10

Crossed Boundaries

"If I had the chance, love

I would not hesitate

To tell you all the things I never said before

Don't tell me it's too late."

--Sarah McLachlan

With a sickening lurch of my stomach, my feet hit the ground with enough force to make my knees feel as though they've shattered. I hear Hermione come out of the flames, and I clutch my midsection, willing the feeling of imminent sickness to depart. After a moment, it does, and my eyes snap back into focus. I stand on shaky legs, but at least I'm steady. I cough out some of the ash trapped in my lungs from my journey through the Floo Network. Next to me, Hermione is looking dirtier than before, but much more composed than I feel. Then again, traveling by Floo Powder has always been one of my least favorite things to do—I'm completely intolerant of the spinning. I suppose that Hermione doesn't have the same reaction I do.

Hermione looks around herself. Her face is ashen and the black soot smeared across her cheeks is very noticeable. Our surroundings are bleak and plain, but I'm happy to see the place. Any shelter that's warm, protected, and not full of Death Eaters is a good place to be, as far as I'm concerned. Aside from the burning fire we just stepped out of, there is nothing contained in the one large room in which we stand. We're in the hideout Sirius spoke of earlier, a small building in a remote corner of Diagon Alley that has so far managed to avoid being destroyed by the Death Eaters as much of the rest of the Alley has been. It was at one point a shop of some sort, but our resistence managed to claim it and it's now protected by invisibility and Unplottable charms. Was it really just over two hours ago when I spoke to Sirius last? How could it be any less than two days?

Hermione takes a couple of steps forward before her knees collapse beneath her and she falls to a sitting position before I can catch her. I hurry to her side, kneeling down. "Are you okay?" I ask, concerned. Her face has gone from ashen to ghostly and she is shaking lightly. I look her up and down quickly, scanning for any injuries she might have that I've missed. "Hermione?"

She shakes her head. "Everything's just hitting me, that's all," she whispers. "Adrenaline was keeping me going, but now it's depleted and I'm back to feeling as weak as I did before I smashed the Sphere—weaker, even."

"Where are you hurt?" I demand, pulling out my wand. I can't see her all too well, due to the fact that my broken glasses are still dangling from my left hand. She shakes her head.

"No, Harry," she says adamantly, attempting to get to her feet. I push her back down. She lets out an aggravated sigh, but doesn't try to stand again. "Don't bother trying to heal me. You're weakened, too. Like Sirius said, healing takes a lot out of people. Don't bother. My nose is hurting, that's all. Other than that, there's nothing you could do anyway. You can't charm away the effects of the Cruciatus curse. You just have to wait for them to subside. I'll be shaky for a while, it's nothing new."

I clench my teeth at this statement, but say nothing. I sense that neither of us particularly wants to discuss everything that's just transpired. I remember how terrible it was, hiding in a corner of Lucius's office under the Invisibility Cloak and being forced to watch him torture her, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop him. I'd been taking a risk, touching the glass around the Sphere. I'd known it when I did it—it could have ruined everything. It was pure luck that it seemed to work in our favor. I simply couldn't watch him hurt her anymore without doing something.

Despite my desire to do something to help her, she's right in saying that there really is very little I can do. She doesn't seem to have the strength to rise or move, so I place my arm around her shoulders. She tenses for a moment and I consider backing away, but after a few seconds of uncertainty, she eases back into me, seeming grateful for something to lean on.

With my other arm, I place my glasses on the floor and pick up my wand. "Oculus reparo!" I mutter, recalling the familiar spell. With a soft tinkling noise, I watch the spider-web patterns on the glass lenses disappear, and a soft click marks the moment when the cracked and dangling left arm snaps back into place. I replace them on the bridge of my nose.

"I remember when I first taught you that one," Hermione murmurs, a small smile coming across her face. "On the train in first year, when I was looking for Neville's toad."

"Yeah," I say with a bit of laugh. "And Ron was trying to turn Scabbers yellow, which didn't quite work. But then, what could he expect from a spell he'd gotten from George?"

Hermione's smile vanishes at the mention of Ron and George and she turns her head away. I berate myself mentally for having brought up that touchy subject. Can't keep your mouth shut, can you, Potter? I growl to myself.

"Hermione . . ." I begin tentatively. We have a lot to discuss, and while sitting here on a cold floor after such a terrifying encounter and with such a poor lead-in to the discussion is not exactly ideal, I figure that it's as good a time as any. Now that I know for certain she's truly on my side, there's much to be decided. I open my mouth, but soon find myself to be doing an accurate imitation of a fish. I finally mumble, for no reason other than to cover the awkward silence left in the wake of my saying her name, "We've got a lot to talk about, haven't we?" I mentally congratulate myself on being a master of stating the obvious.

She nods, her eyes still downcast. Her shivers have stopped almost entirely now, but her breathing is still slightly erratic and she is pale. I recognize from experience that these are all aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse, which are amplified by repetitive use.

I glance towards the magically locked and secured entrance. "Would you like to sit outside and talk? We can't risk being seen in the front, Knockturn Alley is still running, so we'll have to sit in the alley out back. Not much of a view, but it's better than here."

Hermione frowns. "Are you sure it's safe?" she inquires with a touch of worry. She sounds so much like her old self in that moment that I can't help but grin.

"Well, no," I admit. "It's a bit of a security risk, and Dumbledore and Sirius wouldn't much like it. But come on, after all we've done today, I think the risk of sitting in an alley is rather insignificant, don't you?"

"Well, I'd hate to say that I survived all I did only to be caught and killed for sitting in an alley," Hermione returns, and while her face is serious, I can hear the slight trace of humor in her voice.

"That would be rather embarrassing, wouldn't it?" I agree. "If it makes you feel better, I'll cast an invisibility spell around the alley first. It's not fool-proof, but it should be enough, so long as we keep our voices low."

After a moment's hesitation, Hermione nods. "Yes, all right. I feel faint from the heat in here."

I frown at this. It's not what I would call warm in the room, despite the burning fire—it's really quite chilly. I open my mouth to ask if she's okay, but decide against it. I don't want to irritate her again, as I did earlier when I continually asked if she wanted to go through with the plan. As she's already pointed out, I can't do anything for her, and I can't help a fever—if that is indeed what she has. Perhaps it's another sideaffect of the Cruciatus Curse. I wouldn't know—I've never been put under it for so long.

"Okay, then," I say. "But speaking of Sirius, I really should let him know we made it out all right. He's probably worrying himself sick."

I pull away from her and stand up. She doesn't move from her position on the floor, staring up at me. I point my wand at the ceiling and mumble, "Adlegatio Impetrabilis!" A blue jet of light streaks toward the ceiling and disappears. I tuck my wand away and offer her a hand to help her to her feet.

She does not take it. "What did you just do? I don't recognize that spell," she asks thoughtfully, her natural thirst for knowledge showing through.

"It's a special system Sirius and I set up earlier," I explain briefly. "They'll receive the jet of light, and they'll know that the mission was successful. They should be sending someone over here in a little while."

"You didn't tell me about the system because you didn't trust me," she states simply. She doesn't look hurt about this, but her eyes dare me to lie to her.

I nod, knowing she would catch me in any lie I could attempt to fabricate. "It was a precaution," I begin to explain hurriedly, hoping not to offend her. She holds up a hand, stopping me before I ramble further.

"Don't explain," she says, pushing herself to her feet. She sways a little and I reach out an arm to steady her. Once she appears to be standing on her own, she continues. "You were just being logical. If you hadn't taken such precautions, you'd have been a fool. You had no way of knowing for sure that I wasn't betraying you. And you had good reason to be suspicious."

I shift my feet uncomfortably for a moment before clearing my throat and muttering, "Uh, we were going to discuss this outside, right?"

"Right," she agrees quickly. I can sense from her tone that I'm not the only one eager to avoid the pending discussion.

I lead her to the small metal door in the back corner of the shop that opens to the alley beyond. I open the door and cautiously peek out, even though I feel there isn't much point in it. It's doubtful that anyone is lurking beyond. As I'd anticipated, the alley is vacant, and I beckon Hermione forward with my hand.

The difference in temperature hits me as hard as a concrete wall. Certainly, the room we were just in was not warm, but compared to this bitter, biting, relentlessly sweeping chill, it was sweltering. I shiver involuntarily and wrap my cloak tighter about myself. Hermione seems relieved at the cold, so I don't mention my own discomfort.

The alley we stand in is tight, small, and bleak. A rickety, collapsing wooden fence runs parallel to the back of our building, and keeps going along behind the buildings on either side. Light is scarce—only a bit of gray luminence filters down into this small crevice, and our main source of illumination is the light leaking in from either side of the building, where on both sides there is a small space before the next run-down and vacated shop can be seen. The cobblestone street beneath our feet is covered in just over an inch of pure white snow that glistens enticingly, untouched and undisturbed, not blemished by a single footprint or water droplet.

There is a set of three cracking and iced-over stone steps leading down from the door to the cobblestones. Using my hand, I quickly brush the snow off of the middle step and Hermione sits down. My hand stings from the contact with the icy snow, and I clench it into a fist in an effort to warm it with whatever body heat I may still possess. I hesitate a moment before stepping off the last step and onto the cobblestones. It seems almost criminal to destroy the perfection of the icy blanket that covers the ground. It's like when you're a child, and seeing that smooth layer of snow makes you crave nothing more than to jump in it, but after you do, and you look back at the damage you caused, you feel sorry for the beauty you stole from it. You long to see it whole again.

I walk to the center of the small alley and begin to put up some amateur invisibility charms. The charms are weak and will not sustain themselves for longer than half an hour, but I don't suppose we'll be out here any longer than that. Once I'm secure in the belief that each side of the alley has been shielded from the eyes of any potential onlookers, I return to the steps and sit down beside Hermione on the step. Though the snow has been cleared, a layer of ice still lies beneath and I sigh inwardly. My hands are already numb, and it doesn't seem as though the rest of my body will be fair any better.

Neither of us rushes to speak. We sit comfortably, but nervously, next to one another for over a minute, watching our warm breath frost and turn to mist in the air before diffusing and fading into nothingness.

Somehow, I feel as though I'm the one who needs to begin the conversation. My problem lies in the fact that I have no clue as to how I should start it, or even what I need to say. There are the simple and necessary apologies, and the discussion of what the future now holds, but how to lead in to that? For so long, I've harbored so many questions in my mind, and I've looked forward to a day when I may get to have this talk with Hermione. But now that the time has come, now that I'm certain of her loyalty, it's as though all my thoughts have run away, leaving my mind empty and tumultuous.

It seems I've been lost in my thoughts too long. Hermione lets loose a deep sigh and begins speaking. "Harry, before you start apologizing yet again, I must request that you don't."

Startled by these words, I stare for a moment before stuttering with no real direction or train of thought, "I . . ."

She shakes her head. "No, Harry. You've apologized enough, and though I've already said this, I will say it again in the hopes that after all we've been through today, you'll finally hear me. You have no reason to apologize to me. I don't blame you. Why would I?"

Thankfully, my brain—which seems to have frozen in a manner similar to my hands—chooses this instant to begin working again. "I don't know, maybe because of how awful I was to you when we talked that first night, because of all the cruel things I said? Because I never trusted you, my best friend of five years, enough to realize that you'd never betray us? I mean, I know I really couldn't have thought any differently, I just feel like kind of a heel."

"You can't blame yourself for those things," Hermione replies adamantly.

"Yeah, I know. I just feel the need to blame someone, I guess."

"Blame Voldemort," she says, and the sureness has returned to her voice. "Harry . . . both of us are victims in this. It's not your fault that you didn't trust me. Did you immediately assume, as soon as you saw me at Voldemort's side that day, that I had turned?"

I shake my head vigorously. "No, of course not! I thought he'd captured you, or something. Once it became apparent that you weren't his prisoner, I spent a lot of time convinced you were under the Imperius curse, or it was someone impersonating you with Polyjuice Potion. It took a long time and a lot of everyone else telling me so to finally make me believe that you were really a Death Eater."

Hermione nods understandingly. "If you spend enough time around people that believe something adamantly, then eventually you'll begin to believe it yourself. You lived with a group of people who thought I was a traitor, and after spending enough time listening to them and seeing everything that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were doing, you just gave up fighting it. It's easier to believe what everyone else does than it is to maintain your individual opinion when everyone around you is telling you differently. Besides that, for the past two years, I have been trying to make you all believe that I betrayed you. That you believed it . . . well, that just proves that I did a good job.

"As for what you said to me that night . . . I won't lie to you. What you said really hurt. It was hard to live each day and know that you hated me, but confronting you and hearing you say those things made it all the more horrible. What you said about my parents . . ."

I feel my stomach lurch as I remember delivering that particular blow, remember how in some sick way, I had reveled in her pain. Never before have I wanted to sink into the ground more than I want to right now. "Hermione, I'm so sorry, I—"

Once again I'm cut off. "No apologies, remember? We've both said our 'sorrys', and now we need to get past that and talk without constantly feeling guilty," she says factually. "Agreed?"

"Yeah," I say, still feeling horrible. I realize now just how low a blow that had been. I of all people know what it feels like not to have your parents, but at least I never had to live with the knowledge that they'd been tortured to death. How could I throw that in someone's face with such ease, even if I had assumed that person was my enemy? Before, I'd never have sunk to such a level. I'd not even have said that to Malfoy. When did I turn so cold?

Hermione nods, staring down at her feet. The snow is beginning to fall again, and I watch numbly as the ivory flakes slowly begin to pepper her hair white.

"As I was saying," she continues, "what you told me of my parents . . . that's not something I'll ever forget. I . . . I can't believe that I was trying to help people, to help you, and I ended up getting my parents killed like . . . like that . . ."

She is losing her composure. Rather hesitantly, I put my arm around her and pull her closer to me. She's silent for a short period, but then continues as though no time has lapsed. "But I said we weren't going to do the guilt thing, didn't I? So the point I'm trying to make is that what you said hurt. But I don't blame you for that either. As far as you knew, you were facing an enemy. You were facing the person who had destroyed your life, betrayed your trust, and gotten people you cared for killed. Naturally you were full of anger. You wanted to hurt me the way I hurt you. You had no way of knowing the truth—I certainly wasn't doing much to make you believe the best in me. You had two years' worth of anger bottled up inside and you let it loose. If our roles were reversed, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. What matters is that after you were thinking more clearly, you helped me, and you gave me a second chance. And now here we are, somewhere we never could have been if it weren't for you, and the risks you took for me, even when you were still unsure of where my loyalties lay. What was done or said in the past is irrelevant. We can't go back and redo what's done, or re-make the decisions we've already made. We can't change what's already happened. But we can change what's going to happen. But first we have to let go of all this guilt between us. We have to let go of all of these awful memories. Okay?"

Her words hit home. While I still feel bad about what I said, I know she's right. Now is certainly not the time to let such feelings control me. This is something that can be sorted through later. I've learned well how to compartmentalize, and I allow myself to tuck my guilt away. I give her a small smile, a silent promise to do as she's asked. She returns my grin, albeit somewhat weakly. Regardless, it's nice to see her face set in something other than an expression of pain and sadness.

"So—ignoring the past—where do we go from here?" I question.

"We can't do anything by ourselves," she sighs, fixing her eyes on a lopsided fence board, her brow furrowed in thought. "We'll need help from your people."

I nod. "Yeah. Well, I know that you are what you seem to be, and that will be enough for Sirius. If it's enough for him, then it'll be good for Dumbledore, and most everyone will believe Dumbledore. Hagrid can be convinced. With time, Katie, Angelina, and Neville will believe you. But as for Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny—particularly Ron—I don't think it's going to be that easy."

Hermione sighs. "I know why they hate me, of course. They'd be crazy if they didn't. But it still hurts."

I can't think of any way to reply to this without violating one of Hermione's regulations on this conversation, so I settle for saying nothing.

"Do you think they'll take you back?" she asks before the silence stretches for too long.

"Probably," I say after a moment's contemplation. "Even if Ron doesn't want to, Dumbledore can supercede him. And I don't think it's me that anyone's going to have a problem with."

"I can stay in the cave, if I'm too much of a bother," she offers immediately.

"If you stay there, so do I," I state simply. "I'm not leaving your side until this thing is played out. If they cast you out, they cast me out. End of story."

"You don't have to do that," Hermione argues. After a moment, the corner of her mouth twitches. "But you will anyway, won't you? I suppose there's nothing I can do but thank you."

I give her shoulders a squeeze to show I have acknowledged her words, but I don't reply further. "Now the problem is plotting our next course of action. Things aren't going to be easy for us anymore. We just infiltrated one of their main headquarters, beat up a head Death Eater, and destroyed the Sphere. They're going to come looking for us with everything they've got. We don't have a lot of technology or options on our side. If they make it top priority to find us, we've only got a limited amount of time until they do."

"We'll just have to do the best we can to elude them," she says, but her face is knotted with concern. "Hopefully if we avoid them for long enough, they'll give up." She shakes her head and puts her forehead in her palm. "That's the single worst plan ever invented, isn't it?"

I inhale sharply, causing her to look up at me. From some depths of myself that I didn't even know existed anymore, I feel defiance emerging. "No. We've been running for two years. It's time to stop. We can't keep avoiding them forever. It's time to confront them—now's as good a time as any. I don't know how or when, but enough is enough. No more running away."

I don't know where this sudden burst of confidence and decisiveness comes from, but I now feel secure in each word I speak. My words are heavy with grim resolve. While the idea of confronting Voldemort makes my throat constrict, I don't take back what I've said. Despite the fear that my words inspire, I know that I'm right.

"All we've been doing is showing them that they're beating us—slowly, but surely," I continue. "We have to show them that we're just as fierce as they are."

"But like you said, you've have been on the run," Hermione objects. "You can't have a lot of resources on hand. And Voldemort has control of the Wizarding populace, and an entire army—one that fights dirty. This is suicide, Harry."

"Maybe it is," I agree bluntly, and her eyes widen at my brutal honesty. "But we've got Albus Dumbledore and myself on our side. The only wizard Voldemort ever feared, and the only one who's ever defeated him. Plus four Weasleys that are out for a vengeance, and an incredibly smart witch with inside information that we can use against them. That's something. We could stand a real chance, especiallly if we fight the battle on our own terms. And if things don't go our way …" I gulp, but press on. "If we fail, then at least we'll die like Gryffindors. Because if we keep running, it's only a matter of time until we meet the same fate."

Hermione's face is lit by the first true smile I've seen since we were fifteen. She looks at me with something like admiration. "You're right. The very idea terrifies me, of course, but you're right. We can't run away forever, and if we try, we won't get far. And so far, all of your ideas have turned out for the best. I'll follow you, Harry. I'll do the best I can to help you. I can't promise much, but I can promise that."

Normally, a statement like this would have made me blush furiously, but somehow time is now standing still. Our eyes are still locked, and my brain seems to have frozen again. With no thought in the matter, with my body acting of its own accord, I lean slowly forward. Deep down, I understand what I'm doing, but I can't see what's making me do it. My mind is blank.

I feel my lips meet hers, and for a moment she seems to pull away, but before I can retract myself, she leans back toward me and our lips touch once more.

You would think that in a situation such as this, I would be focusing on nothing but Hermione, and that the background would, in a sense, fade away. In some odd way, though, it's as though all my senses are tuned, and I'm completely aware of every detail that surrounds me—the snow flakes that drift slowly down to join their fallen comrades on the cobblestones, the exact pattern and direction of the whispering wind, and the icicles dangling precariously along the roofline over our heads. Mostly, I'm aware of every movement Hermione makes, every expression on her face, every breath she draws. But oddly enough, in that moment the only thing I'm not aware of feeling—of knowing—is myself.

The kiss is short and soft, and we break apart after a moment or two. Our eyes are still locked, our faces little more than an inch apart, our breath warm on each other's faces. Hermione wears an expression of surprise and confusion, and I know my own face must mirror this. Before I have time to process exactly what we just did, a voice speaks up from behind me, startling me and making me leap to my feet with my wand readied.

"Hello, Harry."

I find myself staring at a figure in a black cloak, who stands stark against the white of the snow. Before I can even demand to know who he is, he reaches up and pulls down his hood. A familiar shock of red hair is revealed and Ron is staring at the two of us with an expression of barely concealed hatred, resentment, and sadness.

He looks from me to Hermione, then back again. "Well, Sirius said I'd most likely find the two of you here together," he says quietly. His eyes flick back to Hermione, and this time his voice is as cold as the air around us. "I guess I didn't realize just how together you'd be."