'I opened my heart up for you, and the world came confusedly in.'

Hertha Kräftner

Darcy and Emily sneak out of the Gryffindor common room underneath the Invisibility Cloak, huddled very close together, their shoulders rubbing and hips bumping—Darcy has always been long-legged and lanky like her father, and that combined with Emily's above average height has always been a problem where the Invisibility Cloak is concerned. However, very comfortable with the lack of boundaries between them, Darcy and Emily make it work with just the very bottoms of their shoes showing. Tucked in Emily's bra, Darcy can see the bulky rectangular outline of a pack of cigarettes, likely given to her by Gemma. While Darcy is grateful she'll have something to do with her hands, she wishes Emily could have brought some alcohol instead. She doesn't think this conversation will be easy without some.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the Gryffindor common room, Darcy pulls the Invisibility Cloak off them as they find themselves at the Astronomy Tower. Despite the beautiful, spring weather that March has promised so far, the night chill is still present, along with the crisp wind. Though after being underneath the Invisibility Cloak with Emily, in such close confines, with their hot breaths making them desperate for fresh air, the night air is welcome, and Darcy lets the breeze wash over her flushed and slightly sweating face. Emily wastes no time in retrieving the cigarette pack from her bra and she gives the top of the pack a few sharp smacks against her palm, making Darcy jump.

"What are you doing?" Darcy asks, laughing quietly.

Emily shrugs, suddenly seeming very defensive. "I saw Gemma do it once." She watches Darcy as she smacks the pack to her hand a few more times and then rips it open, pulling out two cigarettes. Darcy allows Emily to put it between her lips, lighting it with a spark that issues from the end of her wand after she flicks her wrist a few times.

Darcy takes a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling the smoke through her nose to avoid blowing it in Emily's face. They both look at each other for a long time, unsure of how to start the conversation, but Darcy wants Emily to speak first. She wants to hear Emily's side of things—Darcy knows if she were to speak first, it might turn into another argument. She doesn't want to sound defensive or accusing before Emily even has a chance to apologize, and Darcy will make sure that Emily will apologize by the end of the night.

"I've noticed you've been spending a lot of time with Oliver," Emily finally says, when Darcy's already three-quarters of the way done with her cigarette. It's not an accusation, more of a mere talking point.

"I think everyone's begun to notice." Darcy takes one last, long drag and tosses the butt over the edge of the Astronomy Tower, watching it being swallowed by the darkness. It's true, though—just about everyone has noticed that Darcy's been spending a lot of time with Oliver Wood. The whispers follow her in the corridors, classrooms, and in the Great Hall during meals. She had expected they would, and she's no stranger to whispers anyway. The excitement over Darcy Potter's presence at Hogwarts had been overshadowed by Harry's coming to Hogwarts, and Darcy hadn't been at all upset about it, but now that it's happening again, Darcy can't help but to feel a little uncomfortable about the whole thing.

"You're his, er—girlfriend now?" Emily asks, looking mildly uncomfortable as she finishes her own cigarette, and the two of them sit down, bathing in the bright moonlight.

"No," Darcy retorts, too sharply. "Well—I suppose it depends who you ask." She groans into her hands, running her hands through her hair. "I fucking hate that word—girlfriend."

"You didn't hate it when you dated Daniel in fifth year," Emily reminds her, and for the first time, a small smile crosses her face.

"I was young and stupid and desperate for someone to hold my hand," Darcy says, chuckling. "Maybe being someone's girlfriend wouldn't be so bad—I just don't want to be Oliver's." It wouldn't be so bad being Professor Lupin's girlfriend. Darcy looks up at Emily, mentally kicking herself. She wishes she would just shut up and listen to Emily speak.

"I've taught you well," Emily says, looking out towards the grounds. They sit in silence for a little while until Emily rustles around, offering Darcy another cigarette. Darcy grins and takes it from her. "Remember when we used to steal my dad's cigarettes? He was so mad when he caught us smoking outside that one time—I thought he was going to kill us both—" She starts to laugh. "His face got really red, remember? And he started baiting us, leaving out two cigarettes to see if we'd take them."

"Good thing your mum didn't care much about her wine," Darcy says. "That was better than smoking anyway. Remember when he replaced the brand of cigarettes? The smell of mint and menthol makes me dry heave even now."

Darcy and Emily laugh together, remembering the times spent at Emily's house getting into trouble. Darcy had thought Emily's father was really going to wring their necks when he happened to catch them puffing on his cigarettes. It had been the dead of night, and when Mr. Duncan opened the back door to find his daughter and Darcy holding a cigarette between them, he'd given them a very confused expression before snatching it from them. Emily's smile disappears, and she grows quiet and serious again. "Darcy," she begins, sounding troubled. Darcy looks over at her. "You're the best friend I've ever had, and I've never loved anyone the way that I love you."

"I know." Darcy inhales deeply. "You're my best friend, too."

Emily pulls her knees up to her chest, taking a long pull off her cigarette before flicking it over the side, just as Darcy had. "I wanted you to go into the Ministry with me so badly," she begins, her voice barely more than a whisper. Darcy listens in silence, suddenly feeling quite bad for ignoring Emily for so long. "After I leave Hogwarts, it's like I have to start all over again. And I wanted to start all over again with you at my side, just like it was when we started Hogwarts." Emily takes in a deep breath. "Everyone wanted to be your friend when you came here, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

To Darcy's surprise, Emily grins from ear to ear, looking almost apologetic. "Darcy—you were so fucking weird when you got here, you know that, right?"

This makes Darcy laugh out loud. "Yeah, I know," she shrugs, running a hand through her hair. "Blame Aunt Petunia. You wouldn't be so surprised at how I'd turned out if you knew her."

First year seems an entire lifetime ago to Darcy. A lifetime ago she'd sat on the Hogwarts Express, already wearing her Hogwarts robes, crying in an empty compartment. A lifetime ago she'd been Sorted into Gryffindor, with no friends to sit by, just the radiant blonde girl that had been Sorted into Gryffindor earlier on. A lifetime ago she'd gone to sleep in her dormitory for the first time—and had woken with a start, drenched in sweat and screaming, with that same blonde girl standing over her with her eyes wide and fearful. A lifetime ago, Emily had crawled into bed with Darcy for the first time, and they had held each other for the rest of the night.

And Darcy knows that Emily isn't wrong about how strange she was. Darcy Potter had arrived at Hogwarts with nearly everyone knowing her name, with everyone asking questions about her brother's victory over Voldemort, expecting her to be a hero or an already trained witch. Instead, Darcy had arrived at Hogwarts with a head full of Muggle poetry, clad in fading and moth-eaten dresses from Petunia's childhood, always standing up straight with her chin and nose in the air. People had grown frustrated with her lack of understanding wizarding culture, having been the Potters' daughter, and people never really had known how to respond when Darcy admitted she didn't remember much about the night her parents died. They'd given her sideways and strange looks in the corridors, as if she wasn't quite human.

"Who are you?" Emily had asked, all those years ago.

Darcy had simply blinked at her, not understanding the question. Then, with a shy smile, she had answered, "I'm Darcy Potter."

"Yeah, but—who are you? Don't you have any hobbies or—don't you like to do things?"

"Sure," Darcy had answered with a small smile. "I like to do things."

"Like what?"

Darcy only shrugged, thinking hard. "I don't know," she'd said. "I like to read poetry, I guess."

"You like to read poetry?" Emily had seemed shocked at her response, but in hindsight, Darcy thinks that Emily just hadn't expected to hear that out of an eleven-year-old's mouth. "Does you aunt like it when you read poetry?"

"Yes," she'd said eagerly. "She likes it when I red her favorite poems in front of her friends."

"What about—films? Do you like those? Which are your favorites?"

"Oh, Aunt Petunia doesn't let me watch the television."

That's how it had started, all of it. Emily had slowly delved deeper into Darcy's private life, had started introducing her to things like chess, books with romance in them that had made Darcy's cheeks flush, Muggle rock n' roll and The Weird Sisters, black-and-white movies that made them both cry at the end and silly musicals. Emily had given her free rein of her closet, let Darcy choose what clothes she liked the best and keep them. And every year, after every summer, Darcy had returned to Hogwarts a little more confident, a little more opinionated, a little more stubborn, a little more outgoing, a little more sure of herself, and with more stories of how she'd manage to disappoint her Aunt Petunia, which Darcy would tell with a sly grin. In fifth year, while watching Harry being Sorted, Emily had turned to Darcy at the Gryffindor table and asked the question Darcy hadn't heard in five years—"Who are you?"

And Darcy, without looking away from Harry, without missing a beat, had responded, "I'm Darcy fucking Potter, now would you shut up? I'm trying to watch."

Darcy tries to think of how she'd answer that question if Emily were to ask now. She tries to think of a clear answer—who is she, really? But when she fails to find an answer, Darcy privately hopes that Emily isn't about to ask. She is very glad, however, when Emily offers her yet another cigarette and lights it for her. Slightly buzzed, Darcy stares at Emily, wondering if an apology is even going to come, and then—

"Darcy, I'm so sorry for what I said," Emily sighs, holding her face in her hands. "I should never have said those things to you, and in front of Harry and his friends. I was angry, and I shouldn't have been. Professor Lupin was right about it being your decision and I—maybe—was a little too forceful about my opinion, but—Darcy—" She lets the cigarette between her fingers burn without raising it to her lips. Emily only stares at it, at the smoke that swirls around their heads. She gives it a flick, letting the ash fall to the ground. "I don't want to be alone."

"What are you talking about?" Darcy asks suddenly, perhaps sounding a bit harsher than she wanted to.

Emily only looks at her. "Gemma wouldn't be with me for my birthday unless I asked you to be there," she admits, looking sheepish. "Carla came, but—I wanted everyone to be there. It wasn't the same with just Carla and me—it was lonely."

In truth, Darcy had remembered Emily's birthday just fine, but instead decided to spend it at Quidditch practice. She had hoped Emily would come find her, would come down to the Quidditch pitch and apologize and ask her to have a few drinks in an abandoned classroom, but Emily never came. So, instead of spending Emily's eighteenth birthday getting drunk, Darcy had fucked Oliver in the changing rooms, hoping to exhaust herself to the point where she wouldn't have to feel angry anymore.

"I don't want to feel like that again," Emily whispers. There's a heavy pause for a minute as they finish their cigarettes together. "Is this what you really want? You want to come back to Hogwarts?"

"Yeah," Darcy says, confidently. "I want to come back."

"Then I'm with you." Emily flashes Darcy a very genuine smile, and Darcy smiles back. And then, Emily's smile falters for just a moment, but long enough for Darcy to take notice. "And Darcy, about Professor Lupin—"

"Don't," Darcy interrupts her, keeping her anger at bay for the sake of their friendship. She decides that it may be easier to just say what Emily wants to hear, not what Darcy truly thinks. "I was the one who held his hand—it's my fault. And I would never actually act on any feelings I have for him—you have to know that. If I get kicked out of school now, I'll have no choice but to try to go into the Ministry—if they decide to even take me. But you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Emily blushes slightly, smiling again.

Things seem to return to normal for the most part, except for one thing—Lupin still hasn't initiated a conversation outside of class with her, and by now, Darcy is sure she's heard the whispers about her and Oliver Wood, sure he's seen Oliver show her affection, whether it be an arm draped around her shoulders in the corridors, or a peck on the cheek after dinner in the Great Hall before Quidditch. And while affection is exactly what Darcy had been looking for a few weeks ago, she comes to the sudden realization that she doesn't want Oliver's affection—or anyone else's—she only wants Lupin's. She starts to miss the warmth of his touch—instead of a lazy arm around her, she wants Lupin's steady hand on the small of her back; instead of sloppy kisses, she wants Lupin's fingers laced with her's; instead of sitting close together on the sofa in the common room, Darcy wants to be curled up beside Lupin in his apartments, in front of the fire, his chest underneath her cheek as she falls asleep

She regrets, in full force, ever telling Lupin that she'd been thinking of him when she'd run off with Oliver Wood, the night Lupin caught them in the middle of the act. Whenever she looks up at the staff table during meals, Lupin looks at her only for a moment before averting eye contact. Darcy wonders if Lupin thinks at all about what she'd said, wonders if he remembers what she'd confided in him every time he sees Darcy and Oliver together. The thought embarrasses her to no end—he knows I want him. He knows that I think of him when I'm fucking Oliver. How humiliating.

But Emily, Gemma, and Carla are seemingly quite glad that Darcy's found comfort in Oliver Wood after years of rejecting his advances. Darcy wishes that one of her friends would say something—slap her a few times just to force her to remember that she doesn't want this. She had thought that Emily, of all people, would shriek in her face that she doesn't need a boyfriend, or whatever Oliver is to her. But everytime Darcy looks at Oliver to tell him off, he only beams at her, looking at her like she's the Quidditch Cup, and Darcy can't find it in herself to break it off.

However, there is one person who shows explicit dislike towards whatever Darcy and Oliver have—Harry.

"I'm glad you're happy, Darcy," Harry says one night when they're alone in the common room together. He glances at her, to see if she's glowering at him or not, and then continues. "But why Oliver? Not that I don't like him, but—imagine ten years from now at holidays or something—he'll probably still be critiquing my flying."

Darcy scrunches her nose at the thought of she and Oliver in ten years. "Oh, Harry—I'm not going to marry him."

"Then what are you doing with him?"

Darcy narrows her eyes and smirks. "What do you think I'm doing with him?"

Harry's cheeks turn pink. "That's disgusting." Then he looks at his sister with horror. "How? Where?"

She only smiles innocently at him.

Groaning, Harry splutters, "Not in the changing room? Please don't tell me the changing room…"

"How did you get that from a single look?" Darcy asks incredulously.

"Because I know you."

"Yeah, that's fair."

She's quite glad the Easter holidays go quickly; drowning in homework and studying hard for their upcoming exams, Darcy and Emily barely speak to each other, working long hours into the night with the rest of the students, who also seem to have reached their breaking point. The nights are longer when Darcy, Emily, Harry, Hermione, and Ron spend time researching hippogriffs for Hagrid, thought the conversation is nice and keeps the mood light, even when the situation is anything but. Even Gemma, usually very lax about studying, spends more time than usual in the library with Carla and, as a result, ends up becoming very snippy and impatient with the rest of her friends. Darcy and Emily contribute it to a lack of sleep, but Carla tells them in a low voice one day that the upcoming Quidditch match has put just as much strain on Gemma. The three of them laugh quietly, and Carla excuses herself rather quickly when Darcy asks who she'll be supporting.

The Monday before the game, Darcy and Oliver find themselves—again—in the changing rooms after practice. Lying underneath Oliver, clad in only her underwear, Darcy grabs a fistfull of his hair as he bites down on her neck. "Ouch!" she shouts, and Oliver pulls away immediately, breathing very heavily. Darcy puts her fingers to the place where he's bitten, and she can feel the imprints of his teeth. "Don't fucking bite me."

"Sorry." Oliver kisses the place where her fingers are sweetly, going about business as usual by stuffing a hand down her underwear.

Darcy's heart begins to race as his fingers work furiously between her legs. She tries to let herself relax, but with all the added stress in the past few weeks, it's difficult to enjoy anything. Oliver's lips find her's, but Darcy pulls away, turning her head so Oliver kisses her jaw instead. "Oliver—" she mutters, clearing her throat and inhaling sharply, "Oliver—you don't think—I'm not—"

"What?" he murmurs between kisses.

"You don't think—I'm your—girlfriend, do you?"

Oliver tenses, pulling his hand back out of her underwear and looking at her with a furrowed brow. He sits up, straddling her waist. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?" he asks, frowning.

"Well—I mean—" Darcy props herself up on her elbows the best she can with Oliver still on top of her. "We're just sleeping together, aren't we?" The look on his face at these words are the reason she hadn't said them sooner. Oliver looks like a broken man for a split second before he rearranges his features to look cool and unphased. "I just—I don't want to be anybody's—you know…"

"All right," Oliver agrees with a shrug. "Fine, I won't call you my girlfriend."

"What'll you call me instead?"

Oliver grins, leaning into her again and kissing her on the lips. "My lover," he suggests in a dramatic tone, kissing her again, and Darcy chuckles. "All right, maybe not that. I'm open to suggestions, however." He leaves a trail of kisses across her collarbone, leaving her skin wet.

Laughing, Darcy shakes her head. "Just forget it."

As he goes to pull down her underwear, Oliver looks back up at her face. "Hey, when we get back to the common room, can you make sure to tell Harry—"

"God, Oliver—if one word of Quidditch comes out of your mouth right now, I won't be your anything anymore."

"All right! All right, fine."

Finally, the day of the match approaches. Breakfast is an exciting affair, and Darcy has to tell Oliver several times to stop yelling at his team to eat, and has to remind him several times to eat his own breakfast before forcing anyone else to. Oliver, however, barely hears her and continues to snap last minute strategies while Darcy grips his tense forearm tightly.

"I can't eat right now, Darcy, not when so much rides on this game," Oliver hisses, but Darcy isn't offended. She only gives him an exasperated look. "If I eat too much, it'll throw me off balance and I won't be flying my best. And what if it's a crazy game and I'm flying upside down and throw up what I've eaten? They could use that to their advantage and sneak the Quaffle past while I'm puking my guts out."

"Oliver, listen," she sighs, pouring some cereal and milk into a bowl for him. "The outcome of a Quidditch game has never been determined by a bowl of cereal. Eat, would you? And quit bothering your teammates."

"I can't eat right now."

"If you don't eat, you might get lightheaded and, if you pass out, they'll be able to sneak the Quaffle through the goalposts more than just once. Eat, Oliver."

Eventually, he does, though she's quite relieved when Oliver leads the Gryffindor team down to the pitch before breakfast ends, and it's then that Gemma and Carla join them at the Gryffindor table.

Gemma, the proudest Slytherin that Darcy's ever had the pleasure of knowing, is bedecked from head to toe in green and silver; her sweater is a rich, emerald green, a green and silver scarf is draped around her neck, and she's tied her hair back so everyone can see the several green earrings in her ears. Carla, not quite as enthusiastic as Gemma, has another Slytherin scarf around her neck, just like Gemma, and is holding a small Slytherin pennant in her hand. Darcy and Emily, dressed in red and gold, look their friends up and down for a minute, sizing each other up.

"You're a damn traitor, you know that?" Darcy says to Carla, shaking her head exasperatedly. "And here I thought we were friends."

"More than half the school is cheering for Gryffindor," Carla replies bashfully, looking around the Great Hall. "Anyway, I'll still be your friend if Gryffindor wins. Not sure about Gemma, though."

"If? If?" Gemma retorts through gritted teeth. "There's no if—Slytherin has been training way too hard to lose. Besides, Gryffindor's Keeper has been too lovestruck to concentrate lately." She smiles politely at Darcy and Emily. "How much sulking time will you need when we win? And how long until I can rub it in your face?"

"Once the match starts, Oliver will forget I even exist," Darcy jokes, and Gemma laughs heartily. "Everyone knows Quidditch is his one true love."

"See? Our odds are pretty good." Emily leans in closer, grinning mischievously. "You want to put some money on the match?"

Gemma considers her, looking around to make sure no teachers are listening in. "Sure," she says, looking to Carla and Darcy. "You guys want in?"

Carla shifts in her seat, thinking about it, but Darcy doesn't hesitate. "Five Galleons for Gryffindor."

"Five Galleons? That's it?" Gemma frowns. "I've got ten in my trunk that are begging to be used for purposes such as this."

"Five Galleons. If I take any more money out of my vault, Harry will throw a fit," Darcy smiles. "And anyway, you don't want to lose ten Galleons, do you? What about you, Carla? Five for Slytherin?"

"Yeah, I'm in," Carla agrees, and they all shake hands, criss crossing their arms over each other's laps. "C'mon, Gemma, we should get going. I want to get seats at the front this time."

"We should go, too," Emily mutters as Gemma and Carla join the group of Slytherins making their way out of the Great Hall. As they get to their feet, Emily stretches dramatically, looking triumphant. "We'll have to find something cool to spend our extra money on… I'm thinking we could get some really expensive wine or something… just to celebrate… and Gemma and Carla won't be having any of it—can you believe Carla? Going for Slytherin? Unbelievable…"

As Emily drags Darcy out of the Great Hall, chattering excitedly about the match, Darcy looks over her shoulder, feeling eyes on her. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, as people are usually looking at her, but this time is different. When she turns around, her eyes fall on Professor Lupin, who smiles weakly at her. Darcy stumbles, tripping over her feet as Emily continues to drag her through the threshold. Before she rounds the corner, Darcy both surprises and disgusts herself, giving Lupin a smile she's never given anyone. The last thing she sees as Emily pulls her into the entrance hall is Lupin laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

As the stands begin to fill for the last Quidditch match of the season, and the most exciting match by far without it having actually started yet, Darcy's extremely glad that she and Emily have made up in time to watch and enjoy it together. Darcy keeps throwing casual glances around the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lupin walking towards the pitch, but the students and teachers are packed so close together, it's hard to make anyone out. She hopes he'll try to find her, to sit with her as he did the one match. Trying to push Lupin and his stupid, cool smile to the back of her mind, Darcy turns back to the pitch as the Gryffindor team walks out of the locker rooms to tumultuous applause. Darcy and Emily scream themselves hoarse at the sound of Harry's name echoing across the field in Lee Jordan's voice, and soon, his voice is drowned out completely by the cheering student and booing ones.

When both teams kick hard off the ground and fly into the hair, the screaming continues. Everyone on the Gryffindor team seems to be flying perfectly, having had intense practices the last few weeks. As the Quaffle is passed around from Gryffindor to Gryffindor, two people sidle up to Darcy's side—Ron and Hermione. Darcy greets them with a smile and a nod, unable to communicate over all the noise. Hermione passes her binoculars to Darcy for her to borrow, and Darcy tries to find the Snitch as Harry circles the pitch. After attending so many Quidditch practices and after being around Oliver Wood so much lately, Darcy is quite aware that Harry needs to wait until Gryffindor is well in the lead to catch it. And with Harry zooming back and forth on the Firebolt, she has total confidence in him; Harry could easily outfly everyone in the air.

And finally, Angelina Johnson scores the first goal and three-quarters of the stands stomp their feet and punch the air, and Emily jumps up into the air, screaming. But the rest of the match does not proceed so cleanly. Beaters bats are thrown at other players, the Slytherins begin to become rowdier and rougher, and Madam Hooch starts to call penalty shots for both sides—Darcy's never seen so many penalty shots in one game in her entire life, and Madam Hooch seems beside herself. Faintly, very faintly, Darcy can hear Lee Jordan shouting down the Slytherin team and whooping loudly when a Gryffindor Chaser manages to get the Quaffle through the goalposts.

A little while into the game, Darcy shrieks as both Bludgers race towards Oliver Wood and hit him full in the stomach. For a second, Darcy expects him to fall off his broom—he seems dazed and winded—and Darcy snatches the binoculars from Ron's hands to get a closer look at him. Oliver, however, much more practiced and talented at Quidditch than other things, hangs on tight to his broomstick, and the penalty shot awarded for the Slytherins' behavior earns Gryffindor another ten points. Darcy claps for him, shaking her head, her heart still pumping.

Seventy-ten.

Darcy is sure, at this point, her voice is gone. She can't hear her own screaming over everyone else, and her throat is scratchy and dry, but she continues to cheer for Gryffindor, hoping that Harry will find the Snitch soon and end the game before Slytherin can catch up. And then, just as Harry makes to dive on his broom, Hermione tugs on Darcy's sleeve, but Darcy already knows what she's trying to point out—Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Seeker, is holding on tight to the back of Harry's broomstick, and if Harry had actually seen the Snitch, it's long gone by now as Draco Malfoy holds him back.

But Harry shakes him off as the students and teachers boo and hiss at Draco Malfoy. A penalty shot is awarded, but the energy is now so high, it seems to have transferred straight to the teams' nerves. Harry and his Firebolt continue to soar around the stadium, breaking up the Slytherins as they try to block Angelina Johnson—

"Look! Look!" Ron's jumping up and down, Hermione's binoculars pressed hard to his face. He's pointing at the pitch, punching Darcy in the arm to get her attention. She looks through the binoculars and sees at once what Ron is shouting about—Draco Malfoy is diving fast towards the ground, and when she looks at the grass for a moment, she sees the Snitch fluttering there and her heart stops at the triumphant look on Malfoy's face.

"Harry's seen it!" Emily screams in her ear.

She's right—Harry has turned his Firebolt around quickly and dives to the spot where the Snitch is. Darcy and Emily hold hand so tightly that neither of them can feel their fingers anymore. Hermione takes the binoculars back, screaming Harry's name over and over and over again as Harry's Firebolt goes faster and faster and faster, speeding past Malfoy and towards the ground, and then—

All of the Gryffindor supporters scream louder than they've been all game as Harry raises his hand for the crowd to see—the golden Snitch's wings are fluttering feebly in his grasp. The rest of the team soars towards Harry on their broomsticks as the Slytherins hastily make their way off the pitch and to the locker room, sullen and frowning. Emily and Darcy hold each other tight, pulling Ron and Hermione to them, jumping up and down. Darcy's heart is pounding painfully, her entire body shaky and exhausted from shouting. "I knew it! I knew we'd win!" Emily yells in Darcy's face.

Near the entire stadium rushes the pitch as the Gryffindors start to land. Darcy, Emily, Hermione, and Ron push their way to the front of the crowd, and in one swift movement, Darcy sweeps Harry into her arms as he raises the Quidditch Cup high above his head. Coursing with adrenaline, Darcy kisses his sweaty head, falling away from him as other students pry her off her brother; hands reach out to touch him, to touch the cup, to hug him and kiss him. Shuffled among the crowd, Darcy loses sight of her friends, and then she feels a strong arm wrap around her waist. Oliver Wood, eyes wide and chest heaving, pulls Darcy to him. Before she can say anything, Oliver kisses her hard to the cheers and wolf-whistles of his teammates and fellow Gryffindors. His face is wet with sweat, his kiss is messy and sloppy, but Darcy lets him kiss her for as long as he needs after the match he's just played.

When Oliver finally breaks the kiss, he retracts his arm from around her waist, and Darcy stumbles backwards slightly, flushing a deep red as people giggle and continue to cheer them on. Oliver's gaze is fixed upon the Quidditch Cup again, and he shouts for Harry over the heads of some sixth year girls. Smiling at Oliver, Darcy turns and makes her way through the students, needing to escape the pushing and shoving if only for a moment. And finally, fresh air greets her, and Darcy sighs happily, heart still thundering not just from the outcome of the match, but from the public display she and Oliver had just given their fellows. She runs a hand through her hair and glances up towards the castle, jumping when she sees someone standing very near to her.

Lupin sees her and turns, heading back up the path towards the castle; he glances over his shoulder at Darcy again, slowing his pace. He gives her a small, forced smile, and Darcy holds up her hand awkwardly, waving at him with a bright smile. But he only turns his head to face the castle again, continuing his ascent up the path. Darcy watches him go for a moment, and then turns back towards the rest of the students.

No one is watching her; everyone's attention is turned towards the Gryffindor team and the Quidditch Cup. Darcy tries to find Emily's blonde hair in the sea of heads, but everything just looks red and gold and nothing else. Hermione is lost in the crowd, Darcy knows, swallowed up by all of the taller students, and Ron must be with Harry, but Darcy can't find Harry anywhere, either. She looks back towards Lupin, his figure growing smaller as he gets further away. And once more, Darcy scans the crowd for a sign of Oliver Wood, but of him, there is none.

No one will even realize I'm gone, she tells herself.

Without even trying to argue with herself, without even bothering to tell herself it's a bad idea, Darcy speeds away from the students, bounding up the path back towards the castle. She can't see Lupin anymore, and the Gryffindors are beginning to return to the castle now, making their slow way up the path. Darcy is well ahead of them, likely out of sight, but she slips in the doors quietly and quickly all the same.

Once outside Lupin's office, Darcy's hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will happen if I go in here? With everything that had been going on, the last month has gone by quicker than she could have ever expected, yet now it seems forever ago that she'd had a private conversation with Lupin—a friendly conversation, not a stiff and oddly polite one such as how they speak during classes and in the corridors. But the thought of speaking to Lupin again excites her, and the rush of winning the Quidditch Cup has done something to her confidence.

She expects Lupin to be inside his apartments, but Darcy finds him in his office, organizing his cluttered desk. He looks up when the door opens, and when Darcy closes it behind her, Lupin's eyes fall to his desk again. "Harry is an excellent flier," Lupin says casually. "He is very like your father."

Darcy doesn't answer. She takes a few steps towards Lupin, trying to calm her racing heart. "Is this a good time?" she asks, hoping that he won't turn her away. When she hears herself speak, she's surprised at how hoarse her voice is. It's barely more than a whisper now.

"Now is fine," Lupin replies quietly. He continues to sort through the massive pile of essays on his desk. "Something on your mind?"

Licking her lips, Darcy clears her throat, trying to sound a little louder. "I miss having dinner with you." Regardless of how raspy her voice sounds, Lupin understands her perfectly, but instead of agreeing like Darcy hopes he does, Lupin frowns. She grins. "I thought maybe we could celebrate—I've just won money on the match, I could get us a nice bottle of wine—"

Lupin shakes his head slowly. He doesn't speak for what seems like a long time, until Darcy begins to rock back and forth on the balls of her feet. "What did you think was going to happen, Darcy?" he asks incredulously. He raises his eyes to meet her own. Darcy isn't sure how to answer—she isn't sure what she had expected to happen after everything they'd shared. All she knows is that she had wanted it to continue—she still wants it—whatever they might have had. Her smile quickly fades. "We were both lonely, and things happened that shouldn't have. You're my student, Darcy—the daughter of some of my oldest friends." He sighs. "You didn't think anything was going to come of this, did you?"

Darcy squirms uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. "I—I thought that…" she stammers, trying to put into words how she feels. This isn't how she'd expected the conversation to go, and she suddenly finds she wishes she were back in the common room, celebrating with her friends. "I enjoy spending time with you, and it's not because I'm lonely…" But Darcy isn't entirely sure that's true. If it isn't, why had she decided to seek out Oliver? "I'm not lonely."

Lupin's frown turns into something that resembles a sneer. "No?" he asks. "You've been spending a lot of time with Oliver Wood."

Darcy feels her stomach clench. She had wanted to Lupin to see them so badly, to feel jealous, but now that he's just watched Oliver kiss her publicly, Darcy just feels childish about it. She blushes, and a sudden thought occurs to her. "How often do you look at that map?"

Lupin answers right away. "Guilty conscience?" he asks, his voice low. He looks away again. "People talk a great deal about you, Darcy, and sometimes not very quietly. I don't have the time to sit down and watch you on the map, you know."

Darcy blushes much harder, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. This is, by far, the most uncomfortable conversation she can recall ever having with him over the course of the school year. "I'm not his—Oliver's—you know…"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Lupin replies, but his voice seems shorter. "I am curious, though, how it came to this after I thought you'd made it explicitly clear—several times—that you weren't interested?"

"Well, he's—he's not terrible," Darcy retorts, scrambling to find Oliver's more redeeming qualities. "You know, he's—passionate, and really good at Quidditch—he says he's already got some offers playing for a few teams." She wants to slap herself—she doesn't know why she's defending Oliver. True, he had grown on her—he had never been a terrible friend to Darcy, especially after she'd been a terrible friend to him. But Lupin's tone makes her severely uncomfortable, and she feels he's accusing her something, but she isn't sure what.

"That's what you deserve, isn't it?"

His response takes her by surprise. Darcy isn't quite sure how to respond. His tone isn't genuine anymore, but cold. "I—excuse me, Professor?" Darcy rasps.

"He's what you deserve, isn't it?" Lupin snarls, standing up to his full height. "Darcy Potter deserves a successful Quidditch player, doesn't she? Someone who will give her a beautiful house—who will bring money home at the end of the day? Isn't that what you want? Beautiful, rich, famous Darcy Potter deserves someone who can give her anything she wants."

"I—Professor Lupin…" she says softly. All of the joy and happiness the match has just brought her is suddenly gone. She feels tears well up in her eyes as the venom in his voice takes her aback. "You're being rude."

"Go on, then," he hisses, and Darcy feels tears start to slip down her cheeks. She looks down at her feet, wiping her face with her sleeve and wrapping her arms around herself. "Go run back to Oliver Wood. God knows a creature like me doesn't deserve you."

Darcy looks up again, wanting nothing more than to scream at him—to tell Lupin how she really feels. She wants him to know that she loves him, that she doesn't love or even want Oliver Wood, but Lupin has just treated her the way she's used to being treated—as if she's some prize to be won, as if all she is is Darcy Potter, sister to The Boy Who Lived, the daughter of a couple who died as martyrs at Voldemort's hand. And to know that Lupin, of all people, would say such things, would sink so low, breaks her heart. "You're hurting my feelings," she whispers, looking into Lupin's eyes again.

At the sight of her tears, at her obvious discomfort, Darcy sees his face soften slightly, as if he's just now realized what he's said. Lupin sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Darcy, I—" His face falls and he runs a hand down his face, rubbing his patchy beard and continuing to muss up his hair. "Come here, please."

But when Darcy doesn't move towards him, Lupin seems to realize the damage has already been done. With her voice low and tears still leaking from her eyes, she murmurs, "I am not something for you to use whenever you get lonely. I'm a person, with feelings, and I'm not just Darcy Potter."

"I know, Darcy, I know. You know that I know that," Lupin says quickly, moving around his desk and getting closer to her. Darcy crosses her arms over her chest. "I would never use you—don't be foolish."

Darcy backs away towards the door, opening it hastily before Lupin can reach her. As she crosses the threshold, she turns back to him. "I had a good time that night," she confesses, wiping her cheeks again. "And for what it's worth, I only agreed to see Oliver after you'd stopped talking to me."

"No—Darcy, please don't go—"

If she's being honest, she wants nothing more than to stay there with Lupin, but she doesn't. Darcy closes the door of his office behind her, leaving him standing there alone, as she makes her way back to the common room.