"If you're going to be insulting," Remus says, because medieval is only half a step up from primitive, "I'll have to ask you to keep out." Of his head. But he doesn't quite mind, watching with a vague sort of smile. Not yet relieved, but expectant. Above it his eyes are still sharp.

There's nothing ordinary about this. Even if it were as simple as a back injury. Wizarding afflictions rose to meet wizarding cures, he thinks, so tearing oneself apart every month passes for a chronic illness, a few days of care and rest and back to work, and splinched lungs were only a bit of excitement during lessons, easily restored. But there was nothing to be done about his mother's muggle heart when she fell ill, and it wasn't ordinary.

And this, particularly—he watches Charles drink from the vial from beyond the foot of the bed, wand still in hand, expecting to be relieved as soon as the contents do their work but also expecting some sort of explanation. Hoping for one, anyway.