The fire crackled in the grate, low and steady, casting amber shadows across the worn rug and the crooked shelves lining the walls of his quarters. Remus sat in his armchair, a mug of tea cooling between his hands, untouched for the better part of an hour. His book lay open in his lap, the same paragraph unread, blurred by the thoughts circling endlessly in his head.
Tonks.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, brow creased.
She had been different again tonight. Not in the loud, attention-seeking way she once favoured; no neon hair, no elaborate pratfalls or quips mid-discussion to make him hide a laugh behind his sleeve. She had arrived early, composed. Her hair, a soft auburn, was neatly plaited. Her expression was calm. There was a new steadiness to her, quiet but unmistakable.
She was changing.
Not simply growing up, but transforming. There was a discipline in her now, a stillness she had not worn before. Not the absence of chaos, but the presence of purpose. She had not abandoned who she was. The spark was still there. But beneath it ran something deeper. Something sharpened.
That essay of hers had been excellent: thoughtful and meticulously researched. She had even cited sources he had not mentioned, ones that required real effort to find. There was fire in it, but it was focused, controlled, and deliberate.
Remus leaned his head back against the chair, eyes on the cracked plaster of the ceiling.
He ought to feel nothing but pride. And he did, truly. Yet threaded through it, tightening round his chest like spell-rope, was something far more dangerous.
He noticed her.
Not in the way a teacher notices improvement, nor as a mentor seeing a pupil come into her own. No. He noticed the way her hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear while she listened; the way she smiled, not to entertain, but because something genuinely amused her; the way she looked at him now, calm and certain, with a confidence that made his throat dry.
She was no longer pretending at adulthood. She was becoming a woman.
And worse, an extraordinary one.
Remus stood abruptly, setting the mug on the sill beside the frost-flecked window. Snow had begun to fall over the grounds, cloaking the castle in quiet white. The trees stood still, bare and unbothered. The world looked still, peaceful, timeless.
He braced his hands against the sill, forehead nearly touching the cold pane. His breath fogged the glass.
"She is still a student," he murmured, the words thin and hollow in the quiet, as if speaking them might tether him to sense.
But she would not be for much longer. A handful of months. A blink. And what then?
He closed his eyes, jaw tight.
No. That path led nowhere good. Not for her. Not for him. She deserved freedom, youth, and a life unburdened by the complications of loving someone like him — a man scarred, literally and otherwise. A man with a body that failed him more often than not. A man with secrets he could not share and a future he could not promise.
His hands curled into fists against the window frame.
She deserved more than a man waiting to die.
He told himself it was admiration, not longing. A teacher's pride, not temptation.
Remus let out a bitter breath, more laugh than sigh. "You are being ridiculous," he said softly. "She is simply maturing; that is all."
And yet, when she had said, 'I have been trying,′ there had been something behind it. Not ambition. Not the need for approval. Something quieter. Truer.
Devotion.
And that frightened him more than anything else.
He turned from the window, the chill doing nothing to steady him. His steps carried him in slow circles round the room, hands running through his hair. His joints ached with the familiar pull before a full moon, while a low, thrumming pressure behind his eyes reminded him that the tumour was simply another kind of curse, one his body could not outwit.
There is no gentle way to be told you have something growing in your skull, that your time is being counted out in weeks and months instead of years.
He had not asked for a treatment plan and had not booked a follow-up. He had simply nodded, thanked them, and left.
He had lived with one curse since he was a child. It seemed, now, he would die with another.
It did not scare him. Not really. He had always half-expected to go early, whether at the hands of the monster inside him or by some quiet, unremarkable end. The fear had passed.
What he felt now was something colder.
Regret.
And it had a name.
Tonks.
He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, head bowed as another wave of pain rolled through his skull. It was not sharp, nothing so merciful. Just dull and persistent, a low thrum that would not ebb. He pressed his fingertips to his temple, eyes closed, and breathed through it, thinking foolishly and instinctively of her laugh.
That laugh. Irreverent. Unfiltered. Joyous in a way he had not allowed himself to be in years.
She had changed. He had seen it happen; the mischief had not vanished but had settled, deepened somehow. The brightness in her eyes was no longer scattered; it was focused now, like light narrowed through a wand tip.
And she looked at him differently too. Not with pity, never that. Not with the starry-eyed awe that often came from younger students either, but with something quieter. Steadier. A kind of determined tenderness that left him raw. As if she had decided he mattered and would keep deciding, no matter how many times he tried to convince her otherwise.
And the worst of it?
He believed her.
That was the cruel part. That even now, when he could feel the darkness blooming behind his eyes, some part of him still wanted to believe there was something left to offer. That he was not yet hollowed out. That he might still be worth it.
But how could he ask her to love a man already fading?
She deserved more. She deserved years, not borrowed time. She deserved autumn mornings and laughter in warm kitchens, nights without fear, without full moons or hospital visits or silences too heavy to fill.
He could not even give her the truth. Not this truth.
It would break her. Or worse, she would stay. Out of loyalty. Out of that particular kind of love that binds people like ropes. Love that turns the living into caretakers of ghosts.
No. He would not let her.
So instead, he taught her. He listened when she spoke, which she did now more often. About rebellion. About revolutionaries. About how unfair the world had been and how it still was. He let her argue. Encouraged it. It was safer that way, to guide her mind rather than touch her heart. And when she quoted things back to him with a glint in her eye and ink on her fingers, he let himself believe, for just a heartbeat, that there might have been another life, a different one, where time was not always running out.
At last, he sat down, hands folded in his lap. The fire had guttered low, casting long shadows across the room, but he did not look at it.
He looked instead in his memory at the cushion where she always sat in his classroom. The slight dip in the fabric. The way she tucked one foot behind the other, always shifting. The ink stain on the corner of his marked parchment, left behind after their last debate on goblin uprisings.
She was part of it now. All of it.
Without trying. Without knowing.
And that was the bitterest truth of all.
She did not know he was disappearing.
Remus exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face, the fatigue not just in his bones but deeper, woven into him like a second skin. Between the tumour and the curse that had long since worn him thin, he knew kindness would not be part of it. It would strip him slowly. Language first. Then memory. Then more. Until even she, sharp-eyed, flame-hearted Tonks, would look at him and see nothing but a stranger.
And he would forget her name.
A noise caught at the back of his throat, half-laugh, half-sob, and he bit down on it hard. He could not afford that kind of indulgence. Not now. Not again. Not ever.
There were things worse than dying.
Letting her love someone already vanishing was one of them.
So he would carry on. Quietly. Carefully. He would be her professor. Her mentor. Her friend, if she ever needed it. But never more.
He would go with dignity, even if it meant going without the one person who made him wish he did not have to.
A few days later came the final tutorial.
Remus found himself gazing out through the narrow, dust-frosted window, watching the soft grey settle over the castle grounds. That kind of stillness, just before spring rain, cool and expectant, usually calmed him. Today, it did not.
There would still be the official exam to sit, of course, but this was the last time she would come to him for guidance. The last quiet evening they would share here, for now.
The room behind him, once a place of brisk instruction and the occasional scrape of chair legs or muttered spellwork, now felt far too quiet. The walls, still hung with faded diagrams and peeling charts of goblin rebellions, had grown familiar, almost comfortable. A space that had, somehow, become theirs.
In the far corner, a small desk bore the faint remnants of a past mishap: an ink stain she had made weeks ago, knocking the bottle sideways mid-sentence, then laughing as though she had done it on purpose. That sound had stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.
And now it was nearly over.
He turned slightly at the sound of rustling parchment. Tonks was already seated, spreading her notes with the kind of determined efficiency that belied the chaos of scribbled margins and colour-coded history date references. Her hair was lilac, soft and loose, and for some reason, the hue suited her newfound seriousness. There was something calmer about her. Sharper. More deliberate.
"I can't believe this is our last session," she said, adjusting her glasses with a lopsided smile. Her voice was light, but it struck something low in his chest all the same.
Remus nodded, attempting a smile. "Yes, well… time does that. Slips by when you're not paying attention."
He regretted the words at once. They sounded hollow, something the headmaster might say in passing—full of meaning, yet empty of truth. A way to deflect what he did not want to say aloud: that he did not want this to be over. Not the lessons. Not the quiet evenings. Especially not her.
He turned his eyes back to the wall, to the faded illustration of the Great Goblin Rebellion above the hearth. The brushstrokes were blurred from age, reds dulled to rust, and banners torn at the corners. He fixed his attention on the details, anything to ground himself. You're a fool, Remus. This isn't yours to want.
She was not just a student anymore. That much was clear. Somewhere between the early sessions and now, something had shifted. Her questions had grown bolder. Her confidence, once loud and flippant, had deepened into something steadier, something strong.
"What do you think I should focus on today?" she asked, flipping her quill between her fingers with restless energy.
He cleared his throat, grateful for the distraction. "Let's go back over the key battles. Professor Fredel has a particular fondness for misdirection and bloodshed."
She leaned closer to read, scanning the parchment he slid across. Closer than necessary. Her hair brushed her shoulder, and there was a faint trace of something warm in the air: honeysuckle, perhaps, or parchment and ink. The scent lingered around him, familiar in a way it had no right to be.
His chest tightened. She was near enough that he could see the slight crease between her brows as she concentrated and the way her lips pressed together when she was trying not to interrupt him. He had seen that expression too many times now. It undid him quietly and without permission.
Thirteen years. The number sat heavy in his mind, steady and unyielding. It had never mattered before, not really. But now it stood between them like a wall neither of them had built, and he was terrified of what might happen if either of them tried to climb it.
She did not know. About the tumour. About the headaches worsening and the way the edges of the words blurred on some mornings. About the quiet terror of forgetting himself, piece by piece. Pomfrey knew, of course, though she had respected his silence. He doubted anyone else suspected.
But she made him feel here. Still present. Still a man. He had not realised how long it had been since anyone made him feel that way, seen without pity and needed without demand.
And that, more than anything, was dangerous.
He looked at her again, really looked. The firelight caught in her hair, turning lilac to something almost silver, and for a moment he allowed it, just a breath of indulgence.
Then he blinked, sat back, and folded his hands in his lap. Steady. Measured.
"Tell me again," he said softly, "how you would argue the Ministry's role in the 1752 Goblin Accord. As if you were not trying to win points but trying to win truth."
She grinned, fierce and ready, already scribbling something on the back of her notes.
And he watched her, knowing full well it would break him eventually.
But for now, he allowed himself this: one last hour.
"Do you think I can really do this?" she asked, her voice suddenly small, stripped of its usual cheek and bravado. No joke this time. Just fear. And something more fragile still: hope.
Remus looked at her.
She was staring up at him with a kind of openness that was difficult to meet, her eyes wide and unguarded. Present.
"Yes," he said simply. "I know you can. You have worked harder than anyone I have taught. I believe in you."
And he did. Not in the polite, distant way professors said such things, but truly. He admired her, not just for her talent or her cleverness, but for the grit she had shown in reshaping herself. She had made difficult choices and fought her way through them without ever losing that fierce spark that made her Tonks.
She was changing. And not because anyone asked her to. Because she wanted to be more. And she was.
It terrified him.
Because it made him imagine a future he knew he would never reach.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. There was a pressure in his chest, not sharp, not painful, but heavy. An ache that came from somewhere deeper than bone.
What are you doing, Remus? Hoping? Wanting? You don't get to want things anymore.
But it was already too late for that.
He had watched her grow, her brightness sharpening into something formidable. And he had fallen, quietly and without permission, for the sound of her determination, for the way she saw him. Not with pity or idolisation, but something gentler. Truer.
He knew, with a cold sort of certainty, that she would go on to outshine every room she walked into. He would not be there to see it.
"Professor?" she said softly, tilting her head. "Are you all right?"
He forced a faint smile, smoothing his expression as best he could. "Just thinking."
Her lips curved into a grin, mischievous and familiar. "Dangerous habit."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Don't I know it."
For a while, they sat in something close to silence. Not strained, but thoughtful.
He reminded himself again that the line between affection and impropriety was thinner than it appeared. He had to stay on the right side of it, even if it meant denying himself the smallest kindness.
Teacher and student. That line had always been clear. Necessary. But tonight it felt thin and porous, like something that could be crossed without meaning to.
I wish the world had been kinder, he thought. I wish there had been time.
But more than anything, he wished she would never have to know how it would end.
The hour slipped by, filled with ink stains and soft murmured corrections, until a dull throb began to bloom just behind his eyes. Not the usual sort of tiredness; this was heavier. Thicker. The kind of fatigue that curled round the edges of his vision, warning him quietly that something inside him was wrong. Still wrong.
The tumour, he thought, grim and detached. It was becoming part of his rhythm now, a shadow that followed even his quietest moments. He rubbed absently at his temple, hoping she would not notice.
But she did.
Her gaze lifted, thoughtful and curious in that way she always was before she asked something that caught him off guard.
"Professor," she said carefully, voice almost lost beneath the creaking floorboards and the whisper of parchment, "can I ask you something… personal?"
He stilled.
"Of course," he said evenly. A pause. "If you like."
She hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed. "What's it like… being you?"
Remus blinked.
The question hit him in the chest. Not because it was forward, but because it was not. She was not trying to be clever. She was not poking at a mystery. She was asking because she wanted to understand.
"I mean," she added, "with everything you have been through. How do you keep going? How do you stay… strong?"
There it was. The crack she had seen was maybe not the full truth, but enough to know something was wrong. She had not guessed the diagnosis; how could she? But she had felt the weight. The weariness. The way he carried himself as though he were holding up something no one else could see.
He exhaled through his nose, half a chuckle. "Strong," he repeated, almost to himself.
He wanted to deflect. Wanted to make a joke. But something in her expression stopped him. She was earnest. Brave enough to ask. He could at least be honest.
"I would like to say it gets easier," he said at last, voice quieter than before. "But it does not. Some days I wake up and I barely recognise myself. The past hangs about. My body…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "It is not what it used to be."
He did not say dying. He could not.
"But then," he went on, voice rougher now, "someone like you walks in. Bright, stubborn, completely relentless. And for a little while, I remember why I stayed. Why I keep going."
He met her eyes.
"You remind me that there is still light, even when it is difficult to see."
Tonks bit her lip, the colour blooming across her cheeks a sharp, honest contrast to the fading light in the room. Her hair shifted with it, creeping through silver, soft and pulsing like warmth returning to cold fingers. For a moment, she looked younger. Or perhaps just more herself.
"You think I'm the one giving you hope?" she said, almost under her breath, disbelief threading through the words. "I thought it was the other way round."
Remus looked at her then.
And he saw it, all of it. The change, the growth, the sharpness she had earned not through age but through choice. Different now, not in essence but in intention. The girl who once blurted out answers just to fill silence now weighed her words. Her notes had become more structured, even beautiful in their own chaotic way. She stayed behind to ask questions, not for praise but because she wanted to know. She was not trying to impress him anymore.
She was becoming someone.
"Is that why you care so much about my exams?" she asked, with a crooked sort of smile. "Because it reminds you of the good things?"
A flicker of something cold settled beneath his ribs, the reminder of a boundary he could not cross.
"I care," he said, slowly, carefully, "because I want to see you succeed. Because you deserve to."
It was the truth. But not the whole of it. And she knew it. He could tell by the way her smile faded just a little at the corners.
She let out a breath, not quite a sigh. "I just… I think you're amazing, Professor. You help people. You see people. And I know you don't always let anyone return the favour, but—well—I'd like to. I want to be there for you too."
Remus froze.
He had faced curses, creatures, and transformations under full moons, but nothing prepared him for that. Her voice was not flirtatious or hesitant, only steady and honest. The sort of truth that could knock the wind out of a person.
He did not know what to do with it.
Something in his chest pulled taut, tight, unbearable.
He coughed, as if that might clear the sudden pressure in his throat or shake loose the foolish warmth blooming behind his ribs.
Did she mean it? Could someone like her, young, vibrant, filled to the brim with life, really see him? Him, with his tired bones and older eyes and an illness growing in the quiet of his skull?
"So what now?" The words slipped out before he could stop them. He was not even sure what he meant. A question. A plea. A warning.
Tonks smiled again, but softer this time. Braver. Not the grin of someone teasing a professor, but the smile of someone who had made up her mind about something true.
"Well," she said lightly, "first, I pass my exam." She shrugged one shoulder. "And then… I'll figure it out from there."
The way she said it, unguarded and full of possibility, made his heart ache.
She did not fear the future.
And he, tired, broken, and already halfway to goodbye, suddenly wanted one.
A dangerous thing.
Hope.
It crept in quietly, like a draught beneath a door. Uninvited. Unwanted. Real all the same.
They did not speak much after that. The lesson wound down in a quiet, thoughtful hush. Tonks gathered her parchment, humming a tune he did not recognise. Remus packed his notes more slowly than usual, fingers stiffer than they had been that morning. The stiffness was spreading now, a dull echo of what waited in his mind.
At the door, she paused. Her hair was soft rose now, threaded with moon-silver.
"Good luck, Ms Tonks," he said, his voice lower than he meant, quieter than he liked.
She turned, eyes bright. "Thanks, Professor. I'll ace it for you."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.
Remus stayed in his seat.
He stayed long after her footsteps faded, forcing himself to remember the line he had nearly crossed. He reminded himself that kindness, in his hands, could too easily become longing.
The classroom had finally fallen quiet. The sort of quiet that came only after a long day, when even the castle itself seemed to exhale.
Remus let out a long breath, the soft clink of ink bottles and the rustle of parchment lingering faintly in the hush that followed the third years' departure. The sunlight had turned mellow by now, casting long shafts of gold through the high windows, spilling across the desks like spilt tea. Dust hung in the air, caught in the light, slow and deliberate, as if time had forgotten to keep moving.
He sank into the chair behind his desk, the wood groaning a little beneath him. His head ached, not sharply but with that steady, pressing weight that signalled the tumour was making itself known again. Lately it had been constant, like the tide. Still, he pressed it aside. There was one more hour to give, one more student to see.
A knock broke the quiet.
Not hurried. Not forceful. A quiet, almost uncertain tap.
"Come in," he said, voice worn thin by the day.
The door creaked open. And there she was.
Tonks stood in the doorway, subdued. The usual boldness in her stance had softened. Her shoulders were tucked in, her chin not quite lifted. Even her hair had dulled to a pale, washed-out mauve, hanging loose and unstyled. It was a tone he had rarely seen on her, a colour that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. She looked like someone who had not quite got the answer she was hoping for.
In her hand, crumpled slightly at the corners, was a single piece of parchment. He did not need to ask what it was.
Remus sat up, a flicker of concern rousing him from the fog behind his eyes. "How did it go?" he asked gently. "Let us have a look."
She crossed the room slowly, dragging her feet in a way that was unlike her, and held the parchment out without meeting his eye. "I did my best," she said simply, dropping into a nearby chair with a dramatic sigh and flinging her bag to the floor.
That alone told him more than any words would have.
He unfolded the parchment carefully. Her writing, as ever, was sharp and neat, though slightly rushed near the end. He could see the fatigue in it, the tell-tale slope of her hand when she pushed herself too far. The structure was sound. Arguments well formed. And then he paused.
"In 1707," he read under his breath, "who served as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and became the first Minister for Magic?" He found her answer and sighed lightly through his nose. "Ulick Gump," he murmured.
A pause followed. Then, with a faint shake of his head, he said quietly, "You wrote 'Gump' instead of 'Gamp'."
Behind him, the chair gave another small creak. Then came her voice, muffled behind her hands. "Brilliant. There goes my future."
Remus allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Bit dramatic, do you not think?"
"A letter off, and I bring shame to the entire department," she went on, voice still half-buried behind her palms. "That will look wonderful on the Auror application, will it not?"
He gave a quiet huff of amusement and set the parchment aside. "It was an excellent paper, Ms Tonks. Truly. One of the strongest I have seen this year."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "Even with the Gump debacle?"
"Even with that. Though you may wish to avoid suggesting the Ministry was once run by a man who sounds like a children's confection."
That earned a reluctant laugh, the sound light but weary.
And still, he could not help but look at her a moment longer.
Tonks shifted in her chair, arms folded tight across her middle, her jaw set with quiet frustration. "I really thought I had it," she said, not quite looking at him. Her fingers picked at the edge of the desk, nails catching on the worn wood, as if she could scratch the mistake from existence.
Remus glanced back down at the parchment in his hand. The slip was so minor it was almost laughable: one misplaced letter in an otherwise flawless paper. But Tonks was not laughing. And neither, truthfully, was he.
"If I were the one marking this," he began, then paused. Technically, he was not the primary marker. The official examiner, Professor Cattermole, had delegated moderation to him for the senior Defence candidates, and discretion on minor mechanical slips fell within that remit.
He looked at her again. Her shoulders were drawn in, deflated. This was not about pride or ego; it was about everything she had fought to prove. She had come so far. Worked harder than anyone else he had taught this term, and that was not sentiment; it was fact. She had earned more than some bureaucratic technicality holding her back.
He hesitated, reminding himself that moderation allowed discretion on mechanical slips. This, surely, qualified. It was not leniency; it was fairness. And yet the thought of her disappointment made the decision feel perilously personal.
Before reason could stop him, Remus drew a small tick beside the single spelling error. He hesitated, quill poised above the parchment. It was the only mistake in ten pages of exceptional reasoning and original thought. Hardly worth docking points over.
His better judgement reminded him that rules existed for a reason. His heart, inconveniently, murmured something else.
He wrote, "Minor spelling error. Excellent analysis." The nib hovered again before he added a second word beneath it: "Outstanding."
When he slid the parchment back across the desk, Tonks's eyes widened. She blinked at the paper as though she didn't quite trust what she was seeing.
"Wait," she said, half teasing. "So that's full marks, then?"
"It is," he replied evenly, keeping his tone light. "You earned them."
"Does this mean our deal still stands?" she pressed, her grin just a little too hopeful. The question carried more weight than she realised.
He allowed himself a quiet smile, looking back at the paper instead of her. "It means you have proved your point. You wanted to show me what you could do, and you have."
"That's not what I meant," she said softly.
He looked up then, meeting her gaze. "I know."
She was grinning now. Beaming, in fact. That mischievous spark returned to her eyes, and in a sudden burst of motion she was on her feet, dancing a little half-circle near his desk, parchment clutched to her chest like it was a love letter from Merlin himself.
Remus couldn't help it. His mouth twitched.
"You're impossible," he said, though the words held no heat. His voice came out softer than he intended.
Tonks halted, her expression turning mock-serious. She leaned forward across his desk, elbows planted, chin propped on her fists. "Hang on. You did want to go on a date with me, didn't you?" she said, far too casually, her eyes gleaming.
Remus went stiff as a board.
"No!" he said, far too quickly. "I mean, of course not. I was merely honouring the hypothetical arrangement from before."
Tonks burst out laughing.
It was not a polite, restrained chuckle; it was full-bodied and bright, echoing off the high stone walls. That laugh of hers had always undone him a little. Reckless. Alive.
She dropped back into her chair, legs stretched out before her, still giggling. "You're terrible at lying," she said, breathless.
Remus tried very hard not to smile but failed.
He watched her, this ridiculous, brilliant girl who had somehow wormed her way into the quieter corners of his heart. She was glowing, not just from the grade but from the knowledge that she had done it herself. That she had proved them all wrong, even herself.
And yet, the warmth in his chest was tempered by something colder beneath it.
Because he could not say yes. Not really. Not to a date, not to a future. Every instinct screamed that to accept even the joke of it would be a betrayal of her trust, of his duty. Not when the days left to him felt numbered. Not when he still had not told anyone the truth.
So instead, he folded his hands, steadying his breath. "Well done," he said softly. "Truly."
Her smile softened, something gentle blooming behind it. "Thanks, Professor."
She didn't tease him again. Didn't push.
She didn't have to.
She had passed.
And with that, the next chapter began, whether he was ready or not.
The tick on the parchment still gleamed faintly in the light. It would dry soon enough, but for now it shone a mark of mercy he pretended was fairness, not affection.