Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.

Too Deep for the Healing

Chapter 11

The Scientist and the Boy

So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.

Snape was dreaming about Death. He was lying on his cloak under the trees of the thicket where he had been practising wandless magic until he had dozed off. In his dream, Death had the face of Dumbledore. The Dumbledore-faced figure took a branch from one of the trees of the thicket …

He opened his eyes suddenly. He saw a canopy of leaves above, and he felt cold in his limbs. He sat up. It was late afternoon already and he had not got any closer to solving the problem that had exhausted him – how to direct his magic precisely at the target without a wand? How to regulate the power of the magic?

Death had fashioned a wand from a branch… that was strikingly familiar. As though it had happened before. As though he had already dreamed of it … or read about it … somewhere.

Of course… He remembered now the story that he had read as a student, practising for his Ancient Runes exam. It was a fairy tale. Children's stuff. But maybe not… Was such a thing possible in real life? There was no mention of wand cores in the tale … no unicorn hair or phoenix feather, just a branch. Experts like Ollivander would probably protest … but he, Severus Snape, could still try to find - if not a proper wand, at least a substitute.

He leaped to his feet, and began examining the trees around him, touching them, almost caressing some of them, trying to feel their hidden magic. Finally, he chose a branch. It was roughly the size of a wand. If he could only channel his magic through it somehow, he could concentrate his power on the target more precisely.

No swishing or waving; only pointing. Steadily. For quite a while, nothing happened, but finally there came a moment when he could feel a light tremble in his fingers clutching the branch, and the wood responded with a similar tremble.

The experiment was becoming exciting. The branch got heated and sent up sparks – luckily, not too many and not too high up. He tried various methods with various degrees of success until the tree branch broke in his hand. That did not discourage him. A makeshift substitute was not likely to last long (otherwise Ollivander could close down his shop), but it was better than nothing.

Unfortunately, it was too late that night to search the trees for another suitable branch. The thicket had darkened, and he had to feel his way among the plants with his hands. But the night was clear. In the open field, the moon illuminated his way back to his hut.

"Hey, you! What are you doing there?"

A guard had emerged from the semi-darkness.

"Walking," he replied, sounding indifferent.

"Lurking in the dark?"

"It isn't dark. The moon is full."

"Go inside and lock your door before I lock it for you!" shouted the man. "I don't want to see any of you sneaking out in these parts tonight!"

There was no point in arguing although Snape had not heard about any rules against being outside at night. He walked on, but a minute later he froze. A long, eerie sound filled the air, breaking the silence of the night… the unmistakable howl of a wolf. It was quite close.

He looked back and saw the guard wheel round, his wand pointing at one of the huts. Snape was sure that the guard's sudden movement was a reaction to the howl, which had indeed come from the direction the guard was watching so tensely now. Snape glanced up at the full moon and then at the hut again. It belonged to Hunter, the wizard who had refused the handbook Weasley had offered to him. Snape was certain that the howl had come from the guarded hut.

So the guard was nervous and angry because - with his wand in his hand - he was afraid! The realization gave Snape a faint sense of satisfaction; although he, too, was rather happy to be finally inside and to see one more door between himself and the Dark Lord's werewolf.

He continued the experiments until he deemed it safe to try his new abilities in real life. He knew he would not be able to repair the hut with one flick of his hand; but his magic was more focused and precise now, making many small improvements quicker and easier. The gradual method suited him perfectly - though a branch was not technically a wand, complete secrecy was still the wisest course to follow. His hut began to look safer and better at last. Several branches were used up in the process, but the rapid success of his secret spells compensated him amply for the time he spent on finding and practising with a new replacement.

The first month soon ended, and it was time the convicts learned what their real job would be. They were informed by Weasley, in the course of another eloquent and boring speech, this time emphasizing the importance of their new task.

The gist of Weasley's words was that the convicts would have to restore the landscape: to remove the memories of the failed Muggle industrial activity and to provide more welcoming habitat for local wildlife. The bog was home to a variety of magical and non-magical plants and creatures, many of which had become rare or nearly extinct in the past decades; the Ministry's goal was to turn the area into a nature reserve suitable for purposes of tourism, education and research. The convicts would do the non-magical parts of the job and they would be paid for their work.

Many of them protested. Non-magical manual work was traditionally deeply despised, and few wizards would have regarded it as anything but a form of humiliation. Weasley, always clutching his wand when talking to them, tried to explain the advantages of the non-magical method in this particular case, but no one listened. The indignant voices trailed off only when Weasley mentioned the alternative punishment – Azkaban.

Under the supervision of the guards, the convicts started work early next the morning. It was exactly as menial and tiring as Snape had imagined. To start with, they had to fight a hopeless-looking battle against rusting metal, chemicals, batteries, broken electronic devices and various plastic materials (unfamiliar to most wizards) – decades-old piles of industrial rubbish that had been left and forgotten in the abandoned Muggle settlement.

Snape carried out his tasks without complaint. Although he managed to include a little bit of wandless magic here and there, it did not save him from exhaustion, the inevitable backache or the mosquitos. Yet, he kept working silently all day long while others were complaining loudly around him - he was reluctant to show the slightest solidarity with his fellow convicts. He could not expect any sympathy from them anyway. Their hostility towards him was more and more pronounced.

By Saturday, several of the convicts (Alecto Carrow among the first ones) had visited the hospital (there was one near the office buildings), complaining of pains or feigning sickness, and hoping to take a few days off. Snape did not resort to such tricks. At least, not yet.

The next week, a more complicated phase of the conservation work began. The convicts spent their days on the edge of the bog, where pollution had seriously harmed the ecosystem, taking samples, making measurements and continuing the cleaning. The bog was not too deep or dangerous there yet, but mosquitoes and other insects were swarming, and their wellington boots could get filled with water any moment. They were joined now by two of the Ministry's environmental experts, who were directing and supervising the project as well as doing all the jobs that required magic. The convicts saw them from a distance only – they received instructions through the guards, who accompanied them on broomsticks.

In another week, many of the convicts did not need to pretend to be ill. An unknown disease with alarming symptoms ranging from severe headaches to violent vomiting to temporary mental disorders appeared and spread like wildfire. The sick were taken to hospital, but their recovery was often slow and relapses were frequent. Although no one had died of the illness, the rumour that the epidemic was caused by the unhealthy environment and that the Ministry wanted to get them killed this way excited a great deal of interest. The guards only increased the tension by mercilessly taunting those who were loath to approach a particularly disgusting spot in the bog.

Snape did not worry about the disease. His mind had been leached of all emotions and thoughts beyond the immediate concerns of an animal existence by sheer fatigue, until one day he received unexpected help from the wetland itself: the rare gift of a magical herb whose leaves he could mix into his tea to produce a strong refreshing, restorative drink. Hard physical work did not wear him down so easily now, and (although he had no time to look for wand substitutes) his magic was still in good repair.

He glimpsed several other potion ingredients as he advanced a little deeper into the bog. Exploration had its dangers though. Wandering off on the spongy ground, he might fall into a deadly trap or he might be spotted by the guards; and the latter was hardly better than the former. He took the risk nevertheless and succumbed to the temptation to secretly collect some potentially useful leaves and berries.

He could not even dream about using them in anything more complex than herbal tea or simple medicines - to brew real potions, he would have needed more than a few plants; and as his gaze fell on his roughened, scratched and bruised hands, it struck him how those hands were becoming unsuitable for potion making. Handling large, heavy and rough objects all the time was ruining the touch that had helped him feel the fineness of a leaf and the precise weight of light things and tiny amounts. Granted, it was possible to make potions with rough hands, and his mind was still the same. But details mattered. In less than a year, he would not be the kind of potioneer that he had been. His hands would lose their skill. If circumstances permitted him, he would still be able to make potions that would be good enough for many - but he would not be able to take pride in them any more.

He was roused from these thoughts by a terrified cry. He looked up. Still further in the bog, a panic-stricken Draco Malfoy (another illegal explorer, no doubt) was wriggling frantically, as something long was winding around his legs, and stretching upwards.

Snape had to tread on treacherous sphagnum moss and consider every step very carefully to reach Draco, but he seized the boy's arms just as Draco was about to fall. No one else was nearby. Without a wand or matches, there was only one thing Snape could try.

"Don't move, Draco" he said. "I'll pull you out."

Draco tensed his body as the murderous tendrils twined round his waist, dragging him downwards. Snape pulled and Draco gave a painful moan as though two opposing forces were tearing him apart.

"Relax-"

Snape could feel a creeper slither around his ankles, when a flame appeared at the tip of a wand, approaching the Devil's Snare closely but without burning Draco; and the tendrils rapidly withdrew. Snape held Draco firmly, and the boy, too, held on tightly to Snape. For a while, it seemed he would collapse if he had to stand on his own.

A broomstick was floating beside them, and Snape glanced up to see the rescuer. The next instant, his hands fell off Draco, and he turned away as though he had just found something extremely interesting among the moss.

"Are you all right?" said a hoarse but friendly female voice.

The words were addressed to Draco, but Snape could almost feel in his back the gaze of the colourfully dressed witch with the out-of-place-looking, pointed straw hat. Leaving Draco in the care of the wand-carrying broomstick-rider, he slogged back to his place and resumed working. He could only hope that the witch had not recognized him. For Snape now knew who had saved Draco and who was directing the environmental project.

Four years before, in early summer, Hogwarts had played host to a conference, where Professor Avis Wood had been the star guest. She gave lectures on her environmental research, and spent considerable time exploring the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. Snape gave the guests a tour of the Hogwarts Potions Laboratory, where Professor Wood had several questions. After the tour, she asked Snape if he could spare some more time for her. Professor Wood was interested in certain unusual combinations of potion ingredients and the expected patterns of change in magical characteristics. Snape answered all the questions that he was able to answer, and for the rest, he offered to do the necessary experiments. Professor Wood was delighted.

Snape spent several days assisting the prominent guest with her queries, for which Professor Wood expressed her deepest gratitude, saying that Snape had provided extremely valuable background information for her research, which she – not being a potions expert – could not have obtained without professional help. A few weeks after the conference, she sent Snape an owl with a unique offer: She invited Snape to take part in her upcoming three-year research trip to the Amazon rainforest. Snape was to be the team's potions expert, who, besides supporting the research work of the others, could carry out his own research, studying potion ingredients that were rare or unknown in other parts of the world.

The opportunity was more than tempting. He would leave Hogwarts, the students and the home essays to visit a faraway, exotic place, full of wonderful sights he had never seen. He did not really consider going away for three years, but Dumbledore could surely spare him for a couple of months, which he might combine with the summer months. It would make for quite a substantial trip.

An invitation from Professor Wood was in itself an honour – everyone knew she would invite only the best experts into her team. It would amply make up for the loss of the Order of Merlin that in a mad moment Snape had hoped and almost longed for. It would compensate him for a bad year, in which two of his school-age tormentors had reappeared in his already joyless life, leaving frustration and headache in their wake.

Then there were the study and research opportunities. He would explore the richest potion ingredients stock in the world and could experiment with new potions and new possibilities at his leisure. He could write a book. He would be invited to give lectures. He would contribute something really useful and important to the subtle science of potion-making.

For two weeks that summer, he got up and went to bed with these colourful and ambitious plans. Then he could not ignore the signs any more. He could not ignore the faint cobweb lines running down his left arm, winding and curling in an intricate pattern, gradually revealing the image that had the power to ruin his life again. Something was happening out there, and soon there were other signs indicating the same - and Snape stayed at Hogwarts to carry out Dumbledore's plan…

Professor Wood had travelled to the rainforest without Snape. From the way she looked now, Snape could guess she had just recently returned to Britain. It was logical enough: By the end of the three years, the Dark Lord had seized political power – for Professor Wood, the sensible thing must have been to delay her return.

He took care to avoid the scientist for the rest of the day, but when they finished work, she was standing with the other environmental expert beside the guards, watching the tired, dirty men, as they were getting ready to leave.

"Are they all convicts?" Professor Wood asked a guard, just behind Snape's back. "Some faces seem familiar."

"All of them," the guard answered with surprising politeness. "You may have seen them in the papers, although most of the famous ones are in Azkaban. But we have Lucius Malfoy; he used to be a big fish. Very rich and powerful."

"Malfoy," muttered the hoarse, familiar voice. "Malfoy…"

She was still shaking her head and muttering long after the convicts had gone out of sight.

The disease continued to be virulent, yet none of the personnel was affected, and the unsettling rumours died hard.

"They're killing us" said Draco Malfoy to his father, who, however, was not paying any attention to his son.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Snape had just examined the state of his roof again – the clouds in the sky promised heavy rains for the night. Therefore checking the roof had seemed a good idea, but he had not discovered any damage.

"Good afternoon, Severus," the older Malfoy greeted him with exaggerated politeness.

Since the incident with the Devil's Snare, Lucius had made several tentative but friendly gestures towards Snape, who was not impressed at all. Lucius stood in front of Snape now, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. Snape took a step backwards.

"I … want to tell you, Severus" Lucius continued with some difficulty, "I don't believe what they … say of you … that you have been put here to … spy on us… to give reports and everything."

Snape's face flushed with anger, but Lucius did not seem to notice. He grinned and rattled on.

"Stupid, isn't it? There's nothing more to find out about us … nothing to report that they don't know…"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Snape said silkily. "For example, a spy might report illegal use of alcohol in some quarters … Drunkenness even…"

Lucius hiccupped. The convicts were not allowed to use or to possess alcoholic drinks, but the smell of his breath could easily have given rise to suspicion.

"What is more," Snape added, lowering his voice to a whisper, "one could deduce that no convicts could have smuggled in enough Firewhisky to last until now … therefore they must have an accomplice who brings them their supplies … and that might make one wonder about bribes."

Lucius Malfoy's eyes betrayed fear for a moment - then he laughed. His laughter was forced and artificial.

"What a funny chap you are, Severus… We don't have money for bribes, as you know very well -"

"In your place, I'd be very careful … careful to protect whoever is paying the price from outside."

This time Lucius had no answer. It took him a minute to be able to speak again.

"You must be k-kidding," he stammered. "Who would bribe a g-guard from out-outside? You are pulling the leg of an old friend … One of these days we should sit down and talk -."

Lucius attempted a meaningful and shrewd look, but Snape had already turned away from him. He understood the insinuation perfectly, but this time Lucius was courting the wrong man – Snape had no secret political power. His gaze met Draco's.

"Leave him alone," Draco hissed. "He didn't hurt you."

Lucius slowly walked away.

"I only warned him," Snape said. "You don't want to land your mother in trouble with the Ministry."

Draco's face contorted with anger.

"Of course, a lot of us wonder why you are here," he snarled. "I heard what Potter said about you…Dumbledore's spy! Don't pretend to be worried about my family!"

Snape stared at Draco.

"Was I really pretending anything like that? I didn't notice."

Draco snorted.

"Why did you want to save me from the Devil's Snare?"

"I don't like watching people getting killed."

"It would not have been for the first time. You could have closed your eyes," snapped Draco.

"Perhaps next time I will," Snape promised, enraged at the boy's insolence. "But remember, Draco … if the Dark Lord had won -"

"And what will be of us here?" Draco interrupted. "Devil's snares… and we may catch the disease any moment. They want us to die."

Draco looked at Snape with sudden anxiety as though expecting him to either confirm or disprove the suspicion.

"It's a contagious disease," Draco added. "There are all sorts of symptoms… I … started sneezing this morning."

Snape raised his eyebrows.

"Now, that may be a contagious disease."

Draco turned a shade paler.

"Do you really think so?"

"The common cold is contagious," Snape replied. "But what you fear is a different thing."

"Goyle's told me he won't come near me if I get sick. He doesn't want to catch it," Draco muttered.

"The cold?" Snape sneered.

"You know what I'm talking about! Everyone's afraid."

Snape sneered again, contemptuously.

"Goyle should not. There is little chance that he will get the so-called disease … or that it could be very severe in his case. But at least you can see what a great friend you have, Draco."

"Why do you think Goyle is immune?"

"I watched him for seven years. For most of the time, he was a pathetic wizard."

"What does that have to do with the disease?"

"Everything."

"I don't understand."

"Think, Draco," said Snape. "You used to be smart."

Draco was furious, but he wanted to find out more about the subject.

"Aren't you afraid of the disease?"

"I will not catch it. At least not in the near future."

"What do you have in common with Goyle?" Draco inquired.

"Nothing," Snape replied categorically. "Goyle is not a good enough wizard to be seriously affected by this malady. I'm too good to contract it."

Draco was still puzzled.

"And what about me?"

"It depends on you," Snape answered. "The disease is nothing else but an upsurge of unused magical energy. In Azkaban, the Dementors took care of it in their own way, but here, we must look after our magic. With abilities like Goyle's, there's not much to fear; but your magic may well take revenge on you if you neglect it."

Draco was silent. He seemed unsure whether he should believe Snape or not.

"How much time do you have to spend here?" Snape asked after some hesitation.

"A year," Draco answered reluctantly, "and it's long enough. I don't want any more trouble. I know we mustn't use magic while we are here."

Snape was eyeing his former student pensively. Had Draco learned nothing about the most important things at Hogwarts? Was that the fault of the teachers (including the 'late' Professor Snape) or Draco's own? No wands – no magic? Had he not started the very first Potions class with his first-year students pointing out that there was magic beyond wands? Potions could not be brewed without magic, and yet, the role of wands in potion-making was almost negligible. What did it take to make wizards understand that the magic was not in their wands but in themselves?

He checked his thoughts just in time.

"We mustn't use wands," he said curtly and went back into his hut.

For a moment, he had almost forgotten that he was not a teacher any longer.