No one will look me in the eye anymore. Well, Fleur will, but she's trying to keep from crying and her beautiful blue eyes are red-rimmed with tears. Mum sniffles every time she catches a glimpse of my bandages, Dad studiously talks to my left shoulder, and Ginny stares at the pot of ointment in Fleur's hands in a quiet, stunned shock. Madame Pomfrey bustles around the Hospital Wing, her eyes firmly on my wound and nothing else. Occasionally, I will have other visitors, family and friends there to show their support, to be there for me in this tough time, but no one will look me in the eye, fearful of what they might see.

My name is Bill Weasley and I have survived a werewolf attack by Fenrir Greyback, one of the most fearsome lycanthropes to have ever stalked Wizarding Britain.

The problem is, of course, that no one's sure if I'm infected, if I'm to become a werewolf this upcoming full moon. It's not a pleasant thought. See, only alpha werewolves are contagious all the time; the rest of werewolf-dom has to be content with only contaminating their victims during the three nights of the full moon. Fenrir Greyback is most definitely an alpha werewolf, so the rather vicious wound on my face might be my ticket to turning furry three times a month, or it might not. The key term here being 'might'. Did Fenrir drool in the open wound? While gross, the question is valid and oddly important. Lycanthropy can be transmitted much like the Muggle virus AIDS. It can be hereditary, or passed along through the exchange of liquids (like a bite, or when blood or saliva gets into an open wound). Strangely enough, sex doesn't qualify for transmission of lycanthropy, unless it gets… err, rough. Fenrir destroyed my face with his hands; had he used his mouth there would be no question, but as it is, everyone is on edge.

Remus Lupin, possibly the only werewolf working on the Light Side, has been remarkably unhelpful throughout this entire process. Yes, I realize his mentor Dumbledore died that night and his childhood enemy Snape showed is true colors as a bastard, but seriously, I need some help here. It's admirable how he's managed to remain a staunch supporter of good in face of such overwhelming hostility and hatred, but the man won't look at me without tearing. If I become a werewolf, I don't think I'd stand for having such a wimp as my alpha. He barely went over my odds for contracting lycanthropy or what I can expect in the future. Granted, I'm a special case (almost always the victim is either dead or obviously infected; werewolves don't usually go for the face. They're fonder of the jugular, to be honest.) and this is a little unusual, but I'd appreciate a little more information. I found out more from a decent Defense book than I did from Lupin. (Honestly, what does Tonks see in him?)

And even if Fenrir did drool in my wound, if I am infected, there still is a chance of me not contracting werewolfism. As a curse-breaker, I am exposed to so much nasty magical energies and malevolent residue, that my magical constitution is remarkably robust. I have so much anti-viral charms floating around in my system that it's not even funny anymore. There are signs, to be sure, of a new werewolf, but in my case, they're giving mixed answers. All we can do is wait.

I never hated the moon, never really noticed it unless it was a particularly brilliant sight, but now I feel like it is poised to make or break my future. Fleur assures me she won't leave, regardless of the outcome of this upcoming full moon, but I won't impose a monster on her. (Then again, as a partial veela, she's not one to throw stones.) Gringotts is waiting as well; werewolves are bad for business, no matter how skilled at curse-breaking or manipulating money. My personal money couldn't afford the Wolfsbane Potion for more than a few full moons and I won't drain the family coffers that way. Besides, now that Snape has defected, there isn't a trustworthy Potions Master within miles. All of this hangs on a thread; a simple yes or no that will determine everything. How dramatic. Despite my glamorous job and gorgeous fiancé, I'm not one for the histrionics that accompany most Gryffindors. I was sent into Godric's house because of my courage and bravery, rather than my penchant for loud, obnoxious displays of drama my housemates seem to adore.

I don't want an allergy to silver; no matter how much I like Lupin, I don't envy his lot in life. Being a werewolf would destroy everything I've worked for. So now I wait as the moon waxes and still no one will meet my eyes.

A little unpolished, I'll admit, but I just couldn't think of a good ending and I just wanted it to be over with. There will probably be a follow-up, for after the full moon. I'm surprised very people in the HP fandom have yet to seize this idea. It's a good start-off point for a myriad of delicious story lines. Maybe I'll even put pen to paper a few of them. Un-beta'd, because I just felt the urge to post something.

For those wondering, lykos is Greek for "wolf". The Greeks are the originators of the werewolf myth. Lycaon, a cruel and all-around nasty dude, was the king of Arcadia. He tried to curry favor with Zeus with an offering of a young child, either on his alter as a burnt offering, as a dish in a banquet thrown in his honor, or as a meal prepared for Zeus disguised as a traveler as the stories go. Very pissed off, Zeus punished him by turning Lycaon and his numerous sons into wolves and destroying their house with a few well-placed lightning strikes.

For more information, head to www dot pantheon dot org; they have some excellent articles on mythology and quite likely have the best encyclopedia of folklore on the web.

TombCrank the Crafty

07 April 2007