I've been in St Mungo's for at least a week now. I keep losing track of the days. I've lost my routine- I sleep and wake up at all sorts of hours. But I don't really care. How can I care? My life is now a shambles. I was bitten, I was contaminated. I am now a werewolf. It's like being told you have cancer. I have three weeks to live, and then there'll be a full moon and my life will be over. After the nurse comes to change the bandage on my arm, I can hear her talking to her friends when she thinks I'm asleep. I hear words like "dejected", "lifeless", "no will to live". Why would I have? I have always loathed werewolves, for being what they are. And now I am one, and I loathe myself.

They keep sending me a councillor; a little black-haired man with a tie and a squint. He means well but he keeps asking me how I'm feeling and telling me how I'm depressive and in denial. I am not in denial. I understand perfectly what had happened to me. I have become a mindless killer. Therefore I have every right to be depressive.

There are other patients in the ward but I don't want to talk to them. There's Mrs Baxter, who was accidentally cursed while out shopping. Lucinda McCoy, a pretty blond woman who had part of her leg blown off by a Combustible Fire Gum Tree. Albert, who is still in a coma after being attacked by Death Eaters, and a few others whose names I haven't picked up. Oh, and a funny red-haired man called Arthur Wheezy, or Weasel, or something like that. He was in a bad way when they brought him in; been bitten by a snake apparently, but he's perked up a lot now and keeps trying to engage me in conversation. I've told him I don't want to talk to anyone, and he's very polite about it, but he seems to still want to talk to me, even if I won't answer back.

"Cheer up," he said to me the other day. "It can't be all that bad."

"What would you know," I snapped back at him. "You'll be better soon, and going home. But I'll never be better. I'll be cursed with this forever."

"Actually I know a man," Arthur continued, ever so politely, "-a werewolf obviously, who finds the condition quite easy to manage. You should talk to him. I'm expecting a visit tomorrow. I'll ask him if you like."

"I don't want to talk to anyone," I repeated sourly, and rolled away from him. I had a nasty feeling he was smiling behind my back.

Well, Arthur got his visitors. And so many of them! They have got to be his family as almost all of them have the same flaming red hair. Apart from two. One is a teenage boy with scruffy black hair. He's standing a little to one side, looking relieved but embarrassed. The other is a grown man, brown-haired- or at least it used to be brown, it's paling now as grey hairs creep in at the edges. He says a few words to Arthur, then glances over at me. Detaching himself from the group, he wanders over to stand by my bed.

"Mind if I stand here?" he asks. His voice is very clear, but quite soft and ever so slightly hoarse. "I think the rest of the family deserve some time to themselves with him."

"Fine," I said shortly. He smiled as if he knew something I didn't.

"You must be Jerry. Arthur mentioned you in his letters."

"Darn chatterbox," I grumbled. I was having some difficulty working out how old this man was. The grey hairs and worry lines on his forehead suggested late forties, but the warmness in his eyes and his smile reminded me more of Frank, who's only in his late twenties. The more I thought about it, the more I decided that he couldn't be as old as I had first guessed. He was only very, very tired.

"He can be," he admitted with a chuckle. "A good man though. Although if you want a chatterbox you should see Molly. That's her there." He pointed out a plump woman with a good natured look about her from the group. "That's Mrs Weasley."

"It's Weasley, is it?" I asked, despite myself. "I thought his name was Wheezy or something." The man laughed pleasantly.

"Wheezy? Oh, that's good. I'll have to tell him that one! By the way, I'm Remus." The sudden familiarity brought me up short. I'd almost forgotten that I wasn't in the mood for talking.

"Look…Remus. No offence but I'm not really up to talking right now," I said, trying to be civil and not grumble after he had been so friendly. But instead of taking my hint, he sat down on the empty bed beside mine.

"I know exactly how you feel."

"I doubt it," I muttered.

"No, I do," he said, raising his head. "I'm always that way just after full moon. I'm a werewolf too," he added in lower tones, seeing how confused I was. But this revelation just confused me more.

"You?" I said. "You? Really?"

"Yes." He frowned slightly. "I thought Arthur mentioned me." I thought hard and vaguely remembered him telling me something about a friend of his who was a werewolf. But this guy?

"He may have. But you don't really… look like a- a you-know-what."

"No? What were you expecting? Shaggy hair, gorilla arms, monosyllabic? Anybody can be a werewolf, even someone like yourself," he said, his tone light. "There's no qualification."

"Well," I blustered. "Its just that I- You're just very… very nice." He cocked an eyebrow.

"How so?"

"How can you stand it?" I forced through gritted teeth. "Doesn't it drive you mad? Don't you hate yourself for what you are? How can you be so nice about it?"

"You mean why aren't I a bitter, twisted old fellow?" Remus asked, folding his hands together. I nodded. He closed his eyes.

"Quite frankly, sometimes I do hate myself," he replied quietly. "It does drive me mad. On the one hand I was bitten when I was barely six so this is all I've ever known. On the other hand, I've had a lifetime's worth of prejudice and hatred." He opened his eyes. "You're a grown man and I won't lie to you. It's a painful process, in more ways than one. I think the key is… good friends. They keep you grounded, or you really do start believing you're all alone." A bleakness came into his eyes that added years to his face. The he blinked and it passed.

"Are you married?"

I nodded. "I have a wife and a son."

"And she'll stick by you."

"I think so," I said, surprised how relieved it made me feel to say it. "I live quite a long way from here so she hasn't been able to come in and see me yet. She sends owls though."

"Do you answer?"

"No."

"Will you?"

I paused. "Perhaps." But I felt almost certain that I would now. More certain than I'd felt about anything since I came here.

"And do you have a job? I mean a steady job," he pressed, then smiled at the look on my face. "Sorry. I'm not trying to stick my nose in your business. You see, you'll need to be able to take time off to transform," he explained. "There's some sort of bill going through at the moment to limit werewolf employment options, but if you can stay in the job you've got-"

"I farm cattle," I said. "For an industry. But there's three of us so I can probably take a day off each month."

"You'll need more than a day, he said seriously. "At least one day before, and two after, if not more. I expect they'll tell you all this before you leave," he added.

"No, I'm glad you're telling my now," I said, surprised to find that I was. "No wonder Arthur thinks you handle it so well."

"Does he?" Remus said, glancing over at the bed, still mostly hidden in the crowd of red heads.

"He says you find it easy to manage," I corrected. Remus cocked an eyebrow again.

"Ah! Well that depends. Easy simple, or easy problem free?"

"How do you mean?"

"Being a werewolf is easy, simple," he explained. "You keep your diary clear for full moon night, drink your Wolfsbane and lock yourself away- you'll learn about that," he added. "But it's certainly not problem free, as you can probably tell." He displayed his robes, which looked like they could do with being trashed, although the repairs were very neat.

"I resigned from my last real job as a teacher for the safety of the students. Since then I've had no proper income for more than a month and this bill will make it worse." The bleak look had crept into his face again. "Which isn't so good when you must have a safe place to go to transform or to buy Wolfsbane potion with. Food and shelter come second. But we're not all like this," he said, gesturing to his robes again. "Some are better off than me, a few are worse. From what you've told me, you'll probably manage all right. It won't be pleasant and it won't be easy for your family to adjust to, but it could be far worse. You're a very lucky man. What's to be bitter about?"

He checked over his shoulder. "I think my group is getting ready to leave. Send me an owl sometime and let me know how you do," he said, rising from his seat. "That's if you want to, of course."

"I might just do that," I replied. "It's actually quite nice to talk to someone who understands." He smiled his warm smile again.

"Yes, it is, he said.

"You've helped a lot."

"Have I? I didn't do much."

"You did enough," I insisted. He stretched out a hand and we shook.

"My pleasure," he said, and turned to go.

"Oh! One more thing," I said quickly. "You are a werewolf and your name is Remus. You do know, don't you? About the name."

He rolled his eyes.

"I am well aware of the irony. Yes I know the story. Two boys raised as wolves who built the greatest city if the age."

"Only, Remus died," I said. "Romulus killed him." The sadness was so fleeting that I barely saw it cross his face this time.

"Yes. But then, some things have to die for other things to succeed. Maybe it's that way with all of us. But I wasn't named for Romulus and Remus," he said, with a fond smile. "I was named for my grandfather." And with that he left.

I have sent him some owls since then, telling him how things are. I still have my job and my son works the days I can't. I still have my home and my health, as far as any werewolf can. And I have my wife and my friends. But sometimes I wonder what he has. Around last July his owls took a turn for the worst and I admit I was worried about him. He said he'd lost a very close friend and from what he'd told me before and from my own knowledge, I understand how terrible that must be for him. And then all last summer owls were few and far between. I read in the Daily Prophet the other day about the death and funeral of Albus Dumbledore. It's a tragic loss. I remember him from my schooldays. A great man. But again, no owl, and I know Remus was close to him. I do hope he is all right.

I don't think that man will ever know how much he helped me in St Mungo's. In the five minutes of his time that he gave me, he changed the entire pattern of my recovery. The counsellor couldn't believe his eyes, from near-suicidal to almost happy, in less than the time it takes to write this all down. Remus was right. It has been in no way an easy adjustment but I realise how fortunate I am to have what I do, especially my dear wife. There are many others with far less. I don't know if Remus is attached or not. I never thought to ask although I know he's not married. But I hope he has someone close enough to come alongside him when he feels as low as I did. He deserves a good woman. I hope he gets one.

Ha! An owl has just come through the kitchen window. I recognise the bird… and the handwriting. Finally! It's a reply to my last letter.

I haven't heard from him for a while.

I wonder what he has to say…

Note from me: And the moral? Yeah, most of my stories have a point, and this one does. Five minutes may seem a pointlessly small amount of time to give. It may not seem like much to you, but it can mean the world to someone else.

And be kind to unkind people- they need it the most.

Xian2000- Aaaw! Thank you! You're always so nice, I'm blushing! (And it's MISS moral apotel, please LOL!) Remus is my fave character as well as J.K.'s, so he's more fun to write!