Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series are the property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling. We're just using her characters to say what's in our souls.

Author's Notes: Long time no see. Back with a one-shot from Remus Lupin's point of view. Set during the book 7 (HP & Deathly Hallows). Hopefully, you'll like this quick read. Even if you don't, leave a short review letting me know you've given it a chance. Thank you.

Summary: Remus Lupin reflects on his marriage to Nymphadora Tonks, his troubles, fears, insecurities. He's opening up to the only person he's ever been able to talk to... and who is not there any more.

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All right, I admit it – I am completely lost. This feeling inside me, all over me, burning my skin and penetrating my mind and body and soul, poisoning veins and senses... it's quite similar to that unpleasant, daunting experience of a little child when being left behind in a busy street crowded with strangers. Lost, you desperately look left, then right, left again, right again, up and down the street, staring at people around you, frantically trying your best to find at least one familiar, friendly face... and you fail.

I'm lost, but also irritatingly, annoyingly, repulsively confused. Has it always supposed to be like this? I made a mistake, I rushed it all, didn't think it through. I wish I could go back and fix it, prevent the disaster from happening, put emotions aside and place the ever so healthy and cold intellect first. That's what I have always been doing in the past. Recklessness has never been my middle name. Somebody else had the honours of that.

And now, I don't know what to do or how to do it. I don't know what to say or how to deal with it. I don't see the solution and I am ashamed of myself and my actions. Ignorance is not something I am familiar with. I had always been the one with the answers - well prepared, concentrated, poised to help. And now, where am I, who am I, how did I let this happen? If anything goes wrong – how will I ever be able to look into a mirror again and face my own reflection, these old scars, the warning, unforgivable gleam of responsibility in my eyes, conscience?

She loves me, Padfoot, more than her own life. I know it, I feel it as strongly as I can feel the freezing, lethal air when I take a deep breath in a cold winter's night. I don't know what I've done to deserve it, I will never understand, yet her love is the only solid truth in my life at the moment, the only thing I don't have a reason to doubt in.

Still, I am not sure it's right. I am not sure it will all end well. Why am I speaking of the end? I don't know, I told you already, everything is so confusing, so perplexing, so painful. It hurts, being loved this fiercely, this sincerely and devotedly. Why does she do it? Why me, why now? I destroyed her life and future by marrying her. I shouldn't have done that. Nobody gave me the rights to dishonour her, make her an outcast, undesirable and unacceptable in society, forever.

She is pregnant. Most people would find it to be a perfect reason for celebrating, drinking into oblivion, buying everyone Butterbeers, Firewhiskies, screaming with joy and sharing happiness with their friends and family. The way I see it - it is only the reason to curse my actions even more severely. You see now, there is no way for me to fix what has been done, I cannot stop it, I cannot protect her, I have failed. Her destiny and the fate of our unborn child is damned to disaster. I am not a human, I am more of an animal, a beast, selfish, ill-judged, foolish, pathetic – how could I have forgotten it? And yes, why deny it, I am scared what will happen to our baby once it has been born. Will it be like me, will it have its father's genes, foul and inhuman? Will it be embarrassed, ashamed of its old man, angry with him for making its life gruesome and unwanted?

It's not fair. It wasn't fair of me to do this. I shouldn't have indulged my feelings for her, I should have stayed away from her youth, terminated the whole story before it began. Wolves are supposed to spend their lives in exile, far from everyone else, alone, perfectly happy that way. Maybe I still have a chance to run away, set her free, let her live without my corrupted shadow casting over her young, beautiful face.

I remember you having a habit of saying: 'Got a question, turn to Moony. He has a big book full of answers for everyone about anything... except for the prickling matters of girls - he's absolutely clueless when the subject of the more beautiful gender pops up. That's when you turn to me.'

Even then, you were right, all those years ago, so accurately, unquestionably, undeniably right. Iam still clueless about the 'chicks', as you called them. I even managed to screw up big time with the only girl that ever meant a world to me. It's nice to see I haven't changed a bit, at least in that department. You would be proud of me. See? I can be sarcastic, too.

So, here I am, talking to an old, dusty, yellow, coffee-stained photo of you grinning like a psychopath, proudly patting your brand new motorcycle. Something tells me, it will not help in any way. You cannot respond, you cannot give me a witty advice on what to do, you cannot give me a reassuring hug and tell me everything will be all right, that Dora and I will go through this, that nothing will be wrong with our child, that the three of us will have happy, carefree lives and that my confusion and insecurities are normal, expected, nothing unusual or worth worrying. You cannot and yet I still expect you to. It is your duty as my best friend, Padfoot. It's almost like I can see you now, barking with laughter at the word 'duty'. You never liked being told what to do, always went against orders, breaking rules with a smile of triumph, enjoying the rebellion more than anything. Sometimes I wish I could do things your way. Life would be much easier. Or maybe I just think it would be, since I'm having so many troubles with leading my own.

Somebody once said: 'He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man.' Amazing thought, but so untrue in my case. I didn't make a beast of myself – I was made that way, unwillingly. And the pains of a man stay within me, deep, engraved in the very core of my being, torture me day and night, unstoppably. I cannot separate the two halves of me, they are me, it is who I am – flawed, imperfect, dangerous.

I hear a wolf howling in the distance. Do you think it's a sign? Maybe it is. If I love her, I will let her go. I have to do it. She deserves to breathe normally without this beastly creature dragging her into the abyss. It is my curse, my bad luck, my burden.

There is still hope for her. Mine vanished a long time ago.