Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN!
A/N: I never wrote a Teddy Lupin story before, but this just popped into my head. It makes me think of the disney song 'sound the bugle now' from spirit. It's so sad, but I love it anyway. (the text might not have so much to do with this story - though if you think it through, you could find a way to make it fit- but it's more about the emotion.
I hope you enjoy this story.
I feel empty. The world around me looks just the same as always, yet it seems different to me. The grounds, the forest; they lost their pureness, their serene beauty. I always knew there were monsters in the woods. I just never expected to be one of them.
I feel like I'm closer to my father now than I've ever been before. He must have had the same doubts, the same fears, the same self-loathing. The same question: 'Why me?'
It is commonly know werewolves don't get children. There is only one known case of it happening. They thought they could use me as a test, to see whether or not this condition in inheritable. But they can't. 'Cause I'm not one, but two times a freak. I mean, honestly, what are the chances? The one time a werewolf decides to have a child, he breeds with an Metamorphagus?
I had thirteen years of peace. But every full moon, I could feel the wolf inside me getting stronger, tugging at my soul, begging me to give in, to change, to be myself. I never did. I refused to give in, insisting I was strong enough to keep him in his cage. And I succeeded.
Until now.
They said it were the hormones. They said it was because I was a teenager now, and my body was changing. They said it wouldn't last and I had no need to feel ashamed.
But what do they know about it? It was me, not them whose body and mind were taken over every week. It was ME who had to wash off the dirt and blood from my body, healing the scratches, not knowing where I got them.
I hated it, I hated to lose my control like this. I know my father felt more… human when he had his friends with him, but could I ask that from my friends? And –I reluctantly thought- would they be able to do it anyway? Would they even want to?
I always thought my parents left me nothing but pain. Sadness. The constant wondering WHY their not-even one year old son wasn't important enough to stay alive. Harry always told me he understood, because his parents died when he was very young too, but he didn't, not really.
You see, his parents had no choice. Voldemort came for them. They died in an attempt to save their son. My parents didn't have to fight. People told them not to. They told them to stay with me, their baby. Yet they didn't. Without hesitation, they dropped me off at my grandmothers so they could go, join the fight and get their selves killed.
Ron and Hermione once told me how my father died. They said that, after my mother was killed, he didn't seem to care about his own life anymore. All he wanted was revenge, he just lost the love of his life and now he was willing to die himself trying to revenge her.
That story was actually to cheer me up, to show me how much my parents loved each other, and that now I was the only remaining evidence of their love, yadda yadda…
But it only made me sadder.' My father didn't found life worth living after my mother was killed, and all he loved was gone,' was the basic summary of that story. What about me? Where did I come in?
I can't remember them, but now I catch myself talking to them again.
'Cause it seems they left me something more that sadness.
An unfortunate combination of genes.
R/R please
Edit: Thanks to Lola P Malfoy for pointing out my mistake! ^^