Teddy was fuming, and he didn't know why. He was in the most peaceful place he had ever been, with the most cheerful, pleasant man he had ever met. Yet since he had woken up that morning, all he had done was snap at Lyall. The tea was too hot. The chocolate in his pancakes too rich. The sun was too bright, the birds chirping too loudly. None of it had made sense: until he looked at the calendar.

Oh, Teddy thought to himself. The full moon is tomorrow. That would explain it. The days leading up to and following the full moon were the only days that affected Teddy in a similar way as they had affected his father: mood swings, aching joints, everything but the transformation itself. It was as if buried deep down there was some canine waiting for a chance to escape that would never come.

Lyall, of course, knew all of this. He hadn't taken offense when Teddy yelled at him at breakfast, nor did he mind when the boy decided to spend most of the morning locked in his room, stomping around like an elephant. It was simply that time of the month, Lyall thought with a smile. The boy couldn't help it. Eventually, Lyall knew that Teddy would learn to control his temper around this time. But he was also a fifteen year old with barely half the self-control his father had at his age—something Lyall attributed entirely to Nymphadora Tonks. Eventually, Teddy had lugged himself back downstairs, furiously scribbling in his father's old journal. Lyall sat at the kitchen table alongside him, silently reading the newspaper. French wizards could be seen on the cover angrily gesticulating about some new policy. Lyall peered over the paper and chuckled.

"Your father did the same thing—I would often see him writing in that journal the days leading up to the moon."

Teddy froze, and looked up from his writing.

"Not this, journal. It's empty. I wouldn't be writing in it otherwise," He spat, rolling his eyes. Lyall proceeded calmly.

"Well, he always cast enchantments on his writing, my boy. To make his own scrawl invisible. You're writing on the very pages your father once wrote on himself."

Teddy paused. Lyall assumed his was deep in thought, but Teddy's hair turned a violent shade of red and he cast the book on the ground, his eyes narrowing.

"HE WHAT!" Teddy yelled, standing up.

"Now, Teddy, please stay calm—"

"NO!" Teddy screamed. "All this time, ALL THIS TIME, I have been writing over what could be the last words I'll ever see from my father? Are you DAFT? How could you let me do this?!"

"Teddy, now wait—"

"No, YOU WAIT! Honestly, I don't know how you can be so calm. He's your son, aren't you upset?" Teddy asked, fuming. Lyall simply smiled and shook his head.

"Teddy, what I've been trying to tell you—thought I am not upset you interrupted—" Lyall added, "—Is that yes, you're writing over his words, but they aren't gone: a simple charm should be able to switch the journal from his writing to yours and back. Now, if you wouldn't mind picking up the journal, we can get to the bottom of this." Lyall smiled at his grandson, whose hair returned to its normal light-brown. Teddy gingerly picked the journal, and then sat back down at the table. "Very good," Lyall said cheerfully. "Now," he began, taking out his wand, "Let's see what a good ol' fashioned charm can do for us, non?"

"Revelio," Lyall whispered. The pages Teddy had been writing on turned blank. Teddy looked like he was about to say something angry, but Lyall simply held up a hand, asking him to wait. Eventually, a fanciful scrawl began to appear on the page, and Lyall began to read:

"Mr. Moony kindly asks his father to keep out of his private thoughts—for Mr. Moony's sake as well as that of the elder Mr. Moony.

Furthermore, he is appalled that the elder Mr. Moony would even consider showing Mr. Moony's own son the contents of this journal. He understands the importance of remembering the dead, but he would like to impress upon the remaining Messers. Moony that the inner workings of his teenage mind are of no importance and should remain in the 1970s.

His is loath to add that Mrs. Moony, however, would object to this line of reasoning, and suggests that if the young Mr. Moony is brave enough (though, not brave enough to follow in his father's footsteps in Gryffindor), he need only search his thoughts, looking within himself, and he will discover how to read the contents of these pages."

Teddy stared at the page in shock. Lyall chuckled.

"Remus used to put these spells on everything, once he figured out how that is. I'm not surprised he used it here, but I am surprised he never bothered to mention that his own father was in Hufflepuff and was quite dismayed that his only son didn't follow in his footsteps."

Teddy was beginning to see where Mr. Moony got his style of writing from.

"What does that mean…'search my thoughts.' Search my thoughts for what? I never knew him!" Teddy exclaimed. "How can I search my thoughts for things that don't exist? I don't know a thing about my father, no thanks to him and these bloody spells," Teddy said angrily, shoving the journal off of the table. "He's absolutely unbelievable," Teddy muttered, his voice beginning to crack. "Can't he realize this is all I've got left of him?"

"All you've…Teddy, my boy," Lyall said softly, "That journal isn't all you have left of your father. You are."

Teddy paused, eyes red, to look at his grandfather.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He croaked, feeling tears well up in his eyes.

"Teddy," Lyall began, all mirth gone from his face, "You are very much your own person. You say and do things neither of your parents would—as fun as it would be for me to enjoy the company of Remus again, that's not you, and it shouldn't need to be. You're enough for anyone, and any resemblance you have to your father is just that—resemblance. But I'd be lying if I said he wouldn't find within you a kindred spirit. You are so much like your father in ways I can't begin to describe—in English or in French. So all this nonsense about having nothing left to remember him by is just that—nonsense. I love you because of who you are—my grandson, Teddy Lupin. A boy I've thoroughly enjoyed getting to know. But I also love you because you are my Remus' son."

Teddy still felt tears rolling down his face, but for an entirely different reason. He was enough. He was enough for the one person he thought he would never be enough for.

"It doesn't matter if you never find out how to read that journal," Lyall continued slowly. He knew how out of sorts the boy must have felt. "Because you'll read it and think you could've written it yourself."

Yourself.

The words echoed in Teddy's subconscious. His eyes widened, the tears stopped. "Myself," Teddy whispered. "Grandpa, what's the word for myself in French?" Lyall was perplexed.

"Er…Moi-même, but Teddy…" Lyall drifted off, thinking, before his eyes widened and he came to the same conclusion as his grandson. The elder Lupin took his wand from his pockets and picked the journal up off the ground, tapping the journal lightly and whispering:

"Moi-même."

Before their eyes, the fanciful scrawl retreated and the simple penmanship of a young boy appeared on the pages.

"Property of Remus J. Lupin," Teddy read. This was it. His father's journal: finally revealed to him. The boy looked to his grandfather, who merely smiled.

"Go, on, it's yours now," He said softly.

"You don't…You don't want to read it?" Teddy asked rather meekly. Lyall felt conflicted: he missed his son terribly. He wanted nothing more than to hear his voice in his head once more. But he knew had his son been alive, Lyall never would've thought about reading his personal thoughts. They were Remus'. The elder Lupin shook his head slowly.

"No, I think I've had more opportunities to know Remus than anyone else—enough for a lifetime. These are words for you to read, and you alone—I've had enough," He said quietly, then cleared his throat. "Besides, no father wants to read his sons inner thoughts and Remus certainly made it clear that the journal is not for me," He said with a smile. Teddy looked like he was about to jump out of his pants. "Go on, read it. I'll be here when you're done," Lyall promised. Teddy grinned and snatched the journal.

"Thank you, Grandpa," He said hurriedly, running off to the large oak in the yard to climb up and read. Lyall smiled: Remus preferred to read amongst the trees as well.

Teddy began to open the journal and do what he always did when he read: flip to the last page, to see if he could work out the end backwards. He knew it didn't work with journals, but it was a habit of his. What he hadn't expected to see was a date far after his father's teenage years:

March 3, 1998

Teddy furrowed his brows, and began to read the following passage in his father's journal.

I can't believe I'm writing in this thing again after all these years, but my lovely wife Dora seemed to find my journal and with the ease she seemed to do so, I figured I'd better take precautions. She also reminded me that if she could read my journal, so could our future child. I find it best not to argue with women who are eight months pregnant and so I'm writing this in case my future child (who I pray will be a son, don't tell Dora) does happen to find this. Any son of mine will surely skip to the last page of the book he reads, perhaps to make sure his favorite characters are still alive and well, perhaps for an entirely different reason, so, congratulations son. If you've gotten this far you know what a sniveling, worrying, sorry for myself prat I was all these years. I hope you'll forgive me, but you have to understand I was a child. I didn't know any better. You're probably thinking to yourself that the man you know now is so entirely different; happier, less bothersome I hope. That is, if we survive this war, which surely Dora will, but in case I don't I suppose this is the place to leave some words of wisdom. If I'm alive, which I hope I will be to see the amazing man I'm sure you are, then you can disregard this nonsense and find me right away so I can burn this book and everything in it. But I'm ever the planner, so here it goes: I haven't met you yet, and perhaps I never will. But you must know how very loved you are. If you were born with my affliction, I must apologize; it was never my intention to have a child (no matter how often Padfoot and Prongs seemed to tell me I'd be an excellent father). All this being said, I'm so utterly grateful that you exist, and as selfish as this sounds I don't even care if you did inherit my nastier side.

That's not true, I take it back. I would care, but not as much as I would care for you. As I already care for you; I can tell you're trouble the way you kick up a storm in your mother and I have to admit I find your mischief delightful. You must understand that regardless of who or what you become, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me: better than Hogwarts, better than my wonderful parents (my father is quite enamored with your existence already, and I'm sure already planning to abscond to France with you), better than all of it that's come before. And I've had a truly wonderful life, all things considering.

But I'm getting off track: this is supposed to be wisdom, and here I am rattling off about who knows what. I suppose my death is making me nervous. For my first kernel of wisdom, I have to impart on you the importance of love and finding it. Life without love is truly nothing at all, and regardless of who you choose to love, I hope they make you as happy as your mother has made me. My life would be meaningless without her. If you find her equivalent in your eyes, please, for me, don't let them go.

As for my second kernel...don't underestimate your friends. For better or worse, they can surprise you in ways you never found possible. Not all of your friends will be best friends, and some of them may turn out to be good for nothing rats who don't deserve the mercy they've received. Don't tell Harry, but I would've gladly killed Peter on the spot. Maybe that's the monster in me talking, and here I go rambling again, but I mean it. But for every Peter there is a Sirius Black: a man who was for quite some time much more than a friend, but who I can assure you was never the one for me. Still, he was the best friend I ever had, and I'm forever grateful for the years he was in my life. Find someone like him, and you will be happy.

I must next impress upon you the importance of family. Ironic, I know, since if you are reading this you must feel that your own father deserted you for some cause that has little to do with your life now. But you have been born into an extraordinary family, by virtue of sheer luck. It was a family I was proud to be a part of, for however long, and one that is so excited for you to be a part of it. Of course, you may decide you don't want to be a part of it; I'd of course be disappointed, but it's your choice. Sirius detested his family (and for good reason), so he picked himself up and found a new one with the Potters, who treated him like their own son. I'm assuming that Harry will make it through all of this, and when you are born he'll be named godfather. Potters are excellent people, son, and I hope you and Harry share a bond like no other.

Dora is calling me and so I must go. While most of me hopes you never read this, there's a small part of me that hopes that you are able to take away something for your own life. Who knows, maybe I'll be a terrible father even if I do survive this, but at least you'll have Dora, Harry, and Andromeda. If I'm a terrible father, then I would assume you wouldn't want to meet mine; Merlin, I feel more and more like him each day. But on the off chance you do want to meet him, I can assure you that Lyall Lupin is an excellent man.

I love you son, and I hope to meet you soon.

Love,

Remus