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My name is Remus Lupin. Let’s cut to the chase shall we? I’ve always been a fan of steadfast and straightforward. I’m a werewolf.

Yes, yes; run, scream, wave your hands in the air, gnaw your fingers off, do what you must to express your complete and utter abhorration of everything that I am. I don’t really mind. I’ve seen it all before. I’m a big scary monster, oh dear, oh dear. Woe is me.

Far be it for me to actually be a nice guy, or better yet, a good teacher. No, that would be asking too much.

Truthfully, I have no concept of what I become when the moon is high in the sky. My memory seems to blot it out, pushing it out of my conscious in a twisted effort to protect my own beliefs in life. The only thing that seems to remain is the dull throb of pain, evidence of the extreme terror and the agony of transformation. The breaking and resetting of bones, rib realignment and muscle spasms that I must endure every month.

This biased view on my own actions during every full moon to date leaves me with very little material to base my behaviour upon. Asking someone to watch me during these transitions is utterly out of the question, as even I myself am unable to gauge my own reactions to the ferocity of my lunar instincts.

Which leads, I suppose, to the next order of discussion: how did I become what I am?

It’s a rather intricate tale, one that I’d rather not jump right into without any real depth or thought process. It’s a highly personal story, and the interruption of emotions makes it that much more difficult to divulge.

It’s only natural that I should want to keep such sordid affairs to myself. I believe I may already have been too lenient in the telling of my story and allowed myself to get swept up in the nostalgia of it, rather than the relation of facts.

Forgive me if I relay too many of my inner thoughts, even if I may be excused by the nature of my tale. Forgive me.

I suppose I shall start here, now, shall I?

I’m of the mind that every good story should begin with some sort of memorable catch phrase, not unlike those often heard in fairytale stories. I’m reluctant, however, to begin with any variation of “Once Upon A Time,” as that relays the idea that I’ve made all this up.

I’m not in the habit of telling lies, and nor am I going to start now.
And so, we continue.

The werewolf is not a myth, but a beast that lives within each and every one of us.

The Muggle tale of Little Red Riding Hood, where a wolf walking on his hind legs like a man eats a little girl’s grandmother may seem just a fairy tale for children, beginning with the fundamental overtures of “Once Upon A Time”, but it is more than just a story. The descent of an evolutionary human being back into his ancestral state of bestiality is hardly any joking matter. Couple the intelligence of a human with the animalistic ferocity of a wolf, and a formidable weapon is forged.

Lycanthropy, in my eyes, is a disease. My humanity, morality and convictions seem to all but disappear in the face of the beast within me. I am neither rational not human, and the curse is my own to bear.

It is not always so, though. For some, lycanthropy is a powerful gift, and a weapon to be employed regularly. Never having been able to overcome the terror of transformation, or the very fact that I was Turned at all, I have never been able to grasp the concept of a gift. Some are even able to change at will, no longer restrained by the waxing and waning of the moon, only spurred by it. Becoming a werewolf, for those people that could recognise their power, was a conscious choice that one could make any time of the month, any time of the day.

I attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during my teen years, struggling to come to terms with my “disease” as well as cope with having to keep it a secret. Werewolves are still largely feared, even now when understanding and acceptance have become common. But nothing can ever undo the grasp of fear on a human heart, and no matter how nice I was when the night sky was bare, people would still be afraid of me.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at the time, made a conscious decision to keep my condition a secret, and as such I am greatly indebted to him, for both my education and my sanity.

I taught there, for a short time, as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Word of my condition got out, however, and parents seemed to think it dangerous I teach there. I found it rather ironic that I should be teaching their children how best to defend themselves against, essentially, myself.

No one ever said that things had to be easy. It was just a pity no one ever told me that, generally, they rarely ever were anyway.