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.