DISCLAIMER: I'm disclaiming, it's so fun, I'm disclaiming on the run, I'm disclaiming on a chair, I'm disclaiming in the air, I'm disclaiming all around, disclaiming all around the town disclaim oh disclaim oh DISCLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIM!! The Harry Potter book belong to JK Rowlings, and The Good Earth was written by Pearl S. Buck.

CHAPTER THREE

THE MAN IN THE CORNER

The mark burned.

He had to sign. He didn't want to sign (it no longer matters what you want), but he knew he had to or all would be lost (I'll take it all back) -how could he do this- his quill was trembling (you're so weak; a disappointment) in his hand, it was moving- it was signing his name. It was done. He was rewarded; that giddiness again, the giddy burning. It was torture as well as reward. He felt the relief; he knew that all would be well (my wrong is truly righted now) but in the back of his mind, clear as day, one twin still shook the other, one still cried over the other, one still begged the other to get up, and one twin would still never again rise from the floor.

(never?)

Percy handed over the paper, and the residue of guilt was washed clean (you killed them both).

For now.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sean found himself fascinated by a graying man in the corner.

The others were screaming endlessly, tugging endlessly on the sliding doors of the moving boxcar, endlessly begging deaf ears, demanding when? When will we be let out?

Through a vent he saw the moon, nearly full. He thought clouds would be nice, so that he could ignore it, for though he sat quietly, just like the man in the corner, fear was welling inside him, too. Would they be let out of the train in time, or was it in the official's plans that this car should be filled with gore?

If that were so, Sean hoped he would remember nothing. He shuddered to think of what would happen- a confined space, stuffed to the brim with frightened, trapped werewolves...

The man in the corner removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his nose, folded it neatly, and replaced it. Sean had watched him do this all day. He would read his book, The Good Earth, (which Sean had squinted to read off the cover) and wipe his nose, oblivious to the hysterics going on around him. A few hundred times someone had stepped on him, bumped him, or, agitated by the man's calmness, had taken the book and thrown it across the room. The man had barely winced, or had gently shoved the offending party out of his way, or had adjusted his spectacles, retrieved the book and continued reading.

Sean was thankful for him. If he had been unable to draw strength from this man, he might be going mad like the others. Watching the man in the corner kept him sane. He was sure it couldn't last forever, however; the fear made sure of that. He didn't know where he was being taken, if anywhere, or why.

Also, deep in the back of his mind, Sean was fearing the man would crack. He was waiting for the man to jump up at any moment and beat someone to death with his book, or strangle someone with his handkerchief. He almost wanted him to. It would certainly provide relief from the monotony.

Two days now they'd been on the train. Two moons, hanging threateningly in the sky.

Yesterday had been worse, Sean had to admit. The other werewolves, since their wands had been taken away, had tried to escape without, and had almost welded the doors shut as the metal melted under the heat of their magic. They had popped blood vessels trying to Disapparate; then screamed out that it was not possible.

Sean would have to take their word for it. He had been just days away from his first Apparation lesson, when Ministry officials had busted into his house and drug him away.

"We've come for the werewolf," They'd said, and pushed his father to the floor. They had not had to ask which one was Sean, though he was fair-haired and grey-eyed like the rest of his family. They'd known just who to take.

Sean figured bitterly that he must have some sort of look or smell to him, something that set him apart from regular wizards. His mother told him he was just being self-conscious, that no one could possibly tell. He was a beautiful young man, she'd told him, and they loved him unconditionally. His father often joked, whenever Sean was choked with self-pity, that if they didn't love him, surely they would have just left him in the woods. Sean had believed them, but doubt tugged at the back of his mind.

When his family had seemed so terrified of the officials, so distressed that he was being taken away, were they faking it? Had they known? Had they actually hired these people to have him removed?

His father had also told him that he'd get used to being a werewolf. Like his father could really understand. Ten years, and he felt no closer to being at peace with his wretched body then at his first transformation.

He wondered if the man in the corner was in denial, like some of the others; the others ran about, knocking people out of the way, tearing at the walls, insisting that they were not werewolves, that they had been wrongly taken away from their homes. Sean wondered why he didn't just go over and ask. What had he to lose? His mind? Hah.

So he got up, stepping on hands and legs, tripping over sleeping bodies, not bothering to apologize, and he sat next to the man.

"How do you remain so calm?" he asked.

The man seemed to finish the final sentences in his chapter before looking at him, then answered, "How is it that you remain so calm?"

"Well, I-I guess-" Sean faltered. The man had such piercing eyes, like he could read his mind, but they were very kind. "-I... I guess I don't know."

The man smiled. "Nor do I. It's awfully loud in here. Perhaps I don't wish to contribute to the noise levels."

Sean found himself laughing. The werewolves nearby eyed the two with contempt.

"Who can tell, anyway. What's your name, kid?" The man asked, still smiling.

Sean told him. The man removed his glasses, putting them neatly in their case, then into his robes. Sean realized that the man was not as old as he'd thought. Surely not old enough to be completely gray.

"Sir-"

"-call me Remus."

"Uh, Remus, sir, may I ask you a question that might come off as rude? Well, actually, two questions." Sean asked tentatively.

"Certainly, Sean," the man laced his fingers, clearly ready to listen.

"Well, the first one, sir, is, do you know that your- I mean... do you know what you are? I mean- er- are you in denial?" Sean wished immediately that he could take the words back. He mentally slapped himself for being so tactless.

A look of mild confusion came over Remus' face. "Denial about what?"

"Nothing," Sean said a little too quickly, breathing a sigh of relief.

Remus smiled knowingly. "About being a werewolf, like some of these other chaps, you mean?"

Sean nodded guiltily.

"No, I assure you, I'm a werewolf. I've got all the paperwork and tags to prove it."

Before he knew it Sean was giggling again, earning vicious looks from the surrounding men. Sean drew his legs closer to himself, his fright creeping slowly back.

"Good thing I know it, too," Remus said quietly, leaning toward the boy, "Denial is what causes one to infect others. They don't acknowledge their illness, and therefore don't take the proper precautions."

Sean nodded.

"We won't be killed, Sean, and they won't leave us in here for the full moon. Was that your second question?"

Sean was caught off guard. He flinched slightly, but despite himself, he was smiling again. "No sir, but that spawned several hundred more questions."

"Well?"

"Well what? Do you want to hear them all?"

"No, no, not yet. Start with the original."

"Alright," Sean took a breath, "You don't look like you could even be forty yet, but your hair is so gray."

Remus laughed out loud. A nearby man lunged at him, but was so weak from frenzying that Remus kept him at bay with an outstretched foot.

"Thank you, my boy! I'm over forty, actually. I have been going gray since my mid-twenties, however, and most likely so will you. One of the joys of being a werewolf."

Sean frowned. His third question was answered. Remus smiled and shook his head, still chuckling. "It's only hair, Sean. Dye it if it bothers you that much."

"It's not that. I just- I just wish I didn't have to be a werewolf. I wish I hadn't been wandering around in the dark that night. I wish-"

"-unfortunately, Sean, I can't convince you that wishes like that are useless, but I can tell you they are," Remus was clearly amused, "Sean, those sort of wished are useless. Especially now."

"Thanks," Sean spat, "You've made me feel much better. How can you be so bloody jovial?"

Remus shrugged, the corners of his mouth still upturned. "At the risk of sounding too pitiful, let's just say, after some of the things I've been through, living in a werewolf camp doesn't seem all that bad."

"Is that where we're going? A camp?" Sean said, blinking.

"I'd imagine," said Remus, picking at the corners of his book, "that Mr. Weasley wants us contained somewhere, so that Voldemort can't tempt us."

Sean jumped at the name. He'd never heard it said out loud before. "Tempt us? With what?"

"Never mind, Sean," Remus replied, suddenly looking very serious, "Unimportant. Nothing at all."

"No really, Remus, tell me! I want to-"

He stopped abruptly. All the noise, in fact- all the screaming and moaning and pounding and scratching- had also stopped dead.

The train was finally slowing down.

::: Sigh ::: This is all going to get rather complicated. Bear with me. And review, por favor!