"Professor, this isn't Azkaban, is it?"
Snape rubbed his temples, grimacing as he struggled to shake off the dizziness and nausea that clung to him after Side-Along Apparition. His vision was still a bit foggy.
Before them lay a vast stretch of gray sea, waves crashing violently against the stone cliffs. Behind them stretched a wide meadow dotted with enormous, glistening pebbles.
"No, Severus," Dumbledore replied calmly, his silver beard and hair fluttering gently in the salt-heavy wind. "We're on the coast of Yorkshire. Apparition to Azkaban is not permitted."
He raised a hand and pointed toward the churning waters. "Where we're going lies in the middle of the North Sea."
"And how exactly do we get there?" Snape asked, squinting against the wind. "Don't tell me you're going to teach me how to fly now."
"Ah, not just yet," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. He raised his wand and gave it a light flick.
A shimmer of light flashed in the air before them. With a great splash, a black wooden sailboat materialized from thin air, crashing into the sea with a thunderous splash.
With another casual wave, a thick rope shot from Dumbledore's wand like a living serpent, latching firmly onto the boat and securing it to the rocky shoreline.
"Let's wait here a bit," Dumbledore said softly. "Alastor will join us tomorrow and accompany us the rest of the way. He's familiar with Azkaban. His presence should smooth our journey considerably."
"Then why leave today at all?" Snape shouted over the wind, brow furrowed in irritation. "Was Hogwarts too cozy? You felt like taking in the breeze?"
"Oh, Severus," Dumbledore chuckled, undisturbed by the biting wind. He gave another flick of his wand, and with a soft pop, a tent appeared in midair and gently settled on the grass.
The poles and stakes moved on their own, digging into the earth and assembling the tent with practiced ease.
"Let's go inside," Dumbledore said, stepping forward and pulling back the flap.
Snape hunched and stepped in, only to stop in surprise.
He had expected something spacious, perhaps akin to the magically expanded tents used for the Quidditch World Cup. At the very least, something worthy of a wizard of Dumbledore's stature.
But no—it was just a simple tent. Empty, save for a sheet laid out on the ground to sleep on.
"Er..." Snape hesitated, stepping back out. "Professor, this doesn't suit you at all. Let's use mine instead."
He pulled a two-tier enchanted tent from his bag, murmured a spell, and watched as it erected itself instantly.
It came complete with a charming little garden blooming with flowers of all colors. Clearly charmed for comfort and style.
"Come on, Professor," Snape said, ushering Dumbledore out of the bare tent and into his own. "Even war shouldn't be fought without a bit of class."
Though he knew the tent offered no extraordinary protections, Snape also knew that anywhere Dumbledore stayed was, by definition, the safest place on earth.
Once Dumbledore was seated in a plush armchair, Snape retrieved a miniature looking glass from his bag and set it on the table between them.
Then, with practiced ease, he pulled out a bottle of wine, some elegantly wrapped sweets and meats, and a full set of tableware.
"Professor, allow me," Snape said, pouring the wine manually rather than using magic.
He raised his glass, eyes gleaming. "Thirty-year-old Burgundy. Aged in charm and legend."
Dumbledore took his glass with elegance, swirling it gently, then inhaling deeply with a look of bliss. "Excellent. Truly excellent."
"Of course," Snape said smugly, throwing back a gulp and sighing with satisfaction. "Sweet, isn't it?"
"Yes, Severus, and strangely familiar," Dumbledore mused, twirling the wine in his glass. His eyes glittered. "Do you know which house-elf stomped those grapes?"
Snape choked—literally.
Wine sprayed from his mouth as he stared, wide-eyed. "You—what?! You mean to say this was... foot-pressed? By a house-elf?!"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, unbothered. "Hogwarts still follows some of its oldest traditions. The elves have been making wine this way since the Middle Ages. It's rustic, but it adds a certain charm, don't you think?"
Snape gaped. "So... all the wine we've ever had at school feasts..."
Dumbledore nodded with a serene smile.
Snape looked like he might be sick. "I think... maybe I'll stick to water from now on."
They sat beside the warm fire, enjoying the rich food made by Hogwarts' elves. The comforting heat, the wine, and a full stomach lulled Snape into a state of dreamy drowsiness. His eyelids drooped; his limbs slackened.
Then came the explosions.
A sharp, echoing crack rattled the tent. The table's looking glass began to spin violently, its surface glowing with blinding intensity.
Snape jolted upright, blinking away sleep. He sprang from his chair, yanked his wand from inside his robes.
Outside, loud, jeering voices rang out—close, coarse, excited.
"Drop your wand! Hands up! Come out now!"
"Professor, something's wrong." Snape turned to Dumbledore, breath quickening. "What do we do?"
Dumbledore looked up at him, calm as ever. He gave the faintest of nods, utterly at ease.
"Severus," he said mildly, "go take care of it."
"Me?" Snape said, stunned, pointing to himself with disbelief.