The sun hung lazily in the cloudless afternoon sky, casting golden warmth over the Hogwarts grounds. It was the sort of day that begged for lightness—students sprawled on the lawns, laughter echoing between stone walls, the occasional spell misfire adding to the gentle chaos. It felt like a world at peace.
But for Tonks, everything was a few shades dimmer.
She sat beneath the beech tree with Penny Haywood and Chiara Lobosca, its bark pressed against her spine. Her legs stretched out into the dappled grass, but there was no ease in her posture. Her curls clung to her forehead, and behind half-lidded eyes was the weight of a night without sleep.
Everything felt too loud. Too soft. Too much.
Something was building. She could feel it—an invisible pressure in the air, a storm just out of sight.
"She's at it again," Penny said quietly, nodding toward the courtyard.
Tonks followed her gaze.
Ismelda Murk stood over a girl crouched low against the stones. Her wand hung loose at her side, but the threat in it was unmistakable. Around them, a few students watched, uncertain—no one intervened.
"She's really going all out," Penny added, but the amusement in her voice was brittle. Forced.
Chiara scoffed. "Today's the day, yeah? We said we'd stop this."
Tonks blinked slowly. "We did?"
"You forgot?" Chiara stared, silver hair catching in the breeze. "You promised."
Tonks didn't answer. Her eyes drifted past the scene to the glittering lake in the distance where the giant squid floated, tentacles splayed like silk. That kind of peace felt impossibly far away.
"I just…" she started, but the words thinned in her mouth. What was she supposed to say? That she was too tired to fight? That everything inside her felt like static?
But Chiara's voice cut back in, sharper now. "You're really going to sit here while she does that?"
Tonks turned her head. This time, she looked.
Badeea Smith. Fifth-year Ravenclaw. Gentle, quiet, always sketching in the margins of her notebooks. She stood like someone already halfway gone—shoulders curled, robes dusty, voice small.
"I don't have anything," Badeea said, her voice breaking. "Please. I swear, I've got nothing left."
Tonks felt it then—that sharp twist in her chest. Shame. Anger. Guilt. This wasn't the first time Ismelda had done something like this. But it was the first time Tonks realised how far she'd let it go.
Ismelda's voice cut through the warm afternoon. "A promise is a promise."
Tonks rose before she knew she was moving.
She didn't wait for the figure approaching from the other side of the lawn—Professor Lupin, steady and silent, weaving through students with that soft-footed stride of his. She barely knew him. He'd only been at Hogwarts a few weeks, but there was something about him—some quiet familiarity that tugged at her, like the ghost of a memory.
She passed him without a word. His gaze followed her.
"Ismelda!" Tonks's voice cracked through the courtyard.
Heads turned. So did Ismelda.
Tonks didn't raise her wand. She didn't need to.
"That's enough."
The air stilled. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
Ismelda blinked, caught off guard. Her usual smirk faltered.
"Tonks…" she said uncertainly, and for the first time, Tonks heard something beneath the bravado. Something small.
"What are you doing?" Tonks asked, voice low, firm. "This isn't you."
Ismelda glanced away. "She owes me."
"No. She's scared of you."
That landed. Not loud, but clear. A few students shifted uncomfortably.
Tonks let the silence hang.
"I don't like this," she said finally, softly. "And I don't like bullies. Even when they're people I care about."
There. The flicker in Ismelda's eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or just fear of being seen too clearly.
Before anything else could be said, Badeea rose. Her legs shook, but she stood. "Tonks," she said softly, "it's okay. It's not… It's not a big deal."
"It is," Tonks said without turning. "And it's not okay."
There was a beat.
Ismelda muttered something under her breath and stalked off, spine straight, cheeks flushed. Not defiant—just undone.
Tonks exhaled. Her muscles ached from how tightly she'd been holding herself.
Penny moved to Badeea's side, gentle now. "You alright?"
Badeea nodded. Her voice was barely audible. "Thanks."
Tonks gave her a brief smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. The adrenaline had already begun to drain, leaving behind that same gnawing emptiness.
Just then, she saw him—Professor Lupin, his steps deliberate and calm, like he was walking through smoke rather than sunlight.
The chatter around them—soft, harmless things about homework, sweets, Hogsmeade—fell away, stilled without anyone even realising. Tonks felt it immediately. Like the air had shifted. Like magic, yes, but deeper than that—like gravity had changed its mind and decided it was following him now instead.
He stopped just in front of them, and his gaze swept the group. When his eyes landed on Badeea, still pale and shaken, something changed in his expression. The usual calm kindness slipped, and what replaced it was sharper—cool and clear.
"What is this?" he asked. Quietly. But it cut through everything.
Tonks's stomach clenched. The question dropped like a stone. Her breath caught before she even realised it, and for a ridiculous second, she was thirteen again, caught trying to hide her pregnancy from Andromeda.
"Nothing, Professor Lupin," she said quickly—too quickly. The words came out brittle and thin. She knew it was a rubbish lie the moment it left her mouth.
He raised an eyebrow. Not dramatically, just enough. That kind of look didn't need volume. It spoke in the silence between words. Disappointment. And Merlin, that always stung more than being yelled at.
"If there's truly nothing going on," he said, tone calm but unmistakably firm, "then I suggest you all return to your Houses. Hogwarts has enough chaos without students loitering and stirring things up."
"Yes, sir," Tonks mumbled.
He turned and walked off, his cloak brushing against the grass behind him, the way wind moves just before a storm. She watched his back retreat across the lawn, and only once he was nearly at the castle did she finally breathe again. Her lungs burnt slightly, as if they'd forgotten how to work properly.
She turned back to Badeea, who still stood frozen, her shoulders curled inwards, hands shaking slightly.
"You alright?" Tonks asked gently, stepping closer. "You're not going to be bullied again. Not while I'm here."
Badeea looked up at her, eyes wide, lower lip trembling. And then, like a dam breaking, the tears came—quiet at first, but then they wouldn't stop. Her small frame trembled with every sob.
Tonks didn't hesitate. She slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in, offering whatever comfort she could with the awkwardness of someone who hated to see others cry but would always stay when they did.
"There, now…" she murmured, stroking Badeea's hair back with one careful hand. "You're safe. You're alright."
"I don't know how to thank you," Badeea said, voice raw and hoarse. "It's been like this… every day. And no one's ever done anything. Not once."
Tonks felt something twist inside her. Guilt, maybe. Or something worse—a kind of shame she didn't know where to put. She'd seen it. She'd noticed the way Badeea always sat alone, the flinches in the hallway, and the silences that followed her like a second shadow. But Tonks had never stepped in. Not until now.
And now it felt too late.
"I'm so sorry," Penny whispered, standing beside them. Her hand came to rest gently on Badeea's arm. "You didn't deserve any of this. Not even a second of it."
Badeea looked at them both, eyes red and wet, confusion flickering behind them like candlelight in wind. "But… why?" she asked. "Why are you helping me? Why do you even care? I'm no one."
The words stung. Tonks blinked. They didn't seem fair, but they were heartbreakingly honest. She stared at the girl, really looked at her—thin arms, bitten nails, hunched shoulders, like she was used to folding herself out of everyone's way.
And suddenly, Tonks knew.
Because I've stood by before. Because I've let people fall through the cracks, hoping someone else would reach out. Because that's not who I want to be anymore.
She took a slow breath and said quietly, "Because no one should have to suffer on their own. And you're not alone now. You've got us. We're friends."
Chiara stepped forward, arms folded but her voice strong. "Exactly. You're not alone anymore."
Badeea stared between them like she was dreaming with her eyes open. "Friends?" she whispered the word like it was foreign. Like it didn't belong to her yet.
Tonks smiled, the kind that tugged at the corners of her eyes and softened everything inside her. "Would you like to join us?"
For a second, just a breath of a moment, the fear on Badeea's face lifted. Not completely. But enough. Enough to let something else in.
"Yes," she said. Her voice shook, but the word didn't. "I'd love to."
Tonks nodded. "Good. Penny, Chiara—walk her in, yeah? I'll catch up."
They both nodded and moved gently around Badeea, guiding her back across the lawn. Their figures shrank into the golden haze of the afternoon, the hum of laughter rising again in the distance. The day tried to move on, as if the moment hadn't just cracked something open.
But Tonks didn't follow.
She stayed where she was, eyes drifting back toward the castle steps. Professor Lupin hadn't gone far. He stood just near the base of the stairs, hands in his pockets, looking out over the grounds with a faraway expression, like he was holding something heavy but invisible.
She frowned, curiosity tugging at her thoughts again. There was something about him—a sadness wrapped in quiet, like he was always somewhere else in his mind, remembering something he couldn't put down.
Tonks hesitated, then stepped forward across the grass, heart thudding—not with fear, exactly. Something closer to knowing.
She wasn't sure what she'd say. But she knew she couldn't leave things like this.
Not again.
"Professor!"
The word left her before she could stop it—louder than she meant, too eager, too exposed. But she didn't take it back.
He turned. The sun behind him threw his face into shadow, and for a moment, he looked unreal—like he didn't quite belong to this world. His expression was unreadable. Still. Measured. But not empty.
"Is something the matter, Miss…?"
"Nymphadora Tonks," she said automatically—and regretted it instantly. Her face twisted. "Er—just Tonks, please."
Something shifted in his eyes. Not amusement, but a quiet kind of understanding.
"Ms. Tonks."
The formal reply landed gently, but she still felt a flush rise at the back of her neck. She didn't like how her own name sounded out of her mouth sometimes. It always felt too full of someone else's expectations.
She hesitated, suddenly unsure of what had possessed her to call out to him in the first place. But the feeling was still there—that strange, magnetic pull toward him. Not crush-like, not the way she'd gossiped about before with Chiara and Penny. This was different. Like recognition. Like remembering a word you've never spoken.
"Have we… met before?" she asked, quietly now.
There was a tiny pause. Barely there. But she caught it.
Something flickered across his face—behind the eyes. A quiet compression of the lips, a stilling of breath. Recognition. Definitely. But then it was gone, erased with careful precision.
"I don't believe so," he said, voice as smooth as ever, but with something tucked beneath it. "Why do you ask?"
She gave a shrug, trying for casual. "You just seem… familiar. That's all."
She hadn't meant to be so honest. The words had slipped through before she could weigh them, like most things she said when her heart outran her head. But there it was—the truth. And she wasn't sure what startled her more: saying it or meaning it.
Professor Lupin nodded but didn't reply.
The silence stretched just long enough to make her uneasy.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she added, voice dropping. "With Ismelda. She's got a big mouth, but… She didn't mean real harm."
He turned to face her fully now. Slowly. And that quiet calm he wore like a second skin grew heavier. Denser.
"You knew what was happening?"
She felt it before she understood it—that tightening in her chest, the sting behind her ribs.
"I—I didn't realise," she said, stumbling over the words. "Not properly. Not until I saw Badeea's face. I didn't know it had gone that far."
But she had. Hadn't she?
Not all of it. But enough. The silences in the hallway. The quick glances. Badeea keeping her back to walls, clutching books like armour. Tonks had noticed. She'd just… not acted.
Professor Lupin didn't say anything at first. His expression didn't change much—but there was something in his eyes now. Not anger. Worse. Disappointment. That silent kind that wrapped itself around her shoulders.
Then came a sound. Soft. Barely a breath. A tired sort of laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
"It's alright to feel guilty, Ms. Tonks," he said gently. "It means you still care. But I expected better from you."
Her heart sank.
It wasn't cruel, the way he said it. That almost made it harder. She wanted him to be stern, cross, and detached. But he wasn't. He was kind. And that… that made the shame so much sharper.
"I am sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "Truly. I should've stepped in sooner. I promise, I'll never ignore it again."
She looked down at her feet. The corridor stones looked suddenly very old, like they'd seen more than she ever would. She hated the silence that followed. But she didn't fill it.
Finally, Lupin spoke again—quieter now.
"I believe you."
When she looked up, his face had softened. Just slightly. Enough that she could breathe again.
"You did the right thing in the end," he added. "That's what matters. You took responsibility. Most don't. Or else you'd be facing me and answering more questions."
The relief spread through her chest like a slow exhale, curling around the guilt that still lingered. She felt something new stirring in its place—pride, maybe. Or the start of it.
"I don't mind answering your questions, Professor," she said, and it surprised her how true that was. "You make it easy to talk. You… make time for people."
He tilted his head, thoughtful.
"That's my job."
But there was something behind the words. A sadness. Not pity, not for her—for himself, maybe. A weariness threaded through the syllables like old grief.
Then he added, "My door's always open, Ms. Tonks."
Something about the way he said it rooted itself in her. It didn't sound like a formality. It sounded like a promise. Real. Quiet, but steady. Like a lighthouse you didn't know you needed until the fog came in.
They stood there for a while, not speaking. Just the sound of wind stirring through the corridor windows and footsteps somewhere far away.
She wasn't sure what else to say or if she should say more. He'd already given her more than most adults ever did—a sliver of trust. A hand not held out, but not withdrawn either.
"Well," he said after a moment, with a glance toward the stairwell. "I've lessons to prepare. You should return to your dormitory."
She nodded, her throat tight. Her feet stayed planted.
He turned. Took a step away.
And something pulled in her chest—something sharp and instinctive and unnameable.
"Wait—Professor!"
He paused.
"I'm heading that way too," she said quickly, breath catching. "To the kitchens. Mind if I walk with you?"
She almost regretted it immediately. The words sounded silly in her ears, like a child trying to chase a grown-up's shadow.
But Professor Lupin turned slightly. And then—there it was. A small smile, faint but genuine.
"Not at all."
They walked in step, side by side. The silence that followed didn't feel uncomfortable. It felt… companionable. Balanced. Like they were both holding something, and neither expected the other to name it.
Tonks tucked her hands into her sleeves, fiddling with a loose thread. Her thoughts were a mess of impressions, half-formed questions and emotions she hadn't sorted through yet.
She wanted to ask about the sadness in his eyes. About why he watched people the way he did, like he was afraid they might disappear if he blinked.
But she didn't ask.
Instead, she walked beside him down the corridor, watching the light spill across the flagstones in golden streaks.
She didn't know what this connection was. Only that it felt real. And that—for the first time in a long while—she didn't feel like she was trying to prove herself.
She just was.
"Professor?" she asked at last, her voice breaking the soft quiet between them.
He glanced sideways, his brow lifting just slightly. "Yes?"
The way he said it—calm, open, without the edge most adults wore when interrupted—made her bold.
"May I speak candidly?"
He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. His head inclined, just a bit, like he was granting permission with more than words. "Always."
She didn't plan what came next. It simply fell out of her.
"I never liked History of Magic."
It sounded harsher aloud than it had in her head. Her stomach dropped.
"I mean—not until now," she added hastily, the heat rising to her cheeks. "It always felt like… like reading an old tombstone. Dusty facts. Lifeless lectures. But with you—" She hesitated, heart fluttering stupidly. "It's different."
Professor Lupin blinked in surprise—and then he laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not one of those teacher-chuckles designed to soften a correction. It was real. Deep. A laugh that folded at the corners of his eyes and lit something warm in the space between them.
"You're not alone in that opinion," he said. "History tends to get a bad reputation."
Tonks grinned despite herself. "Deservedly. But… you make it feel like it matters. Like it's alive again."
His smile changed at that. It was smaller and quieter now. Like he was folding something private into it. "Thank you. That means more than you know."
They turned a corner. The corridor ahead stretched long and sun-dappled, gold light flickering between high windows. Still walking, Tonks glanced over at him.
There was something about the way he carried himself. Not just graceful, but… cautious. Controlled. His shoulders sloped slightly forward, like he was used to shrinking from the world without meaning to. As if his body remembered a weight it no longer carried but hadn't forgotten.
He spoke like someone who had seen things—real things. His words always seemed to come from somewhere deeper. Not rehearsed, but lived.
"You're very tall, aren't you?" She blurted. "Roughly six foot one?"
He gave a surprised laugh. "Kinda."
"And you're a half-blood, right?" She asked, tone still curious and light. But as the words left her mouth—
Something changed.
So fast she couldn't even name it. A flicker in his face. A tension, like a string pulled too tight inside him. And then—
He staggered.
Tonks saw it happen like a slow spill. His knees buckled, his shoulders lurched forward, and before she could reach him—
He collapsed.
"No—Professor!"
She was on the ground beside him in an instant, the chill of the stone biting through her robes, but she didn't feel it. Her hands flew to his shoulders, then his chest—searching for breath, for movement, for anything that would prove this wasn't real.
He was breathing. Barely. Shallow and uneven. Each rise of his chest was a fight.
Her heart thrashed against her ribs.
This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not here. Not now.
"Hey—hey, come on—" Her voice shook. "You've got to wake up. Please."
He didn't stir.
The corridor was far too quiet. No footsteps. No help. Just her breath, ragged and breaking.
"I'll get help," she whispered, even though he couldn't hear her. "Just hang on—please."
Then she was running.
She didn't remember standing. Didn't feel her legs moving. She just ran—robes snapping behind her like wings caught in a storm. Her feet pounded the stone, the castle walls blurring at the edges of her vision.
He was just fine.
He laughed. He laughed.
What happened?
She burst through the classroom door without knocking, without thinking.
"Professor McGonagall!" she gasped.
Dozens of eyes turned to her—startled students, wands half-lifted, mid-spell. Quills froze above parchment. Professor McGonagall turned from the front, a frown already forming—until she saw Tonks's face.
"Ms. Tonks?"
Her voice was sharp. But not angry. Concern was already threading through it.
Tonks could barely get the words out. "He's—Professor Lupin—he collapsed. He's not waking up—he's still on the floor. I—I didn't know what else—"
That was all it took.
Professor McGonagall didn't waste a second. Her face went ashen—not pale like fear, but pale like memory. Like she'd seen this before.
Her wand was already in her hand.
"You will all remain here," she said crisply to the class, not even raising her voice. "Work with your partners. No exceptions. I'll return shortly."
Then to Tonks: "Lead me."
Tonks turned, legs already moving again. The echo of Professor McGonagall's footsteps followed like a heartbeat just behind her.
She couldn't think clearly. She could only feel. Her own breath rasped in her throat, and her eyes burnt.
He was smiling.
He was fine. He said his door was always open.
"He was fine," Tonks said aloud, dazed. "We were just talking…"
Professor McGonagall didn't answer, but Tonks saw the truth in her face. Tight-jawed. Pale. Focused. She was worried. Terribly so.
They rounded the last corner. And there—
Professor Lupin still lay on the stone floor, just where she'd left him. Unmoving.
His wand had rolled a little way from his hand. Like he'd dropped it mid-thought.
"There!" Tonks cried out.
Professor McGonagall dropped beside him with the grace of someone used to emergencies. Her wand swept over him, casting silent spells with the precision of a master. She leaned in, murmuring something Tonks couldn't hear.
But she did hear the way Professor McGonagall said his name.
"Remus."
Soft. Barely a whisper. Not a title. Not "Professor". Just a name. And in it was something Tonks had never heard from her before—gentleness. Worry. Something that cracked the iron in Professor McGonagall's voice.
Tonks backed up. Her hands were shaking now. She didn't want to be in the way.
For the first time all day, she felt small. Not because she was a student. But because something bigger than her had happened, and she couldn't stop it.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't even know why she was so shaken. She hadn't known Professor Lupin long. He wasn't family. Not even really a friend yet. But still…
She felt it. Deep in her chest. That he wasn't just another teacher. And that this moment—whatever it meant—was bigger than she could understand.
He had felt familiar. He had made space for her. He had seen her.
And now he was lying there like a light had gone out.
"Ms. Tonks!"
Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through the fog in Tonks's head—sharp, precise, like a spell snapping a ward back into place.
Tonks blinked. The hallway—the cold stone beneath Professor Lupin's body, the stretch of corridor behind her—came rushing into focus again. Her breath caught on the edge of a sob she refused to let out.
Professor McGonagall's face was a mask of control now—no disbelief, no panic. Just quiet urgency. She looked at Professor Lupin with a flicker of something Tonks couldn't name. Not just concern. Recognition.
"We need to get him to the Hospital Wing. Immediately."
Tonks nodded, though her limbs still felt unmoored, like her body hadn't quite rejoined her mind. She stood frozen as Professor McGonagall raised her wand.
"Mobilicorpus."
A stretcher shimmered into existence—elegant, silent, and precise in its arcane beauty. Another spell followed, whispered under Professor McGonagall's breath, and Professor Lupin's body lifted gently from the ground, guided onto the conjured cot with the tenderness of a mother laying down a child.
He didn't stir.
Tonks's heart twisted.
There was something so wrong about seeing him like that. This man who carried himself with such quiet strength, who held space for others like it was instinct. Now: still, pale, like the magic had been syphoned out of him.
They moved down the corridor, Professor McGonagall leading, the stretcher gliding just behind her, Tonks walking beside it. Not really part of the procession—just a shadow trailing the edges of it, guilt and dread clinging to her like mist.
Professor McGonagall's voice came quietly, not unkind. "What exactly happened?"
Tonks's voice stuck at first. Then she found it. "We were talking. Just talking. He seemed fine. Then he… fell."
She hated how small her words sounded.
Professor McGonagall didn't respond. Her silence didn't feel cold, but it was heavy. Like it carried things Tonks wasn't allowed to understand.
They passed portraits along the walls—witches and wizards peering out with wide eyes, some whispering behind their hands, others following the stretcher with unnerving solemnity. Tonks kept her gaze on the stones beneath her feet.
Her legs felt too short for the pace, but she didn't dare slow.
When they reached the Hospital Wing, the doors swung open before Professor McGonagall could even knock. Madam Pomfrey stood waiting, sleeves rolled, wand already in hand. She moved with a briskness born of a hundred emergencies, but her eyes sharpened when they landed on Professor Lupin.
"Professor McGonagall. Ms. Tonks." Her voice, calm and clipped. "What happened?"
"He collapsed. No clear cause. He's unresponsive," Professor McGonagall said, wasting no time.
"Bring him in."
Madam Pomfrey cleared a bed with a flick of her wand. A bottle of Essence of Dittany soared from a high shelf and hovered, waiting. Tonks caught the gleam of a diagnostic orb glowing faintly green, and something in her gut clenched.
The stretcher floated gently down, Professor Lupin's body settling into the bed with an almost too-perfect stillness. His limbs slack. His face turned slightly to the side, mouth parted like he'd been caught mid-word.
Tonks stood near the door. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.
The smell hit her—clean linens, medicinal tonics, something antiseptic beneath it all. It was too familiar. Too close to the whitewashed rooms of St. Mungo's, where she'd waited too long for a decision that never came easy.
Don't cry, she told herself. Not here. Not now.
She couldn't look away from him. Couldn't shake the image of him mid-laugh only moments ago. The gentle tilt of his head. The faint warmth in his eyes. And now—this.
Was it something she said?
Did she push too hard?
Was there some sign she missed?
A low voice cut through her spiralling thoughts.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
Tonks turned, startled. Madam Pomfrey had stepped away from Professor Lupin's side. Her voice was softened now, almost motherly. That made it worse, somehow.
"I'm fine," Tonks said reflexively.
The lie hit her throat like a stone.
"Why don't you sit?" Madam Pomfrey gestured toward the nearest bed. "You're shaking."
Tonks hesitated—pride flaring, shame knotting in her stomach—but her legs were already buckling. She perched on the edge of the mattress, arms wrapping tightly around herself, like she could keep herself from spilling open.
Behind her, Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey were speaking in hushed voices.
Tonks leaned forward slightly, just enough to hear.
"I'll keep Remus overnight," Madam Pomfrey was saying. "His magical core is dangerously depleted. Something drained him. Not just fatigue—this was sustained. Controlled."
Tonks's blood ran cold.
Magical core depletion. She'd only read about it once, in a book she skimmed during a summer she was bored enough to crack open theory. It wasn't simple. It wasn't safe. Wizards didn't just faint from that. They burnt out.
"What's wrong with him?" Tonks asked. Too loudly. Her voice cracked on the last word.
Both women looked over. And in that glance—shared, subtle, too quick—Tonks saw it.
They knew something.
And they weren't telling her.
Madam Pomfrey gave her a smile. Soft. Practised. Pitying.
"His condition is stable. You needn't worry."
But Tonks did.
Because that wasn't an answer. That was a wall.
She looked back to Professor Lupin—pale against the white pillows, one hand curled slightly as if he'd meant to lift it before the strength gave out. His breathing was even, but thin. The kind of breathing you had to watch closely to see at all.
And suddenly she couldn't bear it.
Not just the worry. The powerlessness.
She wanted to help. She wanted to know. To understand what had happened and why she felt like it mattered more than it should.
He had seen her earlier. Not just as a student. Not as a girl who changed her nose to get a laugh. He'd seen her. And now—
Now he looked like he might vanish.
So she sat there, small and silent, spine stiff, heart aching.
Because she cared.
She hadn't meant to.
And not like this.
Not through a hospital door and unanswered questions.
But she stayed.
Because even if no one asked her to, even if no one told her to—she wasn't going to leave.
Not yet.