The sun loitered high above the castle, heat shimmering across the lawns where students sprawled like half-melted chocolate frogs. Laughter drifted from open windows, bright and careless.
Tonks sat beneath the beech tree, still as stone, watching it all. The world looked soft, harmless, perfectly content—and she could not shake the feeling that it shouldn't be.
Everything about the day begged for ease.
But Tonks felt out of step, a heartbeat behind the rest of the world.
She sat with Penny Haywood and Chiara Lobosca, the bark pressing firm into her back, legs stretched across the grass, ankles crossed. Her posture had none of its usual sprawl. Her curls clung to her temples in the heat, and behind her heavy-lidded eyes lay a night without sleep and thoughts that would not stop gnawing.
Everything sounded distant and too close all at once. Laughter like shattering glass. Leaves whispering secrets she could not quite catch. It felt as if the air itself was holding its breath.
"She is at it again," Penny muttered, nodding towards the courtyard.
Tonks turned.
Ismelda Murk. Her wand dangled loosely from 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 as if she were trying to vanish.
Around them, a small crowd of students lingered, watching without watching. No one moved.
"She is really going all out," Penny said, but her voice carried the brittle edge of someone trying to sound casual and failing.
Chiara's silver hair caught the light as she scoffed. "We said we would stop this. Today. Remember?"
Tonks frowned faintly. "Did we?"
Chiara gave her a look. "You promised, Dora."
The name made Tonks wince. No one used it anymore, not unless they wanted to wind her up.
But Chiara was not trying to provoke her. She was only frustrated, and 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 faded before she could finish. What could she even say? That she was tired? That everything inside her felt scrambled, like she was made of mismatched parts today?
She did not have to finish. Chiara's voice cut across her thoughts, sharper this time. "You are really going to sit here while she does that?"
Tonks looked again.
Badeea's voice cracked. "I do not have anything. Please. I swear I have nothing left."
That did it.
It hit her like a jolt, sharp and sudden—the shame, the anger, the realisation that she had 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. She did not think about it. She just moved.
She did not wait for the figure crossing the grass, a man with tired eyes and a soft tread. Professor Lupin. He had only been at Hogwarts a short while, but there was something in the way he carried himself that drew her attention whenever he entered a room. Quietly steady, like someone holding more than he let on.
Their eyes met briefly as she passed. Something flickered, not recognition, not quite, but enough to make 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 did not raise her wand. She did not need to.
"That is enough."
For a long beat, no one spoke. The courtyard held its breath.
Ismelda squared her shoulders. "Tonks…"
"What are you doing?" Tonks asked, her voice low but clear. "This is not you."
Ismelda looked away. "She owes me something."
"No. She is frightened 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 and let the silence grow roots.
"I do not like this," she said finally. "And I do not like bullies. Even when they are people I care about."
There it was, 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 is all right. It is not a big deal."
"It is," Tonks said, still facing Ismelda. "And it is not all right."
Her voice did not shake, and that surprised her.
There was a beat.
Ismelda muttered something Tonks could not quite catch and turned on her heel, her steps striking hard and fast against the stone, her spine rigid, her cheeks flushed—not with defiance, but something closer to defeat. Undone, not victorious. She walked off without another word.
Tonks let out a long breath she had not realised she was holding. Her shoulders ached from tension. Her jaw, too. It felt as if her body had been bracing for impact.
Penny moved over to Badeea, her voice softer now. "You all right?"
Badeea gave a tiny nod. "Thanks," she whispered, so faint it could easily have been missed.
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 as though walking 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 had not 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 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 had not 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 look when they know they are being lied to and are giving you the chance to correct it.
Disappointment. That was worse than being shouted at. That always stung more.
"If there is 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 burned slightly. She let the air out slowly.
She turned back to Badeea, who had not 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 all right? I mean it. You are not going to be pushed around again. Not while I am 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 did not 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 are safe. You are all right."
"I do not know how to thank you," Badeea said, voice hoarse from trying not to cry. "It has been like this every day. And no one has ever stopped her. Not once."
Tonks felt something twist deep in her chest. Not anger, not even guilt, but 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 had noticed, and she had done nothing.
Until now. Too late.
"I am so sorry," Penny whispered, standing beside them now. Her hand rested gently on Badeea's arm. "You did not 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 am no one."
The words hit like a cold wind.
Tonks did not reply straightaway. She just looked at her. The hunched posture, the bitten nails, the way she seemed to shrink in on herself, like she had 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 have stood back before. Because I have let things slip through, hoping someone else would step up. Because that is 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. You are not on your own now. You have us. We are friends."
Chiara stepped forward, arms folded, her voice firm. "Exactly. You are not alone anymore."
Badeea blinked between them like she was seeing something that was not meant for her, like she had stumbled into someone else's dream. "Friends?" she echoed, so quietly it barely counted as a word. It sounded strange in her mouth, as if it did not 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 did not vanish, but it lessened enough to make space for something else.
"Yes," she said. Her voice wobbled, but the word did not. "I would love to."
Tonks nodded. "Good. Penny, Chiara, walk her in, would you? I will be right behind."
They did not ask questions; they simply 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 rising again behind them. The day resumed its rhythm, as if it had not just cracked open.
But Tonks stayed where she was.
Her eyes drifted towards the castle steps. Professor Lupin had not gone far. He was still there, near the base of the stairs, hands tucked into his pockets, gazing out across the grounds as though he was seeing something no one else could. There was a stillness about him, something watchful. As if he stood in two moments at once, half in the present and half in some memory only he could reach.
Tonks frowned. The pull was there again, a curious weight behind her ribs, not fear, not admiration, just a sense of recognition. Like seeing a place you were certain you had dreamt about, even if you had never been there before.
She hesitated, then stepped forward, crossing the grass in uneven strides. Her heart thudded, not hard, not loud, just steady. Like it knew this mattered.
She had no idea what she was going to say. Only that she could not walk away without saying something.
"Professor!"
It came out louder than she intended, a touch too sharp. She winced at herself but did not take it back.
He turned. The sunlight fell behind him, shadowing his face and outlining the shape of him in gold. For that moment, he did not look entirely real, more like someone caught between pages.
His expression was calm and measured, but not unfeeling.
"Is something the matter, Miss…?"
"Nymphadora Tonks," she said automatically, then grimaced. "Er, just Tonks, please."
Something flickered behind his gaze. Not amusement, exactly, more like quiet understanding.
"Ms Tonks," he replied.
The formality did not sting, though her neck still flushed warm. Her name never sat comfortably with her; it always felt like someone else's idea of who she was supposed to be.
She shifted her weight, fingers twisting at the hem of her sleeve. Whatever had pushed her to speak still fizzed beneath her skin, but now that he was looking at her, the words caught in her throat.
Still, she asked, softly, "Have we… met before?"
There was the faintest pause. Barely a blink. But she saw it.
A flicker. The smallest tightening around his eyes. The stilling of his breath. Recognition. She was sure of it.
Then it vanished, gone as quickly as it came, wiped clean like chalk from a board.
"I do not believe so," he said evenly. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugged, trying to sound casual. "You just seem… familiar. That is all."
Too honest. The sort of thing that slipped out before she could stop it. Her heart always outran her mouth. But it was true. And now it was out there, sitting between them, quiet and unignorable.
Professor Lupin nodded once, though he did not answer.
That was it. No denial, no explanation. Only that steady silence again, the kind that seemed to speak more than words ever could.
Tonks did not push. She did not know why she felt drawn to him, only that she did. It was as though her magic recognised something before she did.
"I am sorry about earlier," she said, voice lower now. "With Ismelda. She has a big gob, but she did not mean proper harm."
He turned to face her fully this time. Slowly. 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 even processed it, a tightness beneath her ribs, a twist in her stomach.
"I, I did not realise," she stammered. "Not properly. Not until I saw Badeea's face. I did not know it had gone that far."
But she had, had she not?
Not all of it. But enough. The silences in the corridors. The way Badeea always kept her back to the wall, clutching her books like shields. Tonks had seen it. Noticed it. And still done nothing.
Professor Lupin did not reply straightaway. His expression barely shifted; only something behind the eyes changed. Not anger. Something quieter. Disappointment. The kind that crept in slowly and stayed.
Then came a sound, almost a breath. A weary, soft laugh that never reached his eyes.
"It is 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 had not said it cruelly. That made it worse. If he had shouted, she could have bristled, argued, and built a wall of indignation. But this was kind.
And kindness cut deeper when you knew you had not earned it.
"I am sorry," she whispered. "Truly. I should have said something. I should have done something. I swear I will not ignore it again."
She stared at her shoes, the flagstones beneath them dull grey and cracked with age. They had seen more than she ever would. She hated the silence that followed, but she did not try to fill it.
At last, he spoke, quieter now.
"I believe you."
She looked up.
His face had softened, only slightly, 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 do not. If you had not, we would be having a rather different conversation."
He turned towards the castle, the light shifting over his face as he stepped back into shadow.
Tonks stayed there for a long moment, watching the empty space he had left behind. Something in her chest ached, though she could not have said why. Recognition again, that same strange pull, deep and certain, like remembering something she was not meant to remember.
Relief did not come all at once. It moved through her like an exhale she had not realised she had been holding. The guilt had not gone, not entirely. But something warmer stirred beneath it. Pride, perhaps. Or the beginnings of it.
"I do not 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 is my job."
But there was something behind the words. A flicker. Not pity, nothing so simple. A quiet thread of sadness, perhaps. A tiredness you would not notice unless you were looking closely.
Then he said, "My door is always open, Ms Tonks."
It did not feel like a line, not something said for show. It felt real. Like a promise. Like something you could hold on to when the world went dark. Like a light left burning for you at the end of a corridor.
They stood there for a moment longer, neither speaking. Wind slipped in through the window grates, and the soft sound of footsteps echoed faintly from some distant stairwell.
Tonks was not sure if she ought to say more, or what she would even say if she did. But it did not feel unfinished. Not really.
At last, Professor Lupin glanced towards the stairs.
"Well. I have lessons to prepare. You should be getting back to your dormitory."
She nodded. Her throat felt tight, but she did not 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 am heading that way too," she said quickly. "To the kitchens. Mind if I walk with you?"
She regretted it almost at once. It sounded childish, 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 there it was. A faint smile. Small, but genuine.
"Not at all."
They walked in step, side by side. The silence between them did not 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 of impressions, half-shaped questions, and feelings she had not yet sorted out.
She wanted to ask about the sadness in his eyes. About why he watched people the way he did, as if he was afraid they might vanish if he looked away for too long.
But she did not.
Instead, she walked beside him in the corridor, watching the sunlight spill across the flagstones in long golden streaks.
She did not know exactly what this connection was. Only that it felt real. And for the first time in ages, she did not 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, without 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 had not meant to say what came next. It simply slipped out.
"I never liked History of Magic."
It sounded harsher than she intended. 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 fluttering, "it is different."
Professor Lupin blinked, 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.
"You are not the first to say that," he said. "History does have a rather dreadful reputation."
Tonks grinned, her nerves easing. "Deservedly. But you make it feel like it matters. Like it is… I do not know. Alive, again."
His smile changed at that. It 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 details she could not quite name.
There was something about the way he moved. Not just graceful—measured. Careful. Like he was used to making himself smaller. His shoulders were slightly sloped, as if his body remembered a weight he was no longer carrying but had not yet let go of.
He spoke like someone who had seen real things. Hard things. Not read about them in books, but lived them. You could hear it in the pauses between his words.
"You are very tall, are you not?" she blurted before she could stop herself. "About six foot one?"
He gave a startled laugh. "Close."
"And you are a half-blood, right?"
She said it lightly, still curious, still caught in the warmth of that laugh. But as the words left her mouth, something shifted.
It happened so fast she barely registered it. A flicker. A crack in his expression. Like a string pulled tight somewhere inside him, then snapping.
And then he staggered.
Tonks saw it in flashes, as if in a dream breaking 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 flagstones were shockingly cold, but she barely felt them. Her hands flew to his shoulders, then to his chest, checking, searching for anything. Was he breathing?
He was, but barely. Shallow, uneven breaths. Each rise of his chest looked like a struggle.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
This could not be happening. Not him. Not here. Not now.
"Hey, come on," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You have got to wake up. Please."
He did not move.
The corridor around them felt too large, too still. No footsteps. No voices. Just her, him, and the terrible quiet.
"I will get help," she whispered, brushing his sleeve. "Just hang on, alright? Please."
And then she was running.
She did not remember standing. Did not feel her legs. She just ran, robes flying, shoes slapping against stone, the world around her blurred and colourless.
He laughed.
He was fine.
What happened?
She burst through the classroom door without knocking or thinking.
"Professor McGonagall!" she gasped.
Every head turned. Quills froze mid-stroke. A few students still had their wands raised. 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 scolding. Concern ran through it, taut and immediate.
Tonks could hardly form the words. "It is Professor Lupin. He collapsed. He is not waking up. He is still on the floor. I did not know what to do."
That was enough.
Professor McGonagall did not hesitate. Her expression turned ashen, not with fear exactly, but with something older. Recognition.
Her wand was already in her hand.
"You will remain here," she told the class, calm but commanding. "Partners only. Wands down. I shall return shortly."
Then, briskly, to Tonks: "Show me."
Tonks spun on the spot and started running again, her thoughts struggling to keep up. Professor McGonagall's footsteps fell into rhythm behind her, clipped and steady.
Her mind was a whirl of fragments.
He was fine. He had been smiling. He said his door was always open.
"He was fine," Tonks muttered aloud, breath catching. "We were only talking."
Professor McGonagall did not reply, but her silence was not cold. It was purposeful. Her lips were pressed tight, her brow drawn.
They turned the final corner.
And there he was.
Professor Lupin still lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, exactly as she had left him, limbs loose, wand rolled from his hand, eyes closed.
"There," Tonks choked.
Professor McGonagall dropped to her knees beside him in one smooth motion. Her wand swept through the air, precise and controlled. Silent incantations flowed from her lips like second nature.
She leant closer, murmuring something Tonks could not hear.
But she caught the name.
"Remus."
Not Professor Lupin.
Just Remus.
Soft. Quiet. Barely more than a breath. And in that moment Tonks heard something she had never known the stern Transfiguration professor could carry. Not command. Not composure.
Care.
Real, human care.
Tonks stepped back without meaning to. Her hands were shaking, her chest tightening as though ropes were pulling inward. She did not want to be in the way.
She felt small. Not like a student or a child, but like someone who had just stepped into something far too big for them.
Her throat stung.
She did not even know why it hurt so sharply. She had not known Professor Lupin long. He was not family. He was not even quite a friend. Not yet. But…
He saw her. He had seen her.
And now he looked as if the light had gone out of him.
"Ms Tonks!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through her daze, firm and clear.
Tonks blinked, the fog lifting slightly. The corridor came back into focus: the stone beneath her, the still air, the unmoving figure. Her breath caught on the edge of a sob that she forced down.
Professor McGonagall's expression was unreadable again, controlled and composed, but there was a flicker in her eyes as she looked at Professor Lupin. Something Tonks could not name.
"We need to get him to the Hospital Wing. Quickly."
Tonks nodded, though her limbs still felt heavy, as if she were watching herself from somewhere else. She did not 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 charm. With a delicate flick, Professor Lupin's body lifted gently from the floor and settled upon it, as if cradled by invisible hands.
He did not 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 as if it mattered, who spoke with stillness instead of noise.
Now he lay there as though the magic had been taken out of him.
As though the world had forgotten something.
Professor McGonagall flicked her wand again, and the stretcher began to glide down the corridor, steady as light. She said nothing, but her steps beside it were tight with control.
Tonks followed silently.
She did not know what had happened. Did not know why.
Professor McGonagall's voice came quietly, not unkind but measured, as though each word had been weighed before being released.
"What exactly happened?"
Tonks opened her mouth, but nothing came at first. Then finally, "We were talking. Just talking. He seemed fine. Then he fell."
The words sounded too small. Hollow, as if they had shrunk on the way out.
Professor McGonagall did not reply. Her silence was not cold, but it hung heavy between them, as though it carried more than just the moment, as though it came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere Tonks was not 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 as she tried to match Professor McGonagall's pace, but she did not dare slow. She felt like a child again, trying to keep up with 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 had 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 flicked her wand, clearing a bed in one smooth motion. Bottles and diagnostic instruments began to move on their own. An orb floated into place, glowing green at first, then flickering to amber. A faint shimmer rippled 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 hammered, though she barely 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, and 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 had been about to speak.
He was fine.
He had laughed. He laughed.
Was it something she had said? Had she pushed too hard? Missed something too obvious?
Then a voice reached her. Low. Kind.
"Are you all right, my dear?"
Tonks flinched. She had not heard Madam Pomfrey cross the room.
"I am fine," she said quickly, without thinking. It scraped out of her like a lie told too often.
"You are shaking." Madam Pomfrey gestured gently. "Why do you not 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, as if she could hold in everything spilling over.
Behind her, voices murmured—quiet but urgent. She tilted her head slightly.
"I will keep Remus overnight," Madam Pomfrey was saying. "His magical core is depleted—seriously so. This is not ordinary exhaustion. It has been building. Sustained. Controlled."
Tonks's blood turned to ice.
Magical core depletion.
She had read about it once, buried in a dusty book, during a summer she thought she would be bored enough to revise theory. It did not happen easily. Not from overwork. Not from one missed night of sleep.
You did not just faint.
You burnt out.
Her voice broke through before she could stop it.
"What is 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 were not saying it.
Madam Pomfrey turned back to her with a smile that was too even and too rehearsed.
"His condition is stable," she said. "There is no need to worry."
But Tonks did.
Because that was not an answer.
That was a wall.
She looked back at Professor Lupin—still pale against the pillows, his face turned slightly away. One hand rested loosely on the coverlet, fingers curled faintly, as if he had meant to move but had not managed it. His breathing was quiet. Steady, but too faint. The kind you had to watch to believe was still happening.
And suddenly, she could not stand it.
Not just the worry—that was bad enough—but 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 did not know when that had happened.
Maybe it was earlier, when he had looked at her without judgement. When he had said, 'I believe you, and my door is always open,′ it had sounded real, not like something professors were supposed to say.
He had seen her. Not as a troublemaker, or a metamorphmagus, or a clumsy joke with ever-changing hair. Just her.
And now he looked as if 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 did not know what to do with. The kind that made you feel far too young and far too old all at once.
She had not meant to care.
Had not planned on it. Was not looking for a favourite teacher or someone to impress.
But she did. And not in the way her dormmates 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 did not 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 do not make a fuss.′
She stayed.
Because if someone saw her, she was not going to be the kind of person who looked away when they needed someone.
Even if she did not know how to help. Even if she could do nothing 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 have stayed.
But as the ward fell silent again, one thought refused to leave her.
If they know what's really wrong with him… why won't they tell me?