'Everything I think of is filled with ghosts, even this longing.'
Meena Alexander
"Spain was fantastic! Dad's got some family in Barcelona, and I was in a mind to stay with them. There's so much history in all the buildings—we took so many tours, and you know what? I think I might move there once I graduate, it was just that beautiful. I brought some postcards that have pictures of my favorite sights, though they're Muggle pictures, but still very exciting! Mum and dad said we could go back over summer if I want to."
"My parents held a Christmas gala and actually let me drink some wine this time. I looked so good in my dress, though, I made my mother take a picture. I brought it with me—I needed you all to see how good I looked. Anyway, I ended up drinking too much wine and puked on someone's shoes—someone important, I guess, but I don't know who it was—and my parents banished me to my room for the rest of the night. The only company I had was a couple of house elves who held my hair for me as I threw up all night."
"Those weird relatives I was telling you about ended up showing up, and it was a nightmare. Be glad that you didn't come. I was the only child in the entire house for the entire vacation, and all the women chastised me for not having a boyfriend, and the men chastised me for not receiving any job offers yet. And then mum, bless her soul, asked about you in hearing range of her sister and then everything blew up. Everyone wanted to meet you, and no one cared much about me. Which, I guess was kind of a blessing. Anyway, how was your break?"
I kissed my teacher. I kissed him twice. "It was fine. I'm glad to have you back, though." Darcy smiles, and for the next hour, the girls remain in the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table by themselves, and Darcy tells them of the Firebolt first, then of confronting Hagrid (conveniently leaving out everything about Lupin). When she recalls the conversation, however, her friends don't immediately jump to her defense as she'd hoped. Instead, they look at her with grave faces and look incredibly disturbed by her words, making Darcy feel ashamed in their presence.
"A Firebolt is really expensive," Gemma notes, looking around the table and lowering her voice. "I can't see many people just buying them without a second thought. I also can't see Sirius Black just walking into a shop and ordering one. The shopkeeper would have noticed if the most wanted criminal in the country right now had waltzed into his shop asking after one of the most expensive brooms."
"He could have had someone else do it for him," Emily shrugs, adjusting some new bracelets on her wrist. "He probably has plenty of old friends still out in the world. Or he could have done it by owl order."
"Or it could have been from someone else entirely," Carla suggests. She looks at her friends, but none of them look very convinced. "Maybe you have a rich, distant relative that hasn't revealed themselves to you yet."
"Trust me, Carla, that's what I'm hoping," Darcy sighs, dragging her fingers through her hair. "But I don't think we'll know for sure until someone comes forward. There was no note, no clue to who sent it. If the broomstick isn't jinxed or cursed or what have you, it'll put my mind at ease and I'll sleep a lot easier at night."
Their responses then shift towards Darcy's story about Hagrid, the moment she's been dreading. Darcy runs a hand down her face, and Emily sighs loudly. "Darcy, how could you say those things to Hagrid?" she frowns. "He's always been good to you, and you know that. He's always made sure you felt welcome here and he's always been a friend to you."
"Just because he was saying things you didn't want to hear doesn't make him a bad person," Carla adds, and Emily nods in agreement. "Good friends tell each other hard truths, and Hagrid was only being a good friend. You should apologize."
"She's right, you know." Emily smiles at Carla. "Sometimes you get a little—hard headed, and it's good for you to be put in your place."
"He didn't put me in my place," Darcy scoffs, scrunching her nose at Emily. "I put him in his place."
"You still need to apologize," Carla frowns.
"I'm not apologizing," Darcy snaps, but she softens at the sight of her friends' faces. "Not yet anyway. Let me stew in my anger for a little while."
"That's not good for you—it gives you wrinkles," Gemma teases, and Darcy immediately relaxes her face, feeling the corners of her eyes. "Face it, Darcy, you've never been good at stewing. You are, however, pretty good at apologizing. Just go down there."
"I'm not apologizing," Darcy says curtly, in a tone that brooks no argument.
Afterwards, Gemma shows them all the photograph of herself. Darcy smiles; she's always thought Gemma pretty, much prettier than many girls she's known. But in the photo, Gemma looks radiant—her dark and sleek hair falls straight to her shoulders, just brushing above her collarbones, making her neck look longer than it already is, and she's clad in a emerald green dress with an off-shoulder neckline that prevents too much cleavage, and the sleeves go down all the way to the middle of her forearms. The Gemma in the photograph beams and twirls and her gown shimmers against the flashing of the camera, and it's then that Darcy remembers who Gemma is—a pureblood, a Slytherin, a girl of an ancient house whose family line can be traced back centuries. In the photograph, Gemma looks every bit a Slytherin heiress, and looks rather happy to be one.
Carla spreads her postcards and photographs on the table, as well. They're beautiful pictures of rolling hills, ancient cathedrals, an eagle eye view of the heart of the city. A few of them have Carla in them, standing before some great building or beautiful landscape, the wind taking her curly hair and whipping it in her face. Darcy rifles through them, with Emily looking over her right shoulder and Gemma looking over her left. Carla gives them an in-depth story behind each one, and when she finishes recalling her entire vacation, she's breathless and flushed and smiling from ear to ear. There's few things that make Carla as excited as traveling and history and learning everything there is to learn.
Emily doesn't have anything to present her friends with. But she does have funny stories about her relatives when they're drunk, and as she wildly tells a story about her veteran grandfather on her father's side who had drank too much brandy and had begun to reminisce about the war, Emily accidentally swats Darcy in the face, causing everyone to erupt with laughter. Darcy laughs as Emily fawns over her, touching her face and apologizing between snorts.
"Nice to see you ladies back."
Darcy turns to see Professor Lupin behind her. The sight of him makes her flush, but he has the decency not to acknowledge it. He smiles down at them all. She can't look away from him—she wants to reach out and take his hand, to let him drag her back laughing to his office, to kiss him as soon as the door shuts behind them. Lupin doesn't seem as if he's about to do any of those things, however, and Darcy pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind, her stomach exploding with butterflies.
"Darcy missed you so much she nearly cried over you," he teases, flashing Darcy a winning smile.
"It wouldn't be the first time Darcy's cried over us, Professor," Emily retorts, elbowing Darcy playfully in the arm. Darcy rubs her arm, embarrassed. "You used to sob when I left Hogwarts for Christmas, do you—?"
"We spent a good bit of time together going over your last essay, Miss Duncan," Lupin interrupts, looking Darcy in the eyes and giving her the most genuine smile she's ever seen. It makes her feel slightly better, slightly less humiliated. "Tomorrow, you may have something to cry over, as well."
Emily reddens immediately, burying her face in her hands and groaning. "That's not fair," she mutters. "Darcy and I did that essay together—I can't fail that essay…"
Lupin's eyes scan the table, and he picks up the postcard with an old football arena on it, examining it closely and flipping it over in his hands. "Beautiful. Who went?"
"Me," Carla says with a dreamy sigh. "Isn't it lovely? It's my favorite place in the world."
"You've only been there once," Gemma scoffs, rolling her eyes and making Gemma blush. "But it is quite beautiful. Speaking of beautiful—Professor Lupin, look at this picture of me. Do I or do I not look incredible?" She scoops the photograph of herself up off the table and holds it up to his face. Lupin laughs and takes it from her hand, giving it a quick once over before handing it right back to her.
"A beautiful dress, Gemma."
Gemma swells with pride, looking pleased with herself. She throws her hair back out of her face. "Thank you, sir."
"Miss Duncan?" Lupin asks, giving Emily a small smile. "Good holiday?"
"Wonderful, cold—and slightly overwhelming," Emily replies, scoffing and shaking her head at the memory. "Maybe not as good as Carla's, but still wonderful."
"I'm glad to hear," Lupin says. "I'll see you all in class tomorrow. And don't forget your essay, Carla. I know you've been busy, but no excuse." His tone is light and pleasant. He turns to leave them be, giving Darcy a slight, acknowledging nod as he walks away. She watches him leave the Great Hall, her eyes fixed upon his back as he turns a corner and out of sight.
"Did you hear that?" Gemma laughs, tucking her photograph away in her pocket. "A beautiful dress, he said. He thinks I'm beautiful."
"He thought the dress was beautiful, Gemma," Emily retorts, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. "I didn't hear him say anything about you."
He thinks I'm beautiful, Darcy thinks, wishing she could have followed him out of the Great Hall. The thought makes her stomach churn. She still could… she could make up some excuse to return to her common room, to see Max or Harry, to the library... If he didn't think I was beautiful, he wouldn't have kissed me. Doesn't he want to talk to me alone? Doesn't he want to talk about what happened? The idea of having that conversation unsettles her—the unknown frightens her. Darcy touches her lips, remembering the feel of his own lips against hers, the way he'd kissed her with a ferocity she couldn't have imagined he possessed, the way he'd held her face and the way she'd felt his thumb caress her cheek in a way no one has ever done before. So gentle and so tender and so sweet—things that still seem so alien and foreign to her that it shocks her.
She hopes that Emily will drop the entire situation with Hagrid after a while, but when they retreat to their dormitory to get some sleep before the start of classes, Emily brings it back up again, as Darcy privately knew she would. She repeats the same things and points over and over again, her argument feeble; Emily wants her to apologize for what she'd said to Hagrid and being so harsh and accusing, but Emily doesn't understand—she never has and never will. Emily doesn't understand the part of Darcy that craves love, that craves affection, that craves a family. Emily's parents have always been good to their daughter, their only child, and Emily was never starved for attention. How could someone with a family like that ever know the desperate cravings of arms to hold her, someone to kiss her head at night, someone to love her the way a parent should love their children? Darcy can count on one hand the amount of times she can remember being held in the way a father should hold their child.
When the other girls begin to enter the dormitory, Darcy urges Emily to at least talk about it in the common room if they absolutely must talk about it, not wanting anyone to listen in. Emily agrees, and the two find a quiet corner in the common room to argue, well away from any ears. "Sirius Black is a murderer, Darcy," she hisses. No one pays them any mind, but Emily glances around anyway, her eyes falling on the Weasley twins, entertaining a few younger students with card tricks. "You can't seriously believe those things about him."
"What's so crazy about it?" Darcy asks, incredulous and slightly hurt. "You don't think he actually loved me? Why not? You think he just put on a show for Hagrid when he came back for me that night?"
"It's not you," Emily admits, fidgeting in her chair awkwardly. The situation and conversation makes her uncomfortable with each counterargument from Darcy's mouth, but she won't back down. Darcy needs to make her see—she needs Emily to see the truth of her dreams. "I can't see Sirius Black loving anyone. He killed all those people and laughed afterwards about it—he shows no remorse for any of it, I've heard, and…" She trails off upon seeing the hurt on Darcy's face. "You have other people who love you—me, Harry, Carla, and Gemma." Emily pauses, giving Darcy a severe look that almost reminds her of Professor McGonagall. "And Hagrid."
"Don't you dare guilt me into apologizing," Darcy frowns. Anger flares inside her yet again. "I know what you're doing—I'm not stupid."
"Hagrid has loved you far more than Sirius Black ever has or will," Emily reasons, and it frustrates Darcy how calm she can be about the entire situation. "Hagrid is your friend, and he's got enough on his plate without you adding to it."
"Emily, you haven't seen the pictures," Darcy protests, plunging on recklessly. Emily sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. "Sirius Black wasn't always bad, I know it. The way he looked at my parents, at Professor Lupin, at me—I know that he loved me. I can feel it when I have the dream."
"What pictures?" asks Emily, a hint of suspicion in her tone. She narrows her eyes at Darcy, as if trying to read her mind. "I haven't seen any pictures of Sirius and your parents or of Professor Lupin. Why would you have pictures of Professor Lupin? What kind of pictures?"
Darcy blushes, looking away sheepishly. She leans back in her chair, balancing on two legs. "Professor Lupin had them," she admits. "Photographs of him and Sirius and my parents. He showed them to me over break."
"Ah," Emily replies, raising her eyebrows and smiling weakly, almost knowingly. There's a pregnant pause as Darcy meets her friend's eyes, furrowing her brows. "And exactly how much time did you spend with Professor Lupin while you were all by your lonesome over the holidays?"
Darcy scans her friend's face, pursing her lips, unsure of how to answer. "We had dinner a few times," she says, not quite a lie. If she were to deny it, Emily would sniff out the real truth soon enough. "It was lonely without you guys. He kept me company, and I did the same for him."
When Darcy goes to bed that night, though, she can't stop thinking of Sirius Black. She knows what he is—a killer, a murderer, the reason her parents are dead—but is that the whole truth? How could someone go from looking at their friends with love in their eyes to wanting them dead? Sirius had come back—for her, for Harry. Why? Sirius had held her, saved her, loved her for a few short minutes until she had been torn away from his chest, given to family who didn't love her, who didn't want her, who never wanted her. And say Hagrid had left her with Sirius, and say Hagrid was right and Sirius had killed her—in those moments before he killed her, he would have loved her more than Petunia or Vernon ever had in eighteen years. Maybe Petunia has always shown a distant affection, caring for her from afar in a way only Petunia could—there had been a few quick glances where her gaze wasn't extremely offensive, but Darcy knows the truth behind those stares. Petunia had scolded her when she was thirteen for something Darcy wasn't even able to help.
"Do you know why Vernon hates you so?" Petunia had asked sharply all those years ago, after he'd swatted her across the face for dropping a fork on the ground. Petunia hadn't let him hit her more than once, but Darcy had had an inkling that it was only because she didn't want word to get around that Vernon beat the children they'd taken in, and not because Petunia harbored any love for her. Still, it had left a bruise on her cheekbone that was ugly and shameful. "He hates you because you look like my freak of a sister. A constant reminder that my family is—is—" Petunia couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, but Darcy had understood.
The day after that, Darcy had dyed her hair a rich chestnut brown color after begging Petunia to pick some up at the store for her. The idea appealed to Petunia, so she obliged, but when Darcy had looked in the mirror afterwards, she was a stranger. Darcy's red hair had been a source of pride for her. It reminded her of her mother, whom she'd adored so much. She felt beautiful with it, just like her beautiful mother before it, and she'd cried as she dyed it, locked in the bathroom. She wasn't herself with brown hair—she was no longer the beautiful girl people always told her she was. With brown hair, she was James's daughter, not Lily's.
And a few weeks after the incident, Darcy had gone to Emily's house, where she'd cried throughout the entire first night, admitting to her best friend what Petunia had said. The very next day, Emily's father brought them to the store, and Emily picked out a beautiful auburn red color for Darcy's hair that she thought matched her natural color, and Emily changed the color from brown to red once more. Emily had told her she was beautiful with red hair, and Mr. and Mrs. Duncan has consoled her and told her that she should never be ashamed of who she was—a Potter. But upon returning back to the Dursleys two weeks later, Petunia had shamed her for something as stupid as her hair color, and Vernon was so angry Darcy thought he could have spat in her face just because her hair was red again.
Darcy dreams of a life with Sirius, growing up with him brushing her long, red hair before bed and telling her how beautiful she is. A life where she never has to feel ashamed of who she is, of things she can't change or help. A life where Sirius tells happy stories about her parents when they were younger. She imagines a life where she gets excited about returning home for the holidays, a life where Lupin spends time with them and comes over for dinner sometimes, and Sirius lets her have friends over for her birthdays and she receives gifts—real gifts that mean something to her. But as she dreams, she realizes that something is missing, and quickly realizes that Harry isn't a part of that life—Harry is at the Dursleys, alone and afraid and without his sister.
The last thing she dreams before she wakes is Sirius holding her close, and she's eighteen instead of five, and Sirius is older—Lupin's age now—but he's still Sirius. His face is more lined, his dark hair streaked with a little more gray, but it's him, and he holds her to his chest just like he did all those years ago. When Darcy goes to rest her cheek against his chest, she wakes up in a cold sweat, unsure of how to feel.
Part of her is disgusted with herself for ever imagining a life without her brother involved, especially with a convicted murderer. She's disgusted with herself for imagining such a happy life for herself with the man who betrayed her parents, who got them killed, who ruined her entire life—who is the reason she has grown up knowing nothing but hate and neglect. She wonders if the Sirius in her dreams is still a murderer, or if he's just the charming boy in the old photographs Lupin had shown her. She wishes Lupin were there now to comfort her, to go through the pictures with her once more and assure her that everything is all right, and she wonders just for a minute what he would do if she were to show up at his apartments so late at night.
When she pushes her thoughts of Lupin to the back of mind—yet again—she sighs loudly, surprised no one wakes at the sound. Her heart is full, and it's almost as if she can still feel Sirius's arms around her. She closes her eyes, hoping to fall back into a deep sleep, hoping to dream of another life, hoping to dream of Sirius once again. How wonderful it is not to dream of her mother being murdered, for that would make the whole thing too real, that would forcibly remind her of what Sirius Black is, despite the love he may once have had for her.
In the darkness, Darcy grabs her wand off her bedside table and grabs the leatherbound photo album from under her bed. With a snap of her wrist, the tip of her wand lights up and she uses it to look at all the pictures yet again. She flips to the picture of her parents on their wedding day, and it makes her smile. Tonight, the Darcy in the photograph is clinging tightly to her father's leg with one arm, and Sirius's leg with the other. The three adults beam up at her, waving. It makes Darcy want to cry, the innocence of it all—her holding onto her godfather, ignorant to what he'll do shortly after their wedding. It makes her sick to her stomach imagining it all.
From inside her nightstand drawer, Darcy withdraws another picture, the one Lupin gave her of himself and her as a young baby. She admires it for a moment, chuckling when Lupin adjusts the paper for her. Then, she puts it in the photo album next to the picture with Sirius in it. With the tip of her index finger, Darcy touches Lupin's face, wishing she could really feel his skin under her finger, wishing she could feel his lips against hers just one more time—one more time to do it right, to make it a kiss she'll be able to remember when things gets difficult, and they always get difficult.
She looks over at Emily's bed; the curtains are never drawn around any of the beds, as all the girls are rather comfortable with each other after sharing a dormitory for seven years. There was a time where Darcy had envied Emily and her life, her two parents who are hopelessly in love with each other still, who spoil her during holidays and give her attention whenever she requires it. She hasn't felt that anger and envy in so long, but now it comes back in earnest, making Darcy feel even more nauseous.
Sniffling, she closes the book and puts it down, along with her wand, and Darcy slides out of her bed, the stone floor cold on her bare feet. She pulls the blankets back on Emily's small bed and climbs in beside her friend. Emily stirs, but only moves enough so Darcy has room to lie down. They've grown a lot in the past seven years, and the bed is definitely too small for them each to lie comfortably, but Darcy doesn't get back up. She remembers the first time they'd shared a bed—they always had as young girls, sleeping in Emily's bed when Darcy stayed at her house, sometimes holding hands. It was a comfort to Darcy then, and it's comforting now, as well. No matter how much Emily will disagree with Darcy, Darcy knows that Emily will always love her—Emily, who'd been more than a friend at times—a sister—to Darcy throughout the years. They snuggle closer to each other and Darcy has no trouble falling back asleep, her dreams plagued with Lupin's handsome face and Sirius's warm hugs.