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: Doge meets with senior Hogwarts staff to discuss his interview with Harry, two witches catch up over a spot of tea, and an old man reads a newspaper.


Chapter Two - Albus Marks A Paper

Cináed's Folly, located deep in the Scottish Highlands, was an unimpressive, if not disquieting sight to most passers-by. Truncated squares of charred stone walls that would slowly but surely collapse under their own weight, and desolate stretches of flat land paved with sand now occupied the space where a majestic fortress once stood proud against the rough hilly surface. High-rising, rusty fences and weathered signs instructing "Keep Out", "Danger of Death" and "No Smoking, It's Inconsiderate" traced along the road-facing end of the ruins in an unnecessary attempt to keep bystanders at bay.

Despite the fact that the fences, weak-looking as they were, didn't even extend to cover the perimeter of the ruins, wandering travellers still steered well away from the structure. That might have had more to do with the foul stench of carrion that emanated from the surrounding soil. A select few, however, saw the immense possibilities that the location had to offer. Those select few did not see Cináed's Folly, but instead would discover the magnificent castle that was home to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Typically, the Headmaster's Tower, which overlooked the Middle Courtyard of the castle, was a lonely haunt at night. The spacious circular office would be populated only by long forgotten dusty tomes, with several picture frames, most of them empty, lining the walls where windows were absent. Tonight, it seemed, would be an exception. As the waning moon shone above in the star-flecked firmament, it cast a ghostly white column of light through a room with hundreds of moving portraits, a number of shining trinkets, several spinning instruments and three people absorbed in deep conversation. Should an eavesdropper observe the scene closely, they would possibly hear the occasional mutters of agreement or dissent from the inhabitants of the hanging portraits.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the current headmaster of the school, sat on an ornate, tall and gilded armchair, leisurely combing a long, white beard through his spindly fingers as he examined his guests. He wore a set of immaculate purple robes embroidered with strange silver symbols that glittered in the ethereal moonlight. This didn't seem inappropriate, as the tall, severe-looking middle-aged woman standing in front of him dressed in similarly cut tartan robes, and the fez-wearing old man stood next to her stared back at him with ill-repressed glee.

"He Apparated, you say?" asked Dumbledore, stroking his chin.

"That's right, Albus! With nary a pop!" the man replied with gusto. "Wouldn't have believed it otherwise, had I not witnessed it myself!"

"Good to know that you sympathise, Elphias." the woman to his left muttered, drawing a long, dark wand from her robes. With a flourish and a faint pop, two leather-backed wooden chairs suddenly appeared in front of the Headmaster's desk. Flashing the witch a smile of gratitude, Elphias Doge made himself comfortable in the chair on the left. The witch followed suit, tutting under her breath as she continued.

"So as you were saying, Harry Potter demonstrated this prodigious magical skill by floating in mid-air - without a channelling instrument - before Apparating across the room without causing a sound, essentially accomplishing that which is unheard of outside the circles of well-trained or learned wizards?" the woman inquired with a sceptical look.

"Well yes, that's correct," said Doge with furrowed eyebrows. "Of course, when you put it like that, one-"

"You witnessed Harry Potter," said the witch, her voice tart, "a boy born barely more than a decade ago, perform controlled and complex magic without the aid of a wand? You're sure, Elphias?"

"Why Minerva," gasped Doge, seemingly offended. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're refusing to take me seriously!"

Minerva, the black-haired witch in question, threw her hands up in defeat and made way to leave her chair, before being stopped by the chortling Headmaster.

"Now now, Minerva," said Dumbledore, wagging a finger in mock admonishment as Minerva huffed in response. "We must play well with others. If I remember correctly, our esteemed Madam McGonagall is well-regarded in the Wizengamot chambers for her unparalleled sense of fair-play, is she not?"

"She is indeed, Albus," said Doge, giggling at his quip like a child a thirtieth his age, until he suddenly bounced on his chair with a piercing yelp. Minerva smiled in satisfaction.

"Oh do shut up, you old schlub," hissed a dark-haired wizard with a pointy beard, who happened to be occupying one of the portraits close to the Headmaster's seat. Doge visibly deflated.

"Phineas," Dumbledore sighed, looking askance in the picture frame's direction, "I believe that was most unnecessary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind visiting another of your portraits for now, since Professor Doge annoys you so?"

"Have it your way, Headmaster," Phineas said flatly, disappearing behind the frame as he stalked off.

'Six months," growled Doge, his forehead turning an impressively bright shade of crimson despite the present lighting conditions of the office. "He was Head for a measly six months, one wretched hundred years ago! Why does he have a portrait?"

"As our Muggle friends across the pond would say," said Dumbledore airily, "'those are the breaks', old chap. Now Elphias, as we have rid ourselves of all foreseeable potential disturbances, I must ask you to keep in mind that Professor McGonagall here has an early start visiting students tomorrow – we must make haste. I believe you managed to procure a copy of Harry's Augometer?"

"You what?" McGonagall snapped, clipping the considerably shorter wizard around the ear. "Elphias, you should know more than most that Augometers are strictly Ministry property! Once used, they contain highly sensitive information that is not to be distributed and not to be duplicated!"

"Now Minerva-" Dumbledore started before being silenced by a pointed finger as the irate witch whirled towards him.

"And you!" she thundered. "How could you, Albus? Need I remind you that you are still a Wizengamot member? What on Gaia's green earth were you thinking?"

"Minerva, while I do applaud your upstanding attitude towards legal compliance," said Dumbledore calmly as McGonagall's gaze threatened to immolate him, "I'll have you know that I received special permission from our friend Algernon. Prior to Elphias visit, of course."

"Croaker?" said McGonagall, ignoring a sing-song "ha-ha" from Doge. "From the Department of Mysteries?"

"The very same," said Dumbledore, inclining his head. "As Head of the Department, and in liaison with the Department of Magical Education old Algie is privy to the Augometer test results that come in each summer. Now, Elphias," he looked at Doge, "the test, if you may?"

"Certainly Albus," the other wizard squeaked, rummaging around in his waistcoat pocket. A few seconds later, he produced a misshapen piece of cloth, cradling it in both hands as he passed it to the Headmaster.

"Careful now, it's hot," he whispered. "I had him do the test twice, and this was the second one. I think the first one looked almost fit to explode!"

Surely enough, as Dumbledore eagerly but gently unravelled the fabric around the tube, a dazzling green light illuminated the immediate area. McGonagall sucked in a breath as Doge resumed his giggling fit.

"Headmaster, check the reading," McGonagall said breathlessly, leaning forward. As Dumbledore drew his own wand to analyse the glowing tube, Doge reached into his pockets yet again.

"Silly me," he muttered in his wheezy voice, plucking a strip of tan-coloured paper from his coat. "Here's a grading slip. I've already sent one to the Ministry. Wonder what the boys and girls down there will think once they feast their eyes on-"

"Shut up Elphias," said McGonagall, snatching the strip of paper from the man's outstretched hand, and hurriedly setting it on the table next to the Augometer.

Dumbledore looked down at the slip. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the minute bar chart marked on the paper was indeed blank. Fixing his gaze on the Augometer once more, he gently ran the tip of his wand along the length of the glass tube. The wand's tip gradually began to emit the same green light, and once he was satisfied, Dumbledore gave the grading slip a firm tap. Almost immediately, a series of bars, lines and numbers flickered in and out, eventually arranging themselves into a profile of detailed statistics. At the bottom of the slip, a number burned itself into the paper with a final flash of light.

"What does the parchment say, Albus?" asked McGonagall, her voice trembling in anticipation. Doge's grin looked as if it could split his face apart at any moment.

Dumbledore stared blankly at the parchment in bewilderment. This was unexpected; he'd always held Lily and James Potter in high regard for their extraordinary magical talent, among other things, and while he was sure Harry would take after them both, his results were simply unprecedented. The last Potter indeed...

"It's a seventy-four," he finally said, his sharp blue eyes shimmering beneath half-moon spectacles. "If anything, Harry James Potter is definitely Hogwarts-bound.'

"Well, it's not like we're letting Redmoor grab him," snorted Doge. "They'd try any underhanded tactic to get a leg up on the league tables!"

"Is that all you can think about now, Elphias?" said McGonagall, scandalised. "We should be more concerned with the Ministry snatching Lily and James' boy to carry out cruel experiments in the name of "nationally beneficial" research. Some second-rate school trying to get their claws on him is of no consequence, as far as I'm concerned.'

"I assure you, Minerva," said Dumbledore quietly, straightening his posture to regain some composure, "that we have nothing to fear concerning Harry's welfare. His name has been written down in our ledgers since he first showed signs of magic, and his parents specifically demanded he remain in our care following his first year at Hogwarts."

"The Order, Albus?" the witch asked, visibly convinced. Dumbledore smiled.

"You, Elphias, myself... we will all do our utmost to safeguard their child in the coming years. It's in their will, after all, and we owe them as much after the sacrifice they made for our cause. Harry is the last Potter, urban legends notwithstanding, and it is our duty to ensure that he lives the full life his forebears could not, to continue his line for many generations to come.

"Now, I'm certain that far more transpired besides your assessing the boy, Elphias. Perhaps you could summarise the rest of your visit for us?"

"Absolutely," said Doge firmly, clearing his throat loudly. "From what I gathered while speaking with the head matron, her charming assistant and Harry himself, that the boy is treated well is as clear as Demiguise hair. I fear that actually might pose a problem when it comes to removing Harry from there for good."

Dumbledore hummed softly. "A shame, I agree. But it's a necessity, inevitable even..."

"Yes," said Doge gravely. "Muggles and wizards, destined to be star-crossed lovers." He stopped awkwardly at McGonagall's inquisitive gaze. Dumbledore smiled at the man, knowing full well his old friend's affliction struck yet again. Oh, to be young and dumb, the ancient wizard thought wistfully.

"Back to the matter at hand," Doge wheezed, wiping his brow. "We touched upon a subject on which dear Harry was... seriously misinformed.'

"Elphias?" called Dumbledore as the other man fell quiet.

"Apologies... you see, it was a distressing situation to say the least. I hadn't meant to cause the lad any more pain- "

"What did you do, Elphias?" McGonagall hissed.

"I, I -" Doge caught his tongue, shivering in trepidation as he turned to the witch seated next to him. "Minerva, I had to tell him... He didn't know who his parents were.'

"Well Elphias, he was only one when it happened," Dumbledore said gently, but when his eyes met Doge's, he was bludgeoned by the dull, hammer-like strike of understanding. "Oh dear, I see now...'

"I'm so sorry Elphias," McGonagall said softly, resting a hand on the old wizard's shoulder. "I can't imagine how you found the words."

Dumbledore shut his eyes. While his caregivers had apparently raised him well, they had done him a grave injustice by withholding such personal information from the boy. Dumbledore only hoped the damage was not irreparable.

"He knows now, at least," Doge mumbled, intertwining his own hand with McGonagall's, "and he took it surprisingly well, though I'm sure he was holding back. I suppose you'll want me to take him to Diagon Alley for his supplies?"

Dumbledore chuckled darkly at the swift change of subject. "You never were one to wallow, Elphias. I was hoping you'd be available, yes, though if you are otherwise occupied, I could always call on Severus to- "

"No." said McGonagall, stony faced. "I will not allow it!"

"Come now, Minerva," Dumbledore appealed to the witch. "Severus lays claim to a very diverse background. He is more than qualified to introduce young Harry to the many idiosyncrasies of the wizarding world."

"Be that as it may," she replied, crossing her arms in plain displeasure, "the man's behaviour is wholly inappropriate. It's hardly befitting for a student, let alone an educator. Once again I find myself questioning if Severus Snape is even fit to teach!"

"Professor Severus Snape is unanimously endorsed by the Board of Governors, Minerva," said Dumbledore, peering at McGonagall as his spectacles drifted toward the tip of his nose, "and boasts numerous accolades for his alchemical practice. Our youngest Potions Master hired in thirty years, to boot. I know the two of you have your differences, but- "

"Albus," interjected Doge, firmly raising a hand in protest, McGonagall exhaling heavily on his right. "I can take Mr Potter. It's no trouble, you assumed wrong."

Dumbledore looked at Doge, then McGonagall, and then back at the old fez-donning wizard. He made a small 'o' with his mouth, and flashed McGonagall a sheepish smile.

"Well if that's all, Albus," she said, straightening her robes as she rose from her seat, "I need to get up especially early for tomorrow. I'm expected at Augusta's for afternoon tea, so I can't afford to run late on these appointments."

"Of course," replied Dumbledore with a slight bow of the head. "I would prefer to avoid the wrath of the formidable Madam Longbottom. Please send my regards, Minerva."

"I shall," McGonagall said, smiling despite herself. "Please keep the chairs. They should hold for another month, at least." With that, she left through the exit on the other side of the room, where the beginning of a spiral staircase could be seen from the edge of the doorway.

"They are very comfy, you know," said Doge, grinning as he tapping a leather arm on his own chair.

"I'm sure," said Dumbledore, flourishing his wand. A bowl containing what looked like peanuts appeared on the desk. "Could I interest you in a Cockroach Cluster? I find them to be quite moreish. Minerva detests them - it took all of my willpower not to Summon them five minutes ago!"


Only a couple of moments to spare, thought McGonagall, bustling around a compact stone-floored room filled with stacks of parchment.

"Now where did I put it? Accio floo powder," she said with a wave of her wand. A glass cabinet near the office's entrance fluttered open as a small leather pouch buried deep inside zoomed straight into McGonagall's outstretched hand. Releasing the drawstring, she scooped out a pinch worth of glittery silver powder from the pouch. Setting her sights towards her far left, McGonagall marched towards a gigantic stone fireplace.

She hurled the pinch of twinkling powder into the roaring flames. At once, they turned bright green, and the intense heat which previously emanated from them settled through the atmosphere.

"Falconry House," said McGonagall sharply, removing her wide-brimmed hat to immerse her head in the subtly crackling green fire. As she blinked, she could make out the blurry, viridian-filtered image of what appeared to be a decadent withdrawing room, where a woman about her age, donning an oddly shaped headpiece regularly sipped from a miniature teacup while reading from a newspaper.

"Augusta," called McGonagall. The woman's head snapped upright. "Augusta? I'm coming through, are you decent?"

One of Augusta's eyebrows twitched a little. "You should leave the wisecracks to me, silly girl. Yes, come through."

McGonagall got back on her feet and stepped into the flames. Feeling the ground beneath her fall away, she was assaulted by visions of countless other hearths and fireplaces, even spotting the odd person tumbling through one or the other, before she eventually landed gracefully, her view of Augusta's room far sharper than before.

"Minerva," Augusta said, smirking faintly, "punctual as ever. To what do I owe the pleasure, again...?"

"I think you're finally going senile, my dear," McGonagall replied, her eyes shining with mirth as she collapsed into an armchair beside the other woman, "though I can't honestly say I'm surprised, considering your absurd taste in head wear. Is that an albatross on your head, woman?"

"Hmph! I wouldn't expect a dirty, uncouth half-blood like you to understand," Augusta quipped, cackling as she dodged a pillow McGonagall conjured with a swift flick of her wand. "Quick on the draw, as always. How's trix, as the Muggles say?"

McGonagall sighed softly, giving her old friend a wan smile. "The usual, my dear. Enrapturing prospective students with fantastic opportunities beyond their wildest dreams... right after having their families torn apart, mind. I'm thinking about selling some of my Hogwarts shares to buy out a resident booth in the Leaky Cauldron. What say you, Augusta?"

"I say," the albatross-hatted witch drawled, taking a long sip from her teacup before continuing, "you have no class, Minerva. Though I suppose it would be better than finding you drowning your sorrows in that sty Albus' brother owns. You're making a lot of noise about nothing, by the way. Those children are better off with us, you know that."

"But to erase their families' memories, Augusta?" McGonagall winced, eyes downcast. "While the children themselves remember everything, including their glorified kidnapping... I don't know how much longer I can be complicit in this. The Ministry is corrupt to the hilt, and we're fighting a long-lost battle in the Chambers, guaranteed."

"Families are fragile things, Minerva. Sometimes I wonder if the fond memories I have of Frank - of Roger, even - did more to harden my heart in recent years than anything else."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked McGonagall incredulously.

"Just as I said, girl. To have all that I knew and loved stripped away from me in the space of two decades... well, I long for the past. I may have even punished the loved ones I still have for it," Augusta said, grimacing, "and I'd do anything to turn back the proverbial clock. But these little ones, the Muggle-borns and upcoming half-bloods, they have it happen to them so early. They have their whole lives ahead of them. You might think me twisted, I know you do, but the only way for them is up."

"Maybe," said McGonagall, shaking her head slightly, "but I'll never regret my father dying before Malcolm's grandchildren went off to Hogwarts, I can assure you."

"It's a sad state of affairs, Minerva," Augusta said solemnly, "I shan't disagree with you there." She sat up, flexing bony yet robust arms as she put on a bright smile. "Now must we always waste our meetings discussing the woes of the wizarding world? We could have been born goblins, you know. Mopsy! Scones, please!"

Not a moment after Augusta had shouted her request at some invisible servant, the faintest 'pop' accompanied the sudden appearance of a strange, tiny humanoid figure at the witch's feet.

"That was very quick indeed, Mopsy. Well done, girl."

"Sorry that Mopsy is being late, Madam Longbottom," the odd being said quickly, dusting off a tea cosy-like dress, her large, pointed ears flapping to and fro. As she looked up at the two witches in front of her, Mopsy revealed a face with disproportionately huge blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a side-splitting grin and a beak of a nose covered in flour.

"Mopsy is making the scones from scratch from when she hears you call, mistress!" As she spoke, she snapped her fingers, magicking a full tea set with a tray of scones on a rosewood coffee table.

"Mopsy will be quicker next time!" With an elegant bow, Mopsy disappeared with another faint " 'pop'.

"Mopsy, eh?" asked McGonagall, her lips wry. "I thought Tippy was your tea elf?"

"She's Tippy's niece," Augusta replied, bending down to butter a scone, "and she's far more enthusiastic. She's a go-getter, that girl. Keep an eye on her, Minerva. Who knows, she just might be in the running for the next Head Elf of Falconry House!"

"Quite," McGonagall dead-panned, "though I hear from young Andromeda that the old Baron Black's elves may have given you a run for your money."

"Please," Augusta scoffed, taking a bite out of her scone. "The old Baron had sweet eff-eay to do with those poor devils, and we all know Walburga's a couple Gobstones short. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - Dark witches can't train house elves."

"I believe the mark of a good house elf is that it doesn't need training, Augusta," McGonagall mused, pouring herself a cup of tea. "You know, it's shameful - all the time we've spent chatting away, and I haven't asked about little Neville. How is the lad?'

"Oh, he's not so little any more," Augusta said pridefully. "He'll be eleven by midday tomorrow. We have to re-fit him for new robes every other week! I've tried giving him a head-start by passing on the Longbottom family Grimoire, you know. Algie's considering doing the same, since he's not looking to procreate any time soon... Neville's got chops, Minerva, but all he wants to do is play around in that greenhouse. He's completely unaware of his station; Herbology and the like is work for those with little spark and no hope."

"Augusta!" McGonagall exclaimed. "I know you want the boy to succeed, but he is not his father. Regardless of where his talents lie, Neville must eventually make his own choices, meaning you need to let him think for himself now."

Augusta stared back, eyes narrowed. "And you have how many children, Minerva?" she said bitingly.

"I'm going to excuse that little remark," McGonagall muttered, closing her eyes, "because you know I'm talking sense. Now," she picked up Augusta's discarded newspaper, "you're well acquainted with our dear editor, Mr Cuffe. Maybe you could help me understand the inspiration behind today's front page?"


Leaning back in his gilded armchair, Dumbledore let out a loud yawn, before laying twinkling blue eyes on the newspaper before him yet again. The Daily Prophet's charmed-ink-on-parchment dailies were generally deemed tabloids of the especially trashy variety by most learned British wizards, though due to vociferous endorsements from key figures within the Ministry, the Headmaster deemed it prudent to keep abreast of topics written through its sensationalist lens. It would, unfortunately he felt, inform public opinion far more than the fully independent programmes running on the burgeoning market of wizarding television.

Living out his adolescence as a half-blood in a mostly non-magical community during the eighteen-fifties, Albus Dumbledore was especially familiar with the Muggle printing press, at least for a wizard. As such, he still found himself fascinated with the animated ink one would find in magical periodicals, paintings and the like. That and the fact that the daily Mab and Chip cartoons appealed to the child inside him.

Tonight, however, would not see a chuckling Headmaster laboriously cut out the comic strips by hand, pasting them in scrapbooks as he went along. Instead, it would see him pore over the headline on yesterday's front page for the seventeenth time.


The Daily Prophet, July 29th 1991

HARRY POTTER: THE BOY OF TOMORROW?

by Orpheus LENNON

According to trusted sources within the 11/17 Committee, an education-oriented quango affiliated with the MoM Department of Education, a new record in child augometric testing history was recently attained by none other than Harry Potter, only child of the late Rt Hon. Baron James C Potter, and the last remaining of his respective Chief House.

The "Augometer", a product developed and financed by the 11/17 Committee, uses state-of-the-art technology to gauge a magical being's potential magical power, benchmarked against members of its own species and age group. Mr Potter, aged eleven, allegedly scored a 74, which according to the Augo Profile (averaging at 38 for witches or wizards of any age) places him clearly off the scale with an upper limit of 65, a feat officially accomplished by only two other wizards since the test's inception.

Ministry officials are reportedly rejoicing and lamenting in equal measure. Winona Foster, a senior moderator on the permanent marking panel in the Wizarding Examinations Authority, believed that "he might be able to do what that old coot Dumbledore never could- knock the stuffing out of Grindelwald for good!"

Ms Foster, eighty-two, has worked in the Ministry's education department for almost half a century. In that time, the next highest recorded augometric test reading was a 62, attained by a qualified master sorcerer - a Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt, now a veteran within the Ministry's Auror Office (cont. on p5)


Setting down the paper, Dumbledore reached for a small bottle-green jar, a glistening golden feather protruding from it. With a snap of his fingers, a notepad-sized piece of parchment popped into being on top of the Prophet. Dipping the feather thrice in its jar, Dumbledore scribbled a few sentences down on the parchment, holding it up to the chandelier candlelight once he was finished.

"Fawkes," the Headmaster called out to the ostensibly empty office. Following an awkward silence, briefly interrupted by a loud cough coming from one of the walls, a small gout of flames erupted above a wooden post opposite the office table. Left in its wake was a swan-sized, crimson-feathered bird of some sort, sweetly crooning from its gleaming golden beak.

"Good evening, my friend," Dumbledore said reverently, rising from his chair. He walked towards the perch, note in hand, gently stroking the bird's plumage with the other. " "I have a message for you to deliver to our honourable Minister, Mr Fudge, concerning matters of state security. Are you up to the task?" Fawkes gave the man a sidelong glance, seizing the missive with its beak. It ruffled its feathers and in another gout of flame, disappeared as soon as it had come.

"Surely you aren't wondering where the leak came from?" a disembodied voice spat from the walls. "It was obviously the old schlub, Doge. The man has diricawl dung for brains.'

"Ah, Phineas," greeted Dumbledore, leaning against his table as he turned to the pointy-bearded wizard's portrait. "I hadn't expected you to return for a few more days, at the very least."

"You obviously don't think much of me Headmaster," the portrait snarled, "if you believe that I'd let a fool like Doge get the better of me. No, I grew tired of my descendant's nonsensical rambling. I haven't heard that many Ministry officials accused of being secretly Muggle-born since the McCarthy days!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore half-laughed, casually studying his wand for a time.

"Phineas," he eventually spoke. "What's your take on all of this last Potter business, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Unless his father unwittingly sired another snot-nosed brat, I'd assume he is indeed the last Potter," the wizard responded, rolling his painted eyes. "Not that I'd be surprised. Those so-called 'Bright' wizards appear incapable of mastering their own loins."

"He was your great-grandson many times over, Phineas, do not forget," said the Headmaster, waggling a finger as his countenance bore a mischievous smile.

Phineas harrumphed, turning his nose up at his successor as Dumbledore chuckled.

"Speaking of great great-grandsons," the haughty wizard spoke as Dumbledore's laughter subsided, "you haven't heard anything concerning- "

"Sirius? I'm afraid not, old friend," Dumbledore said warily, returning to his seat only to rest on the nearer arm. "The goblins down at Gringotts are still refusing to entrust the inheritance over to your great-granddaughter, despite Walburga's wishes. The Ministry hardly cares as Orion's will is iron-clad, while we have no evidence of Sirius' death. Quite the contrary, in fact, as you know well."

"Quite," Phineas said, pensive. "Dragons led by flobberworms, indeed. All of those cursed Blacks, even Potter... why are my descendants such fools? I can't blame your cause, Headmaster, naive as it may be, but the twits would have been safer staying on the duelling circuit."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"Well, whatever your sentiments are towards the family in general," he said, "you must undoubtedly feel a sense of pride in your long-lost descendant."

"I am a painting, Dumbledore."

"I haven't forgotten. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, forgive me," the Headmaster said jovially.

The Black ancestor flared his nostrils. "Wisdom," he eventually said, "is nothing without reverence, something I'd wager the boy severely lacks considering his age... and his father. His mother on the other hand, a Mudblood though she was- "

"Phineas..."

"Oh hush, man," Phineas scoffed, coiling the end of his beard around a manicured finger. "As I was saying... His Muggle-born mother showed wisdom far beyond her years. An almost unparalleled comprehension of the ancient magics- "

"Phineas, need I remind you that you were dead for three-quarters of a century before Lily Evans graced these halls as a student?"

"The walls have eyes, Headmaster. Obviously. Now regarding my 'long-lost descendant', what would you propose to do? You don't have enough time to tutor him individually."

"I do not, you are correct," said Dumbledore, sighing. "I have a couple of candidates in mind, though the best man for the job is currently on yet another World Tour."

"Oh, him," sniffed Phineas. "What is it with so many of these half-bloods? Such strong affinities with their magic - it hardly makes sense."

"But it makes such perfect sense, Phineas, that the Department of Mysteries allowed the disclosure of a paper on the very subject a few years back," Dumbledore said, amused by the portrait's huffing. "Not that the Upper Chamber will permit free access to it any time soon."

The Headmaster slid off the arm of his chair, fixing his gaze upon the starlit sky crowned by a waning gibbous moon.

"Harry Potter, the Boy of Tomorrow," he said softly, "what will tomorrow hold for you?"


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: And there's Chapter Two of Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome. Many thanks for the reviews so far!