It was wrong. The boy had such an instinctive empathy with the owls. Snape had never seen them take to anyone so well before: even Hagrid - his previous gold standard for empathy with magical creatures - hadn't had Al's natural rapport with the sensitive birds.
No, it was wrong. Al should know no fear, not of something so beautiful. Someone like Al should glory in flight, like his father had done, like his mother had done.
Like Snape himself had always done.
He reached out to the castle, asked its indulgence. A murmur of assent, and the window before them shimmered, its diamond panes disappearing. The thin, pure breeze of the heights blew into the chamber, cold and crisp and smelling of snow and space.
As calm as if he was taking a stroll in a summer meadow, Snape stepped out of the window.
Into space. With nothing beneath him but a thousand feet of open air, he stood there, calm and certain.
Invisible tendrils of power unfurled around him,, rippling his robes, spreading them around his body wide as wings, sending his hair coiling around his head like a black nimbus, like Medusa's serpents.
He hovered impossibly, without broom, wand or word, as steady as the stony mountain peaks. His silhouette was as black as midnight against the cool winter light, as he held out both his hands, a welcoming, beckoning gesture.
"Hold tight, and trust me." he called, his voice as sharp as a raptor's cry in the air, "Let me show you this."