So, I suppose this is where I'm supposed to introduce myself. I could go as far back as when it all really started, but that would take forever to thoroughly explain all the events that transpired. So I guess I'll get everything out of the way and into the open, so there'll be no confusion when I tell you some of the more recent things that have happened. Everyone has one question they want to ask when they first see me. Most of them don't actually ask it, for fear of coming off as rude, but I can see it on all of their faces. They want to know what happened to me. So I'll save you all the embarrassed stuttering as you slowly make your way around that minefield of a conversation: I'm a Werewolf.

It's fairly obvious to anyone who's met one before, or knows the signs to look for. I have scars, basically, everywhere. They fade after a while to the point where it just looks like I fell through a field of thorns, but they're there and they're very noticeable unless you're oblivious or have bad eyesight.

Even though most people would have figured it out long before I actually told them, everyone feels the need to come off as shocked. As if the thought had never crossed their mind before. I don't mind when people make assumptions, it's kind of hard to misinterpret what I am (unless you're a Muggle or have never been to a proper Wizarding School before). I think once they realize that I'm not going to snap at them or burst into full 'wolf form' and slaughter them, a little bit of the edginess disappears (only a little)... if they've decided to stay and talk to me, that is.

Now before you ask the question that usually follows me telling someone I'm a Werewolf, I'll tell you my tale. The most common way to be turned into a Werewolf is to be bitten while the person is in their transformed state. I suppose one, theoretically, could be changed if the person wasn't transformed, but I've never heard of an actual case of that happening throughout all my research of the topic. I have, however, heard of a case of two Werewolves breeding; forcing the Lycanthropy into their children. Those are the two basic ways to become a Werewolf. Me? Neither of my parents are Werewolves, and I've never met a fully transformed Werewolf in my life (not including myself around that time of the month), and have never been bitten by one in their regular state. So how could I, a mere boy of sixteen, have been turned into a Werewolf?

I stepped on a tooth.

That's right. There is no epic tale of me fighting for my life against a bloodthirsty wolf, or being saved on the brink of death by a hero... no. I stepped on a damn tooth.

Back then, my family lived in America -Northwest Washington to be more precise- and while we had heard of a few Werewolves going into the Cascade Mountain Range to transform, we were pretty sure that our little home beside Lake Whatcom, and surrounded by fairly dense forest, would be safe from harms way. During our family reunion, we all got a horrible reality-check, and found out how wrong we were.

We were safe from Werewolf attacks - seeing as most try to go as far into the forest as possible - but I managed to find the single tooth in the entire forest with enough saliva on it to transfer the Lycanthropy curse into my foot.

After it was confirmed that I was a Werewolf, no one was able to relax. The forests that were once beautiful and full of life, held the horrid truth that I would now be one of the monsters that roamed the woods. Even my little sister Salieri, seven-years-old at the time, changed. We used to play in the forest with our friends together; swimming in the lake, playing games in the yard, or just walking the nice trail that connected our yards through the woods... it all changed. My friends changed, my family changed, my life changed.

A few months after I had stepped on the tooth, I had gone through two transformations. Pain was an understatement. For someone who hadn't even grown into an adult in their human body yet, having bones break and re-break is absolute agony. Thankfully, it was nearing the end of spring, and my older brother had just gotten back from his third year of school at Lewdrins School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Marcus is a whiz when it comes to potions, and the Wolfsbane Potion appeared simple to him. It was a huge relief to know that I was still accepted in my family. None of them looked down on me; in a weird way, it brought us closer and farther apart at the same time.

I thought that after I took the Wolfsbane Potion, everyone would relax more. I could stay closer to home, so that when my father went out to bring me home after the full moon he didn't have to go far, and there was less of a chance of me running into any fully grown Werewolves closer to civilization. I suppose I was wrong about that.

Everyone was still on edge, and if it wasn't because of me, it was because of the dangers that we knew were lurking in the forests.

Another transformation later... our little family was hit with another tragedy. Uncle Anthony had always been the crazy one of the 'Greco' brothers - my father being the more responsible one - but none of us had thought he would be crazy enough to kill himself. I had still been in the forest at the time, and wasn't sure why my father didn't come to help me back home. I ended up stumbling around the forest until my older brother found me. There was something wrong, that much I could tell, but he wouldn't tell me what had gone on until we got back to the house. My father had been devastated, and even now he hasn't completely gone back to his regular self. He used to smile, laugh that booming laugh - he used to talk to us.

But like I said... everything was changing. He no longer smiled. He no longer laughed. He hardly talked unless it was to ask how my brothers schooling was going or how bad the transformation had been this month. Despite how our entire family was changing, and how everyone was experiencing some form of tragedy, I felt bad for my mother the most.

She was shouldering everything, and taking it in stride. She kept everyone's spirits as high as possible... which was no easy feat. We stayed in Washington for another year, and though I had found out a long time ago that I was a Wizard, I was not allowed to attend school at Lewdrins School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with my brother. I was considered a danger... and that was the first time that my condition had been thrown into my face. The rejection letter wasn't even kind about the situation; it simply stated that they feared for the students lives if a Werewolf were to attend the school, and that I would have to go somewhere else for schooling.

So, with no better options in life, I continued through school as a Muggle. I think it made my little sister happy. At the time, she showed no signs of being a Witch, and was even moodier because of it. I'm not sure if it was the fact that I could beat up anyone who made fun of her for being weird or just that there was someone (even though I was forced) to go to Muggle school with her. She was happy... and I was furious.

I wanted to go to a Wizarding School... and who wouldn't? I had the magical ability, and I wasn't allowed to learn how to use it right. I suppose it did help, to at least have some magical ability when it came to beating up people who picked on my sister for being... well... weird. The scars that were, by then, scattered across my entire body made me look menacing, and while I wasn't usually one to hurt people, my magic got away from me when I got angry... as did my temper when the full cycle was coming to an end. I got in trouble, and while I was constantly in detention at school, I wasn't in as much trouble at home. My parents understood me... well, my mother did, anyway. She was a Squib, but I think she understood my frustrations more than my father, who was a Wizard. I was only eleven years old, going on twelve, and I was being denied by the entire Wizarding Society.

I think that's when my mother snapped.

Sometime by the end of my first year of being rejected by Lewdrins, she sent out letters to every school out there. This was all, of course, done behind my father's back. He would have been furious (one of the only emotions we actually got out of him). He had given up hope, while the rest of us, save for Salieri, wanted to try and get me into a Wizarding School.

We finally found one that accepted me. In fact, the headmaster stated that I would not be the first Werewolf to graduate from the school, and that they would be glad to have me and make the appropriate accommodations. I was ecstatic... we were moving to Scotland.