Disclaimer: See Prologue

Teddy tore open the next envelope. Finally, he would have a real idea of what life with his parents would have been like. It was only once he held the parchment and the photograph that his heart started to beat faster and he wondered whether this was such a good idea.

His father seemed the happiest he had ever been. His composure and faint but no less genuine smile, spoke volumes. The wind that blew his mother's vivacious hair in her eyes was the same wind that caught itself in her dress and resulted in her burying herself for warmth in her now husband's arms.

Ted,

I know it's not much of a wedding suit but it's what I like to call shabby chic. I had absolutely no money at all and I remember being terrified that your mother would take one look at me and turn straight around.

It was a very simple wedding. There were about six people there and that includes us and the Priest. My mother insisted on a Catholic ceremony and your mother was the sort who was willing to try anything once, twice if she liked it.

That's neither here nor there. Lots of people can tell you about that. I'm sure if you ask your mum nicely she'll regale you with tales of how my hair was a mess, my suit was made before she had hit her teens and her father had attempted to get me plastered before the ceremony. In fairness to Ted, he didn't know that one Firewhiskey is one too many. In fairness to myself, I did try to tell him.

Real life began when we woke up the next morning in a cottage that I had snatched from my mother under the pretence of "I will put you in a home for your 'festive' and emotionally crippling behaviour yesterday" but really, she had moved down the road into a little bungalow that she had her eye on since before I was even born.

All's well that ends well.

Until your mother attempted breakfast. I mean, it certainly ended, praise God, but I don't believe 'well' is an acceptable adjective. It does not do the event justice to describe it but I shall try.

When I was promised breakfast in bed and told to go back to sleep, I did not expect breakfast on the bed (a hover charm that went horrifically wrong) but more shockingly, nor did I expect it on the walls (I hasten to add that there seemed to be no explanation for this. Your mother claimed to be clueless) but I decided to take these offerings as an added bonus and vowed that from then on, I would do the cooking.

Which I did. It was a strange relationship. Your mother worked ridiculous hours for what was increasingly a fascist government in an incredibly dangerous job while I cleaned dishes, made beds, polished furniture and baked. I have never felt like such a pansy in my life before or since.

Eventually, we discovered that she was expecting you and she soon gave up her job. I was glad. It gave my life purpose. I baked cookies, I made sponge and I would have grown oranges had we been in the right sort of environment (she drank so much orange juice that I was afraid you'd come out looking like one of the Oompa Loompas – if you don't know what they are; three words: 'Gene', 'Wilder' and 'watch').

I have a confession. You scared the living daylights out of me. It wasn't so much you personally as the very idea of you. I would have a child who would presumably look to me for answers. I had none to give. What I feared the most was the possibility of passing on my disease. Now, had I sat down and actually thought about it, I would have come to another conclusion; one that told me in a sensible and rational voice that sounded strangely like my father, that I was being an idiot.

As soon as I realised that developing lycanthropy really depended on being bitten by a werewolf, I relaxed. And then I began to worry about biting you. God knows why, I had never touched another human being once while I was transformed but I have paranoia and it can do strange things to you.

Even if I didn't harm you, you would be ashamed of me. I could provide you with nothing but my name and my name was scum at the time; 'Lupin' to rhyme with 'sod of hell'.

I always knew I would come back. I didn't leave to live as a hermit, Ted. I left to try and find Harry. I thought if I could save Harry then I would justify my very existence. I thought that people might give me a break. Yeah, I wanted to be a hero. I had absolutely nothing to give you, nothing but my name. I wanted my name to mean something. I wanted you to be proud of me, proud to bear my name. I lasted sixteen days, that's pitiful. I thought I was being selfish until your mother practically beat the sense back into me. I came back. I'm here writing this. I'm here embarrassing myself, caught by my mother-in-law whilst singing 'The Immigrant Song'. I'm not expecting it to be enough, Ted, but it wasn't because I didn't love you; quite the contrary actually.

Anyway, lecture and embarrassing 'Please forgive me' speech over.

By the time your mother and I had returned to Sleepy Cottage, my mother was speaking to me and you were four months away from bursting into my life and demanding constant humming of '70s rock.

Christmas was fairly quiet. It was a difficult time. Andromeda and my mother came round and constantly criticised my turkey, my drinking and my jumper. It probably didn't help that I insisted on mulled wine for breakfast but if you can't drink from the moment you wake up on Christmas morning, when can you?

One thing we did make perfectly clear was that the door would be locked (metaphorically since your grandma could open it anyway) until at least twelve o'clock. I thought that this would give us enough time to get up, exchange gifts, drink mulled wine and orange juice respectively and most importantly, your mother could get ready in peace and I would have no-one fussing round my kitchen as I wrapped a whole bloody turkey in foil.

Stupid mistakes; both buying a turkey and assuming no-one would interfere. We were eating that bird until late January.

What I didn't realise and what Saint Delia Smith neglected to tell me, was that mothers seem to sense when you want to be alone and decide that they should be with you in your time of stress. She also forgot to mention that a turkey should be cooked the night before for best results (i.e. for a Christmas Day that doesn't end with a trip off to St. Mungo's and disinfectant).

But that's neither here nor there.

My mother kept telling me that we were all lucky to be alive. Well, that was utter rubbish because I certainly would rather be dead that endure Andromeda's deep breaths every time she saw me for the next three weeks.

Not all days were quite so eventful. It would be a lie to tell you that we spent our nights curled up in front of a roaring fire with a book and milky hot chocolate because we didn't. I tried, God knows I tried but every time I finished my sentence, your mother wanted to know what I was reading, what I thought we should do to liven up the evening and whether I would make her a hot chocolate too.

Some were even spent having music wars. These were great nights. She would blare her strange music to a point where I could barely hear my own thoughts. Hence why Sid Vicious and I responded so, well…viciously.

She told me that as soon as you were born I would have to stop playing songs that contained such choice lyrics as "Body screaming fucking bloody mess" although I obviously couldn't see a problem. I'm joking there, Ted. I'm not a complete nutter.

We fought on a regular basis. At the end of the day, she was a Black. It was only to be expected. She and Sirius were made from the same mould. I could read her like a book because what she didn't realise was that I had one up on her when it came to dealing with a Black.

I remember one night being an exception. I remember lying on the sofa with her and wondering what we were going to call you. It was scarily quiet for a weekend. Sometimes I think I miss those days the most; the quiet days.

I think about the number of times you have woken me. I think about the number of times I have practically pulled my hair out while trying to get you back to sleep. I think about the number of times you have infuriated me.

You make it so hard to love you when you do all that.

I think about the first time I held you, a very small bundle of blue perfection. I think about the first time you smiled at me; I looked down at you and you beamed up at me and mirrored my eyes. I think about the sound of your laughter. I think about the smell of baby powder and camomile that seems to evaporate into the air around you.

You make it impossible not to love you. I have spent four weeks with you and they have easily been the best of my life. I cannot imagine a time when you were not here.

I digress, but I had to tell you that. If you're reading this then I'm not around to tell you every day and I should be. Telling you every day isn't even enough. You infuriate me. You terrify me. I love you with all my heart.

You are just like your mother.