Disclaimer: Remus Lupin, Rita Skeeter, Ministry of Magic, Bertie Bott, Quick Quote Quills, and the Daily Prophet belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest are my fictional babies.

___Fanged___

There was a long pause. The silence was only broken by a grandfather clock echoing from one of the halls of the house, signifying that it was one in the afternoon. I thought to myself, "He speaks slowly, but did time really go by that fast?"

"But of course," he spoke again, his voice low and smooth, "being a werewolf doesn't end with your becoming. In fact, it begins a life of ambivalence—a tearing sensation between sorrow and pleasantry, love and hate."

I couldn't imagine what could be so pleasant being a werewolf, but then I've never been a werewolf to make a just decision. So I simply nodded. By this time I had absent-mindedly abandoned my quill on the table top, letting the muggle recorder do all the work. In the back of my mind I amused myself in thinking, "May be my boss will get me one of those brand new Quick Quote Quills after this amazing story that I'll be putting together on werewolves . . . ."

"I returned," he continued, "to the hotel—for we were on holiday—to only yelling and being punished. My father shouting at me about my stupidity for wandering into that wood." Mercury paused for a second then his face contorted to disgust. "And what did he care anyway . . . if I was gravely wounded, bleeding terribly. The bastard never cared . . . he was always so worried about what everyone else thought of the family . . . what his colleagues thought, especially.

"And whilst being lectured I felt stranger and stranger. Something was spreading through me . . . something was leaking into my vains, and flowing and mingling with my blood. I could feel it. I felt queer; more so than while I ran through the woods escaping. What was this new feeling?

"I don't remember too acurately what happened while I was transformed, besides the immense pain rolling through my body like being boiled from within myself, but beforehand I was arguing ardently with my parents. I was tired and angry, and they were angry.

"And then I awoke far from the hotel. My clothes in shreds—I looked like a begger in rags. I didn't bother going home. I guess I was so out of my head at the time, loopy and drained, that I was only half aware of my actions. I went into town just a walks away. This is where I saw the paper, the Daily Prophet, and skimmed over it's headline and article: WEREWOLF ATTACK AT HOTEL . . . two mutilated bodies, identified to be Pollo and Dawn Helione, sent to the morgue . . . . I knew I killed my parents.

"The wilderness inside me grew dark and hazy, and I forgot why I had even argued with them that night. Distorted memories, blurry memories, of my parents screaming, the terror in their voices, the sound of ripping flesh, and my paws—yes, my paws—drenched in the sticky crimson of their life, came to me bit by bit within time. My guilt came rushing through me, swallowed me, and, like a lost infant, I cried for my parents. Right there, in the middle of the street, I bawled. And I didn't even dare place my bloodied hands to cover my face, my disgraceful face. I did it! I shamed our name! I committed a horrible sin . . . I killed them . . . I murdered! Damn myself, damn myself!

"A bit over-dramatic, I know, but it is truth. And I told the truth, all that I could remember, to the authorities. They were all ready to throw me into Azkaban, and at that point I would have gladly taken that ill fate, but sadly my judges showed a rare mercy. That day was very clouded for me. I believe I may have been already delusional. And so I was sentenced to a time frame at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—where I played the good boy. But it was at this time that the guilt was ebbing. Everything was becoming so clear. Yes . . . why should I feel guilty over my murdering my dastardly parents? As if they didn't have death coming to them, anyway. I never shared that with my psychologist . . . in fact . . . you're the first I've shared that with. Bravo." He slowly clapped a few times, and I shivered at his eerie presentation.

"They would have locked me in that mad house, I am sure, for good if I shared that," he continued with a suave and inappropriate smirk. "I was twenty-years-old when they released me. Yes, I remember. For just before they released me, at least a week before I suppose, I spent that birthday with a random lunatic rambling off his prurient confessions—all lies, of course, he was in sufferage of pseudologia phantastica, but more company than the raving witch in the padded room. That man was set free, I'll have you know. He dropped his perverted fantasies and lied his way out with practical fibs. I ran into him at a grocer in Hogsmeade, and invited him over to sup. At the time I was sure he had not heard me, he seemed quite immersed in convincing the lady at the counter that he was Bertie Bott, the inventor of that ridiculus candy. So I was surprised to find that he in fact came. Unfortunate for the lying bastard that I did not check the date; it seems that fate was not in the mood to exempt kindness upon the cheat. I awoke in the morning, closer to noon, with a mess and a rank stench. Putrid. I cleaned it myself, gagging all the while. It's too bad, as I was somewhat fond of his, strange and peevish as he was, company. From then on I decided to remain in solitude."

Mercury was silent for a while. He looked as if he were tangled in some deep revery. And I, I had my mouth gaped at him. Never had I heard a story quite like this, so intense and filled with sorrow, and drear. I forgot my thirst and the tiny growl in my stomach was pushed away, as I was far more interested in hearing what else he had to say. What a life to live.

"So you have killed someone other than your parents," I mumbled, mostly to myself than directly to him.

"And," I pursuaded hoping that he would continue to be so open with his feelings and his past.

"It was years later," he said, returning from some distant thought, "a family moved into an old house next door." Mercury's gaunt finger pointed to the east, his eyes mysterious and wicked. "Next to my palace the place looked like a shack, but there was enough trees and shrubbery planted around that it obstructed my view from the tasteless mediocre architecture. But it was a family living there: a husband, a wife, and a child. I had spoken with the man—he came to ask for my permission to cut back some tree limbs that stretched far into their property. I gave him my assent; though I could tell that he seemed wary of me. Perhaps he read the Daily Prophet a few years back and remembered the horror of the Helione's. In any case, I did find out that he was a breeder of sky steeds. Supposably he had a ranch somewhere in the Mediterranean area; so he was gone for long periods of time.

"The house, the courts, were always so quiet, so the sound of a child playing outside traveled far into my personal space. I heard him, every afternoon, on a toddler broom, singing some ridiculus child rhyme. I was so accustomed to silence that the simple play of a child irrated me. One afternoon, the singing and playing stopped abruptly. Curious, I looked out my window, but did not see the boy hovering around on his broom in the front yard. And I heard my gate open; that, long and loud, scraping of aged steel. 'Who is this child,' I ask myself, 'to have the audacity to enter my lot without set permission?' I was eager to trample the child with my rage, and I had made it all the way outside into my front courtyard, but my anger extinguished.

"The child was off to the side, picking up his broom that had slithered from his control through a thin crack in the wall—a seven foot high fence made of terra-cotta hue stained stone. He looked up at me surprised and worried. He was so small. I had forgotten the feeling of being small . . . and innocent. I felt almost jealous over what he possessed: youth, innocence, normalcy, a bright future, . . . unconditional family love. It was all in his eyes, and I could hear it beating in his heart. Damn, the keen hearing of a werewolf!

" 'I am sorry, sir,' he apologized with concern. 'I did not mean to be here, but my broom—'

'Your trespass has been forgiven,' I said. 'What is your name?'

'Remus. Remus Lupin. I live next door—'

'Would you like to come in and visit me? I do not get too many visitors often. I have an amazing supply of chocolate.'

"The boys eyes lit up with the word chocolate, just as I knew it would, and he came quickly on my heels. I envied the spring in his step; I had lost mine, or what little I had left of it, the night I was bit. For years I lived an exhausted life . . . tired, hungry, lonely . . . and now jealous. I kept a large amount of chocolate on hand, eating it on days when the wear of my life would pull me down to an almost nauseating base, and the sugar was revitalizing, at least artificially if anything at all.

"I spent long hours talking with the boy for many days. He was profusely smart, and at times I would forget I was speaking with a child. Why . . . he should be in his . . . fifth year at school, I believe. He was but a lad in the days I remember him." He then scowled. "And I . . . I was old physically; terribly tired. My face an abundance of wrinkles formed prematurely thanks to the wear and tear and stretching and bending and frequent insomnia from my . . . my . . . curse. There were days when I would look at him and hate him. So often he came with plentiful smiles on his faces, unforced and carefree, and the twinkle of youth in his eyes, and the warmth of his parents love surrounding his aura."

I watched as he gritted his teeth as he recalled the very feeling. Did he still feel this way about this boy? Was he still envious of what lacked in his life?

A strange grin spread across his face, almost cold and mad, but his glare was distant. I wondered at this moment if he ever should have been released from St. Mungo's. His mentality seemed unstable. There seemed to be a madness floating from his persona masquerading as sanity. Was he well?

"So . . .," I murmered and he leaned back in his chair.

"So . . .," he began again in mock of my response. "I fought hard to control the hatred for little Remus, for I loved him too, he was good company. He visited me everyday and we'd talk. He was very fascinated with a fictional story I told him about werewolves, and the not-so-fictional fact about werewolves being fatal to silver bullets, knives . . . . But, like most children, he would get bored and want to play games. We did that, too—some Explosive Snap or whatever it is called.

"But one afternoon, I hit the lowest of low points in my emotions. I went on this rampage of destruction; I was just so angry I wanted to destroy everything I saw. I ran through my halls, ripping up my family's paintings, throwing vases to the floor and other priceless antiquities that my family had acquired. And I burst my double doors open and raged down my steps, strangling the plants and tearing their roots from their precious earth. I remember thinking to myself, 'How dare this be my fate?! How dare I be given this life; this damned life?! What good is all that is cheer and just when life puts you in the middle of a sinkhole of despair?!'

"And then I heard the familiar sound of the scraping gate creaking open. By now I was seated on a stone bench by the fountain of my courtyard.

'Go home, Remus,' I hollered to him, my voice shaken with anger. 'It is no good for you to be here.'

"And this was true, for dusk was drawing nigh, and tonight belonged to the animal in me, that flowed through my vains. It always seems like I hit low points on these days . . . . But I knew the boy disobeyed me. He still came and found me shaking on the bench.

"I could feel that strange feeling pulsating inside me once again, just as intense as the first time it happened. It was gradually growing inside me; my body quivering and sweating.

'What is wrong?' I heard him ask, his voice small and concerned. Damn him for caring! Damn him for not obeying! 'Are you ill, Mercury?'

"I glanced up at the sky, the light waning and the moon fading into sight. It wouldn't be long now and it would be doom for the boy. But the hate and the love that dwelled within me for the boy was bickering. Sides of myself arguing, 'Let him die, it is because of his own childish ignorance,' and, 'I will not . . . I will not damn this boys life like my own!'

"I grabbed Remus's wrist, so roughly that I startled him, and I recalled how small he was, as my fingers wrapped entirely around his wirey forearm. 'Leave now!' I bellowed at him, swinging him around and dropping him at the foot of the bench. He scrambled from me, tracing along the hedges, looking for an opening.

"Here is where my head seemed to split in two with pain, and the war between love and hate did not matter any longer, for the wolf in me would decide. I glanced up at the darkened sky quickly, the moon was now glowing strongly. After that I remember running . . . running through the hedges, on all fours, hungry to devoure the boy. He think I mauled him a few times, but finally I caught him at a dead end—I remember that quite clearly—his face in a mask of terror as there was no where for him to go. There had to have been foaming dripping from my long fangs—there was always foam dripping from them on such nights—as I slowly moved in on him. And here is where it gets blurry, and I can not recall much . . . but my teeth clamping down on raw flesh, ripping and savoring the tender flesh, tasting the meat of his arm, I do remember . . . and at the time, I thought it delicious . . . ."

"But the boy, Remus," I said, "he got away. You said he should be in his fifth year at school?"

"Indeed," said Mercury, still laying back lazily in his chair.

The rainbows refracting from the crystal chandelier was now fading, and the light in the room was now growing dimmer. A breeze then whistled outside, gently swaying old yews looming just near the dining room windows, as it grew cooller in the evening.

"But evidently he escaped . . . though, after I damned him first, that is. And . . . I wonder. I wonder if . . . if he so taken by the moon as I am . . . if he loves and hates it, just as I loved and hated him." Mercury stood up and slowly walked to the window closest to me, staring out over his courtyard, which was growing creepier as the light faded. "And if you stay any longer . . . you too will be doomed. So, go now."

He didn't need to tell me twice. I collected my things and started on my way toward the hall, wondering why he invited me on a night of the full moon. Mercury followed close behind me and saw me to the front doors. It was here I noticed the sweat dripping from his brow, and a distinct twitching in his eyes. This couldn't be happening, could it?

I peered out at the darkening sky, but found myself thrown to the ground. When I looked back at Mercury he seemed very angry, and he shook violently and his body seemed to bend as he came towards me, and he looked as he was holding back from screaming. I crawled on the ground a ways before scrambling to my feet, but my heart sank at that moment. The sun was gone, the full moon was aglow, and the stars twinkled maliciously above . . . and a gurgling growl was behind me. I only glanced back for a second to see that Mercury was no longer there, but a foaming, rabid wolf with menacing amber eyes—a werewolf—stood ready to lunge at me.

I ran. As fast as I could I ran, but the growth on the path became my downfall as I tripped and landed face first. I didn't dare look up. My body quivering in fear, and the chilly night did not help it. I could hear the growl, and then a long and sinister howl—he sounded like he was right in front of me. And, daringly looking up ahead of me, indeed, he was. He had circled me, and now was proud and singing to the moon.

Maybe this was why I never got the oppertunities that someone like Rita Skeeter had. Surely she wouldn't have put herself in this position? She's so ambitious and I'm . . . I'm . . . facing death because of my foolish decision. I didn't even take the date of this interview into consideration. Surely Rita Skeeter would have—she's so much more professional than I.

Mercury finished howling and his eyes fell on me. His long tongue whipped across his lips and the foam, nastier than I invisioned, dripped down onto his frightening paws. He lunged at me . . . this is it. I closed my eyes in fear, and reached for my wand in my pocket. I pointed it straight out and yelled, in my quivering voice, the first thing that popped into my head: "Avada Kedavra!"

I felt the impact, the werewolf fell on me, and it knocked me to the ground, and something rough scraped across my brow. I still held my wand in my hand and I still had my eyes closed tightly, but the werewolf lay on top as well . . . unmoving. I opened my eyes. Foam had dripped on my eyelids and I was in danger of it dripping onto my eyes themselves if I did not get the werewolf off me. I shoved him away, his body dead weight—how did he die so quickly? But then I saw it, impaled into the werewolf's chest, was not my wand I had pulled out, but my quill. My silver tipped quill.

This was a bit too much for me, the anxiety was now effecting me, and I felt nauseated. What a story this will be: the past of the late Mercury Helione, how he became a werewolf and how it affected his mentality, his physique, and most importantly . . . his life; and then nearly escaping death from a blood thirsty werewolf!

I felt something crawling on my brow, and tried wiping it away, but found that it was blood. My blood. So I escaped with a wound—a not so serious wound to boot. A mere scratch . . . it's nothing . . . and I will return to the office with a story that will put Rita Skeeter to shame . . . really, it's just a scratch . . . just a scratch . . .

THE END.

Aw, poo on this story! I didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. But, hey, good news is that I'm working a James Potter story, from his perspective, and I'm hoping it'll turn out better. *crosses fingers*