There is a smell in the air. The smell of blood. It dominates the forest. And it’s easy to tell what it is. The rabbit is different from the fox. The fox is different from the bear. The bear is different from the human child.

And once you have separated each scent, you move toward the last one.

It’s an intoxicating feeling, once you’re used to it. At first, it disgusts the small part of your brain that is still human, that little part that still cares for that species, but then that part is silent and you move in for the bite.

Wait. The child has stopped. You can smell him. He’s close, but if you pounce now, he’ll be able to get away. You must wait until he is right there.

You haven’t always lived like this. Once, you were an ordinary wizard, albeit a little more violent than some. That hasn’t changed. You’ve always lusted for blood. For death.

And that bite, that one little bite, gave you an excuse to taste. Not only an excuse, but a need. An intoxication.

That bite made you a werewolf. A monster, though you’ve always been one. A scavenger for human flesh.

Especially children. Not only are they sweeter than the adults, but it’s a wonderful way to punish. Punish and control. If someone hurts you, offends you, upsets you in any way, his child will be brought to your ranks. Most give up the children. Then they are yours to raise as you will. Hating normal wizards. Wanting to kill.

Someday, your world will be built, a world run by your species. A world where lesser humans don’t control you, where you are the king.

Or at least not hunted. Not hated. Even before you were bitten, you were feared. Now there is a reason to fear you. But you are also subjected to the Departed for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Pay attention! He’s almost near enough. A few more steps…

The bloody fool. What right had he to say such things? You hadn’t done anything to him. Well, not much. Even if you had, he should have known to hold his tongue. He knows what you can do, what you will do to his son.

There he is. Why his parents are letting him wander about on his own, you’ll never know. He can’t be more than six years old and small for that. If you weren’t about to destroy him, he could break the hearts of all the witches in Hogsmeade some day. But he’ll never see the witches of Hogsmeade. He’ll never be anywhere near that village since werewolves aren’t suppose to be by the school or the village except in certain areas of the forest. The boy will never go to Hogwarts, never meet anyone not like him. He’ll be yours in the morning.

It’s always the same after the bite. Finding the child tired and frightened. Letting them go home for a few minutes before their parents turn them out. Taking their hands, leading them with soothing words, promising understanding and a life where people will treat them kindly. Then changing them. Turning them into killers. Into scavengers.

For that is what they will be, not only on the full moon, but always, because the others won’t let them live. Your species can’t hold jobs, can’t earn money except by begging or threatening or stealing. Two werewolves will often kill each other for a scrap of bread, using their bare hands if they have to. Most of them aren’t allowed wands. You’ve seen it before. And sometimes, if you favor one over the other, you’ll use your wand to even out the fight. You don’t summon more food for them. Hunger makes them more savage. More willing to kill the other wizards.

There he is! Quickly, you crouch down, preparing to spring. He walks slowly, looking at everything in the moonlight. Calm. Unafraid. Unaware of what will happen to him.

What will he do tomorrow? Will he cry? Will he run home and beg for help? Will he follow you willingly and become one of yours or will he cling to his mother and refuse to leave? Could he become one of the homeless wolves, the ones who try to believe in good, or will he be a savage like you?

You’ll know soon. He stops, bends down to pick something up. A polished stone, maybe. Or a bird feather. It doesn’t matter.

You spring onto his back, tearing with your claws, opening your mouth and snapping down. As you hear the boy scream, you taste the warm blood on your snout, feel the flesh rip under your teeth. He struggles and throws you off eventually—for a small boy, he has remarkable strength—but it’s too late for him. Your job is done. You run off, still licking his blood from your snout.

But as you disappear, you hear a new howl behind you. If werewolves could smile, you would. Another one for your collection. Another beast.

A new scavenger.