DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

TITLE: Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome

SUMMARY: The Matron reminisces, an assistant gets a telling-off, and a guest is treated to a circus act.

Am I alone in my estimation of war - or all violence, really - as a wholly distasteful occurrence?

I suppose it needn't be mentioned for most, though I hail from a family of thieves, merchants and killers. It is blasphemy to utter such words in Cornwall and its satellites, surely, for though we Potters are small in number, our few dozen wands still lead hundreds of staves to yet uncharted territories.

All in the name of death and taxes.

We are a "kind, just old clan", I often hear. Humanitarians, progressives, revolutionaries, et cetera. It might have been true of my ancestors, but what of us? To give away a thousand Galleons means nothing to a man who bathes in it.

My Uncle Charlus speaks of the conflict in the most blithe terms, in true Potter fashion. If life is a game to wanded wizards, then our family plays on Sunday afternoons. My sister, my parents, even cousin Wallace - they show no comprehension of the gravity of our situation.

No. That's not it; they don't get the joke. I, the black sheep, am the most Potter of us all! How hilarious it is that we fight over the Muggles yet kill ourselves twice as quickly? I have laughed to myself often, that is, up until last night. I heard the High Warlock Grindelwald speak for the first time.

~ Robin G Potter, a letter to Calliope Trent (3 May 1902)

Chapter One - Harry Has A Visitor

For all that could be said about the town of Oakwood, deprived would probably be the last word to surface in the minds of most. The area was situated among several affluent suburbs in the northernmost borough of London, and a sizeable portion of its denizens were either successful local business owners or professionals who commuted into the City.

It enjoyed a relatively relaxed pace compared to the congested roads and perpetual rush hour along Westminster's pavements, and violent crime was almost non-existent. Unaccompanied by guardians, children would freely ride their bicycles down the scarcely tyre-marked tarmac, while others would gleefully destroy their parents' pride and joy by playing football on their well-manicured front lawns. On a typical sunny midsummer's afternoon, the air would carry the enticing aroma of barbecue smoke tempered by freshly cut grass and soapy Land Rovers. Today was no exception. It was guaranteed to lift anyone and everyone's spirits – save for a few.

Miss Charlotte Meacham was well-regarded (she would say) in the community as the matron of Oakwood's local children's home: St Cecilia's Refuge for Unfortunate Youths. It was an ancient, ivy-covered cobblestone eyesore that looked terribly out of place in a neighbourhood composed of flawless brick-and-mortar, semi-detached masterpieces. She was among the last of the old guard; a stalwart defender of traditional child-rearing, standing vigilant against a vicious smear campaign that threatened the once sacred English mantra of 'spare the rod, spoil the child'.

Despite her questionable methods, however, Miss Meacham's heart wasn't made of stone (she would also say). In fact, she often cursed her abundance of love for the children in her care: an occupational hazard to be sure. Time after time she had bonded with a child, only for them to be promptly wrenched from the matron's embrace. Such a tragedy usually did little to dampen her resolve – it was all too common and she had to be strong for the rest of the brood – but today was most unusual.

For the past three-and-a-half years, she had been in semi-regular correspondence with a rather odd fellow. It strictly concerned business, of course. The man's name was Elphias Doge, and his letters were even more peculiar than his name would indicate. Apparently, he was a teacher at a boarding school all the way up in Scotland, and had been for over sixty years. Miss Meacham was mildly impressed: what energy the man must have had to keep up in such a hormone-infested environment for so long… that being said, she had dealt more than well in looking after a house of trying infants for several decades (she would say, just once more).

According to Doge, the school had been interested in a child placed in her custody for some time. His mother and father had both attended the prestigious and exclusive institution, and it was confirmed that the boy in question exhibited the same potential. That was especially peculiar. In the seven years that he had stayed at St Cecilia's, not one person had come to visit, let alone propose to adopt little Harry James Potter.

Harry was not an unpleasant boy at all. Indeed, he was quite the opposite in Miss Meacham's opinion. He was certainly polite, generally well-liked by the other children, quite brilliant… somewhat eccentric, but that could easily be explained by his level of intelligence. He was definitely well-behaved (maybe usually would be more appropriate) but, for whatever reason, did have his occasional moments.

The first was a week after he had been brought in by the authorities. Harry and little Alice Presley were playing with toy planes in the nursery. They were supposed to be under the attentive eye of Holly, one of the junior carers, but she'd apparently gone on yet another toilet break upon Miss Meacham's entrance after making the house rounds. She'd given her a right tongue-lashing after that stunt. But what she had walked in on was even more outrageous.

One of the toy planes was flying in the air. Like one of those fighter planes in the films: it made twists; turns; loop-de-loops and all the rest. While Harry kept shouting, "ZOOM! ZOOM!" little Alice's eyes were wide in wonder as she laughed and clapped as only a toddler could. Had Miss Meacham not remembered personally removing the batteries from all nursery toys as well as keeping the replacements in her office, Holly would've been straight out on her hide that day.

It must have been a freak incident, she decided. The things scientists were coming up with these days, like solar power – surely the plane was powered by something like that? But she'd seen the determination in the boy's eyes, that confident smile. It was almost as if he were guiding the plane with his words! She pushed such silly musings to the back of her mind… until it happened again.

One day it was yellow polka-dots on the floor of the room he shared with Philip Campbell and Gregory Hines, the next day he'd be followed by a group of frogs hopping behind him in crocodile fashion. When he was asked where the frogs came from Harry replied, "I like frogs."

Indeed.

One particularly nasty moment took place during the Christmas Eve dinner last year, when the elder children staged a mutiny over the inclusion of broccoli to the menu. Harry triumphantly bellowed, "This broccoli is poo! Broccoli is poo!" The children cheered in chorus. Then they stopped for a moment. Some screamed, others laughed, and a few of the younger ones cried. But after a while, a few of the elder kids resumed their cheering.

Meanwhile, Miss Meacham and the carers sat dumbfounded. The offensive odour was an immediate give-away – they couldn't tear their eyes off of the contents of Harry's plate. Two of the staff resigned after that, one nurse and a carer. Miss Meacham sent Harry to the naughty room; not as a punishment, but simply because she didn't know what else to do. Amidst the loud protests of the small gang of children stationed outside, notably the unmistakeable ratchy tone of Greg's shouting "Free Potter! Free Potter", she silently declared defeat and retreated to her office.

What was this boy, she wondered. She couldn't explain how these things kept happening around and to him. Sofas changing colour three times a day, hot dogs being set ablaze, his appearance in closets that were surely locked from the outside… the boy must have been an aspiring stage magician of some sort.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," the words of a Sister at her old convent school echoed in her head, from an incident where she had been caught with a copy of The Hobbit during a French lesson.

There hadn't been an incident after Christmas, she noted, which was unsettling: Harry blowing something up happened at least once every other month.

But what exactly did this school want with him? Sure, his parents went but it was a full country away from what he was used to. What if he got nervous and these... moments escalated? Or... maybe that was why they were interested in him. Doge could work for the government, and this boarding school business would be an entire ruse to capture Harry! "Well, at least he would get the help he needs," she mused.

And with that thought, Miss Meacham lost all apprehension regarding Mr Doge's imminent visit. It was in Harry's best interests that he was looked after by guardians who fully understood the nature of his condition. It had nothing to do with preserving her sanity or even her soul from the... freak nature of these misadventures. Although, by the time the supposed teacher appeared on their end of the street, Miss Meacham's eyes had been glued to the orphanage's top window for a full half-hour.

The toll of the relic-like door bell and the irregular pitter-patter of bare feet on top of creaky old oaken stairs marked Elphias Doge's arrival, only to be introduced by Holly. Miss Meacham groaned loudly, cradling her face in her hands while waiting for her assistant to take an age in guiding her guest to the office.

"… but either way, that's why it's ill-advised to go shopping for traditional Kyrgyz candles in Finchley. None of them are even fair trade! Mr Doge, I tell you – oh!" Holly's inane anti-establishment tirade was abruptly terminated by a groove between the floorboards, stubbing her toe.

"Holly!" Miss Meacham shrieked, her washed-out blue eyes as wide as saucepans, while her frizzy grey ponytail whipped about behind her. "What have I told you about traipsing around without shoes in the home, especially when we have guests? Serves you right, you dozy mare... now where have you put Mr Doge?"

"Right here, madam! Right here!" a keen, wheezy voice supplied from behind the gangly younger woman in front of the office door. Out popped Mr Doge, a shrivelled old man with white, wispy hair that looked like it was desperately trying to escape. All in all, it made him somewhat resemble a dandelion clock. He'd apparently tried to remedy this by affixing a moth-eaten fez on top of his head which, in Miss Meacham's opinion, clashed horribly with the maroon three-piece suit the man was wearing. The woman suppressed a chuckle – why on earth had she been nervous?

"Ah, Mr Doge, please do make yourself comfortable!" Miss Meecham said brightly, gesturing to the chair in front of her wide beech desk.

"Please madam, I insist that you call me Elphias. We have been writing to each other for far too long to warrant such formalities," Mr Doge said with a wolfish grin, causing the elderly woman in front of him to shuffle uncomfortably.

"Of course," she replied tersely. "Holly, would you please bring young Harry to the office? Make it quick, dear. And please get yourself some shoes on the way!"

"But Miss Meacham, I'm trying to stay in sync with the aura of the home. You should-" Holly shut up upon seeing the warning look on her superior's face. She scurried off soon after, presumably to do exactly as she was asked.

"So, Charlotte-"

"Miss Meacham."

"Miss Meacham," Doge sheepishly corrected himself, glancing at the door behind him. "How has young Harry been keeping these past few weeks since I wrote last?"

"There's not much to report, I'm afraid," said Miss Meacham, leaning back in her recliner. "He's been bugging us for more time to go to the library, but that's hardly news. I'm not sure where he gets the time to get through all the books we have, let alone outside."

"I see," Doge murmured, a thoughtful look on his face before he added, "you know, his mother was just like that. Very studious, that woman. Destined for high places..." he trailed off, looking off into the distance at nothing in particular.

It then dawned on Miss Meacham that despite all the communication she'd had with Doge, the subject of Harry's parents was seldom addressed. She wouldn't dare to pry into such delicate information; Harry was a ward of the state, after all. But that was besides the point, at the moment. Miss Meacham finally had this man in front of her. He could no longer hide behind the delivery time of the mail to evade her questions. She immediately went onto the offensive.

"What are you wanting with Harry, anyway? Apart from the fact that his parents attended your school, I mean. You say it's really exclusive, but as far as I can remember, Harry's only taken his 11-plus exams for the local grammar school. He's very intelligent, but no-one's ever made a big fuss over it."

"Well, er, you see," Doge started, looking up at Miss Meacham's steely gaze. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sitting straight up. "It's an interesting case. Due to the rarity of our, ahem, incredibly successful method of educating the youth in this country, the Education... Secretary allows schools – like ours – privileged access to the academic records of highly performing students. We've been monitoring Harry's progress since he started in Reception, and well... He certainly possesses the innate qualities that we regard as essential criteria for our students."

"Such as?" Miss Meacham asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, erm, for one... strong willpower," said Doge, before clearing his throat rather loudly upon seeing the matron's eyeballs almost drop from their sockets. "Oh, there are others of course! Creativity, bags of it, curiosity, things like that, of course. It's all very clear from Harry's record that he fits the bill perfectly."

"Mmhmm," Miss Meacham hummed with sceptical eyes focused on the unimposing Doge, who even seemed to be cowering a little. He soon found his rescuer in Holly, who had stomped her way back into the office, the plodding of muddy Wellington boots punctuating her every step. Shortly after meeting the elder woman's withering glare, she stepped to the side, revealing a child wearing a faintly amused expression on his face.

"Ah, Harry," Miss Meacham greeted the boy, beckoning him in with a wave and a smile. "Do remember your manners, now. This is Mr Doge, he's here to see you."

"Me? Sorry," the boy quickly apologised after seeing Miss Meacham's glare return with a vengeance. He turned to the wizened man seated in front of her.

"Good afternoon, Mr Doge," Harry said gaily, "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Well hello, Harry! It's nice to finally meet you too! My, Charlotte," Doge gushed, ignoring the mutinous growl that threatened to escape the matron's pursed lips. "You've raised him well, indeed! I must say – the face, the hair, it's almost all James! You do take after your father, my boy." Harry's shoulders straightened at hearing someone mention his father, an unreadable look written across his visage.

"Really? I -"

"Now I'm sure you both have a lot to talk about," said Miss Meacham, rising from her chair and scuttling off towards the doorway, ushering Holly out with her, "so don't let us disturb you, by any means! Harry dear, why don't you take a seat on my chair?"

Harry's mouth fell agape. "The Boss Throne?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, my chair, Harry," Miss Meacham hissed, laughing weakly as Doge's gaze remained fixed to the recliner in front of him. She slammed the door behind her, and her muffled voice could be heard tearing into a very meek Holly about the importance of proper attire in front of guests.

Doge watched as the boy cautiously approached the apparently hallowed 'throne'. Harry ran a hand across a leather arm before turning and sinking into the chair's mass.

"Harry James Potter," breathed Doge, looking at the boy in reverence. Harry squirmed a little. "To think I'm sitting before the last Potter." The child had a lightly tanned complexion, a strong chin and the tell-tale scruffy black mane that had adorned the heads of several Potter men before him. So much like James, the old man reminisced, before looking deeply into Harry's emerald-green eyes.

"You've got your mother's eyes, Harry," Elphias whispered with a faint smile. "Her nose, somewhat. But her eyes, too – just as sharp, just as warm! Forgive me," he wheezed, noting the boy's perplexed stare. "Got carried away with old times, a symptom of age, unfortunately. Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. My name, Harry, is Elphias Cassius Doge, and I teach at a very special school -"

"Hogwarts?" Harry said. Doge did a double take.

"My word, boy, do you... have the Sight?" asked Doge.

"Er, well, I can't see without my glasses if that's what you mean," said Harry, tapping the frame of his spectacles.

"Oh no, you misunderstand me, Harry," said Doge, chuckling and shaking his head as he leaned over the table. "I meant to ask: how do you know about Hogwarts?"

"Miss Meacham talks about you all the time."

"She does?" asked Doge, chiding himself for the obvious hope his voice probably betrayed.

"Yep," said Harry, nodding with enthusiasm. "All the time! Just a couple of weeks ago, she was talking to Miss Browne. It went something like, 'It's another bloody letter from Hogwarts again. Honestly, Mavis, what School of Gifted Children gives itself a name like that? The man's a schlub.' "

"A schlub?" Doge said, his heart plummeting. He looked up at the ceiling, withdrawing a deep breath. "Well, I suppose nothing can be done.

"Anyway, let's get back on track. Yes Harry, I teach at Hogwarts, and it is indeed a school for gifted children. Very gifted children. It serves to develop a talent you have, one that we happen to share. It's a really rare talent, my boy, and Hogwarts teaches it better than any other school in the country, if not the world."

Harry was on the edge of his seat, his eyes indicating that his imagination was doing overtime.

"What do they teach, Mr Doge?"

Works every time.

Doge grinned. "Mr Potter, my institution's full, official name is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We're going to teach you all about magic, my boy."

"You teach magic?" asked Harry after a few moments of silence. Doge nodded giddily.

Harry smiled. "I see. So that's what it is that I do."

Doge, who had eventually lost interest and was contemplating whether to chill the ultramarine or violet elf-wine for dinner, perked up immediately after Harry's statement.

"Harry... what is it that you can do?"

"Let's see... I can change the colours of things, make things fly, make marbles from pebbles, that's one of my favourites... I trained some frogs and squirrels to bring me stuff... kind of. But yeah, lots of stuff, I guess. Whenever I want."

"Ah, right, I – wait." Doge stopped himself, peering at Harry. "Whenever you want?"

"Uh-huh!" Harry launched himself out of the recliner. "I'll show you my best trick, though. I've been really working on it for the past few months."

"Ah, er... if you're sure, Harry," said Doge, nodding lamely.

He knew he was out of his depth here. Condoning intentional underage sorcery in his presence, all without a wand? Minerva would skin me alive for this, he thought, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Well, Harry, whenever you're ready."

The boy in question walked back to the center of the small office, behind the chair Doge sat on. The old teacher swivelled round, the anticipation eating away at his gut. Why he was so excited was beyond him. Then again, this was the last Potter, and if the rumours were true...

Harry suddenly fell backwards, unrestrained and assured as if he were to rest on some soft mattress lying above the otherwise solid and very crooked flooring.

Doge's heart missed a beat as he lunged towards the concussion-bound child, brandishing a short, light-coloured wooden stick, though what he saw next firmly stopped him in his tracks. As soon as he should have been about to hit the floor, Harry slowly floated forwards, and rose up to half the height of the ceiling. His arms and legs idly flailed about as his body rotated. But what surprised Doge more than anything was the serene look of contentment in Harry's eyes once he floated back to the floor, one foot after the other.

"Well," the old man said through a gulp, removing his hat and wiping his brow with a purple handkerchief, "that certainly was... something?" As Doge looked up, empty space now occupied the spot where the boy had stood only a moment before.

"I didn't say I was done, sir," said Harry with a hearty chuckle. Doge spun around, only to find Harry seated in the familiar recliner once more.

"Merlin's beard... Harry, eleven-year-old children shouldn't be capable of that kind of control over their magic!"

Harry knit his brow. "Well, sir - I am ten. My birthday's next week so maybe it'll be harder then? If it's a problem..."

"No, my boy! Not at all," said Doge with a wave of his hand. "I was simply applauding your aptitude being so far ahead of the curve. It really is a rare thing, you see. But then again, with your parentage, maybe it should have been less surprising!"

Doge went quiet as he regarded Harry's pensive expression. He spoke up again, after some time.

"Are you comfortable talking about your parents, Harry? I wouldn't want to pressure you in-"

"Of course sir," the boy said eagerly, smiling in an assumed attempt to placate the man before him. "I lost them at a time that I can barely remember, so while I totally regret not having them around, it's not like I feel like I'm missing out on a whole lot. The kids here that go to families, I'm not jealous or anything, 'cause the home is always full either way. Besides, Phil and Greg are too old to leave, just like me. We'll be a team until the end, sir."

"Such maturity," said Doge under his breath, returning the boy's infectious smile. "They really do treat you well here, don't they Harry?" The boy nodded in agreement. "You've turned out so well. To think, all the tragedies you've had to endure. What with your parents so shortly after your birth, and then -"

"Sir?" asked Harry. "Sorry for interrupting again, but what do you mean by 'shortly'? My parents died when I was three."

"I beg your pardon, Harry?" Doge couldn't believe his ears. After all, James and Lily Potter were murdered almost ten years ago, mere months after Harry's first birthday. Upon seeing the boy looking thoroughly cowed, Doge cursed inwardly.

"My apologies, Harry, I wasn't thinking! I didn't mean to sound like I was disciplining you – the matter surrounding your parents' deaths was rather well-publicised in our world. You came from a very important family, you see. Now, you said this happened when you were three?"

"Yes," said Harry, "in a car crash, sir. I was in it, I remember that much."

"A car crash?" exclaimed Doge, making the boy in front of him brace for cover. "Sorry, my boy, truly I am... James and Lily Potter... died in a car crash?"

"Sir?" called Harry. Doge motioned for him to continue. "If I may, sir, we seem to be on completely different pages, here. Why did you call my parents James and Lily?"

"Those were... are their names, Harry." said Doge with an air of uncertainty.

"No, they're not though, sir," said Harry more confidently, rising slightly from the leather recliner. "Their names are Vernon and Petunia, and my brother, Dudley, was sent somewhere else. I'm rather surprised you didn't mention him yet, sir. I've been anxious to meet him for years now."

Doge stared dumbly after meeting the child's expectant gaze. Eventually, comprehension dawned over him, and he wheezed quietly, bringing a hand to his temple.

"Harry," he rasped, "oh, Harry, I'm not sure how to proceed from here."

"Sir? Please," Harry urged, placing his quivering hands on the beaten beech desk. "Whatever it is, please tell me. I can handle it, I have to know."

"Of course," said Doge quietly, forcing himself to meet Harry's bright green eyes. It seemed to unnerve the boy even more. "You do need to know, Harry. You see, er... Vernon and Petunia, as well as young Dudley... they actually went by the family name of Dursley."

Harry's eyes widened, but he said nothing, so Doge carried on.

"Immediately after your... er... birth parents' deaths, our world decided it best that you were relocated to your closest living blood relatives. That happened to be your mother's sister, Petunia, married to a Vernon Dursley with a son around your age.

"We kept a close eye on you back then... the higher-ups demanded it. They looked after you well enough, embraced you as their own apparently. But the trouble with magically able children is that they don't always react well to certain aspects within Muggle environments, like-"

"Muggle? What's Muggle, sir?" asked Harry.

"Non-magical, Harry," the old man answered quickly, adamant to stay on track this time. "Now from what I gather, you were indeed in a car crash, and you and Dudley were the only survivors. It would appear that none of our people have been monitoring you since you were placed here."

"Well this makes sense," said Harry thickly, wiping away a stray tear. "You kept talking about how I looked like my Dad, and I was sure that I didn't. He was big and pink, and had brown hair. And now you're saying he's - he's not...?"

Doge winced, cursing himself for wanting to look away. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry started sobbing, resting his head on the desk which was slowly turning grey. Doge left his seat to place a hand on Harry's shoulder, shaking his head at how much of a disaster this visit had become.

"There now, my boy, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm certain their love remains with you, it's why you've endured so well," he said softly.

After a while, Harry leaned back in the chair, sniffed hard and roughly wiped the tear tracks away from his cheeks.

"It's all right sir," said Harry, swallowing a breath of air. He slowly spun the recliner around, idly looking through the slits between plastic blinds covering the dusty window. "Not sure what came over me there. I've never really cried about them, or at least I don't remember, it's been so long now. I'm sorry sir, please carry on. I want to know what happened to... James and Lily."

Doge sighed. It would probably take a long while before Harry came to consider the elder Potters as his true parents, if ever. "Now Harry, I'm not sure it's for the best after-"

"No," the boy said with determination Doge had would never expect to hear from a child. Eyes ablaze with resolve, Harry pressed further. "I need to hear it, sir. What happened? Why did they die, too?"

"It's a delicate topic, Harry," said the ancient teacher, claiming defeat. He knelt on one knee, looking at the boy levelly in the eye. "What you must understand, is that our world, the wizarding world, was and is currently embroiled in a war, of sorts."

"A war, sir?" asked Harry, fidgeting in his seat.

"Please Harry, don't worry too much about it," said Doge, softening his tone to placate the child. "Wars are a common occurrence in human history. In actual fact, the Muggle world only very recently entered what one could call a peaceful period. But yes, we are currently in a state of er, political tension. Remember I said that the magically able don't react well to Muggle environments?" Harry nodded. "Well, that's all because of how Muggles use electricity."

"Electricity?"

"Electricity, my boy," reiterated Doge. "It doesn't meld well with our magic, you must see. Any magic, really. We have our own ways of producing electric currents with magic, but place a magically imbued object anywhere near Muggle technology for long, you'll get- "

"A bloody catastrophe," Harry finished for him, before clasping his hands to his mouth following Doge's hearty laugh.

"You've got it in one," he wheezed, before getting up from the floor and returning to his own chair. "Now we're doing just fine right here, but I assume there's little electricity in this old house. No televisions or those new computer thingies, eh?"

"Just the telephone," said Harry, looking down at the cream-coloured handset in front of them. A long, coiled wire of the same hue ran all the way down under the beech desk. 'But Miss Meacham would never let me touch that, anyway."

"I'm sure," muttered Doge, regarding the machine with a wary eye. "Certainly, infants and very young children fare just fine around the technology, but when they start showing signs of accidental magic, it causes problems. Muggles aren't supposed to know anything about magic, for the most part. It gets worse as we mature. As our own innate magic grows stronger, and the longer we stay in such magically saturated environments, the more frequent these problems arise. I need a special license to carry this bad-boy in Muggle areas," he said with a wink, proudly displaying his odd wooden stick.

"A wand, my boy," he said, meeting Harry's bemused stare. "An essential tool for all sorcery practitioners... in the region, that is. Practising magic in the vicinity of Muggles is highly frowned upon, illegal in most cases. Well, some wizards don't like that. Not one bit. They argue that it's the fault of Muggles for having incompatible property, and we shouldn't be ashamed to freely use our birthright.

"Soon after the Second World War, a powerful wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald had conquered much of central and eastern Europe. His movement was especially hostile towards Muggles, and they planned to take over the world with wizards on top. Maybe you've been taught about all the strange incidents that happened in that region over the past few decades?' Harry nodded slowly. 'I believe your textbooks would refer to them as the Shadow Blitz, but we in the wizarding world gave it an altogether different name: The Glorious Expansion.

"There are several areas in that region deemed unfit to live by Muggles. They've cited radiation levels as the culprit, but that's only a cover story in several places. You see, while we are around four hundred thousand strong in the British Isles, the capital of the Eastern Magical Republic in Ukraine is home to five million magical Beings in total. They're doing very well for themselves – I mean, surely you'd think the Muggles wonder where all this extra grain is being exported from.

"Well anyway, most of us disagreed with Grindelwald – we felt that Muggles shared the same journey to claim power over nature, and we fought against him under the greatest sorcerer to ever live – Albus Dumbledore, your soon-to-be headmaster. Your parents, ardent supporters of Dumbledore, were the main and last remaining branch of Potters alive, and like many other families, were facing extinction in the wake of all this inter-wizard bloodshed. They still fought, in the knowledge that if not, Grindelwald would prepare a full-scale attack on the Muggle military. That would be the end of our society, and children, like you, Harry, would be born in captivity, experimented on and feared by the public for the power you can't help but wield.

"Nearly ten years ago, on the eve of Samhain, your parents were ambushed in a safehouse during a mission smuggling wizards out of the Eastern Republic. You were staying by the Longbottoms, old family friends. Lily and James put up an admirable fight, but were simply outnumbered in the end. Grindelwald personally murdered them both, our boys confirmed it. They were brought back and buried in the family cemetery at Godric's Hollow, in the West Country. Both twenty-one years of age... I'm... so sorry, my boy," said Doge, his voice cracking towards the end of his tale.

"Mr Doge, it's okay, really," said Harry after a minute. "I never knew them, like I said. But now I know, they died for me. I've got to make them proud, and I have no idea who they were... it'll take some time for me to get my head around this..."

"I'm sure you will, Harry. Take all the time you need." said Doge, wiping a moist eye with his handkerchief. Upon replacing the cloth in his pocket, the man set a smile on his face and opened his wrinkled mouth once more. "It's regrettable that we have to discuss such matters. But now that we have, we can move onto a much more uplifting subject: your impending tuition at Hogwarts. You've shown me how well you wield your magic, but I must still conduct a simple test. Nothing to fear, my boy," he added after spotting Harry's look of apprehension, "just a formality. You've no need to prepare in advance or anything!"

And with that, the wizened Doge leaped from his seat and placed a large, dark metallic cube onto the beech desk. Harry, who evidently hadn't seen the box before, made a face as Doge held his wooden stick aloft yet again.

"Oh yes, Harry, the box was always here. A little trick of mine, and something of a Doge family secret," he said with a conspiratorial wink. Tapping its surface lightly with his wand, the cube unfolded itself, revealing a tray containing various oddly shaped artefacts.

"Wow," Harry gasped, gazing at the display of magic in amazement. "I will find out your secret, Mr Doge, I swear it."

"Hmm, wouldn't count on it," drawled Doge, procuring a strange glass tube from the tray. It was about four inches long, and closed on both sides, though one end was perforated by hundreds of tiny holes.

"Now Harry, to perform this test, all you have to do is take this pocket-Augometer, and say, 'My name is Harry James Potter' in a clear voice towards the holey end. Can you do that?"

"Er, why?" asked Harry.

"A true name is a terribly powerful thing, Mr Potter," said Doge slowly, meeting Harry's eyes as he offered the Augometer, "and we are subconsciously aware of this. Our souls know the true name to be the most potent magic words one could ever speak."

"Um... all right, then."

Harry gingerly grasped the glass tube. Rolling it around in his fingers, and warily lifting it towards his lips, Harry intoned, "My name is Harry James Potter."

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

Author's note: Many thanks for reading the first chapter of the Untitled Tome. Reviews and/or PMs are more than welcome!

This is a potential series made up of a number of plot bunnies that wouldn't leave me alone. I held back a lot with the first version of this author's note, but this is what you might want to know before diving in:

- There is no Lord Voldemort here, no prophecy, no Chosen One, etc.

- This is a heavily AU series featuring a larger world of magic, and the interaction between its races (as well as wizards and Muggles)

- Centered on a somewhat cared-for Harry's growth as a wizard of great potential. He will be formidable by post-Hogwarts, but there are no shortcuts here: take everything you see in the first few chapters with a pinch of salt, and remember Canon!Lily from the Pensieve in DH.

- No slash where Harry's concerned, and since this fic is Years 1-2, no romance beyond teasing. As for the sequels, anything could happen.

- I first posted this in March 2014. We didn't know the names of James Potter's parents at the time, and though Charlus and Dorea were long shots, I've gone for a compromise. Sorry if it rankles anyone!