A/N: Well, here's my (hopefully) brilliant attempt at something that has never been written about before, as far as I know. The idea for this story came from Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them, and if you haven't read it yet, I strongly suggest you do so. Harry Potter doesn't belong to me. Need I say more? Anything/one you don't recognize is mine.

This story has not been beta read (any volunteers?). You've been warned.

December 21, 1961

I won't lie to you. I'd rather not be writing this. You see, my girlfriend, Angela, gave this stupid journal to me as an early Christmas present (she told me it would be a good way to "disperse my anger"), and I really don't see the point in using it at all. I'm only doing it to please her, because she's so unbelievably gorgeous and if the only way to keep her around is to write in this bloody book, then I guess I don't have a choice.

She's sitting with me here, in my living room (which, I must say, is rather nicely furnished with white satin couches) watching me expectantly. If I can just hold out long enough, and write something random, perhaps she'll leave me alone about this whole sordid affair. She'd better.

December 22, 1961

Near midnight

Let's see if this bloody thing actually does what it's supposed to. I can't sleep. I'm so worried about my job- yes, I'll admit it, (but only to you because it's not like you're going to tell anyone) the strong-minded, intelligent, good-looking Stanley Terrian is actually worried about his job. Scared out of his mind. Well, let's not be too hasty.

I work at the Ministry- in charge of the Disposal for Dangerous Creatures. Serves them right, the little monsters. If there's one thing I can't stand about Angela, it's her lack of back bone along with all of the "Stan, don't call them that!" and "Stan, they're not monsters!" And what, I am?

Not monsters. Hah! Tell that to my parents. Oh, that's right- you can't. They're dead! Bloody werewolves gnawed them to pieces beyond recognition. So it can be said that ever since that day I've sought revenge on all of them. Not just the beasts that killed-no-chewed them to pieces, but all of the beasts that didn't merit being status. There are reasons for why they aren't at our level, aren't there? So it's my job to be making sure they don't get too comfortable.

Recently there's been a series of cases, cases that have been left very clean, evidence wise. Well, I know this much. It's werewolves. The bloodthirsty shape-shifters that cause havoc once a month (if you ask me, they're more trouble than they're worth, but then again, aren't all half breeds?). Well, I'm supposed to find the half-breed in charge- but there's no proof! Without proof my job's gone- kaput!

People put too much stock in me, really. After all, I may be good, (great actually) but after five deaths in one month and no half-blooded freak to take the blame, it all comes back to me. And without my money, what's the reason for Angela to stay? She wouldn't have one, of course. But I could always find a replacement for her. Right?

I need some fresh air. Why am I so worked up over this? Things will turn out superbly, just as they always do. No one would dare to do otherwise to me. I'm off now.

-Stan

December 28(?), 1961

All I see is white. It's on the walls, on the floor, on my bed. Almost like I'm in Mungo's, but that would imply that somehow I'm hurt. But for some reason I can't feel my left leg...

Oh my god.

I went outside at night, fully bundled up because the snow had been falling heavily all that day... Odd, because I didn't need to light my wand. The moon seemed full enough to light a path for me to take while my mind wandered elsewhere worrying about all of my life's little troubles.

It was deathly quiet. The type of quiet only heard when hunters are aiming at their prey, and nothing else seems to move or even breathe until the hunter has launched their attack on the unsuspecting prey. Irony should never be allowed.

Somewhere beyond me the snow crunched. (The hunter had made its move, it appeared.) I don't remember screaming, or even if it hurt much. There were untamed eyes staring into mine, like miniature moons shining out of their skull, holding its reflection in a vice like grip. Or was that me?

My cloak tore, and hot saliva soaked and dripped down onto my leg. I do believe that I had attempted backing up and had trodden on my robes, where I fell to (what was surely to become) my snowy death. I am ashamed to admit that the brave Stanley Terrian soiled his high quality robes and top of the line wool cloak.

Oddly enough, as the tiny razors protruding out of the beast's gums stank into my leg, and right before I passed out, the last thing I remember seeing was Angela's beautiful face flashing before my eyes and the pain at the thought (or perhaps it was the teeth) at never seeing her smile again. But now it's just as doubtful that I never will.

I have become the monster that I've spent years building up my career to hunt. Moon eyes are boring into my temporary human ones, but I'm unsure whether they are my new ones or my attacker's old ones.

Why then, after blacking out in the snow, do I find myself here? I must ask Angela when she comes. Stop this now! Who am I kidding? She won't come to see me, and neither will anyone else. I don't expect them to, because I don't expect I would've gone to see them. There isn't even anyone else in this bloody room to talk to. Not that I would have had anyone been here.

My leg is numb because of the goop smeared on it that appears to be attempting to heal the torn up flesh on my mauled limb.

I only now remember seeing the paw prints pressed neatly into the clean snow as I left my house, because it didn't register at the time.

My head hurts.

-Stan