The sun loitered high in a sky too blue to be real, the sort of warm, lazy afternoon that made Hogwarts feel like a place outside of time. Students flopped across the lawns like half-melted chocolate frogs, laughter drifting from open windows, the occasional puff of smoke or small explosion marking the end of a misfired spell. Everything about the day begged for ease.
But Tonks felt… off.
Not wrong, exactly. Just out of step. A few paces behind the rest of the world.
She sat beneath the beech tree with Penny Haywood and Chiara Lobosca, bark pressing firm into her back. Her legs stretched across the grass, ankles crossed, but her posture had none of the usual sprawl. Her curls stuck to her temples in the heat. Behind her heavy-lidded eyes: a night with no sleep and thoughts that wouldn't stop gnawing.
Everything sounded distant and too close all at once. Laughter like shattering glass. Leaves whispering secrets she couldn't quite catch. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
"She's at it again," Penny muttered, nodding towards the courtyard.
Tonks turned.
Ismelda Murk. Wand dangling loose in her fingers, but every line of her body crackled with menace. A girl—Badeea Smith, Tonks realised, a quiet fifth-year from Ravenclaw—was crouched low against the flagstones, shoulders curled inwards like she was trying to vanish.
Around them, a small crowd of students lingered, watching without watching. No one moved.
"She's really going all out," Penny added, but her voice had the brittle edge of someone trying to sound casual and failing.
Chiara's silver hair glinted in the sun as she scoffed. "We said we'd stop this. Today. Remember?"
Tonks frowned faintly. "Did we?"
Chiara gave her a look. "You promised, Dora."
That name. Tonks winced. No one used it anymore—not unless they wanted to wind her up.
But Chiara wasn't trying to provoke her. She was just frustrated. Fair enough.
Tonks's eyes drifted towards the lake, its surface glittering in the distance. The giant squid floated lazily near the shore, tentacles drifting like ribbons in the water. That kind of peace felt impossibly far away.
"I just…" she began, but her voice trailed off, unfinished. What could she even say? That she was tired? That everything inside her felt scrambled, like she was made of mismatched parts today?
She didn't have to finish. Chiara's voice cut across her thoughts, sharper this time. "You're really going to sit here while she does that?"
Tonks looked again.
Badeea's voice cracked. "I don't have anything. Please. I swear I've got nothing left."
That did it.
It hit her like a jolt—sharp and sudden. The shame. The anger. The realisation that she'd seen this before, far too many times. Let it slide. Let it happen.
Ismelda's voice rang out, cutting through the sunshine. "A promise is a promise."
Tonks stood. Didn't think about it. Just moved.
She didn't wait for the figure moving across the grass—a man with tired eyes and a soft tread. Professor Lupin. He'd only been at Hogwarts a short while, but there was something in the way he carried himself that pulled her attention whenever he entered a room. Quietly steady, like someone holding more than they let on.
Their eyes met, just briefly, as she passed. Something flickered—not recognition, not quite—but something that made her wonder if he saw her.
Then she stepped into the courtyard.
"Ismelda!"
The name snapped through the air like a hex.
Heads turned. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
Ismelda blinked. Her usual smirk wobbled.
Tonks didn't raise her wand. She didn't need to.
"That's enough."
For a long beat, no one spoke. The courtyard held its breath.
Ismelda squared her shoulders. "Tonks…"
"What are you doing?" Tonks asked, voice low but clear. "This isn't you."
Ismelda looked away. "She owes me."
"No. She's scared of you."
That landed like a well-aimed jinx. A few students shifted. One boy muttered something under his breath and backed away.
Tonks stood still. Let the silence grow roots.
"I don't like this," she said finally. "And I don't like bullies. Even when they're people I care about."
There. That flicker in Ismelda's eyes. Not anger. Not quite shame. Something more fragile than either. Being seen. Being known.
Behind her, Badeea rose slowly. Her legs trembled, but she stood.
"Tonks," she said, so quietly it barely carried. "It's okay. It's not… It's not a big deal."
"It is," Tonks said, still facing Ismelda. "And it's not okay."
Her voice didn't shake. That surprised her.
There was a beat.
Ismelda muttered something Tonks couldn't quite catch and turned on her heel, spine rigid, cheeks flushed—not with defiance, but something closer to defeat. Undone, not victorious. She walked off without another word, her steps tight and angry against the stone.
Tonks let out a long breath she hadn't realised she was holding. Her shoulders ached from tension. Her jaw, too. It felt like her body had been bracing for impact.
Penny moved over to Badeea, her voice softer now. "You alright?"
Badeea gave a tiny nod. "Thanks," she whispered. So faint you could've missed it.
Tonks tried to smile back. She meant it, but it came out hollow. The adrenaline had already started to drain, leaving behind something quieter. Something tired.
And then she saw him.
Professor Lupin, approaching from the far side of the lawn. Calm. Measured. He moved like he wasn't walking through sun and grass but through something slower, denser—like mist or memory.
The usual chatter faded. Not because he asked for silence, but because it followed him. Tonks felt it at once: the shift in atmosphere, like the whole world had leaned slightly towards him. Magic, perhaps. Or something older.
He stopped just in front of them, his gaze passing over each of them in turn. It lingered a little longer on Badeea. She hadn't moved. Her hands still shook.
His expression changed—not dramatically, but Tonks noticed. The gentle look he wore most days dropped away, replaced by something far clearer. Cooler.
"What is this?" he asked, voice quiet.
But it cut clean through the space.
Tonks's stomach flipped. The question landed like a stone in water, sending out ripples she hadn't been prepared for. Her mouth opened before she could think.
"Nothing, Professor Lupin," she said quickly—far too quickly. The words sounded brittle in her own ears.
His eyebrow rose slightly. Not in disbelief, exactly, but in that particular way adults do when they know they're being lied to and are giving you the chance to fix it.
Disappointment. That was worse than being shouted at. That always stung more.
"If there's truly nothing going on," he said, voice calm but unmistakably firm, "then I suggest you return to your Houses. Hogwarts has quite enough trouble without students adding to it."
"Yes, sir," Tonks muttered.
He gave a small nod, turned, and walked away—his cloak skimming the grass like the whisper before thunder. She watched him cross the lawn until he disappeared into the shade of the castle walls, and only then did she notice she was holding her breath.
Her lungs burnt slightly. She let the air out slowly.
She turned back to Badeea, who hadn't moved. The girl stood as though bracing herself for a blow that never came. Shoulders drawn in tight, eyes glassy, fingers twitching against her sleeves.
Tonks stepped closer. Her voice was gentler this time.
"You alright? I mean it. You're not going to be pushed around again. Not while I'm about."
Badeea looked up at her. Something in her face gave way, and the tears came. Not loud. Not showy. Just steady and unstoppable, like a leak that had been waiting to give.
Tonks didn't hesitate. She reached out and pulled her in, one arm snug around her shoulders. It was awkward; of course it was—Tonks had never been graceful with emotions, especially other people's. But she stayed. That part was easy.
"There, now," she murmured, brushing a bit of hair out of Badeea's eyes. "You're safe. You're alright."
"I don't know how to thank you," Badeea said, voice hoarse from trying not to cry. "It's been like this… every day. And no one's ever stopped her. Not once."
Tonks felt something twist deep in her chest. Not anger. Not even guilt. Something heavier. The knowledge that she had seen it. The flinches in the corridor. The way Badeea avoided eye contact, always finding the far edge of a bench. She'd noticed—and she'd done nothing.
Until now.
Too late.
"I'm so sorry," Penny whispered, standing beside them now. Her hand rested gently on Badeea's arm. "You didn't deserve any of it. Not even a moment."
Badeea blinked at them both, tears streaking her face. "But… why?" she asked. "Why are you helping me? Why do you even care? I'm no one."
The words hit like a cold wind.
Tonks didn't reply straightaway. She just looked at her. The hunched posture, the bitten nails, the way she seemed to shrink in on herself, like she'd learnt how to take up less space in the world. Like no one had ever made room for her before.
And just like that, Tonks understood.
Because I've stood back before. Because I've let things slip through, hoping someone else would step up. Because that's not who I want to be—not anymore.
She took a slow breath and said, gently, "Because no one should have to go through it alone. And you're not on your own now. You've got us. We're friends."
Chiara stepped forward, arms folded, her voice firm. "Exactly. You're not alone anymore."
Badeea blinked between them like she was seeing something that wasn't meant for her—like she'd stumbled into someone else's dream. "Friends?" she echoed, so quietly it barely counted as a word. It sounded strange in her mouth, like it didn't fit yet.
Tonks gave a proper smile then—small, but real—the sort that made the corners of her eyes crinkle and melted something deep inside her. "Would you like to join us?"
There was a pause. Barely a heartbeat. But in that sliver of silence, something shifted. Badeea's shoulders, once curled inward, lifted the smallest bit. The fear didn't vanish, but it lessened—enough to make space for something else.
"Yes," she said. Her voice wobbled, but the word didn't. "I'd love to."
Tonks nodded. "Good. Penny, Chiara—walk her in, would you? I'll be right behind."
They didn't ask questions; they just moved quietly to Badeea's side, ushering her gently across the grass. The three of them began to shrink into the gold of the afternoon, laughter and chatter picking up again behind them. The day resumed its rhythm, as if it hadn't just cracked open.
But Tonks stayed where she was.
Her eyes wandered to the castle steps. Professor Lupin hadn't gone far. He was still there, near the base of the stairs, hands in his pockets, gazing out across the grounds like he was seeing something no one else could. There was something in the stillness of him—something watchful. Like he wasn't just standing in the present but in two places at once.
Tonks frowned. The pull was there again. A curious weight that tugged behind her ribs—not fear, not admiration. Just a sense of… recognition. Like seeing a place you're certain you've dreamt about, even if you've never stood there before.
She hesitated, then stepped forward, crossing the grass in uneven strides, her heart thudding—not hard, not loud. Just steady. Like it knew this mattered.
She didn't know what she was going to say. Only that she couldn't walk away without saying something.
"Professor!"
It came out louder than she meant it to—too sharp, a bit rushed. She winced at herself but didn't take it back.
He turned. The sun behind him cast his face in shadow for a moment, outlining the shape of him in gold. For that second, he didn't look quite real—like someone caught between pages.
His expression was calm. Measured. But not unfeeling.
"Is something the matter, Miss…?"
"Nymphadora Tonks," she said automatically, then groaned inwardly. "Er—just Tonks, please."
Something passed through his gaze. Not amusement, exactly. More like understanding. Quiet. Gentle.
"Ms Tonks."
The formality didn't sting, not really—but she still felt the back of her neck flush. Her name never sat comfortably with her. It always felt like someone else's idea of who she was meant to be.
She shifted awkwardly. Whatever had compelled her to speak up was still there, fizzing beneath her skin, but now that he was looking at her, the words caught in her throat.
But she asked anyway, quietly, "Have we… met before?"
There was the faintest pause. Barely a blink. But she saw it.
Something flickered—deep behind his eyes. The tiniest stiffening of the jaw, a pause in his breath. Recognition. She was sure of it.
Then it vanished. Wiped clean like chalk off a blackboard.
"I don't believe so," he said, smooth as anything. "Why do you ask?"
She gave a shrug, playing at casual. "You just seem… familiar. That's all."
Too honest. The kind of thing she normally said by accident. Her heart always outran her mouth. But it was true. And now that it was out there, it sat between them, quiet and undeniable.
Professor Lupin nodded, though he didn't respond.
And that was all. No explanation. No denial. Just that steady silence again—the kind that seemed to say more than words ever could.
Tonks didn't push. She didn't know why she felt drawn to him, only that she did. Like her magic recognised something before she did.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, voice dropping low. "With Ismelda. She's got a big gob, but… She didn't mean proper harm."
He turned to face her then, fully this time. Slowly. And that quiet calm of his—the kind he wore like a second skin—settled heavier in the air between them.
"You knew what was happening?"
The question landed like a jolt.
She felt it before she really understood it—a tightness under her ribs, a twist in her stomach.
"I—I didn't realise," she said, stumbling slightly over the words. "Not properly. Not until I saw Badeea's face. I didn't know it had gone that far."
But she had, hadn't she?
Not everything. But enough. The silences in the corridors. The way Badeea always kept her back to the wall, clutching her books like they were shields. Tonks had seen it. Noticed it. And still hadn't stepped in.
Professor Lupin didn't reply straightaway. His expression didn't shift much—just something behind the eyes. Not anger. Something worse. Disappointment. The quiet sort that crept in and wrapped itself round you.
Then came a sound—barely more than a breath. A tired, soft laugh that didn't quite make it to his eyes.
"It's alright to feel guilty, Ms Tonks," he said gently. "It means you still care. But I did expect better of you."
Her stomach dropped.
He hadn't said it harshly. That made it worse, somehow. If he'd shouted, she could've bristled or argued or at least tucked herself behind indignation. But this… this was kind.
And kindness had a way of cutting deeper when you knew you hadn't earned it.
"I am sorry," she whispered. "Truly. I should've said something. I should've done something. I swear, I won't ignore it again."
She stared down at her shoes, at the worn flagstones beneath them—dull grey, cracked in places. Like they'd seen more than she ever would. She hated the silence that followed. But she didn't try to fill it.
Eventually, Professor Lupin spoke. Quieter now.
"I believe you."
She looked up.
His face had softened. Just a little. But enough. Enough to breathe again.
"You did the right thing in the end," he added. "That counts for a lot. You took responsibility. Most don't. If you hadn't… well, we'd be having a rather different conversation."
Relief didn't come all at once. It moved through her like an exhale she hadn't known she'd been holding. The guilt hadn't gone, not entirely. But something warmer stirred beneath it. Pride, maybe. Or the beginnings of it.
"I don't mind having a conversation, Professor," she said, and it surprised her how much she meant it. "You make it easy to talk. You… make time for people."
He tilted his head slightly, considering.
"That's my job."
But there was something behind the words. A flicker. Not pity—nothing so simple. A quiet thread of sadness, maybe. A tiredness you couldn't see unless you were looking closely.
Then he said, "My door's always open, Ms Tonks."
It didn't feel like a line. Not something said for show. It felt… real. Like a promise. Like something you could rely on when things got dark. Like a light left on for you in the corridor.
They stood there for a moment longer, not speaking. Wind slipped in through the window grates, and the soft sound of footsteps echoed faintly from some far-off stairwell.
Tonks wasn't sure if she ought to say more—or what she'd even say if she did. But it didn't feel unfinished. Not really.
At last, Professor Lupin glanced towards the stairs.
"Well. I've lessons to prepare. You should be getting back to your dormitory."
She nodded. Her throat felt tight, but she didn't argue. Still, her feet stayed where they were.
He turned to go.
And then—just before he reached the first step—something inside her pulled taut.
"Wait—Professor!"
He paused.
"I'm heading that way too," she said quickly. "To the kitchens. Mind if I walk with you?"
She regretted it almost at once. It sounded silly, even to her—like some kid chasing after a grown-up for no real reason. Too eager. Too obvious.
But Professor Lupin turned slightly, and then—there it was. A faint smile. Small, but genuine.
"Not at all."
They walked in step, side by side. The silence between them didn't feel awkward. It felt… comfortable. Balanced. Like they were each carrying something neither expected the other to explain.
Tonks tucked her hands into her sleeves, fiddling with a loose bit of thread. Her thoughts were a jumble—impressions, half-shaped questions, and feelings she hadn't managed to sort out.
She wanted to ask about the sadness in his eyes. About why he watched people the way he did, like he was afraid they might vanish if he looked away for too long.
But she didn't.
Instead, she walked beside him in the corridor, watching the sunlight spill across the flagstones in long golden streaks.
She didn't know exactly what this connection was. Only that it felt real. And—for the first time in ages—she didn't feel like she had to prove herself.
She just… was.
"Professor?" she said at last, her voice breaking the gentle quiet.
He glanced sideways, one brow lifting ever so slightly. "Yes?"
The way he answered—calm, open, none of that sharp edge some adults had when interrupted—gave her courage.
"May I speak frankly?"
He stopped walking and turned to face her. His head tilted, not a nod exactly, but something that gave permission all the same. "Always."
She hadn't meant to say what came next. It just tumbled out.
"I never liked History of Magic."
It sounded harsher than she'd meant. Her stomach clenched.
"I mean—not until now," she added quickly, heat rising up the back of her neck. "It always felt like… reading an old tombstone. Dusty facts. Lifeless lectures. But with you—" she hesitated, heartbeat flitting like mad, "it's different."
Professor Lupin blinked, clearly caught off guard—then laughed.
Not a polite teacher's chuckle. A proper laugh. Warm and surprised and real, the sort that creased the corners of his eyes and made the moment feel brighter somehow.
"You're not the first to say that," he said. "History does have a rather dreadful reputation."
Tonks grinned, the nerves easing. "Deservedly. But you make it feel like it matters. Like it's… I dunno. Alive, again."
His smile changed at that. Went softer. Quieter. Like he was folding something away behind it. "Thank you," he said. "That means more than you realise."
They turned a corner. The corridor ahead was long and sunlit, warm beams pouring through high arched windows. They walked on in silence for a moment, but Tonks kept glancing at him, catching bits of things she couldn't quite name.
There was something about the way he moved. Not just graceful—measured. Careful. Like he was used to making himself smaller. Shoulders slightly sloped, as if his body remembered a weight he wasn't carrying anymore but hadn't quite let go of either.
He spoke like someone who'd seen real things. Hard things. Not read about them in books—lived them. You could hear it in the pauses between his words.
"You're very tall, aren't you?" She blurted, before she could stop herself. "About six foot one?"
He gave a startled laugh. "Close."
"And you're a half-blood, right?"
She said it lightly, still curious, still in the warmth of that laugh. But as the words left her mouth—
Something shifted.
So fast she barely registered it. A flicker. A crack in his expression. Like a string pulled tight somewhere inside him, snapping.
And then—he staggered.
Tonks saw it in flashes, like a dream falling apart. His knees gave way, his frame buckled—and before she could move—
He collapsed.
"No—Professor!"
She dropped to the floor beside him, the stone shockingly cold, but she barely felt it. Her hands flew to his shoulders, then his chest, checking—anything. Was he breathing?
He was. But barely. Shallow. Uneven. Each rise of his chest looked like a struggle.
Her heart pounded like it was trying to break free.
This couldn't be happening. Not him. Not here. Not now.
"Hey—hey, come on—" Her voice cracked. "You've got to wake up. Please."
He didn't move.
The corridor around them felt too big, too still. No footsteps. No students. Just her and him and the terrible quiet.
"I'll get help," she whispered, brushing his sleeve. "Just—hang on, alright? Please."
And then she was running.
She didn't remember standing. Didn't feel her legs. She just ran—robes flying, shoes slapping the floor, the world around her smeared and colourless.
He laughed.
He was fine.
What happened?
She burst through the classroom door without knocking—without thinking.
"Professor McGonagall!" she gasped.
Every head turned. Quills froze. A few students still had their wands half-raised mid-spell. Professor McGonagall, standing at the front, turned with a frown already forming—until she saw Tonks's face.
"Ms Tonks?"
Her voice was sharp—but not cross. Concern threaded through it, taut and immediate.
Tonks could hardly speak. "It's—Professor Lupin—he collapsed. He's not waking up—he's still on the floor—I didn't know what to do—"
That was enough.
Professor McGonagall didn't hesitate. Her expression went ashen—not with fear, exactly, but with something older. Like recognition.
Her wand was already in her hand.
"You will remain here," she told the class, not even raising her voice. "Partners only. Wands down. I shall return shortly."
Then, to Tonks, briskly: "Show me."
Tonks spun on the spot, already moving, legs pounding before her brain had caught up. Professor McGonagall's footsteps fell into rhythm just behind her—clipped, urgent, steady.
Her thoughts were a whirl. No sense to them—just fragments.
He was fine. He'd been smiling. He said his door was always open.
"He was fine," Tonks muttered aloud, her breath catching. "We were only talking…"
Professor McGonagall didn't reply. But her silence wasn't indifferent. It was full of purpose. Her lips pressed thin. Her brow tight.
They turned the final corner.
And there he was.
Professor Lupin still lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, just as she'd left him—limbs loose, wand rolled from his hand, eyes shut.
"There!" Tonks choked.
Professor McGonagall dropped to her knees beside him in one fluid movement. Her wand swept through the air—elegant, exact. Silent incantations flowed from her lips like second nature.
She leant in close, murmuring something Tonks couldn't catch.
But she heard the name.
"Remus."
Not Professor Lupin.
Just Remus.
Soft. Quiet. Barely more than breath. And in it—Tonks heard something she hadn't known the stern Transfiguration teacher could carry. Not command. Not composure.
Care.
Real, human care.
Tonks stepped back without realising it. Her hands had started to shake, her chest tightening like ropes pulling inwards. She didn't want to be in the way.
She felt small—not like a student, not like a child—but like someone who had just stepped into something far too big for them.
Her throat stung.
She didn't even know why she felt it so sharply. She hadn't known Professor Lupin long. He wasn't family. He wasn't even quite a friend—not yet. But…
But he saw her. He'd seen her.
And now he looked like the light had gone out of him.
"Ms Tonks!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through her daze—firm, clear, sharp.
Tonks blinked, the fog lifting slightly. The cold stone corridor came back into focus. So did the unmoving figure on the floor. Her breath caught on the edge of a sob she swallowed before it could escape.
Professor McGonagall's expression was unreadable now—controlled, composed—but there was a flicker in her eyes as she looked at Professor Lupin. Something Tonks couldn't name.
"We need to get him to the Hospital Wing. Quickly."
Tonks nodded, though her limbs still felt detached, like she was watching herself from somewhere else. She didn't move—until Professor McGonagall raised her wand.
"Mobilicorpus."
A soft shimmer filled the corridor as a stretcher appeared—gossamer-thin but strong, guided by a wordless spell. With the lightest flick, Professor Lupin's body rose gently from the ground and settled on it as if cradled by invisible arms.
He didn't stir.
Tonks's stomach twisted.
It felt wrong—so wrong—to see him like that. Not Professor Lupin, the teacher. Not the man who watched people so carefully. Who listened like it was something sacred. Who spoke with stillness rather than noise.
Now he lay there like the magic had been taken out of him.
Like the world had forgotten something.
Professor McGonagall flicked her wand again, and the stretcher began to glide down the corridor, steady as sunlight. She didn't speak, but her steps beside it were tight with control.
Tonks followed, silent.
She didn't know what had happened. Didn't know why.
Professor McGonagall's voice came quietly—not unkind, but measured, like each word had been weighed before being released.
"What exactly happened?"
Tonks opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Then—
"We were talking. Just talking. He seemed fine. Then he… fell."
The words sounded too small. Hollow, like they'd shrunk on the way out.
Professor McGonagall didn't reply. Her silence wasn't cold, but it hung heavy between them. Like it carried more than just the moment—like it came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere Tonks wasn't old enough to follow.
They moved quickly through the corridor. The portraits watched them go—some gasping, others whispering behind raised hands. One old wizard removed his hat and held it to his chest. A few simply stared, wide-eyed and unmoving.
Tonks kept her eyes on the flagstones.
Her legs burnt to keep up with Professor McGonagall's pace, but she didn't dare slow. She felt like a child again—trying to match the stride of someone taller, older, and steadier.
By the time they reached the Hospital Wing, the doors swung open of their own accord. Madam Pomfrey was already there, wand in hand, sleeves rolled as though she'd sensed it coming.
She looked between the two of them—then at the floating stretcher. Her mouth tightened.
"Professor McGonagall. Ms Tonks. What happened?"
"He collapsed," Professor McGonagall said. Her voice was clipped, efficient. "No warning. Unresponsive."
"Bring him in."
Madam Pomfrey's wand flicked, clearing a bed in one smooth motion. Bottles and diagnostic tools began to move on their own—an orb floated into place, glowing green at first, then flickering to amber. A faint shimmer danced across Professor Lupin's skin as spells layered themselves over him.
Tonks stood frozen just inside the doorway, fists clenched at her sides. Her heart was hammering—but she hardly felt it. Only the stiffness in her jaw. The coldness in her hands.
She could smell it—the antiseptic tang, the sharp bite of potion ingredients, the faint sweetness of healing charms in the air. It reminded her too much of St Mungo's. Of long waits and worse news.
She stared at him.
Still. Pale. Mouth slightly open, as if he'd been about to speak.
He was fine.
He'd laughed. He laughed.
Was it something she'd said? Had she pushed too hard? Missed something too obvious?
Then a voice reached her. Low. Kind.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
Tonks flinched. She hadn't heard Madam Pomfrey cross the room.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, without thinking. It scraped out of her like a lie told too often.
"You're shaking." Madam Pomfrey gestured gently. "Why don't you sit for a moment?"
Tonks hesitated. Her pride resisted, but her knees were already faltering. She let herself drop onto the edge of the nearest bed, arms wrapping tightly around herself, like she could hold in everything spilling over.
Behind her, voices murmured—quiet but urgent. She tilted her head just slightly.
"I'll keep Remus overnight," Madam Pomfrey was saying. "His magical core is depleted—seriously so. This isn't ordinary exhaustion. It's been building. Sustained. Controlled."
Tonks's blood turned to ice.
Magical core depletion.
She'd read about it once—pages deep in a dusty book—during a summer she thought she'd be bored enough to revise theory. It didn't happen easily. Not from overwork. Not from one bad night's sleep.
You didn't just faint.
You burnt out.
Her voice broke through before she could stop it.
"What's wrong with him?"
It came out too loud. Too raw. The last word cracked.
Both women looked at her.
And there—just for a second—Tonks saw it. A flicker in the way they glanced at each other. Too brief to name. Too quiet to miss.
They knew something.
They weren't saying it.
Madam Pomfrey turned back to her with a gentle smile—too even, too rehearsed.
"His condition is stable," she said. "There's no need to worry."
But Tonks did.
Because that wasn't an answer.
That was a wall.
She looked back to Professor Lupin—still pale against the pillows, his face turned just slightly away. One hand rested loosely on the coverlet, fingers curled faintly, like he'd meant to move but hadn't made it. His breathing was quiet. Steady, but too faint. The kind you had to stare at to believe was still happening.
And suddenly, she couldn't stand it.
Not just the worry. That was bad enough. But it was the not knowing. The sitting on the edge of something huge and not being allowed to see what it was. The feeling of being useless when all she wanted was to do something.
To fix it. To understand.
Because it mattered. And she didn't know when that had happened.
Maybe it was earlier, when he'd looked at her without judgement. When he'd said, ′I believe you,′ and ′My door's always open,′ it was like it wasn't just a thing professors were meant to say.
He'd seen her. Properly. Not as a troublemaker or a metamorphmagus or a clumsy joke with ever-changing hair. Just—her.
And now he looked like he might slip away if she blinked for too long.
Tonks sat back down, stiff-backed and quiet. She folded her arms across her chest like a shield, fists pressed into her elbows.
It hurt. Not in the loud, dramatic sort of way, but in the slow, aching way you didn't know what to do with. The kind that made you feel far too young and far too old all at once.
She hadn't meant to care.
Hadn't planned on it. Wasn't looking for a favourite teacher or someone to impress.
But she did. And not in the way her dorm-mates sometimes whispered about, with giggles and half-serious swoons. Not like that.
It was something else. Something quieter. Warmer.
Like… safety. Like being recognised in a room full of masks.
And she didn't want that to disappear.
So she stayed.
Even though no one asked her to.
Even though Madam Pomfrey had already turned back to her potions and murmured spells, and Professor McGonagall had quietly stepped out with a look that said stay if you must, but don't make a fuss.
She stayed.
Because if someone saw her, then she wasn't going to be the kind of person who looked away when they needed someone.
Even if she didn't know how to help. Even if she couldn't do anything but sit, small and silent on the edge of the bed, while the sun slanted low through the windows and the corridor outside buzzed with a world still turning.
She stayed because it felt right.
Because he would've stayed.
And because sometimes, not leaving was the only thing you could do.