'I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it—to be fed so much love I couldn't take anymore. Just once.'

Haruki Murakami

After the incident with the boggart, Lupin doesn't protest when she decides she'd rather skip their first Patronus lesson. Harry hounds her about it for a little while, but when she snaps at him finally about not feeling well, Harry drops it. The boggart has shaken her to her core—more so than the awkward conversation with Lupin, which seems stupid when compared with the boggart. The image of Harry, dead and bloodied in front of her, hangs over her during classes, during meals in the Great Hall, and the meals she takes with Lupin (they now eat in his office once again). Lupin hasn't brought up the boggart, but Darcy isn't sure if it's because he doesn't want to embarrass her, or if it's because he doesn't want to recall the conversation they'd had just after it all happened.

The past two dinners she's had with Lupin have been quiet, slightly uncomfortable, and very short. He doesn't read outloud to her in his office, and Darcy's too nervous about someone walking in on them to talk about anything personal—anything she wouldn't tell another teacher, which turns out to be a good thing; Professor McGonagall had stopped by Lupin's office during their most recent dinner, asking questions about Harry's Firebolt. She had seemed more confused at the scene in his office than anything, and requested that Darcy ask Harry and Oliver Wood to stop pestering her about the broomstick.

The thought of losing Harry now plagues her dreams—Darcy still dreams of Sirius Black most nights, and for a few minutes in her dreams, all is well with his arms wrapped around her, protecting her and shielding her from all the dangers in the world before handing her over to Hagrid, and Hagrid always turns into Harry then, the same Harry the boggart had turned into. Darcy wakes often in the nights again, sweating, and about once a week ends up going to Madam Pomfrey for something to help her sleep. And with each passing day, the dreams only get worse. She dreams of her mother again, murdered in front of her, over and over and over, and she finds herself longing for dreams of Lupin again, despite the shame they make her feel—anything to keep the nightmares at bay. And with the nightmares back, things continue to worsen for Darcy. The following weeks are gray and bleak, cold and bitter, and the entire school is soon freezing. Classes seem to go on forever, the days surely last longer than twenty-four hours, and Darcy tosses and turns in her bed at night for hours before finally falling asleep.

The Saturday of the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw Quidditch game, Oliver and Darcy meet Emily, Harry, Hermione, and Ron in the stands. Across the pitch, Gemma and Carla cheer on Slytherin together among a sea of students dressed in green and silver robes waving green and silver flags. Darcy can't even find it in herself to be happy about the Slytherin defeating Ravenclaw, despite Oliver Wood's protests of "it's a good thing—trust me, it's a good thing" all the way back up to the castle.

And after missing the first Patronus lesson, Darcy decides she doesn't want to miss another. The second week she forces herself down to the classroom with Harry, with Ancient Runes homework that she's been putting off for the entire week, and Lupin lets her sit off to the side, as she watches Harry struggle with the boggart-dementor. With it only being a boggart, Darcy hadn't thought she had anything fear, but each time the boggart-dementor came rising out of Lupin's briefcase, she closes her eyes and sees it all again—the flash of green light, her mother kissing her forehead and her nose and her lips, Voldemort laughing upon seeing Harry in the crib—until Lupin forces the boggart back into the trunk and gives them each a piece of chocolate. Darcy's just grateful that the memories aren't as clear as they are when in the presence of a real dementor. Still, after each time she's forced to relive it, she gets shakier and she starts to sweat, afraid to go to sleep at night.

Darcy can't help to be proud of Harry, though. His Patronus, while barely more than what she'd produced her first day at Hogwarts, is still an impressive feat for a thirteen-year-old, but since starting the 'anti-dementor lessons', Darcy gets the feeling that Harry isn't telling her something. With Oliver Wood demanding Quidditch practice to take place five nights a week, she assumes he's upset about still not getting the Firebolt back, but she doesn't think that's the only thing bothering him. Harry seems too eager to have his Patronus lessons, too eager to face a boggart-dementor, but Darcy can't understand why—surely he hears and sees the same things that she does. She doesn't want to ask him, but she wonders if he feels the same way she does when she's struck with those memories.

During the third lesson, Harry turns to Darcy with chocolate stuffed in his mouth. Tonight, she's brought her cauldron, and she stirs it counterclockwise three times and, to her brother's surprise, tastes it. It's tasteless, however, and she records this on a piece of parchment with cramped writing all over it.

"Darcy," Harry says. When she looks up at him, his face is white and sweaty, but the chocolate helps return some faint color to his cheeks. Perched atop her usual desk, she awaits his request, knowing what he's going to ask before he asks. "Why don't you take a turn? I want to see your Patronus."

"No, thank you," Darcy replies, stirring her potion clockwise this time. She flips a page of her textbook. If the boggart were to stay as a dementor, she might give it a try, but Harry doesn't know that her worst fear is losing him, and she doesn't want him to have to know that at all, let alone look upon it. Even so, Darcy doesn't think she can think of a happy enough memory to conjure a real Patronus. That seems to be Harry's main problem as well, but it barely discourages him. Though, if she's being honest—and she's trying very hard to be honest with herself lately—the brief memory of her and Sirius gives her such joy sometimes that she often wonders if that memory would be strong enough, but she doesn't want to tell anyone that's the only memory she could think of and she definitely doesn't want to admit that she privately enjoys the dreams with Sirius Black in them. The thought makes a shiver run down her spine.

"Come on, Darcy," Harry pleads, swallowing his chocolate. "You haven't tried once since we've started. Just try."

"No, thank you," she says again, not looking up from her cauldron this time.

"Darcy—"

But Lupin cuts him off. "If Darcy doesn't want a turn, we shouldn't force her," Lupin tells Harry, glancing at Darcy and flashing her a small smile. "She very politely refused, and you should respect her decision because she is your sister and you love her."

It seems, according to the confused look on Harry's face, that that's the last thing he'd expected to hear out of Lupin's mouth. Professor Lupin just smiles at him to indicate he means no disrespect, and waits for Harry to ready himself for another go at the boggart-dementor. However, Harry seems to have taken his words to heart, because Harry doesn't ask again throughout the entire lesson, though Darcy is sure that Harry will confront her afterwards about it. But what is she supposed to tell him? How is she supposed to explain that she can't have a go because Harry's own dead and mangled body will appear before them, not a dementor?

After that night's lesson, Lupin asks to have a word with her. As Darcy cleans up her area, dumping out the test potion she'd started and throwing away the extra and useless ingredients, Harry leaves her and Lupin to talk in the empty classroom. Lupin watches her, leaning against the old teacher's desk at the front, his arms folded over his chest. "What potion have you been working so hard on tonight?" he asks.

"It's not really any potion," Darcy tells him. "Snape is having us try and create our own, but I'm having a hard time getting mine to do… anything."

"Create a potion?" Lupin seems taken aback by this, horrified. "What if it's poisonous? Or what if it hurts or kills someone?"

"Don't worry, the ingredients we've been told to use won't actually create any poisons," Darcy assures him. "It's Professor Snape's way of showing us that he cares, I suppose, by making sure we don't kill ourselves."

Lupin doesn't seem convinced. "It still seems dangerous."

"Truthfully, sir, I think he's just getting lazy."

Lupin laughs softly, but stops when he realizes Darcy hasn't even cracked a smile. "Would you like some chocolate? I have a small piece left, I think," he says, reaching into his pocket, but Darcy shakes her head. He looks up at her and frowns. "Darcy, not that I think you're terrible company—on the contrary, I find you wonderful company—but are you sure you want to be here? I can't say I'm fond of the idea of you sitting here once a week, forced to relive terrible memories because of a dementor."

"It's just a boggart," she snaps, flushing a deep red. "It's not even a real dementor."

Lupin's face softens. "I'm sorry," he says, looking over his shoulder at the rattling briefcase. "I didn't mean—you shouldn't feel ashamed."

Darcy looks down at her feet. "I'm not ashamed, Professor."

He looks at her for what seems like a long while. "All right." Lupin hesitates, grabbing the briefcase off the desk. "I'll see you tomorrow night for dinner?"

Darcy nods. "Yes, sir."

A long, awkward silence follows. Darcy kicks at the stone floor, grabbing hold of her cauldron and case of potions ingredients. "We could have dinner in front of the fire again, would you like that? I could have something good brought up from the kitchens anything you'd like," he suggests with a small smile. "I could talk to the house-elves. I may or may not have spent a good deal of time in the kitchens as a boy. I'm sure they'll remember me."

"I don't want you to do that just because you feel sorry for me."

Lupin moves closer to her, touching her arm lightly. Darcy looks up into his face again. "I wouldn't be doing it because I feel sorry for you," he tells her. He lowers his hand, sighing. "I don't think I've seen you smile in weeks. Would a nice dinner make you smile again?"

Darcy narrows her eyes at him. She has to admit, it has been a long time since they've shown any affection towards each other, even the slightest bit—ever since their conversation after the boggart incident, he's acted much more professional towards her instead of like the friend to her he had been. She misses their closeness, but what Lupin's suggesting seems like toeing the line, and getting in trouble with Dumbledore isn't something she wants to happen anytime soon. "What does it matter?" she asks, shrugging her shoulders.

Lupin doesn't answer her question. "Shall I talk to the house-elves, then?"

She considers him, finally nodding again. Then, feeling slightly hopeful about his potential answer, she says, "I have a bottle of firewhisky, Professor."

He gives her an exasperated look. Lupin runs a hand through his hair and scoffs. "Darcy, you—" He laughs a genuine laugh that makes him seem ten years younger. "You can't just tell me that—"

"Sorry," she mutters, not wanting to push it. Having her full bottle of firewhisky confiscated would be the cherry on top of everything else going on. Darcy leaves quickly, still thinking about the firewhisky when she reaches the common room.

The next evening, Darcy makes her way to Lupin's office (lacking her bottle of firewhisky). When she enters, he's clearing up his office, the hidden door to his apartments open. He smiles when he sees her, stands up straight, and follows her into his apartments, closing the door behind him. There's already a fire roaring in the fireplace, and two plates are set on the table between the hearth and the sofa, full of food and desserts. Darcy's stomach growls at the sight of the food, and even she has to admit to herself that Lupin's outdone himself—the house-elves have provided them with all of Darcy's favorite foods that she's ever mentioned in passing, and some that she can't remember ever mentioning at all. Thick slices of roast beef cooked perfectly rare, fried tomatoes, baked potatoes, and even sprouts, and stuffed on her plate with all the other food is a decent slice of hot apple pie with ice cream scooped on top. She turns to Lupin, who's fetching silverware out of a drawer, his back turned to him.

When he turns around, he catches Darcy staring at him and stops in his tracks, his face falling. "What?" he asks quickly. "Is everything all right? I hope I didn't—do you not like it?"

"No—no, I—" she answers breathlessly, wanting nothing more than to kiss him right there. "This is—you didn't have to—"

"It's nothing," Lupin replies gruffly, moving quickly towards the sofa and taking a seat. "You know the house-elves—they wanted to make sure we were well fed."

Darcy can't take her eyes off him. "Thank you, Professor Lupin."

He smiles at her, toothy and mischievous, and it makes her smile in turn.

As they start to eat, conversation comes more easily. Lupin tells her of Harry's natural success in his class, of his ambition and confidence in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He puts music on to fill the silence, and they listen while they eat, and Darcy wishes she could spend every single night like this. It makes her feel at peace in a way—like with the walls of Lupin's apartments around her, the bad things can't get to her. She and Lupin steal sideways glances at each other every so often, blushing whenever they're caught, and after a while, Lupin asks that Darcy get two glasses out of a cabinet. She does as he asks without complaint, and both of their cheeks turn pink when she turns around to find Lupin forcibly tearing his gaze away from a fixed point that is far below where his eyes should be. He clears his throat, returning to his food.

When they finish with their desserts, Darcy rests back on the sofa, her stomach fuller than it has been in a while. She feels too comfortable for her own good, slightly sleepy, and warm from the fire. "I should have brought the firewhisky," she mutters, making Lupin chuckle. "Though, it would probably have put me to sleep." Darcy looks at him, smiling sweetly. "You wouldn't really have confiscated it, would you, Professor?"

"Bring it along next time and you'll find out."

"That sounds like a trap," she teases. "I don't know that I'm willing to risk it."

"Don't you trust me?" Lupin asks her, giving her an easy smile of his.

Darcy hesitates, the words making her near breathless. "With my life, with my secrets, with my brother—yes," she answers. "But with my alcohol—no."

This makes him laugh heartily, and the silence that follows makes Darcy suddenly very shy. They look into each other's faces, tongues darting out to wet their lips, eyes meeting for just a moment before looking away. Lupin stands and walks over to a small cabinet off towards the tiny room where he sleeps. He crouches down before the cabinet. It sounds like glass clinking, whatever he's reaching for, and Darcy peers over the back of the sofa, blushing furiously when she catches herself staring at him, feeling her heart start to race as she presses herself as deep as possible into the couch.

"I shouldn't even be entertaining the very idea of this..." Lupin starts and Darcy raises an eyebrow. When he returns to the sofa, he has a thin bottle of mead in his hand. Halfway through unscrewing the bottle cap, Lupin looks at her very seriously, his eyebrows raised. "One glass and no more, and don't say I've never done anything for you."

"I won't say no to a glass," Darcy says warily, "but are you sure about this? I mean—I appreciate all you've done tonight, but—are you sure?"

"Not at all," Lupin shrugs, pouring into her glass first. He only fills it halfway, smiling at her knowingly as he does so. He quickly changes the subject. "Tell me, Darcy, have you given any more thought to what you're going to do after graduating?"

"No," she answers with a sigh, sipping at her drink. Lupin pours a full glass for himself, but doesn't drink it. He sets it on the table and listens to her with a half-smile. "But I've still got time."

"The rest of the year will go by faster than you know."

"That's what everyone's been telling me." Darcy fingers the rim of her glass, looking him up and down. "What do you think I should do? I'd like to hear your opinion, Professor."

Lupin licks his lips, thinking for a moment. "How much sway will my opinion have on your actual decision?"

"It depends on what your answer is, so weigh your words carefully."

He nods slowly, chuckling. "All right," he says. "Maybe you should go into the Ministry. Even starting as an assistant, you'll have far more opportunities there than you'll ever have here." Lupin picks up his glass and takes a long drink out of it. "You're smart, talented, determined—you could go far in the Ministry in a short amount of time if you wished it, but you don't know how long it will be until Professor Dumbledore thinks you're experienced enough to teach your own class. And with Professor Snape already teaching Potions, what would that leave you?"

Darcy takes another sip, her heart racing. "You're flattering me."

Lupin doesn't falter. "I'm giving you my honest opinion. Isn't that what you wanted?"

The soft music in the background is the only sound for a minute as they look at each other. Darcy takes the last sip of her mead and puts the empty glass down. Despite Lupin's promise of only one glass, he refills it for her, this time pouring a little more than he did the first time. "Maybe I should ask your honest opinion on more things, sir," she says in a low voice. "Whenever I need a boost to my self-confidence, I could come to you."

Lupin doesn't reply, but doesn't look away from her, either. Finally, after draining his glass, he says, "If you want a compliment, you need only ask."

She remembers the last time he'd said that to her, and how she'd been too shy to say something. But now, with some mead in her and Lupin's guard down, she's willing to push him a little, to see how far she's able to take it before he shuts her down. The idea makes her feel slightly bad for going against Dumbledore's wishes, but the idea of hearing Lupin flatter her and shower her with compliments is far too appealing to leave it alone. "I'd like a compliment, Professor Lupin."

He smiles, as if he hadn't expected her to say so. "I've just given you a compliment. Three, in fact. If you keep asking for them, I'll soon run out." He rubs at the scruff on his face. "Don't be greedy, Darcy."

For a split second, Darcy almost leaps to him, wanting to press her lips to his neck, kissing him over and over until he finally purrs more compliments in her ear. These thoughts are intensified with each sip of mead she takes, and Lupin refills her glass once more when she finishes her second. The third glass is much easier to drink, and she finishes it quick enough. Cheeks flushed, she decides it's time to take her leave before she decides to do something stupid. Lupin bids her goodnight at the classroom door, offers to walk her back to the common room, and she almost accepts. She hesitates for a while, allowing herself to admire him in this state—hair sticking up in the back from his hand running through it, his cheeks colored from the drink, the slight smirk on his lips, begging to be kissed. However, Darcy finally politely refuses and takes her leave as Lupin calls out to her before she rounds the corner.

"Goodnight, Darcy," he says to her back, and Darcy doesn't dare turn around lest he sees her smile. "Sleep well."

Everyone else falls asleep much faster than Darcy that night, which isn't a huge surprise. Her thoughts dwell on Lupin tonight, however, and the best dinner she's ever had while at Hogwarts. It feels like it has been an eternity since Lupin's spoken to her like that, so warm and so sure of himself, slightly arrogant, as if he knows every word he says to her makes her want him more. The entire thing had seemed so intimate—the fire, the dinner, the music, the alcohol, the impulsive and slightly drunken flirting—intimacy she's never known, but she thinks she could come to enjoy very much. Even lying in bed now, Darcy still feels her head still buzzing, her pulse pounding in her ears—though, that could be due to the mead, the faint taste of honey still on the back of her tongue.

When she does finally fall asleep, Darcy's dreams are of Lupin, a sweet relief after the nightmares. But her dreams have never been so vivid or obscene—she can almost feel Lupin's lips working their way down her jaw, across her collarbones, down her chest and stomach. His tongue darts out just enough to taste her flesh, to give her goosebumps all over. She can feel his beard scratching against the smooth skin of her inner thighs, his fingers gripping her waist tight to keep her from writhing, to keep her still—

Darcy wakes, hot, her chest heaving. As she shifts in her bed, her thighs feel damp and she groans, expecting to pull back her sheets to a small pool of blood, but then she remembers her dream and blushes in the darkness, glad that no one is awake to see her wallowing in shame. Darcy pulls the blankets over her head, her core aching and throbbing with every passing second, begging for release, begging for Darcy to end it. No, she tells herself, no, no, no—not to the thought of him, no, no, no.

But he'll never have to know, she tries to reason with herself. There's no reason for him to ever have to know—she'll never have to tell him, never have to admit that she dreamt about him in such a vulgar position, his lips touching every inch of bare skin, his head between her legs, her fingers threading through his hair. Darcy closes her eyes and tries to steady her breathing and—hating herself for doing it—slowly slips a trembling hand beneath the waistband of her pajamas and her underwear and holding her breath as she remembers the way Lupin had kissed her that day, the feel of his lips on hers—she imagines what it would feel like to have his hands on her, touching her, loving her—she inhales sharply—

"Darcy?"

Her eyes snap open and she freezes, half relieved for an interruption. With her other hand, she pulls the blanket down over her head. "What?"

Emily sounds still half-asleep, her head still on her pillow. "Are you okay?"

Darcy lowers the blanket, thankful for the lack of light. Her cheeks burn. "Yeah," she says a bit too quickly. "Just had a weird dream, is all. I'm fine."

"All right…" Emily yawns. "Goodnight, Darcy…"

She waits for a moment, until Emily's breathing becomes heavier again, before moving. Darcy closes her eyes once more, pulling her hand out of her pants and hoping the ache will subside. How humiliating.