The fire crackled softly in the grate, casting long, sleepy shadows across the worn rug and bookshelves of his quarters. Remus sat in his armchair, a cup of tea cooling in his hands, mostly forgotten. He wasn't reading. He hadn't turned the page of his book in nearly half an hour.
His thoughts were with her.
Tonks.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, brow furrowed. There had been something different about her again tonight—though not in the flamboyant, shape-shifting way she used to wear like a badge of honour. No bubblegum hair. No theatrical falls. No snarky punchlines lobbed across the desk mid-lecture. Instead, she'd arrived early. Hair tied back. Posture steady. Eyes sharp.
She had changed.
No—was changing. Every week, in small, careful ways. Like someone realising she had value, not just in how loud she could be or how easily she made people laugh, but in the weight of her own thoughts. In the quiet strength she never used to show.
She'd worked for that essay. It wasn't just good—it was brilliant. Dense, well-argued, deeply researched. She had even cited sources he hadn't expected her to find. There was a kind of tenacity in her words, a new maturity threading itself between paragraphs. He could see the fight in her. Not the kind with wands and hexes—the kind waged in silence, through growth, through restraint, through purpose.
Remus let his head tip back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. He should've been thrilled—proud, even. And he was. Merlin, he was. But there was something else knotted deep in his chest. Something far more dangerous.
He noticed her.
Not just as a professor notices a student who's trying harder. Not as a mentor who applauds diligence. No—he noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while she listened. The way her lips curved when she was about to make a clever remark but held it back. The way she looked at him now—not with puppyish adoration but with a kind of steady certainty that made his throat go dry.
She was becoming a woman. And worse—a remarkable one.
And that terrified him.
Remus swallowed hard and stood up abruptly, placing his tea on the windowsill. Outside, snow had begun to fall, dusting the grounds in white. The castle looked peaceful. Frozen in time.
He braced his hands on the sill, letting the cold bite at his skin through the glass.
"She's still a student," he murmured aloud, as if saying it would tether him to reason.
But she wouldn't be forever. A few more months. A heartbeat, really.
And what then?
He closed his eyes.
No. That road led to trouble. Not just for him—for her. She deserved the freedom of youth, not the complications of loving a man like him. A man with scars he'd never explain. With a body that ached on full moons. With a heart he hadn't let anyone touch in far too long.
He shook his head slowly, but the thought remained, stubborn and silent:
What if she chose to love him anyway?
He let out a soft, pained chuckle. "You're being ridiculous," he told himself. "She's just growing up. That's all this is."
And yet, when she'd said, "I've been trying," there had been a moment—a flicker—where he'd seen something more behind her eyes.
Not just ambition. Not just pride.
Devotion.
And somehow, that frightened him more than anything else.
Remus turned away from the window, trying to shake her from his mind, but the warmth of her voice still lingered, echoing somewhere in the quiet of the room.
He didn't sit back down. Couldn't.
The fire had burnt low, and Remus paced the quiet length of his quarters, fingers threading through his hair, which was greyer than it had been this time last year. His joints ached. His temples throbbed in that now-familiar, persistent rhythm. He didn't need St. Mungo's confirmation anymore. He already knew what was happening to him.
Brain Tumour. The healer had said it clinically, kindly. But there was no soft way to be told you had a tumour growing in your head and less time than you'd thought.
Remus had nodded, thanked him for the honesty, and quietly left without scheduling another visit.
He'd lived with one curse most of his life. Now, it seemed, he was dying by another.
The thought didn't frighten him. Not anymore. He'd always assumed he'd go early—a monster's death, or a quiet one, but early all the same.
What gnawed at him now wasn't fear.
It was regret.
And it had a name.
Tonks.
He gripped the edge of his desk, bowing his head as a fresh wave of pain cut through his skull. Not sharp—just dull and steady, like a candle guttering at the base. He pressed his fingers to his temple, breathing through it, thinking of her laugh. That unfiltered, reckless joy she never seemed to apologise for.
She'd changed. He'd watched it happen. Watched the mischief grow quieter. Watched the brightness in her eyes focus like firelight through glass.
He'd seen the way she looked at him—not with pity, not with awe, but with something truer. A gentleness. A stubborn, infuriating, beautiful insistence that he mattered. That he was worth knowing.
And damn him, he believed her.
That was the worst of it. That even now, when he could feel the shadow stretching through his brain like ink in water, he wanted to believe there was still something left to give.
But how could he ask her to love a man already fading?
She deserved years. Laughter. Moonlight. All the little ordinaries he could never promise. He couldn't even tell her the truth—not this truth. It would break her. Or worse: she would stay. Out of loyalty. Out of the kind of love that binds people in the saddest ways.
He wouldn't let her do that.
So instead, he taught her. He listened when she talked about revolutionaries and historical rebellions, about her daft friends and the books she'd started quoting back to him with flair. He offered encouragement where he could. And when she smiled, he let himself pretend, just for a heartbeat, that he'd have more time.
Remus sat down finally, hands folded in his lap, looking not at the fire but at the place in his memory where she always sat during lessons in his classroom. The indentation in the cushion. The way she always kicked one foot behind the other. The ink stain she left behind on the corner of his parchment the last time they argued about the Goblin Rebellions.
She was written into everything now. Without even trying.
And the cruellest part?
She didn't even know he was disappearing.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion sinking deeper than bone. The tumour wouldn't be merciful. It would take memory first. Then speech. Then more. Until even she—bright, brilliant, sharp-eyed Ms. Tonks—wouldn't recognise the man she'd once looked at like he held the stars.
And he would forget her name.
He bit down on the sob pressing at his throat.
There were things worse than death.
Letting her love someone already dying… that was one of them.
So he'd keep it quiet. He'd be her professor, her mentor, her friend if she needed. But never more.
He would die with dignity.
Even if it meant dying without the one person who made him wish he didn't have to.
Remus found himself staring out the narrow, dusty window at the soft greyness settling over the castle grounds, the kind that always came before spring rain. The classroom behind him was dim and calm, the kind of quiet that usually soothed his frayed nerves. Today, it unsettled him.
This was the last of their private sessions.
The walls, cluttered with curling parchment charts and faded depictions of goblin uprisings, had become a familiar haven. A small, worn desk in the corner still bore a faint ink stain from one of Tonks's earlier visits—she'd knocked over the entire inkwell, then laughed like it was the best part of her day.
That laugh hadn't faded from his memory, and neither had she.
And now it was ending.
He turned slightly as he heard the rustle of paper and the soft scuff of boots. She was already at the desk, her notes spread wide like a quilt made of scribbled spells, annotated margins, and highlighted bits of magical theory. Her hair was lilac today—soft and wild, a shade that suited her new seriousness oddly well.
"I can't believe this is our last session," she said, adjusting her glasses with a half-smile. Her voice was lighter than he felt, but it still stirred something deep in his chest.
Remus nodded, attempting a smile of his own. "Yes, well… time has a habit of doing that. Slipping past without asking permission."
He felt ridiculous as soon as he said it. Philosophical nonsense, spoken only to avoid what he really felt—that he didn't want this to be over. Not the lessons. Not the stolen hours with her in this dusty room where she'd somehow made everything feel warmer.
He looked away from her, his gaze catching on the history chart hanging just above the fireplace—a faded depiction of the Great Goblin Rebellion. He tried to study it, tried to focus on anything but the feeling creeping over him. Don't be a fool, Remus. You're not meant to feel like this.
She wasn't just a student anymore. That was the truth of it, however much he tried to deny it. Somewhere between her silly questions and her passionate outbursts, her enthusiasm and her fierce will to do better—she'd become something else. Something bright. And utterly unignorable.
"What do you think I should focus on today?" she asked, flipping her quill in one hand like she might duel the paper into submission.
He cleared his throat, grateful for the excuse to do something—anything—productive. "Let's go over key battles again. Fredel loves his bloodshed and trick questions."
She leaned in, closer than she needed to, scanning the parchment he'd slid over to her. Her perfume was something like honeysuckle and ink—warm, strange, and familiar. His chest tightened. She was so close. Too close.
But she was focused, tapping her lip with her quill as she read. He'd seen that look countless times now—the way she narrowed her eyes when something puzzled her, the furrow in her brow when she got determined. And that passion—Merlin, it was maddening in the best way.
There were thirteen years between them. Thirteen long years.
He'd always thought age was just a number, but tonight it felt like a dam built of stone and silence, impossible to climb without destroying something.
She didn't know. She didn't know about the tumour or how the headaches were worse lately. How sometimes, the words on the page blurred. Or how he woke up most mornings with the awful clarity that he was slowly forgetting pieces of himself.
But she made him feel alive. Even now.
"Do you think I can really do this?" she asked quietly, looking up at him suddenly, her voice stripped of bravado. No jokes. Just fear. Just hope.
He blinked at her. Her eyes were so open. So present.
"Yes," he said simply. "I know you can. You've worked harder than anyone I've seen. I believe in you."
He did. More than that—he admired her. Not just for her intelligence or her magic, but for her courage. She'd changed her life with a fierceness he hadn't expected. She'd chosen something better—and she'd brought her friends with her.
She was trying to be more. And she was.
And it terrified him.
Because it made him imagine a future he wouldn't be here to see.
He swallowed thickly, his throat tight, his chest aching with a dull pressure that had nothing to do with illness.
What are you doing, Remus? Letting yourself hope? Letting yourself want something you can't have?
But it was already too late. He'd watched her grow into herself. He'd fallen in love with the sound of her determination. And he knew, with a certainty that twisted inside him, that one day she would outshine every room she entered.
And he'd be gone.
"Professor?" she asked softly, tilting her head. "Are you alright?"
Remus smiled faintly, forcing the emotion from his face. "Just thinking."
She grinned, cheeky and warm. "Dangerous habit."
He chuckled quietly. "Don't I know it."
And for a moment, they sat in comfortable silence. Teacher and student. But the line between them—that sharp, safe line—felt thinner than ever.
He wished the universe had been kinder. He wished he'd had more time.
But most of all, he wished she'd never have to know how it ends.
As the hour wore on, with notes scrawled across the desk, Remus felt the first signs of fatigue settling behind his eyes. Not just the ordinary weariness of a long day—but the sort that whispered cruelly of endings. His head throbbed dully. The tumour was making itself known again, like some cold, silent passenger lodged inside him. He rubbed at his temple absently, hoping she hadn't noticed.
That's when Tonks looked up from her notes, her brow creased with a kind of curiosity that always preceded her most unexpected questions.
"Professor," she said, voice cautious, almost soft enough to be lost in the creak of the old classroom's timbers. "Can I ask you something… personal?"
Remus straightened in his seat, heart ticking upward with a sudden wariness. Here we go, he thought. "Of course," he said, tone even. Still, he felt the balance of the room shift ever so slightly. Her words held weight—something she'd been carrying for a while.
"What's it like… being you?" she asked.
He blinked.
The question stunned him—not for its boldness, but for its earnestness. She wasn't teasing him. She wasn't probing for secrets or gossip. Her gaze was wide, searching, and entirely sincere. "I mean… with everything going on in your life," she added, hesitating just enough to let the words stretch. "How do you stay so strong?"
And there it was. The crack in the armour. She'd seen it, hadn't she? Even if she didn't know the full extent—didn't know the grim diagnosis, the nights of mind-numbing pain, or the quiet fear that one day he might forget something vital, something human—she saw something. The weight on his shoulders. The heaviness he carried like an old coat.
He chuckled, mostly to buy time. He wasn't ready. He was never ready to talk about this. And yet, something about her—her gentleness, her ridiculous courage—made him want to answer her honestly.
"I wish I could say it's easy," he began, voice lower than before, almost hushed. "But it's not. Not even a little. Some days, I wake up, and I can't recognise the man in the mirror. My past haunts me. My body's… failing me." He stopped there, brushing past the word dying. "But then people like you come along. Students who remind me that there's still light. That it's worth holding on a bit longer."
Tonks bit her lip, a blush blooming across her cheeks that brought colour to the shadows. Her hair shifted slightly in hue—silver streaks pulsing gently into rose. She looked younger in that moment, despite everything. Or maybe just real.
"You think I'm the one giving you hope?" She murmured, incredulous. "I thought it was the other way around."
Remus looked at her then, properly looked. She'd changed. Merlin, how she'd changed. Her notes were meticulous now. She questioned everything with real depth, with intention. She showed up early. She left late. She wasn't trying to impress him anymore—she was trying to build something in herself. It was inspiring. And terrifying.
"Is that why you care so much about my exams?" she asked, half a smile creeping onto her lips. "Because it reminds you of the good things?"
A flicker of panic curled in his chest.
"I care," he said slowly, carefully, "because I want to see you succeed. Because you deserve that. You've worked for it."
But it felt like a half-truth. And he knew it. She was asking about more than academic pride. She was reaching for something deeper. His soul—or what was left of it.
She sighed, the sound laced with some strange cocktail of disappointment and bravery. "I just… I think you're amazing, Professor. You help people. You care, even when no one's watching. You've been there for me. And I want to be there for you too."
Remus froze.
Those words. So simple. So earnest. And yet they landed like a spell right through his chest. The kind of spell you don't cast lightly—one that changes everything.
He coughed, hoping the sound might shake something loose from his throat, or his ribs, or the place where hope had started to gather despite every warning in his bones.
Did she mean it?
Could someone like her—young, brilliant, bright with life—truly feel that way about someone like him? A man dragging behind him a past filled with scars and now a present filled with quiet decay?
He swallowed. "So what now?" he asked, though he didn't know whether it was the right thing to say or the worst.
Tonks grinned. Not a childish grin. Something softer. Earnest. "Well… first, I pass my exam." A beat. "And then… I'll figure it out from there."
There was something wild about the way she said it—unafraid, open-hearted, as if the future wasn't a thing to fear but to meet.
And Remus—tired, sick, burdened Remus—felt something rise in his chest. Something dangerous. Something warm.
Hope.
It flickered like a candle in the dark.
They didn't speak much after that. The lesson drew to its close. Tonks gathered her parchment, humming softly under her breath. Remus packed slowly, almost clumsily, his hands aching.
He watched her go, her hair shimmering with pale rose and silver as she turned at the door.
"Good luck, Ms. Tonks," he said, his voice quiet but weighted.
She looked over her shoulder with a flash of confidence. "Thanks, Professor. I'll ace it for you."
And with that, she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And Remus—alone again—let the silence settle around him like dust. He leaned back in his chair, his head pounding gently with warning, and closed his eyes.
She sees me, he thought.
And I see her.
But whether that was enough… he still didn't know.
The classroom had finally gone still.
Remus exhaled slowly, the soft clunk of ink bottles and parchment rolls echoing faintly in the silence that followed the end of his last lesson with the third years. The room was a little too warm from the afternoon sun slanting through the high windows, casting golden light over the weathered desks and dust motes drifting like memory.
He sat down heavily at his desk, trying to ignore the dull throb just behind his eyes—the kind of ache that warned him when he'd done too much. The tumour had been relentless lately, pressing in on his concentration like fog across a forest. But he pushed it away. One more hour. Just one more student.
A knock interrupted the quiet.
Not loud. Not hurried. A hesitant, almost reluctant tap.
"Come in," he called, the words worn soft by fatigue.
The door creaked open, and there she was.
Nymphadora Tonks—though no one but him still dared use her full name—stood in the doorway, not quite herself. Her usual swagger was gone, shoulders rounded in a way that made her seem smaller than usual. Her bubblegum-pink hair had dimmed to a muted mauve, lying limp around her face. She looked like someone whose fire had guttered in the wind.
In her hand, folded and slightly creased, was a piece of parchment. Even before she handed it to him, Remus knew what it was.
He sat up straighter, every instinct tightening in concern. "How'd it go?" he asked gently. "Let me see."
She approached slowly, like a child who half-expected to be scolded. As she placed the parchment in his hands, she murmured, "I did my best."
He saw her retreat to the nearest chair and sink into it with an exaggerated huff, her back to him. That alone told him everything.
Unfolding the parchment, Remus scanned her exam, noting the crisp handwriting, the structured layout, and the clear thought in her answers. His chest warmed with pride.
And then he found it—the tiny error.
"In 1707," he read aloud, mostly to himself, "who served as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and became the first Minister of Magic?" He double-checked her answer. "Ulick Gump," she'd written.
Remus sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge of it.
"You wrote 'Gump' instead of 'Gamp'," he muttered, shaking his head with disbelief. "A single letter…"
Tonks turned slightly in her chair, her eyes dark with frustration. "I really thought I had it," she said, voice low. Her fingers fiddled absently with the edge of the desk, as if she could peel her own regret away with the wood.
Remus stared at the parchment in his hand. The mistake was so slight, barely even noticeable in the context of her brilliance throughout the rest of the paper.
"If I were grading this…" he started, then stopped, thinking.
He wasn't really allowed to interfere. He wasn't her formal examiner. But gods, this wasn't just about policy or marks—it was about a promise. About a girl who had worked herself to the bone to become someone better.
He grabbed his quill, dipped it quickly, and, without further thought, scratched a new mark at the top: 100%.
When he handed the paper back to her, her eyes widened in disbelief. She stared at it like it had been enchanted.
"Really?" she whispered. Then louder: "Does this mean… a date?"
Remus nearly dropped the inkpot.
His heart thundered in his chest like some wild creature trying to break loose. Heat climbed up his neck to his ears, and he looked away, fumbling with his quill like it might save him from what had just been said aloud.
"Well," he mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze, "a promise is a promise…"
She leapt up like a spark had caught under her shoes, practically dancing around the classroom. It was impossible not to smile. Her energy was contagious—her joy, infectious. She kissed the paper as though it were a knighted champion.
But just as quickly, she turned serious again, leaning across his desk with that same cheeky mischief that both amused and unsettled him.
"Wait… you wanted to go on a date with me, didn't you?" She teased, her eyes glittering with challenge.
Remus shot upright.
"No!" he said, much too forcefully. "No, that's—I—I graded it as a neutral professor would." His hands pressed against the table, body stiff with alarm, as if that might somehow anchor him from the storm she brought with her every time she smiled like that.
Tonks burst out laughing—real, warm, unfiltered laughter—and it wrapped around him like a spell he didn't know how to resist. She flopped back into the chair, still chuckling, the sound echoing in the high arches of the classroom.
He wanted to laugh with her. He wanted to lean into that warmth and believe—for just a moment—that he could say yes. That he wasn't sick. That he wasn't counting the number of months left in secret.
But he couldn't.
So instead, he watched her, heart aching, and smiled as best he could.
She'd done it. She'd passed.
And that meant the next chapter was coming—whether he was ready or not.