The Pensieve

Bequeath

"I have a second vault?" Harry exclaimed, half tempted to chuck the name plaque in his face. "Why wasn't I ever told this!"

Graspcurve looked back at him, unimpressed by his half shout of surprise. "You were not of age, Mr. Potter. Dumbledore made it clear your gold was to be separated from the rest of your treasures. Then, when you were qualified, well, I believe you remember as well as I, that other affairs were going on at that time."

Harry sighed in frustration but stowed the letter that had brought him to Gringotts away, instead trying for a more polite tone as he continued to address the teller. "Well, I only have a key to the first vault, so is that stuff just doomed to rot down there?"

"Not quite." The goblin tapped his long fingers slowly on the desk one at a time as he appraised this particular client with more weariness than the grunting, club-wielding one that had just left. "Some paperwork would be in order; we do have to verify you are who you say you are and your lineage, but then yes, Mr. Potter, you may choose to do with the contents of the vault as you wish, as the letter promised."

The long, arduous process of the security required to establish verification was partially Harry's own fault, but he felt reasonably confident his honored promise to Griphook to give the Sword of Gryffindor to its makers earned him some reduced time. Preferably more like thirty minutes, but it was better than dying of old age waiting for the process to be complete.

Harry thought back fondly about how he'd never had bothered to learn the difference between stalactites and stalagmites as the cart sent him and the goblin attendant whooshing through the bowels of Gringotts once more for a new vault, sans Hagrid or anyone else for that matter. No less than six people had offered to come with him to see what awaited in his parent's vault, but he'd declined every offer. The newly furbished key to vault 707 was turned in its lock, but still, Harry's hand hovered in place rather than pushing for anything. "Can you wait in the cart?" he asked his guide, trying to pretend he was still blinking the sharp wind from his eyes.

Hoping for once it was special treatment, he was granted this with the warning not to go anywhere else or they would know of it and all he was left with was the steady sound of dripping water in the distance to collect himself. Having no idea what to expect and one last breath to brace himself, he pushed on the vault door.

It was not empty as he'd feared, but nor was it stacked floor to ceiling with more gold and treasures he'd have no idea what to do with. Instead, his breath caught in his throat to see what must have been the last things his own parents had chosen to hide away before going into hiding, treasures so precious to them they wouldn't risk their loss while being hunted for his death.

His mother's things were stacked neatly on the left. Of the many things to look through, the one that stood out was an old copy of Advanced Potion-Making that gave him vertigo until he flipped it open and saw her neat and tidy handwriting in the margins, her friendly g's smiling up at him once more from her corrections, but there were no spells in the margins of this one. Instead, he found himself leafing through doodles of plants with question marks next to them; unfinished experiments, he had to theorize. Its doppleganger and reminder of the time she'd spent with her best friend was burnt and lost forever because of him.

James's things were sprawled in a messy pile as if he'd hastily thrown them down before departing. An old oilcloth hid a magical portrait frozen in place, the occupants sleeping. The old man had rather knobbly knees with smoothed down black hair, the woman had familiar shaped eyes he'd seen in his own father's face. He reached for it with a trembling hand, knowing that even to speak to portraits of his grandparents was more than he ever could have asked for, but his eye caught on something else before he could.

A tiny, minuscule picture of Dumbledore lay on the floor.

He felt as if he were back in that moving cart, lurching to a stop and sending him crashing through that waterfall once more, too many things happening at once and leaving him a mess at the end of it all. When he bent to more closely inspect what it could be doing there, he smiled for the first time when thinking of his old headmaster since he'd left that portrait in McGonagall's office. It was a Chocolate Frog Card.

The back read exactly the same as when he'd very first read it on the Hogwarts Express; the picture had those electric blue eyes that still seemed to x-ray him from this miniature frame even as he scratched his long crooked nose and walked off without so much as a 'how do you do.' It had fallen out of yet another book his eyes had glanced over, but his trembling fingers were drawn to the edge of yet another card that was peeking out of the binding.

Harry sat for hours pouring over his dad's Chocolate Frog Card Collection, wondering if he'd be proud of his own son's he started and lost so long ago now. He found old broom magazines and even more pictures of all four of the Marauders in their school years in yet another scrapbook. Their last treasures were the find of his lifetime.