Given the inherent dangers of typical magical travel methods and the impracticality of long-distance Apparition, Severus Snape, for safety's sake, opted for a mode of travel often overlooked by wizards.
With the soft crack of Apparition, Snape's figure materialized in front of the familiar, peeling-paint door of Spinner's End in Cokeworth.
The house looked even more dilapidated than it had a year ago. Its windows were caked with thick dust, weeds sprouted from the cracks in the front steps, and a stale, oppressive odor hung in the air. It was now little more than a hollow shell, an abandoned ruin no one cared to claim.
He didn't enter. Instead, he swiftly slipped into a concealed corner behind the house, changing into an unremarkable set of Muggle clothes. He tucked his wand carefully up his sleeve, while the Elder Wand was secured close to his body, hidden in the innermost layer of his clothing.
Half an hour later, he arrived at the small airport that stood as a faded symbol of Cokeworth's once-glorious industrial past.
The terminal was cramped and outdated, its few passengers wearing expressions of unconcealed weariness. A rusty fence enclosed a small patch of gray concrete, where a handful of weathered propeller planes and small jets sat listlessly.
Snape purchased a ticket for the cheapest flight to Berlin, the closest transfer point he could find, as there were no direct flights to Austria.
After enduring a sleepless night on the cold metal seats of Berlin's airport, his plane finally touched down under Vienna's overcast skyline.
Without a moment's pause, he headed straight to the train station and boarded a train bound for the southwestern mountains.
The view outside the window gradually shifted from the clamor of the city to the tranquility of pastoral fields, then to increasingly steep, forest- and rock-covered mountains. The silhouette of the Alps emerged in the distance, exuding a cold, majestic beauty.
When the train wheezed to a stop at a small station called St. Wolfgang, it was already the evening of the following day. The setting sun cast a faint golden glow over the snow-capped peaks.
After paying a substantial fare, Snape secured a ride in a rickety taxi willing to take him up the mountain.
The driver, an old man with cheeks as red as dried apples, spoke in heavily accented, broken English but brimmed with enthusiasm as he pointed out the scenery: "Look! Snowline! Eagle's nest! Magnificent! God's masterpiece!"
Snape responded with vague murmurs, his gaze fixed on the increasingly rugged and desolate landscape outside, his thoughts already drifting to the fabled tower that awaited him.
"Persuading Grindelwald will undoubtedly be a difficult task," he mused, jostled in the back seat of the bumpy taxi. "This man has tasted the pinnacle of power, seen his ideals crumble, and endured decades of self-imposed imprisonment. Ordinary requests, threats, or even the lure of gain will likely mean nothing to him."
"What I need is a way to pierce through his frozen exterior, something that can touch whatever faint spark might still linger in the depths of Grindelwald's heart."
The taxi eventually stopped at a remote fork in the mountain road. The driver pointed to a barely visible, snow-covered path and said, in a mix of German and English, "Up there, castle, dangerous! No drive! You, careful!"
Snape paid, thanked him, and watched as the taxi rattled away, disappearing into the twilight down the mountain road.
A biting wind laced with ice shards whipped against his face.
Drawing his wand, he murmured a Warming Charm and a Water-Repelling Charm, then began his steady ascent along the nearly forgotten path.
The snowstorm grew fiercer, the Alps' harshness on full display.
After cresting a steep ridge, a hidden valley came into view. Rising from it stood a black castle, its form seemingly carved from the jagged rock itself.
Above the entrance to Nurmengard, a massive stone bore the chilling motto that had once sent shivers through the wizarding world: Für das größere Wohl—For the Greater Good.
The castle, built of immense, icy black stones, loomed with towers like claws piercing the gray sky, its sharp, oppressive design radiating an overwhelming sense of dread.
Though abandoned for years and eroded by wind and snow, it still felt like a dormant black beast, emanating a palpable, heart-stopping aura.
The castle's gate stood wide open. Its massive iron doors, rusted and warped, hung crookedly on their hinges, creaking painfully in the howling wind.
Beyond the threshold lay an endless, deathly silence.
Snape stepped inside.
Thick dust blanketed every inch of the floor and walls, and enormous cobwebs swayed between crumbling arches and columns.
Once-grand decorations had long since peeled away, leaving only faint, indistinct symbols from Grindelwald's era and the shattered remnants of statues.
There was no chill of Dementors, no sound of guards' footsteps, no sign of any living thing. Only the shrieking mountain wind wove through the empty corridors and halls, producing eerie, wailing moans, occasionally punctuated by the sharp clatter of falling stones.
This utter desolation and silence was more unnerving than any fearsome guardian. Snape felt as though he had stepped into a vast, icy tomb.
His eyes scanned the broken symbols of the Deathly Hallows, then he crossed the hall, stopping in the shadow of the tallest, most isolated tower.
Looking up, its peak blended into the heavy, leaden sky.
Taking a deep breath, Snape drew a small crystal vial from his robes. Inside, a sky-blue liquid shimmered.
He drank it in one swift motion, and Albus Dumbledore's wise yet faintly weary face replaced Snape's youthful features.
Donning a resplendent purple robe embroidered with star patterns, Snape raised his wand, conjuring a steady glow to light his path. He began climbing the spiraling stone stairs toward the highest spire.
Along the way, he passed barred doors, some sealed, others gaping open, but there was no sound, no trace of other prisoners. It was as if this vast prison existed solely for one man.
At last, he stood before the only cell at the tower's summit.
A heavy iron grate confronted him. As history recorded, there were no intricate magical chains or shimmering protective wards—just a single, rusted iron lock hanging coldly in place.
This door seemed less about confining its occupant and more like a boundary the prisoner had chosen for himself.
Snape stood at the cell's entrance, peering inside by the light of his wand. The narrow, frigid, spartan stone chamber contained only a single piece of furniture: a hard wooden bed. Near the door, a rough wooden tray held a few pieces of stale black bread and a small bowl of murky water.
A gaunt figure sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from the door.
He wore tattered, colorless prison rags, his frame hunched. His once perhaps-lustrous silver-white hair was now sparse and brittle, cascading like dry straw.
He faced the cell's sole narrow window, motionless, like a statue frozen in place, gazing out at the endless gray sky and jagged peaks.
The howling wind and snow were the only sounds.
Snape took a deep breath, shattering the silence. In the gentle voice of Albus Dumbledore, granted by the Polyjuice Potion, he spoke clearly:
"I'm here."
For a moment, the howling wind seemed to pause.
The frail figure stirred, turning with stiff, agonizing slowness.
A weathered, gaunt face came into view, its cheekbones starkly prominent.
In the sunken sockets, Gellert Grindelwald's left eye retained a faint trace of gray-blue, while his right was almost entirely clouded white.
In that instant, something long-frozen in those eyes seemed to crack open, just a sliver.
Grindelwald stared greedily, unblinkingly, at "Dumbledore's" face, as if trying to etch every detail into his memory.
After a long silence, a hoarse, aged voice rasped out, tinged with a wistful disbelief: "So… this is what he looks like now…" The words carried no clear emotion—perhaps nostalgia, perhaps something else. "He's grown old too…"
Snape, maintaining Dumbledore's demeanor, gazed at the frail old man—so unlike the legendary dark wizard of old—and spoke with Dumbledore's characteristic compassion: "Gellert, seeing you like this… Madam Rosier would be heartbroken."
A flash of anger sparked in Grindelwald's clouded eyes, but it quickly faded into deeper indifference and disdain.
He didn't respond, didn't even bother to lift his eyelids, only continued staring at "Dumbledore" with eyes like stagnant pools.
Silence reclaimed the tiny cell, broken only by the snow battering the small window.
Time ticked by, until Grindelwald spoke again, his voice cold and direct: "Who are you?"
Snape hadn't expected his disguise to fool Grindelwald. How could he deceive someone who shared such a profound bond with Dumbledore?
"Mr. Grindelwald," he said, "I come on behalf of Professor Dumbledore, seeking your aid. He faces an unprecedented crisis…"
A short, mocking laugh cut him off.
Grindelwald's murky eyes flickered with a faint ripple of gray-blue, brimming with scorn and weariness. Clearly, he had no interest in so-called "crises" and no faith in the man wearing Dumbledore's face.
Snape didn't hesitate.
He slowly reached into the inner pocket of his robe. When his hand emerged, it no longer held the wand used for light.
Instead, he gripped a wand with distinctive knotted joints.
The moment the Elder Wand appeared, a terrifying light blazed in Grindelwald's eyes.
Like a lion roused from slumber, he sprang from the bed with a speed unthinkable for a man so frail.
He stared at the wand, his body trembling uncontrollably, cracked lips parting silently as if witnessing the impossible.
"The Elder Wand… how is it here?! In the hands of this imposter?! Albus… could it be… could Albus be…?"
But in the next moment, as his gaze shifted from the wand to the flawless "Dumbledore" face, the torrent of emotion receded like a tide.
"No… no, that's not right… If he can mimic Albus so perfectly, it must be Polyjuice Potion… which means Albus is still alive…"
Grindelwald sank back onto the bed, his movements slow once more.
But his eyes grew sharper, pinning Snape with an unyielding stare.
At the same time, his peculiar eyes began to change. The faint gray-blue in his left pupil faded, as if consumed by ink, until both eyes gleamed with an eerie, deep, light-devouring gray-white.
An indescribable, cold, and powerful pressure enveloped the cell.
Grindelwald's lips moved, his voice low and rhythmic, as if rising from an abyss: "I didn't see where you come… and I couldn't see where you go…"
Snape's heart tightened. Grindelwald was using his Seer abilities, attempting to glimpse his past and future. But it seemed he had failed.
"So, where is Albus Dumbledore?" Grindelwald's voice carried the exhaustion of a Seer peering into fate, tinged with faint confusion. "Who are you?"
Snape drew a small vial from his pocket and drank the antidote to the Polyjuice Potion.
With a subtle writhing of bone and flesh, Dumbledore's kindly face melted away, revealing Severus Snape's true appearance—young, pale, with a hooked nose and deep black eyes.
Meeting Grindelwald's eerie gray-white gaze, he answered calmly: "I am Severus Snape, Dumbledore's favorite student, here to seek the aid of the one who cares for him most."
Grindelwald's eyes lingered on Snape's young, solemn face for a moment before drifting downward, fixing once more on the Elder Wand in his hand.
His voice, low and laden with complex, unspoken emotions, posed an unexpected question: "So, what makes Albus Dumbledore so fond of you?"
"I really couldn't say," Snape replied, his face curling into his characteristic, faintly sardonic expression, answering with blunt honesty.
The response seemed to amuse Grindelwald. His wrinkled face twitched, the corner of his mouth slowly curling into an odd, barely recognizable smile.
"Ha," he let out a low, raspy chuckle, like the sound of a broken bellows. "Did he tell you everything?"
"Perhaps," Snape said, meeting his gaze without committing to an answer, giving a slight, ambiguous shrug.
The faint trace of amusement vanished from Grindelwald's face.
His eyes studied Snape for a long time, then drifted past him, as if seeing through the icy stone walls to the raging blizzard outside, to somewhere far beyond.
After a prolonged silence, Grindelwald spoke again, his tone grave: "Is the situation truly so dire?"
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