"That's it? I thought we'd see something exciting," grumbled a younger student, standing on tiptoe just outside the rope-marked circle on the lawn.
All over the grass, sixth-year students wobbled uncertainly in place.
At first, there had been eager anticipation for the fabled act of Apparition. But the sight of teenagers swaying like petrified mannequins, faces flushed redder than dragon's blood with effort, quickly drained the novelty. The spectators started drifting away in pairs and trios, unimpressed.
Within the circle, two students had accidentally jumped into the same wooden hoop and were now locked in a heated scuffle, flinging blame and elbows alike.
"This is your fault! You ruined my Apparition!"
"You stepped into my hoop, you prat!"
That, at least, caught the departing crowd's attention. Laughter broke out, and some of the younger students paused to watch the impromptu brawl.
If not for the swift intervention of the Heads of House, the morning might've ended in a house-wide melee.
Elsewhere, a handful of students spun around like confused dervishes, dazed and staggering from the sheer disorientation of their efforts.
And then, just before the session ended, something went wrong.
A piercing scream split the air.
All heads turned in time to see Peter Pettigrew swaying inside one of the wooden rings. His robes flapped in the breeze—most notably, his sleeves. Both hands, however, had not made the trip.
Professors rushed to his side. With a loud crack and a burst of purple smoke, Pettigrew collapsed into sobs. His hands were reattached, but his face had gone chalk-white, eyes wide with terror.
"Splinching," said Wilkie Twycross calmly, wand still in hand. "It occurs when the mind lacks sufficient resolve. You must keep your focus firmly on your destination—never panic, always remain deliberate. Like this."
He took a few graceful steps, arms extended, robes fluttering as he spun once on the spot.
In an instant, he vanished—and reappeared at the edge of the circle, as if materializing from the air itself.
The demonstration did nothing to boost morale.
"I'm starting to hate him," Avery muttered to Snape. "Every teacher who says 'It's not that hard' should be reassigned to mucking out Hippogriff pens."
"No kidding," Snape replied, irritated by his own lack of progress. "He makes it sound like all you need are hands. But clearly, not having any might be better."
Still, failing to Apparate was better than Splinching. Snape took some solace in that.
Twycross didn't seem fazed by the students' groans and mutters. He simply fastened his cloak and gave them all a serene look.
"Next Saturday, same time. And remember—Three Ds: Destination. Determination. Deliberation."
After the chaos, most students began to despise that mantra. To them, the three Ds felt more like Dumbass, Dog-breath, and Dung-head.
Despite everything, the weekend passed without further catastrophe.
But the following week's Care of Magical Creatures class caught Snape completely off guard.
This particular lesson was being held indoors, a rare shift to theory under Professor Kettleburn, who was struggling to point at the chalkboard with his one remaining arm.
"The Basilisk," Kettleburn began, gesturing toward an unsettling illustration, "also known as the King of Serpents, is a giant serpent that can reach lengths of up to fifty feet. Its scales are an emerald green, dazzling to the eye.
"Its fangs secrete venom of extraordinary potency, and its trail leaves behind corrosive slime potent enough to kill lesser beasts.
"But by far the most lethal feature of the Basilisk is its gaze—one direct look into those yellow eyes, and death is instant."
Snape leaned forward slightly. Extraordinary venom. Even in death, he remembered, a Basilisk's fang could destroy a Horcrux.
Kettleburn continued, his voice echoing around the quiet classroom.
"The first recorded Basilisk was bred by a dark Greek wizard named Herpo the Foul. He was a Parselmouth, and found that placing a chicken egg under a toad would produce this terrifying creature.
"It's said his Basilisk lived for nearly nine centuries."
Snape's eyes narrowed. Wait… is he actually teaching us how to breed a Basilisk? The thought was so bizarre, it gave him pause.
"Professor," Snape interrupted, raising a hand, his voice edged with disbelief, "are you sure this is something we're meant to learn?"
Kettleburn sighed, clearly frustrated. "No, Severus, I'm not sure. But the Ministry's N.E.W.T. syllabus hasn't been updated in over two hundred years. This was on it then—and it's still on it now."
He grumbled under his breath. "Probably left in by Perseus Parkinson back when he was Minister for Magic… the same idiot who tried to outlaw wizard–Muggle marriages."
Then he raised his voice again, this time with stern finality.
"I must be clear: breeding a Basilisk is a crime. It always has been."
He looked around the room.
"And while the method may be simple, the danger is immense. Basilisks obey no one—except perhaps a Parselmouth. And even then, many Parselmouths have been eaten or petrified by their own creations."
Snape stared at the chalkboard's life-like image of the creature, and suddenly, an odd vision bloomed in his mind:
He sat upon a throne of broken wands, regal and composed. Dozens of blindfolded Basilisks coiled around him, slithering like shadows. Bound nearby, Tom Riddle glared helplessly, gagged and powerless. One by one, Snape tossed Horcruxes down to Dumbledore, who directed the Basilisks to destroy each one.
Thankfully, the bell rang, cutting the fantasy short.