The sun hung lazily in the cloudless afternoon sky, its golden light bathing the grounds of Hogwarts in a warmth that felt almost deceptive. It was the kind of day that begged to be carefree—laughter floated across the lawns, students lounged in easy groups, and the occasional magical mishap only added to the charm.
But for Tonks, everything felt a few shades dimmer.
She sat under the shade of the old beech tree with Penny Haywood and Chiara Lobosca, the bark rough against her back. Her legs were stretched out in the grass, but there was no comfort in it. Her curls clung to her damp forehead, her eyes half-lidded from lack of sleep. She felt frayed at the edges, like her nerves had been humming for days.
She didn't know why exactly. Maybe it was the feeling that something was building—just out of sight. A pressure in the air that hadn't yet broken.
"She's at it again," Penny murmured, tilting her chin toward a small scene playing out across the courtyard.
Tonks followed her gaze. Ismelda Murk—cool, collected, and endlessly smug—was standing over a girl crouched low to the ground. Her wand glinted at her side.
"She's really going all out," Penny added, a flicker of amusement in her tone, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Tonks's stomach twisted. Something wasn't right.
Chiara scoffed. "Today's the day, yeah? We were meant to do something about this."
Tonks blinked slowly. "We were?"
"You forgot?" Chiara asked, incredulous. Her silver hair shimmered in the sun. "You promised."
Tonks's eyes drifted again—past the crowd, to the lake, where the giant squid floated like a dream. That kind of peace felt worlds away from what was brewing in front of her.
"I just…" she began, but didn't finish. What was she supposed to say? That she was tired? That it was hard to care about someone else's fight when her own thoughts wouldn't quiet?
But Chiara pressed. "Are you really going to sit here while she does that?"
Tonks finally looked. Properly looked.
Badeea Smith. Fifth-year Ravenclaw. Quiet, gentle. She looked like she'd rather disappear into the ground than face Ismelda's wand again. Her robes were dusty, and her brown eyes were wide with fear.
"I don't have anything," Badeea pleaded, voice cracking. "Please. I swear, I've got nothing left."
Tonks could feel it now—a tight coil in her chest. Shame, anger. And guilt. She should've stopped this before it got this far.
Ismelda's voice was cold. "A promise is a promise."
Tonks pushed up before she even registered the decision. She didn't wait for Professor Lupin, who was already making his way across the lawn. Her boots hit the grass hard with each step.
She barely knew him, this new professor. Something about him always felt… familiar. A sense of déjà vu that refused to explain itself. Maybe it was the way he carried quiet sadness in his shoulders—like he knew more than he let on.
But that didn't matter now. None of it did.
She moved past him, fast and purposeful.
"Ismelda!" she called out sharply.
Ismelda turned, startled. So did Professor Lupin.
Tonks met her eyes, full of steel. She didn't raise her wand. She didn't have to.
"That's enough."
The words were simple. But the way she said them made the air go still. Even Ismelda took a small, involuntary step back.
Tonks could see it—the moment of hesitation, the flicker of doubt in her so-called friend's face.
"Tonks…" Ismelda's voice faltered, her usual bravado thinning.
"What are you doing?" Tonks asked, keeping her voice calm but heavy with disappointment. "This isn't you."
Ismelda's gaze dropped to the grass. "She owes me."
"No. She's scared of you."
A silence fell between them, stretched taut.
"I don't like this," Tonks said softly. "And I don't like bullies. Even when they're people I care about."
Ismelda looked at her, something raw flashing in her eyes. Guilt? Maybe. But it passed too quickly to catch.
Before she could say anything more, Badeea stood, shaky but upright.
"Tonks," she said hesitantly, "it's okay. It's not… It's not a big deal."
"It is," Tonks said, not looking away from Ismelda. "And it's not okay."
There was a beat of silence, then Ismelda muttered something under her breath and walked off, stiff-backed.
Tonks exhaled. Only then did she realise how tense she'd been—jaw tight, shoulders locked.
Penny moved to Badeea's side. "You alright?"
Badeea gave a small nod, eyes glassy. "Thanks," she whispered.
Tonks watched her. The way she held herself together like threadbare cloth—just enough not to fall apart.
She hated how often this happened. How easy it was for the strong to corner the quiet. And how often the rest of them—she included—just watched.
Just then, Professor Lupin approached.
His long strides cut clean through the sunlight, and even the easy chatter on the lawn seemed to still in his wake. Tonks felt the shift immediately—like a current of magic had rolled over the grass, and everyone had felt it, whether they knew it or not.
He stopped in front of them, eyes scanning the scene. When they landed on Badeea—still shaken—they narrowed slightly, and the warm look he'd worn earlier hardened.
"What is this?" he asked, sharply.
The words sliced the air.
Tonks's breath caught. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, it felt like she was thirteen again, caught red-handed sneaking through the corridors.
"Nothing, Professor Lupin," she replied quickly. Too quickly. The lie was flimsy, even as it left her lips.
His brow lifted with quiet scepticism. That kind of look didn't need a raised voice. It was heavy with disappointment, and that was always worse.
"If there's truly nothing going on," he said, voice smooth but firm, "I suggest you all return to your Houses. Hogwarts has enough chaos without students loitering and escalating things."
"Yes, sir," Tonks murmured. She watched him turn, cloak trailing slightly behind him as he made his way toward the castle. Only when he was a safe distance away did she let out the breath she'd been holding.
Then, without another word, she turned back to Badeea.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You won't be bullied again. Not while I'm around."
Badeea looked up, her face trembling. And then the tears came—quiet at first, then unstoppable.
Tonks didn't hesitate. She moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. Badeea's sobs shook her small frame.
"There, there…" Tonks whispered, smoothing her hair back with slow, calming fingers. "You're alright now."
"I don't know how to thank you," Badeea choked out, voice raw. "Every day—it's been like this every single day. And no one's ever done anything. Not once."
Tonks's heart sank. Shame pressed against her ribs like a lead weight. She'd seen the signs—so had others. But no one had wanted to get involved.
"I'm so sorry," Penny said softly, kneeling beside them. Her hand rested gently on Badeea's shoulder. "You didn't deserve any of it. None of it."
Badeea looked between them, confusion flickering through her tear-streaked face. "Why… Why are you helping me? Why would you care about someone like me?"
Tonks blinked, caught off guard by the question. But then her heart pulled tight.
Why?
Because she'd stood still for too long. Because she'd watched people slip through the cracks. Because this girl—quiet, kind, terrified—deserved better.
"Because no one should suffer alone," Tonks said quietly. "And you don't have to anymore. We're friends."
Chiara stepped in then, arms crossed, her voice resolute. "Exactly. You're not alone now."
"Friends?" Badeea repeated it, like the word was something foreign. Like it didn't quite fit her.
Tonks smiled, the kind that reached her eyes. "Would you like to join us?"
For a second, the fear on Badeea's face lifted. Just a flicker. But it was enough.
"Yes," she said, voice trembling but sure. "I'd love to."
"Good." Tonks said. "Penny, Chiara—head inside with her, yeah? I'll catch up."
The others nodded and led Badeea gently toward the castle. Their silhouettes grew smaller in the warm haze, laughter beginning to rise from the distance once again, like the day was trying to reclaim itself.
But Tonks stayed back.
She watched Professor Lupin, who hadn't gone far. He stood alone near the stone steps, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if weighing something far heavier than student mischief.
Her curiosity prickled again. There was something in him—a sadness she couldn't name. And that strange familiarity hadn't faded.
She took a breath and crossed the grass.
"Professor," she called out.
He turned, expression unreadable.
"Is something the matter, Miss…?"
"Nymphadora Tonks," she said, then winced. "Just Tonks is fine."
He nodded once. "Ms. Tonks."
She hesitated. The words were harder to say than she'd expected. "Have we met before?"
Professor Lupin's expression shifted—only slightly, but Tonks caught it. A flicker in his eyes. Recognition? Maybe. But it passed.
"I don't believe so," he replied gently. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugged, playing it off. "You just… seem familiar."
She was surprised by her own honesty. It wasn't like her to voice these strange feelings. But then again, today had already made her feel a little unlike herself.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, her tone quieter now. "Ismelda didn't mean any real harm."
Professor Lupin turned to face her fully. There was no smile now. Just quiet concern.
"You knew what was happening?" he asked.
The words hit her harder than expected. She flinched. "No—I mean, not really. I didn't realise how far she'd gone. Not until I saw Badeea."
Professor Lupin didn't answer at first. Then he gave a small, weary chuckle—not unkind, but heavy. "It's alright to feel guilty, Ms. Tonks. But I expected better from you."
Tonks dropped her eyes to the ground. The shame that had been simmering finally spilt over.
"I'm sorry. Truly. I tried to stop it. I won't let it happen again."
He studied her, and then something softened in his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I know you won't," he said. "That much was clear. You did the right thing—even if it took you a minute to get there. It could spare you from facing me and answering more questions."
Relief bloomed in her chest.
"I don't mind answering your questions, Professor," she said after a pause. "It's… actually kind of nice. Talking like this. You make time for people."
A light flickered in Professor Lupin's eyes then—something thoughtful, maybe even grateful.
"That's my job," he said simply. "My door's always open, Ms. Tonks."
She nodded, and for a moment, they just stood there, two quiet figures in the fading sun.
Tonks felt a strange warmth settle in her chest at Professor Lupin's parting words. My door is always open. It sounded simple, but it meant something. It wasn't just about the classroom. It was something else. A kind of quiet understanding. One that didn't require flashy magic or titles—just presence.
And for once, it felt like an adult actually saw her. Not just as a student. Not as someone always pretending she had it all together.
She stood still as the silence wrapped around them, thick and awkward. She shifted on her feet, uncertain if she should say something more or let the moment fade into nothing.
"Well," Professor Lupin finally said, glancing at her. "I must prepare for class. I suggest you return to your dormitory as well."
She nodded, watching as he turned, his steps echoing down the corridor with soft finality.
But as he neared the corner, something inside her flared. A tug in her chest—sharp, instinctive.
Without thinking, she stepped forward. "Wait—Professor!"
He paused, turning slightly.
"I'm heading that way too," she said, half out of breath, unsure why the words even came. "Mind if I walk with you? Just to the kitchens."
He looked at her for a beat, and she worried she'd overstepped. But then his expression eased, and the warmth returned to his voice.
"Not at all."
They fell into step beside each other. Tonks wasn't sure what she expected—maybe some stiffness, some awkwardness—but instead, it felt strangely… easy. Comfortable, even. The kind of quiet that didn't demand anything.
The hallway stretched before them, sunlight spilling across the stones in slants of gold. Tonks tucked her hands into her robe sleeves, fingers fidgeting.
Her mind spun with things she wanted to ask. But how do you start a conversation with someone who felt both familiar and distant? Like a song you've heard before but couldn't quite place.
"Professor?" she asked at last.
"Yes?" he replied, eyes flicking toward her with mild curiosity.
"May I speak candidly?"
He stopped walking and turned to face her, giving a slight bow of the head. "Always."
The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
"I never liked History of Magic."
It sounded more blunt than she meant, and her cheeks immediately flushed. "I mean—not until now. It always felt like… like reading an old tombstone. Dusty facts, lifeless lectures. But with you—" She paused. "It's different."
He blinked, then laughed. A real laugh. Not polite. Not forced. It was the kind that warmed the space between them.
"You're not alone in that opinion. History tends to get a bad reputation."
"Deservedly," Tonks said, grinning now. "But you make it feel like it matters. Like it's alive again."
Professor Lupin's smile softened. "Thank you. That means more than you know."
They turned a corner, and something in Tonks shifted. She found herself studying him—not just his words or expressions, but the quiet way he carried himself. The slight hunch in his shoulders. The lines around his eyes. The way he spoke was like someone who'd lived more than he let on.
"You're very tall, aren't you?" She said suddenly. "Six foot one?"
He let out a low chuckle. "Roughly, yes."
"And you're a half-blood, right?" she asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.
But before the question fully left her lips, everything changed.
Without warning, Professor Lupin staggered. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor with a soft, sickening thud.
"Professor!" Tonks gasped, lunging forward.
He didn't respond.
She dropped beside him, hands flying to his shoulders, his chest, anywhere she could feel for movement. His breathing was shallow—erratic.
Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might tear through her ribs. The stone floor was frigid beneath her knees, but she barely noticed. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be real.
Not Professor Lupin.
"Hey—hey, come on, wake up!" She urged, voice trembling.
But he lay still.
Tonks's panic surged. She scrambled to her feet, barely pausing before she broke into a sprint.
The corridors blurred. Her robes whipped around her as she ran, faster than she ever had. Her footsteps thundered through the quiet hallways, heartbeat roaring in her ears.
Please be okay. Please.
She didn't even knock when she reached the classroom.
"Professor McGonagall!" she shouted, flinging the door open.
Everything stopped.
Dozens of faces turned toward her—wide-eyed students frozen mid-quill, mid-turn, and mid-breath. Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the room, wand in hand, her stern expression snapping into surprise.
"Ms. Tonks?" she asked sharply, concern creeping into her voice.
"I'm— I'm sorry to interrupt," Tonks panted, breath ragged. "But Professor Lupin—he's collapsed. He's on the floor. He's not waking up. I— I don't know what happened—"
That was all it took.
Professor McGonagall's face drained of colour. The stern mask she always wore cracked for just a heartbeat, replaced by something raw—fear, maybe, or urgency. But the hesitation didn't last.
She was already moving.
In one swift motion, she swept from behind her desk, her robes flaring out behind her. "You will all remain here," she said crisply to the class, her voice like a wand strike. "Continue practising the charm I assigned with your partners. No exceptions. I'll return shortly. Ms. Tonks, lead me to him—now."
Tonks nodded, already halfway into the hallway, her pulse still racing like she hadn't stopped running.
She didn't look back.
The castle blurred around her as she led the way through the corridor, Professor McGonagall's clipped steps close behind. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, not just from the run, but from everything crashing down inside her chest.
Please let him be okay. Please don't let me be too late.
She'd never seen someone collapse like that. Not like this. Not a teacher. Not someone like Professor Lupin—so calm, so steady. She had never really thought about how fragile people could be underneath all that magic and bravado.
"He was fine," Tonks whispered, barely aware she'd spoken aloud. "He was fine. We were just talking."
Professor McGonagall didn't answer. But her face—set, pale, focused—said enough.
Tonks's legs burnt as they rounded the last corridor. The stone floor stretched out like a path through a nightmare. There—just ahead—Professor Lupin still lay on the cold stone, unmoving, his wand just out of reach like he'd dropped it mid-thought.
"There!" Tonks gasped, pointing.
Professor McGonagall didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees beside him, her wand already out. "Remus—" she murmured, and for a brief second, Tonks caught something unfamiliar in her tone: gentleness. Worry.
She stepped back, suddenly feeling like a child in the wrong room.
"Ms. Tonks!"
Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through Tonks's fog of panic like a wand through smoke. Sharp. Grounding.
The professor's expression was tight now—resolute, efficient. All traces of disbelief were gone, replaced by steely focus. Her eyes flicked to Professor Lupin, and just like that, she was all action.
"We need to get him to the Hospital Wing immediately."
Tonks barely nodded, still frozen. She watched, helpless, as Professor McGonagall raised her wand. With a practised sweep, the older witch conjured a stretcher—smooth, silent, hovering just inches from the ground.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Professor McGonagall intoned. Her voice was firm, unwavering.
A soft glow surrounded the stretcher as Professor Lupin was gently lifted from the floor. His body floated, too still. Too pale. Tonks's heart clenched.
They moved quickly through the corridor, Professor McGonagall at the front, guiding the stretcher as though she'd done this a thousand times. Tonks walked beside it, her hands trembling at her sides, feeling more like a ghost than a student.
"What exactly happened to him?" Professor McGonagall asked without looking away from the floating figure.
Tonks swallowed hard, her throat dry. "We were just talking… walking down the corridor. He seemed fine. Then he just… fell."
Professor McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't respond. That silence was worse than any reprimand.
The hall blurred past them—portraits turning to watch, whispering to each other behind painted hands. Tonks didn't meet their eyes. She couldn't.
When they finally reached the Hospital Wing, the door flew open at Professor McGonagall's command. Madam Pomfrey was already there, sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowing with immediate concern as she hurried forward.
"Professor McGonagall, Ms. Tonks," she said, brisk but calm. "What's happened?"
"Professor Lupin collapsed. We don't know why," Professor McGonagall replied, urgency clipped into every syllable. "He's unresponsive."
"Set him down—gently," Madam Pomfrey instructed, clearing a bed with a wave of her wand.
Professor McGonagall guided the stretcher beside it, then released the spell. Professor Lupin lowered slowly onto the mattress, his limbs limp, head turned slightly to one side.
Tonks stood rooted near the door. Her fists were clenched, her breathing shallow. She hated this place. Hated the sterile scent of potions and antiseptic. The polished metal instruments. The oppressive quiet. It reminded her of the St. Mungo's waiting rooms—of long hours, whispered fears, and news that never came gently.
She couldn't stop staring at him. This can't be happening.
Was it something she said? Something she missed?
A jagged edge of guilt sliced through her chest. She should've noticed the signs. Something. Anything.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
The voice cut through her thoughts. She turned toward Madam Pomfrey, who had stepped away from Professor Lupin's bedside. Her tone wasn't clinical—it was kind. And that, somehow, made it harder to bear.
"I'm fine," Tonks said, but the lie clung to her lips. Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Why don't you sit down for a moment?" Madam Pomfrey suggested gently, motioning to an empty bed. "You've had quite the shock."
Tonks hesitated. Her pride bristled—but something in the matron's eyes made her legs give way. She sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The mattress dipped under her weight, grounding her.
Madam Pomfrey returned to Professor Lupin's side. Professor McGonagall stood nearby, her arms folded, eyes narrowed as though searching for some hidden answer in the stillness.
Tonks leaned forward slightly, straining to hear.
"I'll keep Remus here overnight," Madam Pomfrey said quietly. "His magical core is depleted. Whatever he was doing, it pushed him too far."
Tonks's heart skipped. Magical core? That didn't sound like a simple fainting spell. That sounded… dangerous.
"What's wrong with him?" she blurted out. Her voice sounded loud in the hush of the room. Too raw.
The two older women exchanged a brief look. Tonks didn't miss it. That pause. That careful calculation.
Madam Pomfrey turned toward her with a faint, practised smile. "His condition is stable. There's no need to worry."
But Tonks did worry. And no amount of warm smiles or gentle tones could untie the knot in her gut.
She looked at Professor Lupin again. Pale. Still. Vulnerable in a way that didn't match the man she'd spoken with only minutes ago.
She wanted answers. And more than that, she wanted not to feel like she'd failed someone again.
So she sat, silent and tense, not yet ready to leave. Because if something else happened—if he woke, or worse—she needed to be here. She had to be here.
Because the truth, simple and terrifying, was this:
She cared.
And that was something she hadn't been ready for.
Not yet.
Not like this.