Rating of PG-13.

I do not own the characters, JKR does. I simply borrow them.

An essay. A werewolf's essay on the subject matter of werewolves.

While Remus Lupin has perfect grammar and spelling and punctuation and what not. I am not Remus Lupin and therefore do make mistakes. He did, however, ask me to share this with you.

Perspective

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Remus Lupin

5.13.76

Hello, professor.

I know you asked for an essay on werewolves, and that's exactly what I'm going to give you. No, not the kind of essay you expect nor the one that you've assigned. Not the kind that all of the other students are going to turn in on Thursday morning. You know, the kind that list all of the ways to recognize and kill a werewolf?

Because frankly I'm not in the least bit suicidal.

I'm going to give you a two foot essay on what it's like to be a werewolf. To walk in a werewolf's shoes for a day. To walk in my shoes for a day.

No, you don't have to read this. Yes, you can count this as a fail or a refusal to do the assigned assignment or whatever it'll be that you mark down on the detention slip. You can ignore this and rip it up. Throw it away and forget it ever existed.

But I know you'll read it, sir. You're curious. Not that you care what it's like to be a werewolf, but, none the less, you are curious. You're curious because all of the scholarly types always are.

The other students are going to tell you all about a werewolf's tufted tail and muzzle. They'll tell you that a silver bullet through the heart will finish one off most efficiently. In reality, a silver bullet through anyone's heart is enough to finish them off.

What they're not going to be able tell you is what it feels like. They can't tell you what it sounds like. Because the truth of the matter is that they can't. Thus I have taken the burden into my own hands to present you with a rather creative response.

Tell me, professor, have you ever had to hear every bone in your body break and then rearrange into a completely different body structure? I thought not. Or to hear someone screaming in the middle of the night, only to realize that it's yourself as the moon is rising? I thought not. Have you ever had to watch as your body becomes so mutilated that you can't even recognize it? My mother thought that I would be lonely during the full moon, so she put a mirror up in the shed. It did more harm than good.

I thought not.

Here, let's try something else. How about your father committing suicide after you were bitten by a werewolf because he couldn't stand the thought of having a monster for a son? A mother that's terrified when you're away for the slightest of a moment? I highly doubt it.

Have you ever smelt blood, only to sickeningly realize that it's your own and that you crave to taste it upon your tongue? What about more than half of the wizarding world hating you for what you are rather than who you are?

Imagine having a law passed that says you're not allowed to marry, own property, travel, have children, meet with another werewolf unless it be in the confines of the Ministry. What if a law was passed tomorrow that stated that you couldn't even go to certain places?

What would you do then?

What if I told you that they were in the middle of making a law that states that all werewolves must identify themselves in public by means of wearing a special patch?

No need to answer. I know exactly what you'd say. Why the fuck would I care?

Do you have a tattoo on the back of your neck, professor? No, wait, let me rephrase that, for that was very rude of me. You very well might have a tattoo on the back of your neck, for all that I know.

How about an identification number carved into your skin with a steel rod against your will? Bet you don't have one of those. I bet you don't fear the moon, do you, professor? I bet you don't count down the days until the next time it's full. I bet you'd cry after a night like that. But I don't.

Just try to imagine going down to dinner only to not be able to eat because the clicking of forks on knives is so overwhelming that it makes your ears hurt and your eyes water. Think about failing potions just because the teacher doesn't like you.

Is that against the law? Well, it should be. Because I bet if you read though my rule book that you'd find something of the sort in it somewhere.

Guess how many pages my rule book has, professor? Just try and guess how many.

Fifty you say? No, higher. Seventy-five? Try again. One-hundred? Well, now…That's a lot of pages.

Not even close.

Two-hundred-eighty-nine? Lucky guess, lucky guess.

Two-hundred-eighty-nine pages telling me what I'm allowed to do. What I'm not allowed to do. When and where I can do it. Who I can do it with and whom with I may not. Did I ever mention how small the print is? Makes it very difficult to read.

Two-hundred-eighty-nine pages telling me how to live my life.

They'll tell you how to kill a werewolf…But do they tell it from the werewolf's point of view? Probably not. Please, allow me to inform you.

It starts with a trial—wait, did I say trial? My bad. No, no they skip that part. Azkaban for holding. What was that, sir? Did you just ask 'what if you're under age?'

Doesn't matter.

Azkaban for holding no matter what the age of the condemned is.

Then they march you back to the Ministry. And into a room I'm sure you didn't even know they had. Let me tell you all about it; it's so cozy. I've been there before when I was ten and the School Governors wanted to warn me what lay in wait if I were to so much as screw up even in the slightest way.

White cinder block walls that smell horribly of fresh pain surround you. Fresh paint that they use to try and cover up the rotting smell of death. They walk you in with your hands behind your back and a collar around your neck. Yes, professor, I did say a collar. All the more to humiliate you in the last seconds of your life.

Stand with your back to us, that's all they say to you. If you don't comply, then they'll force you with a wand tip to your back and a jerk on that little collar they all find so damn funny.

The only warning you get is the loading cock of the gun. It goes straight through you. Burning from the inside out and leaving red blood splatter halfway up the wall.

Then they haul you out and throw you in the ground. No stone and sometimes you end up sharing your grave, your final resting place, with other beasts. As your society calls us.

They paint the walls again. Up and down and up and down and up and down. Up and down so many times that the smell is suffocating. A reminder to all to what a death room it really is.

Now, professor, please do consider the following before you mark my paper as a fail, rip it up, and take away a hundred points from Gryffindor.

I did answer your questions, both of them. Let me explain…How to recognize a werewolf…Easy.

Just look for the person that always has a certain day circled on their calendar. For the person that always seems to have their nose buried in a little black book with a red WR on the front cover that looks as if it could be two-hundred-eighty-nine pages long. Look for that person that has the haunted look as if they've seen the inside of that horrid paint smelling room.

How to kill a werewolf…I'm quite sure that I gave you even more details than you wanted to know on the subject.

I'm sorry that my conscious calls in sick once a month, but really now, professor, that's hardly my fault. I'm sorry, sir, that I gave you more than you asked for. That you probably don't care, or that you didn't even want to know. For all I know, you might not have even gotten this far.

But if I were you, the next time you decide to assign such an essay, I wouldn't advise to do so whilst giving me rather smug looks.

That's rather rude, you know.

On a farewell note, being color blind sucks and so does it when all of your dorm mates keep asking about your 'special time of the month.' The cheeky little gits.

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