A fragment of what appears to be the transcription of Gellert Grindelwald’s autobiography. This fragment is heavily controlled, due to its potentially sensitive nature, and has been sealed to all by a measure of the Minister’s Tribunal. –


…I remember the day quite vividly. It was a warm day. It was towards the end of May, when the sun slowly pulled higher and higher in the sky, when sleep came with darkness, and one slept through the night soundly, feeling as though he had lived the day full measure. I had reached close quite to the end of my own day, and now the stars pulled their cloak over the sky, staining the night violet. I was rather bored of Trieste at this time, as well as the nice weather, a thought that becomes increasingly ridiculous as I endure the cold winds of Nurmengard.

The Acqua Alta had come quite recently and had brought with it flooding across the city. I had to wear tall boots as I sloshed through the streets, and even the locals were complaining of the unreasonably high waters. Well, I was looking over the railing of my villa with a glass of the local vine in my hand, something white. I amused myself by watching the turquoise waters lap the shore. Suddenly a brilliant thought struck me, and as naturally as anything I turned to my side. The ache in my heart turned painful as I missed the sight of my dearest friend.

I must have been a sorry sight, standing at the edge of the turquoise Adriatic, and thinking only of loss. But to have met my equal, my perfect equal in every way, and then to have lost him. Fate was truly a capricious prankster. I dug my hands deep into the pockets of my robes, I started as I noticed something at the bottom. As I brought them out, a clutched parchment remained nestled in the palm of my hands. I smoothed the paper out and nearly laughed at what was written in his elegant hand, For the Greater Good. A very cruel joke. I let the parchment drift into the waiting waves. Doubt crashed upon me. As unfamiliar an emotion as any I had ever felt. I was not used to feeling doubt, still am not, and as I see the world that has been left in my wake, I am just as convinced that I was right all along. I was brilliant. Am brilliant. Perhaps my problem was that I was always very aware of how brilliant I was. But even then, to do the task that seemed set before me- without an equal by his side! Why, the world which seemed all but conquered now felt quite large indeed.

It had been the best time in my life. In England I…


The following lines have been rendered indecipherable by what seems to be tears.



…Every day the same. I was wasted here, amongst operas and sunshine. Whiling away the days as I tried to overcome the challenges set so high before me.

The Deathly Hallows were an eternal glimpse on the horizon, but my trip to Godric’s Hollow had yielded only pain and few fragile hints that lay gossamer in history. The Wand of Destiny was as far from me as it had been when I departed Durmstrang, so sure-headed and brash. I knew now that the wand had left England, but beyond that its trail had gone cold. I had come to Trieste on a whim, hearing vague rumors from the 18th century, of a surpassingly powerful wand in the hands of the Doges of Venice. If it had ever been here, the trail was cold as the touch of the eternal.

Ariana Dumbledore was the key. I was as sure of that, and I still am. I had known it surely as she spoke out hints, vague prophecy. Magic, which bent so easily to her brother’s will instead made her the instrument of its own power. She had been a conduit, and now she was gone. Dead. Just another tragedy amongst many. I regret, and indeed I regretted even then, how I approached her. I am sure that had I gone about it a different way, well, perhaps Albus would have been standing beside me, ready to help conquer the world. The world would now be conquered.

I wasn’t accustomed to melancholy. Nor to grief, and in what was truly a chance decision resolved to take a walk down the pleasant, elm lined avenues of Trieste’s wizarding quarter. Some faint attempt to alleviate the dark feeling that seemed to have lodged in my soul. I found myself in a small corner café, directly underneath a starry awning. It was not the first time I had been a patron, and the waitress quickly brought me my drink. Dancing little dolphins decorated the rim, and I fought off a little smile.

Absentmindedly I tapped my cappuccino, a drink I had become quite fond of, and remain fond of, and left it spinning in the cup, eventually taking a soft sip. I savored the bitterness that lingered on the back of my tongue. While I sat, the evening sun had slowly slipped beneath the hills, and the streetlights shone their fairy light glow. I could hear trumpets in the distance, a reminder of the hour, as the nightclubs began to accept their customers. It was late enough that soon I could see more beers than coffee in the hands of the patrons of the café. A few girls strolled past, their outer-robes awry, and they tittered as I waved.

I knew very well my limitations. Those girls, taken with me now, would laugh if they knew my designs. My ideas, unless viewed by an equal, would seem nothing but mad delusions. They would laugh, even if they agreed, because the concepts seemed so wild and fantastic. They would seem mad until they were backed up by commensurate force. Then would quickly seem very plausible indeed. But without Albus, I felt as though I would never have the man I needed by my side, who could help me realize the great vision of the world that we shared. The dream had seemed to slip like oil from my fingertips.

In those days, caught in a desperate sort of loneliness that rejected all human company, I had become a rather avid eavesdropper. I had taken laughing to myself at the petty concerns of the common wizard. Tonight, even in the depths of depression, a conversation at the table behind me snared my attention. “Mad… they say… Baldwin’s Tome.”

Now, I had heard of Baldwin’s Tome before, although never much and nothing in specifics. It was supposedly a supremely powerful book, locked away in the collection of the greatest wizarding university in the world, the Altsturm. I turned to where a witch and a wizard sat, dressed in extremely conservative robes. They looked thread-bare, and on the woman’s part, slightly askew, with a button in the wrong hole. I could abide shabbiness, but sloppiness had always bothered me. “Pardon my rudeness,” I said, forcing a wide smile on my face. “Did you say something about Baldwin’s Tome?”

The witch twisted in her metal chair in order to lean closer to me, until I was not only able to smell the wine on her breath but could detect the vintage. “Indeed, a great scandal.” I remember even now, how I barely managed to keep his nose from turning up. But sacrifices had to be made for the Greater Good. “A student, he read the entire book, and fell deep into lunacy!”

The elderly wizard by her side shook his head so vociferously that his monocle fell from his eye. “It’s a downright disaster for all of us at the Altsturm. For all of Germany even! A national travesty!”

“I’m sure,” I said, trying to let sympathy leak into every word as if from a broken faucet. “Is the student healthy.”

“Healthy in body perhaps,” said the witch tapping her spoon against her coffee, a knowing look in her wide-set eyes.

“Apparently he murmurs,” said the wizard gravely. He shook his head, his pinched face, screwed even tighter. He hadn’t yet replaced the monocle, and it was left to bounce on the breast of his plaid robes as he waved his arm. “About magic.”

My eyes widened a catch. The girl was so fresh in my mind that even the mere mutterings of magic from a madman could catch my attention. “Oh really? What sort of things?”

“Ridiculous things.” The wizard harrumphed.

The witch was a little more charitable. “Something about three, And about a world without any form.”

“Three you said? How odd.” I remember my thoughts so vividly, they could be coursing through my mind even now: Could this be it? The hint that I had searched so long for? I was willing to take any chance- anything to realize the dream lodged so deep into my soul.

The wizard replaced the monocle in his eye, and vaguely tried to smooth out his tobacco-spit yellow hair. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself about it. It’s the murmurings of a lunatic. Baldwin’s Tome- it is impossible to read in full.”

“It shouldn’t last too much longer,” said the witch. “The boy will be right as rain soon.”

“The University sent me to reach a mind-mender in Vienna,” explained the wizard. “To sort this out. Hopefully it will all be done without creating anymore embarrassment. We don’t want this making its way to Der Seher.”

“Is he any good?” I said. “The mind-mender that is.” I couldn’t let the boy be healed. Not before I had a chance to see him. Even at this early juncture a plan began to percolate and come together.

“The best!” Exclaimed the elderly wizard. “Johannes Hartrich is the greatest of mind-menders. He is very young, but he only takes on special cases. The Austrians only call him when the problem is too severe for any normal wizard to understand.”

“How exceptional.” I could feel my foot begin to tap with nervous excitement- an irritating habit I was never able to break.

“You haven’t even heard the strangest thing about this man-” said the Wizard. “He refuses to travel magically. Claims that it isn’t him that comes out the other end, and that he doesn’t know who takes the people in the middle. He’s half mad himself!”

“And you were the one sent for this man?” I asked.

The wizard fidget for a moment with the long hem of his robe. “Well that was the issue me and my wife were discussing,” said the wizard. “We work at the Altsturm- as Keepers of the Tower- we’re on our vacation, the first one in many years. But we just received an owl from the Altsturm…”

“Duty calls,” sighed his wife. “And for the sake of young Friedrich…”

And there it was. I have often felt that my success, is not simply due to my magic, but also to knowing when to strike, never early nor late.

“Why two wizardly folks like yourselves should not have to lose your holiday for the sake of more work!” I cried. “I have been in Trieste too long, and you have just gotten here, let me go in your place.”

“Why,” the wizards voice trailed, and his cragged teeth dug into the worn leather of his lips. “I’m not entirely certain that’s a good idea. I hardly know you.”

“Of course,” I said. “My name is Gellert Grindelwald. I rent out Palazzo Magin.”

“Grindelwald,” the wizard looked me up and down. “I haven’t heard the name before. You aren’t a mudblood are you?”

Such a word made my blood freeze cold, but my smile held. The nerve, of two janitors, to criticize anyone’s blood. Well, I swallowed, hoping that my indignation could be masked as grief. “No, my parents simply died when I was very young. I’m Swiss, it’s no surprise you don’t recognize the name.”

The wizard gained a look of bashful sympathy. I could see I was very close to my goal. I continued. “I could give you the address, to my villa that is… That is, if you need it.”

The witch looked pained at that and glanced to her husband. “Oh, dear…”

“I’d merely be delivering a letter,” said Gellert. “Surely you can trust a former Durmstrang boy with that much…”

“Ah!” The witch softly exhaled. Gellert had to resist wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale grape. “We both attended Durmstrang ourselves! Come now Heinrich, surely we can trust the boy.”

The wine was having its effect on the man. Finally, as if reluctantly drawn out by the expectant look on his wife’s face, the wizard nodded. “Because you’re a Durmstrang boy,” he said. I could have jumped with joy. I didn’t of course. “I know you must be the right sort, if you came through there.”

Who would have thought that the same school which would reject me, which would cast me out, would now once more be an instrument of my designs? Perhaps they would have recoiled at how they had furthered my goals. That their name would lead to me knocking down the iron gates a decade later and making an army of their students. Even now, in a cold damp cell, I am left with these pleasant thoughts.

I left for Vienna that following morning. The slip of parchment with an address was crumpled at the bottom of his pocket. I knew the address was no wizarding address. On a whim I decided to take my broom rather than apparate. It had been a quite a long time since I had taken a journey without apparition, portkey or floo, and so I found it a rather quaint way of travelling. Slow perhaps, but speed wasn’t the end all nor the be all. I took my time as I flew over the Alps, and through green hill and vale, over fields of edelweiss and past castle and village. Amusingly, I even passed where I sit today, on a small spur of the Austrian Alps. I would never have guessed I would spend so much of my life on its peaks. It has lost its charm rather quickly.

On the horizon, as the hills spilled onto the plains, I could see the wings of the imperial city spread below me like its aquiline crest. So, I descended into an alley in the middle of the city, skittering to a stop and stumbling as I dismounted. I looked both ways, just to make sure no one had seen my blunder. A degenerate stared at me from deeper in the alley, a nearly empty bottle of vodka in his hand. I didn’t bother obliviating him. Just remember, you who reads this, that I never killed when I didn’t have to. For all my life I held innocents in the highest regard, and never attempted to cause undue suffering. I merely saw that some amount of suffering would be necessary for the great society I would build. But by rejecting me, rejecting the changes that had to happen, you merely pushed the inevitable confrontation to the future. I saw the problems, and like a surgeon I knew I would have to cut into the flesh of wizarding society in order that I would cut out the raging cancer. Now you have shifted the burden further on, that the bloodshed should sit ever graver. Only blood waters the great tree of society.

I strode out of the alley, and once more I beheld the streets of Vienna. Wide avenues and baroque architecture were contraposed against dirty orphans darting between columns, and an old war veteran leaning against a marble staircase. Again, it was a reminder why my cause was so very necessary. In the end, when matters settled, things would be better for everyone, beauty without poverty, peace without threat of war. Even for the muggles, I would grant freedom. Freedom from want, and freedom from worry, their problems solved by magic.

I always tried to dress according to fashion, a regrettable extravagance perhaps, but with ebony cane in one hand, and my sharp charcoal suit, I fit in perfectly with the city. It was always the same when I came to Vienna. I would smile back at all, but I couldn’t help but be a little repulsed by all of them. They were so unaware, lacking any idea of who walked in their midst. There was something strange about being among Muggles, a man with sight living amongst only the blind.

After wandering from street to street for a time. I decided to ask for directions. A middle-aged man, his dark hair neatly combed, sat on a bench beside the street, reading the newspaper.

“Sorry, sir.” The muggle looked up. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where 21 Bergasse is?”

The muggle pointed at the corner of the street, a wedge-shaped townhouse that jutted out into the square. “You were nearly there.”

I nodded, and with a tight smile wheeled around and turned to the townhouse. Glancing upwards, I couldn’t help but pause for a moment, and admire the fine crenellation and ornament. I thought to myself in that moment that perhaps I would make my own capital in Vienna, once I had conquered the world. I put that thought aside, as I have had to do many times. I knocked twice at the heavy oak door and was greeted by a matronly old witch.

“Yes?” she said, I remember she clutched a stubby, little wand in one hand. Well, I generally considered matronly old witches to be rather easy to manipulate. I smoothed out my blond hair and grinned.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I’m looking for Mr. Hartrich.”

“And may I ask your name, Mister…”

“Starnberg,” I said with a short bow. I knew even then what had to happen. “I’m calling on behalf of the Altsturm.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll go get him.”

I, at that moment, was beginning to appreciate being connected to an institution. Usually, something like this would have taken a great deal more charm on my part. For some reason, just mentioning the name let me in. It was patently ridiculous. Anyone could have used that name, but for some reason it was unthinkable to the woman that I would lie. Still, I waited for a moment, before a younger man, showed at the door. A Kaiser Bill adorned his face in dark blonde, but he couldn’t escape the babyface which rested beneath. “Mr. Hartrich, I presume?”

“That’s right,” said Hartrich. The mender’s dark eyes were locked on me, and I couldn’t escape the odd feeling that Hartrich was staring deep into my soul. It wasn’t legilimency either, I checked. He was merely that odd sort of person who was so observant that he didn’t even need to use magic. “You must be Mr. Starnberg then.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Again, I sketched a short bow. For some reason people always seemed to like it. Perhaps it seemed deferential to them; I generally preferred a handshake. “But please, call me Gellert.”

Hartrich rolled his lips into each other. As if despite himself, he spoke again. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea.” I could immediately tell Hartrich’s type, manners drilled into his head since he was a child. Probably from a rather wealthy family as well. The prospect of not inviting a caller in, especially one that had made it passed the housekeeper, was unthinkable.

“I’d be delighted.” I felt the reassuring weight of the poplar wand sit in my pocket. I miss that wand. Not just as I sit in my cell, stripped of magic, for I missed it even as my fingers touched elder. It always knew what must be done for the cause, leapt to my hand not out of obligation, or out of bloodthirstiness but out of love for me and my vision.

He walked over to the sitting room, where two heavy plush couches sat in front of a fireplace. A little library sat on a bookshelf, and Gellert was amused to see several that sat in his own collection. The Tales of Beetle the Bard weren’t seen outside England very often. Everything was in very warm colors, and he imagined that in the colder months, when the fire was lit, it would seem to be a breath of summer in the snow. He tried everything, to put away that which he knew he had to do.

“You are from Switzerland then?” Hartrich lit his cherry wood pipe and let out a red cloud of smoke. “North of course.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But how did you know? I’ve been told my accent is quite subtle.”

“Not subtle enough,” said Hartrich. I was quickly starting to re-evaluate Hartrich and to understand the keen mind that rested behind those piercing eyes. “There isn’t much schooling in Switzerland though.”

“No. I went to Durmstrang for several years.”

“For several years,” said Hartrich. “But you didn’t finish your schooling there.”

“No.”

“But I doubt it was for want of grades,” he said, straightening his mustache between two fingers. A puff of smoke.

I tried to brush it off, my expulsion should hardly have been the topic of a passing conversation. “You of course know how Durmstrang is.”

Hartrich frowned. “I never went to Durmstrang. They don’t much like Muggleborns there.”

“An antiquated attitude.” I shook my head. “I’ve never seen a speck of difference in the magic. That is all that matters.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Hartrich nodded. “You aren’t the type to often agree with established opinion, are you?”

“Established opinion is made up of delusion so cemented in the popular psyche that it sounds like truth.”

“And what is truth?” asked Hartrich softly. His eyes which seemed so dark previously, now had seemed as though they had taken on a honey brown hue, as if he had awakened some sort of hidden sympathy for me. I tried my best to explain, to sway him to my cause so that he might know why it was he died. At least let him die with the understanding of what was the cause.

“That we must do what is best for the whole,” I said. I felt the weight of the poplar wand, felt it warm in his robes, ready to be used. “That wizards don’t deserve to be forced into the shadows. That we waste too much time worrying about meaningless matters of blood when we are all wizards and we are all witches.” I hadn’t spoken it aloud except to Albus, but as it rushed out, I suddenly felt as though it had gained a new sort of power.

“Interesting,” said Hartrich. “You sound very sure of this.”

“Of course, I am,” I said. “I’m right.”

“So, what have you done since you left Durmstrang?” Grindelwald was starting to warm up to Hartrich. It had been a long time since he had been asked honestly what he planned to do, what he wanted, especially without fear of it leaving the room.

“I spent some time in England actually,” I said. “I’ve been in Trieste since then.”

“You don’t sound like you particularly liked Trieste.”

“I was bored.”

“Oh?”

“There was no one to talk to,” I said. There was something about Hartrich, something indefinable, that made it easy to talk, and easier to continue talking. “It was nothing at all like England.”

“There was someone you enjoyed talking to in England?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you intend now,” said Hartrich. “Having left Durmstrang, and seemingly in-content to stay in one place. Bored as you are by a city like Trieste.”

I thought for a second. “Well, I don’t rightly know.”

“That doesn’t sound much like what I’ve heard from you.”

But then I realized it was true. I had left England bereft of clues or directions to seek out my destiny. I left only with a newfound credo and a mantra that beat like a war-drum in my ears. For the Greater Good.

“I know what I seek, but I don’t know how I’ll make it there,” I said. “But when I do, the world will be a better place.”

“Will it?”

I didn’t respond to that. I knew it would. Now I remain just as assured that it would have been better. But a thought scratched at the walls of my skull, as I sat there, and I spoke out idly. I suppose now that I was merely delaying the inevitable, a rather uncharacteristic bit of cowardice on my part. “I don’t suppose you think I’d make a good mind-mender.”

“No. Not good at all,” responded Hartrich, in the same offhanded tone.

I straightened. I wasn’t much used to being dismissed in that way. It always bothered me when I was denigrated, one of my many flaws as a man. I had once nearly killed the Herbology Examiner, when he told me that I was not suited to continue the class after my second year. My hand began to hover closer to my wand. “Why is that?”

“Well,” said Hartrich. “Usually they don’t let foxes tend a chicken coop.”

“Oh,” I said mildly. “You’ve found me out then.”

“It wasn’t hard to guess.”

“So, what is your diagnosis?”

“You’re not a lunatic,” said Hartrich. “You’re a fanatic.” He looked out the window, at the baroque scene. “I’m not much of a warlock, so I suppose I won’t be resisting. It is a very pleasant day to die.”

“I’m very sorry.” I meant it.

“I’m sure you are Mr. Starnberg.” Hartrich nodded. “I don’t suppose I could send Madam Herren out? She is a very good lady.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I’d rather she isn’t involved myself.”

“Madam Herren,” called Hartrich. The plump housekeeper bustled into the room. “I won’t be needing you today. Nor the next. I have an appointment in Germany.”

“Why, bless you Mr. Hartrich. Thank you.” She gave a short curtsey and headed down the stairs. I listened as the door slammed shut. He turned back to wear Hartrich sat in his armchair.

“I hope you know this is for the Greater Good.”

“I’m aware of what you believe.” Hartrich looked resigned. His features were flat, and I still rather admire him for his poise. I can only hope that I too will have the same sense of gravity when a skeletal hand snatches me from the mortal coil. Even as I knew that it was necessary, regret tinged my final words to the mind-mender. But it was necessary.

“Goodnight Mr. Hartrich.”

A bright flash of green and Johannes Hartrich was no more.

He looked peaceful there, not even shock coloring his eyes. I was struck by a deep sadness as I stared at someone who was now gone. Gone because of me, because he had to die. I would not let him be forgot. I waved my wand, and slowly Hartrich’s form drained of color, stiffening beyond rigor mortis. Hartrich’s features softened even as his eyes sharpened. His clothes, even his cherrywood pipe petrified as his constitution turned to marble. A fitting monument. Another wave, and by his sheer will, the statue could never be changed or move. His former home would be a memorial to a brave man. I bowed my head for a moment, reverent of the man who died for my cause.

One last wave of the poplar wand caused my own face to bubble and change, a mustache growing, hair shortening, cheeks fattening as I became the late Hartrich myself. It was a vile spell, but one that I had to use, because it was for the Greater Good.

I won’t give the account of my travels through the countryside. It was a rather boring excursion, and I see no reason to give any account of my flying across Germany. At any rate, I sent an owl ahead of me to the University, informing them that I was on my way, under my guise of Mr. Hartrich. While taking a short rest at a small public house near Regensburg, a reply was returned, that I should meet a Deussen outside of the town of Heidelberg.

Thus, I once more took flight, and by the next morning I had landed on a small ridge overlooking a pastel town. Red brick rooftops huddled by the banks of a river, under the shadow of an impressive old castle. I found my guide waiting there for me.

He was a short man, and nearly completely hairless except for two very impressive eyebrows which stuck straight out and a thick walrus mustache that curled around his upper lip. He was old and had a face that reminded me of nothing more than a deflated tire, sagging as low as a basset hound’s. He peered at me up and down with squinting eyes, and I was momentarily struck by the horrifying thought that I had already been found out. “Mr. Hartrich?”

“Indeed.”

His demeanor changed, and ponderously the corners of his lips turned upwards in a delighted smile. “How wonderful to finally meet you, I found your research on the Reichenberg case fascinating- even if it was rather far outside my own area of study.”

“Of course,” I said, rather wishing at that moment that I had looked a little deeper into the history of Mr. Hartrich. I resolved, as I often did in this sort of situation, to lie and say something bland enough that it couldn’t possibly be wrong. “Even I could hardly have expected what happened.”

“Yes, yes,” he huffed. “Fascinating work. But I am being rude, my name is Hexenmeister Deussen, chair of the Department of Irrational Epistemology at the University. I study the chain of causality that occurs when you cast a charm.”

“Oh, so the actions of the spell upon the natural world? How it changes the world.” That would indeed have been an interesting subject. I had always wondered why spells acted in certain ways, such that once you reached a certain level of knowledge accorded a piece of magic, the same spell you had learned as a student could be reused for innumerable purpose.

Deussen shook his head, causing his prodigious jowls to pendulate as he did. “No, no, that’s quite outside my area of study, that’s all Practical Metaphysics. No, I study the ways in which once the spell has been cast, it has always been cast. It is my belief that spells work on a reverse conditional chain of logic.”

I didn’t often feel out of my depths. But there was a reason that I didn’t visit the Altsturm again after this excursion, and it was due to the fact that at times it felt as though the scholars at the university had divided magic so many times and in so many ways, that what they actually studied was not magic at all.

“How fascinating,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

“I’m glad you think so.” Deussen beamed. “I’ll make sure to send you a copy of my book after all this unpleasantness is dealt with.”

Now I was glad that I was simply assuming the shape of Hartrich. I was also rather intrigued whether the owl would bring the parcel to Hartrich’s apartment or to wherever I was following this. “So where is the boy?”

“The Altsturm is not far,” said Deussen. He nodded toward the brick path leading off the ridge. I could have sworn however, that it had not been there only minutes before. “The university protects its secrets, Mr. Hartrich. You must be brought in by a member of the faculty.”

“Of course,” I said. Later, when I took the Altsturm by force, in the dark winter of ‘39, I made sure to have a member of the faculty leading the charge, that the tower’s protections were circumvented.

I followed Deussen down that brick road. As I got closer, I noticed a slight shimmer in the distance, as if the heat rising from tar on a hot day. I narrowed my eyes, and an illusion fell, revealing a tall spire, seemingly piercing the sky. It stood alabaster, the bright sun making it glow from within. It was taller than anything I had ever seen, so tall that it disappeared from view, no matter the angle I attempted to see it from. Arcades ringed the outside, gothic arches like arrows pointing towards the clouds. So mammoth that each one could have fit fifteen students abreast. Indeed, even from as far as I was make out the figures of students ringed around professors on the lowermost arches. Reading, studying and composing. I reckoned that I could hear the soft melodies of violin drifting on the wind, borne from some occluded perch.

The clouds above the city did not penetrate here, but rather rays shined upon the alabaster exterior and made it glow soft and opaque. Monumental letters, carved upon the lowermost arch, were lit with an inner fire.

‘Wahrheit und Lüge.’

Truth and Lie.

Deussen noticed his glance and smiled.

“It is our pride and joy.” Indeed, the Hexenmeister swelled with visible pride at the sight of the Altsturm, and rightly so, I could have said quite honestly that there were very few things in my life, if any, that I found more impressive.

We passed underneath the arch, under the flaming letters. As I walked under, I fancied I saw the inner flame swell for a moment, as if magic itself was recognizing my passing. I rather enjoyed the thought.

All further thinking in that direction was halted, when I caught a glimpse of the interior. It was the only vista I had ever seen that could have outshone the exterior. It was a grand library, stretching as far as I could see, books of all kinds were sandwiched between tomes, and I thought I noticed new books appearing as I cast his eyes away for but a second, letting themselves slip between covers and turn up underneath book flaps. Ringing the building, golden carriages carried their inhabitants upwards, to floors, and departments, and (I imagined) to different dangers.

“Your library, it is incredible,” I breathed.

“It is why we are here,” said Deussen. His eyes held the same wonder as my own, despite how many years of his life that he spent within the walls. “It holds the sum total of human knowledge. Books appear as they are written, and sometimes merely thought. It contains every edition, every draft. It is how we obtained Baldwin’s Tome, and it is the greatest enchantment ever conceived.”

“The Alexandrian charm,” I breathed. Deussen nodded sagely, the tip of his walrus mustache curling upwards. “I thought it was lost.”

“Lost,” he said. “Found again.” He then finally shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “And we managed to misplace it again sometime in the seventeenth century.

“A colleague of mine, in the Illusory Aesthetics department, believes that if one managed to ascend to the very top of the tower, one would find it there, pushed upwards by the limitless tide of books,” said Deussen. “But of course, we have yet to find a limit to the tower. As far as we can tell, it simply stretches higher and higher, and perhaps that too is the enchantment.”

“Fascinating.” I nodded. “But you must tell me more about Baldwin’s Tome, if I am to do anything.”

“Of course,” said Deussen. “Let us sit.”

There were a few coffee tables arranged around the vast interior, and we sat down at one illuminated by the sun rays. After a moment, a young lady hurried over to us. She looked like she was normally quite beautiful. However, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her blonde hair sat in unmanaged disarray. She wiped her pale hands on her red apron as she approached.

“Isolde,” he said gently. “You’re looking better.”

She did not speak. Mute.

“Do you mind grabbing me and my friend a cup of tea.” Her face was heavy as stone, and her movements mechanical as she turned away and headed to a small kitchen. Deussen’s eyes followed her as she left.

“She hasn’t been the same since the… incident,” said Deussen, his eyes watery. “They were close. Everyone at the university loved Friedrich, but they had a special bond.”

I nodded. “A shame.”

“A tragedy,” agreed Deussen. “One of many reasons I pray you can revive the boy. He was a brilliant student as well. It was why I gave him permission…” A sob racked Deussen’s body. “-Why I gave him permission to read that tome.”

“Do not many read it?”

“None but our best,” said Deussen. The girl now, Isolde, returned with a kettle, and poured out two steaming cups. As she left, casting odd looks back at us, he continued. “And none in its entirety.”

I took a sip before replacing it on the table. “It is that dangerous?”

“This is not the first time such things have happened,” said Deussen, his face ashen. “But it is the first time it happened to one so young… and with so much potential. As I said, Fredrich was one of the most brilliant students I’ve ever met- but his youth made him arrogant.”

“So, no one reads the tome in its entirety?”

“No!” said Deussen. “Scholars build entire careers upon single sentences. Departments study single chapters. To read the book fully- as I have said, most do not survive, and none are the same afterwards.”

I was fairly certain that was academic overstatement. Still, I found myself rather curious what lay within those leather bindings. For that was the curse of the wizard, things being dangerous had the unintended side-effect of making them very interesting.

“So where does the Tome come from?” I asked. I had heard of the book previously, but it was always quiet on its origins. I was curious to hear about it from an expert. This sort of university lore always seemed to pass from professor to student, maintaining a surprising amount of truth despite its many tellings.

Deussen looked pleased to tell the story. “Well, its origin is arcane at best. Some say it was written by Hermes Trismegistus. It has been said that it is the true Hermetic Corpus. But others say that it is far older, dating to the age of Alexander or even to the Minoan mages on the Island of Thera.”

“But it is written in German…”

“Well, in a sense.” Deussen frowned. “It is understandable to all. A Frenchman reads French, a Dutchman reads Dutch. It is almost odd, I can’t actually recall how the words appear, as it almost seems as though it simply appears in the mind when one looks upon the page.”

“How did it end up here?”

“That’s actually how it acquired its name,” said Deussen. “It was in the possession of King Baldwin of Jerusalem after the Crusades. It was awarded to a Teutonic Knight after his brave defense of the city of Edessa and he brought it back to his home here in Heidelberg. Ever since, the Altsturm has been here growing around it.”

“Did you say growing?”

“This is no ordinary building. It was not built by any mortal man.”

Even I, had not expected this. It was not inconceivable, however. Such powerful artifacts as Baldwin’s Tome often could bend the world around it, exerting gravity and forcing reality to bend to its will.”

“So, where is the boy?”

“Downstairs,” said Deussen. “In the Wing of Madness.”

I stared at Deussen for a moment, as he drank from his cup of tea. “How often does this happen Deussen?” I said. “That you have an entire wing set aside for madness.”

“Madness or reading the Book?” said Deussen. “Madness is quite common, although they do tend to get better.”

An older gentleman approached the table, tall and gaunt as Deussen was short and plump. “I hope you didn’t enlist another crank in your schemes, Dieter.”

Deussen frowned as he stared at the fellow. “It isn’t of your department, Rudolf. It truly is none of your concern.”

“It is the concern of all in the Altsturm,” said Rudolf. “I hardly think that the board will be happy to learn your wasting your grants on wild attempts to heal that which is irrevocably broken.” Isolde, somewhere behind us, burst into a fresh round of tears. Deussen looked back at her and his face took on a determined cast.

“It is no worse than the waste you had attempting to prove that transfiguration relied on word order. How many students are still running around as guinea pigs?” Rudolf’s face reddened. “Your entire discipline is pish. Lexiconical Bimodality is an anachronism, of a more barbaric time! Baldwin’s Tome has confirmed that many times!”

“What, and you think that you’re changing causality when you turn something red? That it isn’t an active action on your part, but that the entire universe is rearranging to fit your desires?” Rudolf laughed. “Next, you’ll be saying that spells are simply floating around nebulously, and that we’re really just calling them- or you’ll say we’re tapping into a finite store of magic. Obviously, you simply haven’t progressed far enough into Baldwin’s Tome, because it confirms the variability of Lexicon!”

“Tripe!” cried Deussen. “Complete and utter tripe.”

“I’m in no mood to argue,” said Rudolf. “I have a class.”

“Maybe you’ll finally learn reverse transfiguration,” called Deussen after him.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Rudolf von Sundern,” said Deussen. “He studies Lexiconical Bimodality, with a specialty in Transfiguration. He’s the Department Chair.” Deussen studiously looked both ways before continuing in a whisper. “He’s not known to have the greatest mind.”

I laughed. “Back to it then I suppose.”

As we got up, I fell a hand tug on my arm. I looked back to see Isolde. For the first time, I heard her speak.

“Save him,” she said. “Please save my Fritz.”

I nodded, and she looked at me with the most heart-wrenching expression of hope that I had ever seen.

I followed Deussen through an arcade, till we came to another of those golden carriages which I had seen ascending the library. However, as we stepped on, the carriage started to glide downward, through the sheer rock that seemed to make up the floor.

For what seemed like a minute, all I saw was darkness, but then there was light again.

We opened to a long white hallway, punctuated regularly with heavy iron doors. Each had a small placard attached, listing the name, age and symptoms of the inhabitant.

“Welcome to the Wing of Madness,” said Deussen. “Most of these people are merely short term inhabitants.”

I walked over to the heavy iron door and looked inside the room. It was a pleasant little fireplace scene, abutting what looked like the French alps. A blonde witch lay there, staring into nothing.

“We try very hard to make it comfortable,” said Deussen. “People often need to be brought back to a place of solidity, of comfort, for most- it is their home. Where things made sense, and they don’t have to deal with the same abstraction of the Altsturm.”

“And it works?”

“Generally,” said Deussen. “Especially when the problem is not caused by magic.”

“And this is only the severest cases?”

“Only when they seem in imminent danger.”

“But where is Friedrich?” I asked. Deussen didn’t bother saying, merely waving for me to follow him down to the end of the corridor. There, abutting the sea, with currents nearly knocking foam into the room, on a sparse pallet sat a young man, with eyes that didn’t seem to see.

“Do you mind?”

Without even waiting for an answer, I let myself into the room. For a second, Friedrich’s eyes seemed to focus on me, before they turned foggy once more.

I simply sat there for a moment, keenly aware of the eyes on the back of my neck. I waved Deussen off, and I could see him move away from the door. I suspect he hoped that I would merely wave my wand and be done with it.

“Three brothers went-a walking in the shadows.”

My head whipped around. But Friedrich was silent once more.

“Oh, so you do know something,” I said. “Speak, Friedrich. Tell me what I need to know.”

But he was silent. I had no choice. I stared into the gullet of the king cobra.

I looked into the empty eyes of the student, and I saw only the whirling gaze of the madman. He was as disconnected from reality as a balloon untethered from ground, the fragile cord connecting him to sanity had snapped, leaving him adrift upon a wide and empty ocean. had seen a dementor’s victim, out of curiosity. If anything, this boy was so far removed from that, that he very well might be the antithesis of that lack of soul. It was almost as though he was operating with more soul than his body could handle, as if another sun had suddenly burst into existence within his solar system, pushing on the fragile boundaries of the earth, and becoming a super-liminal catastrophe. To put it simply, it wasn’t clear whether he was himself anymore.

I pushed on.

And all at once, images and knowledges flashed faster and faster before my eyes. I realized that the boy in front of him was no longer the boy he once was. As far from that boy as the wolf is from the domesticated hound, or as a man is from a baby. He was truly no madman. For what Baldwin’s Tome had done was strip his mind of all delusion. Leaving him without the pleasant lies that had anchored him for so long. All the subjective truth, all culture and in some way all relativity had been stripped away. And now the same was happening to me. All at once, he- I regretted using legilimancy on such a mind, for as the world revolved around him, suddenly I saw all. Suddenly I knew all. Suddenly I saw the waves lapping at the edge of my boat and sending me to deeper waters, and it was inexorable. I to was now untethered. I too was becoming more than I was, a functional apotheosis, and yet one which would leave me mute, as all dismissed me as lunatic. It would be me that saw. They were simply too nestled in their own lies to understand.

I was everything, and yet nothing. When the world was stripped to the foundation, one could only see a vast nothingness. The fundamental truth was in magic, but the fundamental truth lied as much as anything else. I knew all and yet it brought me no satisfaction, because I realized that it didn’t matter. There was nothing to do, nothing anyone could do.

Who was I? Where was I from? And then I realized what Baldwin’s Tome truly was. It was the Library of Alexandria, that illusive incantation, and it was the sum of all human knowledge and belief. The book reflected itself upon the library, as things were written in its pages, they were reflected onto the shelves. But it was more than that, because as I read, and as Friedrich had read they had truly understood not just the theories as they had been written, but all the feelings that had been poured into them. All the nuances that had gone uncommunicated now found worthy ears. I was now a believer, in multitudinous faith. But I was now a skeptic of all belief and he was as lost as a child in the snow.

No wonder departments could debate single chapters. That all their findings conflicted. Because everything was based on subjectivity. The concrete being built up. Magic did not behave as they thought it did. There was truth in everything being said, and yet at the same time it was all a lie.

I knew Fritz. I knew Albus. I even knew Johannes Hartrich. I suddenly knew death too. For that too was recorded once, and so now it was too in my mind. I knew too much. I was left without any comforting shore to look back at, and where once he I saw power before me suddenly it seemed illusive too. Without all the pleasant abstraction that had allowed him to learn, I knew nothing.

I knew too much.

But I was in control. Grindelwald was always in control. With the sheer force of will, I sent the foreign memories in my head away. I shut himself off from the great currents dragging me off to sea with one thought. For the Greater Good. A mantra, echoing in his head louder than any blast of thunder.

Faith was the enemy of knowledge. A belief that no amount of disbelieving theory could shake. I had a faith greater than any. A knowledge unlike the ones contained within Baldwin’s Tome. Sor far exceeding it that it was unimaginable.

For the Greater Good.

For I had a cause. I had an anchor, a belief that couldn’t be dislodged for it rung like a bell with every fiber of his being. And I discarded all theories and facts that wouldn’t resonate with it- for that couldn’t be me. He rejected Fritz. And I rejected the multitudinous throngs that for a second, for only a second, had crowded my head. I knew once more that which I knew for sure.

With a grasp of breath, and the feeling of sweat pooling at his nape, I finally managed to eject himself from the mind of the student. As I left the student’s mind, I realized that I did know. It appeared as though the Elder Wand resonated with my goals. Serbia.

A tight smile crept onto my face at the prospect of my goals finally falling into reach. It was quickly buried as I emerged from the hospital wing. Replaced with a mournful shake of his head. As the girl burst into tears, he did feel a brief flash of sympathy. It is greater now, since my own goals failed to come to fruition. Deussen looked dejected, his hopes for naught. I didn’t stay longer than I had to, for I knew the end of the story before I had even left the tall tower of the Altsturm.

The promising young wizard would eternally be seen as a lunatic, when he truly saw more clearly than any of them. The story ended rather sadly. Fritz dead a decade later, buried under the Altsturm in a crude coffin. Hardly anyone remembered the brilliant young student. Even Isolde left, Fritz having taken the place of a lost love.

By a point, he was only the madman with his utterances. A certain type of genius can only be recognized by an equal, and young Fritz had become someone beyond equals. The whole world was unable to understand. Unable to realize that he could see past all equivocations. That he came as close as any to the very avatar of knowledge at whose altar the University professed to worship.

And I could have stopped it. I could have helped. But I didn’t, because if they knew they held the Sibylline Books, so too would they burn once more. I looked back at Friedrich sadly. In the end it was all for the Greater Good.

When I returned to the Altsturm, in 1939. I puzzled many of my lieutenants, when I ordered a battered little plywood coffin exhumed. I heard them asking the professors, who was it that lay in the little coffin. Who died that they were to be encased in an alabaster tomb by Grindelwald, himself? The professors only said, a madman. But I knew what he had given. What he had sacrificed to the greater good. I could not let my martyrs be forgotten.


The Fragment ends here. It is assumed that during Lord Voldemort’s period of control over Hogwarts the rest of this autobiography was either spirited away or burned. This scrap was found on the corpse of Severus Snape. The Tribunal can only assume that he was intending to understand the truth of the Elder Wand.

 

I liked this one. This particular type of magic, shown by the Baldwin Tome, fascinated me and I quite enjoyed it. Also liked the OCs and GG in terms of characters. Slightly slow start for a handful of paragraphs.

Spoiler

Had a bit of trouble getting into this one. I get that this is GG’s writing and he’s probably bored as fuck and waxing poetic, but I still had to try twice to get past the first two paragraphs. Granted sometimes I do like this kind of writing, so it could be my mood… and frankly? Once he started interacting with / talking to people I got engaged rapidly.

Being in GG’s head as he’s moping isn’t my favorite starting point but it’s brief and when we get to Baldwin’s tome I’m fully engaged and curious. I quite liked the ‘I could abide shabbiness but sloppiness had always bothered me’ line – great way to characterize someone. And I admit that this plot is interesting to me – went mad reading a book no one can read, GG doesn’t want him healed, etc.

“He refuses to travel magically. Claims that it isn’t him that comes out the other end, and that he doesn’t know who takes the people in the middle.” – Now you’ve got me hooked! This is related to a concept I am playing with in a story I haven’t posted yet, and I’m always extremely excited when anything remotely similar pops up elsewhere.

Love that he took a broom instead of floo / apparate / etc. Also I’m a fan of the little details, like GG realizing how convenient it is to be connected to an institution or how his old wand felt compared to the Elder. Makes your character/world come alive.

Anyway – enough stream of consciousness for a bit. Going to go harder at reading through.

I quite liked Hartrich and that entire interaction. He’s interesting and you did a great job of showing us that he’s very good at his job by ‘showing’ how he saw through GG. Surprised how much I enjoyed this OC and scene.

I feel like GG basically got to mimic being a metamorphmagus here a little too easily – if you choose to edit this later, perhaps make it a requirement that this ‘dark’ spell requires you to have just murdered whoever you’re turning into?

I didn’t often feel out of my depths. But there was a reason that I didn’t visit the Altsturm again after this excursion, and it was due to the fact that at times it felt as though the scholars at the university had divided magic so many times and in so many ways, that what they actually studied was not magic at all.

^I giggled at that.

I can feel how badly GG wants to read this tome, hah. And then, when Friedrich says something about the three brothers… yeah, nicely done.

Good alternative, where he gets 'just enough' from his mind, and uses his 'cause' to bring himself back from it. Reminded me of that Star Trek episode where Kirk is supposed to be smitten with a women to the point he won't leave, but his love of the Enterprise allows him to get past it.