Chapter 11: Shatter

"It's just, I couldn't think. Mostly, if I'm working with the plants and the soil, it stays away. But lately, even when I'm working myself to exhaustion, it seeps back in. It feels like... I don't know. It's like oil. Dark and slick. Impossible to grab a hold of." He looked at them both, pleading.

"For me, too, Neville. It feels like I can't ever get clean. Felt. It felt like that, until a few days ago." Her eyes flew open and she met Snape's eyes. Gratitude and fear shone there, and in that instant he knew. He knew despite the way his stomach clenched that he wouldn't rest until her fear and gratitude had been replaced with nothing more agonising than love.

The table was cluttered with parchments, each one a mess of lists and charts, timelines, and even the odd doodle.

Vine, and Honeysuckle, and Hawthorne.

Odd which plants Neville sketched in the corners of his pages.

He looked exhausted. White and pasty, as if he'd had all his vital energy drained out of him from the effort of recounting the last ten years. She recognised his pallor from the fleeting glimpses of her own reflection in the dusty windows she always hurried past. It occurred to her that she'd started avoiding the mirror of late, but who could blame her?

"So," Severus said, straightening a pile of parchment, "if we are correct in our recollections, symptoms begin gradually, escalating over time. Those who were exposed later..." he looked at Neville, "have relatively less severe symptoms currently, though it would be expectable that the course of each individual deterioration would ultimately reflect the overall pattern."

"Are we really the only ones who were exposed to those things?" Neville asked.

"We appear to be the only ones left," Hermione said. "Dolores Umbridge wore that vile locket for a while, but I'd heard..." She trailed off, a question in her voice.

"She's dead," Neville said. "Big secret, apparently, what happened to her. But there was a big funeral, Ministry shindig, the works." They were silent. Remembering, thinking about the woman who had made each of their lives hell for what had felt like forever.

"I wonder why she's dead and not the rest of us," Hermione said in a soft voice. It wasn't as if she didn't know that whatever was wrong was likely to destroy her, destroy all of them. She'd felt Death's cold fingers creep around her heart during the worst episodes and knew that it was a race she was unlikely to win but one she had to attempt.

"She had a head start," said Neville.

"A head start," Hermione echoed. "At what? Darkness?"

"Indeed," said Severus.

They were silent.

"What about Mr Malfoy, then?" Hermione asked. "He had the diary for a long time before he dumped it in Ginny's cauldron. Do you think he might be suffering...?"

"Lucius would never keep a known Dark object closer to him than was strictly necessary," Snape replied. "While he did not, apparently, know precisely what he had in his possession, he was most certainly aware that it was Dark. And dangerous. I doubt that he suffered enough exposure to the object for its effects to have made much impact."

"Not enough exposure that anyone would notice," Neville echoed. "And time doesn't seem to lessen the toxic effect, does it?" he asked.

"It doesn't appear to," said Hermione. She rubbed her eyes and rested her head in her hands. "We don't even know if more extreme symptoms occur as a result of longer exposure or for some other reason. I was exposed to multiple Horcruxes. So were Ron and Harry," she said. "Arthur, you and Severus were all exposed..." She sat up abruptly. "Severus, were you exposed to any other Horcruxes during your time near Voldemort... as far as you know, I mean?"

"I don't believe so," he said. "They were hidden, were they not?"

"Right," she said. "I have no idea whether it makes any difference, but you are the only three who were exposed only to the snake."

"Were we also the only ones exposed to the snake at all?" Neville asked.

"No," Hermione said. "Harry was bitten by her at Christmas."

"He was what?" Hermione flinched at the look of disgust on Severus' face.

"We went to Godric's Hollow," she said quickly. "Harry wanted to go, he had for the longest time. And then we got there and saw... Well, Nagini had... It's a long story, but she was disguised and managed to trick us...trap us. Harry, mostly. But we got away."

Severus was still staring at her with cold eyes. Why was he so angry? They had obviously survived the experience. "I had Dittany with me, Severus. I took care of him. We were fine." She crossed her arms. It was a long time ago. Ancient history.

"You were fine? You were fine," Severus said. But his face was twisted and flushed, and Hermione felt her heartbeat accelerate along with her racing thoughts. "Idiotic children."

"It was ten years ago, Severus. Get over it." She'd spoken without thinking and the moment the words left her mouth, would have done anything at all to take them back. He looked as if she had struck him. She was flustered; he wasn't supposed to get angry like this, not at her.

But he had risen from the table, already beyond the reach of her hand, maybe from her voice. "Severus?" Her heart beat in her throat and she couldn't find her breath. "Severus, don't. Please, don't." He was slipping away from her. She'd done it now...made him angry, even though it was about something ridiculous from what might as well have been another lifetime. He was walking away, and she couldn't find him anymore.

It was inevitable, only a matter of time, really. In her most secret heart, she'd hoped it would have taken him longer to realise that, really, there wasn't a thing about her that was worth loving.

In fact, nothing about being with Hermione Granger was anything resembling a Good Idea.

~~**~~

His head was filled with noise.

The hiss of the snake right before she struck.

The snicker the Dark Lord made when his victims attempted to escape him.

The sound of his own blood rushing from his body, the gurgling of his breath, and the mad beating of his heart as it attempted to keep his failing body alive.

That stupid boy had risked his life, risked her life, and nearly lost. He didn't care that it was a decade past, didn't care that she'd obviously survived. All he knew was noise and pain and loss.

The windows of the greenhouse reflected his image against the backdrop of darkness outside. Pacing, head down, searching for something he knew he'd never find. He'd felt peace, hadn't he? Felt the earth beneath him and the air around and not felt as if he would burn away from the inside. When had he felt it? He thought it might not have been long ago, but maybe that had been just a dream.

Someone was crying.

He used to always make them cry, didn't he? That must be his legacy. Bringer of tears. Bringer of pain, bringer of Darkness.

Yes, that was it. Bringer of Darkness. Even Dumbledore had known that. Knew to choose him to deal the mortal blow. Knew that he would sacrifice and could be the sacrifice. He wasn't supposed to have escaped; he should have died on that dirty floor.

He lifted his head and saw his own eyes in the glass. Behind him, a figure stirred. And stood.

And when she caught his eye in their shared reflection, every last pane of glass in Greenhouse ten shattered.

~~**~~

The wind blew through the greenhouse, disturbing the Job's tears seedlings and causing their nascent shoots to mewl in protest. The glass shards had hung in the air for an age before falling silently to the ground alongside the walls. Not one had flown beyond the perimeter; none had drawn blood. It was as if the glass simply could not tolerate the force of the eyes reflected there and had fled.

He wondered if the two who stood frozen had seen his gaze reflected there, too. They were so engrossed in one another, but this time, rather than pull one another from the Darkness, they'd fed each other's horrors. Like wounded animals, they watched one another for the slightest sign of defeat or attack. Like sickly plants, they struggled to hold themselves erect 'til the end, no matter the cost.

Water, they need water. And light.

"I have that," Neville muttered to himself as he stood.

Neither moved as he approached. Slowly, he picked up a plant from the table behind them, cradling it to his chest as he stepped between them.

"This is the flower I work with on the worst days," he said. "I have all different strains here, but I keep them shielded so that the students don't disturb them."

He wasn't sure if it was his words or the scent of the blooms, but Snape turned to look at him.

"Nelumbo nucifera," he said, entranced. He reached his hand as if to stroke its blossom, and the colour began to return to his face.

"Yes," Neville said, relieved. "Lotus." Beautiful. Pure, for all that it grew out of the muddiest earth.

"I shouldn't touch it." He pulled his hand back, and Neville knew he thought himself dirty, unsuitable to touch the light-filled bloom.

"On the contrary, sir. You should. In fact..." He pushed the plant into Snape's arms. "You must."

Snape took a sharp intake of breath as Neville left the plant in its bowl of mud in his grasp. "Oh." He brought his head closer to the blossoms and inhaled their scent. From behind them, Hermione cried out, and silently, Neville reached for her and brought her closer.

"I'll ruin it," she said.

"You won't." Snape's voice was deep and soft, and Hermione whimpered.

"You can't. Watch," said Neville. He took a bit of mud from the basin and let it drip onto the wide, white petal. Hermione gasped, but he just shook his head and said, "Wait."

As if in slow motion, the glob of mud congealed as if it were wrapping around itself and then gracefully rolled off the end of the petal back to the damp earth beneath.

"The flower doesn't let it stain it," Hermione said.

"The petal's integrity is unbroken," explained Neville. "And its natural defence mechanism pushes aside the stain."

"Is it magic?" she asked.

"No," said Snape, his eyes bright. "That is what it looks like when an organism is healthy, when it has no cracks in its foundation."

Oh. The three looked at one another, stunned.

The cacophonous sound of them all beginning to speak at once wafted through the smashed windows and into the night.

~~**~~

Neville's quarters were sparse, as if he'd come for a visit but not to stay. Ten years along, Hermione imagined the rooms might have belonged to anyone. Or no one.

Their trek up the rocky slope to the castle had gone in bits and spurts, the three a motley group with uneven stamina and unreliable steadiness. If there was one predictable characteristic in all the confusion, Hermione thought, it was that just when you thought you'd found your feet, they'd be pushed out from under you again.

She preferred to sit.

And at least Hogwarts had provided a comfortable couch and scattered chairs as a matter of routine for its resident staff. It looked rather like the elves had searched old storage cupboards for castoffs, but it beat the rickety chairs of Greenhouse ten by a long shot.

Tea and scones and the warm fire went a long way towards easing the chill that had crept into her bones. Despite the fact that Severus had resolutely put his arm around her as they climbed the hill, the shadow that had darkened the brightness of the prior days still lingered. It disturbed her just how quickly the certainty and safety she'd felt could be brushed aside as if it were nothing but a wall of fog against a tidal wave.

The colour had barely returned to Severus' face, and he stole furtive glances at her over the rim of his teacup. Perhaps one day she would believe that he was as uncertain as she, and as hopeful. Her stomach twisted. Would there even be a one day for them in the future... time to learn each other's moods, to argue without terror and reconcile with tenderness, to play, to love?

She shivered, and Severus moved from the chair opposite to join her on the sofa. Relief and gratitude must have shone from her face; she didn't even try to contain it, didn't want to. His arms were strong and sure, and even through her shuddering sobs, she dimly wondered when their reconciliations might involve something other than her melting into a puddle of tears.

"Why is this so hard?" she whispered.

"Because it matters," he said.

Her only response, to wrap herself more firmly around him, said more than words ever could.

~~**~~

She'd fallen asleep in his lap, his fingers carded through thick curls, the warmth of her scalp and the weight of her hair like a talisman in the midst of a storm.

Longbottom sat opposite, staring into the fire. Severus was grateful that he felt no need to fill the room with chatter. Maturity, or perhaps Horcrux illness, had apparently inured him to the need to posture, and Severus appreciated his silent presence. The Lotus blossom sat on the table between them like a beacon of light.

"So that's it, then?" Longbottom said.

"Hmm?"

"What's happened to us. We might have found it, right?"

Severus nodded, distracted by the dancing flames in the hearth. Light. Heat. Yes.

"In its most theoretical form. Yes, I believe so." He nodded to the flames. "The fire is useful to us, pleasant to us, only in its controlled form. Left unchecked..."

"It destroys everything it touches."

"Indeed." Severus hesitated. The concepts were still vague, but the force of their resonance, that feeling of rightness, propelled him forward. "Anything elemental, that is to say, all powerful forces that are essential to us, have what simpler minds might call a Dark side and a Light side." He lifted an eyebrow and smirked when a flash of tension raced across Longbottom's face. Must stop that, he thought. He is an ally. And, apparently, no longer a dunderhead.

"A Dark side and a Light side, yes," Neville echoed. "Which is why intention matters so much in spell casting."

"Precisely," Severus said, surprised. An ally, and most definitely no longer a dunderhead. On the whole, he thought, a satisfactory turn of events. "What does not generally get addressed until Master's level study is the question of how the Dark and the Light are bound, and the nature of what occurs when those boundaries are breached."

So much time was spent learning Defence, Severus thought. Necessary time. Essential teaching during wartime. Sacrificed was the nuanced understanding of the nature of Light and Dark and their inevitable polarity...and the unavoidable reality that neither exists without the other.

"What is your theory, Professor?"

Here, within the walls of Hogwarts Castle, he supposed he could be nothing less than Professor again. So much of his identity had grown within these walls. Boy to wizard. Wizard to...well, to man. To puppet. And in the penultimate days of his masquerade, to man again. Only in flight and in hiding had he inadvertently become a puppet again, this time to the Darkness creeping through, breaching barriers he hadn't known were broken.

Professor, indeed. He put down his teacup, the better to gesture with the one hand not holding him steady.

"If I am correct, it is in the nature of the Horcrux itself that we may find its remedy." Longbottom nodded, and Hermione stirred at the shift in his tone, the stronger cadence a cue to pay attention. Her eyes opened a bit, but she only settled in more firmly on his lap. He relaxed. "A Horcrux can be created only in the presence of the most terrible sort of destruction...to another, and then to oneself." Both were listening now, he was sure of it.

"I believe that certain types of exposure to these objects...namely, prolonged contact or..." He flinched. "...lethal exposure, such as a snake bite, or destruction of the Horcrux itself, brings about a sort of mirroring of the Horcrux's nature."

"In other words," Hermione's sleepy voice interrupted, "that slimy bastard managed to not only destroy his own soul, but ripped holes in ours as well."

"That's one way of looking at it," Severus said. "Though I'm uncertain whether it's the soul itself that is damaged in us. I suspect that, in fact, it is the barrier between Light and Dark that has been breached."

"What do you mean?" Longbottom asked. "What barrier?"

"The one that keeps us from acting on every angry impulse, or reacting to every moment of fear, or hurt, or..." Hermione said, then swallowed and turned her head to catch Severus' eye. "That's it, isn't it?" He nodded and stroked her matted hair. "The mess that everybody keeps under glass, most of the time at least, is seeping through...flooding, really."

"Yes. The Shadow," he said. "Each of us has one, no matter how noble, or brave, or pure." No matter how favoured by the headmaster, or admired by readers of the Daily Prophet. "Just as even Voldemort had, theoretically, a side that was Light."

"Theoretically," said Longbottom.

"There comes a point of no return," said Snape.

They fell silent.

"How do we fix it?" said Neville. "I don't suppose there's magical sealant for a cracked border between Light and Dark."

Hermione sat up with a start.

"Not sealant, maybe," she said. "But, Severus, why do you think that we can drive the Dark away in one another? How did you drive it away in Neville earlier?"

He furrowed his brow, thinking. "If the Horcruxes created cracks in the barrier between Light and Shadow," he began, "it would stand to reason that the symptoms we each experience are unique to our specific... struggles, shall we say?"

Hermione nodded. "It might be in what triggers us...each one of us. And also in what pulls us back." She looked to Severus for affirmation, confirmation that she was speculating in a way that was right. It was her vulnerability, he realised, just as he knew it when she was his student, though he'd have had no idea its ultimate cost. Too much need to be right, to know, to be the one who could fix whatever was broken or know the perfect, shining answer to any query.

"It seems to me that it has taken less and less to set me off," Neville observed. "As if that barrier is breaking down more over time."

"That's probably why none of us noticed at first," said Hermione. "It was subtle. Everybody was stressed, adjusting after the war. We thought it would just go away." She looked at Severus, and his chest tightened at the look of despair in her eyes.

"It is hardly an unusual folly," he said, "to believe...to hope...that fear and desolation will melt away if we only wait long enough."

"It's not going to go away, though. If we don't do something to stop it, it's going to destroy us one by one." Neville's words hung in the air, and dissipated as if they had sunk into the dense wood walls...the castle absorbing their truth.

~~**~~

The gossamer edges of her scarves trailed after her even after she'd ambled around the corner and out of sight. Hermione hadn't laid eyes on her since the last battle, and even then, only for a fleeting moment. Really, Professor Trelawney had become invisible to her long before that horrible day.

Today, though, she couldn't take her eyes from that wisp of silk calling to her to follow.

"Professor?" She ran to catch up.

Trelawney stopped but didn't turn around. Hermione thought she heard her muttering to herself but couldn't be sure.

"Professor, do you have a moment? I don't know if you remember me, but..."

The muttering grew louder, and the older woman began to shake.

"Professor?"

"Keep away from the broken mirrors... Shadow in the glass, shadow in the glass."

"What are you saying? Professor Trelawney?" Hermione stepped closer and reached out her hand to the other witch. "Prof..."

Trelawney turned to face her with a hiss. "Don't touch me." She looked at Hermione, then beyond her to Snape and Neville. "All broken. Mirrors all cracked." She shook her head, and Hermione thought she looked like a bereft bug, all big eyes and wild hair and sorrowful expression.

"Which mirrors are cracked, Professor?" she asked. "Where?"

Trelawney looked dumbfounded. "I always said you had no inner eye, Miss Granger," she said. Hermione blinked, disoriented by her former teacher's sudden lucidity. "Can't you feel it?"

But it was the combination of lucidity and battiness that did it, really, she thought later...that line between mad and sane that Trelawney walked in the odd moments when she wasn't pretending to be real. Her piercing eyes, not the least big buggy now, and impatient insistence that surely even she could feel it made her realise that she could.

She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing instead on the flow inside her body. Blood pumping, air moving, thoughts racing, emotions tumbling over one another until they crashed into a heap at her feet. But there, right there, between her fear of failure and the ache of empty arms, she found it.

"There's a crack," she whispered. Her eyes flew open. "Not just a metaphorical crack, Severus. A real crack." She closed her eyes again. It was harder to see it with them open. "Close your eyes, both of you. I can't tell you where to find it. I can't exactly tell you where mine is. But it's there. I can see the Shadow trying to squeeze through. It looks like..." She snorted.

"What is it, Hermione?" Neville. Anxious again. And Severus...silent.

"Looks like red ink."

Severus snorted, and Hermione breathed again. "Looks nothing like red ink when I see it wrapping its slimy hands around you," he said. "It's far less civilised than that."

"Feels like my nightmares of Nagini," Neville said, soft voice carried by the silent stones. "Like she's wrapped around me and everything goes black." He shivered. "It's a tiny crack, it's right here." He reached back to rub the base of his spine.

Hermione opened her eyes. Trelawney stood watching the three of them. Severus, his eyes closed and brow furrowed, and Neville, eyes wide with fear.

"I told you that if you'd only look you would see," she said with a last glance at Hermione.

"Wait, Professor. Please," Hermione said. "Do you know?" Her voice cracked. "Professor, do you know how to fix broken mirrors?"

For the first time, Trelawney's expression looked compassionate. Almost sad.

"Child," she said, and Hermione shivered at the unaccustomed clarity in her voice, "even you must know that the only way to repair a broken mirror is from the other side."

***

Beta kudos to Annie Talbot. :)