The mystery disease had struck with frightening swiftness. Already it had claimed a score of lives within the wizarding world. Not everyone died of it, but those that had were just as young and strong... Remus rested his face in his hands, feeling a quiet desperation building inside of him.
Ron had come down sick only three days ago. The healers that Remus had hired weren't the most expensive, but they were the best, given the recommendations they had come with. He knew one of them, at least- Westfield Chatham was a bright-faced young man with a startling penchant for potions. Still, none of the healers could determine what exactly was wrong with Ron. Remus was not especially surprised by this; healers all over Britain were equally confounded by the epidemic.
"You really shouldn't be in here," West said from over Remus's shoulder, sounding far too cheerful for the situation.
"I know," Remus croaked, his voice sore from holding back tears that he refused to cry, not in front of the healers. He clenched Ron's hand tightly where it lay on the coverlet. He thought but did not say, "I have no reason for living if he is gone." In truth, he knew he was running a tremendous risk of catching the epidemic. In truth, he didn't care.
If these were the last moments they would have together, the last days he had with the young man that had charmed him out of his cell, then Remus would hold on, whatever it took.
To Ron he said, "And you better hold on too."