Remus Lupin was the most miserable boy on earth. For one thing, he had no friends. His parents were the only people in his life, and if you don't think that THATS sad, then I don't think I can find anything you'll think is. For another, he wanted more than anything to go to school. He spent his days dreaming about it, the one school in particular. It was not a normal school and he was not a normal child. In fact, even for the abnormal children who attended the mysterious abnormal school seemed ordinary compared to him. He was, in all ways, very different.

Of course, it wasn't his fault. To say that it was is like telling a child it is their fault they have blonde hair or green eyes. Though then, I suppose, you could argue it's the parents fault. It's because of them their child is the way they are. But it's not really. Because they couldn't help it either.

Remus was one of those children who had no one to blame for his abnormalities. He knew that his parents were innocent; they would never do something so horrible to him. And he knew that it wasn't the fault of his creator either, if you could call him (or her) that. He was a very rational boy, and he wasn't one to judge someone on something they couldn't control. Especially when he was like them. Sometimes, when it was his last night of the month before he got bad again, he would think of them. He liked to think that somewhere, in some place, his creator was also lying in their bed, staring at the ceiling and dreading. Just dreading the inevitable. He wondered whether they remembered the nights and the terror and the pain. He wondered if they too were surrounded by destruction- destruction they had caused. But mostly, and he took great comfort in this, he wondered if they thought about him. And if they worried about how he felt about the approaching full moon, like he worried about them. His father didn't think he should care, but Remus couldn't help it. He was a freak. They were both freaks. Both of them...Werewolves.