'You do not know / How little I loved / Before I loved you.'

Joan Naviyuk Kane

That night, Darcy stays up late into the night, eyes bleary and stinking of firewhiskey, long after everyone has gone to sleep. By the light of a few candles lit on her night stand, Darcy watches the picture of her, Sirius, and her mother and father on their wedding day. With an arm tucked behind her head, propped up with several pillows, Darcy watches Sirius smiling up at her, feeling slightly guilty. Glancing at her parents for a split second, Darcy knows that they loved her—without any distinct or vivid memories, it's hard to remember how exactly they showed her love, but she knows for a certainty they did.

Forcibly, Darcy remembers one of her first memories at Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon has always harbored a special hatred for Darcy, and she recalls being no older than five or six when it happened. Harry had started crying during the night, but she'd slept right through it despite Harry being in the same room as her. Vernon had burst into her bedroom, screaming bloody murder, screaming about Harry and Darcy while Petunia's face watched from over his shoulder.

"One of you would have been more than enough!" Vernon had shouted in Darcy's tired face, as she had lifted Harry from his crib and begun to rock him in her arms, trying to ignore Vernon and calm Harry. He had continued to shout and yell and scream and frighten Harry and then—"You were nothing more than an accident—"

Darcy remembers how the word had shaken her to her core even then, when she was just a little girl, and the memory even shakes her now, at eighteen. To her, the word is a reminder of how unwanted and how unloved she'd been her whole life—how little she remembers the love her parents had shown her. Her parents hadn't planned her, hadn't wanted to be in the situation, but had owned up to their mistake—they hadn't wanted her the way they wanted Harry, who had been born while they were out of school, living comfortably, and married. Vernon and Petunia never wanted her at all, in any sense of the word, and Sirius had left her in the arms of a stranger.

But with the recent dreams of Sirius, she feels a sort of queer affection towards him—a sort of affection that is familiar, a sort of affection that she likely once felt towards him. Lupin had said that Sirius had been very taken with her, and what she wouldn't give now to be young again, to be curled up against Sirius's chest, sleeping soundly, with arms around her that she knows, that comfort her. What she wouldn't give now to have a family, to live in a home where she felt wanted. And to think, just a few hours ago, Lupin had asked if she wanted to visit him over the summer—he'd apologized profusely in advance, claiming his home was nothing but a run down cottage, seeing as he couldn't afford anything—but the thought of escaping Privet Drive for only a little bit, of being able to wake beside Lupin, knowing that she is wanted there, makes her stomach twist and churn with excitement and a happiness she has not felt in a long time.

Darcy looks at Emily's bed, watches her sleep for a moment. Emily's home had always been a salvation, and her parents had always treated Darcy kindly, had always been repulsed by the Dursleys when Darcy accidentally let things slip that she hadn't realized weren't normal within loving families. But Darcy had always felt an outsider at their dinner table, had always felt out of place and awkward among them. To see such a happy, healthy, loving family was strange to Darcy, and it always seemed like she was intruding on something intimate, in a place she didn't and would never belong.

Darcy's eyes find Sirius again—neatly groomed unlike the photographs in the newspapers, a broad smile crossing his face and revealing large, white teeth, young and handsome and alive, not at all the creature he looks now. She wonders if Sirius thinks about this day sometimes, remembers when he'd held Darcy in his arms, remembers finding her amongst the ruins of her home—or have the dementors stolen every happy memory Sirius ever had? He'd have to be mad now, after twelve years in that wretched prison—who wouldn't be?

Closing the book quietly, Darcy stows it back underneath her bed, blowing out the candles and getting comfortable under her blankets. Her head still buzzes when she closes her eyes, but her mind still races with what she and Lupin had just said and done. And she had meant it—I could be your family. We would never have to be alone again. Because realistically, despite them both denying a sense a loneliness, Darcy can't help but to think that's all they really are. Two lonely people seeking comfort in familiarity, clinging to the parts of each other that remind them of better days—thoughts of another life. After all, Darcy thinks, isn't that why Snape has taken an interest in her, as well?

No, Darcy tells herself firmly, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling. I do not love him only because he is familiar. I do not love him only because I am lonely. But then, she can't remember a time when anyone has shown such a tenderness towards her—Emily, who has always been overbearing and suffocating at times, motherly and condescending other times; Carla, with visions of freedom and experiences that Darcy will never be allowed, will never understand Darcy's desire to live a quiet life; and Gemma—much more loyal than Darcy could ever have expected. Gemma, the Slytherin girl who'd been so interested in Darcy from the start because of her last name, had proven to be a tremendous source of support lately. She mulls this over for a while, as her eyes adjust to her surroundings, now shrouded in shadow.

The last thing Darcy thinks of before she falls asleep is Harry. Harry, who has been a beam of light in what sometimes feels like a very dark world—Harry, who knows her better than she knows herself. When she closes her eyes and sleep overcomes her, Darcy dreams of simpler times—times when she was happy just to be with her friends, times when stress and guilt and loneliness didn't eat away at her constantly. She dreams of times she doesn't remember happening, unsure if they ever even happened at all…

"What's with the sunglasses?" Gemma asks, as Darcy approaches her friends with her hair looking slightly windswept, despite the lack of wind. The air is warm and stale today, but sitting under the shade of a beech tree by the lake, a fragile breeze gives them a slight relief every so often. "Hungover?"

"Not hungover," Darcy mutters, dropping her school bag on the ground and sitting between Emily and Carla. "I haven't been sleeping well. I just—it's too bright."

"I think they look nice," Carla smiles, admiring them. Then, she scrunches her nose as Darcy turns to look at her. "I can't tell if you're looking in my eyes. Just take them off—we're in the shade now anyway."

Darcy sighs heavily and rubs her temples. Her friends watch her expectantly, and as Darcy takes off her glasses, her friends all shrink back, looking surprised. She knows what she looks like—after catching her reflection in a cracked bathroom mirror, Darcy had been slightly repulsed, as well. There are dark circles around her eyes, no color in her face, and her eyes are heavy and tired and red-rimmed, as if she's been crying nonstop for an entire week.

But Darcy has told them the truth about it—in fact, she's barely slept more than two hours at a time in the past week and a half. Not that she's been having terrible nightmares that wake her, and it's not that she's not tired—her body aches and her brain screams for sleep and her eyes are painful—it's just that she can't sleep. Her head is always full of thoughts—of the same thoughts, always—the same memories, the same people.

"Why don't you just go to Madam Pomfrey?" Emily asks casually. "She'll give you something to help you sleep."

"I'm fine," Darcy answers. "I don't want her to fuss over me."

Last night had been the worst—she'd been sluggish all week, but last night she couldn't sleep at all. In truth, she had considered sneaking down to the hospital wing, but she knew Madam Pomfrey would have seen there was more wrong with Darcy than just the inability to sleep. Words would likely be had with Professor McGonagall, or likely Mr. Weasley. Darcy doesn't want to admit it, not even to herself, but there is something wrong with her beyond just a lack of sleep—a tiredness and exhaustion and weariness that she knows magic cannot cure.

The last two dinners she'd had with Lupin had been quieter, as well. The first time, she had read a book to herself the entire time, her head in his lap as he graded homework. She'd left a few hours later, and Lupin had squeezed her hand gently before leading her out. The second time they had dinner, Darcy had shown up looking so tired and ill, she nearly collapsed on the sofa. Lupin had let her sleep for a few hours in his bed, and only came to wake her when it was nearing nine o'clock. It had been some of the best sleep Darcy had had all week, though as she'd walked back to her common room, she thought it would have been better if Lupin had been sleeping next to her.

Darcy looks up from her lap at Gemma. She's smiling, eyes flicking from Darcy to Carla, whose nose is inches from the page of the book in her hands. Frowning, Darcy runs a hand through her hair, fingers getting stuck on small knots. Darcy tries to communicate silently that she really doesn't want to have to tell Carla about Professor Lupin, but Darcy doesn't think Gemma will let her walk away without confessing.

Looking to her left, Darcy sees that Emily's been watching them. She nods with her eyebrows raised, motioning towards Carla. Darcy shakes her head quickly, pursing her lips and putting her sunglasses back on. She starts to rifle through her bag, looking for her Transfiguration textbook, but Gemma suddenly slaps Darcy's hand. Carla looks up at the sound, cocking an eyebrow.

Darcy only looks at Carla behind dark sunglasses, fighting with herself. She doesn't want to say anything—she doesn't want another person to know—she doesn't want to disappoint anyone, or make them angry—but Carla is one of her best friends, and Darcy has to say something.

"Carla," Darcy blurts out, taking her glasses off. "I should tell you something."

"All right," Carla replies, smiling slightly as she looks to Emily and Gemma. Their faces are quite blank, and Carla's smile fades. "What?"

Darcy shifts uncomfortably in the grass. How is she supposed to say it? With Gemma, there had been alcohol, and she'd been warm and relaxed in the bath. With Emily, there had been harsh words and fighting. "You have to promise you won't tell anyone."

Carla laughs nervously. "All right."

"I need to hear you say it."

Looking taken aback, Carla narrows her eyes, closing her book. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Good." Darcy licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. "Carla—I may have—" she stammers, and Carla waits patiently for her to finish. Darcy lowers her voice, color rising to her pale cheeks. "Professor Lupin and I—we—oh, please don't make me say it—"

Carla blinks. She looks again at Gemma and Emily before looking at Darcy again. "You—I'm sorry—what?"

Emily elaborates quickly enough. "Darcy fucked Professor Lupin."

Carla's eyes widen suddenly and she gives Darcy an incredulous look. "You what? Darcy—"

Darcy smiles sheepishly, her face flushing a deep red. She cuts across Carla before any questions can be asked. "Only once," she lies, as if once isn't bad enough. "But none of you understand—"

"Hold on—I'm not finished—give me a second to digest this," Carla retorts, and Darcy closes her mouth. Anger flashes across Carla's face, making her button-nose scrunch and her thick eyebrows knit together. Brown eyes settle on Gemma first, and Gemma shrinks back behind her book; even Emily seems smaller under Carla's gaze. "You two knew?" She takes their silence and apologetic smiles for their answer. Jaw clenched, Carla turns to Darcy once more. "Please tell me this is a joke. Please tell me you didn't actually sleep with him."

"It's not a joke," Emily answers, and Gemma puts her head in her hands. "She fucked him."

Carla's cheeks flush with color. "Stop saying—I don't—Darcy—Emily—" Everyone lets Carla splutter in disbelief for a little bit, the information clearly coming as more of a shock to her than it had to Emily or Gemma. "That's why you'd been fighting—but when did you—how? He's your—oh my god—you've done it this time—how could you not tell me?"

"Well, it's not something I was looking to parade about," Darcy hisses back, more harshly than she wanted.

"Yes, because you know it's wrong!" Carla's voice is as shrill as it can be, while she still tries to keep it down to a whisper. Her eyes seem to be popping now, and a vein protrudes from her neck, throbbing. "And you two—encouraging her! How could you have let this happen?"

"How could we let this happen?" Gemma growls, showing Carla such anger as Darcy's never seen between them. "It's not my job to make sure Darcy doesn't get into trouble—that's Emily's job—"

"You shouldn't have been so casual about the whole thing!" Emily shouts, immediately lowering her voice after drawing the attention of a few fourth years walking past. "Asking her for details and—"

"Oh, I see—you think I should have just punched her instead?"

"She punched me—"

"Shut up!" Carla yells, and everyone turns to look at her. Carla's anger seems to have abated, and now she looks sympathetically at Darcy, as if she's a starving puppy dog. "Darcy—look, I know that you like him, and I know that you think the world of him—trust me, I know, and I get it—but have you thought—I mean, you are young and beautiful and—and Professor Lupin doesn't really seem the type to—I mean, he's kind of a people pleaser, right? And if you had shown interest in—well, I mean—"

"It wasn't like that," Darcy answers meekly. "We love each other."

Emily clears her throat, and when Darcy glances over her shoulder, she flashes Emily a nasty look.

"Darcy, I think he's taking advantage of you," Carla says very matter-of-factly.

Darcy scoffs. "Is it so hard to believe that he could actually love me?" she snarls, looking each of her friends in the eyes. "Is it so hard to believe that someone could actually be interested in me?"

Carla shakes her head, looking sorry for what she's about to say. "He's much older than you, your teacher—a friend of your parents—and he knows that you love him. Do you really believe he would refuse a beautiful girl that's coming on to him?"

Darcy grits her teeth, looking to Gemma for help. Gemma, who knows things about Darcy and Lupin that Darcy doesn't feel much like sharing the details with Emily and Carla. "That's not what—you don't understand—he's not using me—"

"Darcy, you're going to get in serious trouble for this," Carla sighs, starting to pack up her things. "And I think you're going to seriously going to get hurt. And I don't want any part of this."

Darcy stares at her open mouthed for a minute. "Carla—"

"What?"

"Come on—"

"What would your parents think?" Carla asks quickly, and Darcy's heart begins to race. "What would Harry think?" She gets to her feet, glaring in Gemma's direction. "If you were a real friend, you'd tell her this is stupid instead of egging her on."

"You're really going to look me in the eyes and tell me you think Lupin would take advantage of Darcy?" Gemma says. "You truly believe that?"

"He's our teacher," Emily answers, packing her things, as well. "He should know better."

Gemma doesn't say anything, only glances at Darcy as Emily and Carla head back up to the castle, heads together. Darcy and Gemma watch them until they're out of sight, and then Darcy screams in frustration, frightening two first year Gryffindors who had stopped by the lake to watch the giant squid lift a tentacle above the water. They scatter immediately and Darcy rips off her sunglasses.

"Darcy, if you want them to understand, you'll have to tell them everything you told me."

"I don't want to tell them everything I told you."

"Then you can't be angry with them." Gemma shrugs innocently. "I think that went quite well. She didn't hit you or scream at you."

"He's not taking advantage of me," Darcy mutters, slamming her book shut and stuffing it back into her bag. But instead of going back to the castle, Darcy leans back in the grass, closing her eyes and listening to the occasionally splash from the lake, and the birds twittering in the tree above her. "I know he's not—I know it."

"I believe you, Darcy," Gemma sighs. "I do. Do I think he should have known better? Yes, I do. But I think he's been very lonely, and I think you've been lonely, too."

The words make Darcy want to cry. To hear someone voice what she's been thinking is more painful that she'd expected. "So you do think he's only using me?"

"No," Gemma answers straightaway. She doesn't elaborate. "Look—I know how werewolves are seen by wizards and witches, and my heart goes out to him, truly. How many women do you think left him because of what he is? How many women left because of things he couldn't provide due to his condition? Look at what he did to you, and you still go back to him—you still love him. He probably fucking loves that."

Darcy tries not to dwell on the thought for too long, not wanting something else to keep her awake at night. "I slept with him again—last week. It just… happened." She tells Gemma quietly about the conversation they'd been having, omitting certain things she would rather keep private, but most things she relays to Gemma, including the comment she'd made that caused Lupin to kiss her. Darcy doesn't tell Gemma about Lupin nearly tearing her pants off, doesn't tell her about the way he'd forced her legs apart and hooked one of her legs around him, doesn't tell her about the way she had marked Lupin's chest with love bites. But Darcy remembers these things and smiles in spite of herself. Finally, she tells Gemma about their conversation afterwards, about Lupin inviting her to his home over the summer.

Gemma laughs when Darcy finishes, a good-natured laugh. "He fucking loves you," Gemma grins. "That'll be really good for you."

"You think?"

Nodding, Gemma's smile disappears. "You know I hate those Muggles as much as you do," she says. "I know you hate it at Privet Drive, and you know that I'd have you over at my house if I could. If it were up to me, I wouldn't let you go back."

Darcy sits up slowly, taking her glasses off and setting them in the grass beside her. She studies Gemma's face, thinking hard. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," Gemma teases. Darcy smiles weakly with her. "You can have three questions and I'll tell you the complete truth, but I want to ask you three questions in return."

"Fine." Darcy crosses her legs in front of her, considering her first question. "Who are your parents?"

Gemma's smile widens again, as if knowing this would be Darcy's first question. "Perseus and Ava Smythe," Gemma says coolly. "But you weren't just looking for names, I'm sure? Well—yes, they fought for You-Know-Who during the First Wizarding War." Darcy doesn't say anything in response, and Gemma leans closer. "Look, you told me a secret, so I'll tell you one now. My parents are Death Eaters—well known ones. Many teachers and students are aware of it, too."

"I'm sorry," Darcy says slowly. "I don't know what a Death Eater is."

Gemma leans back. "A Death Eater is what You-Know-Who calls his most loyal and devoted servants." She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but none comes. "Why do you think I've never invited you to my house during the summers or holidays? I hope you didn't think I just didn't want you around."

"Your parents are Voldemort's followers?"

Despite Gemma calling him You-Know-Who, she doesn't flinch at the name. "Yes, they are," she finishes. "Professor Lupin knows that—that's what we were talking about in his office before, remember? But I'm not like that, Darcy, so don't worry. Haven't I proved that? Now, it's my turn for a question."

Darcy's still processing this information, but readies herself for Gemma's question.

"Have the Muggles ever hit you, Darcy?"

The question shocks her. She's reminded of Emily, who had asked the same question in the exact same, concerned tone years and years ago. Darcy can't see any reason to lie to Gemma. She nods slightly. "I mean—" Darcy blushes, thankful that she isn't admitting this to a group of people, thankful that it's only Gemma. "Not all of them, not all the time, so it's not—Vernon is the one that mostly does it, just—a slap across the face sometimes and he used to use a belt, but now he uses a cane mostly."

Gemma scrunches her nose in a look of disgust. "Why does he hit you?"

"That counts as your second question."

"Fine—why does he hit you, Darcy?"

Darcy shrugs casually as Gemma watches on. "Sometimes, like—when I'm not paying attention and I burn dinner, or sometimes if I drop something. Stupid stuff." She doesn't like the look that Gemma is giving her, and decided to speed up the process. "My turn. Why aren't you a Death Eater?"

Gemma shakes her head, as if there's something obvious Darcy doesn't understand. "My parents didn't exactly sign up to become Death Eaters, Darcy," she explains softly. "They were threatened and blackmailed, and once you're a Death Eater, you can't just decide to hang up your cloak and live out a peaceful life. They don't want that life for me—and I don't want that life, either. If I wanted to be a Death Eater, I definitely wouldn't be friends with you." Gemma laughs.

Darcy feels a rush of affection towards Gemma. "Go ahead—you have one more question."

"Have you ever told anyone what happens at Privet Drive?" Gemma asks, and Darcy feels shame rising in her. "Have you told McGonagall? Dumbledore? Lupin?"

"What does it matter?" Darcy snaps, suddenly feeling interrogated and annoyed. "What does it matter to you how I'm treated at home?"

"You're my friend, Darcy," Gemma says stubbornly. "And if you're not being treated the way you deserve, then you should say something! Dumbledore couldn't possibly force you to go back if he knew what really happens there."

"And I suppose your home life is perfect?" Darcy sneers. "Having Death Eaters as parents must be a dream—"

"You don't know anything about my home life, Darcy," Gemma answers, quite calmly. "My parents love me—they love me so much that they paid a large sum of money to St. Mungo's in order to secure a place for me there, away from the life I could have had. My parents have never once laid a finger on me, Darcy, and I know very well what they are—don't think for a second I don't know what they've done."

Snatching up her bag, Darcy leaves Gemma without asking her third question.