Werewolves. Beastly, blood thirsty monstrous beings who are all but wolves for most of their lives. Spat on by many, they are perhaps the most famous yet least respected species of half breed; and, some of the most unfortunate souls.
Werewolves. A fair few live up to their names; those who feel blessed by the diseased and the grotesque head of the parasite, which latches its dirty and inhumane claws onto your soul and taints your blood with it's disfigured viewpoints. Yet, those who have been bitten simply blend into the background, their self loathing building up barriers and high walls to keep out potential victims because, they're monsters, they're not human and never will be.
Werewolves. They are not well off, and nor are their resources. After the first wizarding war they were shunned, and forced to flee to small towns and villages away from civilization, mostly muggle, where farming was the only way to earn an income. No wizard would employ a werewolf - registered or not - and muggles, though clueless, simply do not compensate for tardiness and sick leaves. So most lycanthropes are jobless.
They stick together in packs, never staying in the same place for too long and relying on keen sensory to catch a meal. They're rough and complicated, animal instincts and human minds; messy yet stringed together so that they work well enough to provide food on their plates and a suitable roof over their heads.
Werewolves. Misunderstood humans who are forced to carry their lycanthropy as a burden. Humans who are just like the average witch or wizard, just with a monthly issue that can be dealt with under the right circumstances. In the eyes of the ministry they are dark creatures - though everybody bleeds red and werewolves are human beings ninety five percent of the time.
But the ministry and their pompous ideals sat on a throne of their achievements, turning up their snooty, arrogant noses up at issues on the horizon and sending them away with a flick of the wrist. Leaving the problem until it directly affects the minister; that shows a lot about a person - don't you think?
That's what Aurora Cassiopeia Black thought, though she supposed it was rather biased seeming as she was a werewolf herself. Still, it was a complex thought for a girl no older than ten or eleven years old - especially after the full moon. She was sat contently in a field of sunflowers, enjoying the early morning breeze and soft buzzing of a bumblebee (whom she'd named Harold). Lay on her lap was a rather thick volume, leather bound and delicate, which she'd nicked from the muggle towns library. It was an ancient Mediterranean book, containing some Roman mythology's and old tales - written in Latin of course, and she found that she quite liked it, although it was a little difficult. The girl found the story-lines and plots a tad confusing, though she was able to translate the Latin fluently, it came almost as naturally to her as naming all the stars - practically second nature.
Upon finishing the chapter Aurora noted the page and closed the cover gently, before focusing solely on the book and attempting to shrink it down to pocket size; a skill she'd been rehearsing religiously and was making drastic improvement on. After around ten seconds, the book let out a soft 'pop', before it shrunk down to size of a galleon. Grinning triumphantly, Aurora placed it delicately in her cardigan pocket, and then hurried off back through the forest and back to the orphanage. The forest at this time was buzzing with life, soft rays of sunlight pooled around Aurora's feet as she ran fearlessly through the undergrowth, and the soft birdsong rang off the trees like an over excited alarm clock. The grass was damp and vibrant, and as she sprinted bare foot through the meadows she found herself wondering just what it would be like to have a friend - someone to sprint through the meadows barefoot with her.
Aurora shook this thought off almost as quickly as it came - it was a frequent visitor, and each time Aurora blocked it out. There simply wasn't any point, in Auroras mind that is, in confiding in a person who could leave at any given point. It was what happened with her father - he left her at an orphanage whilst he sped off to go and save the Potters and never came back.
And it hurt .
So Aurora had trust issues. She didn't have friends or acquaintances, heck, whenever she spoke at the orphanage she was beaten with a leather belt until her back was raw and her skin stripped off. She kept to herself, the other girls steering clear of the 'girl who was clearly in a gang' and the Matron scowling whenever she came in from her daily disappearances; it was rather easy to do, all she had to do was walk into a room and suddenly the sun had stopped shining. She wasn't even that intimidating - without the scars she would of been classed as pretty - but her presence and icy cold stare was enough to send the seventeen year olds sprinting.
So yes, it would be nice to have a friend, but what's the point in wishing for the impossible?
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Cigarette Daydreams- ꜱɪʀɪᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ
FanfictionAurora liked to think of her life as one that, unlike seemingly everybody else nowadays, she did not want to re-live. Sometimes, when she's lying awake at night, she likes to think that the fates, or God or whoever it was that planned out peoples li...
