Disclaimer: See Prologue

Ted,

In 1966 I was in a classroom. My mum was a Catholic and because of that, so were me and my dad.

St. John's Primary School was run by nuns. To this day, I still get shivers when I see a nun. Sister Act is not the family fun that it masquerades as and that's all I'm saying on the matter.

I don't even remember their names so I hope you don't mind if I make them up. I will run out of gags pretty soon and they'll start getting a little more normal. In the mean time, let's call my teacher Sledge.

So I was sitting in the classroom and Sister Sledge was trying to get me to think of a one letter word.

"Remus," she said (very patiently when you consider the circumstances), "who is the most important person in your world?"

Well, that was easy, suspiciously so.

"John Lennon, Sister."

Lennon was the man I idolised throughout my childhood. He was the lead singer of a band called The Beatles and I adored them. Obviously, Dad was God but Lennon was a sort of second in command, a bit like Jesus. In fact, he reminds me of Jesus. There are a lot of similarities. Both were killed before they were around forty. Both were willing to 'Give Peace a Chance'. Both had beards.

I was sent to the Cloakroom for that. In fact, I spent a lot of my time in that Cloakroom for reasons that Sister Sledge chose to keep to herself. Still, this was no great hardship. My parents were hardly ever strict with me, I don't think either of them really knew how to be, so I never got in any trouble for it and I was also able to snoop amongst my classmates' belongings and snacks.

However, I was regularly in trouble with the Headmistress, Sister Matic. She kept a life-sized crucifix outside her office and often I believed she was building one for me to hang there. I find my thoughts drifting back to her sometimes. Was she really making a cross? Is she making it still?

I didn't have friends there and the other children would often get me in trouble on long afternoons to break the day up a bit. It gave them an interesting show to watch. I had only one friend and even then, he couldn't exactly be called a friend but he was often in trouble as often as I was and we'd talk amongst ourselves to the best of our abilities while we waited for Sister Matic to prepare her instruments of torture.

That's a figure of speech, by the way. If your Primary School teacher put you on The Rack, tell Harry.

If she had even laid a finger on me, my mother would have killed her and I don't mean 'slapped her about a bit' I mean 'put her in the ground'. Once, the boys in my year decided they were going to give me a black eye and Sister Sledge just stood there and watched it. She was a Catholic and she bullied me herself. Stepping would be considered hypocrisy and hypocrisy is a sin. So my mother broke her nose. She came home with blood all over her knuckles and told me that I wouldn't have any further problems.

My mum was insanely protective and she knew that Sister Sledge just didn't like me. That was the crux of it. She hated me so she sent me to the headmistress on a regular basis. Unfortunately, Sister Matic thought I was a trouble maker and I was always found in her office.

It was a source of bewilderment to my friends. I was rather good at magic and I was top of the class in most of my subjects (with the exception of Potions) but I could only manage basic maths. My vocabulary, due to my love of reading, was pretty advanced but I would pale at the mere thought of long division.

Well, that was why. I was never in any classes. I was in Sister Matic's office being sworn at in Latin.

One year, some of the boys decided to send her a Valentine card from Jesus to see if they could sweeten her up a bit. Naturally, I was blamed for it. Tired of being bullied by her relentlessly, I made the crucifix fall on her head. There was a moment of amusement as she fell backwards, her eyes glazed over, and then it gave way to pure horror. If things had worked out differently, your dad could have been a killer.

As it was, she got up, slapped me round the back of the head, condemned me to an eternity of servitude with buggers and single mothers in hell and (funnily enough) never summoned me to her office again. This might have been the result of the concussion or the knowledge that Sister Sledge was saving her pennies for a nose-job.

I've just had a thought. That was a pretty good idea - choosing the crucifix. I think I could have successfully passed that off as an Act of God had the need arisen.

It was just as well I was accepted into Hogwarts because there was no way in hell the nuns would have let me further my education in St. Joseph's (the local Catholic High School).

So, just in case you choose Catholicism (and I seriously don't blame you if you don't), the most important lesson is:

Never, and I mean never, trust a nun.

Or, alternatively:

In times of hardship, stand under a life-sized model of the cross.

Follow these basic rules and you shouldn't go far wrong. Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this is because it was at thirteen that I began to question not only the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church but also the existence of God.

It was when I was thirteen that I first experienced prejudice towards werewolves. A book was published in 1973 called 'Werewolf Attacks and How to Deal with Them'.

Foolishly, despite the advice of James and Peter, I read it. I was absorbed in it. I couldn't sleep at night. I was lucky enough to barely remember the sensation of being bitten but the vague memory of the werewolf who had bitten me was intensified by the images the book brought to mind.

If you should go looking for the book, Ted, I won't object. I will not be disappointed in you. Just in case you do read it, I will inform you that, as a werewolf myself, the whole thing is the biggest load of commercial bullshit in existence. I do not condone your use of such language but in this case, I believe I will make an exception.

The book twisted my memory of that night. I began to picture the werewolf and having seen pictures of Fenrir Greyback, the most notorious werewolf in history, I recognised his eyes although I would not piece Greyback and the werewolf who bit me together until I was told about that night four years later.

I wondered how (if there was a God) He could allow a six year old child to live the life of an outcast. I had done nothing sinful and I worshipped Him. Why was it I who was chosen to be hated by the world? Why was it I who was chosen to suffer? I had come down with a case of Poor Me Syndrome.

It was only when I turned to The Bible (looking for any missing pages that might declare the book to be a work of fiction) that I realised that God had chosen his own son to live a life of suffering. I thought He was a bit ruthless and vowed to be nicer to my own father, who had never once threatened me with crucifixion, but nevertheless, I returned to my faith and my God but I made a few amendments to my religion.

I hope I'm not patronising you, kid.

Catholicism involves Priests praying for you because one is not worthy to speak to God Almighty. A Catholic worships his Priest perhaps more than he ends up worshipping his God.

So I did away with the middle man and prayed myself. I started to talk to God as though we were childhood friends. He knew me inside and out. I attended Confession, for Heaven's sake. He knew everything about me.

Confession, Ted, is basically sitting behind a panel and opening your heart, recounting your sins to your Parish Priest who knows your voice anyway. After telling Father Fairchild one summer that I was having very sinful thoughts about a girl in my class at school, he winked at me the following Sunday. That sealed it for me.

I no longer attended Confession, which was just as well because a) I was at Boarding School and only attending for a quarter of a year was starting to annoy Father Fairchild and b) I had befriended James and Sirius, so my list of sins was rapidly increasing.

I adapted it so that I could look at girls without feeling like I was betraying God. I adapted it so I could share a room with boys without feeling like I ought to burn in hell. I adapted it so I could relax with girls and not have to worry about how far things went. I adapted it so my friends could lie on my bed with me without my God assuming that I was gay.

I believe in God. I still pray even now but I no longer attend Church. I check in every now and again but it's nothing serious. When I need Him, I ask for help. When I don't need Him, then I'm sure He appreciates the alone time that I give Him.

If you decided that there isn't a God then I don't mind. I came so close to coming to the same conclusion.

If you decide that he does exist but you don't want to have to comply with the strict and admittedly hypocritical laws of the religion, then you can adapt them. It's worked for me so far.

And if you end up as a Jehovah's Witness, I will haunt you until you start celebrating Christmas.

Obviously I'm joking.

I love you and I always will, no matter what you decide.

Dad.