The two trudged silently along the rugged Alpine path for some distance before Severus Snape's voice cut through the howling wind:
"Mr. Grindelwald, we need to Apparate to Vienna, then take a Muggle airplane to London. It's less conspicuous that way…"
His words were cut short as the figure ahead halted and turned around.
In the swirling snow, Snape caught his first clear glimpse of Grindelwald's transformed appearance.
Short, dark brown hair, a sharply defined jawline, and bright eyes bore an uncanny resemblance to the youthful face of Professor Dumbledore from Snape's memories.
Ignoring the flicker of shock in Snape's eyes, Grindelwald stepped forward and seized his arm.
Before Snape could protest, a forceful tug—far stronger than ordinary Apparition—gripped him with near-brutal intensity.
The world spun, and the snowy mountainscape shattered into fragments.
When Snape finally regained his vision, shaking off the dizziness and nausea, his feet stood on damp concrete.
He was in an unfamiliar place. A flickering, yellowish streetlamp illuminated a narrow, grimy underground entrance that looked like the passage to an abandoned subway station.
A rusty iron gate barred the entrance, adorned with a faded, nearly illegible sign.
"Where are we?" Snape asked, suppressing his discomfort and scanning his surroundings warily.
Grindelwald had already released his arm. He was studying the iron gate with a mix of disgust and a knowing "just as I expected" expression. His voice was low, laced with icy mockery:
"Erkstag. The German Ministry of Magic claims it was abandoned decades ago. Hah, the powerful are always so hypocritical. They'd never shut down such a convenient disposal site."
Grindelwald offered no further explanation. He strode to the gate, and with a casual flick of his wand, the seemingly sturdy lock sprang open silently.
Pushing the heavy iron gate, a stronger stench of decay hit them.
Grindelwald led the way down a filthy, downward staircase, his wand giving a subtle flick.
Snape felt a cool wave of magic wash over him. Glancing down, he saw his body rapidly turning transparent, blending perfectly with the surroundings.
He could barely track the transformation, as if he had become part of the air itself. It was the most powerful, flawless Disillusionment Charm Snape had ever witnessed.
"Follow," Grindelwald's voice whispered in his ear.
At the same time, Snape felt an almost imperceptible thread connect to his wrist, silently guiding him forward. Though he couldn't see Grindelwald ahead, the thread was his beacon.
"I'm going down to find someone," Grindelwald's voice came again before Snape could ask. "I'm taking her out of here."
Snape needed no further clarification.
The staircase descended further. At its end stood a mold-covered, bricked-up wall.
Grindelwald didn't hesitate. Pulling the invisible thread, he led Snape straight through the wall as if it were an illusion.
Beyond it lay a broader but equally grim space, like a prison entrance carved from an abandoned subway hub.
Several guards in German Auror uniforms, their faces numb, dozed around a battered brazier emitting black smoke, oblivious to the two invisible intruders.
On a dilapidated wooden counter behind them, Snape spotted a transparent glass jar. Inside, dozens of fat, eerie grayish-white caterpillars writhed, emitting a faint glow.
"Murtlap larvae," Snape recognized instantly. They were one of the few things that could keep a Manticore calm.
He considered whether to grab some larvae for later use but noticed a few were missing from the jar. The thread guiding him tugged toward a sturdier iron gate deeper in the hall.
Grindelwald led Snape through the gate as if it were nothing.
They entered the true dungeon. The air grew fouler and colder.
Then, Grindelwald reappeared, the thread's sensation vanishing. Snape felt the Disillusionment Charm fade, his form materializing in the darkness.
In Grindelwald's hand was one of the Murtlap larvae from the jar. He pinched it lightly, murmuring a brief incantation.
The wriggling larva shrank, then swelled, its shell splitting. A soft glow, like fairy wings, emanated from its tail, transforming it into a butterfly-like creature that radiated gentle light, illuminating a few feet around them like a living lantern.
With this faint glow, Snape could finally see their surroundings.
A narrow walkway clung to the jagged black rock wall, a chilling abyss below. On either side were cramped, low stone cells.
In the darkness, faint rustling mingled with barely audible sobs or moans. A few faintly glowing blue-green insects hovered forlornly.
As they passed certain cells, skeletal, pale fingers shot out, clawing futilely at the air:
"Who's there? Who's outside? Please… let me out…"
Grindelwald's expression remained unchanged. Holding the glowing butterfly, he scanned the cell doors along the walkway.
Over time, the butterfly's light began to dim, its flickering unsteady.
Without hesitation, Grindelwald produced another fat larva, deftly pinching it. The old butterfly disintegrated into ash, and the new larva transformed into a brightly glowing one.
They pressed deeper into the prison, descending layer by layer.
At last, at the end of a fork leading to an even darker corner, Grindelwald stopped under the butterfly's light.
The cell was smaller and more isolated than the others, its door low and crude, as if carved from a single rock.
Grindelwald approached, placing his palm on the cold, rough stone without elaborate unlocking spells.
Ancient magical runes on the door briefly glowed before fading, and the door slid inward silently.
The faint light spilled inside.
The cell was barren. A frail figure sat curled on the edge of a stone bed, back to the door. Even in such conditions, she maintained a rigid, almost dignified posture.
The door's faint creak startled her. She turned slowly.
The light outlined her form. Years of darkness had left deep marks on her.
Her skin was pale to the point of translucency, tinged with sickly yellow. Her cheekbones protruded, her eyes sunken. Her once-full frame was now frail, as if it might snap. Her tattered prison garb hung loosely.
Time and the environment had ravaged her.
Yet, when she lifted her head and opened her eyes, despite her haggard state, the delicate beauty of her features remained faintly visible. Age had eroded her vitality but not the refined elegance of her face.
The light seemed to sting her eyes. She squinted, her brow furrowing in confusion.
Her gaze lingered briefly on Snape at the door, then slid to Grindelwald's magically altered, imposing face.
She stared at him, as if looking at a stone.
"It's me," Grindelwald said, his voice low and hoarse.
Those two words snapped Vinda Rosier's eyes—still adjusting to light, dazed and numb—into sharp focus.
Confusion, disbelief, and then uncontrollable joy crashed through the ice and numbness on her face.
Tears streamed down, cutting paths through the grime on her cheeks.
Her skeletal frame trembled violently. Clinging to the cold stone bed, she struggled to her feet, slow and laborious.
She took a small step forward, her scarred, bony arm reaching out hesitantly.
Her fingertips curled, as if to touch Grindelwald's face, but stopped inches away.
Her fingers twitched, then withdrew, trembling, to her side.
Grindelwald silently watched her tear-filled eyes, something fleeting in his dark gaze before it stilled.
"Let's go," he said, his voice betraying no emotion.
Without comfort or explanation, he turned and walked out, as if taking her was a simple, inevitable act.
Vinda Rosier's body reacted on instinct. Ignoring her tears, she followed him like a devoted disciple trailing her deity, her steps unsteady but resolute.
She stayed half a step behind, her gaze fixed on his tall silhouette.
When they reappeared, they stood on an unfamiliar street, warm air thick with city dust. The clamor of voices, flowing car lights, and hurried passersby contrasted sharply with the place they'd left.
Grindelwald moved through the crowd.
Vinda followed closely, silently, never straying. Her eyes stayed low, fixed on Grindelwald's hem, occasionally flicking to the bustling city before retreating, as if the noise and vibrancy were irrelevant.
Grindelwald paused briefly at a newsstand, taking a paper. Snape tossed a coin onto the counter.
"Vinda," Grindelwald said, scanning the paper, "you can go anywhere you want now. Anywhere—Rome, Monaco, Oslo… any corner of the world. From this moment, you're free."
He folded the paper, turning his gaze to the gaunt woman beside him.
Vinda's steps didn't falter, nor did she respond.
She remained silent, staying close, her eyes downcast, as if "freedom" was meant for someone else.
Grindelwald seemed unsurprised. He shook his head, saying no more, and took longer strides into a narrow, quiet alley.
"Vinda," he stopped, turning to face her, his eyes meeting hers. "Why not leave? The past… it's over. Completely over." He spread his hands. "You can have a new start, a fresh one."
Vinda lifted her head. The alley's softer light made her pallor less stark.
She looked at Grindelwald, the man for whom she'd given her youth, her freedom, everything. She shook her head slowly, her cracked lips parting: "It never changed."
The distant hum of the city filled the alley. Grindelwald was silent. After a long moment, a faint, drawn-out sigh escaped him.
Then, the complex emotions in his eyes vanished.
He turned to Snape, extending an arm.
Snape understood, stepping forward.
"Then," Grindelwald said, grasping both their arms, "we'll go together."
When the plane landed in London, Snape pulled a Hogwarts crest badge from his robes.
He held it, closing his eyes to focus.
The badge became a miniature compass, clearly pointing toward the Founders' Ship, drifting slowly above the Scottish Highlands.
"Ready?" Snape asked quietly.
Grindelwald nodded impassively. Vinda stood silently by his side, indifferent to her surroundings.
Snape gripped both Grindelwald's and Vinda's wrists.
This time, their Apparition landed not in a city but on a moss- and shrub-covered rocky outcrop.
They stood on a broad mountainside, a steep slope below.
The drizzle had stopped, a gentle breeze weaving through the valley, but the sky remained overcast, gray clouds hugging the distant peaks.
Snape looked up toward the thick clouds, their target hidden above.
He pulled out his Nimbus 1001. His hand froze, an awkward expression crossing his face. "I only brought one broom…"
"Put it away," Grindelwald said, glancing at the expensive broom with the amused disdain one might give a child's toy.
He calmly raised a finger, pointing at the heavy clouds above.
"It's up there?" he asked.
"Yes," Snape said, stowing the broom, a suspicion forming.
Grindelwald, confirmed, wasted no words. He stepped forward, swiftly grabbing Snape's arm and naturally taking Vinda's wrist.
"Hold on."
Snape had no time to brace himself. A massive, brutal force seized him, as if a charging Thestral or Hungarian Horntail had yanked him into the void.
"I—!"
His shout was choked by the roaring wind, his vision blurring under the immense acceleration, his ears filled with the shriek of air.
Snape felt like a ragdoll, swung wildly by Grindelwald.
In his flailing, he managed to conjure a spherical shield, not enough to block the force but sufficient to stop the wind from choking him, letting him breathe and see.
He turned his head. The sight nearly made him curse aloud—this old bastard was clearly doing it on purpose. But, dangling at ten thousand feet, he wisely swallowed his words.
Grindelwald, beside him, held Snape like a chicken in one hand and Vinda in the other.
Unlike Snape's disheveled state, Grindelwald "flew" with elegant poise, his cloak billowing, his short brown hair unmoved. His face was expressionless, his gaze fixed ahead, as if strolling through his garden.
Vinda was equally composed, the wind parting around her, her gray, brittle hair barely stirring. Her eyes were half-closed, her face serene, as if cradled by an invisible force.
After what felt like an eternity, the oppressive gray clouds parted, as if brushed aside by a giant hand, revealing a clear view.
Amid blinding light and lingering wisps of cloud, the silhouette of a massive oak-hued sailing ship emerged above the clouds.
But as Snape's eyes focused, his heart sank.
The Founders' Ship was in dire shape.
It drifted slowly, its hull marred by alarming gashes and scorch marks.
The sails, once billowing with magical radiance, hung limp, one main sail torn with blackened, curled edges.
A plume of smoke rose from the deck, twisting upward, the remnants of a recently extinguished fire.
————
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