A/N: *smiles weakly* Sorry it took so long. Really, I am! Anyway, this is a very, VERY big chapter. A heckofalot of stuff happens, and it is really exciting. Sadly the second-to-last part! *sniff* Don't know WHAT I'll do without BtCA! *Ahem* Enough of my pointless ramblings. On with the fic!
***

The gray morning fog settled on the yawning town of Llanberris, and the loud calls of birds slowly pulled Molly away from the warm comfort of sleep. She rolled over under the light cotton sheet, but kept her eyes closed. She'd been dreaming, Molly recalled, opening and closing her mouth to rid it of its ashy taste. It had been a very odd dream, too ... wherever she turned, an angry face followed her. Even when she shut her eyes, haunting faces appeared on the inside of her eyelids. The face of Ron blended into a policeman, who blended into the little girl whose picture she had seen. And then the haunting eyes, too, would fade, into those of her beloved Arthur, begging her to come home...

But it was only a dream, she thought forcefully, and stepped out of bed to begin getting dressed. As she pulled on one of her father's shirts, she hummed softly. The past few days since the mysterious photo had been relatively calm. Molly and her aging father had spoken little, but thought much, and they had shared a good many games of poker. Molly pulled on the shoes she had arrived in, looking forward to avenging her loss at seven-card stud the night before. She grabbed the deck of cards and went in search of Mr. Douglass.

He was staring out of the window when she entered the room, lost in a world of his own. Seeing Molly enter the room, he turned from it and smiled pleasantly at her. "Good morning, sleeping beauty!" he said, grinning, and it struck Molly as something he might have said in the happier days, in the days before Llanberris. She smiled.

"Morning, Dad" she answered, pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee and breathing in the fragrance. "I'm going to beat you today!" she said mischievously, floating backwards in time.

He chucked. "I very much doubt it. But I'm afraid we'll have to delay our game for a little bit -- I've been hungry for news of the outside world, Mol. Could you go into town and buy me a paper?" She nodded casually. She was hankering for a bit of news herself. At home, she read the newspaper from cover to cover every morning (Spending a bit more time on Lockhart's column, of course). Mr. Douglass handed her a bit of money, and she set off into town.

Mr. Douglass waited by the door, eager as a puppy. It had been nearly four days -- certainly his message had been received by now! And if it had been received... Mr. Douglass's wrinkled face broke out into a menacing smile. Then what he had been waiting for, for so many years ... so many cold years, had come true. Cold years of seeing everything in shades of gray. No matter how azure, how clear the sky really was, to Mr. Douglass it was always filled with clouds of fear and despair.

Now, the only color he could see was red. Red: the color of bloodshed, of fighting, of vengeance. Mr. Douglass felt his crimson blood pounding in his body, and when he closed his eyes, the inside of his eyelids were a sharp, rusty red. When, he wondered, would the scarlet blood of his enemy flow?

The door swung open, as if in answer to his question, and Molly strode inside. She pulled the paper out from under her arm and handed it to Mr. Douglass. "Hang on a second, Dad, I want the funnies," she started, but Mr. Douglass ripped the folded paper from her grip. He hurriedly read the front page, his eyes flashing madly.

Molly was puzzled, and the grin slowly faded off of her face. "Dad?" she asked, confused, "what are you doing?"

He was acting like a wild man -- had newspaper been edible, he would have swallowed it whole and cursed his body for its slow digestion. As it was, his eyes raced across the page, and he dropped all but the front in his haste. His eyes, under wrinkled lids, whipped back and forth so fast Molly felt dizzy. Then Mr. Douglass lowed the paper slowly, and his brown eyes glinted maniacally. A slow, wide grin spread over his face. For a moment, Molly just stared at him. In a matter of seconds, an aged, tired old man had been transformed into this thing, this ... animal.

He laughed. Dropping the paper, he chuckled for the first time in years. The loud sound echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls in its glee. But somehow, unlike most, his laughter didn't bring warmth to Molly's heart. Instead, it brought a coldness, a fear. She bit her lip nervously and picked up the newspaper her father had forgotten in his glee. She read the headlines and felt a chill, icy fingers spreading from her heart to her stomach.

It was funny, really. Twice within a few weeks a newspaper had been the vehicle to destroy Molly's beliefs -- her hopes -- her dreams. One had been Muggle, one wizard. But both crushing, both mind-boggling, and both destroying. As for those wizards who said Muggles and everything to do with them were inferior, Molly faintly thought that no, they were painstakingly equal. For, lip trembling, she read:

"Respected Accountant Found Dead of Suicide"
The successful accountant Geoffrey Johnston was found dead yesterday in his London home. Police have ruled out all chances of murder, though they, "can't imagine why Johnston would be driven to suicide." Johnston was found by his housekeeper, who claims she was waiting for Johnston to return after going to get the post. In fact, the post was found next to him, with an opened envelope containing a picture clutched in his hand. A suicide note was found. Johnston wrote, "I can't live with my crimes any longer. God, forgive me..."

What the crime was has yet to be determined. Johnston, who recently turned sixty-five, has a clean record, save his arrest in the Douglass case, where he was later acquitted. Funeral services..."

Molly raised her head and stared at Mr. Douglass with all-knowing eyes. Her voice was strangely calm as she said, "You engineered this, didn't you?" But she didn't need an answer -- she already knew. "what did Johnston ever do to you, Douglass?" she spat, not wanting to waste such a precious word as 'dad' on this scum. She backed away to the other side of the room, shaking her head. It was as far away from him as Molly could get, yet she still felt Mr. Douglass's malice coming off in waves and bombarding her. She felt dirty, like she hadn't bathed in weeks. She'd been living in the same house as this murderer? Sleeping in the room next to his? The mere thought gave her shivers.

"Why, he was there, Molly," he said softly, red glint still in his eye. "He was there, and he was stupid, and oh so easy to manipulate. Naive. Never be naive, Molly, or you are put at the mercy of your enemies."

Molly spoke slowly, anger and hate brimming in every syllable. "I once was naive, and you -- you murdering bastard -- manipulated me for all I was worth. But now I see the truth. You were using me, all along." Molly seemed to grow in height, shaking with rage. Her dreams had been broken, her childhood stolen, twisted, corrupted -- and all by him. Hate surrounded Molly, and she saw red. Not the red of vengeance, but the red of her children's hair, and the bright blood of a lamb laid on the alter. A lamb who dies unknowing of what he has done to merit this treatment. Molly felt as though she lay on the alter, throat slit by the bloodthirsty lion.

Abruptly, someone knocked on the door. One, two, three knocks. Someone was determined to get inside. Someone knocked again. The sound of the knocking on the wooden door echoed in Molly's ears, and the room that had been a hotbed of hostility fell silent. Someone knew they were here. Someone was coming.

***


Many years earlier, a freshly eleven year-old Molly opened the door. Cool mountain air rushed inside, giving the house a fresh smell. Although small, the house was tidy and most importantly, uninhabited. Mr. Douglass had bought and stocked it several years ago, just in case he would need to "disappear." As places to "disappear" to go, Molly reckoned, the hideaway wasn't half bad. The door opened up to three rooms and a small kitchen, each furnished rather nicely. The littlest room was assigned to Molly.

As Molly explored the house, testing out her bed and checking the pantry, she began to think. The problem wasn't with the house's size, or shape; it was in what the house stood for. The foundations upon which she had been raised were shaken, and this new house continued to destroy them. She, Molly R. Douglass, had committed perjury, assisted in arsony, and was on the run from the law. She smiled ruefully. From the description, one would expect to see a criminal tougher than nails and more dangerous than a tank of man-eating piranhas. Instead, she was an eleven year-old who only felt sick.

She sprawled out on her bed, watching the moon rise through the high window. 'The sky is so clear out here,' she thought. Molly could easily see the face on the moon. But tonight, the moon's usually cheerful face seemed to glare at her disapprovingly. She quaked under the steely look, and turned away, staring at the dark, eyeless wall. Had she done the right thing? Was minding your parents more important than doing what was right?

Molly didn't know. As she curled up in a ball under the covers, she heard a loud tapping on the glass windowpane. Slightly spooked, she got up and walked over to the window to find out what was there. With shaking hands, she undid the latch and slid the window open.

Whatever Molly expected, it was not a face full of feathers. The soft animal swooped past her face, and Molly reeled from the shock. It soared gently around the room, and she was able to get a better look. It was a large, chestnut owl, carrying a piece of parchment in its beak. It flew near Molly's face again, and she shrank back; but the owl was merely trying to offer her the letter. Trembling, and still trying to keep as far away from the bird as she could, Molly snatched the letter and retreated to the bed, hardly noticing that the owl had flown out of the open window.

She slowly turned the letter so that she could read it in the moonlight. She glanced at the address, but then did a double-take. It was addressed to Llanberris. "How could anyone find out so quickly?" she wondered, sick with fear. If this mysterious correspondent knew where the Douglass's were, how did she know police weren't storming the house at this very moment?

It suddenly seemed very important to Molly to find out what this letter, so mysteriously delivered, had to say. Did it contain blackmail, or friendly words? There was only one way to find out. Molly quickly slid open the flap, nearly tearing the thick parchment in her haste. But as she swiftly read the first few lines, her tense muscles relaxed. No, it wasn't blackmail ... but what was it?

The emblem of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry smiled up at her, and Molly's heart pounded wildly. Did this mean ... could this possibly mean that she was a witch? She hardly dared to dream it could be so; Mrs. Douglass had always said Molly was "normal" and hadn't a speck of magic in her blood. But, as the past few days had illustrated, she had been known to lie on occasion. Molly closed her eyes and remembered the terrible, yet wonderful deeds her father had worked with his magic just the day before. With those visions came a hunger; a longing to be able to unlock doors without keys, send objects flying through the air, and shoot spells from a mere piece of wood. She nearly flew into the other room.

"Mum! Dad! Look what I got!" she shrieked, unable to contain her excitement. She pounced on the two and shook the letter with its emerald green lettering in their astonished faces. "It says I'm a witch, and I've been accepted to this fancy school!" Molly laughed happily, hardly noticing the swift look between her parents.

"Molly, honey, sit down," said Mrs. Douglass, motioning to the space on the couch between the two. Molly sat down slowly, her excitement fading and being replaced by a
horrible feeling of dread.

"Now, Molly," said Mr. Douglass slowly, "your mother and I have discussed the possibility of you being contacted by Hogwarts... I went there myself, years ago," he said, smiling, "one of the best times of my life, it was." He suddenly became aware of Mrs. Douglass's glare, and quickly trailed off.

"What your dad meant to say was that we've thought about it thoroughly, but we just don't know if you can safely go to Hogwarts," Mrs. Douglass said firmly.

"S-safely?" squeaked Molly, blinking back hot tears.

"Well ... look at it this way. These people already know our address -- if you go to that school police will figure out the connection between us, and we'll be back in jail."

"Do you understand, Mol?" asked Mr. Douglass softly, with true pity in his eyes. "As much as I'd love for you to be able to go to Hogwarts ... to learn magic..." He sighed. "Well, it would have made me so proud. But Molly, it's impossible." He spoke the last words with such finality that Molly's self-control crumpled, and she fell on her father's shoulder, crying madly. Just when she had finally thought that her life had hope -- that there possibly could be a dawn after this long, endless night -- her hopes had been smashed, like a liquor bottle in the hands of a drunk. She ran from the room, wiping tears from her stained face.

Molly collapsed on her bed, her pillow soggy from her crying. As she flipped over onto her back, chest heaving, she looked out the window once more. Now, the moon's face seemed to mock her, laughing at her foolish hopes. The moon knew that she could never have a life outside this house; that she was doomed to stay here until she rotted away to nothing but a pile of bones, still lying on the same bed. Molly realized she couldn't go to Hogwarts -- it was impossible ... unthinkable ... out of the question!

Unless. Hardly daring to hope, Molly opened the letter again. To get to Hogwarts, all she had to do was turn up at King's Cross, Platform 9 3/4 on September 1. Soon, she could leave this godforsaken house and all who lived in it forever. Nothing was going to stop her from getting to Hogwarts. Molly threw back her head and laughed at the moon.

***

"Where to?" asked Ernie, smiling, as the four stepped onto the bus.

"Llanberris," answered Hermione darkly.

"Well, why so glum? It's lovely this time o' year. That'll be thirteen sickles apiece," he said, and they handed it to him and made their way to the back of the bustling bus. It was quite difficult to find a quiet, unoccupied space. As Harry quickly pointed out to the others, they were probably behind nearly ten or twenty other parties. It could be a couple of hours before they would arrive, even with magic.

As they sat down, Ron pulled the diary from his knapsack. "You know, even though we know where my Mum is, and all, I think we should finish reading. To pass the time, at least," he quickly added.

The others agreed, mostly from bald-faced curiosity at what the next pages would bring. The three bent over the book, Ron quietly whispering the words to the other three, so as not to bother the other passengers. Ginny stared wistfully out of the window at her mother's words. Hermione smiled softly at her.

"We'll see her soon, Ginny," she whispered encouragingly.

As Ginny appreciatively smiled back, Ron raised his voice a bit and looked up from the diary, excited.

"Listen to this! It might be important." He read on, and the others perked up, listening.

"'January 5,'" he read slowly. "'I can't believe it's Dad's birthday today. I had thought the date would be insignificant -- that I wouldn't care. I thought I was over them. But I guess you can't truly ever get over your parents, even if they are criminals. They're the ones who made me -- who fed me and clothed me. They were my role-models.

"'But when you put people up on pedestals, they fall. I guess I always thought my parents were perfect. Unable to do any wrong. In a way, I still do. It's hard to believe my good, sane, parents could be capable of doing what they've done. The same parents who took me to the park ... read me books at night ... it's almost unthinkable.

"'I don't know why my crimes still haunt me. I wonder if my parents even remember. Remember that they burned up the family business, and with it my hopes. No ... maybe Johnston really did burn it down. Maybe I imagined my own flesh and blood ordering me to pour the gasoline over the cornerstones of the Douglass Tea building. Maybe I imagined them telling me to lie in court, in front of all those eyes.

"'Maybe we were convicted wrongly, and so our breakout was justified. Maybe they're not to be held for their crimes. Maybe only I am. Otherwise, I don't see how it could possibly have happened.

"'I don't understand a lot of things. Like their motives for the crimes they may -- or may not have -- done. There's only one thing I truly understand. I wish that I was still living in London, and that it had never happened.'"

At the last words, Ron's voice cracked painfully. The four stared at each other, expressions ranging from disbelief, to sadness, to puzzlement, to, in Ron's case, a mixture of them all.

"Well, now we know why Mum never talked about her family," said Ginny, trying to be cheerful, but she faltered at the others' faces.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Hermione, breaking the stifling silence. "She's obviously trying to take responsibility for what her parents did. All the things she named -- lying in court, burning down the building -- I would bet money that her parents really did tell her to do those things. She was just trying to convince herself it never happened. I'd guess your mum was in denial. She was only eleven, Ron. It would be a lot to handle." Hermione sounded sure of her words.

"Those lying, horrible people," said Ron bitterly. "I wonder what happened to them?" As the four considered this question, they didn't realize that in a couple of hours, they'd have the answer.

***


"Here we are, Arthur. Llanberris," said the investigator of the Douglass case, Charles Eddings, as they apparated one by one. Arthur looked around the small Muggle tourist town, flanked by hills carpeted by soft grass.

"You really think Molly is here?" asked Arthur, incredulous. The town was the last place he would have expected his wife to have fled to.

"Well, yes and no. Yes, she's in Llanberris, but not in the Muggle area. We've got to hike a bit; we aren't exactly sure if she's here, after all," Eddings explained. He headed up the road, flanked by the other Ministry men, towards the mountain. It greatly overshadowed every other hill in the area. It jutted out from the ground, as if so eager to escape the earth that it little cared for its shape. Looking up at its craggy peaks, Arthur thought he could see a faint, winding path cutting across the mountain.

"We aren't taking that path, are we?" he asked weakly, hoping desperately he was wrong. The steep mountain looked to be harsh for Arthur, who was a bit portly and definitely no rock-climber. He shaded his eyes from the sun, seeing uneasily how unassailable the mountain looked against the cobalt blue sky.

"We sure are!" Mr. Eddings yelled back cheerfully. He, for one, was looking forward to finding out if he had dedicated years of his life tracking the Douglass's for a reason. "We've only to go up a bit, I hope. If we can't make it that far, what are the chances she could?"

Arthur couldn't argue with that logic, so he began to trudge up the path. It was for Molly, he reminded himself, and resigned himself to climbing the mountain. It wasn't as if they had that far to go; it couldn't have been more than a ten miles. But the terrain was rough, and more than once Arthur tripped over a rock, nearly falling flat on his face. A family of gnats buzzed around his face, and no amount of swatting would silence their constant noise. Arthur wiped his brow for the fifth time in the last few minutes and looked behind him. He was surprised to see that the group had come quite a way. The mountain, too, looked slightly closer than the last time he had glanced up, but it was hard for him to take comfort in that, as it still loomed before him.

But soon the group, headed by the overeager Mr. Eddings, stopped. Just off the beaten path, Arthur thought he could see a small hut. Could it possibly be what they were looking for?

As if to answer his unspoken question, Mr. Eddings spoke to the group. "Men, I think we've found it," he said, hardly able to contain his excitement. "Now, I want you to surround the house, just in case. Wands out."

Arthur's voice rose sharply. "Wands out?" he asked. "My wife could be in there!"

"Just calm down, Mr. Weasley. We won't hurt her," said Mr. Eddings. After the group finished fanning out around the house, the man walked quickly to the door and gave a few short knocks with his fist. No response came. His face falling, he knocked again, this time harder.

The entire group quieted, as if straining their ears for a response. It seemed to Arthur that even the countryside had stilled to a hush. The gnats that had buzzed so loudly just a few moments ago seemed to have lost their voices. Even the air, so clear, felt stifling, and Arthur had a hard time breathing as he waited. The seconds felt like hours, and still Eddings pounded on the wooden door. If he wasn't careful, thought Arthur, he'd knock it down.

Suddenly, the knocking ceased. With a creak that was magnified by the silence, the door slid slowly open. Standing at the door was a woman, so changed over the past few days that she scarcely knew herself.

"Molly?" whispered Arthur, walking slowly towards her. But his attention was diverted when another person stepped out of the open door. He was old and hunched, yes, but his eyes shone madly with a light that reminded Arthur of teenage hooligans. The anger, the disregard for consequences... "Molly, look out!" he shouted, as the old man suddenly grabbed her from behind.

The man pulled out his wand and pointed it at Molly's throat. "Now, don't anybody move," he instructed, grinning insanely. Molly struggled to escape his grip, but he was surprisingly strong. "You're not going anywhere, my little baby. Daddy's got to protect you ... and himself..."

"Let me go!" she yelled, pulling with all her might. "Help! He's crazy!"

Mr. Douglass nodded to himself. "Crazy? Probably," he said, "but you come one step closer, I'll show you what a crazy man can do. Put your wands on the ground." His eyes shone fiercely, and none of the trained wizards doubted he would do it. They laid down their wands and backed away, trying not to attract attention. Only Arthur still stood where he had halted. He felt so powerless; at this very moment, a man was threatening Molly's life, and he could do nothing. Nothing.

"Good," said Mr. Douglass, stretching out the word. He quickly grabbed the rest of the wands from the ground, while still trying to maintain his grip on Molly. She struggled wildly, kicking and biting, and managed to break loose for a few seconds. She tried to run, but she'd just spent most of her energy trying to escape. Mr. Douglass easily caught her again and held her even tighter now.

"You're not going anywhere."

***

A/N: Ah, the climax! The last part *sniff, sniff* will answer a lot of questions that I'm sure you have after this chapter! Sorry for the cliffhanger... *laughs* okay, I'm not sorry. *grins* A big thank-you to athena_arena for beta-reading again... love ya! Thanks so much to all the dedicated readers who've given me feedback on the previous chapters... I really appreciate it! You guys inspire me! Please include any theories, wild suspicions, or death-threats in the review. PLEASE do review, though!