During this time, students were periodically taken to relatively safe coastal beaches, tranquil lakesides, or secluded woodlands for brief moments of rest, picnics, or strolls.
Walking on solid ground, breathing the fresh forest air, and feeling sunlight filter through the leaves—these simple, grounding experiences greatly eased the anxiety and claustrophobia of their prolonged exile. The once-oppressive atmosphere aboard the Founders' Ark began to give way to a sense of optimism.
The students' skin tanned, their laughter grew louder, though the starry sky above and the sea of clouds below still reminded them they were in flight, far from home.
Meanwhile, under Gellert Grindelwald's battle-hardened and highly distinctive Defense Against the Dark Arts training, the students' practical skills improved noticeably.
Classes were no longer dull lectures or rote defensive spell practice. They were dynamic, filled with sparring, environmental tactics, and precise counterattacks.
Grindelwald's teaching emphasized striking first and delivering a "decisive blow" to neutralize an opponent's ability to fight—a philosophy that made Professor McGonagall uneasy.
After quietly observing one of his lessons, she couldn't help but vent to Snape.
"Severus," she said, "I must admit, Mr. Grindelwald's teaching is remarkably effective. But don't you think it goes beyond the scope of Defense Against the Dark Arts? It feels more like… training for outright attack."
"Professor," Snape replied coolly, "the best defense is a good offense. If a dark wizard is incapacitated or loses the will to cast before we act, we stay unharmed. Isn't that the point?"
In truth, Snape was quite pleased with Grindelwald's methods, especially since the man had agreed to give him private training.
Faced with this logic, McGonagall sighed but didn't argue. Though she didn't fully approve of Grindelwald's approach, she knew that in these desperate times, the students' safety trumped ideological disagreements.
During their third private lesson, when Grindelwald indicated he had little left to teach Snape about combat techniques and suggested ending the sessions, Snape posed a question that had been nagging at him.
"Mr. Grindelwald, let's set techniques aside for now. I want to know—how do you fly freely in the air without a broom or any external aid, relying solely on yourself?"
Grindelwald studied him for a moment. "Do you play Quidditch, Severus?"
"No interest," Snape said, his face impassive. "I'm not fond of chasing little balls on a broom."
Grindelwald chuckled lightly. "Fair enough. I agree—Quidditch is rather dull." His tone shifted. "Have you read Quidditch Through the Ages?"
Snape nodded slightly. He'd delved into all sorts of magical knowledge, so of course he'd read it. But he couldn't see what a Quidditch book had to do with flying unaided.
"There's a key point in that book that many overlook," Grindelwald said calmly. "You might recall Whisp mentioning that, to this day, no spell has been invented to let wizards fly in human form without tools.
"Levitation—of objects or oneself—is commonplace, but that's entirely different from true, autonomous flight."
"But when you brought us to the Founders' Ark," Snape said, meeting Grindelwald's gaze, "weren't you flying in human form?" He vividly remembered Grindelwald soaring through the clouds with him and Madam Rosier in tow.
"Not quite, Severus," Grindelwald said, shaking his head with a faint look of "you didn't observe closely enough."
Without warning, his body rose gently from the deck, hovering inside the ship's cabin.
Snape's eyes widened. He noticed Grindelwald's feet transform dramatically.
They were no longer solid but had dissolved into wisps of swirling, indistinct gray-white smoke, their edges blurred.
The smoke didn't disperse; it coiled and condensed like a living thing, supporting Grindelwald's hovering form.
His upper body remained distinctly human, but below his robes, a misty, flowing haze took shape.
"See?" Grindelwald's voice was steady, as if showing off a parlor trick. "You only thought I was flying in full human form."
He descended slowly, the smoky lower half coalescing back into elegantly shod feet.
"Professor, I want to learn this!" Snape's eyes gleamed with realization. "Please, teach me!"
Grindelwald settled into an armchair with grace. "It requires profound skill in Transfiguration and meticulous control over your magic," he said. "You transform part of your body into a form better suited to interact with air currents and magical energy, while maintaining your core form and absolute mental focus."
He studied Snape for a moment, as if weighing something. "It's not impossible," he said, nodding slowly. "Since you've shown me due respect, I'll make an exception and teach you.
"Consider it… compensation for destroying the method to restore your little snake to human form, and a small reward for your tireless work brewing potions for Albus."
Under Grindelwald's exacting guidance, Snape began the grueling process.
His goal was to master transforming part of his body into a semi-ethereal, smoke-like state that, according to Grindelwald, could better sense and manipulate the surrounding magical and air currents for flight.
The challenge was maintaining a mental connection with the transformed part, treating it as an integral extension of himself, controlling it as naturally as his own limbs through willpower and sustained spells, rather than letting it dissipate or drift away.
After some thought, Snape decided to follow Grindelwald's example and start with his feet.
On his first attempt, he focused intensely, pointing his wand at his feet and reciting the complex incantation.
It took immense effort, but he felt his feet grow vague and weightless…
Looking down, he saw their edges blur, shrouded in a thin layer of gray mist.
But the result was a dizzying loss of balance. Without the grounding of solid feet, they seemed to have a mind of their own, drifting slightly to one side.
"Ugh!" Snape grunted, his body pitching forward. He quickly aimed his wand at the floor, barely catching himself.
Grindelwald appeared at his side, tapping his wand lightly. The drifting wisps snapped back, reforming into Snape's feet.
"Control," Grindelwald said leisurely, "is the heart of it. You must always feel them as part of you, like moving your fingers.
"And," he added with a teasing edge, "this is why I chose my feet, not another part—like, say, your head. Otherwise, it might be your thoughts drifting away."
Snape narrowed his eyes, shooting Grindelwald a look. Thankfully, he'd instinctively chosen the same body part. With Grindelwald as a safety net, he didn't need to worry too much.
Shaking his head, he refocused and kept practicing.
The days of repetitive, arduous training wore on. Snape progressed through countless stumbles, drifts, and moments of partial loss of control.
Finally, he could reliably transform his feet into controllable smoke and anchor them to his will, preventing them from floating off.
In one exhausting session, he stared at his feet—now two wisps of pale gray mist—pouring all his willpower into them.
After over a minute, as he emerged from his focused trance and glanced at the wooden floor's grain, he realized he'd moved forward… about two centimeters.
A success, but a measly two centimeters.
It was so underwhelming that Snape felt a pang of dissatisfaction—true flight was still miles away.
But Grindelwald, watching from the side, let a flicker of amazement cross his face.
"Impressive, Severus," he said, his tone carrying rare praise. "I thought it would take you longer to get this far. Your talent and willpower are stronger than I expected—no wonder Albus is so fond of you.
"Remember, this unaided flight is an immensely difficult and dangerous magic. Even if I shared its principles with the world, few could master it.
"Take it slow. Don't rush. That's enough for today."
---
Time slipped into mid-December, and bitter winds began to whip through the skies.
One day, McGonagall summoned Snape to the captain's cabin, her face graver than usual.
"Severus, we have an emergency," she said bluntly. "Through secret channels in the Ministry, we've learned that a spike in Muggle attacks has provoked a strong reaction from Muggle authorities, who've taken unprecedented measures.
"Not long ago, a Death Eater on a 'cleansing' mission was killed by a Muggle policeman with some kind of metal wand.
"Though the other Death Eaters at the scene retaliated, slaughtering the Muggle officers, the incident has sparked outrage and a thirst for vengeance among them."
She took a deep breath. "Worse still, at the suggestion of Dolores Jane Umbridge—now head of the newly formed Muggle Management Division, not just the Misuse of Magic Office—the Ministry has decided to place the Muggle Prime Minister under so-called 'special protection.'"
"Special protection?" Snape said sardonically. "The Imperius Curse, you mean?"
"I suspect as much," McGonagall confirmed. "Until now, Voldemort's regime largely ignored the Muggle government, but this new division has clearly shifted their strategy.
"They plan to control the Muggle government by dominating its leader, thereby controlling Muggle society more effectively." Her voice trembled with anger. "By using Legilimency on captured Muggle officials, they've pinpointed the Prime Minister's secret hiding place.
"Those arrogant, reckless, pure-blood fools! Don't they realize why, for centuries, wizarding societies worldwide have chosen secrecy over direct confrontation with Muggles?"
"Severus," she said, taking a deep breath and fixing him with a piercing gaze, "we must stop them. We cannot let them succeed, or it could spell disaster for the wizarding world.
"I've thought long and hard, and you're the best person for this task. You understand the Muggle world and can move through it discreetly. Your magical prowess can handle any conflict.
"Your quick thinking and decisiveness are exactly what we need. We need you to infiltrate the Prime Minister's hiding place and transfer him to an Order of the Phoenix safe house."
Before Snape could respond, McGonagall cut in.
"Don't answer yet," she said. "You can refuse. It's not fair to keep asking a student to do these things…" She shook her head. "We have a backup—Kingsley Shacklebolt. He knows a bit about Muggle society."
"Why not?" Snape said slowly after she finished. "I'm rather interested in this. The location? I assume it's not 10 Downing Street?"
"No, the Muggles aren't as foolish as they think," McGonagall said. "Downing Street is staffed only by administrative officials now. The Prime Minister has been moved to a secret location." She handed him a slip of paper with a London address. "This is where he's hiding."
She pulled a parchment from a drawer and passed it to him. "This is the safe house's location—one of Albus's old backup safe points. It's highly secure, with powerful magical protections."
Snape scanned the parchment, memorizing the address before handing it back. McGonagall tucked it away.
"Be careful, Severus," she said finally. "Your safety matters just as much."
"I understand," Snape replied. "I'll prepare and set out shortly."