In the pitch black of a circular room, two eyes snapped wide open. The owner of the eyes lay there in the darkness, shaking. It was bad. He couldn't remember it being this bad before. The ache tore through his insides: unbending demand, irresistible order, pitiless compulsion. He had to get out. He couldn't deal with this where he was. He sat up, pushing a hand through the curtains to grope for his wand on the table beside the bed. Finding it, he sat up. He was halfway out of the room before realizing he was barefoot, but it didn't matter. The moor stretched out empty for miles around. There would be no one to witness this curse in action.
The curse. He didn't even know what it was. "I don't quite know how this will affect all of you. . ." They had no idea. Lycanthropy would be a blessing compared to this hell. At least werewolves were only out of their minds during the full moon.
He stumbled down the large staircase in the front hall. It's like being homicidally drunk. . . Suddenly, a noise caught his attention. The orange and white cat that had got in a few days ago through the kitchen door was slinking around the cobwebby wooden chairs at the side of the hall. His eyes lit up. Not as good as another person, but still enough. He wouldn't even have to leave the house and risk being seen. . .
"Here, kitty kitty. . ."