Chapter Text
James sat at his desk, his laptop open in front of him. The glow from the screen lit up his face as he clicked through his emails. He was looking for one email—the one with the results of the little boy’s biopsy. He needed to find it, but his eyes kept drifting away from the screen.
At the other end of the table, a woman sat quietly, wearing a simple dress. Her hands gripped the boy’s small hand tightly, as if she was afraid to let go. The boy, pale and tired, leaned against her. He didn’t say a word. The woman looked worried, her eyes often flicking toward James, hoping for good news but fearing the worst.
James swallowed hard and turned back to his laptop. His fingers moved quickly over the keys as he searched, but each second that passed felt like forever. He could feel the weight of their hope and fear, heavy like a stone in his chest.
He glanced at them again. The boy looked so small, so fragile, and his mother’s face was full of worry. James adjusted his glasses and sat up straighter, trying to stay calm. He had done this many times before, but it never got easier.
He clicked on the next email, hoping this would be the one.
"There we go," James said, his voice steady but his eyes sharp as he opened the email. He scanned through it quickly, then looked up at the woman. "I recommend that Aurelius waits outside for this part of the conversation," he said gently, nodding toward the little boy. "I noticed the couches in the waiting room are... rather comfy."
He glanced at Aurelius, offering a small smile to soften his words. "Unless you can guarantee that he won’t overhear anything,” James added, his tone kind but firm.
The woman hesitated, her grip on Aurelius’s hand tightening for a moment. She looked down at her son, brushing a strand of hair from his pale face. “Auri,” she said softly, her voice trembling but calm, “why don’t you go sit in the waiting room for a bit? I’ll come get you soon.”
Aurelius blinked up at her, his wide eyes searching her face. “Okay,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He slid off the chair, his small feet padding softly against the floor as he made his way to the door.
James watched him leave, waiting until the door clicked shut before he turned his full attention back to the woman. Her hands, now empty, twisted nervously in her lap. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she sat on the edge of her chair as if bracing for a blow.
“I’ll be honest with you,” James began, his voice low but steady. He glanced at the email again, scanning the results carefully to make sure he understood every detail. “The biopsy results are back, and I want to walk you through what they mean. I’ll answer any questions you have, and we’ll talk about the next steps.”
Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and filled with fear. She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was holding back a storm of emotions. James set the laptop aside and leaned forward slightly, his tone softening.
“I need you to know,” he said, “that no matter what these results say, you’re not alone in this. We’re going to face it together.”
James took a deep breath, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the table. He glanced at the email one more time, double-checking the words even though he already knew what they said. He had to make sure. He owed her that much.
“The results…” he began, his voice faltering for a moment. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “The biopsy confirms that Aurelius has a type of cancer called neuroblastoma. It’s advanced.”
The woman’s face went pale, and her hands flew to her mouth. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head as if refusing to believe the words. “No, no, that can’t be right. He’s just a little boy…”
James felt a lump rise in his throat, his own heart aching as he watched her crumble. He forced himself to stay steady, gripping the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I know this is devastating, but I want you to understand that there are still options. It’s not hopeless, I promise you that.”
Her shoulders shook as silent tears began to fall, her hands trembling in her lap. “How… how bad is it?” she managed to ask, her voice breaking.
James hesitated, his chest tightening. He had to give her the truth, but every word felt like it would crush her even more. “It’s stage four,” he admitted quietly. “It’s spread beyond where it started.” His voice wavered slightly despite his best efforts.
She let out a choked sob, her head dropping into her hands. James had seen reactions like this before, but it never got easier. He reached for the box of tissues on his desk and slid it toward her, wishing he could do more, wishing his words could somehow take away her pain.
“I know it sounds overwhelming,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “But I’m here to guide you through every step. We have a team that specializes in this. We’ll work together to give Aurelius the best care possible.”
Her tear-filled eyes lifted to him, and the raw despair in her expression almost broke his composure. James swallowed hard, blinking a few times to keep his own emotions at bay. He had to be strong for her—for both of them.
“You’ll tell me what to do?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” James said firmly, leaning forward. “I’ll walk you through everything. You’re not alone in this. I’m going to do everything I can to help him.”
Her sobs quieted slightly, though her tears didn’t stop. James sat back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He had to stay steady, but inside, his heart ached in a way that never quite went away.
These things happened often, and James had to deal with them all the time. It was hard—really hard. There were moments of pure joy, like when he helped a child beat this terrible disease. Those moments made it all feel worth it.
But then there were the nights when the phone rang, and he got the news he dreaded. A child’s organs had failed, and there was nothing more that could be done. Those nights were the worst, filled with crying and heartbreak. It was depressing, really, how often it happened. Yet, he kept going because every victory, no matter how small, mattered.
"We have two choices," James began, his voice low but steady as he clicked through the files on his computer. He paused, glancing at the mother to make sure she was still with him. Her face was pale, her hands gripping the tissue she had been using to wipe her tears. She nodded faintly, signaling for him to continue.
"Either we proceed with chemotherapy," he said, his tone careful, "or we try radiotherapy." He stopped typing for a moment, leaning back slightly as he explained. "Chemotherapy involves using powerful drugs to target the cancer cells. It’s aggressive, and there will be side effects—nausea, fatigue, hair loss—but it’s effective in many cases. It’s our first-line treatment."
The woman’s lips trembled, and she gripped the tissue tighter. James softened his voice as he continued. "The other option is radiotherapy. This uses high-energy rays to kill the cancer cells. It’s targeted, which means it’s more focused on the affected areas, but it can still impact surrounding healthy tissue. Sometimes, we combine both treatments, depending on how the cancer responds."
He glanced back at his computer, scrolling through potential treatment plans before looking at her again. "Both options give us a chance to fight this. Neither is easy, and there are risks with both. The side effects can be hard to manage, especially for someone as young as Aurelius. But these are the tools we have to give him a fighting chance."
The woman blinked rapidly, her breaths uneven as she tried to take in everything he was saying. James could see the questions forming in her mind, the fear battling with the tiny sliver of hope. He took a deep breath, his own emotions bubbling beneath the surface, but he pushed them aside.
"I know this is overwhelming," he said gently. "Take your time to think about it. I’m here to answer any questions, and we’ll work together to choose the best path for Aurelius." He gestured toward the box of tissues, then folded his hands in front of him, giving her a moment to speak if she was ready.
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"Alright, everyone," Remus announced, walking into the study hall with a calm, steady presence. He set his book down on the desk, the soft thud of it breaking the quiet chatter of the students. "Settle down and open your textbooks to page 394, please."
He stood at the front of the room, adjusting his glasses as he looked over the students. There was a familiar warmth in his voice, but also a certain authority that made the students quiet down almost immediately. The room, filled with the quiet rustling of pages, soon fell into a peaceful silence.
"As we continue our discussion on cognitive development," he added, his eyes scanning the room to make sure everyone was following along, "we'll dive deeper into the stages of moral reasoning. It's important to understand how these theories shape our behavior and interactions."
The students nodded, some scribbling notes, others flipping through the pages, all of them eager to learn from their thoughtful and approachable teacher. Remus smiled softly to himself, feeling a sense of fulfillment in his work, before beginning to explain the next concept on the page.
As the students began to talk in pairs, Remus walked slowly around the room, listening to snippets of their conversations. He could hear a few students debating whether it was right to speak out when rules felt unfair, while others shared personal experiences where they had followed a rule without question, simply because it was expected of them.
One student caught his attention, raising her hand tentatively. "Professor Lupin," she began, her voice unsure, "what if you know the rule is wrong, but you don’t have the courage to stand up against it? Does that mean you’re stuck in stage two forever?"
Remus smiled, his tone gentle but thoughtful. "That’s a great question," he said, moving closer to her desk. "It’s completely natural to feel uncertain or afraid when challenging authority, especially if you’re afraid of consequences. Moral development isn’t a straight line; it’s a process. People move in and out of these stages depending on the situation. You can move from one stage to another as you grow and gain more life experience. It’s about gradually becoming more comfortable with questioning things that don’t sit right with you, and over time, you’ll find the courage to act on those thoughts."
He paused, letting the students absorb the idea that moral development wasn’t something that could be forced, but something that grew with experience and reflection. "Remember, it’s not about being perfect at each stage. It’s about understanding where you are, and where you could be going."
As he moved to the next group, a few students looked up at him with curiosity. He offered them a small smile, knowing they were starting to grasp the complexity of moral reasoning. It wasn’t just about right and wrong—it was about understanding why we think the way we do, and how we evolve as people.
He glanced at the clock, noting that the lesson was nearing its end. "Alright, let’s wrap up our discussions," he called out. "I’d like each pair to share one key insight they discussed. Who’d like to start?"
Hands shot up, eager to share their thoughts, and Remus felt a sense of pride. These students were thinking critically about the world around them, questioning not just rules, but the way they viewed themselves in relation to those rules. It was moments like these that reminded him why he loved teaching psychology—because it made people see the world through a new lens.
Remus gestured to the first pair with a nod. "Go ahead," he encouraged.
A boy with glasses cleared his throat, his partner glancing at him for reassurance. "We talked about how sometimes, rules exist for safety, like speed limits. But there are times when rules might not make sense, like strict dress codes at school. It made us wonder—when is it okay to challenge a rule, and when is it better to follow it for the sake of order?"
"Great question," Remus said, leaning against the edge of his desk. "Rules often serve a purpose, but questioning them doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. It means you’re thinking critically about their impact. The key is finding a balance—understanding when a rule is essential and when it might need to be reevaluated. Good insight."
He turned to another pair. A girl with curly hair spoke up next, her voice firm. "We talked about a time when my friend spoke up against a school policy that punished students for being late, even when it wasn’t their fault. She argued that it didn’t account for kids who rely on public transport, and eventually, the policy was changed. I think that’s an example of post-conventional thinking, right?"
"Absolutely," Remus said with a smile. "Challenging a rule not out of self-interest, but because it’s unfair to others, is a classic example of post-conventional reasoning. Your friend demonstrated the courage to advocate for justice—well done."
The discussions continued, each pair sharing their insights. Some talked about small moments, like questioning curfews or classroom rules, while others delved into bigger ideas, like protesting unfair systems or standing up for someone being treated poorly. Remus listened carefully to each one, offering gentle encouragement and thoughtful feedback.
Finally, he clapped his hands lightly to gather their attention. "You’ve all done excellent work today," he said warmly. "This exercise isn’t just about understanding Kohlberg’s stages. It’s about recognizing how your own thoughts and actions fit into these ideas. Psychology isn’t just a subject—it’s a mirror. It helps us understand ourselves and the world around us."
He closed his textbook, signaling the end of the lesson. "For homework, I want you to think about a situation in your life where you’ve had to make a tough moral choice. Write a short reflection on how you approached it, and which stage of moral reasoning you think you used. We’ll discuss it in the next class."
As the students began packing up their things, a few lingered to ask questions or thank him for the lesson. Remus stayed patient, answering each one with care.
When the last student finally left, Remus sat back in his chair with a quiet sigh. Teaching was rewarding, but it was also exhausting, especially when the topics touched on such personal and emotional ground. Still, he couldn’t help but feel proud. He’d planted seeds of thought in their minds, and that was more than enough to make it all worth it.
As the door clicked shut behind the last student, the study hall grew silent, the echo of voices and shuffling papers fading away. Remus leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window where the late afternoon sun poured in, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Teaching psychology was more than just sharing theories and facts—it was about helping students understand the complexities of being human. Sometimes, he wondered if he gave too much of himself to the job. Each story they shared, each question they asked, lingered in his mind long after the lesson ended.
The sound of light footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see one of his students hesitating in the doorway. It was the girl who had shared the story about her friend challenging the school policy.
"Professor Lupin?" she asked softly.
"Yes, come in," Remus said, sitting up straight and offering her a small smile.
She stepped inside, clutching her notebook tightly. "I just wanted to say... thanks for today. I never thought about how important it is to question things, even if it’s scary."
Remus’s smile widened, his chest warming at her sincerity. "I’m glad it resonated with you. It’s not always easy to question authority, but it’s how we grow, and sometimes, how we make the world a little bit better."
She nodded, then hesitated, as if weighing whether to say something else. "Do you think... do you think people always have to challenge things alone? My friend... she felt so alone when she spoke up. It was hard for her."
Remus’s expression softened. "No one should have to face that kind of challenge alone," he said gently. "But sometimes, standing up for what’s right starts with one person. It can inspire others to join, even if it takes time. And when people see someone brave enough to speak up, it often reminds them that they can be brave, too."
The girl nodded again, her shoulders relaxing a little. "Thank you, Professor. That makes a lot of sense."
"Anytime," Remus replied. "And remember, bravery doesn’t always mean big gestures. Sometimes it’s just asking a question or supporting someone else who’s trying to make a change. Both matter."
She smiled, thanked him again, and left the room, leaving Remus alone once more. He watched her go, a sense of quiet pride settling over him.
As he gathered his things and prepared to leave for the day, he couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. Teaching psychology wasn’t just about theory or exams—it was about planting seeds of empathy, understanding, and courage. And that, to him, was worth every bit of effort he poured into it.
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James sat in his office, staring at the closed door after the mother had left, her face etched with fear and grief. The silence was heavy, the weight of the conversation still pressing down on him. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his messy hair and exhaling slowly.
A knock at the door startled him, and before he could answer, it swung open. Sirius Black strode in, wearing his usual confident smirk, a stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. Sirius was a family medicine doctor, known for his easy going nature and ability to lighten even the heaviest of moods.
"Hey, Prongs," Sirius said, his nickname for James slipping out naturally as he closed the door behind him. "Saw you looked like you were carrying the weight of the world earlier. Figured I’d check in. Got a minute?"
James looked up, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, come in." He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
Sirius plopped down, leaning back casually as he studied his friend. "So, what’s eating you? Patient?"
James sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. A kid. Aurelius. Biopsy results came in today—stage four neuroblastoma. His mom was here. She’s devastated, Padfoot. Completely shattered."
Sirius’s smirk faded instantly, replaced by a look of concern. "Ah, damn. That’s rough." He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "How old is the kid?"
"Six," James said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sirius let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Six. That’s... that’s brutal." He studied James for a moment, noticing the tension in his posture, the way his hands fidgeted with the pen on his desk. "And you? How are you holding up?"
James let out a hollow laugh. "You know me. I’m great at putting on the brave doctor act. But inside? It’s killing me, Pads. Every time I have to give a parent news like that, it feels like I’m failing. Like I should be able to do more."
Sirius’s gaze softened. "You’re not failing, James. You’re doing everything you can. Sometimes, that’s all we can do, even if it doesn’t feel like enough."
James looked away, his jaw tightening. "It never feels like enough," he admitted quietly.
Sirius sat back, crossing his arms as he watched his friend. "You know, you can’t carry all of this alone. These cases… they’ll break you if you let them. I’ve seen it happen to too many doctors. You’ve got to talk about it. Let it out. Even if it’s just yelling at me about how unfair the universe is."
James managed a weak smile at that. "You’re not exactly the best therapist, Pads."
Sirius grinned. "No, but I’ve got a good ear and excellent taste in takeout. And I happen to know you haven’t eaten today, which is a crime. So how about this: you vent, I listen, and then we go grab some dinner. My treat."
James hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay. That actually sounds good."
Sirius stood, clapping a hand on James’s shoulder. "Good. And James?"
"Yeah?"
"You’re one of the best doctors I know. Don’t forget that, alright?"
James swallowed hard, nodding. "Thanks, Sirius."
Sirius gave him a reassuring squeeze before heading for the door. "Meet me in the parking lot in fifteen. And don’t even think about bailing, or I’ll come drag you out myself."
James laughed softly as the door closed behind Sirius. For the first time all day, he felt like he could breathe again.
James sat for a moment longer, Sirius's words echoing in his mind. He took a deep breath, stood up, and grabbed his coat. As he stepped out of his office, he found himself reflecting on how lucky he was to have someone like Sirius in his corner.
The parking lot was quiet, the evening air cool and refreshing. Sirius was leaning casually against his car, his phone in one hand and a grin on his face when he saw James approaching.
"Thought you might bail," Sirius said, tucking his phone away. "I was ready to call in a code black to get you out here."
James rolled his eyes but smirked. "Not today, Padfoot. You promised food, and I’m holding you to it."
They climbed into Sirius's car, and before long, they were cruising down the streets, the radio playing softly in the background. Sirius had chosen a cozy diner not far from the hospital—a place they used to frequent during their residency.
As they slid into a booth, Sirius flagged down the waitress with a familiar ease. "Two coffees to start," he said, then glanced at James. "And we’ll need a few minutes to decide."
James picked up the menu, but his mind wasn’t on food. He stared at the words, the heaviness of the day still pressing on him.
"You’re thinking too much," Sirius said, not bothering to look at his menu.
James sighed, setting it down. "I can’t help it, Sirius. That kid’s face… his mom’s reaction… It just sticks with you. And I know it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, but it doesn’t get easier."
Sirius leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "It’s not supposed to get easier, James. If it did, you’d stop being the kind of doctor these families need. The fact that it still hurts means you care. And that’s what makes you good at what you do."
James shook his head, his fingers drumming against the table. "But caring doesn’t save lives. It doesn’t stop me from having to give parents the worst news of their lives."
"No, it doesn’t," Sirius agreed. "But it makes a difference. I see it all the time in my practice—parents who talk about you, about how you made them feel like they weren’t alone, even when the odds were terrible. That matters, James. You matter."
James didn’t reply right away. The waitress arrived with their coffees, and Sirius gave her a charming smile before she left. He watched as James stirred his coffee absently, clearly lost in thought.
"You ever think about why you went into this field?" Sirius asked, breaking the silence.
James looked up, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, why pediatric oncology? Of all the specialties, why choose the one that’s guaranteed to break your heart every other week?"
James leaned back, the question catching him off guard. He thought for a moment, then said quietly, "Because someone needs to fight for these kids. Because when I was a kid, my mum had cancer. And I remember how scared I was, how helpless I felt. I don’t want any kid—or their family—to feel like they’re facing it alone."
Sirius nodded, his expression serious. "Exactly. That’s why you keep going, even when it’s hard. Because you care. And yeah, it’s going to hurt sometimes. But those kids? Those families? They’re lucky to have you."
James felt his chest tighten, but this time it wasn’t entirely from sadness. There was something grounding about Sirius’s words, something that reminded him why he did what he did.
"Thanks, Pads," he said finally, his voice quieter now.
"Anytime, Prongs," Sirius said with a grin, grabbing his menu. "Now, let’s order before you start spiraling again. I’m starving."
James laughed, a small but genuine sound, and for the first time that day, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.
The two of them settled into the familiar routine of picking through the diner’s extensive menu. Sirius insisted on his usual—a towering stack of pancakes, regardless of the fact that it was dinner time—while James opted for a classic burger and fries. The waitress jotted down their orders and disappeared, leaving them in a comfortable silence for a moment.
"So," Sirius said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Tell me about this kid. Aurelius, right? What’s he like?"
James hesitated, but then a small smile crept onto his face. "He’s... sharp. You know how some kids just seem older than their years? He’s one of them. He has these big, curious eyes, always asking questions. Loves dinosaurs—he could probably tell you the scientific name of every single one."
"Smart kid," Sirius said, nodding. "Sounds like the kind of kid who might surprise you, even in a tough fight like this."
James sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I want to believe that. I really do. But stage four, Sirius... it’s bad. And I see it every day—how this disease doesn’t care how smart or brave you are. It just takes."
Sirius leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. "You’re right—it doesn’t care. But you do. And you’re giving that kid and his mom a chance they wouldn’t have otherwise. That’s no small thing, James."
James stared down at the coffee cup in his hands, the steam curling upward in the dim light of the diner. "Sometimes I just wish I didn’t feel so... powerless. Like, I’m supposed to be the one with the answers, the one who fixes things. But in moments like today, I feel like I’m just fumbling in the dark."
Sirius’s expression softened. "You’re not fumbling, mate. You’re human. And no one—no matter how skilled or brilliant—can make the world fair. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all anyone can ask."
James nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the waitress returned with their food, placing the plates in front of them with a cheerful smile.
As they dug in, Sirius shifted the conversation to lighter topics. He told James about one of his recent patients, a kid who had declared he wanted to grow up to be "a dragon tamer," and how Sirius had spent ten minutes trying to explain the lack of dragons in family medicine. James chuckled, grateful for the distraction.
By the time they finished their meal, the weight of the day didn’t feel quite as crushing. James leaned back in the booth, letting out a contented sigh.
"Thanks for this, Pads," he said, his voice sincere. "I needed it."
Sirius waved him off with a grin. "Anytime, Prongs. You’d do the same for me."
As they left the diner and stepped into the cool night air, James felt a flicker of hope in his chest. The road ahead would be hard—for Aurelius, for his mom, and for himself—but he wasn’t alone. And for tonight, that was enough.