'I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn't know what to do.'

F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Hey, there you are." Oliver wraps an arm around her waist, looking into her face properly. "Where've you—Darcy, are you all right?"

She wants to say no. She wants to tell someone what's just happened, what Lupin's said to her, but she can't, especially not to Oliver. "Could we go somewhere private? To talk?"

"Er—sure, yeah, okay." Oliver glances about the common room, putting a hand on Darcy's shoulder and walking her towards the spiral staircase that leads to the dormitories. He already smells like alcohol, and seems to sway as he walks, gripping Darcy's scarred shoulder harder, his fingernails digging into her skin. Leading her into his own empty dormitory, Oliver sits on his bed, indicating that Darcy should do the same. She obliges, holding her hands in her lap, and Oliver moves closer to her. "Have you been crying? Where did you go? What's happened? Darcy, what's wrong?"

Darcy looks into Oliver's face, wondering briefly what she's done to deserve the kindness he shows her. She wonders how many times she's hurt him, how many times she's made him feel used just because she was lonely and knew Oliver wouldn't disappoint. She suddenly feels guilty, a hypocrite, to string along a boy who loves her, when she had stood in front of Lupin only a short while ago, heartbroken at the idea that he'd done the same thing to her. It makes her feel dirty and unclean, and she wants to sit in a hot bath and scrub and scrub and scrub away all of these feelings.

After a long and heavy silence, Oliver moves closer again, taking her hands and squeezing them. His palms are sweaty, and even this small innocent touch does not excite her like Lupin's does. "Darcy, what's happened? Tell me what's wrong."

"Oliver," she starts, and he smiles weakly at the sound of his name. "It was a great match. How does it feel to have won the Quidditch Cup?"

Oliver beams at her, white teeth flashing brilliantly in the glow of the dim lamps around the dormitory. "I don't think they've created a feeling for how I feel," he answers breathlessly. "It's unreal—a dream—pinch me, won't you? You know what—don't. If it's a dream, I don't want to wake up."

"I'm happy for you. I'm prouder to be a Gryffindor now than I've ever been since I got Sorted, I think." Darcy can't help but smile. She releases his hands, reaching up to brush his shaggy hair back. "You're sweet to me," she whispers. "You always have been."

"I like you, Darcy." Oliver takes her wrist gingerly, lowering her hand from his hair. "Or haven't you noticed? I thought I made it pretty clear, but maybe you're not as bright as I thought you were." He laughs quietly, and Darcy laughs along with him. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Darcy looks down at the floor, at her leg swinging back and forth beside the bed. "I have to tell you something, Oliver, and I'm sorry it has to be tonight."

Oliver's smile fades, and his brow furrows. "What? Don't keep me in suspense."

Wringing her hands together, Darcy clears her throat. She sits up straighter, tucks her feet underneath her. "I'm afraid I haven't been very clear with my intentions—and I don't know how to say it, but—I like—someone else." She blushes furiously, holding her face in her hands. The statement sounds so wildly childish and stupid and terrible, and she wishes Oliver would just leave so she doesn't have to feel his eyes pressing onto her. Groaning, she tries to elaborate, but it's difficult to tell him without screaming her love for Lupin. "I just mean that you are a wonderful friend, Oliver, truly. You deserve so much better than me, and I'm sorry, but—"

Oliver seems to understand her ramblings, and he chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute. "I really like you, Darcy. I have for a long time." His eyes flick to her lips, and Darcy notices his gaze lingers for a rather long time before he looks her in the eyes again. "I'm sorry if I've done something to you."

"No—oh, Oliver—it's nothing you've done," she says hastily, and Darcy feels ashamed. "You have been far better to me lately than you have any right to be. You will make someone very happy one day, but you—you don't want me."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Darcy hesitates, having assumed he'd accept her statement without questioning it. "Look at who I am, Oliver. Why would you ever want to have that burden hanging over you? Being with Darcy Potter—you have no idea—"

"Darcy," Oliver rasps, looking very serious, yet also very perplexed. "Why would you ever think you would be a burden?"

She opens her mouth to answer him, closing it and pursing her lips tightly before any words manage to come out. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't Oliver understand the price of being associated with a Potter? Doesn't he realize what she's been subjected to? The horrors and suffering she's gone through? Doesn't he understand the enormity of the tragedy? The constant nightmares that crop up whenever they feel like it—the pressure to be able to care for Harry above all other priorities—the understanding that Harry comes first because she's the only family she's got left, and Oliver will never come before Harry, never.

Darcy had been so busy rejecting Oliver's advances over the years, rolling her eyes at his teasing and brushing off his compliments, but now she's seeing him in a new light, almost. She had never thought what it must feel like for him—Oliver Wood, willing to love her despite everything, despite her constantly pushing him away, despite who she is. And Darcy realizes that no one's ever shown her such dedication and such love before, and Darcy wonders if she could end up loving Oliver. She knows what she really wants—Lupin—but he's near unattainable—her teacher, her parents' friend, almost twice her age, a werewolf, with nothing to offer her but kisses and sweet words and arms that make her feel safe. But if she's being honest, she's all right with just kisses and sweet words and strong arms. Darcy thinks this as she leans in slowly towards Oliver, the tip of her nose brushing against his. She looks into his eyes for a brief second, but he doesn't move away, so she kisses his lips softly and is glad that he doesn't open his mouth wide to ruin the moment.

Yet even as she pulls away, Darcy knows that something is wrong. The kiss is all wrong—his lips are all wrong. She can't remember ever kissing Oliver so innocently before, but she'd thought maybe it would awaken some inner feelings for him that she hadn't realized she possesses. But nothing happens. Fireworks don't go off in her stomach, she doesn't feel a rush, and all he tastes of is firewhiskey, which makes her feel slightly nauseous. His lips are chapped, likely from flying through dry wind for weeks on end during practices.

Sighing heavily, Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears. "I'm a lot of work," she whispers, trying to find the words to say to Oliver, trying to explain that she's never received the love she deserves at home all these years. Darcy clears her throat and shifts uncomfortably on the bed. How is she supposed to tell Oliver that she's weighed down with emotional baggage that likely will never be resolved? How is she supposed to tell him that she craves the understanding and acceptance of that emotional baggage that Lupin has shown her? How is she supposed to tell him that all she wants is for Lupin to love her the way that she loves him—unconditionally and with all of her heart?

Darcy puts her hands over her face, feeling tears welling painfully in her eyes. After a moment of silence, Oliver puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her to him, holding her to his chest. Darcy cries against him, glad that no one will hear over the muffled sounds of the party from downstairs in the common room. Oliver runs his fingers once through her hair, pushing it out of her wet face. "Darcy—" he murmurs, and she looks up at him. "Stay here—I'll be right back—"

Oliver gets up off the bed quickly, leaving Darcy alone in the dormitory. She hugs her arms around her, rubbing her eyes furiously with her knuckles. Only alone for a few short minutes, she hears footsteps racing up the spiral staircase, and when the door flies open, Darcy starts crying again. Harry moves into the dormitory, closing the door behind him, and Oliver Wood hasn't bothered to follow him up. Darcy prefers it this way, and when Harry sits on Oliver's bed beside Darcy, he hugs his sister to himself just as Oliver had done.

With her face buried into his bony shoulder, Darcy cries softly, "Why doesn't he love me, Harry?"

Harry hugs Darcy tight around her neck, and doesn't let go for a very long time.

The whispers come back in full force as classes start again, this time talking of how Darcy Potter had decided to break Oliver's heart on the night his team had won the Quidditch Cup. Oliver doesn't seem to be holding a grudge, but he also avoids conversation with her during most classes, and sits rather far away from her at mealtimes now. This, combined with the crushing realization that she will never be good enough for Oliver, and that she will never be able to have Lupin, makes her feel incredibly lonely, despite the support her friends have given her regarding her decision to break things off with Oliver.

"Couldn't have waited one more night, huh?" Gemma asks her in Potions class that week. She glances across the classroom to where Oliver sits with a few other Gryffindors and a surly Ravenclaw. "What did he say?"

"Nothing much," Darcy admits sheepishly, stirring her potion absently. "I rambled. And I cried."

"Oh, Darcy—" Emily shakes her head, looking very serious. "You're not supposed to cry when you're the one breaking up with someone."

Darcy looks daggers at Emily. "I didn't cry because I was breaking up with him," she snarls, attracting Snape's attention from the front of the classroom, and they share an uncomfortable, lingering look before Darcy turns back to her friends. "I just have a lot on my mind right now."

With the full moon approaching in only a few days, Darcy decides that whatever she has to say to Lupin can at least wait until afterwards. It seems that she's not the only one who's suffered a large amount of stress, as Lupin seems more tired than usual, weaker and less enthusiastic during classes. He also appears very scatterbrained, calling Gemma several times by the wrong name during one class, which she doesn't seem to be too upset about, thankfully.

"You know my name, Professor," she jokes one class, right after he's messed up her name. "And here I thought we'd gotten quite close."

Lupin sighs. "I know—forgive me," he answers, glancing in Darcy's direction. "Take five points to Slytherin for my mistake…"

Darcy is surprised on Wednesday, when Errol delivers a letter from Mr. Weasley, weeks after she'd sent Max with her own letter. The letter is short and sweet—Darcy knows that he's been incredibly busy with trying to catch Sirius Black, but she can't help feeling disappointed that he wouldn't have shown her more enthusiasm in his letter. She wonders if she's disappointed Mr. Weasley now, as well, having declined his invitation to work with him. Darcy sends Errol back without a reply, ripping Mr. Weasley's letter into shreds and letting them fall onto her empty plate. Glancing up at the staff table, Darcy sees Professor Lupin's seat is empty, and suddenly feeling very angry and extremely lonely, she leaves the Great Hall, ignoring Emily's protests.

Professor Sprout fills in for Professor Lupin that day, allowing them all to study for their upcoming exams, while using the time herself to grade some homework at the front of the class. Gemma drags a chair over to Darcy and Emily's table, bringing her books and notes and slamming them on the desk. "Wonder where Professor Lupin is, anyway," Emily says wistfully, trying very hard to avoid looking at her notes. "Think Professor Sprout will finally tell us what's going on with him?"

"It's not really any of our business what's wrong with him, is it?" Darcy whispers, bored. She continues to doodle on her parchment, her Potions homework only half done.

"Quick to jump to his defense, aren't you?" Emily retorts. "Do you know something?"

Darcy looks up, surprised to see Gemma looking right at her from across the table, while Emily's eyes wander to Professor Sprout. The corners of Gemma's mouth curl upwards just slightly before she gives Darcy a small nod and opens her book at random, revealing a detailed illustration of how to create Polyjuice Potion. "All right, Darcy," Gemma starts, wiping the knowing look from her face as Emily turns back to her friends. "I need your help with Potions. That's going to be my hardest exam, I think."

"Ancient Runes for me," Emily adds sulkily.

"You should have taken Arithmancy instead," Gemma chuckles. "Easily my best subject."

"Isn't that supposed to be the hardest subject Hogwarts has to offer?"

"Only if you're stupid," Gemma shrugs, giving Emily a patronizing look, brushing the feather of her quill across her lips. Emily scowls.

Darcy sits with her head propped up with her hand. Her stomach knots as she looks at the door to Lupin's office—she could just pop in after class—no one would really notice if she showed up late to lunch, would they? Emily and Gemma would, of course, wonder where she'd gone, but she could say she'd gone to the owlery to send a letter, or to the bathroom, or the hospital wing. Darcy tries not to picture Lupin inside his apartments, likely sleeping, biding his time until the full moon rises in a few hours. She tries not to picture a painful transformation, tries not to picture the night she'd come across him fully transformed. Her scars twinge painfully, and Darcy jumps, focusing back on the conversation at hand. Emily and Gemma give her startled looks.

"You all right?" Emily asks warily.

Darcy clears her throat, rubbing her left shoulder gently. "Yeah, I just—daydreaming."

"Listen, I'm thinking day after exams, last Hogwarts party ever," Gemma whispers, completely ignoring her book now. She leans in closer to Emily, who listens intently, and Darcy, whose eyes are glazed over. "Even if we're caught, what are they going to do? Expel us? We'll have already taken our final exams by that point."

"Who're you going to invite?" Emily asks, seemingly glad to be having a conversation that distracts her from studying. She closes her book, as well, looking giddy with excitement.

"Seventh years, of course—and Carla, obviously," Gemma replies. "If you two are willing to throw in some money—like, maybe the Galleons I gave you—we could get a lot of alcohol and a lot of cigarettes, and some Muggleborn in Ravenclaw was telling me about this—I don't even know what it is?—she said it's some sort of plant, but when you smoke it, it fucks you up—"

"That's a drug, Gemma," Emily snorts. "She was trying to sell you drugs."

"Well, it sounds like the kind of thing we need at our last ever Hogwarts party."

The planning of Gemma's last big party resumes in double Potions after lunch that day. Darcy stares lazily into her cauldron, adding some rat spleens when necessary, checking her book before each stir, and watching Snape move among the cauldrons, smelling and sneering. She suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of dread at the mere sight of Snape, bat-like and ugly, cruel and unjust. Darcy screams internally as she's forcibly reminded of the fact that she will be spending most of her time with him in just a few months. She wonders what was going through her head when she thought spending time with Snape wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Harry will be here. Carla will be here. Darcy frowns, looking back down at her potion. Professor Lupin will be here.

Darcy decides to take the night off studying. After classes, she returns to her dormitory and opens the window beside her bed, letting a warm breeze wash over her. Summer is quickly approaching and, with it, a terrible feeling that Darcy can't quite place. In a little over a month, Darcy will no longer be a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Seven years she's spent learning and studying and adventuring and drinking, and it is all about to come to an abrupt stop. The best days of her life had been spent here at Hogwarts—sitting under the shade of a large beech tree with her friends; laughing in the elongated tub in the prefects' bathroom with the multicolored soaps and bubbles; staying up late into the wee hours of the night with Harry and tucking a blanket over him when he finally fell asleep. All of her best memories consist of times spent at Hogwarts.

Remembering her first year, Darcy wonders how it ever came to this. First year had gone relatively smoothly, she recalls. There had been no mysterious teachers with mysterious voices coming from the back of their head; there had been no mention of a Chamber of Secrets within Hogwarts, no mention of the monster that lurked inside the school; there had been no end of the year adventure with her own friends. Yet as soon as Harry had found his place at Hogwarts, finally, things had changed and Darcy's world flipped upside down. Darcy had gone through four years at Hogwarts of nothing but normalcy, only to suddenly be forced to do things she never thought herself possible of doing. Darcy stares out of the window, thinking hard as the grounds grow still and quiet, thinking of things that still haunt her dreams.

She remembers the feel of Devil's Snare around her body after jumping through the trapdoor, guarded by Fluffy, Hagrid's three-headed dog. She remembers the crushing pain she'd felt in her ankles, her thighs, her wrists—remembers feeling the tightness around her neck as it strangled her. She remembers the giant, black bishop that had knocked her from the marble horse she'd been riding when Ron had taken command of the chess match. The bishop had left a deep cut across her forearm, and the debris nearly crushed her, yet still she had lived. She remembers arguing with Harry after he'd insisted Darcy take Hermione and Ron back up to the castle. Darcy had cried fierce tears, but obliged, and left Harry to deal with Professor Quirrell, only to find out that he'd almost died in the process.

She remembers the feel of a sword in her hand only the previous year. She remembers how it glittered red, little rubies set into the hilt. Their adventure in the Chamber of Secrets was hell, surely; Harry had been so calm, so collected, while Darcy trembled with each step she took, taking in the sights all around her. Thinking about it now, Darcy wonders if she had been Harry's age at the time—if she had been young and innocent and naive, would she still have been so afraid? The Chamber of Secrets was a living nightmare, and she remembers vividly Harry looking up at her after being bitten by the basilisk.

"I love you, Darcy," he'd said, as Darcy kissed his head over and over. "I love you so much."

Thankfully, something comes hurtling towards the open window from around the castle, distracting her from her awful thoughts. Darcy looks closer, squinting her eyes, and grins as Max continues to fly closer and closer—he doesn't even slow down and flies right into Darcy's face, making her fall backwards onto the floor as he nuzzles into her, nipping at her earlobes and the tip of her nose. Immediately, Darcy looks for a letter tied onto his leg, but there is none there. Max has only come to visit, and Darcy strokes his feathers, standing back up and getting into bed.

She reaches below her bed for the photo album, stopping before she reaches it as she changes her mind. Darcy pauses, opening the drawer in her bedside cabinet, and she pulls from it a leatherbound, black book. Opening it, Darcy smiles at the handwritten notes on the pages, flipping towards the back of the book. She still hasn't finished it, but now seems like a perfect time. Darcy stays shut in her dormitory all through dinner, with Max fluttering around, perching on top of the beds before coming back down to give Darcy a warm snuggle. And finally, when the moon does begin to rise and Darcy can hear others heading up to their own dormitories, she finishes the book. She closes it slowly, holding it in her lap for a little while.

Max hoots, and Darcy opens her top drawer to reveal some snacks she's hidden away. Max flies down immediately, pecking at everything he can reach, ruffling his feathers and stretching out his wings in approval. Darcy watches him, running two fingers down his back and smiling. She glances out of the open window, through which the now cool air filters. Looking longingly at the bright sky, twinkling with stars and lightened by the moon, Darcy digs around under her bed again, retrieving a small piece of parchment, some loose string, and a quill. From her nightstand, she grabs her inkwell, uncorks it, dips her quill into it, and holds the tip of her quill just above the parchment, so a drop of ink falls onto it. What do I even write?

All Darcy wants is to know that he's okay. She wants him to know that she's thinking of him tonight, that she worries about him, that she cares about him, that she loves him. Darcy blushes, despite there being no one around to hear her thoughts, or even read her face. Max ignores her for once, still eating a bit of a pastry that's likely stale by now. She tries to think about what to write that will convey how she feels for him, without sounding incredibly desperate.

Finally, Darcy places her quill to the parchment, shifting a little so the moonlight illuminates the parchment in her lap. By the light of the full moon, Darcy quickly writes, Can I do anything for you? and rolls it up, tying it closed with her piece of string and whistling for Max to join her. Max looks up quickly at the sound of her whistle, and he sticks his leg out obediently as she ties the note to it.

"Take this to Professor Lupin," she whispers, feeling foolish, as if Max will judge her. "And stay there until he writes back. Or don't—it's up to you."

Max tilts his head at her curiously, his deep set, dark eyes watching her face. Darcy scratches under his sharp beak before he takes off through the open window, soaring down the side of the castle and out of sight.