On the deck, shrouded in the thin mist of high altitude, Severus Snape carefully rolled up a piece of parchment and tucked it into a small pouch sewn from thick canvas. Inside, he had also placed a few old wands he'd selected, their performance still decent enough.
He tied the pouch securely and gave a soft whistle.
Seconds later, a magnificent horned owl glided silently from the mast's heights, landing steadily on his outstretched arm.
It let out a low, throaty hoot, its yellow-green eyes fixed on its master, wings slightly spread as if eager to soar through the clouds once more.
After fastening the pouch tightly to Nocturna's talons, Snape gently patted its fluffy head.
"Go," he said. "Be careful, and avoid other owls."
Nocturna nuzzled his fingers with its beak, giving a short, confident chirp before spreading its wide wings. With a powerful push from its legs against Snape's arm, it launched itself unhesitatingly into the bright, cold sky above the clouds.
The owl circled half a loop, finding its bearing, then dove headfirst into the boundless sea of clouds below, its white-brown form rising and falling through the thick mist.
Snape stood still, watching the direction in which the owl vanished. In the letter, he had warned Lyka Luppa that Hogwarts had fallen into the hands of Death Eaters, the castle no longer safe. He urged her not to trust the Ministry's promises and to lead her people deep into the heart of the Forbidden Forest, far from human paths.
When Nocturna was completely out of sight, he turned and walked back into the warmth of the ship's cabin.
In the middle of the cabin, a spacious room repurposed as a staff office held Professor McGonagall, seated behind a large oak desk, glasses perched on her nose. Her brow furrowed as she read the latest issue of The Daily Prophet. Other professors lingered in the brief moments before classes, savoring the rare downtime.
Most striking was Gellert Grindelwald, lounging on a comfortable sofa in the center of the room. He held a steaming bone-china teacup, his gaze thoughtful as he stared out at the flowing clouds beyond the window. Madam Rosier sat quietly beside him, a silver teapot before her, ready to refill his cup.
As Snape entered, his eyes swept over the room, lingering briefly on Madam Rosier. Without pausing his stride toward McGonagall, he couldn't resist asking, "Madam Rosier, since Mr. Grindelwald seems to have abandoned his former grand ideals and ambitions, what's the point of your steadfast devotion to following him?"
After refilling Grindelwald's tea, Madam Rosier turned to face him. "If he were still pursuing those ambitions, Mr. Snape," she said, placing the teapot gently back on its tray, her slightly husky yet clear and pleasant voice calm, "I suspect you'd be rather displeased, wouldn't you?"
"Fair point," Snape replied with a dry chuckle. He didn't press further, instead spreading out the past few days' editions of The Daily Prophet on McGonagall's desk.
"Look at this," he said. "Hogwarts rebel teachers abduct students and flee, Ministry calls for return to reason. Professor, they claim we've kidnapped 'innocent students,' including Muggle-borns, purebloods, and half-bloods, and escaped on a mysterious ship."
"Your bounty's up to 2,500 Galleons now, Professor," he added. "Including 500 from Barty Crouch Sr., Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He says he'll never bow to rebels, not even for his own son."
McGonagall placed the latest Prophet in front of Snape. The front-page headline blared about Gellert Grindelwald's escape from Nurmengard, declaring an unprecedented threat to the wizarding world and the International Confederation of Wizards' issuance of a top-priority warrant.
"Severus, these things," she said with concern, "are they really suitable for the students to see? Especially this." She pointed at Grindelwald's wanted poster.
"Of course not," Snape replied briskly. He drew his wand. "I'm not about to shove all the 'truth' in their faces unfiltered."
He pointed his wand at the latest Prophet, its tip grazing the wanted poster. Muttering a complex Transfiguration spell, he watched as the photograph and text dissolved like they'd been erased by an invisible rubber, replaced by a garish gossip piece: "Shock! Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop Love Triangle—Quidditch Star Caught in the Middle?"
He turned to the other sensitive articles, transforming them into "1964 Quidditch World Cup Final: A Thrilling Recap," "Cornish Pixies: Mischievous Habits Behind Their Cute Facade," and a public service announcement: "Ministry Official Urges: Protect Rare Magical Plants, It's Everyone's Duty."
"Can't let them see everything, can we?" Snape said lightly as he worked. "What if someone spots something they shouldn't?"
He flipped to the inner pages, leaving untouched articles like "Abraxas Malfoy Appointed Hogwarts Headmaster, Pledges to Establish 'New Order'" and "Ministry to Form Wizarding Heritage Registration Committee to Safeguard All Wizards' Rights." These were blatant propaganda, paving the way for persecution, along with wanted notices for McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and several "defector" Aurors.
Next, Snape pulled out a few blank sheets of parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and swiftly wrote several paragraphs. For the biased articles he'd left intact, he penned critical analyses, aiming to expose the Ministry and The Daily Prophet as mouthpieces for Death Eaters. He argued that Malfoy and his pureblood supremacist allies' promises were worthless, and the Wizarding Heritage Registration Committee was a thinly veiled tool for identity-based discrimination and persecution.
When he finished, he summoned a house-elf standing respectfully nearby.
"Take these," he said, handing over the curated newspapers and his written notes. "Give them to Patrick Abbott and young Barty. Tell them to find a few trusted, reliable classmates to 'casually' discuss and interpret the articles based on these notes while others read, guiding their thoughts."
The house-elf took the bundle carefully, bowed deeply, and said in a high-pitched voice, "Yes, Mr. Snape." Then it scurried off with quick, small steps.
"Severus, you really are…" McGonagall shook her head, giving him a meaningful look. Glancing at the magical clock on the wall, she added, "You'd better get to your Potions class. You've got first- and second-years this morning, two periods."
Snape nodded, stowed his wand, adjusted the cuffs of his black robes, and left the office.
The Potions classroom was located in a specially modified large room on the upper deck of the ship. Rows of long tables stood in the center, each fitted with brass cauldron stands.
To handle potential accidents, the room was exceptionally well-ventilated, with large exhaust fans humming on either side. The floor was laid with sturdy stone tiles to resist corrosion from spilled potions.
As Snape swept into the classroom in his black robes, the first-years' whispers fell silent. Students from all four houses sat mixed together, their young faces a blend of awe and curiosity toward their famous upperclassman-turned-teacher.
Snape took his place behind the lectern at the front, his gaze softening as it swept over the room. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper, yet every word carried clearly to all.
"Potions," he said, "is a profound and magical art."
"I believe," his eyes roamed over the curious and nervous faces, "that with disciplined study and relentless practice, every one of you can, to some degree, grasp the beauty of a gently simmering cauldron, its wisps of white vapor rising, releasing delicate fragrances."
"Under my guidance," his voice took on a seductive edge, "you will have the chance to truly understand how liquids that course through human veins can enthrall the mind and sway the will." He leaned forward slightly. "Mastering this wondrous magic can elevate your reputation, brew glory, and even forestall death."
After his brief introduction, the students' eyes widened, their breathing soft, as if captivated by the vision he painted.
Snape gave them no time to linger in awe.
"Now," he said, "open your Magical Drafts and Potions to the page on the Boil-Cure Potion. For the simple potions you'll encounter this year, the book's instructions are generally reliable."
"But," he added, his tone sharpening, "when you advance to higher years, tackling deeper, more complex potions, every word and step in that book may not be correct. You must learn to question them critically, to think and experiment with your own minds, not blindly follow."
Without further ado, he launched into a clear, precise explanation of the Boil-Cure Potion's key steps and ingredient preparation.
"Begin," he instructed, pairing the students into groups of two to mix and brew the potion.
The classroom filled with the slightly chaotic clatter of equipment. Snape glided silently between the desks, his long black robes trailing, observing as students measured dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, and stirred their cauldrons.
When mistakes arose, he corrected them promptly without criticism—adjusting flame temperatures with a flick of his wand or pointing out errors in stirring direction.
But when a young girl picked up porcupine quills and prepared to toss them into her boiling cauldron, Snape's voice rose sharply.
"Stop!" he called, striding over and using his wand to halt the quills midair.
"That," he said, "is extremely dangerous. While potion-making holds many wonders, we must never ignore its risks." He turned to the class. "Would anyone like to know what happens if you add porcupine quills to a boiling cauldron?"
The students stared curiously at the floating quills.
"You seem intrigued," Snape said, motioning with his left hand. "Everyone, step back. Better yet, stand on your stools."
Under their watchful eyes, he let the quills drop into the boiling potion.
A sharp, acidic green smoke erupted from the cauldron, accompanied by a teeth-gritting hiss. The sturdy brass cauldron warped and twisted instantly, its scalding contents splashing out, sizzling as they hit the stone floor, leaving small pits and even burning through a nearby table's wooden leg.
The students, perched on their stools, gasped in horror.
Snape, unfazed, waved his wand. "Evanesco!"
A flash of light, and the corrosive potion splattered on the floor and table leg vanished, leaving only the misshapen cauldron as a warning.
"See that?" He turned, his gaze sweeping over the pale faces on the stools. "A single small cauldron, a single mistimed ingredient, can bring such danger."
"And this," he continued gravely, "is merely one of the simplest potions. The consequences of failure in advanced potions can be a hundred times worse."
"Dissolving limbs, rotting organs, permanent magical damage, even death." He slowed his words, letting each sink into the students' minds. "Potions is not a game. Caution is the first and most important lesson in my classroom."
The students watched him, their tension giving way to solemn awareness, though the girl who'd made the mistake still trembled.
"Now, Miss Polk," Snape said gently, "no need for worry or guilt. In fact, we owe you thanks for providing such a valuable opportunity to learn this lesson early."
He reached into his robe pocket, pulling out a Galleon. With a tap of his wand, the coin shimmered, and tiny glowing words appeared on its surface: Potions Class Outstanding Student.
"With no house points system anymore," he said, holding up the gleaming badge, "the two students who excel most in my class each week will earn one of these Outstanding Badges. This one, I've decided to award early to Miss Polk."
"Here," he said, stepping to her stool and handing the special badge to the stunned girl.
Polk took the coin with trembling hands, clutching it tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude.
When the long double Potions period finally ended, Snape watched the students carefully clean their cauldrons and pack away materials before leaving. He let out a quiet breath.
"Teaching is no easy task," he thought. "But seeing the spark of genuine interest and respect for Potions in their eyes… being a good teacher feels far more rewarding than being a stern, caustic one."
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