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    Muggle transportation was easy. At least easier for her. Apparation after full moons was a no no, she wasn't allowed to own a broom, and the muggle club where she worked certainly wasn't on the floo network. So the bus it was. Not the Knight bus, too many questioning looks for the pale young woman who winced at every jolt of the purple contraption.

In the muggle world scars, bandages, and bruises were easily overlooked. In a world where magic can heal almost anything with the flick of a wand, such things are looked upon with curiosity, before the truth dawns on them and their faced twist in disgust and distrust.

Concealment charms could easily hide the many pink and white lines that mapped her life by full moons on her skin. But the identification code magically tattooed beneath her collarbone wasn't allowed to be hidden. It was supposed to protect the public from her. The question was, who was going to protect her from the public.

Muggles barely glanced at the row of numbers and letters above her heart. Oh, she'd been asked what it meant numerous times.

W1835F: Werewolf, Number. 1,835, Female.

Too many to count laughed at that.

'Werewolf?, next she'll say vampire. Who believes in werewolves?'

Who indeed could believe that a thing of myths and fairy tales could be real. Could be sitting next to you on a bus in a tank-top and ripped up jeans. A faded backpack at her feet, or a bag of groceries on her lap.

She wished that's how it worked. If you don't see it, it isn't real. If she closed her eyes the moon wouldn't wrap its silvery rays around her soul and tear away her flimsy human facade. Replacing blunt teeth, scarred pale flesh, fear, and weakness with fangs, fur and the strength and fury to kill. If she didn't see the bloody gashes, and her skin stretched and twisted until it was translucent and bruised, the pain and the scars could never touch her.

The Ministry and the Werewolf Registry put a lot of stock in that point of view. Look at the rogues; the werewolves to like to destroy, who's human halves are as twisted as their wolfish ones. Look at the wolves in the containment cells, never their human counterparts the next morning. The people who were ripped apart and put back together by a curse they cant control and didn't ask for.

She knew she would never be accepted amongst "normal" witches and wizards. So muggles as clueless as they were became her companions, her friends, her coworkers, her lovers. One night off a month was easy enough, traded shifts, sick days, and rearranged schedules; a favor here or there. No questions asked. Jobs amongst the magical were hard to come by and short lived. Getting through an interview without being asked was rare and the first full moon after being hired was usually when she was fired.

She was a werewolf, a Dark Creature. She was not human, she was not a witch, she was not Dee, or Diana to those who could get away with it.

She was W1835F and that was all she would ever be.