Once, there was a boy. His name was Danan. He liked that name. His parents told him it meant "beloved." For the first 11 years of his live, he lived up to his name. Until The Doctor came to town.
The Doctor had seemed a strange sort. Short, bald and eccentric, he had kept mostly to himself. His white coat was ever spotless and his dark glasses that hid his eyes made him seem like some kind of insect. Danan had peaked through The Doctor's window one evening, when The Doctor was doing one of his experiments. He had seen a lot of strange things. Things he didn't understand. There had been a lot of blood.
One day, Danan fell ill. Terrible pain wracked his small body. His screaming and crying kept his parents awake for weeks before they finally brought in The Doctor. He had offered to help them as soon as he'd heard of Danan's illness, but the parents had declined. After Danan had told them of what he'd seen, they hadn't trusted The Doctor. But in the end, their love for their son had overruled their fear. The Doctor had certainly seemed enthusiastic and eager to cure Danan. Perhaps too much so.
Then came a night of gleaming knives, jagged saws and glowing potions. He can remember only shadowy half-memories from the night. A giant syringe embedded in his arm, his veins glowing blue. His chest cut open, his failing heart and heaving lungs drenched in blood and dancing in the candlelight. He remembers the strange sucking sensation of his lungs being torn out. He remembers waking up with the ears, eyes, lungs and heart of a wolf. He remembers the shouts and screams as the villagers chased The Doctor out of the village. He remembers the look of terror and revulsion on his parents' faces. He remembers his senses sharpening. His muscles growing. He remembers horns growing from his shaggy head.
He remembers Hawktooth.