A Human Heart

I was bitten by a Werewolf at about twenty seven years of age. My wife and children have paid the greatest price for my foolishness. My current care-taker is careful not to repeat my wife's tragic mistake, that leaves me estranged from my sons, and alone in these my declining years. This story is written so that you may understand the constant torment and loneliness it is to be afflicted with this condition.

Perhaps it would be best to explain how this happened. It might help one to understand how I was so foolish to have put myself in the position to have been bitten in the first place.

I was the game keeper in the Yukon Reserve. This was located in the northern part of what was then called Yukon Territory. I understand it is now a Province of Canada. The Yukon Reserve stretches from Ft. Yukon and Circle Alaska in the west, what is now part of the United States. Then to the headwaters of the Porcupine and Peel rivers in the north (extending to within a hundred miles of Ft. McPherson). The southern boundary has been encroached upon by Muggle establishments along the Yukon River and has had to be pulled fifty miles north of the Stewart and western Yukon river.

It was my duty to ensure that the large herd of unicorns and emigrant centaurs were not disturbed by the local Muggles. This proved to be difficult as the Yukon gold rush was going on at the same time. This gold rush resulted in the loss of tens of thousands of acres along the Stewart river. Muggle greed will overwhelm any repelling charm we knew at the time. Goblins, and a Yeti befriended by the Centaurs, solved this problem. There has been no more encroachment on the preserve since.

I was chosen for this job as no other wizard in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was able to approach a unicorn. My wife also had this talent. So we were a perfect fit for this job. The reason originally, for the creation of the preserve, was overcrowding of the Centaur herds and preserves in Europe. Several herds requested to emigrate to the Americas. We accommodated them with the Yukon Reserve. They were initially unhappy with the selection of location. Yukon can be brutally cold for long periods. Also, as several herds had applied, there wasn't sufficient room for all of them. The herd adapted to it in time and are completely content in their preserve. This was no end of relief to myself and my wife. The first four years were... harrowing to say the least. Getting the herd to wear limited clothing took unwearying patience. In the end the logic of it, and the death toll, forced them to see reason. They now produce a line of jackets and coats that are very popular in the United States, England, and the Continent.

An unusually large herd of Unicorns were discovered by Smethlinda Anynwick (a cousin of my wife) while surveying the boundaries of the proposed preserve. This herd prompted the immediate conscription of myself and by default, my wife. We were fortunately delighted to be ordered to such a position. The challenge and adventure of setting up such an establishment was irresistible to us. That was fortunate, as I doubt weather we would have had any other choice but comply with the wishes of the Ministry. They were suspiciously relieved by our enthusiasm for the project. So we packed bag and baggage and moved ourselves and two of our children to the new world.

Setting up a household, in such a place as the Yukon was at that time, was arduous. Even now, I am told, the Yukon is a challenging place to live. We applied all the skills and magical knowledge we had. And still, the first three years were... rough. The worst part of it was the Centaur herd. Don't get me wrong, they are cultured, intelligent people. Quite the most fascinating conversationalists I have ever known. Once you have their trust, that is. They are also fatally stubborn and proud. We buried over a hundred of them the first two years. Finally, the leader was willing to listen to reason and they have been fine since. Our friends are the only herd of Centaurs in the world who regularly wear clothing. I miss them almost as much as my wife and children.

After three years the Centaur herd was independent of us and things were looking up. Then in our fifth year, there were unexplained deaths in the Centaur and Unicorn herds. The frightening thing was when and how brutal they were. All signs pointed to a Werewolf. Our colony was threatened after only just being established. I applied for assistance from the Subdepartment for the Control and Disposition of Dangerous Creatures. This subdepartment later became the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, it's own independant department. They sent out a taskforce of six wizards. Only three of these worthy men would return to their home.

Centaurs and the Werewolf

I seem to have gotten ahead of myself. Permit me, please, to digress a bit.

If I might be permitted, a few excerpts from my good friend Newt Scamander’s book, ‘Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them’, would be instructive.

Werewolf:

The werewolf is found worldwide, though it is believed to have originated in northern Europe. Humans turn into werewolves only when bitten. There is no known cure, though recent developments in potion-making have to a great extent alleviated the worst symptoms. Once a month, at the full moon, the otherwise sane and normal wizard or Muggle afflicted transforms into a murderous beast. Almost uniquely among fantastic creatures, the werewolf actively seeks humans in preference to any other kind of prey.

Yeti (also known as Bigfoot, the Abominable Snowman):

A native of Tibet, the yeti is believed to be related to the troll, though no one has yet got close enough to conduct the necessary tests. Up to fifteen feet in height, it is covered head to foot in purest white hair. The yeti devours anything that strays into its path, though it fears fire, and may be repulsed by skilled wizards.

Unicorn:

The unicorn is a beautiful beast found throughout the forests of northern Europe. It is a pure white, horned horse when fully grown, though the foals are initially golden, and turn silver before achieving maturity. The unicorn’s horn, blood, and hair all have highly magical properties. It generally avoids human contact, is more likely to allow a witch to approach it than a wizard, and is so fleet of foot that it is very difficult to capture.

As an aside on the unicorn:

I brought the exclusion of the Canadian Herd of unicorns to Newt’s attention after reading his book. He was chagrined and promised that the next edition put out by Obscurus would have this correction.

Centaur:

The centaur has a human head, torso, and arms joined to a horse’s body which may be of any of several colours. Being intelligent and capable of speech, it should not strictly speaking be termed a beast, but by its own request it has been classified as such by the Ministry of Magic (see the Introduction to this book [Newt‘s referring to his book]).
The centaur is forest-dwelling. Centaurs are believed to have originated in Greece, though there are now centaur communities in many parts of Europe. Wizarding authorities in each of the countries where centaurs are found have allocated areas where the centaurs will not be troubled by Muggles; however, centaurs stand in little need of wizard protection, having their own means of hiding from humans.

The ways of the centaur are shrouded in mystery. They are generally speaking as mistrustful of wizards as they are of Muggles and indeed seem to make little differentiation between us. They live in herds ranging in size from ten to fifty members. They are reputed to be well-versed in magical healing, divination, archery, and astronomy.

I would also add the quote from the Introduction of the same book:

The centaurs’ habits are not humanlike; they live in the wild, refuse clothing (emphasis mine, not Newt‘s), prefer to live apart from wizards and Muggles alike, and yet have intelligence equal to theirs.

An aside on centaurs:

Never, I repeat, NEVER tell a centaur that his or her intelligence is equal to yours. It will offend them deeply. They consider themselves vastly superior to both human species. It is wise to always speak to a centaur in the most deferential manner possible. They are not vain, just convinced of their superiority. Of course, this is assuming you can get past the subjects of weather and the stars.

Please forgive my departure to my friend’s tome. It will become clear why later.

During my first three years as a warden of the preserve, I built a relationship with one of the centaurs named Ptometomy (toe-met-oh-me). You have no idea the patience this took. Centaurs speak in circles and riddles to anyone whom is not in their herd. Because of the necessity of contact with me, Ptometomy was chosen as the liaison between us. It took months of endurance with his obsequious and circular banter, before he began to finally speak clearly. He was rather larger than most of them. Ptometomy held the position of Teacher and Sacred Oracle. He was a stargazer and soothsayer. Ptometomy had two mates. Polygamy is unusual in centaurs. They are usually monogamous, mating for life. Should one die, the other will usually take their life as well. Remarriage is not usually an option. Frankly, it is never considered. Ptometomy's senior wife was also the Alpha Mare. The society of centaurs is matriarchal. That is to say, things were run by the mares. Because of his wife's status, Ptometomy himself was in a very influential position.

An interesting aspect of centaur society is how the young are reared. All the mares take a hand with the young. So when Impecca and Ptolieta lost their son, it was devastating to the whole herd. Ichthemaeus (ick-the-may-us) was three years old when he died of pneumonia. Ptolieta was prostrate for a month.

When Ptometomy first donned a jacket a month after the death of his son, Ptolieta (toe-lee-tah) was his chief supporter. Impecca (im-peck-ah) was aloof for quite a while. When she did come around, the rest followed. It was Impecca's idea to make and sell a line of coats and jackets for children . . . human children. They sold better in the U.S. than in Britain. They currently have a full line of clothing for adults and children, marketed through a squib cousin of mine, L.L. Legume. Impecca sagely realized that she would have to create some source of income for her people to acquire the raw materials for the clothing they would need.

About two years after the death of his son, Ptometomy was injured and his companions were killed. These were the first victims of the brutal attacks we soon recognized as those of a werewolf. Several more attacks occurred the next night, leaving their victims with ghastly wounds. One died immediately, the others within two days. A trained Ministry Healer was summoned to no avail. Werewolf wounds resist all known means of healing at the time. It was he who confirmed our worst fears. Centaurs cannot become werewolves. Therefore any bite from one is fatal. As Ptometomy was slashed, not bitten, the healer did not think he was in any danger. So we watched and waited.

Shortly afterwards we found several of the unicorns dead. They were horribly mutilated. This confused all of us, as unicorns are usually able to avoid this kind of threat easily. Ptometomy suggested we harvest the materials that were useful from the slain unicorns. I found this slightly sacrilegious. He explained that the waste of valuable resources was more so. In all, a total of thirty-five unicorns were harvested this way in the first year of the werewolf. By the time the werewolf had been destroyed, one hundred fifty unicorns were lost. It was the largest harvest of unicorn artefacts in history --- a harvest of sorrow for us. It was devastating to the herd. Though they would recover, it would be years after I left.

It was several more years before the centaur settlement would be attacked again. And God help us, the outcome would be disastrous.

Ptometomy and I were scouting along the edge of the Muggle settlements one night when the most blood curdling scream ripped the night air. We both recognized the voice of Impecca. I thought my blood had frozen down to my very bones. Ptometomy lost no time and leapt over a copse of small trees. The fellow must have jumped fifteen, maybe twenty feet. It was amazing! Even though I was able to Aparate to the centaur enclave it was too late for Impecca. She had given her life to save a foal. Whose, I never bothered to find out. The werewolf was less than ten feet from where I appeared. The creature engaged me immediately. For a few minutes it seemed sure that he would kill me. Then Ptometomy crashed through the thickets and attacked the beast. It was touch and go for over an hour. In the end, the werewolf was slain, Ptometomy and I were mauled, and this time they were bites. My dearest friend died the next day. Ptolieta took her life, as is the tradition, the following day. I so wish that my wife would have allowed me to do so as well. She would still be alive, and I wouldn't be living this purgatorial existence. The day Ptolieta ceremonially took her life was the last day I was allowed to see either the centaurs or the unicorns. The centaurs were sorrowful but firm. I am an undead to them. Like an Inferi, I am unclean.

The End of All Things Good and Pure

Contrary to popular rumour, when one is bitten by a werewolf, one does not immediately transform with the first cycle of the moon. It is a gradual process.

I felt the filth of that thing in myself within hours after I was bitten. I have never felt clean since. I spoke once to a boy, a short while ago, that had been bitten just a year previously. He described having the same feeling. We both felt that if the oceans themselves were spent in our quest to be clean it wouldn't be enough. I was astounded to learn later, that they allowed him to attend Hogwarts. I was also amazed that his parents allowed Albus to take him to see me. Nevertheless it was good news that someone had tried to make this young man's life at least minimally normal. It gave me hope.

I went through the first cycle of the moon in our Yukon home. My wife locked me in a basement room. I was angry; I railed and shouted out imprecations at her. The things that were said! Never had it occurred to me to say such cruel and hurtful things to my beloved. She wasn't the only target of my malicious and abusive ranting; my children were denigrated as well. I tore at my clothing, at my very skin. By the time the sun came up I was a mess and completely exhausted. With each cycle of the moon it grew gradually worse.

We returned to England after the replacement gamekeeper arrived. The cycles of the moon came and went. Some of my phases were quite mild... This proved to be dangerous as it lulled my wife into trusting my alter ego. One time they didn't get me downstairs into my cell quickly enough and I assaulted my wife and eldest daughter. They were both fairly badly injured. My other three children beat me off with a cricket bat and a club as well as a number of very well executed charms and curses thrown by my eldest son. The boy has hated me ever since. I spent some time in St. Mungo's in the secure ward. The cycle of the moon was still full and they were taking no chances. After that, I ensured there were no more mistakes. I made sure I was locked into the cell an hour before dusk. Things went along just swimmingly for another year. Then my wife left the door unbolted.

It happened thusly: I had gone in to the cell as usual an hour before dusk. My wife came in to check on me and to lock the door. She looked in on me and left with a kiss. My dearest love forgot to lock the door. I can't remember anything that happens after I start to transform. Therefore, I can't remember what happened till I awakened in a pool of my beloved family's blood the next morning. From what I'm told, about an hour after I transformed, I discovered the cell door unbolted. As a fully formed werewolf I then ascended the stairs into the kitchen. My wife and two youngest children were there baking. The assessment was that the child who died could never have known what happened. It just occurred too quickly. My wife on the other hand, fought me for quite a while. In fact, we fought for hours. They told me I tore her limb from limb.

Angela, our youngest child had hidden under the kitchen sink for the entire night. It took my son several hours to get her to come out. She had somehow made herself invisible. They wouldn't have found her except that she coughed. The poor child never lived under my roof again. In fact, I've never seen her to this day.

My eldest son discovered me the next afternoon, wandering the neighbourhood, babbling and hysterical, in rags and covered in blood. He bound me and turned me over to the Ministry for prosecution. The charge: murder.

My trial was set thirty days hence, on the tenth of June. I would be tried by a full convention of the Wizengamot. This was a very rare occurrence. Usually, werewolf cases were handled by the Sub department for the Control and Disposition of Dangerous Creatures (later the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures). My son was hoping for a speedy conviction and execution. I have been told he expressed the desire for the privilege of performing the execution himself.

I was kept in Azkaban, that repository of grief and hopelessness that they call a prison. The Dementors just loved me. How much darker and more despairing could one be? I was a complete disappointment to them. They feed on positive human emotions – happiness, hope, excitement. Their mere presence sucks every happy feeling or memory from any human present, leaving only cold dark despair in its place. The worst experiences of the victim’s life will flood through them as everything positive is stripped away. As there was no joy or happiness they could bleed out of me, the parasites went on to better hosts. Even with the Dementors largely leaving me alone the place seemed to have despair mixed into the mortar of its very stones. Cold, damp and dreary, I awaited the day when the Wizengamot would decide my fate.

Trial and Tribulation

 

I was taken to Courtroom ten in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Magic. This is the largest of the dungeons that passed for courtrooms in the Ministry. It has dark stone walls and ascending tiers of benches on all sides with dim lighting provided by torches set in intervals around the walls. The elevated judge's box with defendant's chair sitting in a deep well in the centre adds to the intimidating atmosphere. Did I say intimidating? I meant; suffocating, stifling, even frightening.

When I was led into this chamber they slammed the door shut behind me with a resounding boom that shook the floor. I almost jumped out of my skin. This amused the people sitting in the tiers of seats surrounding me to no end. They then led me to the chair in the centre of the room. The instant I took my seat chains leapt over the arms as well as around my legs and bound me tight. This seemed rather unnecessary as the lunar cycle didn't call for a full moon for another week.

Every seat in the courtroom was taken. People were even sitting in the aisles and standing along the wall behind the top tier of benches. This rather surprised me. Unbeknownst to me, during my stay in Azkaban, the Daily Prophet had been running some rather sensational articles about werewolves. They had been calling for the summary execution of all known individuals infected with lycanthrope. I had been painted as this mad raging beast that might be expected to explode into a murderous rampage at any given moment. There were a lot of disappointed people in the courtroom that morning. You see, they were expecting this huge frightening monster. Instead they found a small frightened little man in their midst. At a slight five foot four I'm hardly intimidating.

The usual formalities were performed. The justices and presiding Minister of Magic introduced themselves or were introduced by the Minister. The charges were read out and my solicitor and barrister introduced themselves. I was asked my name (as if they didn't already know it). I apologised for my appearance. There are no facilities for bathing in Azkaban. Nor are we allowed to use magic. Therefore I was a mess in my ragged prison garb and the smell was... unpleasant. The Minister therefore graciously forgave my less than hygienic condition. He stood a little and performed a simple charm that cleaned both me and my clothing. I appreciated his kindness tremendously and thanked him profusely.

My trial lasted a week. It was the most gruelling experience of my life. My solicitor was hard pressed to present a viable defence for the admitted murder of my family. My barrister argued brilliantly bringing tears to the eyes of all and sundry on a regular basis. There were times, often in fact, that I wondered if he was part of the prosecution. In the end the disappointing conclusion of the court was that I wasn't responsible for my actions. They were unfortunately lenient. I had hoped for a guilty verdict and death sentence. Instead my eldest son was appointed my guardian and I was remanded to his custody. This is an arrangement that neither of us has ever been happy with.

Upon my return home I found that he had stripped the house of any but the most basic furnishings. Some of the rooms were completely empty. In fact most of them were. He forbade me to leave the property for any reason. I wasn't allowed to speak to anyone in the neighbourhood nor were there to be any visitors allowed. Upon any complaint or objection he would perform a silencing charm on me. Fortunately, I only saw him when the moon would be at such a cycle where I might transform. My son would arrive an hour before dusk. He would chain me in the basement and leave. Often he would take his time in returning. One time he did this and didn't return for two days.

Thanks to the Prophet, I wouldn't have had many visitors anyway. People shunned me on the very rare occasions that I was allowed to go out in public. The only light in my life were the letters that regularly arrived from my two daughters. Though I never saw her again, Angela has written me about twice a week, reliably. She never blamed me for what happened.

My eldest daughter finally resorted to bringing petitions against her brother for abuse. She was finally allowed to visit me and was aghast at the conditions he was keeping me in. The house was clean. Indeed, it was easy to keep so. I simply closed off the empty rooms and lived in the three that had been sparsely furnished. My bedroom furniture was moved into the study so that I didn't have to go upstairs, thanks to Margaret (my eldest daughter). She also started supplying me with seeds and gardening supplies. I had always been an avid gardener. Now I had to learn how the Muggles did it. No more magic allowed for me! It took me several years. I did find that I was able to perform some simple, weak magic without my wand. It took considerable concentration and effort though. Some of the magical plants in my garden had to be removed as I couldn't handle them anymore. This was a relief as there was a Venomous Tentacula that was wreaking havoc every time I went outside. Bloody thing chased me around the blinking garden a number of times. I finally trapped it in a corner until the blighter could be removed.

Being that I was now regularly corresponding with my daughters, I had to have the materials. It was easier to buy them from the local merchants. However my son wouldn't hear of it. I had to go to Diagon Alley. This meant the painful interaction with the wizarding community. Flemmings (predecessor to Flourish and Blott's) was an exercise in extreme patience. They wouldn't even acknowledge my presence till every other customer had been helped. Then there were the duties of the store. Anytime I took something down to look at it they would take it away from me and put it back. I would resort to this tactic finally to get them to help me so that I could get out of the store. Even then they would regularly over-charge me. Often items that I had chosen, and paid for, would invariably go missing from my purchase before I left the store. They got so insufferable with me that I wouldn't even go there without my son or daughter in attendance. Getting cheated got old fast. Finally Margaret dressed down the manager so thoroughly one afternoon that he was shaking in his shoes. They were better after that.

The leaky Cauldron was always a treat. Magdelena and her son Tom were always kind and saw to it that the other customers left me alone, or at least didn't abuse me. They always had some special dish for me and asked about my girls every visit. Magdelena took an interest in my welfare and I found that there were now two people keeping my son in line.

In my thirty-second year, I came down with an ailment that wasn't able to be treated at home. I tried for months. Finally, Margaret took me to St. Mungo's. We sat in the waiting room for fourteen hours before a healer would see me. Then he did so only because I had lapsed into unconsciousness and Margaret raised such a fuss they couldn't continue ignoring me. The photographer from The Daily Prophet arriving must have had a great deal to do with it as well.

In the examination room the healer directed his questions to Margaret at first. He refused to speak to me or to acknowledge my presence. Margaret threatened to go to the director and speak with the young reporter in the waiting room. In the end the healer reluctantly agreed to physically examine me. He did so without touching me any more than he had to. The diagnosis was that my diet was causing an imbalance in my immune system. He was astounded that I subsisted on largely the vegetables that I grew in the garden and a thin gruel of rolled oats.

The healer produced a menu for me to be supervised by my guardian. By that time I saw little of my son. Margaret had largely taken over his duties, thankfully.

With Margaret supervising my diet, my health gradually improved. She also insisted on getting me new clothes. Since I wasn't able to launder them, she would take a bag of dirty clothes each week and return the clothes she had taken previously. We agreed upon Muggle clothing as it was easier for this arrangement. I had a devil of a time with the trousers. She had gotten them two sizes too large and they would drop to my ankles without warning. I finally tied twine to the loops around the edges and passed this over my shoulders. Not elegant, but it worked. Margaret inquired at a muggle shop about this problem. She said that they stared at her like she was some kind of mental case. They recommended a long leather strap they called a belt. The things these Muggles think of.

Margaret was able to determine my size by passing a piece of twine through the little loops sewn in a border around the waistline of my trousers. She then took this to the Muggle establishment and they gave her a belt of the appropriate length. She found the experience amusing and no small amount of fun.

She arrived with her prize the next week. It was as if she were returning home with treasures from a foreign land. The clerk had showed her how to don this worthy Muggle artefact. It worked and looked considerably better than my twine. Margaret was ebulliently enthusiastic and I was amused with her. She became the only light in my dreary existence.

The End of Misery

I am currently ninety-seven years old. My beloved Angelina has been gone seventy years. It tears me apart that she died at my hands. And little Jack... But it won't be much longer before I join them. Why it has been so much longer that I have been cursed to live I do not know. Most werewolves don't live beyond fifty to sixty years. I've outlived that by at least forty years. Still, I've gotten ahead of myself again.

Margaret took responsibility for me till He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named took her life, two years ago. Or ordered it done by one of his followers, the death-eaters. They had approached me the previous spring and offered me freedom. As if that's what I wanted. They offered me the ability to transform without shackles or restraint. I refused and they warned me that to do so would mean death. What a blessing to me! Unfortunately, it would come to Margaret. They knew to kill me was a reward. So they took the closest and dearest person to me.

The whole thing started on my ninetieth birthday. When one reaches eighty, their name is published in the Daily Prophet. The same thing happens on their ninetieth and every five years thereafter. Margaret had secretly planned a birthday party for me. She had long since succeeded in removing the spells and wards that prevented anyone but family from visiting me. My son was quite a talented wizard. Spite and hatred intensified these measures he took. I knew that Margaret had succeeded when the lad with the paper round rapped on my door one afternoon looking for subscriptions. I was overjoyed. He showed a lot of nerve as Margaret describes my house looking a lot like a Haunted House. When she heard about the lad with the papers, Margaret shouted in joy and started dancing right there in my garden. It was indeed a happy day. That was the day she hatched the plan for my surprise birthday party. Since the majority of my house was closed up and unused, this wasn't too difficult. She simply set up in areas that I didn't use.

When I awakened on my Ninetieth I had no idea that anything was going on, my first clue was that Margaret was making me breakfast. I came into the kitchen and there she was, looking so much like her mother it was painful to see. She was radiantly happy and it was infectious. Soon I knew something was up. About ten o'clock she threw open the doors to the Parlour and announced: "Happy Birthday Poppa!" There were people I hadn't seen in over sixty years. But the greatest joy was the young fellow waiting in the back.

When Ptometomy (toe-met-oh-me) died he and his wives had six children. They never forgot me and my darling Angelina. In fact, I heard that the Centaurs had erected a memorial for both of us when they heard of Angelina's death. Ptoris (tore-riss) the alpha mare actually testified at my trial. There hadn't been a centaur as a witness in a trial in recorded memory. It made quite a stir in the press, I can tell you. The current alpha mare is the granddaughter of Impecca. Her son was the fellow who introduced himself to me that day. I cried like a baby when I held hands with a centaur descended from my dear friend. It was like seeing his grandsire as he was a spitting image of Ptometomy. Firenze took up residence with the herd in the forbidden forest on the grounds of Hogwarts. It has truly been a comfort in my old age that we've been allowed several visits since.

One unfortunate consequence of that party was the attention of a cub reporter at the Daily Prophet. The woman has given me no peace since that day. Her scarlet claws and almost unnaturally curled hair disgust me almost as much as her smug, self-satisfied arrogance. In fact, there are days when I wish that Margaret had not succeeded in removing my son's barriers from the house. It was this reporter's slanderous and inflammatory articles that prompted the Dark Lord's interest in me.

The first servant of He-who-must-not-be-named, who called on me, was the son of my grandniece. She had disgraced herself by marrying a Muggle. In my family that wasn't a problem. With the Princes it was a disaster. She was ostracised from her family. Oh well, what can one expect from that lot? After all, without exception they were sorted into Slytherin. It's a side of the family we didn't discuss. But I'm digressing again. Sorry, it's a failing of the elderly.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the young visitor. He was a tallish, sallow skinned young man. His hair was straight, black, shoulder-length and unfortunately as oily as his mannerisms. Parting in the centre and sweeping back, it fell on either side of his face like curtains. He spent the better part of an hour trying to ingratiate himself to me, till I called an end to it. I finally demanded he tell me the real reason for his visit. It was obvious that he wanted something. The question was what? When he did come to the point I almost threw him off the property. If he wasn't a relative I would have. Our parting was barely civil. Nevertheless it was obvious that he would be back again.

The second time he called on me he was accompanied by friends. I have never liked the Lestranges or the Blacks. Both families are blighters of the lowest calibre. I don't care how much money they've got. With his choice of companions, he got no further than the last time. Our parting wasn't even civil. In fact, I did throw them off the property that time. That's when they delivered their threat. I laughed it off thinking they would do me a favour by killing me. But it wasn't me they had in mind.

At the end of August I made a trip to Hogwarts to visit a friend. When I was leaving, the divination teacher sought me out. He was a noted seer and had a word for me. His word was tragedy. The man was vague and mysterious as much as he was lacking in details. I shrugged it off and went home. Upon arrival, I saw the strangest phenomena I had ever laid eyes upon. It was a constellation of stars in the shape of a skull with a snake proceeding out of its mouth. The really odd part was that it seemed to be hanging directly over the house. I didn't understand the significance of what I was later told is the Dark Mark. Immediately upon entering the house I did. My darling Margaret lay dead in the entry hall of my home. And so you see, by defying the Dark Lord twice, it cost me my dearest Margaret.

My family had insulated me from Grindelwald in the forties. This time I had the privilege of the full experience. Dispatching an owl to the Ministry without contacting my family first turned out to be a major mistake. Fortunately, my grandson Dearborn was the Assistant Director of the Department of Magical Games And Sports. When the owl’s letter was delivered Dearborn heard about it. My grandson arrived just after the Aurors. He was able to stand between myself and the overzealous Aurors who were determined to pin the murder of his mother on me. He pointed out that his mother had no marks on her body. Dearborn further pointed out the cycle of the moon in such a sarcastic manner as to suggest the Auror's stupidity. They took Margaret back to the ministry to examine more closely. I was confined to my property again.

From that day forward Dearborn took responsibility for me. A good lad with a big heart, he just didn't have a lot of time for 'Gramps.' His job demanded a lot of his time. He also seemed to be involved with something on the side that consumed most of the remainder of his time. In fact, there were several instances where I had been seen to on my cycles by someone who was not family. A singular experience. For the first time in many decades, I had to insist that my arms and legs be shackled and the door locked. It's an odd experience protecting someone from oneself.

It was determined that Margaret died from one of the Unforgivable Curses. Pardon me please for not mentioning the foul thing here. They released me from house arrest as this curse can't be executed without a wand, which I hadn't possessed in seventy years. I was required to register as an Undesirable Noticeably Dangerous Extemporised Restricted Magical Being In Guardianship or UNDER BEING. The Ministry required that I register and report any trips or movements. They watched me closer than ever before. Margaret's funeral and burial were close by. She was buried next to her mother and brother. Now I had three places to visit and leave flowers. The problems I had doing business in Diagon Alley got even worse.

To whom it may concern:

I found this manuscript in my Grandfather's papers after he died at ninety-eight. We were deeply touched by the work, and decided to have it published by Obscurus. This proved to be a problem as they refused to publish any work by a confirmed werewolf. Whizz Hard Books agreed to publish the work and the proceeds will be donated to the Werewolf Education Research Society. This fine organization is dedicated to relieving the symptoms of Lycanthrope and someday finding a cure. Anyone wishing to donate to this cause can do so by sending to the association via owl post, care of the publisher.

Newt Scamander Wrote to me shortly after my Grandfather's passing and expressed the following sentiment;

Mr. Scamander was a close friend of my Grandfather's before the trial. Afterwards, their correspondence was limited by my uncle. My Grandfather and Mr. Scamander had just re-established their friendship when Grandfather died.

Gramps was one of the kindest and most gentle people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He dearly loved his family and was always willing to lend a patient and sympathetic ear. Some of my fondest memories of childhood were in his garden. He was able to work some limited (wandless) magic, thereby saving him the trouble of weeding, thinning etc... I spent many happy hours with him in his greenhouse learning how to start plants early and to grow various plants out of season. He had adapted to using Muggle techniques in gardening on his own terms. I shall never forget watching him run from a vengeful Venomous Tentacula. The parent plant had been removed years before. Unfortunately, it had seeded the entire garden. The offspring of this plant seemed to be bent on exacting revenge on my poor Grandfather. Eventually my mother was able to successfully rid his garden of the pests.

My Grandfather's struggle with Lycanthrope was one that he never completely came to terms with. It had not only destroyed his life, but eliminated any future for him. Nor had he ever got over the loss of my Grandmother and Uncle Jacob (Jack). The fact that he might have been responsible in any way simply made the pain more difficult to bear. He-who-must-not-be-named added his own cruel twist to my Grandfather's purgatorial existence. The loss of my Mother was just one more burden on a crushed heart.

He-who-must-not-be-named finally gave my grandfather the gift he had most desired for seventy years. Most victims of the Dark Lord's favourite curse are found with various expressions of surprise and horror. My Grandfather's expression was that of serene joy. We found him in the same location as my mother with the Dark Mark shining once again above his house.

Yours in fellowship,

Dearborn Caradoc