My body's not belonged to me since I was four years old, so I may as well share it, now that I'm of age.

This is the summary of my logic, always winding restless in my mind. Hyper-sensitive of myself and my physical urges, I think all my choices through. I give in only because I allow myself the right. The things I do are deliberate; they have to be.

I've analyzed my motives carefully. I was nearly a Ravenclaw, after all, like my father. Merlin, if that unassuming man knew what I did, well, it's hard to imagine what he'd do— what new level of shame would darken his eyes.

This thought does not frighten me. On a basic level I have become immune to shame. It's a necessary skill when your own blood looks at you with fear distorting their love, pity and guilt clouding the tenuous joy at pointless little successes, like top marks in school. We both know these small successes are fleeting. I will never be able to hold down a job of any decent caliber. I will live hand to mouth. I will struggle.

I smile wryly to myself as I dry off after a bath in the prefect's wash room, imagining my father's shock, his anger. I decide it'd be a welcome change to the man's calm facade. I take a moment to marvel at a fresh scar across my ribs. My right hand traces the mark, and then my left hand wraps around my right wrist— left rough, discolored, and skeletal as the wolf's earliest and most favorite chew toy. It's the only part of my body I'm not comfortable with.

I pull on the tight, black partial sleeve I use to cover the offending appendage and glance in the mirror again. Muscle is more visible now, even in calm movements. I am getting stronger, and so is the wolf. The beast has somehow become more creative as well, or perhaps just angrier. How the skin between my shoulder blades was torn open two weeks and two days prior, I can't be sure. There must have been some gruesome acrobatics involved.

As I pull on my shirt, I wonder how young I will die. The irony is not lost on me that the older I get, the lower my estimation becomes. My brow furrows slightly in thought. I'd wager about 36 years now, 38 tops. As a sixth year, I've nearly reached middle age.

I'm not blind to the fact that I've romanticized my sickness— the tortured soul only meant for this earth for a season, the literal lone wolf. It's an odd defense mechanism, imbuing poetry into my disease.

I knew at a fragile age that loneliness would always haunt me. Before I got the chance to fancy anyone, I learned no one could ever truly know me. It fucks with your expectations about attachment- skews your perspective. I have a secret I'll take to my grave,my only companion. It makes me special, and I've grown accustomed to my fate.

Feeling so distant, so emotionally bankrupt, I decided some time ago that I might as well counter balance the mental barricade with loose lips and eager hips.

Sometimes when a boy is inside of me, I wonder what it'd be like to wake up next to someone else's warmth, share a sleepy smile.

Sometimes when I'm inside a boy, I think, how would it be to know a full name, a favorite color, a birthday?

When I'm inside a girl I sometimes want to say I love her, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself. I wouldn't mean it, of course. I'm just curious how the words would feel in my mouth, how out of place. They may as well be another language.

I'm glad my scars frighten people. I tell them I was attacked by a dog when I was very small, and if someone's bold enough or cares enough to ask, I say the fresher marks are because I cut myself for fun. When I'm in a certain mood, or near a certain moon, I ask if they want to try. No one has said yes.

I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, arranging my long, wavy hair to shadow the multiple marks on my neck, the scar from the monster that made me, and various smaller bruises and bites.

I think it may have been the lie about cutting myself that first compelled my more vigorous partners to scratch, bite, and hit me. Or maybe I just exude an air that tells people I don't matter.

Whatever the initial reason, I didn't stop them. Indeed, it wasn't long before I started begging for it, demanding it. My body's not my own anyway, and it feels good for a little harm to come from an outside source. So, I let them take their anger out on me.

The Room of Requirement gives me a dark place to regain control.

Then there's a boy in the restricted section of the library.

The mere fact that he is at ease among the secluded stacks tells me a lot. He's clearly been given permission to be here. Which means the professors, and Dumbledore himself, trust him. Therefore, it stands to reason that he doesn't get into much trouble, which either means he's good, or good at not getting caught.

He is also focused on his education more than most, as intensive extra credit assignments are the primary stipulation to being allowed to delve into these shelves.

A single row of tomes separates us, and I see his green and silver tie gleam in the torchlight. I find myself immediately more interested in him, maybe even attracted— if not for any other reason than I've had so few snakes in my bed. The vast majority are much too proud to turn to a Gryffindor for any sort of companionship, let alone intimate pleasure. The rarity of it gives the illusion that it's special— some sort of challenge, or trophy.

I swiftly exit the library, deeply annoyed with the sudden urgency I feel to put as much space between us as possible.

Author's Note: I truly appreciate you taking the time to read, and of course reviews are welcomed! I don't foresee this being a long story. Looking at the bits and pieces I have, I'd guess maybe two more chapters about this length, but it is difficult to say.

All the best,
tta