I lied. I found a Harry Potter story I'd written awhile back- you can tell, it's strangely written- and so I'm putting it up because I'm bored. That's really the only reason.

So the character's mine, the blonde lady may or may not be...the only things that aren't mine that are in this story are Hogwarts, it's houses...owls...the Ministry...Rowling's version of werewolves...and something else.

It's only a month. Twelve months a year, plus one more every two point seven or so months. No big, right?

Wrong.

Not that sometimes there aren't perks to being a werewolf, scourge of the city and scum of the earth. Sometimes the solitude's nice. Sometimes communing with nature is pleasant. My singing voice has drastically improved, since pushing with my diaphragm has started making sense. I can really belt it out now. I used to want to be a singer, just like Celestina Warbeck or the Weird Sisters, but the bite changed that. I'd never seen it coming. I was only eight. Eight-year-olds rarely show much forethought. But who honestly expects to be attacked in their own house. A house is supposed to be a safe zone, somewhere a person can escape to when they can't handle the real world.

Someone left the back door open.

Little kids are notorious for their abilities to bounce back from practically anything. Even one night a month as a bloodthirsty self-destructive beastie.

I'm not eight anymore. I'm sixteen. Not very long or old on paper, but I feel much older in spirit. I've done something bad. I can't go home, if 'home' is still the word to use. 'Home' suggests a place I'm happy and safe in. I haven't been happy or safe in eight years. I hadn't truly been ready for the blue moon…

The door opened- alive- lots of blood- the thrill of the chase, my first- more blood- and desire, the desire to conquer- and silence.

How does one prepare for a transformation? My mom- alive, then- had always told me that I was too smart for my own good, that it was a good thing my life had been ruined so I could get my –bad word- little head out of the clouds.

They'd both gone to Hogwarts, my parents. Slytherin and Ravenclaw. My mother was a nobody, passing only by a very thin thread each year, despite her supposed Ravenclaw intellect. People change, though. I presume she'd been smarter, then. Disappointment dulls the spirit. I liked her better than my father, at any rate. He was bitter- marrying his second choice, living in a dump, not bearing any sons who lived past their second birthdays due to Mom's bad drinking during her many pregnancies, only a daughter with no future, a gangly scarred mousy-haired twig of a kid who spent more time tampering with classic literature and debasing society as a whole than was reasonably healthy. He left the morning after my bite.

Sent me a postcard once, at Christmas, asking for a hundred galleons so he could 'buy some stuff', no doubt illegal. He was into illegal. That was his job, if you could call it a job.

I'm not going to Hogwarts. It's almost as painful now as it was when I was ten. I'd woken up early every morning from July through September first. I'd run downstairs every morning in my nightgown (and gauze on some mornings) and wait by the kitchen window in hopes an owl would come and rescue me from my life, but nothing happened. The only letter I got was a recently passed law banning procreation between a werewolf and a non-werewolf. Why didn't they just say it? "We don't want you to exist, so we're going to make you not."

I AM bitter. It's not fair. I'm not scum.

Yesterday I was approached outside the grocery store by a tall blonde woman in a cape who seemed distinctly familiar, like I'd seen her description on a wanted poster or on the news or something. She spoke to me in a snooty 'I'm holier than thou' tone, telling me about Voldemort's campaign. There was a lot of stuff I hadn't known. Some I had. All, I knew, the Ministry would give up its first-born child for.

I told her I'd think about it, to contact me in the morning.

There's a few small sounds outside, then the owl flies through the kitchen window. It's not from Hogwarts, or the Ministry. It's from her, following up on her offer.

I've made my decision.