A few days of high-altitude travel were enough to accustom even the most anxious soul to life among the clouds.
The Founders' Ship was like a floating paradise.
Morning sunlight streamed through the portholes into the dining hall on the first deck. Looking out the windows, all one could see was a sea of fluffy clouds and an endless expanse of azure sky, occasionally broken by a passing bird that drew the curious gazes of students craning their necks.
The entire ship was enchanted with an Extension Charm, making the dining hall spacious enough to accommodate all the students and staff. The air was filled with the crisp clinking of cutlery and the excited murmurs of students.
Severus Snape sat at a small wooden table, methodically slicing a piece of cured ham. His gaze was fixed on his plate: cured ham, smoked salmon, sardines in oil, pickled radishes, accompanied by a small serving of freshly mixed vegetable salad and a peach glistening with dewdrops—the only visibly fresh item on his plate.
He frowned almost imperceptibly. Glancing around, he saw house-elves bustling in and out through the side door of the dining hall, carrying trays or steaming bowls of soup, scurrying between tables with quick, small steps.
The food no longer appeared directly on the tables as it had at Hogwarts. The house-elves, too, no longer materialized as fleeting apparitions but now physically walked, delivering meals with their own hands.
At that moment, a house-elf carrying a basket of fresh fruit hurried past, head bowed. Snape set down his knife and fork, calling softly, "Wait a moment."
The elf stopped abruptly, nearly colliding with a nearby chair.
Lifting her head, she saw Snape, and her wrinkled face lit up with joy. Her bulbous eyes widened, and her pointed ears quivered with excitement.
"Mr. Snape! Esteemed Mr. Snape!" the elf squeaked, her voice shrill with emotion. She raised her hands eagerly, causing the red apples in her basket to tremble. "Does Mr. Snape want an apple?"
Snape paused, studying the elf dressed in a tattered tea-towel apron.
"Mipple?" he ventured, searching his memory. A few seconds later, it clicked—Mipple, the elf who knew Dobby. She had once prepared him lavish meals and even her own homemade wine. Of course, that wine had later ended up in Professor Dumbledore's hands.
"Yes, Mipple," Snape confirmed with a nod. "I just wanted to ask—why aren't you delivering food the way you used to? It was more convenient and faster at the castle. This way, you're working much harder."
"No more, Mr. Snape!" Mipple replied, wiping away tears of excitement with a sniffle. "Professor McGonagall told Mipple that on this noble ship, house-elves cannot Apparate.
"The magic is different now. Mipple tried—tried so hard to pop from here to the kitchen door. But it failed! Bang!" She mimed an exaggerated stumble.
So that was it. Snape nodded in understanding. It seemed that after realizing the unique abilities of house-elves, Professor McGonagall and the others had adjusted the ship's magical protections accordingly.
"I see. Thank you for your hard work, Mipple," Snape said, softening his tone. "It must be exhausting to do things this way. Thank you for preparing our meals."
At his words, Mipple let out a wail, her body trembling so violently that the fruit basket nearly toppled.
"Mr. Snape…" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face like broken pearls, barely able to catch her breath.
Her cries drew the attention of nearby house-elves. Three or four of them quickly gathered, gently patting Mipple's shoulders or back in an attempt to comfort her.
One elf, with a wrinkled nose and a slightly newer pillowcase for clothing, gazed at Snape with boundless reverence.
"Mr. Snape," he squeaked, "please forgive Mipple's outburst. We… we thank you on behalf of Dobby!"
"We all know," another elf interjected, "it was Mr. Snape who insisted on bringing Dobby along. Dobby's been petrified for so long, yet you didn't abandon a 'useless' elf. No wizard has ever treated house-elves like that!" His voice cracked with emotion.
Snape realized why Mipple had reacted so strongly, why these elves looked at him with such unprecedented respect and warmth.
"Alright," he said calmly, "it's nothing extraordinary. Mipple needs rest—she's too emotional. Take her below and get her some hot tea."
The elves obeyed at once, clustering around the sobbing Mipple, who was nearly fainting from her tears, and guided her out of the dining hall.
The brief commotion in the dining hall settled. The scene had not gone unnoticed by the students, who now looked at Snape with respect, whispering about how their Head of House commanded such authority even among house-elves. Even Lily paused her conversation with Pandora, her clear green eyes flickering with thought as she glanced at Snape.
But from the other end of the hall came a derisive snort.
"Well, isn't that a sight, mates," James said, jabbing his fork into a piece of cured meat on his plate, addressing his friends. "A wizard who can move those filthy little servants to tears? A couple of 'thank yous' and they're bawling their eyes out? Tsk, what a performance."
Sirius shook his head slightly at James. Peter glanced nervously around, while Remus frowned, seeming to want to say something.
Snape's gaze swept over them, dismissing James's words without a care.
"What a time for it," he thought, casually picking up a red apple Mipple had left behind and taking a bite, its sweet fragrance bursting in his mouth.
But not every creature in the dining hall was so indifferent.
An elderly, frail house-elf with a bald head and tufts of white hair sprouting from bat-like ears paused in his steps. Shuffling toward James's table, he didn't offer a greeting or even glance at the four young wizards.
With a bony, knobby hand, he moved with deceptive slowness but startling speed. In one swift motion, he snatched James's plate with half-eaten ham, Sirius's half-drunk goblet of pumpkin juice, Peter's partially gnawed chicken leg, and Remus's butter dish.
"Hey! What're you doing?!" James shouted, nearly dropping his fork in shock.
"Stop it, we're still eating!" Sirius glared at the strange elf.
The elderly elf seemed to ignore them, his watery gray eyes fixed on the group as he deliberately stacked the dishes with grating clinks.
"Hogwarts students may eat whatever they please," he said in a humble yet oddly cloying tone. "Great, noble students… house-elves must serve them well, ensure a pleasant dining experience…"
Without turning, he continued in a raspy, bullfrog-like voice, loud enough for all to hear, "But students cannot expel Glickey from the school… no, they cannot, for Glickey belongs to Hogwarts. Oh yes, only the Headmaster has that power."
"Hmph, those self-important pureblood brats have no such authority. They…" Glickey sniffed the air dramatically, "smell like gutters and criminals. Oh, poor Glickey, forced to share a room with them…"
James's face turned from annoyance to a livid shade of maroon. He slammed his hand on the table and stood. "You filthy little—"
"Calm down, James!" Remus, quick as ever, grabbed his arm. Sirius yanked James back into his seat.
At the same moment, Snape drew his wand from his robes, watching the Marauders warily in case they moved against Glickey.
Glickey seemed to notice the commotion—and his "self-important brats"—only then.
"Achoo!"
A thunderous sneeze erupted, sending a spray of spittle directly onto the teetering stack of plates laden with the Marauders' leftovers.
"Oh no!" Glickey exclaimed, his muttering ceasing as he adopted an exaggerated, dubious look of surprise.
Flailing, he nearly dropped the stack but "heroically" steadied it.
"Glickey didn't see you there," he said, his misty eyes scanning the furious James with feigned sincerity. "Young, noble wizards, do you still want these?" He cautiously held the plates toward them.
James glared, waving a hand in disgust. "Take them away!"
Glickey turned slowly, hunched over, dragging his feet toward the kitchen door at the far end of the hall.
"Oh, how shameful," he muttered, his voice soft but perfectly audible. "Poor old Glickey, what can he do?"
The dining hall fell silent.
Then, a stifled snicker broke the quiet, followed by suppressed giggles and coughs rippling through the students. James and Sirius's faces darkened, their eyes practically shooting sparks, but they had no outlet for their frustration.
Snape pocketed his wand. Watching Glickey disappear, the corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.
The afternoon weather shifted subtly. The once-fluffy white clouds below had coalesced into an endless, roiling blanket of gray-black and steely blue.
Occasionally, a stark white bolt of lightning silently tore through the darkness, briefly illuminating the swirling cyclones within the clouds. Seconds later, the dull rumble of thunder reached the ears of those on deck.
Though the magical shield dampened the wind's force, the strong currents still made the masts creak faintly.
Drawn by the rare spectacle of a thunderstorm viewed from above, students flocked to the deck's edge.
They crowded against the railings, faces alight with excitement and a touch of nervousness, pointing and chattering about the churning black ocean of clouds below.
Just then, a figure on a broomstick burst through the cloud layer, soaring upward and heading straight for the ship.
The protective shield's faint glow rippled as the figure deftly passed through, landing steadily on the deck.
The students gasped. Professor McGonagall stood before them, drenched to the bone, her black robes clinging to her frame, rainwater dripping from her hair plastered to her forehead.
Her bun was disheveled, but she paid it no mind, swiftly waving her wand over herself and her broom. The water evaporated instantly, restoring some of her usual dignity.
Her eyes were sharp, her expression unusually grim. The traces of fatigue and warmth she'd shown in recent days were gone, replaced by an icy, somber air.
Without glancing at the crowd, she strode purposefully through the students, who parted automatically, and pushed open the wooden door to the ship's interior.
The door slammed shut behind her, and the students on deck exhaled, their hushed conversations resuming, now tinged with unease.
Without hesitation, Snape followed, entering the brightly lit corridor inside. Thanks to Professor Dumbledore's letter, he now had the authority to participate in the ship's highest decisions.
He saw McGonagall striding toward the staircase leading to the upper deck, pausing to knock on Professor Flitwick's office door along the way.
The door opened immediately, revealing Flitwick's small, worry-lined face.
McGonagall gave him a curt nod, and he hurried after her on his short legs.
The three moved silently through the corridor and up the spiral staircase.
At last, McGonagall stopped before a wooden door on the topmost deck, tapping it with her wand. It swung open.
This was the captain's cabin, the vantage point with the best view on the Founders' Ship. Beyond the large, curved porthole lay an endless sea of clouds and sky.
McGonagall closed the door behind them, casting multiple Silencing and Protective Charms with her wand.
She crossed to a mahogany desk in the center of the room without a word. From her robe's inner pocket, she pulled out a neatly folded but slightly curled copy of The Daily Prophet, its edges damp from the rain.
Flitwick, standing on tiptoe, noted the date—it was from a few days ago, the day after their departure.
Snape's eyes fell on the eerie photograph dominating the front page. Against a darkening sky, an enormous skull hovered over the Black Lake, slowly rising.
A writhing serpent emerged from the skull's mouth, like a tongue. As they watched, the skull ascended higher, glowing brightly in a cloud of green smoke, a new constellation against the pitch-black night.
"The Dark Mark!" Flitwick squeaked, slamming his small fist on the desk. "Hogwarts… Hogwarts Castle… has fallen…"
"Yes, Professor," Snape said to Flitwick. "This was foreseeable. But fortunately," he paused, "we managed to evacuate everyone who might have been harmed."
McGonagall remained silent, her chest heaving. At Snape's mention of the evacuated students and staff, her taut expression softened slightly. "I hope Horace and Pomona can look after the remaining children," she said, her voice dry.
Flitwick punched the air emphatically. "They will! Pomona and Horace are old hands—years of experience in Slytherin and Hufflepuff. They'll manage just fine!"
Snape said nothing more, his gaze returning to the newspaper on the desk. He reached out, flipping through the subsequent issues with more recent dates.
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