Savage Moon

Pale. Luminous. A bright halo of the sky, watching over all I wonder at it for a moment. And then it's gone. Hidden and secreted away behind a cover of cloud. My breathing sharpens. I call for its appearance again. The clouds part and my breathing eases. A weak reflection of the sun, that is all it is but my body calls to it, needing to be near it. I rise upon my hind legs and howl to the moon. Wind tugs at my fur but I pay no attention to it, instead focusing on the bright moon that I am slave to.

A pale boy tosses in his bed, oblivious to everything around him, caught up in his own dreams. He hardly makes a sound, but pain is etched across his face. His dreams are not pleasant, and will not be for all his days. He was born to suffer. The room is dark, the only light from the crescent moon. It is growing, and soon it will be full. The boy tosses again.

I leap forwards, testing out my limbs, still aching from the last moon. A foolish rabbit hops into my line of sight, and I appreciate the pinpoint detail my eyes give me. It didn't have a chance. I tear at it with my paws before it has a chance to notice me. It twists its back, lurching forwards but with one quick movement I break its neck. The rabbit's lifeless body falls limp in my hands, and I savour the pleasure of killing for a moment before I tear at its flesh with my teeth, feeling its bones break in my mouth, and the blood trickle down my fur. I leave its cracked skull for the crows and continue to run through the forest. I lick at the blood matting on my fur, and feel hunger again. Not for rabbits, but for human flesh.

"NO!" The boy screams out, sweat dripping from his face, a face so gaunt and thin it seems to belong to someone many times his elder. He pulls himself up, his grey eyes staring at something that is only in his dream, his fists clutching tensely at the blankets in his hand. He doesn't notice the whiteness in his knuckles, or that the room is quite empty. The door opens, and his parents rush in, and immediately hold him in their arms. But he doesn't notice, his eyes still bulging in fear from his dreams. Slowly he calms, his breathing relaxing and he lets himself be nestled in his mother's arms, whimpering only "I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want this anymore"

I can smell it, seeping through my veins. I need it. I want it. Human blood. I run quicker, feeling myself gaining on my prey. Hunger overpowers my senses, and all I can think of is the boy I am chasing after. The scent is strong and odourous, I can almost feel it calling me to it. Hot warm blood. The moon above seems to be joining in my excitement, bright and clear in the night sky. He's there, I can hear him. An innocent voice obliviously playing with his toys. Perfect. I edge nearer, saliva ebbing at my mouth as I anticipate his tender flesh, the tearing of tendons from the bone, the toughness of muscle broken through as easily as paper, the ending of a life.

His mother gently strokes his head, unable to say anything to comfort her son. As his arm pulls around her, needing her comfort she notices the scar he will always have across his arm. It almost looks like a void, a white void in the middle of his arm. A void that nothing can fill now that it has been made. The boy seems oblivious to it, but he is not. It preys on his thoughts, always there, lurking in the back of his mind. A physical reminder of the torture he faces. He tries to blink away the tears that always now seem to be threatening to overflow and he catches a glimpse of the moon through the window. He turns away from it, unable to comprehend its exquisite beauty. To him it only represents pain and suffering.

He's there, a tiny child playing with a toy broomstick. My yellow eyes burn with barely controlled longing. He doesn't notice me toying with him, creeping ever closer, almost upon him. He turns, his brown eyes widening in curiosity as he registers my eyes. Then he notices what I am, I can see the fear begin to dawn, but it is too late. I leap and my teeth sink into his arm. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, blood rushing into my head, and I'm lost in the taste of human blood. Then I hear his screams. I run my claws across his face in an effort to dissuade him, but the damage has been done. Other screams, louder this time emanate the air. I hear "Remus!" coming ever closer, and his own frightened sobs. Reluctantly I turn dropping my prey onto the grass, and pad away into the darkness. The screams echo after me, but I have succeeded. Even in the midst of my wolf thoughts, I know this.

Guilt is etched across the faces of the parents, but he is too young to understand their regrets. He believes it was his fault. That he'd done something wrong. He doesn't yet realise it was an attack on his parents. He prays every night, but there is no answer. He must have done something very bad to deserve this. He sighs, and shudders involuntarily in his mother's arms. Every night he dreams of it, but it was nothing to the savage nature of the beast he had turned into every month. A tear trickles down his face as he contemplates the thought of the next full moon. He wondered how even his mother could still hold him to her chest and tell him she loved him. He was dirty. He was unclean. No one should touch him and he knew that. But his mother's arms offered safety and comfort. He yearned ever closer to his mother, feeling despicable as he did so. He shouldn't even be near people so pure as his parents. He shouldn't have human contact. He should have been banished into the wild. But there he could injure many more. Perhaps it was safer to be locked up inside. He ought to go to that prison. Azkaban. There he couldn't injure anyone. Maybe he'd injure himself. That would be better than hurting others. Maybe he'd end the pain completely. Maybe there he'd finally stop being himself. Stop being the werewolf. Stop feeling the pain, the terror, the guilt.

I curl up in my den, my hunger satisfied. The dawn is rising, and the moon is beginning to wane. My limbs feel weaker, and I can feel the change within them as my lowlier form returns. There is still pain, but I am used to it now. The satisfaction of calling another wizard to our kind overrides all and any suffering. Another has been made tonight. I fall asleep, my limbs now fully human, and naked. I do not put on my cloak, instead letting myself rest in the thoughts of my next victim.

The boy's parents remain with him until he falls into a more peaceful sleep. It will still be fitful, but they can do nothing to protect him from his own thoughts. They look to each other to find comfort, but find nothing but pain at knowing their child's sufferings. They silently leave, each kissing their child's forehead as he sleeps. He is too young to have suffered so much, so soon. He will never know what it is like to feel innocent again, to feel carefree and happy. He continues to suffer, but he does so quietly. He knows the name of his attacker, but he does not feel anger, or hatred. What he suffers must be suffered by his attacker too. He knows the impulsive behaviour, the violence, the savagery. He knows the impossibility of controlling himself in such a state. Somewhere his attacker lies, perhaps just as guilt ridden as himself.

I robe myself, gazing in distain at my weak limbs. Another few cuts adorn my skin, but I do not feel them. Blood is still clinging to my chin, and I rub it off, the texture pleasing to my animal instincts. I look down at my hands, the nails long and yellow, but I prefer the animal within me, its strength, its power, its sheer might. I chew at a chicken breast lying on the ground, awaiting the next full moon.

The boy wakes the next morning, his eyes darkened, his cheeks still tear stained. The moon has gone, and all that is left are the sun's rays, flooding his room with light. He knows that the moon will return though, and he knows that soon, once again, he will undergo the pain and torture that each transformation gave him. If he is lucky he might avoid any nightmares, but he knows that they would return as well.

He sits down at his desk, his eyes full of purpose, yet tired and old. He pulls a piece of parchment towards himself, and dips his quill into the ink pot. He tugs at his hair, a few grey hairs already peppering the brown, as if pondering what to write. Then he scratches a few lines.

"My name is Remus Lupin. I am a werewolf."

He pauses once more, chewing the tip of the feather, then he scratches out the last line.

"I was attacked by a werewolf."

He frowns, reading over the last line, then scratches it out too, rewriting the original. He continues scratching over the parchment for a few minutes before reading his work.

"My name is Remus Lupin. I am a werewolf. I have been so since I was 7. I am now 10. I know the pain that ravages through my body every full moon. I know the savagery that takes over my body. I know what it feels like to tear an innocent creature limb from limb. I know what it is like to have no control over my actions.

I should be carefree.

I should be innocent and naïve.

I am not.

Some day I hope to find a cure. Some day I WILL find a cure.

I will walk once again as a wizard."