As night fell, a chill crept silently from the high skies, and the temperature inside and outside the ship's cabin plummeted.
Severus Snape, forced to don his robe again in the middle of the night, hurried toward the herb greenhouse at the ship's stern.
This was a magical space carved out in the sunniest part of the stern, maintained daily by Eileen for cultivating plants and teaching students.
Pushing open the greenhouse door, a wave of warm, humid air surged from the gap, starkly contrasting the biting cold outside.
Moonlight spilled through the transparent glass ceiling, casting a soft glow. Snape immediately spotted Eileen, yawning as she pulled out a pair of earmuffs and gloves.
Beside her, Myrtle Warren's translucent figure hovered in a corner of the greenhouse, watching her movements with keen interest.
"You're here too, for the Mandrakes?" Snape asked, closing the door and striding over. His gaze swept across rows of Mandrake seedlings potted in large planters as he nodded a greeting to Myrtle.
The deep green leaves swayed gently in the still air, emitting faint but piercing whimpers.
"Oh, Severus," Eileen looked up, her face etched with fatigue. "It's getting too cold too fast. We need to add some warming measures." She gestured to a pile of tiny socks and scarves knitted from thick wool on a nearby table. "I don't trust anyone else with this. It requires extreme care."
"Good timing," she added, handing Snape a pair of earmuffs. "Join me. We can finish this and still catch some sleep."
Snape nodded, slipping on dragonhide gloves and the soundproof earmuffs. Eileen did the same.
Ensuring these delicate yet dangerous Mandrake seedlings grew safely and quickly was their hope for reviving the petrified Dobby—a critical task.
They approached the whimpering seedlings with care, gently uprooting each one, wrapping their roots in thick woolen socks, and loosely tying tiny scarves around their stems to shield them from the unexpected cold snap.
Working in tandem, they completed the "warming project" for all the Mandrake seedlings amid shrill cries only Myrtle could hear.
Removing the heavy earmuffs, the greenhouse fell quiet, save for the soft rustling of Mandrake leaves and the low hum of the ventilation system.
Eileen watched Snape peel off his gloves, her face clouding with deep worry.
"Severus," she began hesitantly, then pressed on, "we're both half-bloods. Maybe… registering with the Ministry, accepting their 'management,' could be an option?" Her voice was soft. "At least it would be safer."
Snape's movements froze. He met Eileen's gaze, his dark eyes holding no reproach, only a trace of apology and understanding.
"I'm sorry to make you worry, Mother," he said. "But I can't just think of myself. The students on this ship—many of them trusted me when they boarded. If I abandon them now for so-called 'safety,' leaving them to face unknown dangers, what does that make me?"
"Pinning safety on our blood status," Snape shook his head, "or on the 'mercy' and 'promises' of Death Eaters and the Ministry—it's unreliable."
"Besides," he continued, "there are things I can't tell you, but from the moment I suggested you take a post at Hogwarts, reconciliation with the Death Eaters was impossible. On this ship," he offered Eileen a gentle smile, "I'm one of the two people they'd never spare."
Eileen saw the unyielding resolve in Snape's eyes and knew further persuasion was futile.
She sighed deeply, tears glistening in her eyes, and reached out to smooth his hair, mussed by the earmuffs. "You're grown now. Just… be careful, always."
Snape clasped her cold hand briefly and said, "Let's not dwell on such grim topics."
"Think about it—we're together now, with warm beds, good food, and plenty of friendly faces." He lightened his tone, trying to shift the mood. "Things are already pretty good, aren't they?"
Eileen managed a faint smile and nodded. Her gaze drifted to Myrtle, hovering nearby. "Myrtle, how have you been settling in on the ship? Are you managing?"
Myrtle's face shimmered brightly in the moonlight, free of any trace of sorrow or gloom.
"Oh, it's been wonderful, really," she replied, floating closer at Eileen's concern. "The students here just call me 'Myrtle' or 'Happy Myrtle,' not 'Moaning Myrtle.'" She spun gleefully in the air. "They treat me like a friend, and there's no wretched Peeves!"
"But…" Myrtle sighed, "this year's Halloween marks Sir Nicholas's—oh, Nearly Headless Nick's—485th deathday."
"Every five years, he throws a deathday party and loves being called 'Sir' during it," she explained. "He always invited me before… though it wasn't much fun, it was somewhere to go. I can't attend this year."
"Is Sir Nicholas's deathday party any good?" Eileen asked curiously.
"Not at all!" Myrtle pouted. "It's cold, damp, the food's all rotten, and the music is dreadful—the ghosts' tastes are just awful!" Despite her complaints, a hint of nostalgia crept into her tone. "Still, I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"Then it's perfect," Snape said with a warm smile. "Next Monday night, we're holding a Halloween feast. You should join us."
"You've shed that old nickname for so long—come to the students' feast like the other ghosts."
"Oh, brilliant!" Myrtle's eyes lit up. "I was hoping someone would invite me!" She did a delighted flip in the air, her translucent form passing through a podding Bubotuber.
As they chatted, the tightly wrapped Mandrake seedlings quieted, their whimpers fading into soft murmurs like a sleeping infant's babble.
"Shh…" Eileen gestured for silence. "They're asleep. Let's not disturb their growth. Time to go."
The two humans and one ghost tiptoed out of the greenhouse, carefully closing the door.
They hadn't gone far down the chilly corridor when rapid footsteps and heavy panting echoed from one side.
Professor McGonagall, draped in her traveling cloak, rushed toward them alongside Hagrid.
Hagrid's massive frame moved with urgency, cradling a human-shaped bundle wrapped tightly in a thick cloak.
"Minerva! Hagrid!" Eileen hurried to meet them. "What's happened?"
McGonagall, spotting Eileen and Snape, looked as though she'd found salvation. "Eileen, we have an injured person—a serious case!"
Hagrid, still holding the injured figure, veered toward the path to the infirmary, his steps as light as his bulk allowed.
Snape and Eileen followed swiftly.
"Who is it?" Snape asked, staring at Hagrid's broad back, a sense of dread rising.
"Alastor," McGonagall said, her voice laced with urgency and a touch of relief. "I finally reached him through my Patronus. He was hiding in a safehouse, but he's badly hurt."
"I got to him just before he passed out. Frank and Alice…" Her voice caught. "They… drew off the pursuers to protect Alastor and were captured by Aurors."
They reached the infirmary door in moments.
Gideon Prewett was dozing in a chair, but his brother Fabian stood vigilant at the entrance.
Seeing Hagrid charge in with the bundle, Fabian stepped forward warily.
When the corridor's light revealed the scarred, ravaged face peeking from Hagrid's cloak, even the battle-hardened Fabian gasped, "Merlin's beard, Alastor!"
Gideon jolted awake at his brother's cry, rubbing his eyes as he leapt up.
Hagrid shouldered open the infirmary door but froze, his massive frame suddenly moving with extreme care.
Peering past Hagrid, Snape saw why: deep in the infirmary, near Dumbledore's bed, Gellert Grindelwald sat quietly in an armchair, facing away from the door.
Hagrid, holding his breath, gently laid Moody on an empty bed.
As Snape approached, he saw the full extent of Moody's injuries and felt his heart clench.
Moody's face was nearly unrecognizable. His gray-white hair was matted with blood, his face crisscrossed with deep, bone-exposing gashes, as if torn by a beast.
His mouth was a crooked, gaping wound, and where his nose should have been was only a mangled, bloody shape.
Most chilling was his eye—or lack thereof. Where one eye was closed, the other was a bloodied, ruined socket, its edges twitching faintly, too gruesome to linger on.
"Alastor…" Gideon whispered, covering his mouth, his face pale.
Eileen had already rushed to the potion cabinet, swiftly grabbing bottles and vials—Dittany, Skele-Gro, Blood-Replenishing Potion, potent pain-relieving draughts…
She returned to Moody's bedside, her movements a blur of urgency and methodical calm as she cleaned, disinfected, healed, and applied salves.
Under her deft care, most of Moody's torn wounds were cleaned and closed, coated with cooling ointments.
The gaping wound where his nose had been was carefully bandaged with gauze soaked in a special regenerative herb solution. But the ruined eye socket remained an empty void.
Eileen straightened, exhausted, her eyes filled with regret and helplessness as she looked at the socket.
"The wounds are clean, and most flesh injuries will heal. His nose will regrow in time," she said heavily, shaking her head. "But the eye… I can't do anything. Most of the eyeball was destroyed. I had to remove it completely, or the damage could spread and cost him his other eye."
A heavy silence fell over the infirmary. McGonagall closed her eyes helplessly, while Gideon and Fabian clenched their fists.
"Could someone craft an alchemical—" Snape began, but a sudden voice cut him off.
"The eyeball, as a highly specialized sensory organ, triggers a severe inflammatory response when injured," Grindelwald said calmly, as if analyzing a curious phenomenon. "It's essentially a unique immune rejection and repair process, clearing irreparable debris and necrotic tissue."
Everyone startled, realizing Grindelwald had silently moved to stand by the bed, studying Moody's injuries—particularly the cleaned, empty socket.
"Mr. Grindelwald," McGonagall looked up, hope flaring in her eyes. "Do you have a way? Can you…"
Grindelwald seemed briefly unsettled by her hopeful gaze, a touch of awkwardness crossing his face.
"Those books," he said, glancing away toward several open volumes on Dumbledore's bed, "I found them in the ship's library corner."
"Muggle medical texts do mention some treatments for eye injuries," he shrugged, "but sadly, Muggle medicine can't regrow a lost eye. Magic… has its limits here too."
The light in McGonagall's eyes dimmed. She turned sadly to Moody, still frowning in his unconscious pain.
"However…" Grindelwald paused, then spoke with a trace of uncertainty and distant memory. "Many, many years ago, Albus and I discussed the possibility of using alchemical artifacts to replace damaged or missing organs."
"Theoretically," his gaze returned to Moody's face, "we could consider crafting an alchemical eye for him. But it's no simple task."
"Could it really work, Mr. Grindelwald?" McGonagall asked eagerly. "Anything you need to help Alastor—just name it."
"I'll think it over," Grindelwald replied with a slight nod, neither promising nor refusing. With that, he returned to Dumbledore's bedside, picked up a book, and sat down.
Over the next two days, Moody stabilized under Eileen's care and potent potions, eventually waking.
Despite losing an eye, the old Auror's will was ironclad, unbothered by the grievous injury. If not for Eileen's insistence that he stay in bed, he'd likely have torn off the bandages on his nose, claiming, "They're no use anyway."
Meanwhile, Snape's carefully "edited" copies of The Daily Prophet and their interpretive guides began circulating in the ship's cabins.
Students gathered in small groups in the dining hall corners, buzzing with discussion about the news.
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