12

Spirit's End

"So many ways spent hiding

In so many undone plans

Forgetting what it's like to fight

When no one understands."

--Sarah McLachlan

Night falls rapidly.

As the curtain of darkness descends, it brings along a sweeping and pervasive chill. Slowly, as the hours pass, a storm brews. Now, as we sit warming ourselves as best we can by the fire, a screaming vortex of falling ivory flakes spins outside the window. We can no longer see the storm—but we can most certainly hear it. The high pitched shrieking of the wind does an accurate impression of an irate banshee. The temperature has dropped to what must be near or below zero, and even the fire is not enough to keep us adequately warm. We have scooted closer together in the chairs Ron left, trying to share our body heat. Still, there is a definitive gap between us, both mentally and physically. Neither of us dares to get too close to the other. I know I'm still confused over the events of earlier, and I suppose Harry is as well.

A silence has fallen along with the darkness. The only sound comes from the wind's howling and the fire's crackling. It would be a picturesque winter scene, if it weren't for all the worry and tension that hold us bound. Not a word has been spoken between us in the past two hours—not out of anger or irritation, but purely out of a desire to think the thoughts the plague us. Harry's eyes, as far as I know, have not moved from the waves of the flames in over an hour.

The last time we spoke—meaning that we held an actual conversation, not exchanged simple two- or three-letter words—was immediately after Harry came to call me in after Ron had departed. I had stepped into the building hesitantly, glancing around myself, uncertain if I wanted to come inside if Ron was still there.

"He's gone," Harry had stated quietly, seeing my reaction. He nodded behind him, back toward the leaping and playful flames. "Come on, hurry up, it's cold out there."

When I stepped in, I noticed the two chairs that had appeared since the last time I was there. I followed Harry's lead as he walked toward one and sat down. He looked to me expectantly, and I took the seat across from him.

I could see in his carefully guarded eyes that he wanted me to ask the question he knew I would—I could see that he wouldn't bring it up unless I did, and that didn't leave me feeling positive about how it had gone, not that I'd had a good feeling to begin with. I had felt slightly heartened when, listening closely at the door from outside, I'd heard no shouting. There had only been the dull murmur of inaudible voices. But I know from past experience with Lucius and Voldemort that some of the most threatening and terrible conversations take place in low voices rather than screams.

Finally, with a deep breath and a mixed desire about whether I wanted to know or not, I asked, "So?"

Harry skirted around it a bit. "Well . . . we talked," he muttered, stating the obvious with the art of a master.

"And?" I prompted.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, Harry said, "Ron doesn't hate you, Hermione. And he doesn't blame you anymore . . . not really. He's just confused. He wants some time to think before he sees you and talks to you. Besides that, you know how his pride is. He didn't say it out loud, but I don't think he wanted to come up to you and admit he'd been wrong—his ego needs a little time to settle on it first."

An abrupt anger overcame me then, and I found myself losing my temper with Harry. "Look, don't think you have to sugar-coat it for me. I've been through a lot in the past two years, and if you think what he says now is going to break me, you clearly know me even less than I thought you did. I'm not letting Ronald Weasley—who is notorious for being one of the most stubborn people alive—get to me. It'll disappoint me, yes, because I'd like to have him for a friend again. But if that's one thing of many that I can't regain, then that's all right. Just don't lie to me!"

Harry sighed. "I knew you'd react this way, I told him you would. But I'm not lying."

I snorted dryly. "Oh, yes. That's why he's been so angry every time I've seen him—that's why he kicked you out. Because he doesn't blame me. The next thing you're going to tell me is that Voldemort is forfeiting to Dumbledore and Lucius and Draco will volunteer to be servants for the Gryffindors."

"I told you I wasn't lying!" Harry snapped. He immediately sank back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day and we're both tense and tired. It's probably best if we don't discuss anything right now, or else we might end up saying things we don't mean. We need each other right now. We'll have enough in-fighting once you come back to the group with me later. We don't need anymore."

I had nodded, and that had been the end of our conversation.

Much of the following hours I spent contemplating Ron and Harry and what had really happened between the two of them. Try as I might, I just cannot believe that Ron actually said what Harry claims he did. Ron hasn't been with me as Harry has, he hasn't any reason to feel that I've changed. So am I supposed to believe that after everything he's done to show he blames me, suddenly Harry's word is enough for him? I don't buy it.

I wonder what Harry is thinking about as I sit trying to focus on the happier events of the day. His face is drawn and tight, a grim expression in his eyes, and I know whatever he is thinking is not pleasant. I do my best to keep myself thinking about how the Sphere is broken and how I might have a chance, but just as quickly as that joy filled me, it has left. For I know that our saga hasn't ended yet. I'm safe—temporarily. Things are getting better. But things could easily take a turn for the worse. Voldemort is out there, looking for Harry and his group with even more vigor than before, I'm sure. Sooner or later that situation is going to boil over into a violent confrontation, and the odds of us emerging victorious—or even alive and running—are somewhere in the negative region.

I must have dozed off sometime, because the sound of a knock at the door jars me awake suddenly. My head snaps up from where it had been resting on Harry's shoulder, and I feel the beginnings of a crick in my neck. Harry is already at his feet, wand held tightly in his hand, staring at the door with a look of apprehension.

"We have a special knock," Harry whispers to me, his eyes never leaving the front door. "That wasn't it."

I feel Harry's tension for a fraction of a second before the knock comes again, and this time I can hear a distinct rhythm to it. Harry notices as well and lets out a sigh, a sign that all is well. Still, I can see the irritation in his face. He walks toward the door and throws it open, wand still held close in case of a trick.

Sirius steps into the room, a flurry of snow and a wave of cold air on his heels. Harry forces the door closed and locks it again.

"Did you forget the knock or something?" Harry demands testily. "You damn near scared us into running!"

"Sorry," Sirius growls, but he doen't sound contrite as he pulls down the hood of his cloak to reveal a very irritated expression. "Our has a different signal. Ron gave me yours and I got distracted when the wind nearly blew my bag away."

"Yes, well, I suppose it's always good to get the adrenaline pumping," Harry muttered, a bit less angrily.

"Well isn't this one hell of a welcome. Harry, I have spent the past hour walking through this storm because Dumbledore thought it was too dangerous to Apparate right into Diagon Alley. You have spent the past hour nice and warm with a fire right in front of you. Please, don't make me lose my patience."

"Yeah, well you aren't the one who snuck around Puerclades earlier and risked death. You aren't the one who was tortured. You aren't the one who nearly didn't make it out alive. No, you're the one who walked through the snow. You're right, Sirius, our troubles pale in comparison to yours."

"Harry—" Sirius says, looking surprised by his godson's irritation. I am surprised myself. I had no idea Harry had grown so testy in the hours of our silence.

"I'm sorry," says Harry a bit more calmly. "I'm just really tense right now."

Sirius nods slowly. "It's all right. Some food ought to help you calm down."

"You have food?" Harry asks with interest. I realize for the first time just how hungry I've grown.

"Not with me, no, but they've got some ready back at the hideout," says Sirius. He sets down the small bag he carries and opens it, pulling out two black jackets. He tosses the first to Harry, who eagerly puts it on. The fire is almost dead now, extinguished by the air blown in by Sirius's arrival. The light is so dim it's difficult to see. Sirius tosses the second cloak to me. I catch it and begin to shrug into it when I feel his eyes on me. I look up.

"The plan went accordingly?" he asks me quietly.

"Yes," I reply.

He gives me a slight smile. "Good."

I remember how he'd asked me not to hurt Harry again, and I sense that he is referring more to this than to the actual plan of destroying the Sphere. While I can't say I've fulfilled the promise of which he speaks, I'm on my way. A feeling of warmth washes over me for an instant. It feels good not to let someone down—it's a feeling I haven't known for far too long.

Sirius looks down and grabs something else out of the bag and throws it to me. Distracted, my arms caught up in the jacket, I miss it and it rolls to a stop at my feet. I look down and see a dark, ebony wood wand lying at my feet.

"It's an old one," he says. "Dumbledore provided it."

I bend down and pick it up once I've managed to get my arms where they belong in the jacket. I roll it over in my hands, looking at its dark wood and feeling its smooth texture. It's cold as ice, and while I'm relieved to be armed, at the same time, holding it makes me vaguely uneasy. I tuck the wand away into a pocket of my jacket and the feeling away into a pocket of my mind.

I look up to see both of my companions watching me, their faces carefully blank. I feel anxious under their gaze and look down, wishing they'd find something else to focus on. I've grown used to being ignored, and it's the times when people do pay attention to me that I fear. That feeling has not yet left me.

"You ready, Hermione?" Harry asks softly. "I don't know about you, but I'd really like some of that food."

I nod, remembering once more where it is we're headed. I'm to face all of my one-time friends again. My hunger is quickly replaced by a boiling nausea, and I doubt I could eat anything and hold it down.

"Good, good," Sirius says, pulling out a small bag and walking toward the fire. He dumps powder from the bag into his palm and throws it into the fireplace. The crimson flames melt into glistening emerald and the fire is reincarnated, licking at the shadows and salivating ash. The green light it casts around the room is not so much comforting as it is eerie.

Always one to seek knowledge, I can't help but speak the question that's on my mind. "Sirius, you said Dumbledore didn't want you Apparating, but why didn't you use Floo Powder?"

Instead of Sirius, it is Harry who answers me. "We're hiding out, Hermione. Floo Powder is hard to come by. What little we get we have to steal from Dark wizards, and that's far too risky to do often. We reserve it for when there's no other option."

"Oh," I say simply, watching the leaping flames play their dancing game.

Without another word, Sirius steps forward and yells, "Harry's hideout!" Like some phony Muggle magician, he spins away into nothingness.

Harry and I are alone once more. He steps forward and looks back at me. I have not moved, nor do I want to. My eyes are still focused on the almost hypnotizing flames. I may have proved my innocence to Harry, even to Sirius and Dumbledore, but who's to say the others will have forgiven me? I don't want to face it. Not now, not ever.

I feel him take my hand and look up. His face is still blank, but he says soothingly, "It'll be fine. We'll go together. Just yell what Sirius did at the same time as me, and we'll go at the same time."

I nod slightly and allow him to pull me forward. By some miracle, I manage to force out the words at the same time as Harry, and I step into the green flames beside him, still in a state of numbness.

It's cramped in the green vortex, and in my already nauseous state, I almost vomit. I realize that Harry's arms have ended up around me, and he is holding me close. This is the last thing I notice before the Floo Network spits us out.

If I thought the landing would provide some type of relief, I was wrong. While usually one can step out of the fire with some kind of grace, I now find myself lying atop Harry on the wooden floor of his hideout. He is coughing—I have likely winded him—and my nausea has not subsided. I roll off of him, and on all fours, I wretch in the direction of the floor. Only air is produced; it's been too long since the last time I've eaten for anything to come up.

My nausea begins to retreat and now I can focus, which I can't say is exactly a blessing. Being on my hands and knees, all I can see is their feet, but the feet are all around me. This is an okay view, in my mind. It's their faces I fear.

Beside me, Harry is standing. It is utterly silent, so silent, in fact, that I wonder for a moment if perhaps everyone has ceased to breathe. A hand is held out to me and I grab it, allowing its owner to pull me to my feet. Naturally, it is Harry whose hand I grasp. The divide between the two of us and the rest of his resistence is practically palpable.

Before us, in the cramped living room of the house, sits a large crowd of people, all of whom are staring at me. Ginny, Fred, George, and Neville are piled on the small couch, so tightly pressed together that it must be slightly uncomfortable. On a chair nearby, Hagrid is sitting, his eyes boring into me unreadably. Angelina and Katie are standing, arms folded across their chests, not making direct eye contact with anyone. On a mismatched chair that he must have summoned himself, Dumbledore sits, watching me through his half-moon glasses, his gaze making me more uncomfortable than anyone else's. Sirius, Lupin, and Mad-Eye Moody stand in the corner, talking quietly. Lupin and Sirius have already seen me and so do not feel the need to stare, I suppose, though Lupin does send me a small smile. While I've never met the real Moody, from what I've heard of him, he doesn't seem the type to stare when he could be discussing, and he is living up to that image. Ron is not present.

For at least thirty seconds, it's a silent staring contest where no one dares move, each side too afraid to break the silence first. I look to Dumbledore furtively, hoping he will start whatever discussion is to come, but he is waiting patiently, probably understanding that it will do him no good to begin this. It should be started by someone more directly involved. While I understand his reasoning, I can't say I like it.

At long last, Ginny stands. Her face is blank as she walks forward. All eyes are now on her as she hesitantly steps closer to me. When she is about five feet away, she halts. Her eyes bore into mine, searching for answers to her questions. I guess she finds them, because a moment later, she shyly hugs me.

"Hermione, I never wanted to believe it," she says before pulling away.

I try to give her a small smile, but I am too unnerved by all those standing behind her, all those who've expressed neither welcome nor hostility. But what is even more unnerving is the fact that Ginny has broken the temporary stare-down. Now is the moment I've been dreading.

As Ginny steps to the side to welcome Harry quietly, Neville stands. He looks at me with painful hope in his eyes.

"Like Ginny said, I never wanted to see you like they did," he mutters. "But I had no reason not to. I believe Dumbledore, though. If he trusts you . . . so do I. Welcome back." He looks for a moment as though he wants to come forward and hug me as well, but in the end, his shyness overcomes him and he sits back down, cheeks red and burning, eyes glued to the floor.

I feel a small surge of hope. Two of them have forgiven me. But that hope comes crashing down when the Weasley twins stand and send an angry glare in my direction.

"We don't believe it," George says coolly. "Maybe you've convinced Harry—"

"—By magic possibly!" Fred adds.

"—But you've got a long way to go before we can trust you again," he finishes. "I'm not saying we never will. I guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt, a chance to prove yourself to the rest of us. But for now, we're taking Ron's side."

Fred nods in agreement. They don't sit down again, probably hoping to appear more intimidating.

My stomach is churning as I look to Angelina and Katie. They see me looking at them and exchange a glance. It is Angelina who speaks. "Hermione . . . we don't know either way. This has all happened so fast . . . just let us make our own judgement, with time."

I give them a nod. I can understand that. I'd rather have them all at that stage than have some of them on one side and some on the other. Doubt and uncertainty are what I'm used to. While I understand the hatred, I don't want it. And while I appreciate the support Harry, Ginny, and Neville have shown me, I have trouble accepting it.

Now Hagrid steps forward, his face slightly moist with tears. He looks as if he wants to hug me, but refrains, for which I am glad. He sometimes loses control of his own strength, and for the time being I like having my bones intact. But he gives me a watery smile.

"Hermione, like Neville said, if Dumbledore believes yeh, so do I. It's good to have yeh back with us," he murmurs. "Thank Merlin Harry had the courage to help yeh."

"Yes, Hermione, welcome back," says a serene, smooth voice. Dumbledore is now standing, only a few feet in front of me, smiling softly.

My throat too tight to speak, I simply nod.

"I do hope you won't mind if I cut the reception short, but we have much to discuss. We are in a dire situation, that is one thing we can all agree upon." Dumbledore, with a wave of his hand, has pushed all the furniture back so that it lines the walls, giving us more room. As the chair hits the wall beside Moody, he leaps and fires a curse at it, followed by a glare at Dumbledore. Dumbledore winks in Harry's direction, a small smile playing on his lips. He then conjures a table filled with food. Harry moves forward with the rest to grab a bite before the food is all taken—the Weasley twins are already eating with unnatural speed—but I hang back. I don't feel enough a part of them to step forward and take anything. I feel as though it would be stealing, almost.

Harry, however, notices my hesitancy. He walks back and stands before me. "Come on, Hermione. You've got to be hungry," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "Not really," I whisper.

With an almost comical amount of hesitancy, he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me forward. "It'll be okay. They're all willing to give you chance. Ron's coming around, and so will Fred and George. Trust me."

"Sure," I mutter, unconvinced.

Everyone, now holding food, has taken seats on the floor, surrounding the table in a large circle. Lupin, Sirius, and Moody have moved to join us. Moody remains the only one standing, positioned slightly back from the rest and watching us with his abnormal eye spinning in a disturbing way. Upon Harry's insistence, I sit. Dumbledore is next to Harry, and Neville is next to me. He gives me another shy smile before looking away.

A hush has fallen again, and all eyes dart between, Harry, Dumbledore, and I. The rush to grab food had given everyone something easier to focus on for a few minutes, but now the discomfort has set in once more. Dumbledore clears his throat. "While I'm sure most of you expect me to conduct this discussion, I feel it would be impolite not to allow Harry to lead it. He has much to say, I am sure, and there are many matters that need to be sorted. This is his group, his hideout, and I am merely a guest. Harry."

Harry shifts next to me, sitting up a little straighter and trying to appear the strong-willed leader Dumbledore clearly expects him to be. "Er, right. Well . . . I guess we need to sort out the positions Hermione and I will hold. Who's the leader in Ron's place?"

"You're the leader again," Fred states, looking a little ashamed. "Sorry we kicked you out before, mate. We weren't really thinking all too clearly . . . but Ron agreed to let you take over again."

"I don't really think he thought much of himself as a leader," George adds.

Harry gives a small nod. "All right. Then we need to talk about Hermione. First of all, whether you believe her or not, I expect you to treat her with respect. I'm not saying you have to trust her—take all the time you like to get to that stage. But I don't want people playing tricks on her—" a look is cast in Fred and George's direction—"or being cruel—verbally, or otherwise. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

"Ron will," Fred says quietly, his eyes trained to the floor.

"I've spoken with Ron. He'll deal with it," Harry says bluntly. "Does anyone else have a problem?"

Many surprised looks are exchanged, people clearly startled by Harry's irritable tone, and no one dares speak up.

Harry nods. "Good. I'm sure you can tell I'm not too happy right now. It's not that I'm angry with you; if this had all happened differently, if someone else had done what I did with Hermione and I were in Ron's position, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same things. I can't say I wouldn't have believed the same things. I won't hold that against you. But I'm quite worried, because what we did earlier had an unforeseen side effect: Voldemort's pissed off. We knocked out his head Death Eater, made that man look like a fool, destroyed the Sphere, and took off. Yeah, I'd say we've made him mad. But Voldemort doesn't slam doors and throw things. When he's mad, he wants revenge."

"I don't know if you're so right there," George said, his voice humorous as though trying to break the grim veil surrounding us. "I'd say he probably takes some pleasure in breaking people's skulls."

"Stop making jokes, this is serious," Harry snaps, and George falls silent. "Look, he's going to come after us. And if he really wants to, he'll find us. This run-fight-hide thing ends here. We need a better plan. We have to prepare for him. We have to decide what we're going to do. For the past two years, we've always known that he was out there looking for us, but I don't think any of us honestly believed that one day our lives were going to come to an end. Who does, until they're at the moment when they're facing their mortality? But now it's time for us to face it, because more likely than not, that moment is just around the corner, and our only chance of evading it is to strategize right now."

A dead silence follows in wake of this proclamation.

"Way to ruin the moment, Harry," Fred whispers, obviously intending to be funny, but his whole demeanor is grim, and I can see that Harry's words have buried themselves as deeply inside of him as they have inside of the rest of us.

"What can we do?" Katie asks quietly.

"I'd say we have three options," Harry says. "The first is to see if we can keep running and keep our lives for another month or so before he catches us. Maybe we can try to get out of the country, make it to someplace where he doesn't have such complete control. The second option is to fight. Go and battle it out. See who wins and who loses, take the fight to them for a change. Or our last option: throw in our hats, here and now. Give up. Sit and wait for him to come and find us."

Harry looks around at everyone, surveying their reactions. I feel the pressure and the tension that has been filling him now. He's right. I finally am free, only to find myself trapped in a situation where I will most surely die. None of us stand a chance. All of those options are simply paths of different lengths leading to one ultimate destiny: death.

A smooth voice breaks the silence. "Alastor, would you please take a seat? We won't bite, but if you keep pacing, someone may get irritated enough to do just that," Dumbledore suggests mildly.

Moody, who has been pacing and driving me to distraction, seems to have been jolted from a reverie. He growls, "Sure," and sits down, still some distance away.

Harry sighs and rubs his temple. I can see the fear and shadows in his eyes. Being the leader, it's his job to make his best friends choose from an array of unappealing options. Looking at him now, looking at everything now, I am consumed by amazement at myself, at how I actually thought that we could go back to the way we were. Harry and I can never be the same people again, and our situation can never return to what it was. What foolish part of my mind ever constructed that illusion?

Harry has begun talking again, his voice void of emotion, his face slack and resigned. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to go about this. I'm asking you to vote on a life or death decision, but I don't know how else to handle it."

"Voting's fine, mate," says Fred consolingly. "It's a good, democratic way to handle things."

"Odd way to handle this, but don't worry about it," George adds. "We'll do it for you. Who's all for the 'let's-just-sit-here-and-let-You-Know-Who-come-kill-us' option? No one? Okay, moving on. What about the 'let's-go-be-martyrs-and-fight-him-for-about-ten-seconds-before-he-destroys-us' option?"

Now several people look confused. Alastor Moody's hand raises high into the air, along with Sirius's and Lupin's. Other than that, everyone else remains still. The looks on several people's faces imply that they'd been considering that very option before George worded it in such a blunt and frightening way.

"Three? Not bad, not bad. Better than zero, anyway. So, finally and predictably, who's all for the 'let's-run-away-and-try-to-cross-a-border-in-the-hopes-that-they-don't-kill-us-while-we-try' method?"

Practically everyone's hand goes up. Harry, George, Dumbledore, and I don't move, but it's clear what the general consensus is.

"Well, that's pretty obvious, mate," George says decidedly. "What's your take, Harry?"

Harry is staring at them all blankly. When he speaks, his voice is oddly hoarse, a voice belonging to a man who has resigned himself to the worst. "I think it's a stupid decision, honestly," he states. "Running away is doing no more than prolonging the inevitable. It's not going to do any good. More fear, more constantly living on the edge, knowing deep down we're never going anywhere, but never wanting to admit it. That's what we're in for with this decision. I, for one, am sick of living this way. Based on that, does anyone want to change their vote?"

No one moves.

"Well," says Ginny timidly a moment later, "if we were to cross a border to somewhere that hasn't been so completely taken over . . . maybe we could fight there. Gain more people, some land of our own. A resistance and a real stronghold. That would give us a chance."

Big if.

Harry sighs again. "I guess so. Fine then. I'm overruled. We took a vote, that's the outcome. Looks like we're running. Professor Dumbledore, do you want to add anything?"

"I will say only that I agree with your take on it, Harry," Dumbledore says in a grim tone. "However, I am willing to give this plan a chance, so long as you all will give some other method a chance should this not work out and should we get the opportunity to change our course."

Translation: Give fighting a try should we live long enough to realize we've been stupid.

I agree with Harry and Dumbledore, but my word is worth nothing here, I know. I keep my mouth shut and listen.

Harry

I'm groaning inwardly. What are they thinking? Running holds nothing but disaster. True, fighting is almost sure to leave us in a bad place, but at least we're doing something. We're trying to accomplish something. We wouldn't be the first small army to win a big war. The most unlikely, probably, but there's always a chance. Yeah, Ginny's idea is a good one, but there's the ever-present, unspoken question of if we can get across a border and find a sanctuary before we're killed. It's too unlikely to consider. Death Eaters are everywhere. We can't go into towns, and the borders are magically guarded. You can't just Apparate out anymore. The Floo Network won't take you out of the United Kingdom. Even if we made it to the border, we'd have to go across at a designated checkpoint, all of which are guarded by Voldemort's followers. Why can't anyone else see that only death lies ahead for us on this route?

It's over, I realize more strongly than ever. It's something I've been coming to terms with since those hours in the building in Diagon Alley with Hermione. We stand no chance. I think I've known that, deep down, since we agreed on the plan to destroy the Sphere. Maybe even before. We were standing so close to an edge before, I think I knew that helping Hermione was going to tip us over. It's why I kissed her—because I care for her, and I knew, in the dark recesses of my mind, that I didn't have much longer. I wanted her to know how I felt before the end came.

Then the long, grueling hours of silence in the building. That was when I truly realized it. We never really stood a chance. We've never made progress toward our spoken goal of defeating Voldemort. We've just survived, hoping and praying for one more day. But that kind of existence can't last for long, a life of borrowed time. Sooner or later you have to pay the debt.

What bothers me even more than our decision to run is the fact that I know that it doesn't matter which option we choose. It's all going to lead to the same thing. Maybe I want to fight because I can't take the constant question of when that time will come anymore. I just want it to be over with. Nothing beyond this life could be as bad as here and now.

"Fine, then," I sigh, rising to my feet. "Decided. At first light, we run. Better start packing, we've only got a few hours —"

I break off suddenly, as a searing pain rips through my skull. I fall to my knees and hardly even notice the shattering pain as they hit the wooden floor sharply. I clench my teeth tightly. I want to scream from the agony, but I can't even seem to do that, as if my vocal cords are locked along with my jaw. My head feels like someone is tearing it apart at the seams, ripping it slowly, torturously.

And then comes the laughter. High-pitched, cold, and the single most awful sound ever to be heard by human ears, it resonates through my mind, almost as agonizing as the pain in my head. Suddenly, with awful and certain understanding, even through the pain, I know: All this time spent planning has been wasted. Running, fighting, the battle of the decision—all a waste, all irrelevant. All because of one horrible and mind-numbing fact coming to me in an instant of perfect clarity:

It's already too late.