It almost felt ironic. Lycanthropy—an incurable condition, a curse disguised as an affliction—had shaped so much of Remus’s life. It was an anomaly, something that no potion, no spell, no healer could erase. But it wasn’t killing him.

Cancer, though? That was different. That was real, tangible, a threat that didn’t care about magic or miracles. And it had chosen them.

Sixteen. Young and invincible, or at least that’s how it was supposed to be. But then there was the diagnosis, the cold finality of the word lymphoma, the way it had knocked the air from their lungs like a well-placed hex.

“You’re not dying,” Remus said, voice firm but strained. “They said you caught it early.”

They huffed, staring at the ceiling. “That’s what they tell everyone.”

The hospital wing smelled like antiseptic and parchment, like Madam Pomfrey’s ever-present healing salves. The bed beneath them was too stiff, the air too sterile, but nothing compared to the tightness in their chest, the weight pressing down on their ribs.

Remus sat beside them, his fingers twitching against the duvet. He wasn’t good at this—not when it was him who was supposed to be sick, him who everyone tiptoed around. He had spent his whole life being the problem, the one burdening his friends. He didn’t know how to handle the roles being reversed.

“I—” He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Good,” they muttered. “I don’t want another person telling me I’ll be fine like it’s already decided.”

He wanted to say something meaningful, something that would make it better, but every phrase sounded hollow in his head. So he did what he always did—he reached for logic, for knowledge, for facts.

“There’s treatment,” he finally said. “It won’t be easy, but—”

“I know.” Their voice was quieter now, exhausted. “I know, Remus.”

He sighed, rubbing slow circles on the back of their hand. “Then what do you need from me?”