The Sugar Quill
Author: Frankie Beeblebrox (Professors' Bookshelf)  Story: Remus J. Lupin. Werewolf.  Chapter: Default
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Well then

Well then. . . Greetings and salutations, all!† Thanks for taking the time to read my work.† Of course, nothing belongs to me, but it's a lot of fun to play with anyway.


Many, many thanks to my Alpha Reader One-N-Jen and my fantabulous Beta Reader, Thrennish, without whom this entire thing wouldn't even be in existance.




Hello.  My name is Remus John Lupin.  I am a werewolf.


It has taken me almost thirty years to be able to say that without cringing.  You wouldn't think that such a simple phrase would cause such pain.   Thinking about† it, it seems quite silly.  I think I'll say it again.


Hello.  My name is Remus John Lupin, and I am a werewolf.  Or Lycanthrope,† if you prefer.  I think Lycanthropy is a much more dignified word.  Sirius, however, thought it sounded simply revolting.  Like some strange disease no one mentions until someone has caught it. 


Which it is, in retrospect.  Funny, I never thought about that before.


I haven't always been a werewolf.  I used to be a perfectly normal, healthy, slightly spoiled only child.  My father was a historian, so we traveled constantly.  I couldn't even tell you where I was born, though I think it was somewhere in Egypt.  We were never in one place for more than a few months.  At† first it was because of Dad's job.  Later it simply became a necessity.


My parents doted on me.  They had tried for years to have children, to no avail. The mediwizards had all but given up on Mum saying she should look into adoption and the like.  Then, out of the blue, I  came along.  The Miracle Baby. Hence the name.  Remus was my grandfathers name, and John means "God is gracious."  I looked it up once, long ago.  I wonder if Mum understood the irony afterwards.


I remember little of my childhood, really.  Bits and pieces float in and out, but nothing very concrete.  I couldn't give you dates or places for most of my early memories, but I remember the important bits.  The joy when I learned to write my name.  The hours sitting with Dad in his study, pretending to pore over the voluminous stacks of crumbling parchment with him.   The games of chess with Mum.  She was always wonderful at chess.


I can remember being bitten with astonishing clarity.  I was eight.  It was June, and unseasonably warm.  We were in Kirikkale, Turkey and Dad was studying the effects of Muggle society on the magical creatures in the forests around the Black Sea.  Mum and I went with him one evening so I could see the demiguise colony that was established there.   I remember thinking how beautiful it was outside in the forest.  The silver moonlight was shimmering through the leaves of the trees, giving everything a dappled effect that I found breathtaking.


I remember hearing movement in the bushes behind me and to my left.  My parents were at the other side of a small clearing, looking for the demiguise.  I remember my mother calling to me and telling me to come back next to her side, there were monsters in the forest.


I remember her scream as I felt the werewolf tear into my shoulder.  Searing pain for a few moments, and I could feel the heat course through my body like my blood was on fire.  Agony, beyond anything I can possibly describe.  And then, as quickly as I had felt it, it had stopped.


I remember the pain, and the confusion, and the copious amounts of blood surrounding me on the forest floor.  I remember everything with astounding detail, but I remember nothing so well as I do the eyes of the man who bit me.


I say man, because his eyes were human.  I think that's what terrified me so much.  Here was this crazed beast, this hunter of the night, and he had horror and fear and self loathing etched into his eyes.  They were green.  With a yellow rim around his pupil, which was dilated.  We stared at each other for a few moments before he ran for his life.  Before I fell down into the coma that would claim me for the next few days.


They never caught him.


This fact upset me greatly for the first few years I dealt with lycanthropy... I  hated him with every fiber of my being.  For several years my main goal in life  was to find this. . . thing. . . that had changed me into a monster.  Quite  honestly, I don't know what I would have done to him had I seen him again.  I  don't remember if I ever thought that far ahead.


I realize now I can't hate him.  That realization has also taken me almost thirty years, and it was a hard won battle with myself.  We are one and the same, he and I.  Without my family, my friends, I might have been the one rampaging through the forests of Turkey.


I do lose myself sometimes, in the rampages of the wolf.  I am still in there, shouting and screaming to be heard above the bloodlust, but to no avail.  It's rather frustrating, really, to know what you are doing and not be able to do a damn thing about it.


The first few months were the hardest, for everyone.  No one knew what to expect, and there was nowhere we could turn to ask.  Dad pored over stacks of manuscripts, searching in vain for something that might help. It would be another twenty years before the Wolfsbane potion was discovered.


Mum and Dad always made sure we had a place with a cellar, afterwards, and they would bolt me in, soundproofing the room so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Eventually, though, someone would begin to catch on to my sickness, and we would pack up and move.  We were never there long enough to develop more than a passing acquaintance with the neighbors, let alone for me to have any friends. It was a very lonely existence for the next three years, for all of us.


When I got my letter, I couldn't believe my luck.  I tried desperately not to get my hopes up about going, thinking that there had been a mistake, that the headmaster would never let a known werewolf anywhere near the rest of the student body.  I still don't know why Dumbledore took the chance with me.  I am

simply profoundly grateful that he did.


It had always been my dream, to be able to learn and eventually follow in my fatherís footsteps and research for the Ministry.   Dad never mentioned it, but I am sure he was pleased when I stated my intentions before I got onto the train.


I never got to show him, though.  He died when I was thirteen.  Mum passed a few months after that.  I continued on with my studies, though, and passed with flying colors.  I was even a prefect, believe it or not.  I do wish they could have seen me complete my studies at Hogwarts.  I wish they could know how proud I am of them.


Odd, that thought causes me more pain than any transformation I have ever undergone.


I am starting to get maudlin, now, and as a rule, I refuse to feel sorry for† myself.  There is no sense in it.  No use crying over spilled potions, as †Arabella loves to remind me.


Do I ever wish I hadn't been bitten on that warm June night in 1968?  Sure.  The thought has crossed my mind more times than I care to admit.  But I would not be the same person I am today if I had not dealt with lycanthropy.  My friends and family would not be the same.  At the risk of sounding self important, the world would not be the same place was I not bitten.


Better?  Possibly.  But most definitely a different place.


I cannot imagine myself without the Wolf.  We are one and the same.  He† breathes, I breathe.  He sleeps, I sleep.  He lives,  I live.  Without him,† there is no Remus John Lupin.  Without him, I would not be whole any more.


What a frightening concept.  But true.


So there you have it.  My name is Remus John Lupin. I am a werewolf.

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