Warning: This chapter contains themes of suicide and may be distressing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
The Room of Requirement had fashioned itself into something homely today—a cosy study lined with squashy chairs, low tables littered with parchment, and the gentle hum of a magical fire flickering in a hearth that hadn't been there the day before.
Tonks stepped inside, feeling the worn drag of her boots across the wooden floor. Her hair had dulled to a lifeless brown, her shoulders were stooped, and her eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness and thoughts that refused to settle.
Chiara looked up first, half-chewed quill between her teeth. "Oi," she said, frowning. "You look like you've been flattened by a runaway Hippogriff. What happened?"
Tonks didn't answer right away. She stood in the doorway for a moment longer, chewing the inside of her cheek, trying to will down the lump rising in her throat. She could feel the weight of it pressing at her ribs. Saying it aloud would make it real. And she wasn't sure she was ready for that.
She closed the door behind her.
"It's Remus," she said, voice quiet. Not whispered, not broken—just… stripped bare. "It's worse than I thought."
Penny sat up straighter. The worry had already settled between her brows before the words had fully landed. "What do you mean? What's happened?"
Tonks moved to the armchair nearest the fire but didn't sit down. She stood behind it instead, hands gripping the back, knuckles white.
"He's ill," she said, eyes locked on the flames. "And he's been hiding it. From me. From everyone."
Badeea's mouth parted, her ink-stained fingers pausing mid-sketch. Slowly, she reached out and laid her hand on Tonks' arm.
Tonks didn't even feel it at first. Her skin had gone numb. All she could feel was the pulsing thought that had haunted her since that morning: He's slipping away. And he won't let me stop it.
"How long's it been going on?" Badeea asked softly.
"I don't know," Tonks replied, shaking her head. "He won't say. But I heard him today. He's preparing for the end. Making peace with it. Like he's already gone."
Chiara swore under her breath. "Remus Lupin?"
Tonks gave a bitter laugh. "Brilliant, kind, annoyingly noble Remus Lupin," she said. "Always ready to carry the world on his own bloody shoulders, even if it breaks him in two."
"Have you talked to him?" Penny asked.
"Tried," Tonks muttered, pressing her fingers to her eyes. "Begged, more like. He doesn't listen. He just keeps walking. Won't stop. Won't even look at me."
Her voice cracked. Just a little.
"I can't just stand by," she added, and this time there was steel beneath the sorrow. "I won't. I don't care how stubborn he is. He doesn't get to face this alone."
There was silence for a moment—one of those loaded silences where everything unsaid seemed to echo louder than words.
"You're not overstepping," Badeea said at last, her voice gentle but sure. "You care about him. That's never the wrong thing. If you don't fight for him… who will?"
Penny reached out, wrapping both her hands around Tonks' tightly. "We'll help," she said firmly. "You're not on your own in this."
Tonks nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. There were too many feelings all at once. Anger. Helplessness. Grief. But beneath it all, a flicker of something else—something stubborn and fierce.
Hope.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "I'll try again. And if he still won't let me in…" She exhaled sharply, "Then I'll still be there. He'll have to trip over me if he wants to be alone."
Chiara gave a short laugh. "That's the spirit."
But then—
The door creaked open behind them.
Tonks turned.
A tall figure stood in the doorway, unmoving. Pale face, lank dark hair clinging damply to her forehead. Her boots were scuffed, trousers creased, and wand hand twitching restlessly by her side.
"Ismelda," Penny breathed.
The name hung in the air, brittle and uncertain.
She didn't speak. Just walked—slow, deliberate steps across the floor. Her eyes never once strayed from Badeea.
"Hey, Ismelda," Penny tried again, forcing a nervous smile. "How've you been?"
Still no reply.
Tonks felt Badeea's hand withdraw. She turned and saw her friend retreating backwards, inch by inch, as though pulled by invisible strings, face drained of colour.
"It's alright, Badeea," Tonks said gently, stepping forward now. "It's alright. She's not going to hurt you."
But even as she said it, something cold stirred in her gut.
Ismelda was still staring. Still silent. Still… off. Her eyes glistened strangely. Her movements were too fluid, too careful. And her wand had lifted now, just a fraction.
"Ismelda?" Penny asked, more cautious this time.
No answer.
Then—
"Tonks," Ismelda said. Her voice was thin and trembling. "I'm sorry, Tonks."
The wand snapped upwards.
"Protego!" Tonks shouted, barely managing to block the spell that flew toward them.
A red bolt slammed against the shield charm and dissolved with a sharp crackle.
"Ismelda!" Tonks gasped, stepping back, her wand raised now. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?!"
But the girl didn't answer.
Her breathing was erratic now. Her wand trembled in her grasp.
And then she turned—not towards Tonks this time, but towards Badeea.
"It's your fault," she spat, voice suddenly venomous. "You took Tonks from me!"
She raised her wand again.
And without thinking, Tonks threw herself between them.
The impact hit her square in the shoulder, knocking her off her feet.
Pain exploded through her body—hot, jarring, and immediate. She hit the ground hard but twisted just in time to keep her wand up.
"Ismelda, stop!" she cried.
But Ismelda was frozen now, wand still raised, face slack with horror. Her gaze dropped to the place where Tonks had fallen, to the growing stain on her jumper.
"I—" Ismelda choked. "I didn't mean—Tonks, I didn't—I was only trying to—"
She staggered backwards.
And then, before anyone could stop her, she turned and bolted.
"Ismelda!" Tonks shouted, dragging herself to her knees. But she was gone.
The silence that followed Ismelda's departure wasn't peaceful—it was sharp, raw, and echoing with everything that hadn't been said. It rang in Tonks's ears as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Penny dropped to her knees beside her at once, trembling hands reaching out, her face ashen. "Oh Merlin, oh—Tonks—Tonks, you're hurt—"
"I've been hit worse," Tonks muttered, trying to wave her off, though even that motion sent white-hot pain tearing through her shoulder. She grimaced, jaw clenched tight. The room spun slightly, like her head couldn't quite decide which way was up. "I don't think she meant—"
"She cast a Severing Charm," Badeea said, her voice distant, paper-thin. Her eyes were fixed on the scorch mark left on the wall behind them, just inches from where she'd been sitting. "She—she meant it for me."
Tonks turned towards her, and her heart dropped at the look on her face—not just fear, but betrayal, the kind that left scars beneath the skin.
Chiara moved at once, crouching beside Badeea and putting an arm around her shoulders. "We need to get Tonks to Madam Pomfrey. Now."
"I'm fine," Tonks insisted, though the word came out slurred. Her hand pressed to her shoulder, but the warm wetness seeping between her fingers told a different story.
"You're not," Penny said sharply, catching her as she tried to stand and nearly collapsed. "Stop pretending you are."
Tonks allowed herself to lean against her friend, but her eyes were already on the door.
Because it wasn't the injury that haunted her.
It was Ismelda's face.
There'd been no hatred there. No malice. Just desperation. And guilt—the kind that came with the weight of something irreversible. The kind that lived in the space between "too late" and "I didn't mean to."
Tonks had seen obsession before. Hogwarts was full of it—quiet crushes, bitter rivalries, and friendships turned sour. But this… this had been something else. Something unravelling.
She pushed herself upright, wincing. "I've got to go after her."
"What? No," Penny said, stepping in front of her. "You're bleeding, Tonks—"
"She's not safe," Tonks said. "Not for us. Not for herself. I saw her eyes—she's not thinking clearly."
Chiara stood up too, brows furrowed. "Tonks, please. Let Madam Pomfrey see to you first. You won't be any good to her if you collapse in the corridor."
But Tonks was already staggering toward the door.
She wasn't thinking anymore—not in the way she usually did. The practical part of her brain, the prefect, the duellist, the trained Auror-in-the-making—all of that had been knocked sideways by something deeper. Something urgent.
Ismelda was going to do something awful.
Not to them.
To herself.
She heard Penny's voice calling after her—"You're bleeding through your robes! Tonks, for Merlin's sake!" —but she didn't stop.
She couldn't.
The corridor outside was quiet. It always was at this hour—post-dinner lull, students tucked away in their dormitories, homework and gossip occupying their evenings. The flickering torches threw shifting shadows across the flagstones, and Tonks pressed one blood-slicked hand against the wall to keep her balance as she walked.
Then she saw it.
A glimpse of dark robes disappearing round a corner up ahead—fast, determined, but with a sort of drifting quality, as though the person wearing them wasn't entirely grounded in the moment.
Ismelda.
Tonks pushed herself to move faster, though every step made her vision jolt. Her shoulder was on fire now. Her robes clung damply to her skin, and the coppery smell of blood had begun to thicken in her nostrils.
The direction was unmistakable.
The Astronomy Tower.
She swore under her breath.
There were no patrols this late. No classes. No reason for anyone to be up there—except one.
She knew that tower. Everyone did. You didn't grow up in this castle without knowing where students went when things got… unbearable.
Her feet pounded up the stairs, clumsy and lurching, one hand dragging along the railing. The spiral staircase went on far too long, each step a jolt of pain. Blood was dripping freely now, leaving a trail behind her—but she didn't stop.
Don't be too late. Please, don't be too late.
She reached the top.
And froze.
Ismelda was there.
She stood at the far edge of the parapet, the night wind tugging at her robes, her hair caught and tangled. Her wand had fallen to the floor. Her arms hung limply at her sides.
She looked unbearably small.
And she was swaying.
"No—" Tonks breathed.
Her voice caught on the wind, too quiet, too far—
She took a step forward, one hand outstretched. "Ismelda!"
The girl turned, slowly, as though from far away. Her eyes were wild and unseeing, ringed with dark circles, and her skin was pallid in the moonlight.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"You shouldn't be up there," Tonks replied, voice straining for calm. "Come down. Please."
Ismelda gave a dry, brittle laugh. "I hurt you. I could've killed you."
"I'm still standing," Tonks said, ignoring the blood now soaking through the side of her jumper. "Ismelda, you can't fix this by—by jumping off a bloody tower."
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I just… I thought if Badeea was out of the picture, maybe you'd see me again. Maybe you'd… remember I existed."
Tonks blinked. The wind stung her eyes, or maybe it was something else.
"I never forgot you," she said, her voice thickening. "You were in my life. You hexed a boy for insulting Penny's hair—I told you off for the Bat-Bogey Curse. I helped you revise for Charms. You were always there."
Ismelda shook her head. Her fingers had curled around the ledge now. "Not like they are. Not like you are. Everyone loves you, Tonks. Even Remus. You're… you're everything. And I'm just—"
"Stop," Tonks said, stepping closer. "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to erase yourself. You're not a side character in your own bloody life."
"I just… I just don't want to feel like this anymore."
Tonks inched forward, inch by aching inch, careful not to startle her. The wind swept around them, pulling at her hair and robes, and it took everything she had not to look down. One wrong movement, one misjudged breath, and—
"I know what that feels like," Tonks said softly, her voice barely carrying across the cold air between them. "To care about someone so much it drives you round the bend. Makes you feel like you're bursting out of your own skin. To be passed over. Or looked through. Or left behind without so much as a backwards glance."
Ismelda didn't move. But Tonks saw the way her shoulders tightened—the way her fingers curled slightly against the edge.
"To stand there," Tonks went on, "right where you are, and think… maybe if you jumped, it might feel like flying. Just for a moment. Just long enough not to care anymore."
Slowly, Ismelda turned her face towards her. The moonlight caught the tear tracks on her cheeks, silver streaks on pale skin.
"But I didn't jump," Tonks said. Her voice wavered. Her whole body trembled now—from pain, from cold, from fear. "Because someone would've missed me. Even if I didn't believe it at the time. Even if I thought I was just some loud-mouthed Hufflepuff who couldn't transfigure a toad properly."
She took another step.
"Come down. Please. You're not broken. You're not lost. You hurt people—yeah, you did. But we all do. And we try to put it right. That's what counts. That's what matters."
Ismelda stared at her for a long time. Her whole body was shaking now, small tremors running through her limbs like her bones might shatter from the effort of holding herself up. Her face—usually pinched and cynical—was soft now. Open. Fragile.
Like a child who'd never been allowed to be one.
"It's too late," she said at last, barely above a whisper.
Tonks's stomach sank. "What d'you mean?"
Ismelda gave a jagged, joyless laugh. It caught in her throat halfway through, more of a cough than anything else. Her voice came quieter now—not broken, but strange. Flat. Like she'd taken all the feeling out of it, because she couldn't bear to keep feeling it.
"My mum's boyfriend," she said. "I killed him."
The words hung in the air. Strange. Heavy. Too calm.
Tonks blinked. "What?"
"He kept…" Ismelda's voice faltered, but she pushed through. "Touching me. Every time I came home for holidays. Said it was a joke. Said it was 'just teasing'. But it wasn't. It never was. It—"
She stopped, swallowing hard.
Tonks couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
"I didn't tell her," Ismelda went on. "Why would I? She'd never believe me. Probably didn't believe me. And yesterday, he left her. Said he was sick of her whining. She was screaming in the garden when I got home. Do you know what she said to me?"
Tonks was already shaking her head, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You don't have to—"
"She said it was my fault," Ismelda said, bitterly. "Said I drove him off. Called me a freak. Said I was nothing but trouble. That I ruin everything."
Tonks's heart shattered in her chest.
"No," she said, her voice cracking. "No. None of that—none of it—was your fault. That's not on you. It never was."
Ismelda gave a small shrug, her face crumpling with the effort not to cry again.
"You ever wonder," she murmured, "if you were just a mistake? Like the world only made you to fill a gap. And then forgot you were there."
Tonks took another step. Her shoulder screamed in protest, and her knees nearly gave out—but she kept going.
"Stop that," she said hoarsely. "You're not a mistake. You hear me? No one's a mistake. You're a person, Ismelda. You've been through hell, and you're still standing. That's not weakness. That's not failure. That's strength."
Ismelda looked up at her, tears welling again—not fast, not sudden, but slow and weary, like they'd been held back for years.
"You're kind," she said softly. "Too kind. I've always adored you, Tonks."
Tonks swallowed hard. Her throat was tight, the words barely making it out.
"We're friends," she said. "You and me. You know that, don't you?"
Ismelda gave the faintest nod. "Yeah. I was glad. When we got close. You made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn't just the weird girl with the temper."
"I'm sorry," Tonks said, voice breaking properly now. "I should've noticed. I should've seen. I—I should've done something."
Ismelda sniffed, wiping her face on her sleeve. "You did, though. You made me feel wanted. More than anyone else ever did."
And then—she stepped back.
"No—!"
Tonks lunged, but her shoulder buckled beneath the strain, and she fell against the ledge, gasping as pain exploded down her side. Her hand reached out—
Just missed.
Ismelda smiled, gentle and heartbreaking. "You were my idol, Tonks. Always will be. It doesn't matter how much of a mess I was. I was just glad to be near you."
"Don't do this," Tonks begged. "Please. Please, don't go."
"I'd only get in your way."
"You're not in the way," Tonks cried. "You belong. With us. With me."
Ismelda rolled up her sleeve slowly, showing the little bracelet Tonks had given her months ago—a bit of string and silver beads they'd enchanted together to glow faintly in the dark.
"Well?" she said with a small smile, lifting her arm. "Looks cool, right?"
Tonks nodded, hot tears slipping past her lashes. "It suits you. Always did."
A pause.
"Tonks…" Ismelda said quietly. "Thanks. For everything."
And then, in a voice as soft as falling snow—
"I loved you."
She stepped back.
"No!" Tonks screamed, throwing herself forward, her hands grasping wildly at empty air—
But there was nothing to catch.
Nothing.
Ismelda was gone.
The air went still. Horribly still. The kind of still that made your heart stop before your brain caught up. Tonks stared down over the edge, not breathing. Her fingers dug into the parapet, the ancient stone biting into her skin, and still—
Still—
"No," she whispered.
Below, the courtyard was silent.
Behind her, she barely heard the pounding footsteps—Penny's voice, Chiara's, and Badeea's. They were calling her name, again and again.
But Tonks couldn't turn round. Couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
She just stood there, staring down into the silence, while her blood pooled on the stone, and her heart cracked open with the sound of nothing at all.
The sky was grey the next morning.
Not the sort of grey that heralded a storm, nor the soft silvery kind that whispered of coming rain. It was worse than that—duller, heavier—as though the very air had flattened, and the world itself had gone still. Hogwarts, in all its ancient vastness, felt quiet in a way Tonks had never known. Like the life had drained out of it overnight.
She sat in a rigid, high-backed bed by the window in the Hospital Wing. Her shoulder was swaddled in layers of gauze—pain-numbing, spellwoven, and vaguely glowing in places where healing charms still pulsed beneath. She could hardly feel it. Not the shoulder. Not the bed. Not the gauze.
She could hardly feel anything.
The Astronomy Tower loomed beyond the windowpane, but she hadn't looked. Not once.
She wouldn't.
She didn't want to remember what it had looked like from above—how far the courtyard had stretched beneath her feet. How it had swallowed Ismelda up without a sound.
Tonks blinked. Her eyes were dry. They'd been dry since last night. No tears, no sobs, no shaking fits. Just this strange, hollow ache behind her ribs, somewhere words couldn't reach. The guilt was there, too—heavy, unspoken, and festering in the pit of her stomach like something toxic.
Across the room, Penny was curled up in an old velvet chair beside Badeea's bed, her chin tucked into her knees. Badeea hadn't spoken. Not once. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. Her wand, normally clipped neatly into her satchel, lay forgotten on the floor.
Chiara had paced earlier—stomping, snapping, and half-muttering hexes under her breath—but even she had quieted now. She sat slumped against the far wall, arms folded, her eyes red but unblinking.
They hadn't left the Hospital Wing all night.
They'd all seen it happen.
They'd all been there.
And Tonks had no idea how they'd survived the sight.
The door creaked open.
Professor McGonagall stepped in, slow and solemn. There was no rustle of parchment, no floating quill behind her. She carried nothing but the weight of what had happened.
Her lips were drawn tight, the corners pulled in so sharply they may as well have been carved. But her eyes—those sharp, keen eyes that missed nothing—were soft. Tired, maybe. Or worn thin by grief.
"I won't be long," she said gently, her voice not quite its usual clipped cadence. "I'd like a word, if that's all right."
Madam Pomfrey glanced over from her office and gave a faint nod. She didn't protest. Just vanished back behind the door with a whispered spell, leaving them alone.
Professor McGonagall crossed the floor with soft, measured steps. No click of heels today. No fanfare.
She stopped beside Tonks's bed.
"I've spoken with your parents," she began. "They're on their way. I told them not to worry—you're going to make a full physical recovery, or so Poppy assures me."
Tonks said nothing.
"I imagine," Professor McGonagall added delicately, "the emotional recovery may take a little longer."
Still no reply.
It was strange—she had things to say. Words that screamed through her head like trains that never slowed. But her mouth wouldn't work properly. Her throat felt like it had been rubbed raw from the inside, and the moment she opened it, she feared it would all come pouring out at once—screaming, sobbing, confessing every terrible truth she didn't know how to live with.
Professor McGonagall took a breath. "I know this is difficult. But there are questions I need to ask. You needn't answer right away—or at all, if you're not ready, Nymphadora."
Tonks flinched slightly when her name followed. Not Tonks, but Nymphadora. It sounded wrong now, too soft in a way she didn't deserve.
Still, she gave the smallest nod.
Professor McGonagall knelt down beside the bed, slow and careful, until they were level. The shift in height wasn't a tactic—not a power play or a ploy to appear comforting. She simply needed to look her in the eye.
"Did she say anything to you?" she asked quietly. "Anything that might help us understand why… why she did what she did?"
Tonks stared at the sheets for a long time. Her fingers were twisted into them, digging into the fabric, her nails leaving faint little dents in the cotton.
"She said goodbye," she rasped. Her voice cracked like it hadn't been used in years.
Professor McGonagall didn't speak. She waited.
"She told me she adored me," Tonks went on, barely above a whisper. "Said I made her feel like she mattered. Like she wasn't just some broken thing."
She blinked hard.
"She wore the bracelet. The one I gave her. She showed it to me right before she—" Her voice faltered, a strange keening sound rising from her throat. She fought it down. "I should've known. I should've known. I was right there."
Professor McGonagall still didn't interrupt. Not once.
"I thought I could save her," Tonks whispered. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. "Even after everything. Even after what she said. But I was too late. Too slow. Too weak."
Silence fell again. It wasn't cruel or awkward—just full. Brimming with everything that couldn't be said.
When Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice was low. "Nymphadora—"
"I let her down," Tonks said suddenly. Her voice cracked open like something split along a fault line. "I wanted to help. I tried. But I should've known it wasn't enough."
"No one expects you to carry that burden alone," Professor McGonagall said quietly.
Tonks shook her head.
"I was supposed to be her friend. And I used her. I knew she'd do anything I said—and I used that to my advantage. I made her do things she hated. I turned her into someone worse, someone cruel. And then… when she really needed someone… I wasn't enough."
A silence settled between them.
Tonks didn't cry. The pain sat too deep for that. Her throat burnt, her stomach turned, but the tears remained trapped. Somewhere far back, buried behind months of silence and secrets and stupid, childish mistakes.
When Professor McGonagall finally stood, there was a trace of wetness in her eyes—not quite tears, but close.
"There are some kinds of grief," she said, gently, "that do not resolve quickly. Or ever entirely. But what you gave her—your kindness, your time—it mattered."
"Not enough," Tonks said hollowly.
"Perhaps not to change the ending," Professor McGonagall agreed, "but enough to make her feel loved. Even once."
Tonks looked away, her eyes beginning to sting.
"She said she loved me," she murmured, voice low and worn. "Right before she—"
Her throat caught around the words. They didn't sound real yet. As though speaking them aloud might undo everything or make it worse. Or both.
"I believe she did," said Professor McGonagall softly.
Tonks drew in a shaky breath.
"She was my friend," she said, her voice splintering at the edges. "And I didn't even see her slipping. I thought—I thought she was just being… Ismelda. Moody. Difficult. I ignored it."
She didn't know what she expected in reply. A reprimand, maybe. A correction. Or worse: gentle reassurance that only made the guilt settle deeper. But Professor McGonagall's answer was none of those things.
"She didn't want to be seen," the professor said instead. Her tone was neither cold nor consoling. Just clear. "People in pain don't always shout for help. Most often, they learn how to hide it so well that even those closest to them can't see where it hurts."
Tonks turned back, her face still pale, mouth pressed into a thin, bitter line.
"I should've done more."
"You did what you could," said Professor McGonagall. "And I am proud of you."
That last sentence stopped Tonks in her tracks.
It wasn't said as a comfort or a kindness she didn't earn. Professor McGonagall had a way of cutting directly through things—through noise, through pain, through the fog of guilt that clouded judgement. And somehow, hearing her say that, plainly and firmly, 'I am proud of you,′ carved right through the one thing Tonks hadn't even realised she'd been holding on to: the belief that she had failed so completely she wasn't worth pride at all.
Her breath caught in her chest.
From the far corner, a quiet sniffle broke the stillness. Penny dabbed at her face with a handkerchief, her shoulders hunched tightly inwards.
Across from her, Badeea hadn't spoken in hours. Her sketchpad lay open beside her, its pages still fluttering faintly from when she'd thrown it aside the night before. The torn drawing had been mended with spellotape, but it bore the signs of having been crumpled and smoothed and crumpled again.
Chiara stood nearby, arms tightly folded across her chest. Her expression was clenched and unreadable, but her voice was sharp when she finally spoke.
"She should've been sent home," Chiara muttered. "Ages ago. She needed help. Real help. Not detentions. Not House points. Help."
Her voice shook on the last word, and she bit it down hard.
Professor McGonagall looked at her for a moment but said nothing. She smoothed the front of her robes, composed once more, her face unreadable again—though her silence seemed less out of coldness than respect.
"The Headmaster," she said, "has arranged for a small team of grief counsellors from St Mungo's to come and speak with any student who wishes it. Classes will be suspended until Monday."
Tonks's head lifted slightly.
"A memorial will be held tomorrow evening," Professor McGonagall continued, her voice steady. "You are not expected to speak unless you wish to."
Tonks hesitated. "I don't know what I'd say."
"Then don't say anything," Professor McGonagall replied simply. "You are allowed your silence, Miss Tonks."
There was something final in her tone—not cold, but conclusive. Not a dismissal, but a recognition of weight. She gave Tonks one last nod and then turned to go.
Her footsteps echoed faintly as she retreated through the door, which clicked shut behind her with a soft thud.
The room went quiet again. Not the shocked, brittle silence from the night before, but something slower. Heavier. As though the grief had shifted from sharpness into something dull and lingering.
Tonks didn't move.
Her eyes drifted to the window. The sky remained grey—that same sallow, smothering grey that made everything beneath it look faded. But somewhere in the distance, behind the hills far beyond the Quidditch pitch, the faintest trace of sunlight had begun to stretch across the horizon. Thin. Pale. Barely there.
But present, nonetheless.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
"I should have said something sooner," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
No one replied.
Penny had curled up again, her face buried in her sleeves. Badeea stared at the broken sketchpad, unmoving. Chiara sat down at last, beside Badeea, and laid a hand on her arm. They didn't speak, but Badeea leaned slightly into the touch.
Tonks looked down at her lap.
She thought of the bracelet—the one Ismelda had worn until the end. That silly braid of thread and beads. She remembered giving it. She remembered the conversation they'd shared while she tied it round Ismelda's wrist. And how proud Ismelda had looked. As though something that small had meant something that big.
Tonks shut her eyes.
She still didn't know what she would say at the memorial.
But she knew this much—she had loved Ismelda back, even if it was messy and strange and unspoken. Even if she hadn't said it in time.
And maybe, somehow, that had been enough for Ismelda.
Even if it would never be enough for her.
The Great Hall had never looked so still.
Not even during N.E.W.T.s—when the silence hung sharp with nerves, when quills scratched like rainfall and every breath was measured. This silence was something different. Heavier. Older. The sort that didn't just fill a room but seemed to sink into its walls.
There was no clatter of cutlery, no rustle of robes or scrape of benches. Even the portraits along the walls were still, as if they'd turned away to give the living a moment of privacy. The enchanted ceiling above wasn't adorned with its usual array of stars or drifting clouds. It was simply black. Dense and unmoving. A void that held no shape, no light. Just absence.
The floating candles had been dimmed to faint glows—more ember than flame. As though they, too, were mourning.
And at the head of the hall stood a small easel bearing a single photograph.
It wasn't glossy. It wasn't bewitched. There was no charm to make her blink or smirk or toss her hair. No illusion of life. Just a still image of Ismelda Murk—unsmiling, with that peculiar tilt to her head that made her look vaguely suspicious of the camera, or perhaps of the person holding it.
Tonks stood near the front. Penny, Chiara, and Badeea hovered behind her, close but not crowding. They were there—not for the sake of appearances, but in the real, quiet way that mattered most when words stopped being enough.
Penny had written something for the programme. Badeea had conjured the fire lilies—delicate, white-petalled things that flickered gently with inner light and lined the dais like solemn sentinels. And it had been Chiara, fierce and unrelenting, who had got Tonks out of bed that morning—threatening to drag her bodily if need be.
They were holding her up. In small, invisible ways. And Tonks felt it. Every step.
At the far end, Professor McGonagall stepped forward. She stood beside the portrait—not to overshadow it, but to anchor it. The Head of Gryffindor didn't carry parchment or a wand. She didn't need them. Her presence alone was enough to hush even the deepest grief.
"Today," she began, her voice even and clear, "we honour a student who left us too soon."
There were no flourishes in her words. No grand rhetoric. Just the truth, laid bare.
"Ismelda Murk was not easy to know," she said. "She was not always gentle. She could be sharp. Blunt. Proud. But she was alive in a way that demanded notice. And she was deeply, fiercely loyal to those she let in."
Tonks blinked hard. Her throat was tightening again.
"She struggled," Professor McGonagall went on, "with things many of us never saw. And perhaps, in truth, we didn't try hard enough to. But her pain does not diminish her worth. Her story does not end in sorrow. She was a student. A daughter. A witch of considerable strength. And she mattered."
A chair creaked faintly in the rows behind her. A soft sniffle echoed.
"She mattered," Professor McGonagall repeated, gently now. "And she always will."
She stepped back without ceremony, returning to her place beside Professor Flitwick. There was no applause. No rustle. Just silence—so total it pressed in on the bones.
Then, slowly, Penny made her way to the front.
She looked smaller than usual. Her hands shook slightly as she unfolded a piece of parchment. She cleared her throat.
"I… I didn't know Ismelda as long as some of you," she began. "She was prickly. Honest. Difficult, sometimes. She had all these walls built up, and I think maybe she'd forgotten how to take them down. But when she let you in… Merlin, she really let you in."
Her voice cracked.
"She never did anything by halves. If she liked you, you knew it. And if she didn't… well, you knew that too. But I think—" Penny's eyes scanned the rows of faces. "—I think she wanted to be remembered for something. Even if it was being feared. Even if it was starting fights. Even if it meant being misunderstood."
A pause.
"She once told me the only way to be remembered was to leave a scar." She swallowed. "I told her that was daft. But now… now I think maybe she just didn't believe she could be remembered for anything else. I wish I'd told her that she'd already changed something. That she did matter. To us. And she always will."
Her voice faltered on the last word. But she managed a nod before stepping back.
The stillness lingered.
Then, from somewhere near the back, a voice piped up—clear and unashamed:
"She hexed me in third year for saying I didn't like her boots. Left a mark right across my shin. I had to wear trousers for a week." A pause. "But I said sorry after that. Because she was right. They were brilliant boots."
A few students laughed—softly, but sincerely.
Another voice followed, quieter: "She used to leave sweets on the library windowsill. I thought it was Peeves nicking them. Turns out, it was her. She never said why."
A few more murmurs of surprise rippled through the crowd.
"I think," said the voice again, "she wanted to be kind without being caught."
Tonks felt her breath hitch.
That was the truest thing she'd heard all day.
One by one, students began rising. Some approached the front and placed small things by the photograph. A note folded six times. A stub of candle. A trinket box. A chocolate frog wrapper. A rough crystal with a tiny label: You said you liked shiny things. Keep this one.
Each item was small. Ordinary. But together, they began to form a portrait far truer than the one on the easel.
When her turn came, Tonks stepped forward slowly.
Her fingers clenched around something in her palm. A bracelet. A matching set, one for Ismelda, one for herself. They'd laughed while wearing them, mocking the cheesy symbolism. But they'd worn them all the same.
Tonks hadn't touched hers since the tower.
Her steps faltered at the last moment. But she made it to the front. She knelt and placed the bracelet gently beside Ismelda's photograph.
"I loved you too," she whispered.
Not loudly. Not to be heard by anyone else. Just to the space Ismelda might've occupied.
Not because Ismelda had asked for it.
But because it was the truth.
And truth, once spoken, doesn't lose power for being late.
She rose, her eyes wet, and stepped back into the hush.
The memorial came to a close not with applause, not with fanfare, but with the dimming of the candles and the quiet shuffling of feet as students filed out in pairs and trios. Teachers lingered by the doors. The headmaster bowed his head.
But Tonks didn't move.
She remained standing at the front long after the hall had emptied.
Long after the whispers faded and the floating candles had extinguished themselves entirely.
Only the photograph and the bracelet remained.
And in that hush, as old magic settled back into the stone and the shadows deepened, she made herself a silent vow:
No more silence.
No more looking away.
No more friends lost to the dark.