'I could not think of anything but his fingers on my neck, his thumb on my lips.'

Tracy Chevalier

Taking care of people comes naturally and easily to Darcy. After years of playing Harry's mother and sister, it's a skill that she's honed almost to perfection. She remembers the first time that she, Emily, and Gemma got Carla drunk—it hadn't taken much, only a few shots of whiskey—and Darcy spent the rest of the night at Carla's side in the bathroom as she heaved into the toilet, pale-faced and trembling. Darcy had stroked her hair while Emily and Gemma laughed drunkenly from the bathtub, not malicious, but it had made Carla blush furiously. Afterwards, Carla had thanked Darcy with vomit caked upon her lips, and Darcy smiled and wiped Carla's mouth. She recalls that night with a smile on her face as Lupin lies on the couch, now fully dressed, but not looking at all better.

Darcy wipes his brow with a damp cloth, which Lupin had insisted she didn't have to do, but she finally ended up convincing him to let her after she hadn't gotten him a gift for Christmas. She'd touched his forehead gently to feel heat radiating from him, a burning fever, and urged him onto the sofa. His eyes follow her all the while, even when she moves just an inch. She moistens the cloth again and shifts on the carpeted floor, sitting up on her knees. Darcy tries not to focus on his eyes, on his face, on his lips—she just tries to keep him cool, keep his skin from burning up. He doesn't protest or flinch when the cloth touches his skin. An intimacy I have never known, she thinks. An intimacy I never thought I'd know.

"I'll be all right, you know." Lupin gives her a half smile, reminiscent of his cool and easy smile. "You don't have to do this."

"I don't mind, sir."

"Enough with the formalities, Darcy." He isn't unkind about it, and Darcy blushes. "You're much gentler than Madam Pomfrey," he jokes, his voice barely a whisper. "Years of tending to me, and her touch grows rougher with each passing transformation."

"She doesn't recognize her own strength, I think," Darcy whispers back, chancing a look into his eyes. She smiles when she realizes he's still looking up at her. "She just worries too much, is all."

"She's not the only one, it seems."

Darcy's hand falls from his face for a moment and she blushes harder. His smile widens at the sight. She considers telling him about Dumbledore's conversation with her right there and then, but decides against it at the last moment. Placing the cloth to his forehead again, Darcy wipes the sweat from his forehead and then his cheeks, placing it back in the small bowl on the table beside her. "You would do the same for me, I hope," she shrugs, scooting back a bit from the sofa and putting some distance between them.

"I would," Lupin confirms, pushing his damp hair back out of his face. "But let us hope it does not come to that." There's a long silence between them until he speaks again. "I'm sorry for what I said. It was unfair of me to presume so much."

"I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you," she teases. Boldly, and without thinking, Darcy slowly reaches for his hand and takes it in hers as if its a piece of fragile china. Her hand trembles, but Lupin lets her take his, even squeezes her hand reassuringly. His thumb brushes over her knuckles with the lightest touch Darcy has ever known. Darcy licks her lips and sighs. "I should tell you something."

She remembers forcibly the day after she'd been mauled by a werewolf. Darcy recalls Lupin changing her bandages, the light touches and extreme caution and care he'd shown while doing it. The only reason he'd done it was because he'd felt guilty—or so Darcy had thought—and the only reason she'd allowed him to change her banadages was because she was too polite to refuse. But Darcy wonders now if there was more to it—she wonders if Lupin had wanted to care for her the same way Darcy wants to care for him now. She wonders if Lupin had paid attention to her lips just as she's doing now, wonders if he thought about kissing her to see what it would feel like. She wonders if electricity shoots through his fingers whenever he touches her, if her touch steadies him the way his does to her.

Lupin nods, his eyes heavier with every passing second. I should let him rest, he's probably been up all night, she tells herself. I shouldn't have come here. Why did I come here? The feel of his thumb against her skin gives her chills down her spine, warms her to her core, grounds her. She looks down at their hands, lacing their fingers together for a moment before their fingers roll together, brushing against their hands. Darcy smiles at him, and he smiles back, a small smile, but genuine. She releases his hand and lets her own fall to her lap.

"Yes?" Lupin prompts, raising his eyebrows. "What did you want to tell me, Darcy?"

Darcy frowns, quickly changing her mind again. "Nothing, I—" she shrugs casually, cursing herself. "It's nothing."

He musters a soft laugh. "You know, I lied to you before," he admits, making Darcy wary. "Help me up, love. There's something I want to show you."

Darcy does as he requests, helping him to his feet. Lupin seems stiff, incredibly sore, as he limps to the back bedroom, leaving Darcy by the sofa. He calls out to her, insisting she take a seat as he rummages around in an old trunk, and he returns to her with an envelope in his hand. Lupin sits beside her on the sofa, close enough that their shoulders touch, and from the yellowed and aged envelope, he pulls out some old photographs. He sorts through them, letting her look at them all. It's clear they've been handled many times, just like Darcy's own photograph album.

"These are some of my most prized possessions," he explains sadly, glancing at her face before looking back at the pictures. "Some of my only possessions." Lupin holds up the first photograph, one of a young boy Harry's age with sandy brown hair, shaggy and unkempt—Lupin—with one arm thrown around another boy with a straight nose and unruly dark hair—her father—and his other arm wrapped around the shoulders of a handsome young man, one that looks strikingly like Sirius Black. Darcy can't help but to smile down at her father, only a young boy and nothing like the young man she's used to seeing in picture.

There aren't many pictures, and most of them are of Lupin himself as a young boy, no older than Darcy at most. He's handsome as a boy her age, not conventionally like Sirius, but in the rugged and charming way she finds him to be now. Darcy glances at him to find him smiling at her. Some photographs have her father in them, but more have Sirius in them, giving Darcy mixed feelings. The Sirius Black in the photos always smiles at her, waving up at her, nothing seemingly evil about his features. Even in school, Sirius's hair is a dark tangle of loose curls. In fact, Sirius seems to love his friends very much, seems to love her father by the looks he gives him in between looking up at Darcy and Lupin, and Sirius seems to love his old friend, Remus Lupin, as well. Sometimes there's another boy with them, round and fleshy, with golden hair that's parted to the side. He's unfamiliar to her, but wonders if he'd ever seen Darcy as a baby, wondering if he'd ever held her in his arms.

The last picture he shows her is one of Lupin around her age, maybe sixteen or seventeen at the oldest. He's not anywhere at Hogwarts that she knows of, but is sitting on an old sofa, patterned with flowers that look to be a mustard yellow color, but the colors of the photograph are faded from years gone by. The Lupin in the photograph opens a newspaper, scanning the pages, his nose and eyes and tousled brown hair visible overtop of the pages. And beside him, laughing silently in the photograph, holding onto a page of the newspaper, as well, is Darcy. Darcy's seen too many pictures of herself as a baby to not recognize herself. She watches with a smile on her face as the Lupin in the photograph looks sideways at her, turning the page right side up for the happy baby beside him.

"I told you we'd never met before," Lupin says in her ear. "But we did. You must be just over a year old here." He looks up at her curiously. "Would you like to keep it? You could put it in your photo album. Truthfully, I was loath to give it over when Hagrid wrote me asking for any pictures I had, but I didn't realize that in a few years time, I'd be able to meet you once again as a young woman, so I suppose I don't need it anymore. Besides, you didn't know me, so I didn't think you'd need a picture like that."

Darcy's breath catches in her throat. The knowledge that she'd known Lupin as a little girl, no more than a baby, makes her heart stop. When was the last time they'd seen each other? Where had he been all these years? Had he thought of her between the last time he'd seen her as a girl and their reunion on the Hogwarts Express?

"No, Professor," Darcy replies, shaking her head and calming herself. "I have enough photos. You keep it, just promise to show it to me whenever I like."

Lupin smiles at her. "I insist." He takes her hand and places the photograph in her palm. Hesitantly, Darcy puts the picture in her pocket. "How did you know?" he asks as she pats her pocket, feeling the picture beneath the fabric of her pants.

"Know what?"

"How did you know that we'd met before? You can't have remembered. You were so little then."

"I—well, I—" Darcy tries to think. She remembers back to their first meeting (besides when she was a baby) on the Hogwarts Express, and the warmth that emanated from him, the indescribable comfort that she received just from his presence. "You just seemed familiar, I guess."

This makes Lupin chuckle. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he says. "I just—" He sighs happily, leaning back in his seat, looking weary again. "I was nervous about meeting you and Harry."

"You were nervous about meeting me?" she laughs. "Was it as horrible as you had expected it to be?"

"Well, the situation wasn't exactly ideal," Lupin jokes feebly, putting the photographs on the table and clasping his hands together in his lap. "But you've proven that I was only being foolish. You and Harry are wonderful, and I'm glad to have met you—again."

"Just wonderful?" she asks with a shy grin.

Lupin pauses, considering her, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Just wonderful."

Darcy doesn't know why she says it, but it spills out of her before she can stop herself. "Not even a little flattery?"

"If you want to be complimented, just say so," Lupin says. He raises an eyebrow slightly, smirking. Darcy looks away, embarrassed. "No need to be shy about it."

But she is too shy to ask to be complimented, so she doesn't receive a compliment.

Lupin's smile fades. "Why did you come here?" he asks, not unkindly. He shifts in his seat, facing her, and Darcy mimics him.

Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to take care of you. I dreamt of you. I wanted to kiss you. I missed you. But instead, she says, "I don't know."

Lupin sighs deeply, the pain and guilt written plain across his face. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. Have I mentioned that? Nothing will make up for what I've done."

"You may have mentioned it once or twice," Darcy answers. "But it's all right, truly."

Her words seem to startle him, and he falters for a moment. "You're too sweet for your own good, Darcy, do you know that?" Lupin moves his hand, as if to take hers, but he thinks better of it at the last second. "I fear one day your kindness and forgiving nature will betray you."

"Forgive me, Professor Lupin, but you don't really know me at all," she says, knitting her eyebrows together. "I am more than kind and forgiving."

He nods slowly. "I've ruined you."

Darcy's fingers find the scars on her left shoulder. "It's just my shoulder."

"It could just as easily have been your face. I could have killed you."

"But it wasn't my face, and you didn't kill me, sir."

"Your mother and father would never look at me again if they knew what I've done to you."

"They're dead," Darcy says flatly, and for some reason it's painful, a knife twisting in her heart. She wonders if it hurts him as much as it hurts her, and she suddenly wishes she hadn't said anything. "I don't think what they would or would not have said or done matters much anymore."

This time, Lupin does reach for her hand, and holds it between both of his. "You miss them."

Darcy nods slowly, wishing the conversation would end. She looks down at their hands, his thumb gently brushing over her wrist, tickling her. "Yes," she whispers. "All the time."

"I wish you had more time with them," Lupin replies quietly, lifting his eyes from their hands to meet hers. "I know they'd be proud of you."

They look at each other, as if for the first time. The photograph in her pocket and their conversation brings Darcy back to reality, forces her to remember that Lupin was her parents' friend, someone who could have been very close to her and her family had they survived. She finds herself wondering how she'd look at him if that were so—would he still seem so charming, or be so handsome? Would her heart still leap with every brush of their fingers? Would she still dream of his kisses, his touch, of him at all? So deep in thought is Darcy that she doesn't even realize she's raising her hand to touch his face until it's too late. Her fingertips whisper across his cheek, feeling the coarse, days old stubble on his face, the heat of his feverish flesh. Lupin doesn't move, doesn't flinch at her touch, doesn't ask her to stop. She can feel her cheeks turning red, painfully, as she traces the line of his jaw.

"Professor Lupin," she breathes, heart racing. "I—" With her heart leaping in her throat, her fingertips spread across his cheek until she's cupping his face.

Lupin doesn't move, his eyes fixed upon her own. His voice is breathy, making the hair on the back of Darcy's neck stands up after a single word. "Yes?"

Dumbledore's warning is quickly forgotten as she leans in and presses her lips to his, a soft and innocent kiss, her palm still resting upon his cheek. The feel of his lips on hers is like nothing she's ever felt before—it's better than she could have ever dreamed—it's real, it's happening. His lips are softer than she had thought they would be, soft and warm. Adrenaline surges through her veins as she pulls away from him, and she's so engrossed by the boldness she's shown that she hadn't even taken note if he'd kissed her back or not. Darcy touches her lips, breathing heavily, and suddenly her senses return to her and flood her with an overwhelming sense of dread and foolishness, of humiliation, and she feels childish. She springs to her feet with surprising speed, backing away from him.

Lupin's calm demeanor makes her nervous. She can't even begin to tell what he's thinking—his face is blank, his cheeks slightly pink, and she searches for a sign of anger or annoyance, but there isn't one. He doesn't seem outraged, which she thinks is probably a good thing, but the way he's looking at her, the way his eyebrows begin to knit together—that's when she knows she's made a terrible mistake. How could she have so easily forgotten who he is—what he is? Darcy's heart races and Emily is screaming at her inside her head—he's your teacher!

He's my friend, she fights back, very weakly. "I'm so sorry, Professor—oh, Professor Lupin, I—" Darcy pants, heading for the door. She stumbles, light-headed, and Lupin rises slowly out of his seat when she trips over her own feet. "I—I don't know—what I was thinking—" What would my parents think? Would they still be proud of me? Would they be able to look him in the eye if they knew what just happened between us?

Lupin searches for something to say, holding his arms out as he takes a step towards her, almost ready to catch her if she stumbles again. "I could walk you back to your common room, if you'd like—"

"No!" Darcy shouts, sounding a little ruder than she'd expected to. She lowers her voice, softening her tone. "No, I mean—no. I can manage, thank you. You should get some sleep."

She leaves without saying goodbye, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, she leans against the wall, feeling the need to vomit. Darcy closes her eyes and slumps against the hidden door, catching her breath. The rush that she's gotten from a stupid kiss makes her feel a little girl again, thirteen-years-old, sitting in the common room with her friends, daring each other to kiss on the lips and giggling when they do. But the rush she has now is nothing compared the rush she'd felt when she'd actually been kissing him. Part of her wants to run back in and kiss him again, just to make sure it wasn't a dream, just to make sure that she doesn't forget the feel of his lips on her's. Part of her wants to run away, run far away, and never have to look at him again. How will I ever be able to face him in class?

If Dumbledore was concerned about boundaries before, what would he say now? Would he know? Surely not—the only people who would ever know are Darcy and Lupin, the only two people behind the door at the time. It's not like Dumbledore could read her mind—or could he? Without even a wand in hand, though? she thinks, trying to convince herself. No, someone told him about us holding hands. Someone had to tell him. Someone saw us. But no one saw us this time.

She jumps at the sound of a doorknob turning, and for an instant she looks at the closed office door, horrified. And then she realizes that it's Lupin's apartments door opening behind her. Darcy spins on her heel and looks up at Lupin. Neither of them speak, they just stare at each other, unsure of what to say to make anything better. She knows nothing can undo it, that it happened, and she blushes furiously, unable to contain herself. "Professor Lupin, I—"

But he cuts her off with another kiss, making her heart stop. This time, it isn't a chaste kiss just testing the waters, nor the innocent kiss of an eighteen-year-old girl. His lips part when they crash against hers, and Darcy melts into him, kissing him back hard and deep. Lupin's hands find her face, and with one hand he brushes away the hair in their way with the backs of his fingers, and the other hand cradles her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. When he pulls away from her, he pulls away far too soon for Darcy's liking, and the warmth of his hand on her face is suddenly gone, both arms dangling at his sides. Lupin stands tall in the threshold, looking around the office as if looking for someone hidden, someone watching. He cranes his neck out, as if to kiss her again, but instead clears his throat, turns, and walks back into his apartments, closing the door slowly behind him.

Darcy is frozen to the spot for a few moments until she feels she's able to walk normally again. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and goosebumps rise on her arms. For a fraction of a second, Darcy considers going back in, wanting to kiss him again and again and again until she can't kiss him anymore. She wants to throw her arms around him, see what it's like to drag her fingers through his hair as she's seen him do so often. She wants to kiss him until her lips are swollen, wants to know the taste of his tongue. She wants to kiss him so fervently that Lupin will dream about it when he sleeps that night, craving her kiss again.

Instead, Darcy leaves his office, scurries through the classroom, and when she finds herself in the sunlit corridor, Darcy feels like she can do anything. But really, the only thing she feels like doing is taking a nap, so she heads back up to Gryffindor Tower, skipping up the steps two at a time, and she even smiles at Sir Cadogan after she gives him the password and he bids her enter.

Darcy throws the photograph of she as a baby and Lupin onto her nightstand, looking it over one more time. As she climbs back into bed, Darcy closes her eyes, letting the sunlight wash over her like a warm blanket. She puts her hands behind her head and sighs contently.

I'll tell him, she says to herself again, but not today.