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

Too Deep for the Healing

Chapter 12

Control Solution

Snape kept count of the days because Saturdays and Sundays brought him much needed rest, but he did not count the weeks. There was no point in measuring the time before him; what mattered was the short, recurring cycle of weeks. But he noticed that the summer was over. The rain became duller and more frequent, the days grew shorter, the nights grew chillier, and many plants changed their colour. Migrating birds flew over the wetland, heading for the south, and the hut had to be heated.

Professor Wood had apparently spent only a few weeks in the area. After that, her colleague directed the environmental project alone; and Snape could stop worrying about embarrassing chance meetings with her.

The convicts had to live on their wages now. They did not earn much, but shopping opportunities were limited, too. A small shop opened in the camp, serving the needs of the personnel and the convicts, and selling goods coming from the other side of the wetland as well as fresh meat, fish, berries, vegetables and drinks from the nearby village.

Snape was alone as ever. His double-agent past made him a marked man - again. Lucius, too, stopped talking to him. Even Hunter, the werewolf, who found himself at the bottom of the hierarchy of convicts, often expressed his contempt when he saw Snape. But Snape did not miss their friendship.

On his solitary walks, it became his habit to keep an eye out for herbs and potion ingredients, and when he discovered a spot where edible mushrooms were thriving, collecting them was the most natural next step. It was a way of saving money; therefore he got up early on a Sunday morning and was already returning with the mushrooms in his backpack when most of the camp was just barely awake yet.

"Look, who is coming," said a bored voice behind the guards' broomstick shed. "Where have you been so early, Snape?"

"Giving reports, weren't we?"

From behind the shed, two former snatchers appeared, who had both denied the Dark Lord at their trials, but had become his ardent admirers after the verdict. Behind their backs, Gregory Goyle was approaching somewhat shyly. He had recently dropped Draco's friendship and was hanging out with other bullies nowadays.

Snape went on walking without changing his speed, but the bullies soon blocked his way, forcing him to stop.

"Leave me alone," he said emphatically, looking deep into the eyes of the nearest one.

He kept staring at the former snatcher without blinking, until the man took a slow step backwards, and then another and yet another one, unable to take his gaze off Snape. His friend grabbed his arm and shook him.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Any problems here?"

Unnoticed, a beefy guard had approached them, his voice full of suspicion and menace. The distraction was enough for the eye-contact to break.

"He attacked me!" the snatcher shouted suddenly; his finger pointed at Snape. "He was using magic!"

The guard's wand was instantly directed at Snape.

"Where is it?" he barked.

"Where is what?" Snape asked back, being truly puzzled for a moment.

"The wand. Give it to me now!"

"I don't have a wand," said Snape calmly.

"Didn't you use magic?"

"It was wandless magic. The power of the mind. That jerk had to be taught good manners."

"He's a liar, don't believe him!"

The former snatchers stopped a few steps away from the guard, watching the scene. The guard did not believe in the power of the mind, and the illegal use of magic interested him much more than any conflict between convicts. He ordered Snape to turn out his pockets, and he searched the backpack trying to find a magical object.

"Whatever it was, hand it over at once," he snarled. "I'm not interested in your lies!"

Snape wondered whether a demonstration of his skills would pacify or irritate the guard even more. Meanwhile, the guard's wand was still pointing at him.

"I'm warning you, scum, I have the means to search you … I can take every single piece of clothes off you until I find the magical device you are hiding, and I promise I will do it. Now. What do you say to that?"

"I don't think so."

Snape's voice was quiet, but the crack of a whip could not have been sharper. The anger that flared up in the dark eyes was deeper and darker than anything the guard had seen before, and Snape had no more control over the magic erupting from that anger. The guard gave a yell of terror, which broke off all too abruptly, as he froze, then collapsed on the spot.

Another guard came running, while the former snatchers were gaping at Snape with a mixture of fear and awe. Snape stood motionless, weighing the chances of the guard being dead. But the man opened his eyes as his colleague reached him, and soon stood on his feet, muttering something that Snape could not hear, on his way towards the hospital.

No one said anything to Snape, who continued his way back to his hut, his mind still in the grip of the anger that had made him lose control – the anger that had been accumulating in him for such a long time that he had stopped being aware of it. He expected retaliation, but hiding was not an option. There were no hiding places or escape routes; that he knew very well; and he would not be found crouching behind a bush or lying under a bed.

Soon enough, the door of the hut banged open, and three guards entered. They were approaching slowly and silently, wands pointing ahead. It was unlikely that Snape could defend himself when all of them attacked together.

"What's going on here?" a commanding voice demanded behind the guards.

One of the guards turned around, and Snape saw Weasley dressed in a travelling cloak, a briefcase in one hand, a wand in another. Apparently, he had just arrived at his office and he must have noticed the group of guards forcing Snape's door open.

"This scoundrel attacked Tanner," the guard replied. "He's in hospital."

"Really?" Weasley asked, looking from the guards to Snape and back again.

The guards stepped closer to Snape, who was silent.

"I should have been informed immediately, I'm his supervisor," said Weasley. "Bring him to my office."

The guards clearly disliked the idea of revenge being taken out of their hands for the moment, but they had to obey Weasley. In the office, the supervisor cast another searching look at each of them.

"You will wait here," he said to Snape. "I must investigate. Come with me," he turned to the guards.

The office door was locked behind Snape, but all the guards left with Weasley. (Snape saw them through the window.) The position in which he found himself was not entirely new. Every seasoned Death Eater had experienced, at least once, what it was like to wait for punishment (they had never had to wait long though). What did these people know that the Dark Lord had not known? They could send him to Azkaban, he answered his own question. There would be no forced labour in the prison – but there would be no herbs or substitute wands either. And he would not have his own key.

Weasley returned alone and locked the door again. He sat down opposite Snape and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"A good start of a Sunday," he muttered; his tone noticeably different from the one he had used in the presence of the guards. "What, in Merlin's name, was that magic? Tanner is talking about having been struck by a lightning bolt."

"Do you think I can produce a lightning bolt?" Snape asked. "And without a wand?"

Weasley regarded Snape with a calculating look as though he could not quite rule out the possibility. Snape was wondering how Weasley had become a supervisor. It was an odd job for an ambitious, career-oriented Ministry employee. Had he taken the position voluntarily? If he had been a collaborator, he would be among the convicts now; but as a supervisor, he was exiled almost as much as they were, and Snape noticed that Weasley looked (and behaved) strangely old for his age nowadays.

"Tanner thinks you are in possession of a wand or some other forbidden magical object," Weasley replied at last. "He says you attacked him."

"Tanner has never heard about wandless magic," said Snape. "He threatened me with a wand. I stopped him."

"Wandless magic …" Weasley murmured. "What about the other convicts who were there?"

"They thought they could bully me," Snape answered. "They were wrong."

"How did the conflict start?"

Snape cast a sharp look at the supervisor.

"For some reason," he said slowly, "they are convinced I betrayed the Dark Lord."

There was a moment's silence.

"Well …" Weasley swallowed hard. "I see. What did you do to them?"

"I made them go away. That was when Tanner interfered. He thinks magic equals wands."

"But it doesn't," said Weasley.

"Most definitely not."

The expression that briefly crossed Percy Weasley's face was that of envy. It was in stark contrast to his usual stiff and self-important manner. On the whole, he did not seem half as hostile as the convicts or the guards; and it had been so long since Snape had talked to anyone that simply uttering what was in his mind meant a relief even though the occasion was only an interrogation.

"Using wandless magic is technically," Weasley cleared his throat, "not prohibited. Attacking a guard is a serious offence nevertheless."

"He shouldn't have provoked me," Snape snapped.

"Whatever he said, he did not actually do anything, whereas you knocked him out. Purely defensive magic would have been a better choice."

"I didn't have time to choose the type of magic. It happened very … quickly."

Weasley's eyes glinted with vivid interest. Snape wanted to bite his tongue, but it was too late now.

"You mean you did not consciously want to attack him?"

Snape did not like the question.

"Most people react instinctively to unexpected, immediate danger," he said quietly.

"It was uncontrolled, accidental magic then," Weasley declared triumphantly. "Had you experienced it before?"

"I know how to keep my magic in control," Snape answered, feeling offended. "This was an exception. Tanner had interrupted an ongoing magical process; and the magical energy that I had been about to use simply found a different outlet."

"Exception or not, it can't be ignored. Have you been to the hospital?"

"Never."

"You should go then. I have already wanted to mention it – you need to go there for a checkup. It's Madam Pomfrey's instruction."

"I didn't know it still mattered."

"Of course, it matters. And it's important that you report this accidental outbreak of magic, too. In the given circumstances, you cannot be held responsible for such an occurrence, but visiting the hospital is obligatory. Since today is Sunday, they only accept emergency cases. You will go there tomorrow."

Weasley unlocked a drawer.

"I'm afraid you have acquired a new enemy. This Tanner doesn't look like the forgiving type."

Snape shrugged.

"All I have is enemies."

"That's an exaggeration," Weasley said and took a box out of the drawer and opened it. "Help yourself."

The box contained custard tarts, and Weasley pushed it towards Snape across the desk. "My mum baked them."

"You shouldn't waste them on criminals then," said Snape, thinking of Mrs Weasley (and George Weasley) with a pang of guilt.

"I don't," Weasley replied, and picked up a custard tart. "Try them. They're good."

The custard tart reminded Snape of Hogwarts, and he almost had to force it down his throat. Weasley, however, was cheered up by the food.

"It should be easier after the first six months," Weasley mused. "You will be allowed to receive and send letters; and maybe someone comes here to see you."

Snape doubted that the end of the first six months could bring any changes to him, but he did not argue.

"I've got a letter from Professor McGonagall," Weasley said. "She's asking me about you."

"Tell her I'm fine," said Snape sardonically. "How is she doing?"

"Very busy, I suppose," Weasley answered. "They don't know what to do with the DADA job. It's still not clear whether the curse has been removed with You-Know-Who's death or not."

"They'll see it in a year's time."

"Only if they can find someone for the position; but the Headmistress doesn't consider it ethical to offer a potentially cursed job to anyone."


The possibility that his control over his magic might be weakening disturbed Snape significantly. The hours he had earlier spent learning to use a substitute wand, which he could not risk using in front of others, might have been a waste of time - he realized he had to be in full control under any circumstances. He tested his magic again and again - but whenever he thought of Tanner and remembered his brutal threats, he experienced the same sort of murderous, painful fury as before. Separating magic and emotion was essential, however, and that was another reason why wizards needed wands – wand-controlled magic was not triggered by emotions so easily. For him, truly controlling his magic was impossible without controlling his emotions.

The next day, he did not go to work with the others though the morning alarm woke him up, too. He comfortably took his time over breakfast before he got ready to visit the hospital. He read the name on the door of the healer's office before entering: Healer Titania Sharp. Of all the women Snape had seen in his life, Healer Sharp was second only to Madame Maxime in size.

She stood up as Snape entered, showing the patient her full height, and with her large, fat hand, gestured for him to come closer. She assessed him with a short glance – he was wearing the uniform of convicts.

"Have you been here yet?" she asked with all too visible indifference, by way of greeting.

When she found out who Snape was and why he had come, she searched through a pile of parchments to find Snape's medical record.

"Where was that injury?" she inquired, although the wound on Snape's neck had left a perfectly noticeable and rather ugly scar.

"All right, do as I tell you," she said, taking her wand.

Healer Sharp could have done splendidly as an army sergeant.

"Do you ever feel any pain?" she asked as she had finished the diagnostic magic.

"No," said Snape.

"Fatigue? Lack of appetite? Memory problems?"

Each of her rapid-fire questions was immediately answered with a 'no'. Snape did not even ponder his replies.

"In short," the healer summarised the results of the examination, "you're in perfect health".

Her tone carried barely disguised reprimand, as though she considered it unfair that a convicted criminal was healthy while so many of the good people were ill. The contempt with which she treated Snape was similar to the one with which one might examine a sick rodent, taking special care not to touch it with bare hands.

She scribbled a note on Snape's parchment.

"There's something else here, too," she said, looking up. "Aggressive behaviour, injuring a guard…"

"It was self-defence," said Snape quickly. "A spontaneous magical occurrence."

"Spontaneous, eh?" Healer Sharp snorted. "And what do you mean by self-defence against a guard? How often do you have these attacks?"

"They hadn't attacked me before."

"How often do you have these attacks of uncontrolled magic?" she clarified impatiently as though Snape was incredibly stupid.

"Never."

"We know you had one yesterday."

Before Snape had a chance to reply, she added:

"You see, I'm only interested in symptoms caused by unused or uncontrolled magic. Any intentional mischief must be referred to the criminal justice system."

Snape tensed up.

"I lost control in a situation where most people would have found it difficult to remain calm," he explained. "I can't tell you whether it's a symptom or not, but my magic is generally under control."

The healer scrutinized him for a while; then shrugged.

"Controlling your magic without a wand is difficult in the long run – especially as much magic as you must have. You need some help."

She went to one of several cabinets, opened its door and fiddled with some potion bottles there. When she turned back to Snape, she was carrying a goblet containing an odourless, dark-coloured liquid.

"Drink this potion. If the symptoms persist, you must come back immediately. If not, I want to see you again in six weeks."

Snape did not touch the goblet.

"I don't need it," he said.

"That's not for you to decide," she replied sharply. "It's no use waiting until you have other symptoms or until something worse happens to someone."

"I'm not sick," said Snape. "That guard should have left me alone. I will not have my magic reduced because of him!"

He turned to leave, but Healer Sharp was quicker, and the door was locked with a metallic click.

"How many years do you have to do?" the healer asked coldly, waving her wand.

Snape glared at her; then suddenly he averted his eyes, and not a moment too soon. He had to master the force that was about to explode in him.

"Fifteen," he answered hoarsely.

"You've been here for hardly more than three months," she said. "You will not touch a wand for fifteen years. What do you think all that unused magic will do in you over such a long time?"

"It's not unused," growled Snape. "I can do controlled wandless magic."

"Very well, but it still may become uncontrolled sometimes. Loss of freedom breeds conflict. As time goes by, the symptoms will get more frequent. Yesterday you attacked a guard who had frightened you; tomorrow your magic may turn on you. Just ask your friends who have been sick - no one has protested so far. They all feel better. More relaxed and happier. You won't need that enormous magic for many years to come."

"I will not drink that potion!"

"You attacked and injured a guard," she pointed out. "If you want to avoid punishment by claiming the magic was accidental, you must accept the consequences."

"I don't want to avoid punishment. I'd rather be locked up than –"

"If it happened to be a question of your own health only, I wouldn't insist," Healer Sharp interrupted. "But uncontrolled magic affects others, too, as you saw yesterday. I'm not taking any chances. Who is your supervisor?"

"Mr Weasley."

With her fist, the healer hit several times another door, one that Snape had not noticed before.

"You will take this potion in the presence of your supervisor," said the healer over her shoulder. "You will not leave this office before you drink it up."

Fury was building up in him anew, but he had to keep his feelings and his magic in control. Another incident would surely earn him a 'dangerous maniac' label. Out of the tension and the enforced control, a headache was already developing behind his temples. But just then, when it seemed so difficult to feel anything else but anger, the dark emotion gave way to surprise and profound amazement.

The other door opened, revealing another healer's office beside Healer Sharp's, and from this office, another healer entered. Healer Burbage. Her gaze swept Snape from dark eyes to clenched fists, and her lips parted and closed again without a word.

"This patient," Healer Sharp said, "refuses to take his Control Solution. You'll stay here with him, Irene, until I come back with his supervisor."

"Right," Healer Burbage answered; her voice colourless.

Healer Sharp threw some Floo Powder into the fire.

"Weasley," she shouted, "I must speak to you."

She disappeared in the fire.

Snape was not looking at Healer Burbage. His surprise was finally outweighed by the horrible prospect of being magically forced to do something against his will and of having his magical power artificially reduced. The idea that Healer Burbage, who had known him and treated him with kindness and respect before, would be witnessing this double humiliation only deepened his misery.

Healer Burbage remained standing at the door, her eyes still fixed on him.

"Professor Snape," she began, "what's the matter?"

"You've heard it," he said dourly, still without looking at her. "She insists that I drink … that."

He indicated the potion on the desk.

"Did you get the disease?"

"No," he growled. "I lost control … just once. A guard threatened to … Never mind. If it had been intentional, controlled wand-magic, I would get some common punishment, but since it happened without a wand and without specific intent, she says I'm dangerous and she will force me to drink that poison."

"The decrease in magic isn't forever," Healer Burbage said.

"And what will stop her from making me drink it again? She's just told me I won't need my magic for fifteen years. But it's not the way she thinks. She has no clue…"

"Are you speaking about the guard who is in hospital right now?" she asked. "Yesterday was my day off, and I haven't heard the details yet."

Snape glanced at her at last and nodded.

"He's still unwell," she continued. "He'll recover, but … what did you do to him?"

"He accused me of hiding a wand … He didn't believe me. I had to defend myself. I don't know what happened exactly … but he collapsed."

It was the first time he had acknowledged that. Why was he telling her of all people? Why?

"I'm not proud of it," he added, "and I'll make sure it won't happen again."

"I believe you," said Healer Burbage.

Snape cast a long look at her now, straight into her eyes. She looked back at him openly and kindly. Her words calmed him a little, although he did not suppose she could help him. The other healer was older and more aggressive than her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a changed voice.

"This is my new job," she answered. "When they realized one healer was not enough, I got the second healer's position."

"Couldn't you find something better?"

"It's good enough for me," she replied, smiling faintly.

She reached for the goblet on the desk, grabbed it, and poured its contents into the fire. Snape gaped at her. He had thought of spilling the potion, too – but what could that achieve? There would be more of it.

"What are you –"

But Healer Burbage rushed to the other office and returned with a coffee pot. She filled the goblet with coffee; then took the pot back to its place. Snape picked up the goblet and studied the coffee in it silently for several moments.

"There's no sugar in it yet -" Irene said tentatively.

Snape shook his head.

"No, sugar won't do."

Although both the coffee and the Control Solution were dark brown, the two shades were distinctly different, and the pungent aroma of coffee was instantly recognizable.

"A little wormwood," he muttered, "and a few well-chosen words ought to do the trick."

"Wormwood?"

"You know what it is, I presume?"

This sounded so much like the former Professor Snape that further delay was impossible. She opened another cabinet, where various potion ingredients were stored, and gave Snape the required plant. Murmuring softly, he crumbled a few leaves into the coffee.

"Near enough," he assessed the result a minute later. The coffee was not easily recognizable any more. He would have to drink it quickly though.

Healer Burbage watched him in awe.

"You never mentioned that at school," she remarked.

"What do you mean?" Snape asked, still observing the contents of the goblet.

"I thought you needed fire and cooking and stirring to make anything out of potion ingredients."

"Usually you do," Snape replied curtly.

"But this was different."

"Very different," he glanced up, half-annoyed, half-amused. "What did I do? I changed the colour and the smell of this drink. Its magical and medicinal properties are still the same. Even this superficial change is only temporary. It's the difference between a potion and a practical joke."

Healer Burbage seemed a little ashamed of her question, but in that very instant, green flames shot up in the fireplace. The goblet flew out of Snape's hands and landed gracefully on the desk just before Healer Sharp stepped out of the fire with Weasley at her heels. Weasley looked unhappy.

"Has anything happened?" she boomed, grinning at Healer Burbage. "Why are you holding him at wandpoint?"

Healer Burbage lowered her wand.

"He didn't do anything," she hurried to declare. "I'm keeping my wand at the ready … just in case."

"Better safe than sorry, eh? I don't blame you, Irene."

She turned to Snape.

"Here's everything in writing," she announced, waving a parchment in front of him. "Are you still refusing the medicine?"

"Drink it," Weasley mouthed with a gesture of resignation behind Healer Sharp's broad back.

Snape suppressed a bitter smile. He reached for the goblet.

"Not any more," he said, and drained it.

Irene Burbage watched him, but not a muscle of his face betrayed how bitter the drink must have been.