Ginny balanced a plate of fruit and toast on top of a bowl of porridge and carried it back to the table. She reached for one of the teapots set along the length of the table and poured herself a much-needed cup of tea. She spooned sugar into the porridge and gratefully sipped her tea while she waited for it to melt. Elise pushed a jug of orange juice toward Ginny and she poured some into a glass, then passed it to Helen. It astonished Ginny no small amount how easily she could insert herself into the daily choreography of the team. Owls swooped in through the open windows, delivering letters to the team members. Up to this point, Ginny had only received a couple of letters from Molly, but a veritable shower of letters littered her plate. Marion studied the pile of paper with a raised brow. 'That happen often?'

Ginny stared at the pile of letters in bewilderment. 'No. I don't know why…' Her voice trailed off as she sorted through the envelopes. 'Oh no…' she breathed. There was not only a letter from Molly, but one from Bill and Fleur, Charlie, George, Ron, and Harry.

'I do hope everything is all right,' Anna murmured.

'So do I,' replied Ginny vaguely, as she tore open the first letter. It was a short note containing a single sentence that said, Percy married Penny last week. followed by the single letter 'C'. 'Bloody hell!' Ginny exclaimed. 'My brother got married!'

'Which one?' Elsie asked. 'The good-looking one?'

Anna rolled her eyes over the rim of her teacup. 'That one's already married, you silly cow,' she scoffed. 'Bill got married, when? Two years ago wasn't it?'

Ginny nodded absently; tearing open the next letter in the stack bearing Fleur's lyrically formed script.

Elsie scowled briefly. 'I wasn't talking about Bill,' she muttered.

Ginny quickly scanned the brief letter, noting that Fleur seemed amused by Percy's actions. I did not expect Percy to do something so out of character. He has always seemed to adhere to the rules and insist on doing everything as correctly as possible. At first I did think it might have been a prank on a level with what George and Fred would have done. However, it is not, and Percy and Penelope are married. If you think about it for a few moments, it does quite make sense for Percy to marry in this manner. It was efficient and carried out with a minimum of fuss. She dimly heard someone ask her a question and looked up. 'What?' she asked blankly.

'Is it Charlie? I hope it isn't Charlie,' Elsie sighed wistfully. 'I'd not kick him out of bed for eating biscuits,' she added with a slight leer.

Ginny stuffed Fleur's letter back into its envelope and suppressed a shudder at the idea of Charlie inciting lust in someone. It wasn't that she didn't think Charlie was unpleasant to look at, but he was her brother. The idea of any of her brothers making someone else weak in the knees made her a bit nauseous. 'No. It's my middle brother, Percy.'

Matilda spewed orange juice across the table. Fortunately, the seat opposite her was vacant. She blotted her face her serviette and gaped at Ginny. 'Percy?' she gasped incredulously. 'As in Rules-Are-Made-To-Be-Followed-Percy? Percy Weasley got married?'

'Erm…' Ginny didn't quite know what to say. She settled for a simple affirmation. 'Yes.'

Mandy stirred her porridge thoughtfully. 'I didn't Percy was particularly interested in women or men,' she mused. 'To be honest, I didn't think he was interested in anything other than his work.'

Ginny nodded to herself. She hadn't had much occasion to observe Percy with Penelope, but from what she had heard from Harry, Ron, and Hermione; Penny had accompanied Percy to quite a few Weasley Sunday lunches.

Elsie buttered her toast carefully and slowly spread strawberry preserves over it. 'So… Ginny… Is Charlie seeing anyone?'

Anna aimed a light smack at the back of Elsie's head, sending her ponytail swinging. 'Give it a rest, yeah? You're going to make me be sick all over your plate.'

Elsie stuck her tongue out at Anna. 'So? Ginny? Charlie seeing anyone?' she persisted.

Ginny sighed and finally took a bite of her porridge. 'He was when I stayed with him during the trials,' she allowed. 'A Healer on the reservation in Holyhead.' She didn't think Charlie would mind if she divulged that much information. Anything to make Elsie stop talking about Charlie like he was a piece of prime roast beef, and she was starving. Ginny opened the next letter – from George this time – amid reflections that she wasn't bothered much by Elsie fancying Charlie, but found the idea of any of brothers engaging in any sort of sexual activity more than a little uncomfortable, probably no more than they would have found it for her. All in all, in Ginny's opinion, it was an idea best left to the abstract.


Charlie woke in his darkened bedroom and flailed in the tangled bedclothes until he could raise his head enough to peer hazily at the alarm clock on his bedside table. He stared at the heavy curtains that blocked any sliver of daylight from leaking through the window, wondering just what time it was. It could be six in the morning or six in the evening for all he knew. He rolled his head on his neck, producing several satisfying crunching sounds. He used his wand to nudge the edge of the curtain. Pale, silvery light flowed through the glass and he sighed heavily. Charlie was working the middle shift and didn't need to wake up for a couple more hours, but last week's morning shift schedule was still in his limbs. He groaned and flipped the quilt back, then swung his feet to the floor. Charlie stood and stretched elaborately, and in what he ruefully noted had become a habit of late, scratched himself thoroughly through the fabric of his boxer shorts as he padded to the door of the bedroom. He used his free hand to open the door and went into the bath. As always, he woke with an urgent need for the loo. He didn't understand how people could wake up every few hours to use the toilet. One could lose precious moments of sleep that way. He yawned as he washed his hands and headed for the kitchen. In short order he had fixed a plate of toast, as well as a large pot of tea and paid the owl that brought his morning paper. He set the tea, toast, and newspaper on the small table and settled in to scan the happenings of the wizarding world. Molly, he knew, would be absolutely aghast at his lack of attire while he ate his breakfast, but it wasn't as if there was anyone else to see him. Besides, he was a grown man, and if he wanted to have a meal in the privacy of his home wearing nothing but a smile, then he would.

Charlie opened the paper to the Quidditch page and scanned the headlines, searching for any information about the Harpies. He wondered how the team fared in its summer training, especially Ginny. He remembered how difficult his first few months in Romania had been when he first left home. He and Bill had exchanged several wistful letters about being away from what was known. Certainly, going to Hogwarts at the age of eleven had taught them all to be quite independent of their parents and responsible for their own lives, but at least at Hogwarts, they were surrounded by friends and family and the castle itself was somewhat familiar from stories various relatives had told them. Miercurea-Ciuc could be absolutely frigid in the winter and rainy in the summer and filled with an unfamiliar language. Charlie didn't have Bill's ear for languages, so he struggled in those first few months to learn enough Romanian to get by. He'd made stacks of small cards with drawings of objects with the name written neatly in Romanian underneath, as well as a phonetic spelling. He'd even labeled all the items in his Spartan cabin, down to pinning a scrap of parchment to clothing items. Ginny, of course, wouldn't face the same challenges as he had, Charlie reckoned, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. She would, however, endure a misery of a different sort – living life in the public eye. As a rule, the Weasleys were a private lot, save for the odd moment by Percy. How would she handle having her personal life dissected under the byline of the Prophet's gossip columnist? Quidditch writers analyzing her every move, detailing how she could have played better, even if she played brilliantly. Would Ginny be able to brush it off as nothing more than guff, or would she take it all to heart? Charlie hoped it would be the former.

A small paragraph jumped out at Charlie, hidden under a larger story about the progress of Montrose's new Keeper. A small tidbit, really, of a friendly match between the Harpies and the Bulgarian national team. A smile began to spread over Charlie's face when a series of insistence knocks that grew louder with each blow to the door intruded into his thoughts. He glanced down at his attire – or rather lack of attire – and sighed. He glared at the door for a moment before he set the paper down and yelled, 'Keep your hair on!' He trudged to the bedroom and snatched up his abandoned jeans and pulled them on, hopping on one foot as he drew them up. He left them unfastened and strode the last few feet to answer the door. 'What?' he barked.

Bronwyn stood open-mouthed on the porch, bundled into a bulky cardigan against the morning chill. 'Did I wake you?' Charlie shook his head and leaned against the doorframe, the picture of patience, waiting for Bronwyn to continue. She shoved her hands deeper into the cardigan, shaking her head to toss an errant lock of hair from her eyes. 'I just wanted to tell you, I've been thinking…' Charlie raised a thick brow by way of a question. Bronwyn swallowed thickly and continued. 'I never once questioned your integrity or experience. Healers never look a patient and see a no-win situation, or that their time has come to an end. We're taught to fight until the bitter end, to exhaust all our resources, even if it's obvious we should stop and let nature have its way. It was a knee-jerk response and I never bothered to inquire about the health of the dragon in question.'

Charlie pushed himself away from the doorframe and motioned with his chin. 'Fancy a cuppa?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'D'you want a cup of tea or not?' he repeated. 'Thought it might help get the taste of admitting you were wrong out of your mouth.' His mouth turned up slightly at the corner. 'And I accept your apology. Was rather gracious of you.'

Bronwyn's mouth opened and closed repeatedly and Charlie suppressed a chuckle at the very good impression she was doing of a fish. She caught the glint of humor in his eyes and her mouth snapped shut with a painful clack of her teeth. 'A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,' she replied stiffly, sweeping regally into the cabin, as if she were none other than the Queen herself. 'Better write this in your calendar,' Bronwyn advised, settling at the small table. 'I'm not wrong very often.'

'Is that a challenge?' Charlie scoffed, fetching a clean mug from the cupboard. Bronwyn smiled blandly in return. Charlie filled the mug and pushed it across the table. 'Challenge accepted.'

Bronwyn stirred sugar into her tea and took a cautious sip. Charlie's tea was generally strong enough to remove wallpaper. 'So truthfully? How was the dragon?'

'Blind, malnourished, weak, with signs of abuse,' Charlie said succinctly. 'Beyond rehabilitation. Even if we'd been able to hand-feed the poor bugger, the slightest noise startled him. Was used to guard the vaults in Gringotts and forgot what it felt like to be outside. Better off now.' He studied the surface of his tea. 'Not like we have the dragon equivalent of St. Mungo's spell damage floor, anyhow.' He pressed his lips together and raised the mug to his mouth. 'Damn shame.' He took a soothing sip of tea and shook himself a little.

Bronwyn's hand slipped across the table and her fingers lightly gripped the edge of a piece of toast. She began to nibble at the corner. 'So… erm… You weren't the only one to whom I handed my lofty opinions,' she confessed. 'I told Da exactly what I thought about how he handled the dragon situation.'

Charlie allowed himself to chortle a little. Daffyd was rather quiet most of the time, but he wasn't the sort of man who let others interfere with how he ran the reservation. 'I see.'

'Gave me an earful, Da did. He said in no uncertain terms I'm to mind my own patients and let him see to his, and if he wants my opinion of dragon care, then he'll ask for it.'

Charlie nodded approvingly. He didn't mind asking for other people's opinions as a rule, and from time to time found someone with little experience with dragons to have a somewhat unorthodox, yet wholly viable method. It helped to seek assistance from someone outside the situation. They tended to look at things with different eyes that were unburdened by the how things were usually done. He drained his mug of tea, and poured another. He sat back, reveling in Bronwyn's company. She seemed to understand he didn't need constant chatter, and even appeared to enjoy the companionable silence that grew between them from time to time. Bronwyn spent a few nights a week in his cabin, and they had been eating dinner together nearly every evening Charlie didn't work the evening shift. They had fallen into an easy routine, wordlessly dividing the few chores in the cabin. If one cooked a meal, the other did the washing up afterward. It was possibly the easiest personal relationship Charlie had ever had with another human being. He inhaled slowly and deeply. He'd never in his life imagined he would ever say what he was about to ask of Bronwyn. 'So… Are you doing anything on Sunday? My family has lunch together every week, and I thought if you were interested, you could go… with… me…'

'Lunch, hmm? With your entire family?' Bronwyn asked dubiously. 'How many people will that be exactly?'

Charlie tilted his chair back on its rear legs and sipped his tea. 'Mum and Dad. Bill and Fleur. Percy and Penny. George. Ron and his girlfriend, Hermione. Harry. Me. You. Twelve. Thirteen if George's girl, Katie, comes. Fourteen if Harry has his godson, Teddy. Fifteen if Teddy's grandmother is there.'

'Fif…fifteen?' Bronwyn repeated faintly, eyes round and unblinking.

'You don't have to go,' Charlie said quickly. The sheer amount of humanity would be enough to put most people off their feed in his opinion.

Bronwyn's head reared back a little. 'I'm not scared,' she declared.

Charlie grinned. 'Didn't think you were.'

'As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to it,' she assured him calmly, but feeling her stomach quiver at the idea of meeting nearly all of Charlie's family at once.

The legs of Charlie's chair landed on the floor with a soft thump. 'We'll Apparate over round eleven Sunday,' he said. 'Won't stay too late. I've got evenings next week.'

Bronwyn drained her mug, wincing at the astringent bite of the strong tea. 'I'll meet you here, then.' She rose to her feet and left the cabin, plodding toward hers. 'I hope you know what you're getting into,' she muttered.


Breakfast for Harry was generally a hurried affair. It wasn't due to a lack of time or planning on his part. He generally woke up early, met the other Aurors for their daily run in Hyde Park, returned home for a wash, dressed, then ate breakfast. It wasn't that he didn't like to linger over his meals. He didn't have to quickly gulp his meals, like he did at the Dursleys, or like he sometimes had to do at school to balance his schoolwork, Quidditch, or his other "extra-curricular" activities. Mostly, he ate quickly because he didn't really like eating solitary meals. He scanned the morning's Daily Prophet while he shoveled cereal or porridge in his mouth, but didn't really bother to read anything in-depth. Reading the paper kept his meals from becoming an exercise in barbarism. If he hadn't had the paper to occupy him, he'd have eaten his breakfast standing up over the sink. So it wasn't entirely surprising that he had missed the story buried in the middle of the paper that Gringotts had sent letters out, notifying each witch or wizard with a vault to please come do an inventory of said vault at the assigned time, please and thank you. Harry had also, in fact, received the letter in question. He just never opened it, but merely tossed it into the basket next to the window where he filed non-urgent correspondence, then forgot about it in the flurry of Ginny coming home from school, her trial, then departure for Sweden for a month.

Harry's rushed breakfasts also meant he usually arrived at the office much earlier than most of the Aurors. He enjoyed the quiet moments in the office before it became engulfed with a buzz of conversation, parchment shuffling, and people scurrying to and fro outside his cubicle. Lately, he'd taken to sneaking in a few stolen minutes of Legilimency practice with whomever he could corral into helping him. His first sessions with the former Death Eaters were quickly approaching, and he wanted to be more than prepared. He wanted it to be instinct. Hermione would be proud, Harry knew, of all the time he'd spent revising and practicing for the two days it would take to handle everyone on his list.

This particular morning, Harry was greeted by a veritable phalanx of small, purple paper aeroplanes hovering over his desk. Sighing, he plucked the closest one out of the air and scanned it, dropping into his chair. It contained the finalized schedule of his Death Eater interviews. They were to be done at Azkaban. With one exception – Draco Malfoy. Harry hadn't realized that under the terms of Draco's probation, he would have to go to Malfoy Manor, rather than Draco coming to the Ministry. Apparently, when the Wizengamot said "confined to the home", it would have to be a matter of life or death in order to allow Draco to leave the mansion. Later, he thought to himself. It wouldn't do to worry about it now. There wasn't anybody currently in the Ministry to deal with it anyway.

Harry set the notice aside and reached up for the next aeroplane. They had helpfully lowered themselves to within his grasp. A scroll bearing a deeply red wax seal, stamped with an elaborate G fell from the folds of the purple aeroplane and landed on his desk. Warily, Harry plucked it from the desk, wondering if his actions of last year when he broke into the Lestrange vault had finally come round to bite him in the proverbial arse. He gingerly broke the seal and the scroll unrolled silently, revealing a short note from none other than Bill Weasley.

Harry… You missed your appointment to inventory the contents of your vault. I can squeeze you in today around one in the afternoon. The goblins were quite put out that you didn't show up at your scheduled time. If you would permit me to give you a bit of advice, don't miss today. They could make it difficult for you, bureaucratically speaking, the next time you visit your vault. I hate to sound like Percy, but it's really important that you come and do this. Due to the chaos in the first few weeks after the war ended, and a certain break-in was made common knowledge (not the participants, just the actual break-in itself), witches and wizards all over Britain and Ireland descended on the bank demanding to ensure their vaults were untouched. With so many goblins missing and presumed dead, or in fact, dead, it's taken a while to get to yours.

Try to take the afternoon off, if you can. Given the size of your vault, it's going to take some time to complete the inventory.


Harry pinched the bridge of his nose against the nascent headache and fought the urge to chuck the note in the bin. When he did have to go inside Gringotts, he attempted to complete his business as quickly as possible, kept his head down, and didn't engage anyone in meaningful conversation. He set the scroll aside next to the Death Eater schedule and reached for the next memo.


'Hi, Harry!' Hermione's slightly breathless voice startled Harry from his work. He jerked, dropping his quill to the desk, frowning at the blotched scroll.

'Warn a bloke a little,' he sighed, using his wand to siphon the ink from the scroll. He pushed the scroll aside, grateful for the break. He motioned for Hermione to take the empty chair next to his desk. 'What brings you to this rarefied locale?' he asked drolly.

Hermione perched on the edge of the chair and wound her fingers together. 'I wanted to ask you something,' she began tremulously. Harry remained silent, but lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. 'Well, you see… I need Remus' book collection.'


Hermione's fingers twisted together a little more. 'I'm not quite certain how to say this,' she muttered under her breath. 'It's just that Remus left a letter with Kingsley to be delivered to me when I finished school.' She smoothed her skirt over her knees. 'He had a small group of… friends…'

'Friends?' Harry repeated blankly. He was unaware of any friends Remus might have had outside the Order. 'Who…?'

Hermione bit her lip anxiously. 'Werewolves,' she said softly. 'Three of them. They live in a farmhouse, but I can't tell you where. Not yet. Fenrir Greyback bit them during our fifth year, and they were all sacked from their jobs, of course. He… He asked me to look after them. To attempt to change the laws that keep them segregated from the wizarding community.' Her voice rose slightly as she warmed up to her topic. 'But in the meantime, they require more intellectual stimulation. Remus had an extensive book collection. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if his friends had them.'

'So why do you need me?' Harry inquired.

'I don't know where his books have been stored and I thought you might,' Hermione confessed in a rush.

Harry sat back in his chair, twirling the quill between his fingers, ignoring the ink that smeared over his fingers. 'You'll have to approach Andromeda.'

Hermione stilled warily, rather like a cat hearing a threatening noise. Her fists clenched on her knees and she drew slow, careful breaths, trying to fight down the roaring of blood in her ears. She blinked rapidly as her eyes darted around the small cubicle while her mouth worked for a moment before she croaked, 'Bellatrix.'

'Oh…' Harry reached over and reassuringly squeezed her hand. He knew what she meant. Andromeda bore a disquieting resemblance to her elder sister. But only at first glance. Andromeda, like several of her Black relations – Bellatrix and Sirius came to mind – had large, dark, heavy-lidded eyes. It had taken months before Harry stopped flinching if he caught a fleeting glance of Andromeda from the corner of his eye. The likeness ended there. Andromeda had slightly wavy, light brown hair, not Bellatrix's wild black curls. While her expression could border on cold and aloof at times, Harry wondered if her mask was a remnant of her childhood where the slightest reaction could earn heaps of abuse. And once Andromeda warmed to a person, she rarely displayed such standoffishness. Hermione's right hand stole to her left forearm, where Harry knew the word "Mudblood" had been etched into her skin, courtesy of Bellatrix. 'Do you want me to go with you?'

Hermione's mouth opened, and she shook her head slightly. 'No. I… I want you to ask her for me.' Her interactions with Andromeda had been limited to the occasional Sunday Weasley lunch. She hadn't quite had the opportunity to become desensitized to Andromeda's appearance as Harry and Ron had.

Harry's mouth twisted. He wouldn't let her go alone, but he wasn't going to let her off the hook. If she wanted the books, she was going to have to ask for them herself. 'I'll go with you to Andromeda's house. It's up to you to get those books to Remus' friends.'

Hermione's face fell. 'Harry!' she protested.

'Nobody's asking you to go to Malfoy Manor,' Harry reminded her sharply. 'Just Andromeda's house.' He pulled his glasses off and dropped them on the desk. 'Listen,' he began, 'I'm going to pick Teddy up Saturday. You can come with me and talk to Andromeda then.' He massaged the bridge of his nose then slid the glasses back over it. 'She doesn't bite,' he said softly. 'And Remus would want his books to be put to a good use.'

Hermione's shoulders slumped a little. 'What time are you going to pick up Teddy?' she asked, only a little defeated.

'Probably around three. He's usually awake from his nap by then.'

'Thanks…' Hermione rose to her feet and edged around the chair, heading for the cubicle's door. She stopped and studied Harry for a few minutes before saying, 'It's ridiculous, I know, to be so terrified of the memory of someone who's been dead for over a year.'

'It's not,' Harry assured her. He knew exactly what she meant. 'What would be silly is to let the fear prevent you from doing something you love, like helping Remus' friends. Or letting it overtake your life. We've got the rest of our lives ahead of us, and if we give up because every time we walk through certain doors, it brings up certain memories, then we've let them win in the end.' He grinned a bit. 'And I'll be damned if I let them win after everything we went through to beat them.'

Hermione smiled wanly, but Harry could see her shoulders lift and straighten as she left the cubicle.


Harry stood on the pavement in front of Gringotts at the bottom of the steps with his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled explosively, waiting until absolutely the last possible minute to enter the building. His gaze drifted down to the watch strapped to his wrist, noting the time. One more minute. Harry's fingers traced around the bezel, seeking the small dent above the eleven. He gently tapped his middle finger into the slight depression, watching the second hand sweep around the face. As a distant bell tolled once, his shoulders squared automatically with the habit of one used to doing something distasteful, and Harry began to climb the gleaming white marble stairs. He paused at the great bronze doors, nodding at the scarlet-clad goblin standing guard, feeling the now-familiar fleeting lurch in his stomach as the goblin waved him through, slightly worried that wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol would be waiting just inside the doors to arrest him. In his more feverish imaginative moments, he pictured Hit Wizards waiting outside his vault, ready to Stun him into submission for breaking into Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. Harry pushed the heavy door open just wide enough to slip inside. The cool entry was a welcome respite from the summer's warmth, and Harry waited for his vision to adjust to the dimmer light inside after the bright sunshine. He blinked a few times, and the sight of Bill standing at the near end of one of the long counters swam into view. Harry lifted a hand in greeting and Bill waved him over. 'Glad you showed up,' Bill muttered. 'I was on the verge of asking Kingsley to make some sort of excuse to Bladrot for you.' Bill's eyes flicked toward the end of the main hall where an elderly, but still fierce-looking goblin presided over the hall.

'Thanks,' Harry murmured. 'Let's get this over with, all right?' Unsettled feelings about just being in Gringotts aside, he hated repetitive tasks like the one looming ahead.

Bill motioned to the long corridor with its many doors that led down to the vaults. 'After you.' Harry strode down the corridor and came to a stop at the door that would lead to his vault. A young goblin waited at one of the carts and Harry climbed into it followed by Bill. 'Are you in?' Bill asked Harry. Harry gave a tense nod and Bill turned to the goblin. 'Let's go.' The goblin flipped a switch and the cart hurtled down the track. Harry felt the sting of the suddenly cooler air bring tears to his eyes as they rushed deeper into the earth. After many stomach-churning turns and corkscrews, the cart came to an abrupt stop in front of Vault 687 – Harry's vault. 'Got your key?' Bill asked.

Harry nodded and produced the small gold key that opened the vault and slid it into the lock. The door swung open, revealing the usual pile of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Harry walked inside, and Bill handed him a sheaf of parchment with a Self-Inking Quill. 'Do you really expect me to count each and every coin?'

Bill shook his head. 'There's a spell that will sort them into piles of ten. Then you just count those.' He gave Harry a strange look then continued, 'Have you ever really been inside your vault before?'

'Not really. Just long enough to take out gold for school or something.'

Bill pointed to the parchment in Harry's hand. 'Why don't you look through that? Or better yet, take a turn about the vault.'

Harry frowned and skirted the nearest pile of Galleons. His mouth dropped open when he saw, for the first time, the piles of crates and cartons hidden behind the money. 'What the bloody hell is all this?' he breathed, eyes going round with astonishment.

Bill appeared next to Harry. 'Everything in the Potter family vault that was in it when your parents died, and when Sirius died, you got everything from his vault, too.' He tapped the inventory list in Harry's lax hand. 'Check the list.'

Harry blinked and gaped at the forgotten list in his hand, and began paging through the bewildering. More money than he would ever be able to spend in one, if not two, lifetimes. Jewels. Portraits and other paintings. Collections of antique robes and books. Sets of china. Multiple sets of cutlery made of pewter and sterling silver. There was even a set of goblin-wrought silver cutlery. Harry's eyebrows rose a little as his eyes landed on that particular item. 'This is absolutely nutters,' he mumbled. 'What am I supposed to do with all this?' His voice took on a slightly panicked timbre.

'For starters, you won't have to worry about paying for your children's things when they start school,' Bill said acerbically. 'You could buy a bloody castle, if you wanted. Perhaps a Quidditch team.'

Harry spun in a slow circle, eyeing a glittering pile of gold. 'Teddy,' he blurted.

'What about Teddy?'

'I want to set something up for Teddy,' Harry explained. 'I don't want Andromeda to have to worry about buying Teddy's things for school. And to give him something of cushion to have when he finishes school so he doesn't have to live with his grandmother or me, if he doesn't want to…'

Bill made a note in a small notebook he carried. 'I can set that up for you by the end of the week,' he said quietly, impressed at how Harry's first thought was of his godson's welfare.

'Thanks,' Harry replied, a little absently, as he further perused the list. 'Guess I'll start with that crate, then,' he said, as he pointed to a large wooden crate in the back left corner of the vault. 'And then go clockwise.' He squinted at the corner of the crate in question. 'Are they all numbered?'

'They were numbered and catalogued when they were brought in,' Bill told him. 'If anything was removed, it was noted at the time of withdrawal.'

'Okay.' Harry pointed his wand at the crate and murmured, 'Cistem aperio.' The lid of the crate slowly lifted and swung open. Inside, several ornately carved wooden boxes were stacked on top of one another. With a deep sigh, Harry retrieved the boxes, relieved to see they, too, were numbered as well. He checked the list and began with the box listed first. It wasn't a difficult task, and there was just enough variety in the contents to keep it from being completely mind-numbingly boring. Sorting through the items gave Harry tantalizing glimpses into his family's history. From time to time, one or another of his ancestors had left a note containing information regarding the history of a piece in the box – to whom it had belonged, when and how they received it, and one enterprising soul had even included a bit of a comical story written in a cramped hand regarding a particularly hideous opal necklace, making Harry laugh out loud.

The most recent box had been packed shortly before Harry's birth, according to the dates written on the label. He frowned at it, fingertips tracing over the letters that seemed familiar in their shape. Where have I seen this before? he mused, thinking he had, in fact, viewed that peculiar manner of crossing both "T"s in "Potter" with a heavy, downward slash that nearly bisected the "E". His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as the memory popped into his brain with the jarring sensation of having a joint maneuvered back into place. Harry realized where he had seen it: in one of Snape's memoires in Dumbledore's – now Harry's – Pensieve. He remembered vividly the day he had viewed the memory of his father completing his Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. 'Dad…' Harry whispered reverently. With hands that shook only a little, Harry eased the lid of box open. There wasn't much inside. Just some unassuming pieces of jewelry that were no less lovely for their simplicity. Most of them had small parchment tags affixed to them with a length of twine. Harry picked up a fine gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a crescent moon, a small star-shaped diamond dangling from the upper tip. He held it up so the tag dangled in front of his eyes. It had once been his great-grandmother's. James' paternal grandmother. According to the note, it had been her favorite necklace, even though she had a few more elaborate ones. An array of bangles carved from jade with patterns of leaves etched into the surface, ranging from a near-white celadon to the deeper green of birch leaves in the summer. An old pocket watch, given to Harry's grandfather on day he became of age, with a small inscription on the back simply stating "Roderick Maxwell Potter, 14 November 1931". Nestled in the velvet bag with the pocket watch was a delicate wristwatch. Harry turned it over and brought the back up closer to his face so he could read the engraved words it. "Eleanor Frances Lowe, 2 January 1934". Harry felt another disconcerting mental snap, as he realized this was the first time he had ever seen his paternal grandparents' names, filling in one more piece of his missing history.

Harry set the quill down and rolled his head slowly around his neck, grinning beatifically at the rapid-fire, crunching noises that emerged. 'Can I ask you something?' he said to Bill, lounging in a chair he'd conjured.

Bill glanced up from his copy of the Prophet. 'Sure.'

'You said earlier that the contents of Sirius' vault had been moved into mine,' Harry began. Bill nodded and Harry continued. 'Why did the bank do that instead of just keeping it there? It doesn't make sense.'

Bill frowned at Harry for a moment, before belatedly recalling Harry had entered the wizarding world at the age of eleven with no previous knowledge of how it worked, as if he'd been Muggle-born. The last year or so, he had slipped into the fabric of the wizarding world with an ease that belied his upbringing and the occasional gaps in his knowledge. 'Only a blood member can actually inherit the actual vault. You can leave what's in it to anyone you want. Since Sirius didn't have a direct blood relation, the vault's ownership reverted to the bank.'

'Oh.' Harry sat motionless for a moment before drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly before reaching for the last piece of jewelry in the box. A parchment tag dangled from a small gold ring, set with a round emerald nestled between two smaller square opals. The notation on the parchment was brief, penned in his father's hand, only containing James' mother's name and a date five months before Harry's own birth. Harry flipped the tag over, searching for another clue, no matter how small, and was rewarded with an addendum in Lily's looping penmanship. "Given to Eleanor by Roderick on their engagement – 12 April 1946". Harry made a small tick next to the item on the list, and started to replace it in the box. He stopped and held it up to the light, studying it closely. It was lovely. As he tucked it into its satin-lined slot, Harry could envision it on Ginny's finger. She would even appreciate the history behind it. He carefully closed the box, set it inside the crate with the others, and sealed it once more.

A/N: Cistem aperio was used in the movie version of Chamber of Secrets. It opens boxes and crates and was used by Tom Riddle to open the crate containing the young Aragog.

While there is a Charlus Potter and Dorea Black listed on the Black family tree that do match the specifications of James Potter's parents (had one son, albeit unnamed, at a later age), it's never been confirmed. Also, Dorea Black Potter died at the age of fifty-seven, where James' mother was alive and well during his later years of school. So, I decided to make full use of artistic license and give the Mr. and Mrs. Potter listed in the Harry Potter Wiki their own names. In case anyone wants to do the math, Roderick Potter was born in 1914 and Eleanor in 1918. They were 45 and 42, respectively, when James was born.