'You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only / the sun has come this close, only the sun.'

Shauna Barbosa

Max doesn't return that night, nor is there a response waiting for Darcy in the morning. When she goes down to breakfast, Professor Lupin's seat is still unoccupied, and Max doesn't swoop through the Great Hall to deliver the newspaper, either. Emily scoops some food onto Darcy's plate, but Darcy only pushes the food around, not really eating anything.

"Darcy, you should eat something," Harry urges her from across the table. "Toast, at least."

Darcy drags a hand down her face. "I'm not hungry."

Harry gives her a desperate look. "Please eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

But come lunchtime, Darcy's stomach is growling loudly, and she loads her plate with almost everything she can reach. She keeps a hopeful eye out for Max, but she's distracted by two girls who squeeze in between Darcy and Emily with their own lunch plates. Gemma seats herself on Darcy's left, with Carla on Gemma's other side, next to Emily.

Hermione looks anxiously at Carla. "Is Professor Lupin in class today?"

"Nope," Carla answers, nodding towards his empty seat at the staff table. "McGonagall was in for him."

Ron groans dramatically, causing everyone to look at him. "That means we're going to have to put up with Snape again." He stuffs a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth, looking angry.

Hermione sighs. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Last time, I swear, it's like he thought he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Ron continues, after swallowing his mouthful of food. He looks thoughtful then, waving his fork around in front of him. "Maybe I'll skip. How about it, Harry?"

"You shouldn't," Hermione snaps, but her heart doesn't really seem to be in it. "Snape would give the both of you detention for weeks."

"Professor McGonagall wasn't bad," Carla grins. "Didn't really teach us much. She said Lupin should be back tomorrow."

All of them grumble, "I hope so."

As lunch comes to an end, Darcy stands up and stretches. "Come on, Emily," she mutters. "Double Ancient Runes."

But Ancient Runes seems to drag on for hours. Darcy doodles on her parchment, glancing over every so often at Emily's neat notes—Emily, a talented artist, has drawn perfect diagrams in the corners of her parchment. Darcy's parchment is nearly blank, save for scribbles. With her head resting upon her hand, Darcy hears something hit the window of the classroom, and for a moment she thinks it's Max—Darcy looks up quickly, but the bird that's flown right into the window is fluttering away again. Sighing heavily, Darcy examines the ink on her fingers and begins to pick at her fingernails.

Emily puts her quill down, turning to Darcy. "What's wrong with you?" she whispers, and Darcy cocks an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're seriously upset about Oliver? I thought you didn't even like him that much."

"Not really." Though the way things had ended with Oliver does make Darcy feel quite bad, she isn't sad about it. In fact, she feels quite guilty, and it's slowly eating away at her insides. To know that Oliver Wood will no longer meet her eyes in the corridors after seven long years of flashing toothy grins at each other makes her feel, if anything, even more lonely. This boy, who once thought the world of her, now doesn't turn around in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes to share a joke with her, or tell her how nice her hair looks, or just to smile at her. Oliver Wood, who had been her first for so many things—the first boy to hold her hand, her first kiss, her first fuck, her first date. And now Lupin will hardly look at her, will not put a comforting hand upon her back, will not even write her back telling her that he doesn't need anything. All he'd have to do is write is no.

But Darcy worries all the same. Normally, the day after a full moon, Lupin is back in classes, looking extremely weary, but teaching nonetheless. She doesn't want to intrude, especially after he'd failed even to send her a simple reply to her note, but his absence intrigues her, and she hopes he's all right. This isn't the first time he's done this, Darcy tells herself. He can take care of himself.

"Darcy?"

Darcy realizes she's been staring at Emily, but not really seeing her. "Sorry—what?"

"I'm talking to you. You're acting weird."

"I know."

Darcy shuts herself in the dormitory again after classes. Hermione opens the door only once, confessing to Darcy that Harry had sent her to check on her. "Do you want anything? We're going down to dinner—we'll bring you back something if you're hungry."

"No, thanks."

When Hermione retreats from the dormitory, Darcy sighs, laying back on her pillow and staring up at the ceiling. She wishes Emily would come in, but what good would that do? Darcy could never tell Emily that she's pining over someone who doesn't want her—she could never tell Emily that it's a man behind her strange behavior. It's embarrassing and humiliating to even Darcy, but after being treated the way that Lupin treats her, Darcy wants to be treated that way forever. How long it's been since someone has spoken with her like an equal—someone who understands the horrors she's borne witness to, someone who understands there is pain in her heart that even she hasn't known was there until this year. She thought that he cared about her, that he felt the same way, and to know that he won't even bother to talk to her now is a hurt that's unfamiliar and queer, but it hurts nonetheless.

Darcy finds the photo album under her bed, opening it to the first page. She hopes that seeing several pictures of her parents waving up at her will make her feel a bit better, but all it does is leave her feeling hollow. Her mother, beautiful as ever, smiles up at her daughter; Darcy's father, so like Harry, has an arm draped around his wife, giving Darcy a warm smile. It makes her sad to see how young they are—in some pictures, they're even younger than Darcy. Darcy continues to flip through the photos until she finds the one of her parents' wedding. Today, the picture shocks her. The Darcy in the photograph is being held securely in Sirius's arms, her cheek nuzzled against his chest, and her eyes are closed. Sirius sways back in forth in the photo, as if to keep photo-Darcy content while he holds her. Darcy feels a surge of affection for Sirius, hoping that maybe she'll dream of him tonight, if only to feel loved again—no, the voice inside her head hisses, he never loved you. But looking at the photograph, it's hard to listen to and believe her voice of reason.

The sky outside the windows grows steadily darker. Darcy flips through the rest of the book, but returns, constantly, to the picture where she's curled up against Sirius's chest, sleeping peacefully after what was likely a long and exciting day. Darcy tries to remember anything about that day, retrieving memories from the corners of her mind, but Darcy finds she doesn't have any memories of that day. She doesn't remember her own parents' wedding, doesn't remember Sirius or Lupin. There are no smells she recalls about the day, no songs, no dancing, no smiles or laughter, and that's when Darcy closes the book with a snap, making her jump.

Then she hears a snap again, and realizes it wasn't the book that had made the noise. Darcy pauses, listening for the noise again, and finds it's not a snap after all, but tapping—something is tapping on the window—

Darcy leaps to the window against which something is tapping, and flings it open. Max enters quickly, dropping a small roll of parchment on her bed and giving her a few good nuzzles to the face. Darcy laughs, hugging the affectionate owl to her. Max hoots quietly, finding the headboard of her bed and perching upon it. Looking nervously at the parchment for a long time, Darcy finally picks it up and unrolls it, her heart racing. She looks quickly to Max, as if hoping he'll encourage her to open it, but all he does is stare at her, seeming twitchy.

If you're able to get away, I could use a pair of gentle hands.

Darcy knows the untidy scrawl the words are written in—the same untidy scrawl that litters the margins of the poetry book she loves so much. She lowers the parchment, looking pensively at Max. She still has the Invisibility Cloak in her trunk, not having returned it to Harry quite yet. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Darcy looks to be doing some type of jig, torn between running back to Lupin (which, if she's being honest, is what she wants) and ignoring him after all that he's said. But she can't continue to stay angry at him—she can't finish the rest of the year shutting herself in her dormitory, feeling sorry for herself. She hadn't expected Lupin to ask her to come back after she'd sent Max off with her note—Darcy isn't sure what she'd expected, but certainly not this.

I wouldn't have to stay very long, she thinks, her eyes fixed on her trunk. I could leave whenever I wanted to.

She nods to Max, muttering words of encouragement to herself. This is it, she tells herself. I'm going to tell him how I feel about him, and if he doesn't feel the same, then at least I'll know. But if he does…

Darcy gets slowly to her knees, opening her trunk and digging through all of her clothes until she feels the silky smooth fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. She grasps it firmly in her hand, hesitating. If she goes, what does she expect will happen? Does going make her just the same as Oliver—chasing after someone who doesn't really want her? But Darcy thinks of the comfort Lupin brings her, she thinks of falling asleep with him beside the fire, his arm around her, his cheek resting on the top of her head, his chest underneath her own cheek. What Darcy wouldn't give to have that feeling—that comfort—for the rest of her life, after knowing nothing like it before. I might not get another chance to tell him.

She pulls the Invisibility Cloak out of her trunk and folds it neatly, as small as she can. Tucking it into the waistband of her skirt, Darcy chuckles at the sight of it underneath her Hogwarts sweater—it looks awkward, but as long as no one looks directly at the lump near her stomach, it's barely noticeable. As Darcy makes her way out of the dormitory, Max snoozing at her bed and Lupin's note in her fist, Darcy considers throwing the cloak on before even going downstairs. She can hear voices floating up from the common room, quiet and whispered voices, and continues down the stairs without worrying about it. But as she grows closer to the common room, Darcy realizes she does recognize the voices, and Hermione is speaking in a quiet and sympathetic voice. Darcy pauses before revealing herself, listening, even though she knows she shouldn't. If Hermione and the others see the portrait hole open and close with anyone entering or leaving, they'll know she's up to something. So Darcy waits a moment to see if they'll leave.

"—she's leaving Hogwarts soon, of course she's upset, and now after her and Oliver aren't speaking, I'm sure it's hard for her—"

Ron is with her, as well, and his voice is the next to sound. He keeps his voice low, but not low enough for Darcy not to hear. "Not that I want to pry into your sister's love life, mate, but I'm still digesting what Emily said about her and Lupin." Harry must have reacted, because Ron quickly mutters, "Sorry."

"Come on, Ron—" Hermione sighs. "Professor Dumbledore should have known something was going to happen. I mean, introducing someone to Darcy that she could have been very close with, had things been different, of course—are you really surprised? Maybe the hand holding is a little strange, but you can't tell me you didn't expect them to be close." Hermione pauses for a second. "Harry, when was the last time she and Professor Lupin had dinner together?"

"Dunno," Harry answers quickly. "She was at Quidditch practices almost everyday. But now that you say something—they haven't really spoken during Patronus lessons, either."

"You don't think something happened, do you?" Hermione whispers, quieter than ever. "I mean—maybe it's not Oliver that's making her upset."

There's a temporary silence as the boys seem to mull this over. Darcy closes her eyes, leaning against the stone wall, hoping that Harry hasn't told them anything, wondering why she had ever told Harry about her and Lupin in the first place. Not wanting to hear anymore, Darcy clears her throat loudly and walks into view, glancing at Harry and his friends. Hermione's cheeks turn slightly pink and she buries her nose in a book. Ron looks away into the fire, picking at a spot on his chin, but Harry doesn't look away from Darcy as strides over to the portrait hole.

"Where are you going, Darcy?" Harry asks, getting to his feet. "I've barely seen you all day."

"I'm going for a walk," she says. "Maybe to the kitchens. I'm hungry."

Harry looks very quickly at Hermione and Ron before his eyes flick back to Darcy. "Emily went down to the library," Harry says again as Darcy pushes the portrait hole open. "She'll probably be back soon."

"Don't tell her you've seen me," Darcy frowns. "Please."

Looking anxious, Harry nods, and watches Darcy leave the common room. Even as the door closes, she can feel Harry's eyes on the back of her head, and she has a feeling Harry knows very well where she's going.

Darcy moves quickly through the corridors, deciding to put on the Invisibility Cloak in case she meets Emily on the way down to Lupin's office. Anger courses through her as she makes her way to him—how often do Harry, Hermione, and Ron talk about her like that? In soft and concerned voices as if she's terribly ill, as if she's gone crazy? And if they talk about her like that, who's to say her own friends don't do the same thing? Darcy doesn't want to imagine how Emily, Carla, and Gemma talk about her while she's not around—she doesn't want to imagine Gemma presenting the possibility that Lupin has done something to hurt Darcy. Surely her friends know she didn't really want Oliver? Surely they'd figure it out? Darcy shivers, continuing to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom against her better judgement.

Once inside the dimly lit classroom, Darcy removes the Invisibility Cloak, stashing it somewhere she'll remember to grab it before she leaves. Lupin's office door is closed, but when she knocks softly, he doesn't call out for her to enter, so Darcy lets herself in. Lupin isn't in his office either, but the hidden door to his private apartments is slightly open. Darcy stands still for a moment, trying to convince herself to go inside. Reluctantly, Darcy opens the door a few inches and sticks her head inside, but Lupin is nowhere to be found—he isn't on the sofa, and a fire isn't burning in the hearth. Slipping inside, Darcy closes the door behind her and calls out, "Professor Lupin?"

"Darcy?" Lupin's incredulous voice sounds from the tiny back room, the door of which is cracked. "Back here, love. Come."

Darcy takes a few steps towards the back room, her heart beginning to race, her stomach beginning to churn violently. She's never spent time with him in the back bedroom, and she's unsure of what she'll find when she pushes open the door—but there's nothing strange about the scene at all. Lupin's lying back on his bed, propped up with a few pillows behind him, ankles crossed, holding a book up to his face. When Darcy enters the room, Lupin lowers the book so she's able to get a better look at his face. Lingering near the door, Darcy looks at him, eyebrows knitting together in worry.

He doesn't look well, not that she'd really expected him to. While the effects of his transformation are still visible in classes the day after a full moon, what he looks like now is something else completely. Lupin still has dark shadows under his eyes, his face lacking color, damp with sweat. He's pushed his hair back out of his eyes, and his chest rises and falls very slowly with each breath that he takes. "Professor—you look…" Darcy can't quite find the words to say to describe him politely.

"I know," he rasps. Marking his page in his book, Lupin closes it and sets it on his bedside table, looking at Darcy. "You weren't at dinner."

Darcy ignores his last comment, though she feels a blush creep up her neck at the thought that Lupin had noticed her absence. "If you're still not feeling up to teaching, you should go to Madam Pomfrey. You don't look well."

Lupin smiles sadly. "Thirty years I've been doing this, Darcy," he says. "It will pass, and then I won't have to worry about it until the next full moon." Lupin pauses again, opening his mouth to speak, and then closing it again. Finally he says, "I didn't think you would come."

Darcy purses her lips, glancing for a moment over her shoulder towards the sitting area behind her. "You left the door open for me," she notes. "Surely you wouldn't have done that if you had expected me not to come."

At this, Lupin smiles bigger, but still weakly. "I was only hopeful, not certain." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't respond to your message right away. I was—surprised when your owl came to my window."

"Max," Darcy replies, and when Lupin cocks an eyebrow, she elaborates. "His name is Max."

"Max," Lupin repeats slowly. "Of course."

"Were you good to him?"

"You should be asking Max if he was good to me." He sighs heavily, and then moves over more to the center of his bed. "Come here." He pats the space he's made for Darcy.

Hesitantly, Darcy does as he's requested. Just as with Oliver, Darcy tucks one of her feet underneath her, letting her other leg dangle from over the mattress. Up close, Lupin looks even worse—the shadows under his eyes look like bruises, and the old and fading scars contrast with his eerily milky skin. With a slight pink tint to her cheeks, Darcy wonders how someone who looks so pathetic could possibly have hurt her so. He looks completely harmless now, weak and exhausted, looking as hurt as Darcy feels.

"You and Oliver—"

"I don't want to talk about me and Oliver."

"I was only curious," Lupin says, raising his eyebrows. "Forgive me."

"It's all right." Feeling guilty for snapping, Darcy rolls her shoulders, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. It groans underneath her. "You've heard what people have been saying then?"

"We don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry."

Darcy gives him a very thankful smile, sighing in relief. The last thing she wants to do is admit that she'd only been with Oliver to make him jealous.

"Darcy, I'm so sorry for what I said," Lupin whispers. Slowly, he reaches for one of her hands, settled in her lap. Lupin takes one of them, lacing their fingers together loosely. He sighs again, bringing their hands to his lips, to kiss her fingers. It sends a shiver down Darcy's spine, his lips on her skin. Lowering her hand from his mouth, Lupin places her palm to his chest, where she can feel his rapidly beating heart beneath his chest. Darcy keeps her hand there for a few seconds before pulling it away, placing it back in her lap. "I never should have said those things to you."

Darcy doesn't look away from him. Lupin seems to be expecting something from her, as if preparing himself for her to shout at him, slap him across the face, to curse him—but Darcy doesn't want to do any of those things. "You really hurt my feelings," she murmurs, and Lupin looks away, looking increasingly embarrassed. He rubs the back of his neck and then drags his fingers through his hair. "Did you mean any of it?"

Lupin's eyes meet hers again, and she's glad to see he looks uncomfortable. "I know I hurt you, Darcy, and I am so sorry," he says quietly. "I never meant to hurt you—please, believe me. But—yes, I meant some of it. You deserve someone who could give you everything. Someone young and whole—with their entire life ahead of them to spend with you. Someone who will never be a burden to you, who will be able to care for you, always."

Darcy considers this. "And what about the other part?" she asks, frowning. "Did you mean that, as well?"

"No," Lupin answers right away, firmly. "I should never have said that, Darcy. Haven't I proved these past few months that I care for you? I didn't ask you here tonight because I'm lonely—I asked you here tonight because I—" Lupin trails off, looking at her apologetically.

Her heart thumping violently, Darcy asks, "Do you, though? Do you care about me?"

"Yes," he insists, reaching up to touch her face, but balling his hand into a fist and lowering it back to his side. "More than I should."

The words take her breath away. "What did you think was going to happen after that night?" Darcy wonders outloud, her tone much kinder and gentler than when Lupin had asked her the question. She's genuinely curious now, her heart beating just as fast as his had been a few minutes ago when she'd felt it against her hand. Darcy suddenly feels anxious at the thought of Lupin possibly wanting to pursue or explore something with her—the thought that maybe, once she's not his student—

"I don't know," Lupin replies, seeming very honest and unsure about his answer. His eyes flick to her lap, and he slowly reaches out again to take her hand. Darcy lets him, and after he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, she laces their fingers back together. They smile shyly at each other. "We still have a few weeks together to figure everything out." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

Lupin shifts, sitting up a little straighter. "Forgive me if I assume too much…" he begins, looking awkward. "Your decision to return to Hogwarts—you wouldn't have—I wasn't part of the reason you turned down a job at the Ministry of Magic to come back here, was I?"

At these words, Darcy gives Lupin a genuine smile, her white teeth flashing at him through the semi-darkness. "I can't deny that the thought of being able to spend another year with you was tempting," she confesses, and at once, Darcy notices the color rising in Lupin's cheeks. "But Harry is the reason I'm coming back. You're just a—perk, I suppose."

"A perk?" Lupin smirks. He tugs gently on Darcy's hand. "Come closer, sweetheart."

Darcy obliges, moving close enough to him to feel the heat radiating off his body. Automatically, Darcy's free hand reaches up to touch his forehead, to feel for a fever. Lupin closes his eyes when she touches him; his skin is hot to the touch—his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. She suddenly wishes she'd brought something to help, a potion or something to ease the fever. When Darcy pulls her hand away from his face, Lupin's eyes open again.

He looks at her for a long time, a soft expression on his tired face. "I wanted you to stay."

Darcy's heart skips a beat. "Me too."

Still holding tight to her hand with his left one, Lupin's free hand finds Darcy's face this time. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, traces the line of her jaw with the lightest touch she's ever received, and finally cups her cheek, letting his thumb brush over her cheekbone. Darcy nuzzles into his palm, shutting her eyes and feeling the heat of his skin against her's.

"After all I've done to you," Lupin breathes, causing Darcy's eyes to open again. "And you still let me touch you." He runs his fingers through her hair slowly and then lowers his hand to his side again. "Everyone I have ever cared for, everyone I have ever loved, that knew what I am—they flinched away at my touch, seeing me for the monster I am. How long will it take, I wonder, for you to start cringing away from me, as well?"

Darcy watches Lupin, feeling quite sad for him. He closes his eyes again, settling back on the pillows propped against the headboard. Darcy gives his hand another gentle squeeze before she lets go, leaning in towards him. She gives Lupin the softest kiss she's ever given anyone, an affirmation that she cares for him, because she doesn't quite know how to say it. When Darcy pulls away, Lupin's eyes flutter open. And for a moment, there is nothing—the silence presses heavily down around them, and they both seem to be holding their breaths—but Darcy feels as if Lupin understands everything she wants to say.

But she wants to say it anyway. Darcy's heart is full to bursting, and she needs to say it now, or else she'll walk away wishing she had. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Darcy murmurs, "I love you. I love you." Neither of them sound quite right, so she tries one more time, feeling ready to cry out of love. "I love you."

Lupin doesn't answer immediately, though if Darcy's being honest, she had never expected him to. But now that she's said it, now that Lupin knows how much she cares about him, is somewhat freeing. Lupin looks at her for a long time, and then kisses Darcy again—an open-mouthed kiss, loving and tender, and Darcy's heart is pounding in her ears, her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she wishes there was music to drown out the sound of them kissing. After a long time, Darcy breaks apart from Lupin, breathless, and she's glad he doesn't apologize this time. She moves closer to him, unable to get as close to him as she wants to. Darcy makes her decision in a split second; she moves quickly, putting a knee on either side of his hips, positioning herself in his lap.

Lupin shifts underneath her, clearing his throat, and the moonlight washes over him, illuminating half of his face; Darcy thinks his cheeks look slightly flushed, but she has the decency to pretend not to notice. However, he doesn't stop her, doesn't push her off, but instead sits up a little so Darcy has room to wrap her legs around his middle. Lupin sticks his neck out to kiss her again, and she presses her lips to his for just a moment before pulling away again. Sitting up straighter, Darcy's tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she pulls her sweater over her head. As she tugs it over her head, she wriggles slightly in his lap accidentally, eliciting from Lupin a soft sigh as she discards her sweater on the ground. Darcy's trembling hands move to undo her tie, but Lupin quickly grabs her wrists, hesitating.

"You don't want me, Darcy," he breathes, looking pained. "I'm too old for you, too dangerous—you know what I am, what I'm capable of doing."

"I don't care about any of that. I've wanted you for a very long time," she answers softly. "I want this, if you do."

He's quiet for a long time, and she can see the conflict in his eyes. But Lupin finally releases his grip on her wrists, loosening her tie himself and slowly undoing the buttons on her blouse. Darcy's frozen to the spot as he looks her in the eyes, sliding her blouse off and finally looking at her in earnest. Part of her can't believe this is real, that this is happening, and the other part of her is so nervous she feels like she's going to throw up.

Darcy hears Lupin's sudden, sharp intake of breath, and isn't surprised to see that his eyes settle on her scarred shoulder before anywhere else. He places his fingers along the scars, and then drags them down her body lazily. Lupin seems hesitant to touch her with more than just the tips of his fingers, but finally settles both hands on her hips, thumbs caressing Darcy's soft skin. She watches him clench and unclench his jaw, eyes flitting once up and down her body. He leans forward, kissing the crook of her neck and, with surprising strength for a man recovering from a painful transformation, Lupin wraps his arms around Darcy, nearly throwing her from his lap, laying her back on his bed, and propping himself above her. Smiling down at her, Lupin kisses her hard, and Darcy's stomach flutters with excitement—with each touch, each kiss, each soft sigh, each time their tongues brush for a second, Darcy feels fireworks bursting inside of her. Months of dreaming, of wishing, of wanting him, only to find out he wants her just as badly makes her feel things she's never felt before in her life.

Lupin kisses Darcy for a long time, until the skin around her mouth is a bright pink from the stubble on his face scratching her, and her lips feel swollen. But she doesn't want to stop kissing him—she wants to kiss Lupin all through the night, and all through the following morning, for the rest of her life. He leaves eager kisses down her throat and across her collarbones, and then pushes the thin strap of her bra aside to look at the scars on her shoulder in their entirety. Running his index finger over each of them in turn, Lupin looks Darcy in the eyes and she smiles at him; taking her smile for permission, he kisses each of the scars softly before sitting back on his heels. Hesitating only for a second, Lupin lifts his sweater from the bottom, making to pull it over his head, and both he and Darcy chuckle when it gets caught. Darcy helps him give it a sharp tug, and Lupin tosses it to the side as her eyes wash over his torso.

Darcy had expected this, but it doesn't make it any less difficult. The sight of Lupin's flesh momentarily takes her breath away. The scars that mar his skin here are much, much worse than the few scratches on his face. A long, angry scar crosses his left breast horizontally, several inches long; many of the scars on his torso are very like Darcy's—raised, pink, and smooth. What hair does grow on his chest is patchy, having grown around and between other scars and scratches—scars that make her cringe, thinking about the pain that Lupin must have felt after a transformation, bleeding on the floor of the Shrieking Shack as a boy no older than her.

It's then that Darcy notices his arms, and she notices that it's not just scratch marks the size of claws on his arms. On his left forearm is a wide scar the exact size of a werewolf's mouth, and Darcy can see the clear imprint of where each individual fang had sank into his flesh, this scar much more pronounced than the others on Lupin's arms and shoulders.

Darcy suddenly feels a rush of affection for Lupin; she thinks of the shame she feels when others see her shoulder—and here he is, revealing to her years of hardship and struggle and pain, and Darcy wants nothing more than to take him in her arms, to hold him to her while he nuzzles into her chest.

Propping herself on her elbows, Darcy drinks in the sight of him, settled between her legs, looking down at her in the near darkness. She sits up, pressing her lips to his chest and kissing him over and over again, her shaky hands fumbling with his belt. The corners of Lupin's lips are turned upwards, and when he looks at Darcy again, he flashes her an easy smile, making her melt. Lupin helps her wriggle out of her skirt, leaving her clad in only her underwear, and leaving her feeling incredibly vulnerable.

Yet Darcy can't remember ever being part of anything so personal, so intimate. With Oliver, it had never been about a sense of closeness—it was about feeling good for a few minutes, or to feel the rush of adrenaline at the thought that they might be caught. Never have Oliver's kisses made her toes curl, never have they made chills run down her spine, never have they made her pulse pound in her ears. With every kiss Lupin gives her, Darcy's head is filled with doubts and lingering fears, with intense feelings of inadequacy, and yet, as Lupin's fingertips whisper against the inside of her thigh, Darcy thinks: He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't love me.

For what seems like hours, Lupin kisses Darcy everywhere his lips can reach. With every gentle touch, he looks up into her eyes first, as if expecting her to tell him to stop, but she never does—she never would. Never has she felt so cherished, so wanted, so treasured—never has she felt so loved. Lupin smiles against her skin with every kiss, holds her hand with his left hand and touches her with his right. He touches her in places no one has ever touched her, kisses her in places that Darcy hadn't realized longed to be kissed, causes her to make soft noises she's never heard herself make before.

They continue to undress each other slowly, completely breathless with anticipation, nerves jangling, hearts thundering. And when they're both almost completely undressed, the only pieces separating them being the thin fabric of their underwear, Lupin kisses down her chest, trailing his lips lightly down her stomach to the waistband of her underwear. As he curls his fingers inside the waistband, preparing to pull them down, Lupin sighs and rests his forehead against her stomach. He raises his eyes to look up at Darcy, and then places a lingering kiss just below her navel. Laughing nervously at the sight of goosebumps rising on her flesh, Lupin sighs. "We don't have to do this, Darcy," he whispers. "It's not too late to change your mind."

But Darcy knows that it is too late, even if she wanted to change her mind. She and Lupin have done far too much now to forget it ever happened; they've done far too much for Darcy to be able to look him in the eyes again if she were to change her mind. Lupin has still kissed her, still touched her, still made her feel ways she's never known she could feel; Darcy has still ached for him, allowed him to put hands on her knowing full well she shouldn't have. Yet despite all this, and despite the knowledge that what they're doing is wrong, Darcy can't bring herself to change her mind.

This is what I've wanted, Darcy tells herself, and now I've got it.

Darcy runs her fingers along a scar on his shoulder, musses up his hair, relishes the feeling of his hot breath on her skin, relishes the very image of him between her thighs. "I'm not changing my mind," she whispers.

And with an overwhelming tenderness, Lupin eases her underwear down, past her knees, past her ankles, and throws them on the pile of the rest of their discarded clothes. Immediately, Darcy's cheeks turn bright red as Lupin looks her up and down again. He smiles, chest rising and falling heavily. Carefully, Lupin helps Darcy up further on the bed, straightening her out so she's able to lay back on the pillows. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to settle himself between Darcy's legs. And then, his lips crash against her's once again, and as Lupin lowers himself, Darcy squirms and breaks the kiss.

Lupin tenses, raising his eyebrows at her. "Something wrong?"

Darcy pauses, managing a weak smile at the sight of his appearance. His cheeks are flushed in earnest now, his hair sticking up straight in the back where Darcy's fingers have combed through it over and over again. Lupin's breathing is ragged, but he doesn't seem annoyed by the interruption, and a wrinkle appears in between his eyebrows as he studies her. "No," he breathes. "I just—I mean, what if someone catches us?"

"Like who?" Lupin asks, a slight frown on his face. "No one is going to catch us—no one will walk in here."

"You're right," Darcy laughs nervously, her head buzzing. "You're right, I'm sorry—"

Lupin nods, hesitating before kissing her again. As he goes to lower himself once more, Darcy begins to squirm beneath him, and Lupin breaks the kiss, looking both awkward and exasperated. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she rasps, heart fluttering in her chest. "It's just—you make me so nervous—I'm not usually like this, I just—" Her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Darcy," Lupin purrs, kissing the crook of her neck softly. "Don't be nervous—it's only me. Haven't I taken care of you so far?" He kisses up her jaw, stopping when he reaches Darcy's lips.

"I'm being stupid, is all," she says, smiling weakly. "I'm so sorry." Darcy touches Lupin's cheek, and then brushes his hair out of his face.

"I don't think you're being stupid," Lupin replies in a low growl, smiling reassuringly at her. He lets her take a moment to compose and ready herself, and then Lupin kisses her again—but before long, Darcy is pulling away, stopping him. Lupin sighs heavily, burying his face in her shoulder, but when he raises his head and looks at her, Darcy is quite glad to see that he's still smiling. "Darcy, we don't have to do this. If you're not—comfortable—I'm not going to force you to do something you don't want to do. But at some point, I am going to need you to make a decision, love."

Darcy thinks hard. She can't understand why she's so nervous, other than the fact that it's Lupin hovering above her—this is real. As she combs her fingers through his hair, Emily's words ring in her hair as if she's standing right next to them.

He's using you. He's using you to feel close to your parents again.

But how could she possibly believe that now? How can Darcy believe that when Lupin has done nothing but worship her from the moment she kissed him tonight? He's loved her in ways she never thought she'd be loved—and all without even saying the words. Her heart nearly bursts with affection for him, and as Lupin goes to sit up, taking her silence as her decision, Darcy throws her arms around his neck and kisses him hard, bringing him back down to her.

Lupin laughs against her lips as she continues to pepper his face with kisses, a laughter seldom heard from him, genuine laughter. "Is that—a—yes?"

Darcy murmurs her answer into his warm skin. "Yes."

Lupin throws her legs over his shoulders with surprising speed, making Darcy giggle, and with one, fluid movement, he's inside of her. He pauses for a moment to look her in the eyes, smiling again, and begins to pound into her at a pace Darcy struggles to keep up with. She tries to wrap her head around the situation, but Darcy can't think straight—all she can think about is the feeling of Lupin on top of her, inside of her, his fingertips digging into her hips, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing and tensing beneath her legs. Closing her eyes, Darcy can only hear Lupin's ragged panting, the slapping of flesh on flesh, her own heart pounding loud in her ears, as it always does around him. They try to keep quiet, as if afraid someone may be listening nearby, keeping their content sighs to a minimum, biting down hard on their lips to stifle soft moans.

Darcy's core starts to tighten, to ache for release, and she bucks her hips, whispering through gritted teeth, "Professor Lupin—"

"Please, don't—" he groans, his pace quickly becoming irregular, "—not now, please—call me anything except that—please—"

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Darcy pulls Lupin close to her, hugging him against her body as he starts to slow down. Their damp skin sticks together, and Lupin's body heat makes her so stiflingly warm, she almost pushes him off just to feel the cool air. Her hips buck again, and Lupin slams into her one last time, sending Darcy over the edge—"Remus—" And before she's even realized what's left her mouth, Lupin looks up into her eyes again, grinning toothily.

Darcy flushes, as if calling Lupin by his first name is the worst thing she's done tonight—as if her teacher hadn't just finished inside of her—as if she hadn't enjoyed it. But Lupin doesn't seem to be irritated by it, on the contrary—

"Say it again," he mutters, pulling out of her, but leaning in to kiss her. "Say my name again."

Darcy raises a single eyebrow. "Remus—"

He kisses her again, and Darcy laughs out loud as his lips touch her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her temples—every inch of bare skin on her face. And finally, Lupin nuzzles his face into her neck, staying very still for a few seconds as Darcy combs the back of his hair with her fingers, allowing herself time to realize what they've just done.

Lupin collapses beside her into the bed, clearing his throat and sighing. Darcy watches him, a small smile on her face. Had she thought, when she first met him in September, on the Hogwarts Express, that it would ever come to this?

No, she thinks, I never thought I would love him so much—that sickly man on the train.

But now, after knowing his touch, after knowing the feel of his lips on her's, after knowing his laughter and his smile and his kindness and patience and love—Darcy isn't sure how she had ever lived life without him.

She moves to get up out of bed, but his arms snake around her waist, holding her in place. "Where are you going?" he purrs, pulling her closer. "Come here."

The smile still hasn't faded from his face. Lupin pushes her hair out of her face, kissing her forehead. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you came back to Hogwarts," she whispers, closing her eyes as he kisses her on the tip of her nose.

Lupin chuckles, kissing her on the lips one last time. "Me too."