'I fear you close by; I love you far away.'
Friedrich Nietzsche
Darcy only reads the first poem out of the book before her mind begins to wander. Lupin's made notes in the margin about his favorite lines, his favorite parts, his favorite rhymes and imagery, but his handwriting is small and unruly, like a fifteen-year-old boy's. Darcy can't help but to admire it, only because it's his—the handwriting she's grown so accustomed to after seeing it on the blackboard in class so often. But she finds she can't concentrate on the second poem, so she slips the book beneath her pillow with her wand and digs around under her bed, looking for a different book.
While the Firebolt had come as a pleasant surprise, and even though she's very happy for Harry (and quite glad she didn't have to buy him one herself), something isn't right, and even Hermione knows it. Hermione's hesitancy towards the broomstick and overall suspicion doesn't sit well with Darcy. Harry's friend has always had decent judgement she's thought, has always been logical and correct in most cases, and Darcy has been known to brush her off from time to time, as she is only a third year and not very worldly. If Emily had been with them, Emily would have calmed Darcy, convinced her that it's just a broomstick sent by someone who cares for Harry—but Darcy can't think of someone who cares for Harry and has a lot of money.
She has to admit, McGonagall would have been her first thought. McGonagall, ever competitive when it comes to Quidditch, has all the reason in the world to buy a Firebolt, but Darcy doesn't think McGonagall, also ever fair towards all of her students, would ever show such favoritism. She had done it once, but would she do it again? Though Dumbledore, who'd given Harry and Darcy the Invisibility Cloak, who'd shown such favoritism towards Harry since the beginning, is another idea, Darcy doesn't think he would give Harry a broomstick out of all things. She knows that Hagrid, as much as he loves the Potter siblings, would never be able to splurge on such an expensive item, and same with Lupin—the poetry book was proof enough of that (her stomach churns at the thought he'd thought to get her a gift, no matter how small).
Even though Ron was only joking, his throwaway comment about Sirius Black buying Harry a Firebolt frightens her. Perhaps Hermione was thinking the same thing, afraid of saying it and being mocked. Darcy would have been afraid to say it, if she had been thinking it at the time. She wouldn't have wanted Harry and Ron to laugh at her, to think her a coward, to think her crazy. Is it crazy? she thinks. Is it so crazy to think Sirius Black is the sender? And what if Hermione didn't think that Sirius Black was the mystery gift giver? What if Hermione had been thinking of someone else, and what if she laughed along with her friends at the thought?
No, Darcy reasons, Hermione wouldn't laugh.
The book she finds beneath her bed is one she's looked through hundreds of times, or so it seems to her. When Hagrid had given it to her and Harry, it had been brand new, untouched except for the old photographs. Now, the spine is loose and the pages are dirty at the corners, where she and Harry have turned them so many times before. Her eyes scan the pictures, she smiles at the her parents looking up at her and smiling back, waving. She looks at the all of the pictures with her in them, as a baby with her parents and grandparents, with Harry in them as a newborn baby.
She wonders how many pictures Lupin had contributed, if he gave any at all. None of the pictures have him in them, and only the one with Sirius Black. She looks at that one for a long time, watching her parents kiss and steal glances and smile up at her from their photograph. She touches her own face, her thin face, just like her father's. After a while of watching, Darcy watches her younger self lean against Sirius's leg and Sirius puts a hand on her shoulder, smiling down at her. Darcy feels her heart swell, remembers the love she feels in her dreams for Sirius, but she closes the book, feeling disgusted with herself for thinking fondly of him.
Darcy walks through the corridors to lunch alone, skipping down the steps two at a time, jumping a trick step, and landing at the bottom with a loud thud that seems to echo all around her. On the first floor, however, someone calls her name. "Darcy," it drawls, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She turns around, frowning. Professor Snape is walking slowly towards her, his black cloak trailing behind him. In his hands is a large goblet of smoking liquid, and Darcy lets him come to her in the middle of the corridor, her eyes fixed upon the goblet.
It seems that talking is not what Snape has in mind, and he shoves the goblet into Darcy's hands, nearly spilling some over the sides. She grasps it as it starts to slide from her arms, and Snape brushes past her. "Bring this to Professor Lupin and be quick about it," he continues over his shoulder. "I don't particularly feel like making a detour today."
Before he turns a corner towards the Great Hall, Darcy calls out to him. "Wait!" she shouts, hurrying towards him. She looks up into his face and scrunches her nose. Snape doesn't fail to notice and he scowls at her, cocking an eyebrow. He's ugly, Darcy thinks, and he's always been ugly. His eyes are dark and cold, no warmth in them at all, and his lips are so thin that they may not be there at all. "Is it true, sir? You agreed to have me back next year?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "I wasn't given much choice in the matter," Snape sneers. He raises both of his eyebrows now and nods down the corridor. "Quickly, Darcy."
Darcy heeds his words and makes her way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, careful not to spill any of the potion. She lets herself into the empty classroom, walking straight to Lupin's office, unsure of whether or not he'll be in there. She knocks once, but no one answers, so she walks to the wall where she knows the door is hiding. Darcy smacks the wall with the palm of her hand, hoping he'll hear.
"Come back tomorrow!" comes Lupin's hoarse voice, weak and tired. "I'm feeling ill!"
She sighs. "It's me, Professor Lupin. Professor Snape sent me—I'll just, er—I'll put your potion on your desk—"
She turns and puts the goblet in the center of his desk, but before Darcy is able to leave the office, the door to Lupin's apartments open and he's standing in the threshold, staring at her. "Darcy," he breathes. "I'm so sorry—I thought you were someone else."
"Do many students come by your own private apartment, I wonder?" Darcy smiles weakly, looking him over. Lupin chuckles. "I met Professor Snape in the corridor and he asked that I bring this to you." She motions towards the goblet and Lupin walks over to it, slowly.
Lupin doesn't look well—the whole week has not done him much good, but with the full moon tonight, he looks worse. His hair is damp with sweat, his face flushed and wet, as well, looking quite feverish. There are dark bags under his heavy eyes, and his entire body is slumped and exhausted underneath the tattered and patched clothing that he's wearing. "Thank you," he says, reaching out to grab the goblet. Darcy watches him drink it, and he sets it back on the desk. "I have to admit, you're a sight for sore eyes. I had expected Professor Snape, but—this is much better."
"You're a flatterer, Professor Lupin," she teases, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at her feet.
Lupin clears his throat. "If truth be told, I could use some of your flattery right about now," he replies. "Do I truly look that awful? Or is there some other reason you won't meet my eyes?"
"No, no—it's just—" Darcy looks at his face and squirms uncomfortably, shifting on her feet. "You look… unwell. How are you feeling, sir?"
"This isn't the first time I've been through this," he tells her with a small, tired smile. "I'll manage this time, as well. But I appreciate your concern, Darcy." Lupin's face falls as she looks away again, inching backwards towards the classroom. "You're afraid."
Darcy looks up at the words, and looks at him hard. To know that tonight, Lupin will become a monster, does frightens her slightly, though she hates to admit it, even to herself. Not a monster, another voice answers in her head, not with his potion. It has been so long since last she's dreamed of him as a werewolf, tearing at her flesh and biting down hard, breaking bone and eating her chest—lately, when she dreams of him, she dreams of soft hands touching warm flesh, soft kisses up and down her neck, soft smiles inches from her own face. Tell him, a voice rings in her mind, strangely reminiscent of Emily's voice, tell him now what Dumbledore said.
Her silence is all the answer that Lupin needs. His face hardens and he looks more wolfish than usual, making her cringe away from him, clutching her shoulder. Darcy's heart pounds beneath her chest, and guilt washes over her as she lowers her hand to her side, hating herself. Lupin nods slowly as if in understanding, watching her take another small step backwards. "You think me some grotesque beast? A monster?" he rasps, his tone laced with venom, with disgust.
"No," she protests, albeit weakly. "I didn't say that."
"You're thinking it," he continues in the same icy voice. "Don't think I haven't seen others look at me the way you're looking at me right now. You looked at me like this the first time I saw you after—" He breaks off, but doesn't need to continue for Darcy to understand. She had been afraid of him the day after he attacked her, but it's different now. She isn't in danger, she reminds herself, and she knows he would never hurt her if he could help it. "You're disgusted, afraid—"
"You're putting words in my mouth," Darcy snaps, her face turning pink.
"Words that you're thinking, but refuse to say—"
"Words I would never say about you, Professor." Darcy inhales deeply, moving closer to the office door. She puts a hand on the doorknob and turns back to look at him one last time. "Thank you for the gift. I love it. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything—I hadn't expected anything from you, honestly."
Tell him. Tell him now.
"Darcy, stay," he whispers as she crosses the threshold into the classroom. Darcy stops abruptly and turns again, completely red in the face. "Just for a little while."
Tell him. "I—I shouldn't," she replies sadly. "I can't. You should get some rest."
Lupin hesitates, grinding his jaw. "All right."
But he looks so sickly and pathetic standing there, staring at her. Darcy's heart goes out to him, and all she wants is to kiss him, just to see if he'd kiss her back. He's no monster, just a man, she thinks. She wants to stay, wants to help him through this, wants to touch him just for a moment, just to feel the churning in her stomach and the heat in her fingertips. But she knows that Snape knows she's here—if she doesn't turn up at lunch, he'll know, and what will Dumbledore say when he finds out she hasn't told Lupin about his warning? What will he say when he finds out Darcy hasn't done what he's asked? She's ignored his warning, choosing to continue seeing Lupin in the privacy of his own room, away from the prying eyes of others. But they haven't held hands, nor touched—only innocent flattering and stealing smiles across crowded rooms and in class. That's not wrong, is it?
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" Darcy asks before taking her leave, silencing the voice in her head begging her to tell him about Dumbledore's warning. "I could bring you lunch or… if you'd like a new book to read, I could bring one for you."
"I would not ask you to care for me, Darcy," he answers, his voice softer now, gentler. "That is a burden I'll shoulder alone. You have done far too much for me as it is, and I'm grateful for that much."
She shifts uncomfortably again, wondering if he really knows how much she'd like to care for him. "Still," she pauses, "if you should change your mind and find yourself in need of company—"
"I'll know where to find you. Happy Christmas, love."
Darcy smiles shyly. "Happy Christmas, Professor Lupin."
Darcy ends up returning to lunch only to give Snape the empty goblet back, but she retires to her common room afterwards, only having eaten a few bites of a sandwich before deciding she wasn't hungry. Dumbledore watches her walk in and watches her walk out, but she avoids eye contact with him. She spends the rest of the day reading poems by the fire, her feet cold. She wishes she could read in front of Lupin's fire instead, her cold feet tucked under his thigh. Darcy pays more attention to the writing in the margins of each page than the actual poems, most of which she now knows by heart once again, for the first time in years. She loves them that much more, hearing them in Lupin's voice when she reads them silently to herself.
When her brother and Ron return from lunch, Darcy goes back up to her dormitory to read in silence. She continues to read through the afternoon, even through dinner (though Ron did promise to bring her back some desserts), and some poems she rereads twice. The meanings have changed since last she read them in flowery dresses, in Aunt Petunia's sitting room surrounded by Aunt Petunia's friends, everyone's eyes fixed upon her. When she was younger, the poems were just words to her, stories that struck no chord with young girls and sometimes seemed completely ridiculous. But now, the poems are memories lost to her, other lives she could have had, raw emotion poured onto paper—fear and despair, hope and happiness, anger and bitterness, feelings that come easily to Darcy, and always have. One or the other, no inbetween, no middle ground, just one extreme to the other. Some poems speak of love—a love that Darcy's never known, but would like to. If only a boy could ever love her the way these poets loved their girls, maybe life would be easier.
She pours over these words for hours, until the first exciting thing of the day happens, and it's when she hears McGonagall's voice in the common room below. Curious, she listens for a moment to the muffled voice, and then she closes her book and descends the spiral staircase. McGonagall seems surprised to see her there, but pays her little mind. Hermione creeps through the common room towards Darcy, standing quite close to her as if trying to hide. Her face is beet red, and she can't seem to look at either Harry or Ron, and it's then that Darcy notices the anger in both of their eyes.
In Harry's hands is his Firebolt, and he looks at Darcy for a split second before handing it over to Professor McGonagall, his jaw clenched, his face red, as well. Professor McGonagall then acknowledges Darcy with a curt nod and leaves the common room with the Firebolt still held gingerly in her hands. As soon as the portrait hole closes behind her, Ron rounds on Hermione, who hides behind Darcy.
"What did you go running to McGonagall for?" he snaps, his voice higher than usual.
Hermione sputters, poking her head out from behind Darcy's torso. "I thought—well, I thought—" she retorts. "I thought that Sirius Black may have sent you that broom, Harry!"
"I was joking!" Ron groans. "I was joking, and of course you wouldn't know a joke if it slapped you across the face—"
"Ron!" Darcy shouts, her head already pounding. Why did she come downstairs? She could still be tucked in bed, reading poetry, instead of arguing with three thirteen-year-old kids.
"C'mon, Darcy," Harry pleads. "Don't tell me that you believe that?"
The last thing Darcy wants to do is argue with Harry, but she can't help but to lean towards Hermione's argument. Darcy places a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Harry, maybe it wasn't Sirius Black, but maybe it's also a good idea for McGonagall to check it. That is what she is doing, isn't she? She'll give it back when she makes sure it's all right?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then if Sirius Black didn't send it, you'll get it back—"
"In a few weeks!" Harry protests, sounding like the thirteen-year-old boy Darcy knows so well. "I'll need to practice with it!"
"Harry," Darcy growls. "I want you to tell me who you think sent you that broom. Can you think of a person who cares about us—about you—that much to spend so much money on a Firebolt? Who could possibly have sent you that?"
Harry doesn't have an answer. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, searching for a name, but one never comes. His eyes flick to Hermione, and she suddenly jumps up the steps as fast as she can, running to her dormitory.
"You know she means well," Darcy says. "She doesn't want to see you hurt. And neither do I. I'll feel a lot better when I know the Firebolt is free of any jinxes or curses."
She escapes back to her own dormitory before Harry or Ron can shout back at her. She slips into sleep easily enough, dreaming of Sirius Black. She isn't afraid, not the slightest bit—when he picks her up and hugs her to his body, she is safe, she is loved, and she loves him in return, burrowing her face into his chest and trying to be as close to him as she possibly can be. But Sirius lets her go, hands her over to someone with big hands, hands that are unfamiliar and she's crying—screaming—begging for Sirius to come back for her, to save her.
Darcy looks up at the Hagrid in her dreams and his face fades, but all the extra hair still remains. Lupin's wolfish face now looms above her's, his long snout inches from her face, sharp teeth bared in a snarl. She can't close her eyes, so she's forced to watch as Lupin tears into her chest, ripping her flesh from her body, leaving her skin a bloody ruin, a gaping hole. A monster, she thinks, sobbing as his teeth clamp down on her left shoulder and pain shoots through her. He is a monster.
But as she thinks the words that shame her so, Lupin isn't a monster anymore. He's him—a man—kind and gentle, and his lips touch the places where the werewolf just has. Her skin is healed, untouched again, save for his sweet kisses, and all pain has left her. Darcy lays there as his hands touch her in places she's never been touched, kisses her and smiles into her skin, purrs incoherently into her ear, and when he goes to kiss her on her lips, Darcy wakes, alone and blind in the darkness, her chest heaving.
She wonders what Professor Lupin is doing now with the moon still in the sky. She wonders if he's dreaming of her, wishing that she'd stayed—god, how she had wanted to. She wonders how many women had decided to leave instead of staying, how many women fled from him in the past. Darcy lays awake until dawn breaks, and as soon as the moon disappears from the sky, she dresses and leaves the dormitory before anyone else wakes.
Walking through the empty and lonely corridors, her heart jumps in her throat. Am I afraid of him? Why should I be, when he has shown me nothing but kindness? But she knows that she has a good reason to be so hesitant. That wasn't him, she remembers. That was my fault and no one else's. Darcy knows she's being ridiculous, that Lupin would never hurt her if he could help it, knows that she has nothing to fear.
So when she finds herself outside of Lupin's office that morning, she isn't sure if she's overcoming her fears, or if she's seeking comfort from him. Regardless, she walks in to the empty office, stepping up to the wall with the door. Darcy suddenly wishes she'd brought something for him, some food or some pumpkin juice, or maybe the bottle of wine that Gemma gave her. No, she snaps at herself, that wine that yours.
"Professor Lupin?" she asks, nervous. "Professor Lupin, are you in there?"
No one answers, so after a long few minutes, Darcy turns to leave, stuffing her hands into her pocket. But as she takes a second step towards the classroom, the door opens and Lupin is standing there in a robe, tied tight around his waist. Even the smallest sight of his bare chest distracts her, and Darcy quickly snaps her eyes back to his face, blushing furiously after seeing him in such a vulnerable state. Lupin looks like a corpse, his skin white and sweaty, dark circles around his eyes. "Oh…" is all she can think to say. "I'm so sorry—I shouldn't have come—I should have just let you rest—"
Lupin doesn't answer. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms across his chest, clearly exhausted, not even able to muster a weak smile.
"Professor, I'm sorry—"
"Would you like to come in?" His voice is quiet and raspy, as if he hasn't used his voice in years.
Darcy swallows, wondering how she could ever have been afraid of him. "All right."
That's when he offers a weak smile, and as Darcy crosses over into his private apartments, Lupin puts a hand on the small of her back and guides her inside, closing the door behind them.