Teddy Lupin was crying, and his father couldn't do a thing to stop it. All he could do was hold his baby boy and stroke his little head. Teddy's little tuft of hair was a bright, bright red: the boy was angry, and he was in pain. A pain I caused, Remus thought to himself. He's infected—I know he is.
Andromeda had tried to tell her son-in-law that babies cried at everything. A single discomfort could send them spiraling: Remus couldn't possibly know how Teddy had been affected.
"It could be as small as a headache," she had said soothingly, but Remus simply shook his head. It didn't matter to him how big or small the pain his son was going through was: he was convinced he had ruined his son's life. It hadn't taken him long to figure this out, either. Twenty-nine days (in the average) month, and Teddy was perfectly fine and healthy. He rarely cried, gurgled and cooed at everything, and adored being held. The day of the full moon, however, and occasionally the day before and after, the boy went absolutely colic.
"He's in pain, Andromeda. I know he is," Remus had insisted months earlier. "And it's all my fault."
Early that morning, Remus sat at the kitchen table and held his eight-month-old close to his chest, trying his best to smile at the boy. Teddy's little face was contorted—eyes puffy and flashing red, mouth agape, screaming. Remus didn't like giving potions to a baby, regardless of how safe Andromeda claimed they were, but he couldn't watch his son sit there in pain.
"Take the bottle, Remus," Andromeda said sternly, holding the formula mixed with something to ease the boy's pain. "You hate it when he cries, and I hate watching you pity my grandson."
More than mildly annoyed—Remus was going through his own pains as well—the werewolf took the bottle from his mother-in-law and sat Teddy up in his lap, carefully positioning the bottle above Teddy's mouth. The little boy wrapped his grubby fingers around it as best he could, eagerly slurping down the food and medicine within.
"Daddy's sorry," Remus whispered, eyes heavy with tears. "Your daddy is so, so sorry, Teddy."
The baby didn't respond, but his hair did eventually fall to its normal sandy-brown shade, his eyes returning amber. Just like his father, Remus thought to himself bitterly. Andromeda stood over the two, pouting.
"Remus Lupin," she huffed, "I will not have the boy's first word be 'sorry,' which it will be if you keep this up."
As Teddy finished his bottle, Remus carefully grabbed it and set it on the table. The crying had subsided—for now. He shot Andromeda a cold look.
"And what would you rather me tell him? That it's going to be okay? That I don't feel constantly remorseful—"
"Yes!" The witch exclaimed, in her mildly crazed state looking more like Bellatrix than Remus cared to tell her. "That's exactly what you should say. You didn't ask for this, Remus. You made it very clear—painfully so—that you were worried that worse than this would happen." Andromeda sighed, looking intently at her son-in law. "I'm not angry with you, Remus. If anyone was going to be angry with you, don't you think it would be me?"
The werewolf stiffened. "You were mad at me," he whispered. "I know you were—"
"You sound like a petulant child," the witch scowled. "Yes, Remus, I was initially mad when my daughter brought you home. I was, unsurprisingly so, upset when you continuously broke her heart in some convoluted way of protecting her. And," she sighed, "I was upset that first full moon after Nymphadora's passing, when I watched her son scream as the moon rose. But I wasn't nearly as upset as you were at all these things."
Remus sat in silence, clutching Teddy as the boy's eyes began to droop. The potion always made him a bit sleepy. "I have every right to be angry with myself," he growled. "I ruined her life, just as I've ruined—"
"You made her life, you great blithering fool," Andromeda said sharply. "She adored you, just as she adored your son—I don't know how many times I have to tell you this for you to understand, she died protecting what she loved more than anything else—her family. She wouldn't have had it any other way," the witch added bitterly. "Brave and loyal—a challenging combination to have in your child. He'll be the same way," Andromeda insisted, pointing at Teddy. "And it will be your greatest source of fear and pride."
"Loyal to what," Remus spat. "To me? To a man who made him like this?"
"A happy, healthy, loved boy?" Andromeda retorted. Remus narrowed his eyes.
"A half-breed," he snarled.
Andromeda was taken aback. She shook her head violently. "You do not call him that, you understand? You do not get to call my grandson that…vile word." Remus scoffed.
"And why not?" He questioned. "It's what the world will call him—"
"We are his world right now, you understand?" Andromeda whisper shouted, attempting not to wake the small bundle in Remus' arms. "You wouldn't be saying these things if Nymphadora were here," she said icily. "She wouldn't let you, and you wouldn't let yourself—"
"—it should have been me. Me who died. I know you think it—Dora would be a million times better than me at all of this. She could…" Remus drifted off, lowering his voice. "She could be there for him tonight. I can't…I can't even be in the same room," he whispered. "He could've hated me from a distance, she could have told him stories about me at my best—with her—and he could have had a parent worth a damn—"
"Stop it," Andromeda said, voice cracking. "We'll get you the potion—next month, we'll have enough money, I swear it. You can be there, in the same room, with him if that's what's bothering you." The witch plopped down at the table, grabbing one of Remus' hands—the one not stabilizing her grandson. "My daughter was an amazing mother: I think we can both agree on that front. But you are an amazing father—if you let yourself be, that is. I need you to pick yourself up and be the father you were that first month when she was still here. If you pity yourself, he'll see that. If you hate yourself, he'll see that too. Children copy their parents. If you want Teddy to be proud of who he is—"
"—I do—"
"—then you'll be proud of yourself, damnit. You risked your life to make the world a better place. You go through unspeakable horrors—horrors your son will never know—every month, year after year. You are strong, you are brave, and you made a damn good husband—and I know what good husbands are. I had one myself. I love Lyall, you know I do…" Andromeda sighed. "But he spent so much time hating himself and pitying himself. He told me as much. And he told me the worst thing he ever did was let it get to you."
"That's not the worst thing he did," Remus said darkly. "But I forgave him—for all of it. I…" Remus drifted off, seeing Andromeda smile.
"You forgave him," she repeated. "You forgave him for something far worse that what you've done to Teddy. So, do you think somewhere in that thick skull of yours you can understand that your son will forgive you too?"
In the years that went on, Teddy never forgave his father—but it wasn't because he was angry with Remus. Far from it—Teddy didn't think his father had done anything wrong.
"You're sick, Daddy?" The little five-year-old had asked one morning as his father laid on the couch, bag of frozen peas over his forehead. Remus grunted.
"Yes, Teddy. A bit sick," he replied. Teddy nodded.
"Yeah, I'm feeling a little sick today too." The boy saw his father stiffen and Teddy furrowed his brows in a very Remus-like fashion. "Did I say something?"
"No," Remus lied through his teeth, shifting the bag of peas off of his head. "No, it was something I did, Teddy," he admitted. He looked at his son and smiled softly. "I can explain it to you, if you want—"
"Explain what?" Teddy asked. Remus sighed.
"I can explain why you're sick," he whispered. "If…If you want."
Teddy pursed his lips. "Well, I know why I get sick. Gran told me!"
Remus' eyes widened. "Gran…she told you?" Teddy nodded.
"Yeah! She says I get sick when you get sick because the 'Lupin boys do things together.' But I don't get sick like you do, Daddy. You look terrible."
Remus snorted. "Thanks, Teddy. I appreciate it," he drawled. "But…you're not upset? I mean, I…I'm the reason you're sick."
Teddy looked at his father and shrugged. "Gran says family can catch things from family sometimes. But it's okay because if my head hurts, I know your head hurts, and it makes it better when we're hurting together."
Remus blinked back a few tears, sniffling a bit. Teddy looked concerned.
"Are you okay, Daddy?" he asked, climbing onto the couch. Remus nodded, wrapping his arm around his little boy.
"I'm just fine, Teddy," Remus smiled. "All thanks to you."
Teddy didn't love getting "sick." He didn't think his dad did either. But he was happy they didn't have to get sick alone.