves the dormitory, chatting with the other girls, all of whom normally go home during the break. Darcy falls back asleep quickly, enjoying the dormitory to herself, and she wakes well after lunch, her stomach growling. She lays there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, hands tucked behind her head.

The same three things cycle through her head for what seems like hours—her parents dying, Sirius Black rescuing her and giving her up, and her and Lupin's "almost kiss". Every time she pictures the green flash of light that precedes her mother crumpling on Harry's bedroom floor, she shudders, but each time she relives it, her mother's face gets blurrier and blurrier until there is no face, and her mother is as faceless as Sirius Black had been in her dreams before she realized he was Sirius Black. And when she does picture Sirius afterwards, she's conflicted between her feelings. One on hand, the thought of knowing that she could have been rescued—could have been raised in a home where she was loved and cared for—makes her grieve. There is no denying the love that Darcy feels—felt, she reminds herself every time—for Sirius when she was younger. Or is that just her dreams? What if Emily and Lupin had been right, and it was just a dream? It seems so real to her, though, and the way that her legs ache when she wakes afterwards, the feeling of being wanted and loved and sometimes the feeling of dread…

Then there's Lupin. Darcy feels as if she can never face him again, never look him in the eyes now that he knows she would have let him kiss her. She's glad that she had closed her eyes, glad that she's ignorant to his thoughts. The memory makes her flush a deep red, but at the same time, she relishes it. She tries not to dwell too long on the thought, but whenever she stops thinking about Lupin, her thoughts wander back to Sirius Black. It's a never ending cycle, and she can't decide who she'd rather think about.

It's only at that moment does she remember the conversation she'd had with Mr. Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron, before term started. And people might try to feed you information, but you mustn't listen to them, all right? The most important thing is that Harry stays far away from Sirius Black… Darcy closes her eyes and sighs. He knew, she thinks. He knows. She suddenly feels like running to the owlery, sending an angry letter to Mr. Weasley. But she softens at the thought of Mr. Weasley receiving an angry letter from her—she doesn't want Mr. Weasley to feel bad or feel sorry about telling her information he probably should never have told her in the first place. And if Mrs. Weasley were to read the letter (and Darcy is sure that she would), she may get angry at Mr. Weasley for what he told Darcy.

Darcy groans again. She doesn't want anyone to be angry, or upset, or disappointed—she doesn't want anyone else to feel the way that she does.

When she does retire down to the common room, Harry, Hermione, and Ron are sitting by the fire, looking solemn. "Hey," Darcy says slowly, looking the three of them over.

Hermione and Ron give Harry a meaningful look, and before Darcy can ask what's going on, Harry is walking with her back up the steps, to his dormitory. Harry collapses onto his mattress and Darcy sits at the foot of his bed, waiting with wide eyes. For a long time, Harry doesn't speak, only rubs his eyes and cleans his glasses, then rubs his eyes again.

"How are you?" she suddenly says, but it sounds forced and she wishes she hadn't said it. Darcy wants to gather Harry in her arms and comfort him instead of talking. She wants to feel useful, but Harry seems stiff and cold, so she doesn't make a move to help him.

Harry watches her, his eyebrows furrowed. "I'm angry," he finally answers, laughing in disbelief. It seems so long ago to Darcy that he was a little boy; he seems so grown now, armed with information that has changed him from a boy to a man. Sometimes Darcy finds it hard to believe that he's only thirteen, and at the thought, her heart breaks. "Did you see the page I marked in the photo album?"

Darcy nods. "I can't believe I never noticed it was him," she shrugs. "I feel so stupid."

"Where did you go?" Harry asks quietly. "After you heard everything, where was the first place you went?"

Darcy hesitates, but doesn't think lying will help. "I went to Professor Lupin," she admits. "To ask about what I'd heard. I didn't know who else to go to."

Harry looks at her expectantly. "What did he say?"

"It's true," she sighs. "It's all true. He knew—he knew about it all." Darcy pulls her knees to her chest, and she feels a surge of affection for her little brother. "Do you remember when I told you about my dream? About the person who pulls me from the ruins of our house?"

He understands. "It's Sirius Black."

"Yeah," Darcy laughs nervously. "Yeah, it's him. Just like Hagrid said." She wonders if Harry will dismiss her dream just as easily as Lupin and Emily had, and her blood boils. They had believed her quick enough when she had told them about the dream of her mother's murder—when she had told them, they both had been slightly uncomfortable knowing that Darcy remembers, so why couldn't they believe that she remembers Sirius rescuing her? They're only trying to help, she thinks. They don't want me to be afraid. "You think I'm making it up," she adds after Harry is quiet for a long while.

"No, I don't," Harry retorts, scrunching his nose. "I never said that. I believe you."

Darcy smiles fondly at her brother, but her smile fades away after a split second. "Hagrid knew, as well," she whispers. Her head begins to pound and she wants to go back to sleep, to forget that all of this had ever happened. "Why wouldn't he tell us?"

Harry shifts and grows visibly angry. "We can talk about that later," he says, and Harry clenches his jaw at the thought. "We went to see Hagrid today."

She frowns. "Did you ask him why he decided to keep such an important detail of our life—"

"They set a date for the hearing."

"Wh—?" Darcy stutters. "What hearing? Hagrid's? They aren't going to fire him for the hippogriff, are they?"

"Buckbeak's hearing." Harry licks his lips. "I was going to ask him why he never told me about Sirius Black because, I know, we should have known, but—Hagrid gave us the letter and I couldn't ask him then. I couldn't. Malfoy's dad put in a complaint—"

She scoffs. "It's a death sentence," she hisses, suddenly furious. "The Ministry will do whatever Lucius Malfoy wants them to do. Surely Hagrid knows that."

"Of course he does—well, I'm sure he thinks…" Harry messes up his dark hair. "We've got to help him, Darcy. We can't just do nothing. He's our friend."

"What are we supposed to do?" she asks. "The Ministry won't want anything we can offer them."

"We were in the library for a bit today researching previous cases to help prepare for Buckbeak's defense."

"And have you found anything?"

"Well, no…" Harry shrugs his shoulders. It seems there's nothing else he has to say about it, and from his back pocket, he retrieves a large piece of parchment, blank and folded up multiple times. He looks up at her, as if waiting for a reaction, and he places it on the bed between them. "There is one more thing."

Darcy cocks an eyebrow, looking at Harry incredulously. Then, to her belief, she laughs. "What is this?" she scoffs. "I'm not writing another essay of yours—Lupin's onto me—"

"It's not—no, look. I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good." And at those words, ink flourishes on the parchment, covering it with lines and boxes, making the parchment look to have veins. Then, clear writing appears on the front. Harry spins the parchment around so she can read it.

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs…" Darcy looks at her brother suspiciously, unfolding the map with fingers. As she opens it up, she sees dots moving about what looks like a blueprint—then she realizes that it's Hogwarts—every broom closet, every classroom, every dormitory, it's all there. She sees passages that lead out of Hogwarts that she hasn't ever seen before, but the most incredible thing are the dots—dots with names above them that move down corridors and in office. She finds Albus Dumbledore pacing in his office, and in the Gryffindor dormitory, she sees Darcy Potter and Harry Potter sitting perfectly still. Darcy stares in awe at the map, rereading the names on the front.

"What is this?" she asks, thinking. "Who are these people? 'The Marauder's Map'. I don't know what that means."

Harry shrugs, a smirk forming on his lips. "It's how I got into Hogsmeade," he explains. "Fred and George gave it to me. They said they got it from Filch."

Darcy laughs with her brother for a moment, but talking about Hogsmeade reminds her of something. She wonders what Harry would say if she were to tell him about Mr. Weasley's job offer, but she's afraid that Harry will make her feel guilty just by looking at her, just by giving her a wide-eyed look. Darcy folds the map back up and pushes it towards Harry, pursing her lips and struggling to find words. She decides to keep her secret tucked away for a little while longer, until she and Harry are in a better mental state.

"Mischief managed," Harry murmurs, and in seconds, all the writing and drawings disappear from the parchment. He looks at her with a heavy gaze, but Harry leans forward and hugs her tight, surprising her.

She buries her face in his shoulder, feeling the burn of fresh tears building in her eyes, and she knows that she will never be able to take Mr. Weasley up on his offer.