Nymphadora Tonks jolted awake, heart pounding, the light cutting across her bed like a blade. Morning already. She blinked, trying to hold onto the dream slipping from her fingers. His touch still lingered—warm, gentle, like he cared. Like someone finally saw her. He'd pushed her hair back with such tenderness, kissed her forehead like she mattered. "Sweet dreams," he'd whispered, voice soft as silk.
But he wasn't real. Just another lie her mind made up to fill the empty space. Just another ghost. She stared at the ceiling, her chest tight. The dream had felt better than anything in real life. Safer. Kinder. And now it was gone.
She didn't want to move. The bed was her last shelter, her last bit of warmth. But the thoughts were already crowding in, louder than ever. "What the hell are you doing?" "Is this who you are now?" "Are you proud of this mess?" Her throat clenched. She turned her head away like that would shut the voices out. It never worked.
She dragged herself up with a groan, sheets falling away from her body, exposing skin she didn't even feel like she owned anymore. There was nothing sacred about it. Not after everything. Not after what she lost.
Coins caught the sunlight—cold and accusing. She scooped up what she could reach and shoved them into her bag. They clinked loudly, each one a reminder. A transaction. A choice. A cost. She stepped away, and more galleons scattered onto the floor behind her, leaving a trail she didn't care to follow.
In the bathroom, she didn't look at herself right away. She knew what she'd see. A stranger. When she finally lifted her eyes, she met her reflection with a hollow stare. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Sun-kissed skin. None of it was real. Just armour.
She was sixteen. Just a kid. But her body didn't feel like it. Not after thirteen. Not after the test came back positive. Not after the slow, suffocating silence that followed.
Her hand drifted to her belly, flat now. Always would be. Her mother had made sure of that. "It's better this way," she'd said. But Tonks didn't believe her. Not then. Not now.
She didn't say goodbye. She never got to.
"Is there a Nymphadora Tonks here?" The healer called out, her voice rising over the low hum of the St. Mungo's waiting room.
Tonks flinched. The name hit her like a slap.
Before she could speak, her mother was already standing. "Yes!" Andromeda snapped, quick and sharp, her eyes narrowing. She turned to Tonks with a cluck of her tongue and a cold kind of urgency. "Come on, Nymphadora. It's time."
Tonks didn't move. Her hands twisted together in her lap, clammy and shaking. A thick knot tightened in her throat. Tears spilt silently down her cheeks, blurring the world around her. Shame pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Andromeda caught the hesitation and frowned, stepping closer. "What's wrong?" she asked, voice clipped, brows knitting with impatience.
Tonks tried to answer, but the words came out in a broken whisper. "I—I changed my mind."
Her mother's fingers clamped around her wrist like a vice. Tonks winced. "Nymphadora, please," Andromeda said, voice low but insistent. "We've been through this. You agreed."
"I can't," Tonks said, her voice catching on the edge of panic. "I can't do it, Mum." She shook her head, eyes wild. "I don't care what it takes. I'm keeping the baby."
Her voice cracked, but her resolve didn't.
Andromeda's face darkened. "This is what's best for you."
"No, it's not!" Tonks burst out. "It's what you want. Not me."
"Just stop it!" her mother shouted, loud enough that a few heads turned. The words hit like a slap—sharp and sudden. Then came the quieter sting, the one that dug deep. "That man walked away the second he heard. You really think raising a child alone is a smart idea?"
Tonks flinched, swallowing back the sob that threatened to break free. Her mother's words burnt, but not as much as the truth behind them. The waiting room felt colder now, crueller. Every second dragged like a weight tied to her chest.
Then her mother reached for her wand. A final blow.
Tonks didn't resist. The fight drained out of her all at once, like air from a punctured lung. She let her mother lead her away, legs numb, head heavy.
Later, Tonks stood alone in the small bathroom of her flat, staring at her reflection. The flickering light above cast shadows under her eyes, deepening the hollows there. She looked like a ghost.
Her chest ached. Not from the spell. From everything.
She pressed her palms against the sink, trying to breathe, but the memory came rushing back—his voice, flat and cold, telling her it was too much. That he couldn't do this. That he was sorry.
And the cold, sterile room.
The loss.
It all came crashing down again.
With a sharp breath and a spark of rebellion, Tonks let the illusion fall away. Her magic swirled like smoke, settling into the shape of her true self. Limp brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, her dark eyes dull with exhaustion but still glinting with defiance. To most, she could've been anyone—plain, forgettable, a quiet face in the crowd. But beneath that modest look was someone clawing her way back to a self she'd almost forgotten.
No one really knew what she looked like—not anymore. She'd hidden herself for so long it felt like second nature. Each transformation was a way to feel wanted, to pretend she had control. The hair, the curves, the faces—masks she wore like armour. They'd kept the world at bay for a while. But lately, even that comfort had started to crack. The thrill was gone. In its place was a hunger she didn't understand, one that left her emptier than before.
She stared at the mirror, unsatisfied. "You're lost, love," she whispered, her voice soft and sad.
That voice in her head was louder these days. It sounded like truth and shame twisted together, always reminding her of the gap between who she was and who she used to be. She hadn't been looking for healing. Not really. Just escape. Hotel rooms, nameless smiles, whispers in the dark—none of it filled the hollow ache. Just more fragments. More fading warmth that slipped away too quickly.
But today wasn't about falling apart. Not again. Today, she was in charge. The illusion of power sent a thrill up her spine, even if it was fleeting. The darker thoughts—the ones she barely admitted even to herself—coiled tight around her, wrapping her in something that felt like control. It was dangerous, maybe even wrong, but it made her feel alive.
She pulled on a sleek black dress, one that hugged her body just right, and painted on her favourite red lipstick. It was bold and loud—everything she wished she felt inside. Her reflection grinned back, wild-eyed and fearless. "Let's get this over with."
She stepped onto the bustling Muggle street, heart pounding. With a flick of her wand, her hair shimmered into golden waves, radiant and bright. Heads turned. She could feel the stares, feel herself feeding on them. That attention, that hunger—it filled something in her, even if only for a second. On the outside, she looked untouchable. Inside, she was a storm of nerves and fragile bravado.
She walked on, her heels clicking in rhythm with the thrum of music and laughter. For a heartbeat, she let herself wonder—what was left under all this? Under the makeup, the magic, the masks? Something broken, maybe. Something soft. But she didn't stop to look too closely. Not today. She bled the truth out slowly, letting it seep between glances and touches and half-smiles no one ever questioned.
"Hey, gorgeous," someone called as she passed. She turned her head, lips curled in a practised smile. It felt brittle, but she held it.
"You're stunning."
"Thanks," she said lightly, voice smooth. "You're not so bad yourself."
She slipped into the act like a second skin—charming, playful, untouchable. Just another evening. Just another stranger. But behind the tease was a flicker of something more—shame, maybe, or just sadness that this was what she'd come to expect. A trade. A temporary balm.
Would she ever find something real? Something that didn't feel like a performance? She wasn't sure. Maybe there was still a chance—somewhere beneath the disguises, the need, and the ache for something that couldn't be stolen or bought. Maybe.
As they walked, her steps felt heavier than usual. But she kept going, holding on to that flicker. She carried the weight of too many yesterdays and the quiet hope that one day, just maybe, she wouldn't have to wear a mask at all.
The night was still young. And so was she—fractured, but still standing.
Remus Lupin sat stiffly at a polished table on the outdoor patio of a high-end café tucked in one of London's wealthiest shopping districts. The kind of place where everything gleamed, even the pavement. He wore his best charcoal suit, freshly pressed, but it felt unnatural—tight across the shoulders, itchy at the collar. The fabric didn't suit him any more than the place did. Too clean. Too perfect.
He watched the people pass by: elegant, confident Muggles in fine coats, chatting and laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world. It made him feel invisible—like a ghost sitting among the living.
The smell of fancy food drifted from the kitchen—garlic, butter, something slow-roasted—but his stomach twisted in knots. All he could taste was the bitter anxiety rising in his throat.
Then came Lily Potter.
Her bright red hair caught the light as she walked toward him, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders. Her smile was familiar, grounding. She looked like springtime in human form—warm, open, and alive. She was a welcome breath of air in a space that suddenly felt less suffocating.
"Remus!" she said with a teasing lilt. "You look like a man waiting for a death sentence, not lunch with your friend."
He gave her a weak smile. "Well, you know me. Always been one for dramatic flair."
It was a lie. Remus didn't do dramatic. He did quiet. Careful. But today was different.
As they sat, something inside the café caught his eye. A tall blonde woman in a black dress—tight-fitting, elegant—sat alone at a window seat. She was striking, no doubt. But it was her stare that got to him. Direct. Cool. Like she was studying him.
Remus looked away fast, heart skipping. He dropped his gaze to the menu, even though he wasn't reading it. His fingers twitched on the edge of the table, restless. The weight of her stare—or maybe what it stirred in him—was too much. He shifted in his seat, already regretting agreeing to come.
It wasn't attraction. It was something deeper. Something colder.
She reminded him of everything he couldn't have—ease, health, normalcy. That simple, beautiful life he'd never be part of.
At twenty-nine, he'd learnt how to endure. He'd made peace, or tried to, with lycanthropy, the secrecy, and the loneliness. But this—this was something he hadn't prepared for.
He remembered that sterile office at St. Mungo's, all white walls and too much light. The healer had spoken with calm professionalism, but the words still felt like a punch to the gut.
"It's a brain tumour," he'd said.
Remus hadn't known what to say. His hands had gone cold. His ears buzzed. He'd stared blankly, trying to hold on to something solid.
The healer kept talking.
"This type can become malignant. Average survival is about two years. As it grows, it can affect your memory, judgement, and even your ability to walk or speak. We'll need to operate."
Remus had clung to the only question that gave him hope. "Will surgery cure it?"
The pause was brief, but the answer was heavy.
"We can't remove it completely. Even with the best efforts, it may return."
That was the moment it really hit him—not just the diagnosis but what it meant. He was already fighting one curse. Now this? It felt cruel. Too much for one man to carry.
He had walked out in a daze. Each step felt distant, unreal. He found a chair in the waiting area and sat heavily, trying to breathe through the rising panic.
Then he heard crying.
A little girl's sobs filled the room—raw, aching, impossible to ignore. Her mother's voice tried to soothe her, but there was strain there too. Fear.
Remus had looked up. The girl's eyes met his, just for a second. Wide, tear-filled, afraid.
In that single look, he saw it: the pain of not understanding, the terror of losing control, and the deep, helpless sadness that mirrored his own.
Everyone suffers, he thought. Some wear it on the outside. Others hide it well. But no one escapes it entirely.
Back in the present, he stirred his drink without really tasting it. His eyes flicked back to the café window.
There she was again—the blonde woman—laughing now, speaking to an older gentleman across the table. Her smile came easily, like it had always belonged there.
A strange flicker stirred in his chest. Recognition?
No. He shook the thought away. His mind was playing tricks on him. It couldn't be her. Not after all this time.
He pushed the feeling down, like he had with everything else.
Lily was speaking, but her words blurred at the edges. Remus tried to stay present, to pretend this was just another lunch. But inside, the dread clawed at him again. The tumour. The werewolf. The waiting.
And the silence in his chest that refused to be filled.
Remus glanced back at the table, then handed Lily the envelope. He had filled out the form himself, gone over it with her more than once—but now, with the moment finally here, it felt different. Real. Final. His chest tightened. His fingers shook as she slowly opened it. Such a small action, but it carried the weight of everything he'd been trying not to feel.
He held his breath. The world around them faded—the clinking of cups, the hum of quiet conversations—all slipping into the background. Lily's eyes landed on the top line: DEATH REGISTRATION: REMUS JOHN LUPIN.
Her face faltered. The careful calm she wore cracked, and he saw her try—and fail—to hold it together. Her breathing stuttered. Her hands trembled as she clutched the paper like it might scream at her. Guilt twisted inside him. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He just needed someone to witness this—to understand it. And Lily always understood.
Noise returned to the café in a rush, like the world had been holding its breath, too. She slipped the paper back into the envelope and sealed it quietly. Then her eyes met his. There was no need for words. Everything was there in her look: sadness, confusion, anger—but mostly love. That silent, stubborn kind they'd carried since they were kids.
"Remus," she said softly. Her voice nearly broke him. She wanted to say more—he could feel it—but didn't know how. How could anyone bridge the gap between knowing and fixing? Between watching and helping?
And still, the bond between them held strong.
For a second, he wished he could pause time. Just sit here in this little moment with Lily, in a quiet corner of a world that didn't understand him. But the truth always found its way back. The illness. The fight. The future he was bracing for. Only Lily really knew what that meant.
She stood slowly, moving with care. She reached out, brushing his forearm with a light, grounding touch. Then she turned and walked away, leaving him staring after her, heart full and breaking all at once.