'inhale—try not to remember how desperate / you've been for touch—yes ignore it—that / hitch of your heart.'

Brionne Janae

Darcy reaches the hospital wing a little after three in the morning. Wide awake, nerves jangling, Darcy's feet carry her all the way there despite wanting nothing more than to turn around and go back to Lupin. For years, she'd thought there was no better place to sleep than in her four poster here at Hogwarts—after summers at Privet Drive, that's one of the things she always craved most. But now, now that she knows the feeling of Lupin's arms around her and holding her close to him, she can't think of a more comfortable and safe place to be. If she hadn't been so worried about curfew upon waking, it would have been much more enjoyable—she could have gone back to sleep against his chest and slept until the sun rose in the morning. And to know that months ago, his hands had mutilated and scarred her shoulder permanently—to know that someone who had once done such damage to her could also be so gentle—

"Potter? What are you doing here? I thought I heard the doors—I'm a very light sleeper, you know, just in case something like this happens—" At the sound of the doors closing behind Darcy into the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey comes bustling out of her office in a nightgown, pulling a sweater on around her shoulders. Her gray hair is pulled back into a tight bun, but loose hairs frame her face, making her look very disheveled. She suddenly sniffs like a wild animal and scrunches her nose before pulling back slightly from Darcy and raising her eyebrows. "You've been drinking."

"No, I haven't," Darcy says, wondering immediately why she's even lied. "Can I stay here tonight?"

Madam Pomfrey gives her a sharp look, but doesn't press the issue. Instead, she leads Darcy to a cot and pulls the curtains shut. "Will you be having dreams tonight, or no?" Madam Pomfrey asks. She pulls the blankets on the cot back and waits for Darcy to climb in, still fully clothed, but lacking shoes. Once Darcy's settled in, Madam Pomfrey throws the blankets back over her.

"I'll take my chances with dreams tonight," Darcy answers quietly, resting her head against the pillow and closing her eyes, trying to believe that she's not in the hospital wing but still with Lupin. But Darcy can't hear the comforting beat of his heart—only silence—and though the pillow is comfortable and soft, she misses the scratchy feel of his sweater against her cheek and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Madam Pomfrey leaves her, returning to her office. Darcy opens her eyes again at the sound of the door closing, and she stares at her curtains, lit with the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. In a few days, the full moon will rise again, and Lupin will become a monster—no, not a monster, harmless, only for a few hours. Her hand absentmindedly finds its way to her shoulder, and through her shirt she fingers the scars underneath. Despite Madam Pomfrey's hopes that they would shrink a little over time, they're still the same size they'd been when Snape knitted her flesh back together. Still large, still horrible, still ugly—yet they don't bother her as much as she had imagined they would. Perhaps it's because of her fondness for Lupin, but Darcy can't find it in her heart to be angry with him for giving her such scars.

She closes her eyes again, blocking out the moonlight, trying to think how it had come to this. She wonders, briefly, about what things would be like now if she wasn't a Potter—Lupin certainly wouldn't have taken an immediate interest in her, and she in him, and they probably wouldn't be in this situation. Very rarely does Darcy feel happy to be a Potter, but it's because of her family name that Lupin's been able to show her how it feels to be cared for. Emily had always insisted she only needed herself in this world—that Darcy didn't need anyone to care for her because she was strong and independent, but Darcy would let Lupin care for her as long as he wanted to, for the rest of her life if he wanted to. All Darcy wants, as she drifts off to sleep again, is for Lupin's arms to be around her, for him to be drawing lazy patterns on her arm, for him to kiss her again in more places than just her mouth…

The next few weeks seem to fly by with Darcy hardly noticing. She spends much of her time in the library, not only trying to keep up with the immense workload the teachers are starting to set them to prepare them for their N.E.W.T.'s, but also trying to find more information that may help with Buckbeak's appeal. Comparing notes with Hermione and Ron (and sometimes, to Darcy's surprise, Emily), Darcy's quite relieved that they haven't found much either, as most of the information they had researched had already been given to Hagrid for the trial. Discouraged, Darcy doesn't work herself so hard looking for anything hippogriff related, and instead busies herself with schoolwork, nearly drowning in it.

None of her teachers congratulate her or bring up the job offer, and Darcy's quite glad. However, Darcy's quite sure that Dumbledore's told Snape about it—Snape seems overall more critical of her potions, correcting her form and chastising Darcy after she adds personal touches to her draughts. But his criticisms of her Potions don't seem as angry or as condescending—instead, Snape just seems to be making sure she's grasping the material easily enough, likely because he'd rather not have an ignoramus as an assistant. After finishing a particular healing potion, Snape decides to let the class brew their best potions before starting the new lesson. Darcy brews a perfect batch of Pepper Up Potion, to which Snape gives her full marks and does something very strange with his mouth that Darcy's never seen before.

When Snape walks away from Darcy, she and Gemma exchange a confused and suspicious glance. "Is my imagination playing tricks on me," Gemma begins slowly, her eyes following Snape as he stalks around the classroom, "or did you just receive the closest thing to a smile that you'll ever see on that man's face?"

Darcy sighs. "I can never look him in the eyes now."

The worst thing about the following weeks for Darcy is the fact that Emily still refuses to speak with her. On the Monday after Darcy had spent half of the night with Lupin, Darcy had shown up to Defense Against the Dark Arts to find that Emily had switched seats to sit beside Gemma. So, Darcy had to sit beside a Slytherin girl she'd never spoken to before—but Oliver's partner had offered to switch after a little while, and Defense class isn't so bad with Oliver beside her. He doodles pictures on the corners of his parchment, amusing ones that make Darcy chuckle, drawing the attention of Professor Lupin and earning her a very serious look. Several times in each class he turns around to catch them whispering to each other, laughing, and Darcy's cheeks flush red every single time.

Emily does a good enough job of avoiding Darcy, really only having to see her across classrooms during the day and in their dormitory at night. But the girls have been taking extreme care to go to bed at different times, pretending to be asleep when the other enters at night, and Emily wakes before Darcy each morning, going down to breakfast as soon as the food is available and finishing before most of the students are awake. What research Emily has been able to do on Buckbeak is soon being passed directly to Hermione or to Hagrid during meals, and even Carla confides in Darcy that Emily hasn't been talking much to her and Gemma lately outside of the Great Hall and classes. Darcy feels bad afterwards, knowing that Emily is probably feeling very lonely, and Darcy knows how it feels to be lonely. Darcy makes it a point to let Emily act a fool for a little while longer before trying to make up, however, especially after what had been said in the common room.

Lupin had been right about one thing, however—Gemma and Carla are very excited about Darcy's decision to return to Hogwarts, and Darcy's quite relieved after she tells them in the library one day. She also tells them about what Emily had to say, though she leaves out the part about Professor Lupin. Neither of her friends bring it up, and Darcy feels a surge of affection for Emily, who may have spilled her secret to Harry and his friends, but not to Gemma and Carla, who don't say anything about it. She knows that, if they were to know, they'd say something.

"You should have seen her when Professor Lupin said something about it," Carla grins, giving Gemma a sideways glance. "I thought she was going to pass out."

"I wish you'd told us sooner!" Gemma replies quickly. "He caught me off guard, is all. But don't worry—we won't reprimand you for telling Professor Lupin before us. If you ask me, I think it's sweet."

"What did he say?" Darcy asks, and she feels embarrassed just asking. Gemma smiles at her. "I mean—how did he tell you?"

"He was reaching for conversation," Gemma teases, sharing a laugh with Carla. "So, of course, we all settled on the one topic we all know so much about—you. Professor Lupin just said how happy he was that you'd decided to return to Hogwarts."

"We're all really happy for you," Carla adds. "Even Emily will come around and be her normal self again soon. Anyway, you've told Harry, haven't you?"

"Yeah, that's what we talked about when we were in Lupin's office."

"What did he say?" Gemma asks.

Darcy thinks about Harry for a moment and can't help but smile. "He was really glad."

All the while, Darcy suspects something with Lupin. He's polite to her enough, giving her a smile and a nod while passing her in the corridors, staying silent while she sits off to the side during Patronus lessons (which had resumed the following week after they'd fallen asleep together, after the full moon had passed) and allowing her to finish homework, calling on her in classes when she raises her hand, but Lupin doesn't make an effort to seek her out for a quick conversation, nor does he ask her to have dinner with him. Darcy starts to wonder if her comment about staying with him had made him uncomfortable—or perhaps it's the fact that he'd fallen asleep with a student on his chest that bothers him. Darcy tries to corner him after class one day, but he only apologizes with one of his winning smiles and rushes off, muttering something about being extremely busy. Darcy doesn't try again, but instead decides to stew in her anger a little while longer before attempting to confront him again.

Yet Darcy feels much more than anger over Lupin's behavior. She had thought, after what they had shared, that things would be different. Not in this way, not that Lupin would just choose to ignore her, but Darcy had had the idea that maybe she and Lupin would be closer than ever. She had thought Lupin enjoyed it and wanted to mimic it night after night, just as she did. After all, Darcy had never fallen asleep with a man at her side before—only Harry and Emily—and never had she enjoyed a man's touch so much before. Darcy wants to tell him this, to confess that it's all she's been able to think about, how she dreams of his lips in places that would make her flush if she were to say them aloud— but she can't bring herself to say those things to his face. Darcy can't bring herself to be so humiliated in front of Lupin, so she lets him ignore her, and she decides that if Lupin will not give her the attention and affection she wants, she will seek it elsewhere.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts a few weeks after Darcy and Lupin's incident, Oliver Wood turns to her while Lupin's back is turned. "You should come to practice tonight," he whispers in her ear, and Darcy considers him, putting her quill down. "You haven't been in a while."

Lupin turns around suddenly, looking at them. Darcy looks right back at him, trying to read his expression, but it's no use—he turns back around quickly and continues to write on the blackboard. "Sure," Darcy whispers back, picking her quill back up off the desk and scribbling notes on her parchment. "I'll meet you there tonight."

"Really? You will?"

"Yeah," Darcy smiles weakly, glancing at Professor Lupin, who has his back to the class. Maybe she's being childish, hoping Professor Lupin will express some kind of feelings for her after seeing her spend time with Oliver Wood. "I'll be there."

"Hey—hey—hey! No Slytherins!"

Gemma rolls her eyes, looking thoroughly annoyed by Oliver's behavior. He floats slightly up and down in front of her on his broomstick. "I'm not a spy, Oliver! I'm just here with Darcy!"

"No Slytherins!"

Only after Oliver nearly shouts himself hoarse does she finally decide to leave, making for the quiet of the Slytherin common room. Oliver then decides practice can finally start with no more intruders and onlookers besides Darcy and Madam Hooch, and he flashes Darcy a wide grin before flying away and shrieking at his teammates to get into formation, as they're burning daylight. Darcy watches quietly as Madam Hooch falls asleep a few seats away from her. Harry circles above his sister's head every so often as the Snitch hides behind her, and Oliver makes some spectacular—though rather dramatic—saves at the goalposts, and Fred and George Weasley crack jokes about their Keeper whenever one of them gets near enough for Darcy to hear.

"Leave him alone," Darcy snaps at the twins, smiling all the same. She doesn't think Fred and George really hear her anyway, but they definitely understand what's being said because a blush rises to her cheeks when she glances in Oliver's direction. Both Weasleys laugh, scandalized, flying off to rejoin the rest of their team.

Harry offers to walk Darcy back to the castle after practice, but she politely declines, instead waiting for Oliver to change back out of his Quidditch robes. Feeling very childish, but also still hurt that Lupin's taken to ignoring her, Darcy feels that, should Lupin happen to see her walk back into the castle, she'd rather he see her walking in with Oliver Wood. Hoping very much that seeing her and Oliver together will force Lupin to start a conversation, Darcy clings to that shred of hope. She waits outside the locker room, glancing up at the stands to make sure that Madam Hooch has gone, the crisp wind blowing her hair around. Wrapping her cloak tighter around her as the wind picks up, Darcy notices Oliver walking out of the changing rooms. She tenses, realizing that he's quite cute right after Quidditch—his face is still glowing and flushed, his eyes alight with passion, the corners of his lips still turned upwards, and with the swagger in his step, Darcy can't help to feel she's never truly looked at Oliver before.

Oliver carries his broomstick over his shoulder as he approaches Darcy at the edge of the pitch. Instead of escorting her back up to the castle, however, he looks at her with curiosity. Darcy cocks an eyebrow. "We've still got some light left," he says slowly. "If you weren't looking to go back to the castle just yet."

"What do you have in mind?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. He holds out his broomstick and Darcy's eyes widen suddenly, and she shakes her head. "No—no, I can't fly and you know that."

"Come on," Oliver pleads, moving closer to her so Darcy can see the glistening sweat on his forehead. Her fear amuses him, it seems. "I'll ride with you—don't worry, I won't let you fall. Don't you trust me?"

"You promise you won't let me fall?"

"I promise," Oliver says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Just get on the damn broomstick."

Darcy shakes her head, making Oliver laugh out loud. "No way!"

"Get on the broomstick, Darcy—"

"No!"

Despite his obvious frustration, Oliver doesn't seem annoyed by her refusal. "Darcy, get on the broomstick!"

Darcy looks at the broomstick skeptically, and then back up at Oliver. He smiles mischievously, making Darcy feel reckless. "One ride, and I don't want to go too high, and I want to be in front."

"Don't fool yourself," Oliver winks, mounting his broomstick and making sure there's enough room in front of him for Darcy to slide on. "You just crave the feel of my arms around you."

Darcy feels foolish, though, standing with a broomstick between her thighs. It's uncomfortable and awkward, and Darcy wonders why they don't put seats on Broomsticks. She looks up at the night sky, the moon particularly bright tonight, the stars flickering all around them. Oliver wraps his arms around her, gripping the broomstick tightly, and Darcy puts her hands above his. And then, before he can whisper any instructions in her ear, he kicks off hard from the ground and the wind stings Darcy's face as they go higher and higher, far higher than she wants to go—

And it's then she hears Oliver's laughter ringing in her ears. She hadn't realized she'd been screaming as they took off. The broomstick seems so skinny, and Darcy feels that she's going to fall off, crashing towards the ground, but Oliver's strong arms keep her safe for the meantime and he seems to know exactly what he's doing as he flies them around the goalposts once. Tears stream from the corners of her eyes, her hair flying back into Oliver's face. Soon, Darcy's screams turns into laughter and Oliver flies closer to the ground, speeding along the grass and going in figure-eight patterns.

"Hold on tight!" Oliver shouts in her ear over the howling wind.

"What?" Darcy screams back, but Oliver doesn't answer—he releases the broomstick to hold Darcy around her middle, and Darcy quickly loses control of the broomstick. Thankfully, they're only about five feet from the ground, but they've gained some speed, and as the broomstick nosedives and throws both Darcy and Oliver off, they slide across the grass, tangled in each other. Darcy is completely breathless, looking up at Oliver and massaging the stitch in her side. "Ow… I think I pulled something…"

Oliver groans, rubbing one of his broad shoulders. "I told you to hold on," he mutters.

"You promised you wouldn't let me fall," Darcy replies, smiling weakly. "Now I don't know that I trust you anymore."

"You're really terrible at flying, aren't you?" he laughs, running a hand through his hair to get some grass out of it. "I'm glad you came tonight—how'd we look?"

"Fantastic, as usual."

Oliver gets to his feet, picking up his broomstick and holding out a hand for Darcy. Darcy grabs it and allows Oliver to help her up, and he brushes off her back. "You say that everytime," he notes, wiping some grass and dirt off her shoulders. "I hope it's true."

"It is! Harry seems to be flying better than ever."

"The Firebolt is probably the best thing that's happened to the team this year," Oliver jokes—only half-serious. "We'll win the Cup this year, I just know it."

"I hope so. We could have a party—wouldn't that be fun?"

"Yeah, it would be." Oliver hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. "You'd, er—we'd go together, right? To the party?"

Darcy turns back to face Oliver, looking him over carefully. He is a sweet boy, and she can't deny he's been so friendly and kind towards her these past weeks. There's a faint blush to his cheeks, and Darcy finds it hard to believe he's eighteen. Sometimes, looking at him, she can still see the eleven-year-old boy who'd kissed her for the first time. She smiles at him, and still burning and aching for Lupin, Darcy leans in and kisses Oliver hard instead of giving him a solid answer. Oliver tenses for a moment, not having expected to kiss her, but he kisses her back greedily all the same.

Clumsily, she backs Oliver into the changing rooms once more. Darcy recalls only ever being in here on a few occasions—before Harry's first ever Quidditch match; when Oliver had spent so much time yelling at his team to eat breakfast and forgot his broomstick in the Great Hall, and Darcy had had to go back and get it only to run it back down the Quidditch pitch; and the day Hermione had come (almost) face to face with the giant basilisk and been Petrified—Quidditch had been cancelled that day and Oliver Wood had been livid. He'd calmed down slightly after a few minutes, softening at the sight of Darcy's anxiety. But never has she done anything so vulgar and so crude and so dirty inside the changing rooms, as Oliver lays down a fluffy, blue towel that Darcy seriously questions the cleanliness of.

When Oliver tugs Darcy's shirt off over her head, he catches a glimpse of Darcy's shoulder again, this time in the light. He runs his fingers over the faded, pink, claw-like marks, as if to make certain that's what he felt in the closet a few weeks ago. Oliver pokes the middle scar, looking Darcy in the eyes for a reaction. For a second, she's shocked he's had the audacity to do so. Anger flashes across her face. "Don't do that," she hisses, grabbing his wrist firmly and forcing his hand away. "Don't touch them."

"Do they hurt?" Oliver asks, pulling his hand out of Darcy's grip with ease and brushing some stray hairs out of her face casually, as if he hadn't just prodded her scars like a curious child.

"No," Darcy snarls. "Just don't touch them."

"How did you get them?"

Darcy scowls. "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

While Oliver pounds in and out of her on the changing room floor, Darcy has only one thing on her mind, and it half-disgusts her and half-excites her—Lupin. She wonders if he has the Marauder's Map open, searching for her dot. She wonders what Lupin would have to say if he did see her dot with Oliver's, alone in a quiet place, away from prying eyes. She wonders, shamefully, what he'd think if he came down and happened to catch them. Darcy's mind begins to wander—Lupin has shown explicit interest in her, she thinks. If he wasn't interested, he wouldn't have kissed her, or held her, or done all those things to show her that he cares. Lupin had proven to be uneasy and slightly angry after catching Darcy in the broom closet with Oliver, and while Darcy doesn't see Lupin as someone to get jealous over an eighteen-year-old boy, she had gotten off at the very thought of Lupin feeling so possessive. For a moment, for a brief moment back in Lupin's apartments, Darcy had been prepared to give herself to him when he'd kissed her. She'd thought he'd kiss her for a long time—much longer than he had—months of pent up frustrations and unsaid things communicated in ways other than words and kisses. Darcy had wanted it, so badly, but Lupin had only pulled away and apologized.

Darcy closes her eyes, trying to imagine a different situation. One where it isn't Oliver between her legs—one where someone else's lips are on her throat—one where someone else's hand is cupping her breast. She feels guilty for doing it to Oliver, but she tells herself over and over, he doesn't need to know that I'm thinking of Professor Lupin while he's inside of me.

Yet after two weeks of meeting with Oliver in secret—in the changing room after Quidditch practice, broom closets between classes, the prefects bathroom during mealtimes—Lupin still hasn't said anything. Even more discouraged, Darcy allows Oliver to show little signs of affection towards her beyond their secret rendezvous'—in the common room, Darcy allows Oliver to hold her hand loosely; they sit closer together during Defense Against the Dark Arts classes; Oliver even takes her by surprise when he kisses her before bed one night, as if they've been doing it for years, just a little peck on the corner of her mouth that's so casual and so sudden that Darcy doesn't even know what to think. And after that, despite everything she's ever said and done to Oliver, Darcy realizes that Oliver's finally done it—he's finally worn her down, and she come to the conclusion that she may very well be his girlfriend now, even if that had never been her intention.

And it's the very last thing Darcy wants. Sure, it's nice to hold hands with someone sometimes, and of course she appreciates the small comfort one of Oliver's arms draped over her shoulders give her, but Oliver Wood is not what she wants. Darcy knows what she wants, and she feels that now is a good time to take a page out of Gemma's book and go after what she wants. She's going to take herself down to Lupin's office, kiss him with everything that she has, tell him how she feels about him, and—if she's lucky—let him fuck her brains out.

But she doesn't get the chance that night, as Emily walks into the common room and smiles at Darcy. "I've been stupid and a terrible friend," Emily whispers, blushing slightly. "Let's find somewhere to talk."