Plot came up while I was reading Perspective by Oony
Name: Julie Walburga Black
Year: Third
House: Griffyndor
Blood-status: Half breed, pure blood
An essay about werewolves, you ask?
I'll give you one.
I'll give you one, but probably not the way you want it. I won't write I don't know how many pages, telling you how to kill my own, how to recognize them, no...
You already know that. Silver, full moons, snouts...
You must also know how the Ministry rounds us up when we're still children, how they burn a number on the back of our necks, whether you want it or not.
They told you we're dangerous, killers after your blood.
They told you werewolves can't even recognize their own.
It's true.
But only once a month, when the moon is full. Every other day, every single one, we're just like you. You, Dumbledore, the minister.
We're just like you.
Every year, the teacher asks third years essays about werewolves. I'll bet they never had to correct one written by a werewolf.
You ask an essay? I'll give you one. I'll tell you how most of us fear the moon. Yes, we do. That shiny sphere high up in the sky. It scares us. Because we know what happens when it's full.
How our flesh tears, our bones crack, our organs rearrange to form a new shape. One that is not our own, one that is not totally human, and yet not totally wolf.
That thing so far away you can barely see it sometimes. It scares us. Because we know what it does.
You forget who you are, where you are, who those people surrounding you are. And the wolf takes over. It tries to kill, to hurt, to feed.
And no one else understands, they write books, essays, pages and pages, filled with ink, saying everything you need to know about werewolves.
But they don't tell you what it feels like, being shunned by those who are so alike you , and yet so different.
They don't tell you about that room in the Ministry, buried deep within the earth, where they take the werewolves who "misbehave". It seems that simply existing is misbehaving. That room with white walls where they take you without even a trial. That room that smells like paint.
How many times did they paint it over to hide the blood that stains the walls? I don't know, no one does. They all lost count.
Yes, they try to hide it, the blood.
But it's no use, every day, they take our own to that room. How many of us? No one knows. They make us kneel on the ground, they torture us until our mind snaps. And then they drive a silver bullet through your heart.
They say you need silver to kill a werewolf.
It's not true.
Avada Kedavra, a knife, beatings, hunger, pain... loneliness.
So many ways to kill us. It's easy, they say. Killing a monster. But is it really, are we that different? Would you kill someone just for being something they can't control?
They say the last thing the werewolf hears is the gun being triggered.
They tell children that. It makes them all feel better, knowing there is a way to kill us.
But those stories are those who fuel our nightmares. When you see a werewolf screaming in his sleep, you do not ask what happened. Because you know, you know they dream of the room, the white walls, the smell of paint, the feeling of dread.
While you children shake when you mention Azkaban, ours tremble because White Room.
They write laws forbidding us to marry, to have children, to own a house, to travel wherever we want, to mix with society, to meet other of our own... to be free.
They wrote a book, thick as Hogwarts : A History, telling us what we can and can't do. Stupid rules, making us feel inferior, feel like the rug you step on is better than us.
An essay about werewolves, you ask? I'll give you one. This one. That you probably threw away already, or maybe you're thinking of making me fail this class.
But I don't care.
As a werewolf, I feel someone needs to say these things, put them out in the open.
Because yes, I'm a werewolf, yes, I'm different. I know that, with the Ministry killing us like they do, I won't survive this war. But I still fight, for my friends, for those who deserve to live, for those they call humans, and yet... are just like me.
Severus Snape closed his eyes after reading the essay, emotions battling in his heart.
The next morning, when giving the parchments back to their composers, he stopped in front of Julie.
"Ms Black, your inability to do what is asked will never cease to astound me"
Troll
"What did you do this time?" Mary asked
"I simply spoke my mind" her sister answered
The first to speak looked horrified "And how, pray tell, are you not hanging on the dungeons ceiling by your fingers?"
THE END