Wednesday Addams sat at her desk, engrossed in her writing. The faint scratching of her pen against the parchment was the only sound piercing the silence of their dorm.

Abruptly, the peace was shattered. The door creaked open, bringing in a draft of the chilly night air. Enid Sinclair, Wednesday's werewolf roommate, staggered in.

"Wednesday," Enid gasped, clutching her stomach. Her face was pale, her brow was beaded with sweat, and her skin had a sickly greenish hue.

No sooner had Enid uttered Wednesday's name, than she collapsed onto the floor, retching violently. The sight was gruesome, but Wednesday remained undeterred.

Wednesday stood, calmly, putting her pen aside. She crouched beside Enid, her hand immediately going to the shivering werewolf's forehead.

"You're burning up," she noted, her expression unperturbed. She got up and walked over to their shared medicine cabinet.

Wednesday knew enough about werewolf physiology to understand that a fever was serious. It was unusual for a creature as resilient as a werewolf to fall sick.

She quickly found what she was looking for - a bottle of a potion specifically formulated for werewolf ailments.

Wednesday returned to Enid's side, coaxing the sicker werewolf to drink the foul-smelling concoction. It took some persuasion but Enid finally gulped it down.

"You should rest," Wednesday advised. She assisted Enid to her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Enid nodded, clearly exhausted. She mumbled a quiet thanks, her eyes already closing. Wednesday watched her roommate fall into restless sleep.

Wednesday didn't go back to her writing. Instead, she pulled out a book from her desk drawer - a guide on werewolf illnesses and remedies.

She spent the rest of the night studying, in hopes of understanding Enid's condition better. As the dawn arrived, she found a clue.

According to the book, Enid's symptoms pointed towards lycanthrope fever - a rare, but potentially deadly, disease. The cause? Consuming silver contaminated food.

Wednesday thought back, trying to remember if Enid had eaten anything unusual. Then, it hit her. Enid had brought back leftovers from a local diner.

They had to find an antidote quickly, or Enid might not survive. Wednesday knew she needed help.

She remembered a local herbologist, Cassandra Thyme, who was reputed to know the cure for every ailment. She would surely have the antidote.

Wednesday arrived at Cassandra's shop as the sun was rising. Hardcover books, pácked with knowledge and wisdom, lay haphazardly on the dusty shelves.

Cassandra Thyme, a petite woman with spectacles amplified the seriousness of the predicament as Wednesday explained Enid's condition.

"I've the antidote in my reserve," said Cassandra, disappearing into a backroom. She returned with a small, crystal vial containing a glowing liquid.

Back at the dorm, Enid was still asleep. The fever had worsened, but Wednesday was armed with hope. She quickly administered the antidote.

Almost immediately, Enid's temperature started to drop. The color returned to her cheeks, and her breathing became more regular.

By the time Enid woke up, her fever was gone. "What happened?" she asked, looking at Wednesday in confusion.

Wednesday explained it all, about the fever, the silver, and the antidote. A wide-eyed Enid listened to her roommate, gratitude washing over her.

"I owe you my life, Wednesday," Enid said sincerely. There was a silence, a comfortable one. Wednesday returned to her desk and resumed her writing.

"We look out for each other, Enid," Wednesday replied without looking up. Indeed, in their world of dark secrets and unexpected friendships, they certainly did.