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: A goblin does the books, Elphias eats ice cream, and a young witch takes Harry prisoner.

Chapter Four - Elphias Goes To Town

"I'm home..."

As the barrier before the courtyard vanished, an immense wave of raw magic surged towards the young wizard, engulfing him in its warm embrace. Harry had never been here before; he wouldn't have remembered, at the very least, but the inexplicable feeling of familiarity and comfort was too powerful to ignore.

"Harry..." it called, "har... harry... Harry..."

"Harry!"

"Wha- ?" Harry's head jerked back, his senses returning - he wasn't sure when they had disappeared. Staring down at him was a stricken Doge, who quickly helped him to his feet. The brick wall that formed the edge of the courtyard was gone, a large archway standing in its place. They stared at each other for a while longer, until the elder man's eyes narrowed in comprehension.

"You," he whispered slowly, "you feel it... don't you?"

"Yes," replied Harry, glassy-eyed and smiling giddily, absently wiping tear tracks from his cheeks, "what is it?"

"Magic, my boy," the old wizard said, "the magic of London's wizards. The magic of the goblins, the hags, the elves, and most of all, the Alley."

"The what?" asked Harry, before laying eyes upon the most ridiculous display of town planning he had ever seen.

"Ah, right."

"This, Harry, is Diagon Alley!" Doge said jubilantly, rubbing his hands together in delight. "It appears that you can feel its magic! I have a hypothesis, of sorts."

"What do you think it means, sir?" asked Harry, his voice tinged with more than a little concern.

"Oh, you must stop worrying, Harry," the wizard scoffed with a wave of his hand, "you're in little danger. I believe this enhanced sensitivity to magic stems from your intimate awareness of your own powers, as well as your prolonged detachment from areas of high magical activity. In fact, it's not uncommon for Muggle-born children to present a similar reaction, albeit not as pronounced..."

"Hm, maybe you're right." Harry pondered the idea, looking down at his shoes, "I mean, I've felt it since the Knight Bus appeared, and then when we walked through that pub. If you're right, though - and I don't mean to question your judgement Professor - but if you are, then why didn't I feel your magic when we first met?"

"You do have a point there," said Doge, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "I'm nowhere near an expert but it's a concern that is easily addressed. You see, you have a degree of control over your own magic already. You are intimately aware of what one wizard's presence feels like after feeling your own - it's almost like background noise to you now. But a whole community? Not to mention other creatures and the ambient magic in a space such as this."

"Yeah, that does make a lot of sense," Harry responded with a satisfied grin, which quickly faded as it gave way to a perplexed look. "Talking of spaces, though, how does all of this fit? That pub was definitely larger on the inside, and this?" he said, gesturing at what he assumed was a street before them.

"Need you even ask?" Doge chuckled at Harry's huff of dissatisfaction before inhaling with purpose, examining his surroundings with owl-like turns of the head. "We'll have to cut this magical theory lesson short, I'm afraid, to do a bit of fieldwork. Did you bring your supplies list?" Harry nodded, taking out the piece of parchment that he'd re-read countless times over the past week:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First year students will require:

Three sets of plain works robes (black)*
Three pairs of leather shoes and/or boots (black)
Three Hogwarts-issue cravats
One set of dress robes
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)


*For girls: five sets of Hogwarts-issue tunics (white), skirts (charcoal or black) and/or hose (charcoal or black)
*For boys: five sets of Hogwarts-issue shirts (white) and hose (charcoal or black)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
The Worldly Witch by Chroniculus Punnet
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
The Big British Hymnal by Orpheus Rumpett
An Introduction to Enchantment by Caspian Watts
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
The Essential Alphabet of Magic (Volume 1) by Apollyon Chadwick
Numerology and Grammatica by Eudoxus Ambrose
Five-Hundred Exercises for the Fledgling Sorcerer by Quentin Trimble
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 magical focus (wand, ring OR bracer)
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set - glass or crystal phials
1 set - silver engraving kit
1 set - brass scales

Regarding pets: Students are permitted to bring a magical familiar at their parents' discretion. Parents MUST, however, obtain special permission from a Governor of the Board should they wish to bring a creature assigned a XXX classification by the Ministry Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.* Familiars with a XXXX classification or higher are NOT permitted under any circumstances.

*Half-Kneazles are an exception to this clause, and are permitted without prior Board consultation.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

"What's with these clothes, anyway?" Harry asked, eyeing a crowd of peculiar wizards and witches trying to win a silver broomstick in an auction, most of them dressed in similar garb to those mentioned on the list. "I half-hoped the list was a joke. Do all wizards dress like that?"

"Robe, shirt and hose, my boy," Doge replied with more than a hint of disinterest, "the staple ensemble of 'current' wizarding attire in our humble Metropolitan Britannia. Witches are a tad more adventurous in their tastes - Muggle fashion is rather popular among the younger ladies, I believe. Personally I, as you can see for yourself, like to go the whole ten miles!"

A long, painful pause followed. Harry sneezed.

"Hm... Gringotts first, I think," Doge muttered with a faraway look.

"Where, sir?"

"Gringotts is the goblin-run bank for wizardkind, most magical beings, really. In our world, Harry, international finance has long been the domain of the Goblin Nation. You'd think they'd be happy enough with that, but..." He narrowed his eyes at Harry's raised eyebrow. "Oh, you'll see what I mean. Follow me, once more!"

Of all the magical experiences he'd had so far that day, Diagon Alley made the least sense to Harry. It definitely was a wondrous sight; the hordes of adults and children alike wearing attire that wouldn't have been far out-of-place in a Renaissance Fair looked pretty cool in his opinion, and the rather aggressive vendor claiming that his Limited Edition All-Purpose Abjuration Powder repelled Lethifolds didn't bother him that much, whatever any of that was. What concerned Harry more than anything else was the surely imminent collapse of a least a third of the buildings he and Doge had passed on the way to the Gringotts Bank.

The area possessed a quirky sort of beauty in spades, but suffered from an abject lack of straight lines. Haphazardly erected flats of timber, slate and steel were strewn across cobbled roads that twisted and turned into the horizon. Some actually lay on what should have been their sides while others - especially those of substantial height - often veered to the side, casting foreboding shadows over jagged pavements. Harry was sure he even spotted one wooden shack suspended in mid-air, apparently supported by nothing but the air below it. The presumed owner didn't seem to care, as a shrivelled old wizard hurled a pot of boiling water through the makeshift window, incensing a middle-aged witch selling Puffskein Pillows directly below.

Not a few minutes of trekking through the absurd scene, a towering, snow-white monolith came into view, dwarfing the blocks of the ramshackle plots that surrounded it.

"There it is," said Doge, his tone gruff as he poked a finger in its general direction. "The London branch of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Make sure to keep an eye or three open - it generally isn't a place for children."

As they climbed a set of polished stairs leading to the bank's entrance, they met a peculiar looking man keeping watch in front of burnished bronze doors. He was more than a head shorter than Harry, wore a scarlet and gold uniform and had grotesque features, though that could have been due to the permanent snarl he seemed all too willing to wear. He bared pointy teeth at the pair as they walked past, and Harry was sure whatever he growled under his breath was a particularly nasty curse word.

"Is he a -" whispered Harry wide-eyed as the goblin snapped his fingers, the bronze doors closing behind them.

"Indeed he is," Doge replied melodically, giving Harry a patronising smile, "and you understand what I meant now, I gather?"

"Not really, he looked really hard done by. You don't happen to know him?" Doge gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

The interior of the building was even more than its share of intimidating. Several more guards closely resembling the foul-mouthed doorman flanked the entrance hall, which ended in a set of silver doors engraved with a poem of some sort:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

"I can't help but think that writing 'here be dragons' would be more efficient. You know, because magic," Harry mused, before tittering at Doge's blank expression. "A bad joke a day keeps the doctor away, Professor."

"My boy, are you sure you don't have the Sight?"

"Well if you're talking about clairvoyance or something, then no. I'd be filthy rich otherwise. A millionaire orphan... you could only write it!" Harry chuckled, unperturbed by Doge's pointed silence as they pushed through the silver doors, revealing a grand marble reception hall, with queues from either side that seemed to extend for several miles.

Over a hundred goblins bustled in and out of what had to be thousands of doors, while older-looking clerks attended several large counters. Dozens of parchment scrolls circled the hall high above them, presumably an assortment of client statements and internal memos. Harry noticed that most of the human customers present were either especially laid back or very uncomfortable. Must be some really bad blood here, he thought, as they edged towards one of the few service desks that remained conspicuously empty, where a brass plaque reading 'YOU ARE BEING SERVED BY: BOGROD - 7:00 TO 19:00' sat atop the marble counter.

"So Professor," he said after some time eyeing the queue beside them, "we're not here to set up an account, are we? Flying paper and goblins in old suits are all very fascinating, but I wouldn't fancy queueing like that even once. We've got loads to do... Holly's even made me a birthday cake. I can't be late for that."

Shifting uncomfortably, Doge cleared his throat. "Well, no. You already have a personal account that your parents opened on your behalf many years ago. We're here to reactivate it, as it was managed under the estate of -"

"Potter, Harry James?" a grisly voice boomed before them. Jolted back into reality, Harry and Doge found the service desk was no longer vacant. Behind the marble counter sat an ancient goblin in a black suit and neck-cloth wearing silver-framed spectacles, his eyes narrowed beneath them.

"Er yes, that's me," Harry said through a gulp, "how did you know?"

"Your handler," he replied coolly, his eyes fixated on the older wizard, "I know him well. You were late, Mr Doge."

"Apologies, Bogrod," the man said, stiffening. He was making quite an effort to avoid the goblin's gaze. "There was a spot of technical trouble on the Knight Bus, which -"

"Never breaks down," Bogrod finished for him with a smirk, "and I needn't remind you that it was in fact Sir Albus who requested that our meeting be rescheduled. I would hope that writing for the Prophet isn't losing you much sleep?" His black eyes appeared to glint with cruel satisfaction as Doge flushed, his eyes darting everywhere but in the teller's general direction. "You are in possession of Mr Potter's key, I presume?"

Doge nodded furiously, producing a tiny, ornate silver key from his jacket pocket.

"Then if you'd please follow me," the goblin teller said, gesturing to one of the many identical doors behind him, "we can try to resolve the matter at hand in record time."

Doing just as Bogrod had asked, Harry and Doge trailed behind the teller as he led them down a passageway behind one of the doors. Soon enough, they approached a golden rimmed, porthole-like recess on the left side of the dry-stone corridor. Bogrod snapped his fingers, and as the porthole melted away, beckoned his customers to walk through. Harry did so hesitantly, and was more than faintly surprised upon entering the comparatively ordinary study. In fact, the olive-green cabinets behind the plain white workstation looked as if they could have been lifted from any of the thousands of near identical offices in the City.

Climbing onto an iron chair behind the table, the goblin teller waved an open palm. A cabinet near the top left rumbled slightly, and a thick, leather-bound file materialised on top of the desk. Doge apparently took this as his cue to sit down, with Harry following suit.

Bogrod shuffled around and plopped down onto his seat, frighteningly long fingers intertwined as he regarded the two wizards in front of him with a calculating look. "Mr Potter," he said slowly, reading from a page near the end of the file, "Harry James, son of James Charlus and Lily Marie, born on July thirty-first in nineteen-eighty at one minute past midnight. Previous guardians were a Vernon Paul and Petunia Christine Dursley, and you are currently... a ward of court, under the Family Division of Her Majesty's High Court of Justice in England. This is correct?"

"Yes, to my knowledge," Harry replied, somewhat uncertainly.

The goblin stared at him. "Right - in that case, I'll just need to perform a short identity assessment," he said as he opened a drawer of the workstation, removing a stack of glass swab-like objects before handing one to the young wizard. "Simply graze the inside of your cheek with the end - no further action required."

Harry warily looked at the teller, then the swab, and then at Doge, who urged him to comply with an encouraging smile. He traced the wall of his right cheek as requested, and upon examining it, he noticed that the glass material had acquired a distinct coppery colour. He returned the swab to Bogrod, who turned to another page with his free hand. He tapped the file with the coppery instrument, nodding to himself and clicking his tongue as he closed the book.

"We have a match," he muttered, glancing at the child again, before adjusting his glasses. "As such, Mr Potter, I am obligated to inform you of a couple of important matters before we reactivate your account today. Is this acceptable?" Harry nodded. "Good to know. First of all, in this file I have a document processed by the British Wizarding Probate Registry on behalf of your parents. The caretaker of your estate until you come of age- "

"My caretaker?"

The goblin sniffed in contempt. "Please do not interrupt me."

"Sor- " started Harry, though Doge laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"According to the document," continued Bogrod, "following your first year of magical education, your parents wished for custodial rights to be transferred to our esteemed Sir Albus Dumbledore, who would in turn appoint a Potter-approved proxy should he be unavailable at any time. Presumably the appointed candidate would be Mr Doge here. You are due to meet Sir Albus within the next ninety days, as mandated by the Ministry's Wizarding Minors Welfare Office.

"However, we at Gringotts require the approval of said minor to permanently relinquish any keys to your caretaker. Is this understood, Mr Potter?"

Harry felt uneasy. This man, Sir Albus, the most powerful sorcerer in history according to Professor Doge, was to be his official guardian. Even if he was uncommonly busy, why hadn't Harry even met him yet? Realising he had no choice, however, it being his birth parents' wishes, Harry inclined his head with feigned confidence.

The goblin teller suddenly thrust an inkpot and a black feather to a dumbstruck Harry before flicking through the file.

"Sign here, and here," he muttered, pointing a impressively clawed finger at several moving fields on the open parchment. To make matters worse, the print was impossibly tiny: Harry couldn't make heads or tails of the several dozen paragraphs that proved even shyer than the signature prompts themselves.

Is ink supposed to move like that?

He wasn't a lawyer, let alone a wizarding one, but Harry didn't particularly care for the goblin's urgency. He looked to Doge for reassurance; the ancient wizard nodded at the inkpot, grinning at Harry with unrestrained fervor.

Harry acquiesced, slowly dipping the feather into the pot under Bogrod's gaze. He said nothing, so Harry assumed he hadn't made a fool of himself just yet. He scrawled his initials on each field before they could disappear off the edge of the page.

Bogrod grunted in approval as he pulled a weathered wooden block out of thin air, stamping it down on the bottom of the open parchment.

"Thank the Wild... Onto our second item of business, then? I must inform you, Mr Potter, that once you reach the age of majority, which in the Wizarding Union of Britannia will be on your seventeenth birthday, you shall obtain control of all contents and assets managed under the technically dormant Potter Estate."

"What, exactly, do you mean by 'technically'?" Doge inquired, levelling a suspicious gaze on the goblin.

"The Potter Estate, as you are well aware, Mr Doge," the goblin said quietly, meeting the wizard's eyes with equal scrutiny, "claims a fifty-three per cent share of the Potlab Corporation, which is fully operational within the British territories and beyond, and is currently entrusted to other shareholders within your... collective. Not public knowledge of course, but you are aware nonetheless."

"Ah yes, that's right," Doge mumbled, shutting up immediately after. Harry quickly glanced at the skittish old wizard, his opinion of him rapidly dwindling despite himself. For all his kindness and helpful knowledge so far, the man seemed easily intimidated by almost everyone.

"My parents had a business?" he asked, turning back to the teller.

"Your family owned the business, Mr Potter. You shall also obtain the family home which is... the, ah, Crucible... Unplottable. Its location is to be disclosed to your guardian following your first year of school. The contents of the Potter vault are sealed and shall remain so until you reach majority, and the maximum amount of money you are permitted to withdraw from your personal account has been limited to two hundred Galleons per annum. A further three hundred Galleons per annum is to be entrusted to your guardian to cover tuition fees, supplies and general upkeep."

"So that's... what, three thousand of these Galleons?" asked Harry. "And there's still more - in a vault? Is there an exchange rate into pound sterling or something?"

Doge began to cough loudly, his brow and cheeks bright red. Harry was certain the man was not long for this world.

"Do you think me a criminal, Mr Potter?" Bogrod snarled, his voice dangerously low.

"Er, no, I didn't mean - " Harry stammered, but stopped as the goblin raised a finger. There was an awkward pause after Doge's coughing fit eventually subsided.

"A momentary lapse of judgement on my part - you must understand that it is outlawed for states with seats in the International Confederation of Wizards to permit the exchange of magical and Muggle currencies. Whether there are ways around it is neither here nor there, but as you have only been recently introduced to our world, you were not to know... apologies."

Harry had the distinct impression that the goblin didn't do that often. Then again, he didn't sound (and certainly didn't look) sincere.

Bogrod cleared his throat, and continued as if nothing had occurred.

"I suppose it would be prudent to explain how our currency works. The wizarding world, and by extension the international community of magical beings, has its single currency in the Galleon. A golden Galleon is worth seventeen silver Sickles, and is in turn equivalent to four-hundred-and-ninety-three bronze Knuts. A newspaper, let's say the Daily Prophet -" he snarled at Doge, the wizard squeaking in response, "- is priced at one Knut, while a post owl would generally cost at least eight Galleons. Your family estate, from the most recent record, was estimated at -" he paused to consult the pages of the leather-bound file, "- have a look, Mr Potter."

Accepting the file from Bogrod, Harry's eyes scanned the statement on the parchment before him. As he laid eyes on the net figure, he gasped. His mouth moved, but no words came. He closed the file and carefully handed it back towards the teller.

"Off the record, Mr Potter, you might be regarded a most unusual wizard for your station." the goblin said.

"How come?"

"Hogwarts is a most prestigious institution, Mr Potter. While the wealthier circles of our world will no doubt be aware of your upbringing given the recent press, they will be unable to relate. I would assume, however, that you share the same attitude towards blatant displays of opulence that was characteristic of your ancestors. Honour them, young wizard."

"I'll... do my best, sir," Harry responded awkwardly, gazing at the cabinets behind the goblin. Doge, whom Harry had almost completely forgotten about, clapped the boy on the back with a wheezy laugh.

"You'll do just fine, my boy," the man said with vigour, "just fine! Will that be all, Bogrod?"

The goblin hopped back on top of his seat, waving a palm as he did before. The same cabinet rumbled, but this time, a small leather drawstring pouch appeared on top of the file instead. As he sat back down, he turned to the younger wizard once more.

"This pouch is tied to your account, Mr Potter. It currently contains fifteen Galleons and five hundred Sickles, and will automatically refill at the fifty Sickle mark, that is, until you reach your annual limit."

"Magic is brilliant," the boy breathed, gazing at the pouch in awe.

Even as they left Gringotts, Harry couldn't take his eyes off of his new Sickle Bag, mulling over all that it symbolised. Bogrod mentioned that Hogwarts taught many rich students; he was one of them, it seemed, but he doubted that any of them had only been recently informed. He ran up to Doge who, for a wizard his age, was walking away from the bank at a consistent and remarkable pace.

'Professor," he called, tugging at the sleeve of the man's jacket. Snapping back into focus, Doge ceased his frantic escape to acknowledge the younger wizard. 'I'm still a little confused about this. That company... how did my family do it?'

Doge smiled down at the boy, patting him on the head. Harry did not appreciate it, but decided against saying anything as the ancient wizard began to speak.

'Wizards, Harry, are no different from Muggles in this regard. Some are just old money, others find an angle. Your family, though, was all of both! It's all about metal, my boy.' He grinned widely at the boy's furrowed brows. "Now while a wizard's magic can do just about anything if he knows how to do it and has the balls to do it, some things are just plain difficult. Transforming matter into a single, pure transition metal on an industrial scale - you know, your irons and your zincs and whatnot - is an absolute nightmare, and Conjuring them from nothing even worse. Treble the difficulty for most precious metals. Anything more than six-carat gold? Make yourself a Philosopher's Stone, but then working at all would become redundant!

"Either way, your family's had a knack for doing just that. Not pure gold of course," he said, chuckling as Harry gasped, "the goblins are miles further than us on that one, but even their Galleons still come from the ground, be sure of that. No, the Potters happened to have an uncanny ability for Transfiguration: the branch of Sorcery used to physically alter an object's form. That's how Gil the Potter joined the Wizard's Council way back when. They say it all started with cauldrons - copper, brass, pewter - and then the business just ballooned. There are still manufacturers under the Potlab banner, but the bulk of the profits come from raw material production. High quality alloys, mass-produced in alchemical plants. That's a blend of Transfiguration and Potioneering theory, since I see your cogs turning."

"I did wonder that," said Harry, remembering a library book he'd read on alchemy a few months prior. While Doge made no mention of philosophy or the transformation of the soul (if it even existed, maybe that's what magic was?), he'd certainly inferred that wizards were running circles around their Muggle counterparts. "So I'll have to carry this all on, Professor?"

"Well, you're not obliged by any means, my boy," Doge replied as he waved off a wizard in a purple top hat, "though most generations of Potters have done just that. Well, that or blasting other wizards to smithereens. Your father was famously good at it, I must say." Harry paled considerably as the old wizard barked a dry laugh.

Maybe he'd underestimated Doge after all. He then heard the man squeal, and decided to defer any further judgement for a later date.

"You must try Fortescue's ice cream, Harry. You'll never look back!" He gripped Harry's wrist with youthful strength, and bolted towards a large blue and cream-themed establishment. Several garden umbrellas were fixed above tables in front of the shop window. Sitting on one chair (as well as a stack of newspapers, Harry noted) was a tiny old wizard with a bushy, silver moustache cheerfully digging into a relatively massive bowl of ice cream in comparison to his size. The man knew Doge somehow, as he frantically waved his hand upon noticing the pair.

"Elphias!" he squeaked, "By Jove, he's done it again! The man's a genius, you have to buy this!"

"Filius, old chap! How are you?" Doge wheezed back, leaning towards the man's bowl in fascination as they reached his table. "My, it does look very appetizing... perhaps a test taste fir -"

"No!" the tiny man-made a small but swift gesture with his non-spoon hand, and the ice cream bowl suddenly flew two feet in the air, remaining surprisingly intact as Doge's head and index finger hit the table. "I'd expect such behaviour from Horace, but you, Elphias? Honestly man, there's a box of spoons right here!"

"I suppose I may have been a tad piggish," Doge said sheepishly, motioning Harry to take a seat. "I haven't even eaten breakfast yet! Oh, where are my manners? Harry, this is Professor Flitwick. He's a Charms teacher at Hogwarts, our Master in fact! Dabbles in the Artificing class too... Filius, Harry is James and Lily's son."

"Oh my," Flitwick breathed, adjusting his glasses as he peered at Harry. "He certainly is a Potter. How do you do, Harry?"

"It's nice to meet you, sir," Harry said politely, extending a hand that was vigorously shaken in turn. "Just trying to make heads and tails of everything, really."

"He's just like Lily, you know, so inquisitive!" said Doge, shaking his head.

Soon enough, they were served by a flossy-haired wizard that Harry assumed was Mr Fortescue, or Florean as Doge had dubbed him. Over copious amounts of Boom Berry-flavoured ice cream, he and Flitwick proceeded to regale Harry with tales of their own Hogwarts schooling.

"Now of course, Albus never was one to turn down sweets," Doge said, almost bursting with mirth, "so long story short, we got the Chocolate Frog boxes, and the end of the Squid's tentacle is still Vanished!" He shared a riotous laugh with Flitwick as Harry sampled the impossibly delicious treat before him, intrigued by the prospect of meeting this Giant Squid at his new school but not sure what to think of his soon-to-be guardian's views on animal rights. "A born sorcerer, he was!"

"Professors?" Harry suddenly called, looking up from his ice cream. "I just wanted to ask - you've both used a few terms to describe, well, people like us. Sorcerer, warlock, witch, wizard... Do they all mean the same thing? I wouldn't want to cause offence if not."

"Some yes," Flitwick replied, picking up two unused wooden spoons and presenting them to Harry, "others not so much. For starters, witches and wizards are pretty much the same. You would simply call a female wizard a witch, and a male witch a wizard. I've yet to come across a piece of magic that couldn't be cast by either sex."

"I wouldn't recommend climbing the stairs to the girls' dormitories though, certain mortal peril," Doge grumbled, looking away.

"Why would I want to do that, Professor?" Harry asked innocently, as Flitwick burst into a fit of giggles.

"Ah, the lecherous yearnings of a misspent youth," he cried, wiping away a tear, "but back on topic. The warlock, as Professor Doge may tell you in greater detail come your third year, was historically the licensed judge, jury and executioner in his local community. Nowadays, they simply preside as the judiciary arm of the Ministry. The earlier definition is still sometimes used to refer to duellists of distinguished skill.

"Now a sorcerer is one who casts spells using the age-old formula of motivation, gesture and incantation. All sorcerers are wizards, Mr Potter, but few wizards are capable of even the most basic sorcery without wands containing preset spells. Of course, you needn't worry. Hogwarts students are accepted on the premise that they have the potential to perform a range of magic, plus with your Augo Profile, at least according to Albus..."

"So, you're saying we have more magic? And, that test I took... I'm not going to explode, am I?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Oh no, Mr Potter," Flitwick chirped, "you'd be surprised by how many times I've heard that from promising students who take the Profile. You see, magic doesn't have a volume or level, as such. It's a supernatural property that several species exhibit in many ways, but you don't have more or less magic than a Flobberworm in truth. Magic simply is, Mr Potter. It has arbitrarily, to our knowledge, chosen a few characteristics that appear to conform to the laws of physics, but we cannot quantify it. We can, however, determine how resonant or connected one is with their ability to use magic, and that goes for dragons, trolls, and many other creatures and beasts.

He shuffled forward in his seat. "The Augo Profile - named after Josef Augo, who was famed for his philosophy on the composition of magic - examines how well you harness can this inherent property we share. It takes your intellect and personality traits into account, your body's experiences with magic and finally, how aware you are of the magic inside and around you. Creativity, reasoning and self-awareness are the holy trinity of what makes wizards powerful, collectively contributing to what magical theoreticians and philosophers alike refer to as wisdom. Wisdom, Mr Potter, is the heart of the wizard's relationship with magic and the driving force of his willpower, as solidarity is the same for the Goblin Nation, and so on."

"Indeed," Doge supplied as he finished the last scoop of his dessert, "and to think that HF lot commissioned the 11/17 Committee to develop the test as anti Muggle-born propaganda. The fools! A wife of one of the Governors heads that group now. Isn't that right, Filius?"

"I wouldn't know," the tiny man muttered, "politics never has been my cup of tea, and what with the Ministry being full of these reactionary types, especially the Wizengamot, I gave up on remembering names a long time ago."

"Well, who knows," Doge said, laying hands on Harry's shoulders, who closed his eyes in frustration at being manhandled for the umpteenth time, "our Harry just might change all of that someday. The forty-ninth Chief-wizard of Dumnonia, I can see it now..."

"So Professor," Harry said quickly, fighting the urge to ask what a 'chief of pneumonia' was, "I was hoping we might be able to get a start on the supplies list?"

"Ah, he's eager!" Doge wheezed. "So, you want to embark on a solo mission! Not to worry, my boy, I'll get your books and equipment. All I need you to do is pick up a uniform and your wand. Now that'll be an experience!"

"So I'm definitely getting a wand? Doesn't the letter say you can choose -"

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Doge. "A wand will be your best friend, I guarantee, at least for what you'll be learning at Hogwarts!"

With that, the two bid their farewells to Flitwick, and Doge gave Harry instructions on how to find both his robes and wand before meeting him outside the courtyard for supper, though "you'll know Ollivander's when you see it" was pretty much the only information he received about the only Hogwarts-approved wand shop in the Alley. But with all the wizards around here, Harry thought, surely someone else can give me proper directions? Ignoring such concerns for the moment, Harry made his way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a cosy outfitter's shop on the other side of the street.

For all his misgivings earlier that day, Harry actually found wizarding attire to be rather comfortable. He reasoned that as he wouldn't be donning robes in Oakwood, there would be little to no embarrassment in wearing them at all, save being asked if he preferred his hose "baggy or slim fit". Madam Malkin, a squat witch of pleasant humour, was evidently twice the businesswoman as she was a seamstress, as Harry ended up leaving with an order containing a surplus of everyday wear, a whole five Galleons poorer for his trouble. Doge promised to pick everything up once it was ready, so Harry promptly left in search of his new wand.

It would turn out, as a young sales witch flogging Lizard Belts would tell him, that Ollivander's workshop was located on the other side of Diagon Alley. While Harry had no problems fending for himself, he still questioned this Dumbledore character's judgements in choosing a responsible proxy. Lost in thought as he navigated his way to the south side of the Alley, Harry suddenly found himself winded on the hard cobbled floor, his vision obscured by a mass of bushy chestnut-coloured hair.

"Oi, Hermione! Don't be like that!" a voice shouted from a distance. A weight lifted itself off the young wizard, and he tried to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. As he looked around to find who had floored him, he noticed a trio of red-headed boys sprinting towards him. A small arm wrapped itself around Harry's neck as he felt something hard poke him in the side. Damn, probably a wand, he thought, deciding not to make any sudden moves. His captor must have been considerably shorter, as they had to arch his back towards them to keep him firmly in place among a slowly forming crowd.

"Don't bloody believe it... she's taken a hostage!" one of the red-headed boys groaned with a gobsmacked expression as they arrived at the scene. Harry's captor dug the wand into Harry's ribs, causing him to grunt in discomfort. Numerous cries along the lines of "Someone call the Trolls!" could be heard as the crowd grew larger.

"I will not go back with you. They can Obliviate me too for all I care!" a feminine voice shouted behind his ear.

"Bah, it's a Mudblood stickin' a Mudblood," a stout wizard jeered as he stomped through the crowd, "nothin' to see here, lads and lasses!"

A considerable portion of the crowd murmured in agreement as they prepared to leave. With the road clearing up, Harry took his chance to reason with the young witch.

"Look lady, I can get us out of here if -"

"How," she whispered harshly, "when I'm the one with the wand, hmm?"

"Look, I just need you to hold my hand - agh!" He grunted again as she pressed the wand even deeper into his abdomen. Harry was sure he felt a sharp sting that time. "Not like that," he spat, "I just need you to trust me. Doesn't look like anyone else is on your side right now."

There was a tense silence, the crowd pretty much gone and the trio of boys standing helplessly, all their hopes of retrieving the girl seemingly abandoned. Eventually, Harry felt her arm slack, only to grip his left hand as she broke off into a sprint, dragging him in tow.

With the red-headed boys hot on their heels, Harry tightly shut his eyes, concentrating on the weight of the girl falling on top of him just minutes earlier. He knew this was risky; he'd never transported himself with another person, and he had no idea what would happen if it went wrong, but he had no space to ruminate over the consequences. His hearing and sense of touch faded quickly, signifying that he'd fostered a full connection with his power. He put all of his thought into moving somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, somewhere empty, but most importantly here...

His senses would return as quickly as they had left him. Feeling solid stone ground beneath his feet once more, Harry opened his eyes to relative darkness, only to receive a sharp slap immediately after. Cradling his cheek, Harry stalked off in anger towards a sliver of light which he assumed to lead back to the Alley, before a hand spun him around to give him a first look at his assailant's face.

"What in blazes were you thinking?" she hissed. From what he could glean in the poor lighting conditions of the area, the girl was about his age and indeed a few inches shorter than him, with dark brown eyes and two remarkably large front teeth. Upon realising how absurd the scene must have looked on the outside, Harry allowed himself a short laugh.

"I know, right?" he replied with a wry grin. "Would've bumped into someone with my eyes closed like that!"

'Not that,' she muttered, her eyes narrowed, "I meant your little Apparition stunt there! You could have killed us both!"

'Hey, I just saved your hide back there!' Harry shot back, his voice rising before he paused in thought. 'Well, I think. What did I just save you from?"

"Nothing really," the girl grumbled, falling back onto a crate that leaned against one of the walls, "though I don't really want them to Obliviate me, otherwise I can't get -" she stopped at Harry's questioning look. "Oh. It's a memory wipe. You're Muggle-born too, I assume?"

"Er, no. My parents were a wizard and witch, but I found out about all of this a week ago," he replied matter-of-factly, squatting down next to the girl. "I'm Harry Potter. You're Hermione?"

"Yes," she said boldly, "Granger. Hermione Granger. At least they let me keep that. Listen, Harry Potter. I hope for your sakes that you don't have anyone who isn't magic to particularly care about, because as of this week, you'll never see them again."

"What did you -"

"Just shut up and listen!" she said, her eyes hard as steel. "They are going to erase your existence from the Muggle world. They will tell you that it's for Muggles' own good as well as yours, that you're in danger staying there and so are your family. They stole my parents, Harry Potter. Ten months, one week and two days ago. Just be glad they can't do that to you... no offence meant."

"You're mental."

Hermione snorted. "Maybe I am, considering the circumstances," she said, "but what's that got to do with anything? Which school are you going to attend, by the way?"

"Hogwarts," Harry whispered, slightly unnerved by the witch's consistent sincerity.

"Mm. It's your birthday, correct?" Harry nodded. "Yes, many happy returns. They're probably doing it today."

"Right," Harry said awkwardly, edging backwards, "well I've got to find Ollivander's wand shop, memory wipes or otherwise. You wouldn't happen to know the way?"

Hermione gave him a baleful glare, pushing past him to squint at the sliver of daylight that faintly illuminated the alcove. After a second or two, she turned back to the boy with a bored expression on her face.

"Right in front of you, if you'll believe me on that?" she said, crossing her arms.

"Thank you. I'll see you around, I guess?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts. See you there," she said archly.

Giving the girl as wide a berth as possible, he was just about to start travelling down the narrow pathway before being stopped yet again.

"Harry?" He turned his head to look back at Hermione, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

'Happy birthday... have a good one.'

Harry desperately tried to shake the events of the past ten minutes from his head as he approached the venerable shop.

Was she telling the truth?

The question plagued him as soon as he left the dark alcove, not daring to look back. Why would she have lied? What reason would she have? Hermione did seem genuinely distraught, which he felt laid even more credence to her case. His situation was markedly different, however. There was no way they could wipe the memories of a whole orphanage, surely... Either way, the encounter warranted a long discussion with Professor Doge later on.

Harry felt a smooth, chilling cascade of something wash over him as he edged closer to the ancient plot. He suspected it might have something to do with its age; just above the rickety shop, a sign read 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C' , and a solitary wand lay on a faded purple cushion behind the dusty window. Disregarding its modest appearance, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that his fate in this world would be significantly affected by whatever transpired here. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the worn door handle to meet with the wandmaker.

As he crossed the threshold, a tinkling bell was the only indication of his entry, his footsteps silent against the weathered mahogany floor. The store was tiny, even compared to the cramped plan of Madam Malkin's shop, though it was filled to the brim with boxes: wand cases, Harry surmised. The lack of sound only contributed to the room's mystery; the floors, the walls, the counter and even the layers of dust seemed to tingle with power. He was about to open his mouth to announce his entry before he was beaten for the final time that day.

"A Potter," a soft, deep voice spoke, echoing across the room. "I've been waiting for one - it's been too long."

Harry whirled around, trying to discern the direction of the voice's source. "Hello?" he said, mostly in vain.

Suddenly, the boy spotted an old man sat on top of a spindly chair, right in front of him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter. It's a pleasure to finally have you here," he said placidly, giant silvery eyes scrutinising him through glasses that certainly didn't fit his face.

"Forgive my rudeness, sir, but how do you know my name? How does everyone know my name?" Harry asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Almost all Potter men looked alike in their day," the old man said, slowly rising from his chair, "as do many of the Bones women, most male Smiths and pretty much every Weasley. The vestiges of an old line; not necessarily pure, as one might define the word, but old nonetheless."

"Oh," came Harry's eloquent reply as his eyes searched the shop, "so you're Mr Ollivander then, sir?"

"I am indeed Garrick Ollivander," the man said with a graceful bow, "and I am honoured to serve yet another Potter in their quest for a companion. I sold both your parents their wands, you know. Yes, your mother - you have her eyes, actually - bonded with a willow wand. Ten inches, a lock from the mane of a Corsican Longhair, quite springy... well-suited for Charmwork and enchanting. Your father, on the other hand, preferred a mahogany wood - eleven inches and Hebridean heartstring - pliable, had quite a bit more kick to it. Very good for Transfiguration, I recall."

Harry didn't know how to react; the only other thing he knew about his birth parents was the eventual fate. Fortunately, Ollivander didn't seem interested in pursuing that particular vein of conversation further as he proceeded to analyse the boy's hands.

"Hm... yes, you're a left-hander."

"I, er, haven't been one for a while." Harry was impressed; it had taken six years for Miss Meacham to all but force him to write with his right hand.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr Potter. Whatever Dark wizards were thought to prefer in the past is neither here nor there. I'd kindly suggest using your naturally dominant hand for wandwork, however."

Harry inclined his head, more than happy to do anything that might make casting magic easier. Out of the blue, Ollivander clapped his large, thin hands, and a number of measuring instruments zoomed across the room, revolving around the young wizard. Measuring tape scaled the span of his arms, his knees, wrists and even his forehead, while several rings and tiny bowl-shaped tools encircled his fingers, expanding and contracting as they ran the length of his extremities. All the while, Ollivander took notes with a piece of parchment and a feather, giving Harry a special insight into his unique brand of wandlore:

"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. I use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand. A righteous wand for a righteous wizard, a calculating wand for a calculating wizard. A zealous wand for a zealous wizard."

Apparently finished with his observations, Ollivander snapped his fingers once more, and the assortment of measuring tools crumpled to the floor. Harry started picking up the various instruments, but soon discovered that the wandmaker wasn't interested in them at all, collecting several boxes from the shelves instead.

"Yes, this should be a good start... beechwood and Short-Snout heartstring, Mr Potter. Nine inches, nice and flexible. If you want to give that a wave..." he muttered, handing a pale wand to Harry, who felt foolish waving the stick for reasons unbeknownst to himself. Fortunately, Ollivander saved him too much embarrassment by snatching it away immediately, exchanging it for a smaller, darker one.

"Okay, maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try -"

Harry did, to the immense displeasure of Ollivander who stole the wand back as swiftly as he had given it.

"Maybe not, then -" he murmured, fishing yet another wand out of it case, "- ebony and Steelhoof hair, eight-and-a-half inches, springy. Yes, give it a go!"

Minute after minute, wand after wand, Harry believed that Ollivander was no closer to finding whatever he was looking for. After what seemed like an hour, he was sure that the pile of tried and tested cases comprised half the shop's stock. As disheartened as Harry may have been, however, the old wandmaker got more excited by the second.

"Oh, this is a challenge - haven't had a fitting like this since the glory days! You trust me, Mr Potter, we'll find your perfect match yet! In fact, maybe this is the one - yes, an unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches, nice and supple. Let's have a look..."

The instant Harry grasped the wand, a sudden rush of warmth danced across his fingertips. Holding the wand aloft, he swished it downwards, and a violent flurry of gold and silver sparks shot out from the end of his wand, illuminating the already well-lit room.

"Hah - I knew it was phoenix feather! Well done, Mr Potter, bravo!" the old man cried, clapping his hands wildly as he enjoyed the light show. "Well, well... you're one eccentric wizard, for such a very eccentric wand..."

"Sorry, Mr Ollivander?" Harry asked. "What's eccentric about it?"

"It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, not the other way around. That one - right there - contains a phoenix tail feather core. Very autonomous component, temperamental even - as is its donor - and generally works well with extroverted wand woods. Holly, however, is of a placid, soothing disposition, meant to cool the temper of a hot-blooded partner. Although, much untapped strength lies in the heart of an idealistic wielder. A versatile wand, to say the least. You'll accomplish great feats with it... its brother can attest to that. Just one thing, though."

"Yes sir?" Harry said, his eyes fixated on the fair-shaded wand, still warm in his hand.

"A clever Muggle once proclaimed that 'Hell is full of good wishes and desires'. It is not a crime to be wrong, Mr Potter. If we want to truly learn anything, you might say that it's in fact a necessity. Nevertheless, it does a world of good to embrace your shortcomings and admit poor judgements. Should you come to terms with that, Mr Potter, I foresee that your wand will be nothing short of unstoppable as long as it rests with you."

"Right - thanks, Mr Ollivander," Harry said weakly.

It was now, more than any other moment in the past week, that Harry felt the gravity of the expectations laid before him. His conversation with Hermione Granger had only contributed to a cocktail of confusion about his place in a world wholly unsympathetic to his ignorance. He didn't feel entitled; by his own admission, Harry was too prideful for any sort of special treatment. But he surely deserved an explanation concerning his surrogate family in all things but name.

After waiting in one of the Leaky Cauldron's booths for around a half-hour, Doge finally caught up with the young wizard as a large chest floated along behind him. He wore a side-splitting smile as he found Harry, and a large veiled dome he held bobbed up and down as he bustled over.

"Harry, my boy! Sorry I'm late," he wheezed, setting the dome down on the ebony table. It wobbled slightly for a few seconds before settling down. "I picked up your robes, plus a little birthday present on the way -"

"Oh, thanks Professor," replied Harry, eyeing the veiled dome as it wobbled again, "you didn't have to go to any trouble."

"Bah! Nonsense," said Doge. "It isn't every day that a wizard turns eleven, after all. Now, I'll go ask Tom about that cake!"

"Sir," Harry said testily, fixing a warning glare at the elder wizard, "that's appreciated, but no thanks. I did tell you that Holly made one."

"Yes, we need to talk about that..."

"I would agree."

Doge looked at the boy uneasily, slowly picking up the veiled dome from its place on the table. "I've got a room prepared in your name, keys and all. If you'll follow me..."

Harry nodded curtly, not daring to soften his gaze in case Doge started feeling comfortable. He followed the old wizard upstairs, which led to an expansive crimson-carpeted corridor and a series of ebony doors, each numbered by a brass plaque. It didn't take long for them to reach the designated room, only walking past a half-dozen rows before Doge turned a key through one of the locks.

They entered a fairly spacious bedroom, furnished with a single bed and dressers, all presumably made from the same ebony wood that filled the tavern. A small stone fireplace occupied a space on the far side of the room, which Doge proceeded to light with a soft jab of his wand. With another elegant swish, he set the chest down on the floor and rested the veiled dome on top of the bed's fluffy maroon blanket. He walked the length of the floor to peer through a large window that cast deep oranges and blues of a dusky urban skyline over the dimly lit chamber.

"It's only temporary," he mumbled, casually observing the non-magical scene outdoors as it gradually waned, "we'll have The Crucible ready by the end of next year -"

"I'm going back to Oakwood," Harry said firmly.

"Harry, come now!" the old wizard pleaded, his face contorting as if he were physically exhausted from the boy's stubborn attitude. "Bogrod informed you of the circumstances. Your parents' will... "

"And when were you going to inform me about the Obliviating business?"

"Who -?" Doge started with a quizzical tone, before abruptly shutting up at Harry's stern features. Removing the fez atop his head, Doge began to wipe his brow as he took a seat on the single bed. "I hope you don't mind me sitting here, getting old and all... look Harry, we had every intention of telling you -"

"What, before or after you did the dirty deed -"

"Now see here!" Doge said hotly, rising from his seated position to wave a crooked finger at the boy in front of him. Harry took a step back; he reasoned that while they both had wands, he had no idea how to use his. Upon seeing Harry's shocked expression, however, Doge seemed to calm down quickly. "Apologies, my boy, I didn't mean to lose my temper... you have to understand, we've just put a lot on the line for you. If we were to get caught, oh my..."

"What have you done, sir?" Harry asked, his voice trembling.

"We did it for you, Harry. I saw how much you loved those Muggles, and how much they loved you. That young woman, Holly, she thought the world of you, my boy. Yes, the Ministry usually send Obliviators round, and yes, they usually wipe all traces of your existence or implant memories that you died in a horrific accident for sheer kicks... I'm telling you like it is!" he wheezed at Harry's gasp of revulsion, "But we pulled some strings. Dumbledore's got friends on the inside - he bleeding well is on the inside - and they've just made it so that your home thinks you've gone to a boarding school indefinitely until further notice. See? Hardly any different from the truth. Though I must confess, you may not see them for a very long time."

Harry stared blankly at the tired old man, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Professor -" he whispered, his voice quavering, "- I just wish you'd mentioned something earlier..."

Doge walked over to the young wizard, gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I agree, my boy. My, there were better people for this job... I am glad to have met you, of course."

"Likewise, sir," Harry replied thickly, looking down at the floor to hide his insincerity. Doge took the opportunity to return to the veiled dome, placing a hand over the apex.

"I wanted this to be a happy surprise. I suppose that was foolish of me, but consider it a peace-offering, of sorts. I'm afraid that none of us have the power to truly make it up to you, but maybe this will go some way..." He discarded the navy veil, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful snowy owl encased within a golden cage. Harry ran over to examine the bird.

"Professor, seriously? How did it breathe -"

"Muting and Ventilation Charms, Harry," Doge said with a chuckle, "a spy's best friends. Right - your gear is all safe within the trunk. We can re-key it to your wand tonight or whenever before school. I'll go get the cake I left with Tom. The same one your young lady made... least I could do..."

And with that, the ancient wizard hobbled out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Left only with his thoughts and an especially nosy owl (that kept poking him with its beak through the gilded cage), Harry found himself even more confused than he was before their short-lived argument.

It appeared that Hermione was telling the truth, but for whatever reason, Doge and his associates were willing to risk reprimands for his peace of mind. That being said, Harry still felt conflicted; he'd been whisked away from one world to another in the space of a week, on the orders of a guardian he still had yet to meet. Even if it was in his best interests, Harry couldn't help but feel kidnapped.

While he certainly looked forward to learning how to use his magic properly, he had to find a way back to Oakwood as soon as possible. He couldn't let Greg, Phil or even Alice think that he abandoned them for greener pastures. The thought of his friends sent Harry onto another interesting train of speculation, though it was soon forgotten as the owl nipped him fiercely on the arm.

"Hey!" he cried sharply, swatting the air in the general direction of the cage. The owl, who didn't seem to think it was doing anything wrong, looked almost affronted. Harry rubbed the ruddy patch of skin where he'd been bitten, narrowing his eyes at the bird. "I bet they've gone and bugged you and all," he muttered. "Could've sworn they had toads on the list... at least one of those wouldn't have nipped me one."

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: Man, was that a mouthful. I read the thing out loud, by the way. It was a bit of a toughie, and really feels all over the place. But I did what I could, and can only hope to improve as we go along! A number of things have been hinted and/or in this chapter, and all I really should be saying right now is that nothing was done by halves. It is, to my knowledge, completely purposeful. Though you do get those little nuggets of fridge brilliance when you're lucky... boy, do I wish my fridge had stuff in it right now...

Just to be clear, by the way. Yes - this story is riddled with clichés. They're guilty pleasures; we all have 'em, though I'm trying (to an extent) to rein it all in as much as possible. However, there's one common component of your garden-variety fic that many detest, and that's bashing. It's counter-productive and leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so don't expect to see it here. Anyway, thanks for reading! :D