A/N: I hate that I can't reply individually to each of you that comments, but please know that I appreciate you x100! Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (rcgulus-bllack) or reach out!
'She was terrified of everything and terrified to show it.'
David Foster Wallace
Classes resume as normal, and with the start of term comes enormous amounts of work. Darcy and Emily find they have no more free time as the year progresses, and free periods are no longer used for gossiping and catching up on sleep— Snape hits them hard with essays, McGonagall gives them three new spells to learn by the end of the week, and Lupin keeps them working at more advanced non-verbal spells. Darcy and Emily still have yet to sit in on an Ancient Runes or Herbology class, so the prospect of even more work makes them even more weary. With their brains constantly full to bursting with brand new information, Darcy and Emily find they have an easy time with the non-verbal spells, also finding it's great fun to practice, and on Tuesday, they wake with fresh bruises and cuts where they'd been hit by spells and furniture.
Wednesday, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry's Firebolt is again the topic of discussion.
"Psst—hey—hey!—Darcy—"
Darcy stops writing, looking up at the boy in front of her with a half-raised eyebrow. Oliver Wood leans back in his chair so only two legs are on the ground, and Darcy remembers herself doing the same thing over the summer while eating ice cream sundaes. In his robes, his shoulders look much broader than usual, the fabric stretched tight across his chest. "What?" she hisses back. Lupin's back is turned towards the class as he writes on the blackboard, and Darcy brushes the feather of her quill across her lips as Oliver looks over his shoulder to make sure Lupin isn't listening.
"Is it true?" Oliver whispers, a crease between his eyebrows. "You gave Harry's Firebolt up to McGonagall?"
Emily chuckles softly beside Darcy, still scratching away with her quill on her parchment, filled with colorful notes. Darcy leans across the table towards Oliver, lowering her voice. "I did not give up Harry's Firebolt, thank you very much," Darcy replies quietly, and Oliver cracks a smile, looking quite relieved it wasn't Darcy's fault. "And you better be nice to Hermione about it, Oliver, or else—"
Lupin turns around suddenly and his eyes meet Darcy's. She gives Oliver a withering glare and sits back down in her seat fully, dipping her quill into her inkpot and continuing to write again. Oliver twists in his seat and puts all four of the chair's feet down on the ground, and Lupin seems content after that, turning his back on the class once again. But Oliver doesn't give up so easily. As soon as Lupin has turned, he leans back to speak with Darcy again. "I haven't done anything to Hermione, if you must know," he says defensively, his voice barely more than a whisper. Darcy continues to write, listening. "Why don't you talk to McGonagall about getting the Firebolt back? Harry needs to start practicing on it before our next game."
"Look," Darcy sighs, putting her quill down again. Oliver glances towards the front of the classroom again. "I love Harry, and I love watching Gryffindor win at Quidditch, but I will not face the wrath of McGonagall over a stupid broomstick. He can ride a school one until she gives it back. How many times have you asked her about it, anyway?"
"Enough times," Oliver answers quickly, making Darcy smile. "Fine, no more than six." Darcy rolls her eyes. "And she told me not to ask again."
Darcy leans forward again, pushing her hair behind her shoulders as not to get wet ink on it. "So you would send me?" she scoffs. "I wouldn't leave that classroom alive. Or I would, but it'd be as a toad. I would not look good as a toad."
"If we're lucky, she'll Transfigure you into a good broomstick." Oliver pauses, then looks at Emily helplessly, looking a very desperate man. "Emily—"
"No, don't even ask," Emily says curtly, not even looking up from her notes at Oliver. Darcy snickers, and Lupin turns around again, the book in his left hand opened to a middle chapter, and he points at Oliver with the chalk in his right hand.
"Oliver…please…" he says exasperatedly. Oliver smiles sweetly, putting his chair down on all fours again, and Lupin mutters his thanks before writing again, shaking his head and sighing.
Despite his warning, Oliver turns around yet again and puts his hands on the table in front of Darcy. "Just once—just ask her for a status update," Oliver begs, his voice barely there. "I'll do anything, and I promise I won't laugh if you do end up a toad."
"Anything?" Darcy repeats, raising both her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. She taps her chin with her quill, thinking hard, entertaining the idea for only a moment. Oliver nods, and Darcy elbows Emily in the arm playfully. "Are you flirting with me, Oliver Wood?" she asks, looking back down at her notes. Oliver's head blocks part of the blackboard, and she tries to move to see around him.
"Do you want me to?"
Darcy doesn't hesitate, still scratching away on her parchment. "No, not particularly."
"Your hair looks really nice today, Darcy," Oliver grins, resting his head on his arms, situated comfortably on her desk. Darcy's cheeks turn pink and she ignores him, shaking her head and writing furiously. "It looks so soft."
"That's because she brushed it today," Emily jests, sharing a look with Darcy.
"And you have the most beautiful eyes… have I ever told you that?" Oliver continues, making Darcy blush furiously. She stares at the back of Lupin's head, hoping he'll feel her eyes boring a hole in him, hoping he'll turn around and catch Oliver again. "Green eyes are my favorite, and I'll admit—I do have a weakness for redheads."
Darcy looks out of the corner of her eye to Gemma, who's laughing to herself. Her long nose is scrunched and she acknowledges Oliver with a sneer. She keeps copying notes, her nose almost brushing the parchment. Emily, at Darcy's side, gives Oliver a very stern look, as if that's ever helped once in the seven years they've all known each other. Then she slaps at Oliver's hand as if he's a bug she's trying to shoo away, and Darcy can't help but smile again. "Turn around, Oliver," Emily says with a frown. "You're distracting Darcy."
"Ow—hey!" he spits at Emily. Oliver rubs the top of his hand, giving Emily a scowl before turning back to Darcy. "Your smile is absolutely gorgeous, Darcy, you have such nice teeth—"
"Ew," Darcy retorts, louder than she'd intended. "Don't talk about my teeth."
"It's true, you know," Emily adds thoughtfully in Darcy's ear. "You do have nice teeth."
"Stop talking about my teeth," Darcy whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. "I feel like I can never smile now without you thinking about my teeth."
Lupin clears his throat from the front of the classroom, and when Darcy looks up at him, her entire face turns beet red. She covers her face with her hands, rubbing her temples and dragging her fingers through her hair. "Oliver, I'm sure to many women you're very—charming," Lupin begins, making the class chuckle. "But I'm quite sure Darcy is not interested. Perhaps you hadn't heard her clearly when she told you she didn't want you to flirt with her?"
This makes Gemma laugh out loud, and at the sound of her laugh, the entire class follows. Even Emily laughs, nudging Darcy in the ribs. Oliver turns a brighter red than Darcy and turns around, scribbling on his parchment and catching up on his notes. Darcy looks up at Lupin, mouthing a thank you. He smiles at her kindly, closes the book in his hand, and begins a new lesson, pacing around the classroom and lecturing them with a spring in his step. When the bell rings to end the class and Lupin dismisses them, Darcy, Emily, and Gemma sneak out the door first before anyone can stop them. She hadn't really planned on staying to talk to Professor Lupin, but she feels that it probably would have been an appropriate time. However, she doesn't get the chance to go back, not with all of her friends at her side.
Harry's anger with Darcy slowly subsides over the first few days when he finally accepts Darcy had nothing to do with his Firebolt being taken away, though he does find comfort in constantly asking his sister why she hadn't claimed she bought it for him herself. However, that doesn't mean his anger with Hermione subsides, despite Darcy's protests that Hermione meant well. Hermione spends a lot of time attached to Darcy's hip after the incident, and while Darcy wishes she'd leave her alone sometimes, she doesn't want to say anything that'll hurt Hermione even more. However, it's tiring having Hermione around, so she's thankful that on Thursday, Hermione decides to skip lunch to spend some time in the library doing research.
About halfway through lunch, Professor Lupin finds Darcy easily enough, greets her friends, and then crouches down between Darcy and Emily, grinning. "I've found a boggart for this evening's Patronus lesson," he explains, watching Darcy stuff a forkful of potatoes in her mouth. At the mention of this evening's lesson, Darcy frowns. "Darcy, would I be asking too much of you to help me wrangle it into a briefcase?"
Darcy swallows her potatoes and looks at Emily, then looks at Harry and Ron seated across from her. She lowers her fork and meets Lupin's eyes, pursing her lips so tightly that she reminds herself of Petunia. Truthfully, she'd completely forgotten about the Patronus lessons with everything that has been going on, from Hermione trailing her around like a lost puppy dog, to the disgusting amount of homework for Transfiguration McGonagall had given them. "I have Ancient Runes next, sorry," she says, going back to her food. His face so close to hers makes her anxious and her face reddens. "I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle, Professor Lupin."
Lupin chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The sight clusters Darcy, even viewed from the corner of her eye. "You flatter me."
"It's true," she smiles, turning in her seat to face him. "I heard about your boggart demonstration."
"Did you?" He continues to grin at her, looking rather amused. "Word travels fast around Hogwarts. I'd forgotten."
This makes her laugh, and Harry and Ron immediately begin reliving their first class, recalling fondly the sight of Snape dressed in Neville's grandmother's clothes. "Everyone heard about your boggart demonstration. Professor Snape was furious. Fair warning—you should tread carefully around him, sir."
"I'll keep that in mind."
If she's really being honest with herself, seeing a boggart is the very last thing she wants to do. She hadn't really thought about it before, but now it seems so obvious—of course Lupin couldn't just walk a dementor into Hogwarts. But a boggart—she shudders—seems just as bad. Perhaps Harry's boggart turns into one of those foul, wretched things, but dementors certainly aren't her worst fear. It makes her feel foolish, not wanting to face a boggart; she remembers learning about them in her third year, as well, but back then life was much simpler, as were her fears. She doesn't even remember what her boggart had turned into, that's how stupid it had been. Those were the days before Harry came to Hogwarts—the days when Hogwarts truly was the safest place in the world. There were no giant snakes or spiders, no mass murderers or dementors, no three-headed dogs and no Voldemort on the back of someone's head. But now, Darcy isn't so sure what a boggart would turn into if she were to face one. Although during the past two and half years, she's learned that one of her worst fears is losing Harry, and she definitely doesn't want to have to face that. And if the boggart decides to feed on another of her fears? How? How would a boggart turn into Darcy's uncalled for fear of turning into Aunt Petunia? How would a boggart turn into her lifelong nightmares, or her despairing loneliness and fear of being abandoned?
"How about this? If you're late to Ancient Runes, I'll talk to Professor Babbling myself about it," Lupin suggests, raising an eyebrow.
He wants to get me alone. The idea of being alone with him and missing even a little bit of Ancient Runes entices her and Darcy puts her silverware back down, finally rising from her seat. "Done," she says, but the idea of a boggart still gives her anxiety. She looks at Emily, giving her a stern look. "Make sure your notes are legible, please."
Emily mutters under her breath as Lupin escorts Darcy from the Great Hall. He leads her up the marble staircase in silence, his fingertips ghosting across the small of her back as he rounds corners and hurries her along. Finally, Lupin opens a small door and holds it open for her to pass through; she enters without a second thought, but Lupin has to duck slightly lest he hit his head on the door frame. She's never been in this classroom before, and it doesn't seem that many people have in the last few years. The desks are covered with a thick layer of dust, the chalkboard filled with profanity (likely Peeves's work), and the only sound is the rattling and violent shaking of the old teacher's desk, presumably due to the boggart in it. Lupin has clearly prepared for this, as he picks up a briefcase sitting beside the desk and opens it, readying it for the boggart.
Darcy stands off to the side of the classroom, brushing the dust off a desk and sitting on it. Her legs dangle a few inches above the ground and she swings them back and forth, watching Lupin carefully. With a lazy wave of his wand, the desk drawer opens and something silvery rises from inside of it. It starts out small, no larger than a golf ball, but as it adjusts to the seemingly unlimited amount of space outside of the drawer, it grows and grows and grows, bigger and bigger until it surpasses the size of a bowling ball and it stops when it's twice that size. Darcy's eyes snap from the full moon hanging in the air to Lupin, who shows no sign of fear. He knows the boggart cannot harm him, she thinks. He knows there is nothing to fear. He looks bored, and as he opens his mouth and points his wand at it, Darcy leaps from the desk, making Lupin jump and turn to face her, as the moon continues to linger in the air.
"I want to try," she whispers, and Lupin hesitates for a fraction of a second.
"I'm not going to force you if you don't want to—"
"I do. I want to." Darcy fumbles in her pocket for her wand, but takes it out all the same as Lupin goes to move away, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze before sitting down on the desk where Darcy had just been.
Even before the boggart senses a change in fears, Darcy's heart sinks to her stomach and she begins to tremble. I shouldn't have done this, she tells herself. I shouldn't have done this. I don't want to see whatever the boggart has to show me. And yet, she's curious. The fear of not knowing what the boggart will turn into is the worst part of it all so far—the anticipation makes her anxious, and she fears the boggart will make a mockery of her deepest fears in front of Lupin. It's just a boggart, it cannot hurt me. Darcy readies her wand as the boggart undergoes its swift transformation, the full moon disappearing almost into thin air. I am a Gryffindor. I am brave. I am a Potter. A boggart will not defeat me. I am not afraid.
Darcy glances at Lupin and she knows he can feel her fear, judging by the way he has gotten to his feet, looking almost too ready to jump in and help her if need be. Darcy almost changes her mind about facing the boggart, knowing Lupin would never ridicule her decision to step aside, nor think her weak or frightened. She is safe with Lupin, here in this classroom—he will not allow the boggart to defeat her—I am with him. I am safe. I am not afraid. I am a Gryffindor—
The boggart finally transforms, leaving the silvery full moon behind completely. And when it reforms into Darcy's worst fear, all is lost. She should have known that's what the boggart would choose to turn into, and for a moment Darcy is frozen with fear, an ice cold chill coming over her, her spine tingling, as she stares down at her the body of her little brother. He looks up at her through blank eyes, his glasses smashed against his face, his scar clearly visible underneath his dark hair, his mouth slightly open. Blood leaks from somewhere underneath his clothing, pooling around his body. It's just a boggart, she reminds herself, taking a step backwards. Harry's okay, he's alive, and I'll see him tonight in the common room. Yet despite that, she makes no move to banish the boggart. How is she supposed to? How can she find it in herself to laugh after seeing her baby brother dead? How can she possibly turn that into something funny? Darcy takes another step backwards, her wand still held in front of her.
She wants to look away—she has to look away—but she can't. The longer she looks, the more it hurts, but it draws her eyes and she can't stop looking at her brother's face—no, the boggart's face. That is not my brother.
Darcy can't help but feel stripped, naked, completely vulnerable. Shame rises in her, and she can feel Lupin's eyes on her, probably wondering when he should cut in and save her from the humiliation. Her worst fear, laid out on the floor for him to see—the boggart is mocking her, staring her right in the face with those green eyes that are Harry's—that are hers. Without being able to stop it, Darcy starts to cry, covering her eyes to force herself to stop looking. And at the sound of her sobs, Lupin decides it's time to step in, and he puts himself between the boggart and Darcy, seeming a little breathless when he shouts, "Riddikulus!" There's a loud CRACK and Darcy hears the briefcase snap closed, lock, and rattle against the desk.
When the boggart is safely packed away, Lupin turns to Darcy frantically. Darcy lowers her hands, allowing Lupin to come nearer, closer and closer until he's inches away, and if she were to stand on her tiptoes and just lean forward, just barely, their lips would touch. But Darcy isn't much in the mood for kissing anyone, not even Lupin, not with all the energy drained from her, exhausted from such a horrible, tragic sight. Tears fall freely down her cheeks and she looks up at him. Lupin reaches out to touch her face, pulling away at the last second.
"It's not real," he whispers. Lupin seems unsure of himself, his hands held out awkwardly in front of her. "None of it is real, you don't have to be afraid—"
Darcy falls into him, burying her face in his chest. The warmth of his body envelopes her, and Lupin seems to have regained his confidence again. Lupin touches her chin, gently tilting her head back, and he looks at her for a minute before wiping her tear stained cheeks with his thumbs. When Darcy's cheeks are dry, he smooths her hair down with the backs of his fingers. It's then that Darcy realizes no one has ever wiped her tears away before, and she feels a rush of affection for him. She wants to kiss him, to fling her arms around him, to stay nuzzled in his chest forever, but—"I'm sorry," she breathes, bile rising in the back of her throat at the words forcing themselves out of her mouth. "Professor, I am so, so sorry—"
"Sorry?" Lupin asks, giving her a nervous laugh and holding her out at arm's length, shaking his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You don't have to apologize to me."
Darcy pauses, shrugging his hands off her arms. She knows that when she says it, everything will stop that she's enjoyed—there will be no more lazy and distracted touches, no more gentle and reassuring squeezes, no more of the comfort she finds when he wraps his arms around her even for just a few short seconds. "Hagrid saw us that day, near the forest," she says, her voice low. "He told Dumbledore." When Lupin doesn't answer right away, Darcy tells him what she recalls of her and Dumbledore's conversation. It takes her a few minutes to remember everything, but throughout that time, Lupin's face stays blank and he doesn't seem even slightly surprised. She trails off at the end and looks down at her feet. "But Dumbledore already told you, didn't he?"
Lupin nods slowly. "Yes, he did." He clears his throat and motions to the dusted off desk. "Maybe we should sit for a moment?"
She obliges. Lupin sits beside her, turning his body to face her. Their knees brush lightly, but neither of them flinch away. Darcy's cheeks must be bright red, as they're burning and painful. Her stomach churns and she can't meet his eyes. She doesn't want to have this conversation, not now—not ever. How stupid could she have been—how irresponsible, how starved for affection had she been that she thought it was appropriate to seek that affection out from Lupin?
"Professor Dumbledore voiced his concerns to me," Lupin explains, holding his hands in his lap. "Nothing unkind, and he made no mention of anything, er—specific. I think he had always been expecting there to be a—closeness—between us given the—situation and our history, if you could call it that, and after the… incident." With each word, his speech slows, and when Darcy looks at him, he looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting restlessly beside her. Darcy's shoulder twinges just for a split second, the scars throbbing once, painfully. Lupin gets to his feet and paces in front of Darcy.
"Professor," she says, watching him walk back and forth. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—to—I didn't mean to kiss you, I mean—I did, but—everything happened so quickly and I shouldn't have—"
"Darcy," Lupin chuckles, stopping her stammering. When she quiets, his smile falls, making him look nervous. He stops pacing and stands with his hands behind his back and they look at each other. "You're a sweet girl—the daughter of one of my old friends—and I fear I've taken advantage of your kindness." His words are curt and professional, but he doesn't seem cold. In fact, he looks at her apologetically. "It was a momentary lapse of judgement, and I promise you it will not happen again."
Darcy digests this. It's exactly what she'd expected, and for some reason it isn't as painful as she'd expected, nor does it make her want to run far, far away from him. Taken advantage of your kindness, she says to herself again. A momentary lapse of judgement. But she knows it wasn't his fault—it was her's. Darcy suddenly feels dirty, as if somehow by kissing him the day after a full moon—when Lupin had been so weak, so exhausted, so scatterbrained—she'd taken advantage of him. No, she thinks, he wanted to kiss me. I went to leave and he came back to kiss me again. Even so… "Professor, it's my fault, I—"
Lupin smiles incredulously despite everything, and he shakes his head, holding up a hand to stop her. He suddenly frowns, a flash of revulsion crossing across his face. "I am not what you want, and certainly not what you deserve," he sighs. "I would hate to see you lose everything because of me."
She doesn't quite believe either of those things are true, but Darcy doesn't feel now is the best time to say so. Instead she says, "I'm glad you're here, at Hogwarts. I'm glad I got to meet you—again, I mean."
He takes a long time to respond, but his answer makes her stomach turn violently. "Me too."
Darcy inhales deeply, clearing her throat. "Could we still have dinner together?"
And then, Lupin smiles again, making Darcy smile in turn. It warms her heart, fills her with love. "We'll already be practicing Patronuses once a week as it is, plus we'll be seeing each other in classes," he teases. "Is that still not enough for you?"
Darcy doesn't answer, but looks away sheepishly.
"If we start seeing each other too often, you may soon grow tired of me."
"But Professor," Darcy shrugs, lifting her eyes to look at his face. "I could never grow tired of you."