The Monster Velvela (A Marauders Love Story)

Im so sorry that you can't have my other story for the time being, a mix of writers block.... meh, its 90% writers block with AFY. So here's a better story to make up for it. 

I remember the first time it happened. It was the summer of my sixth year of life; apparently everybody was expecting what happened, barely affected. I wasn't, though. Nobody had bothered to tell me of the upcoming pain, the unbearable burning sensation that ran through my body the whole night, the feeling of blood running down my arms that were not mine, the piercing, agonizing sound of the howl cutting into the night, and knowing that it came from your mouth. It killed me when I was six; now that I was sixteen and have been dealing with it for ten years, it still killed me. 

You see, once the moon comes on those dreadful nights that come once a month, I am a monster. There is almost nothing that can stop me. If my animal-side felt like heading over the river and paying a visit to Johnny, our young neighbor, or Cassandra, the old lady who used to always invite me to tea, or even my own family, then by God, I would have to do it, absolutely no question about it. I would just prowl over there and-slash- kill them. It would be easy, too. But I would be guilty for the rest of my life. But what did my furry side care about that? 

When my furry side takes over, it takes over my mind, controls me. Except, there is one piece of me left in my head. Its far back in my head, and so miniscule that its almost not even there, but it is. Not that it even matters. Its just there to tantalize me, to show me that if I willed it just enough, I could stop what was happening. If I wanted it just enough, then I could have my mind back. I knew that was impossible, but when you're in so much pain that the only thing you can do to mildly tame yourself is to inflict more pain on yourself, kind of as a way to say 'sit, doggie, stay', then of course you're going to believe that its possible. Anything is possible at that point. 

As a werewolf, I know not of love. I know not of friendship. I know not of care. The things that I do know of are pain, rejection, loneliness, and living in the wooden house deep in the woods, across the river from the rest of society. I was used to it, though. My father spent a month building this small hut in all of his free time; as the full moon crept closer that month he hurried himself to where he would come home sweating blood. When it was finished and all nice and pretty, my mother and father set me down carefully across from them at the kitchen table, the site of so many fond memories from before I was attacked. "We're moving you," they had said. "You're going to live out there in the woods, where you can't hurt anyone." And so it was final. At the age of eleven, I was to live by myself, to take care of myself. 

At first it was any child's dream. No parents, no rules, lots of fun. I could stay up late reading, never turn the lights out, doodle absentmindedly for hours on end, not brush my teeth at night, never, ever clean my bedroom in the two room hut. After about a month and a half, I started to miss my parents. They said they would come and visit me once in a while. But how long was a while? I began to tidy my room, and turn the lights off earlier, and do more daytime sleepng than absentminded doodling. But I still stayed up late reading. Especially The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. It was the description of my life in a nutshell. Tears would stream down my face as I flipped through the pages like a dangerous speedboat, but once I finished it, I would then the book back to the cover page and start right over. It was like I was suffering from an addiction, the only problem being I wasn't suffering at in the least bit. I was enjoying every second. 

After two months, my food was moldy and not plentiful. I decided to take a risk and make a journey over to my parents house. I confronted them from the front door, "Are you trying to kill me? Do you want me dead? Am I not your daughter anymore? Am I just a- an animal to you?" With that they looked down to their feet shamefully. My father turned around and stepped into the kitchen, and opened the drawer that I had never been allowed to touch, or even look at. He pulled out a sack and dumped a few handfuls of large, golden coins, meduim silver coins, and small bronze coins. I knew about the Wizarding world, but they were Muggles. After finding out that I was magical, they found out what they could from a good friend of theirs. They kept a stash of the Wizarding money on hand-- probably for a case like this. He dropped the sack into my hands, gave me a warm smile, and closed the front door.