Disclaimer: Remus Lupin, Rita Skeeter, Azkaban, Ministry of Magic, the dementors, and the Daily Prophet belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest are my fictional babies.

From Willow:
My spelling is atrocious and I can't find my spellchecker. I have proofread this story several times. If anyone finds any grammatical errors I have overlooked, which is very likely, I would greatly appreciate you pointing them out to me. Thank you.

___Fanged___

I don't believe that my boss has every given me the chance to prove how great a writer I am. So often he has me chasing for quotes about how unsanitary most Ministry of Magic workers are. That is why I was floored when he approached me about a story on werewolves. See, it's been a while since anything devistating and relating to werewolves has occured, or at least is known about, so he asked me to dig something up.

"M-me, s-sir?" I managed to stammer and he nodded. "B-but, don't you usually send s-someone like Rita Skeeter out for things like this?"

I'm not sure as to why I was taking it as if it were the scariest thing in the world, may-be because I've never been introduced to work on something as complexed as it was, but I remember wholy the mixture of fear and excitement that pulsed in my nerves.

"Skeeter is interviewing the warlock that escaped from being sentenced to Azkaban," he said in his typical monotonous voice, then walked away.

I was definitely excited. Perhaps foolishly excited. But I gathered up all the sanity that held me together and did the research needed. With luck I was able to pull up a name from the database of known werewolves; someone who wasn't already dead, or locked in a confinement cell, or pacing madly behind bars of Azkaban, or who was too young—how sad.

Mercury Helione, a direct descendant of the once well respected and very financially secure family, and heir to Helione estate. The family name began to sink into savagery and shame after the late Mr. and Mrs. Helione was brutally murdered by their own son, Mercury. After careful examination of the bodies the medics were able to declare the attack by a werewolf. Mercury, engrossed with grief—yet grinning like a mad man, I hear—came forward and confessed his deeds a week later. Somehow he saved himself from the torment of the dementors; details were left from any file or parchment that I could find on it.

Foolishly I decided that the best way to get the scoop on a werewolf was to talk to a werewolf, and I had it set in my mind that Mercury Helione would be the werewolf I'd be talking to.

Now often werewolves aren't considered for things such as this: to be interviewed about their brutal life. For werewolves are seldom trusted, their words go unheard or unwritten. But I thought, "What could beat a story about the mysterious life of a werewolf?" How it happened, what goes on through a werewolf's head, etc. would be intriguing to most readers—at least I thought as much.

I sent an owl out to the Helione estate requesting time to interview him, and explained the exact reason as bluntly as I could get it in just two long parchments. Within just a days time I recieved a reply that accepted my request. He had cordially invited me over for tea next Monday at noon.

So when Monday came around I was ready as I would ever be. I had enough parchment and brand new fine silver-tipped quill with me, and I even went as far as to pick up a muggle tape recorder, something I fell quite dependent on later during the interview. I was set, I was excited, and I was nervous.

When I approached the Helione estate I stood back and gasped at the supreme building structure. The estate was taller than the gnarled oak tree that I stood in front of. Massive gargoyles leaned down from their stone perches like they were choking on a large object, and in one of the high windows I saw a shadow pass from between the curtains.

Finally I stopped gawking at the place and averted my eyes to the gates before me. It was old and rickety. The bars were like rusted vines shooting up into dancing helixes, and then spun around an elegant design of the sun centered on the gates crown.

I reached my hand out to push open the gate, but it openned all on its own, emitting what sounded like a screeching cat. And I stepped into the front garden, the gate scraping shut behind me, and walked a weary and nearly growth covered path trimmed with untended hedges.

I peered up often, looking at the house that loomed over me like a giant to an ant. Is this not a big place for one man to dwell?

The gargoyles shadows stretched slightly towards me—I was a jot early, so the sun was yet at its zenith—and I felt as if their stoney eyes were fixed on me, watching me, and waiting. This gave me eerie chills and I shivered quickly, but kept moving down the path.

There were several opennings leading into, I assume, a labyrinth-esque passages, and once I caught sight of a moldied and parched fountain, but I did not dare stray from the path. I had my wand readied at my side in case a vine should spring to life and snag me, or any of the stone and lifeless gargoyles should take breath and swoop down. Childish, I know, but I couldn't restrain the tumultuous pounding of fear from dying down in my chest. And who knows what strange antique statue I may come across, strickening me with horror, if I should go prancing away from my actual destination.

I finally came to the stone steps, where yellow weeds grew like slender fingers reaching for my ankles. The front door—double doors—was located in a large concave, shadowed and stunk of mildew. A vine crept up the sides, and some dangled, tickling the crown of my head. The mahogany doors, carved in a tribalesque fashion, was worked like a tall tower that reached to a discus with splaying beams—the sun. In the middle of each door were massive knockers: gargoyle faces with their snarling mouths chewing on a brass hoop. I grabbed the hoop and gave two loud raps. I could hear them echo through the house, even just standing outside the closed doors.

I thumbed nervously with the smooth base of my quill as I waited to be let in. I heard the sound of footsteps grow closer until the clicking sound of locks being removed told me: this is it. A tall, slender man stood in front of me in the crack of the door. His pale face was halfway obstructed by the threshold, though he appeared ill and tired, and I could see his thin fingers slither out.

"Hello. I am Starla Duske from the Daily Prophet," I babbled. "I sent an owl just—"

I stopped abruptly when he gestured for me to enter, and I did so graciously, for I did not fancy those wretched door-knockers. I stood in a narrow hall looking around as the ghostly man walked ahead. I was certain that he was a servant of the house and was going to fetch his master, but he beckoned to me.

"I thought it more comfortable that we have the interview in the dining room," he said halting far ahead and without turning around, "but if you would rather stand in the hall then I shall get a chair for myself."

"No the dining room is fine," I said with an embarrassing quiver in my voice, and followed him like an obedient puppy.

When we arrived in the dining room I gasped impressed. The room was elegant and luxurious. A delightful chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the crystals dangling from the ends caught the light of the sun casting rainbows across the table. Sheer silk curtains, tinted blood red, were pulled completely away from the windows. I forgot the amount of eeriness that the estate possessed as I sat down on the plush cushioned chairs.

"You know I don't get visitors here all that often," he said slowly as he sat across from me, "so this is certainly a bit of a turn around. I would have hired someone to straighten the house and courtyards to be more presentable."

"Oh, it isn't so bad," I lyed.

"But I always keep the dining room sufficient for my tastes," he continued cooly, as if I interrupted him. "I don't quite prefer eating dinner with cobwebs spread across the ceiling."

Without thinking I glanced up to see that the ceiling was indeed clear and decorated with a wonderful design. The man, who I now assume to be Mercury Helione himself, snorted musingly at my obtuse reaction, but appeared indifferent in any case.

"So you are here to interview me on my . . . complications. Do inquire at any moment . . . or would you rather I ramble off a few things and you just take notes?" He looked at me like I was inexperienced, which inflamed me. A writer like me, for 25 or more years, inexperienced? But I held my face straight and calm, and did not dare to unleash myself, where my action would only concur with the look he was giving me.

I fumbled with the recorder, parchment, and quill from out of my pocket, and pressed record. I dipped my quill in ink and wrote my first question.

"Well I guess I'll start with: how did it happen?" I said looking up at him.

He was watching my every move with his amber eyes. I could see that he was amused at my nervous reactions. He leaned on the table, his fingertips supporting the weight of his chin, and gave me a saucy inquizative look.

"How did what happen, exactly? Elaborate," he said with mock stupor.

I was feeling exasperated by what he was doing. Did he think he was funny? I was amusing him that much with my ignorance?

"How did you become a werewolf," I said bluntly because obviously this wasn't the sort of guy to play ring-around-the-rosy with words. "And how did it feel," I added.

He smiled at me, his teeth a dominant feature on him, and said plainly, "I was bitten."

But before I could ask him to be more in detail he spoke up again. "When I was a teenager I was bitten. I was lucky to have survived . . . he was so intent on devouring me. But I didn't feel like dying. Of course, at the time, I had no idea he was a werewolf. I just thought it was a normal wild wolf. I found out differently when I changed . . .."

"How did you know the werewolf was a male?" I asked, really without thinking.

"Well how else do you determine the sex of the canine species?" he said with his lips still curled up and his sandy-blonde eyebrow cocked.

I wasn't sure but I think I blushed. But if I did, Mercury paid no mind. He just leaned back in his chair and continued.

"I'm not sure what really to tell you . . . how it felt," he mused. "It seemed almost as if his fangs were pouring venom as he teared into my calf. Fire shot up my leg; it made me feel numb and nauseated. I struck the beast with a pointed stick, which allowed me to limp away as fast as I could. His howl I can still hear . . . and as I ran as best I could I felt blood drip down from my lips—or I thought it was blood. When I put my fingers to it I found that it was foam. White foam. I was foaming at the mouth like the very yellow eyed beast that attacked me . . . and I was furious . . . that's how it happened, and that's what I felt."

This is not the end; Remus still has to make an appearance.
The second half is still in process . . . so . . . to be continued . . .