Before First Light

"Ron, you're being irrational!" shouted Hermione, her usually calm and serene voice an octave higher than usual as she angrily yelled at her red-haired friend with a temper to match.

"No, I'm not!" he retorted, his chestnut eyes burning with anger. "You are, if you think I'll sit here doing nothing while he's out there, endangering us all..."

"But Ron, Dumbledore is taking care of it! Leave it to him!" Her voice now was pleading; the voice of one who knows they have lost.

"Don't you see I can't?" he replied passionately. "If it was your family, Hermione, you might understand. I have to go."

"But we don't know where to start looking," Hermione muttered obstinately, but she knew that she was defeated.

"Then we'll just have to figure it out, won't we?" said Ginny, standing up. "Because I'm not staying here either, just waiting..."

Hermione sighed. When Draco Malfoy had said all Weasleys had red hair and too many children, he'd missed their one crucial quality; Weasleys were uncommonly brave, and likewise uncommonly stubborn. The look of resoluteness in Ron's eyes was enough to tell Hermione that nothing she could say would change his mind. She'd just have to come along.

"Well, let's pack, then," said Hermione helplessly, motioning to a smirking Harry to help her drag a trunk into the middle of the room. Before she could move, she was swamped by Ron and Ginny hugging her and ruffling her hair, shouting thank-yous. Hermione blushed terribly, her face a deep scarlet.

"Don't make me change my mind," she threatened, pushing them off, but she looked secretly pleased.

The room was a flurry of activity. Cries of "Wingardium Leviosa" could be heard as clothing and food flew through the air. A Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 shot by Ron's head like a cannonball, only missing his head by a finger-length. Finally, after an hour of work, and with the help of much magical shrinking, they bewitched everything to fit into a solitary trunk. Harry's glasses were askew, and Hermione's hair was bushier than ever, but they were done. They stood back, admiring their handiwork, as the moon crept out of its hiding place and slowly made its way to the highest point in the cloudless, inky night sky.

"Oh, wait," said Hermione suddenly. "I've forgotten something." She dove earnestly into her trunk and emerged in a moment with an enormous, heavy, leather-bound book waving triumphantly over her head. Its golden title flashed brilliantly in the light -- Hogwarts, A History.

Ron groaned. "For the last time, Hermione, I'm not going to read that book! Give up!"

"No, Ron," laughed Hermione, rolling her eyes. "You don't have it read it, I just thought it might come in handy."

Harry tried lifting the trunk with the newly added book's weight, and quickly dropped it back down. "Oof. It better really come in handy, Hermione."

She scowled good-naturedly. "Why don't you two use all that energy you're wasting on teasing me to go check if the coast is clear downstairs? I do feel bad for leaving your mum again so soon, but I suppose there isn't anything we can do. Did you write a note?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes, and we've left it on the table where they'll find it. Mum and Dad went up to bed a moment ago -- they think we're just chatting away -- so we'd better go soon."

With those words, the four realized the enormity of what they were about to do. This wasn't one of their little adventures; this was real, and they were plunging headfirst into danger. If they took that first step out of the warmth of The Burrow, there was no telling whether they'd come back. Was it worth it, risking their lives when they should really be keeping their noses out of it? Could they instead stay, reading the news of Voldemort's attacks and wondering if they might have made a difference? Which should they choose, Scylla or Charybdis?

Ron was the first to break the gloomy silence. "None of you have to come, you know," he said quietly. "But I've got to go on."

"Don't be daft, Ron," said Harry, "we're coming."

With his words, the tension in the room broke, like thin ice on a frozen lake. They quietly filed out of the room, dragging the trunk behind them. As Ron stepped stealthily out of the sitting room, careful not to wake the adults from their light and restless slumber, he saw a mysterious shadow of something resting on the kitchen table.

"Hold on a minute," he whispered. Intrigued, he examined it closer, recognizing it as a tiny book. But it wasn't just any ordinary book; it was his mother's own worn diary. He picked it up, looking at it for a moment, and impulsively stowed it in his knapsack. As he turned his face away from the table, he saw in his mind's eye Dumbledore leaving it there, Dumbledore with a hidden smile in his eyes.

Ron shook his head, tiptoeing over the threshold of the house to join the other three. He thought to himself that perhaps Hermione was right after all; Dumbledore was taking care of it. It was just his way...

* * * * *

Slowly, slowly, the pallbearers lowered the small coffin into the gaping hole in the earth. The priest recited loudly a psalm that was supposed to comfort everyone that Annabelle was at peace. It didn't seem to be working; Ms. Sanderson's tall frame was racked by sobs. As she haltingly explained to Rupert Douglass, crying onto his shoulder, she blamed herself for Annabelle's death. She should never have let her go out alone, she cried, after all the warnings she'd heard!

Ms. Sanderson wasn't the only one mourning. Annabelle's entire class at school had turned up. Some of them didn't understand, asking questions like "Where's Annabelle?" that a teacher stammered to answer. But most of them did, and sadly realized that their playmate, the sprightly girl who'd been so good at jacks, was gone. Even Billy had come, looking not like a bully, but a young, vulnerable boy. All in all, there wasn't a person with dry eyes in the little crowd huddled around the grave.

Except one. Mr. Douglass's mind was far away from the sweet little girl he had killed. Instead, he thought of another funeral, one he had attended when he was barely older than Annabelle. It was astonishing how clearly he still remembered it, after all these years -- every glance, every word, every tear.

It had been a bright, sunny day, much like this one; the kind of day his father had loved. Young Rupert, not more than thirteen years old, stood alongside his crying mother, as his father was lain to rest.

Rupert didn't cry. He wasn't a little baby anymore, he thought stoically, and it wouldn't do for him to act like one.

In truth, he didn't really know his father. They'd always had different interests; Rupert enjoyed reading, alone in a silent room, while his father was a football fiend, and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of a busy house. Whenever the elder Mr. Douglass had tried to talk to Rupert, or sit down next to him as he read, Rupert would tersely say, "I'm reading," in a tone of voice that made it clear to Mr. Douglass that he wasn't wanted.

So, unsure of what to do, he would rise and exit the room, leaving Rupert staring moodily out of his window.

When the Hogwarts owl had come, bidding Rupert to leave home for nine months out of the year, Mr. Douglass wouldn't hear of it.

"I'll not have you away from home for so long!" he shouted. "And how do you know this is a good school? Teaching you magic?! We've already got you down for a very good school, Rupert, one I went to when I was your age. Don't you want to follow in my footsteps?"

"Dad, I want to go to Hogwarts!" erupted Rupert, his bright eyes flashing in anger. "You don't understand, I don't want to be like you! I hate you!"

And then there was silence. Mr. Douglass slowly rose to his feet and signed the permission form, tying it back on the owl's outstretched leg. Rupert, with a queer look on his face, turned and ran from the room.

It was a quiet summer. The force of the dark malicious words hung between them. It tortured the two as Rupert got onto the Hogwarts Express noiselessly, leaving his father only with a wave. The words were always there, like an unwanted shadow. Every letter, every summer break was tainted with the words that had not been forgiven, had not been retracted, but merely ignored. The father and son were civil to each other, but this was not what anyone would call a loving relationship.

Every time they met, Rupert resolved to take it back, to tell his father that he didn't really hate him. But every time the words would be swallowed whole by the dark demon of his pride. Next time, he thought to himself. I'll tell him next time.

One bright April morning, a regal owl swooped down over Rupert's house table, bearing mournful news. There would be no next time.

Rupert stood blinking back warm tears beside his mother, while his father laid cold in that hateful box. Was he sorry, too? Did he wish he could turn back the clocks of time, and say what he never had? Did he wonder if the ruined relationship was all his fault? Did he lay awake at night, holding a quill that refused to put on parchment the words of his sorrow?

Hot tears fell down soft, rounded cheeks, hot tears that burned relentlessly. There was no need to ask whose tears they were. Rupert knew they were his.

In a different time, hot tears ran down another's face, a face full of worry lines and wrinkles that tried to catch the deluge of fat teardrops. But the wrinkles soon gave up, allowing the tears to slip freely down her tired face.

Two pairs of eyes were full of scorching tears.

* * * * *

As she had the night before, Molly Weasley slid into the comfort of her bed, pulling her warm covers around her. Yet her simple routine felt cold and alien, and she moved through the steps unseeing. Nothing was the same. Nothing could ever be the same, not anymore, now that she knew her own father could be the instrument of the destruction of all that was good and just in the world.

Molly blankly wondered why she hadn't figured it out herself. Of course he had special powers. Hadn't she, strong-willed as she was, fallen to his mysterious ways? Hadn't she aided him the moment he asked her to, not asking any questions?

But she hadn't seen it. She was too blind, and now it was too late for her to change him, her dangerous father. Miserably, Molly wondered if his turn to the dark side was completely her fault. He had betrayed Johnston to save the business so that he could support her; he'd broken out of jail so that she could breathe free; he'd taken them into hiding to save her from the harsh world. And she'd left.

He was almost normal, then, she reflected. He was still my father. But then she'd left him -- so selfishly, she thought now -- left him alone with his dark thoughts. And the seed that would root out his love, his moral boundaries, began to germinate. Tended by years of brooding, it blossomed into the black-hearted flower that now threatened them all.

Why had she left? It was her fault...

A tear rolled down Molly's face, seeping into her laugh lines, and she uneasily fell into a restless sleep. Immediately, she began dreaming -- her dream picked up where yesterday's had left off. Her father was pointing a wand at her, dark shadows covering his face. Only his eyes were discernible from the rest of his face; they glowed like fiery coals in his skull. He learned over her, staring into her own brown eyes, and whispered coldly. "Do you fear your father, Molly?"

Of course she feared him. How could she not? But at the challenge, the fiery obstinacy in Molly's soul awakened, pushing away the nameless guilt she felt. It wasn't her fault he was this way. He couldn't try to blame anyone for the his character but himself.

She smiled, content knowing that perhaps his powers didn't work on her after all. "No, father, I don't."

He stared at her a moment, reading in her eyes that she truly meant it. "Eve did not fear the snake," he said, finally. "But her children did." As he said the words, he became a snake, emerald green, with scales that struck like jeweled daggers. Molly felt an electric shock of fear rush through her body as the snake that was her father slithered away. Her children ... her children...

Molly awoke, flinging off the covers and jumping out of bed. Her feet padded along the cold wooden floors, and she breathlessly reached the closest room -- Ginny's. She tiptoed to the door, placing a trembling hand on the knob. She turned it, holding her breath ... but before she saw the room, she knew it was empty. They were gone. Molly knelt down, sobbing, and somewhere, an emerald serpent smiled. ***

Big thanks to all who reviewed on FF.N or the Yahoo!Group, including but not limited to:

American Hermione (Thanks for reading this over! You rock!) Athena_arena (You know I love ya, Rach! Thanks for helping me defeat those plotbunnies!) Ayla Pascal (So glad you liked the chapter! Hope you like this one as well.) Fallen*Angel (Creepy? This story? Never! ...Well, okay, maybe a little.) Juliette (You rock!) "Rabies" (Yup, I get headrushes allll the time. That's what helps me come up with this stuff, yup.) Ron Weasley's Cutie (Please don't sulk in the toilet stall! See, I got the chapter out! Thanks for the fun review!) xoe (Oh, darn, I wanted it to be a secret. *sulks* Heh.)