"These people, Mr Potter," the lawyer intoned solemnly, "have willed you their names in deed and in magic."

"Awesome," said Harry. "So…what does that mean?"

As Harry looked on, the aristocratic face of the law-wizard before him pause for a moment. The fine lines on his face that came with age and experience contrasted oddly with the way his mouth hung open just a moment too long. Harry thought to himself that the baffled look was probably an uncommon one on Mr Lloyd-Elliot and a flush of odd, proud heat rushed through him to have caught it, until Harry realised the expression was there because he was being really slow. The heat turned to an embarrassed flush that sat over his ears and temples. He rubbed his palms against the arm rests of his chair, awkwardly.

Mr Lloyd-Elliot broke the silence with a subtle swallow and tried again in a measured timbre. "You could also consider that they have willed you're their magic in deed and name."

"…Okay?"

Within the formal luxury of the Germany Ministry meeting room, there was a moment of silence. It was possibly brought about by the long and intense time Harry and his lawyer had spent talking during the hottest part of the afternoon.

It was, Harry had to admit with a grimace of discomfort, far more likely that the lawyer had been baffled into silence by Harry's brilliance. Or, specifically, whatever the opposite of brilliance was: its absence. Slowness. Denseness. A lack of logical leaps and progression. There was only so much that occlumency and memory potions could do for him; he was no Hermione, after all.

Mr Lloyd-Elliot, who Harry had originally employed because of the recommendation of Mrs Weasley's second cousin, and now kept employed because of his general magnificence, took a slow breath out. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, precisely, between a finger and a thumb.

"Take a moment to consider our discussion just prior, Mr Potter," the experienced lawyer instructed concisely. "Your personal name, Harry James Potter, was given to you by your parents and magically conveys their complex hopes, dreams and wishes of protection, wisdom, strength and bravery."

"Yeah," Harry smiled. "It's a good name, right? I never really thought about it before."

"And thus," Mr Lloyd-Elliot continued with barely any frustration discernible in his voice, "you have magically inherited a stronger-than-usual Potter legacy. Without knowing your family intimately, I am unable to say precisely which parts of their character and magic you have most benefited from. But consider what is publically acknowledged about the Potter's personalities: they are infamously stubborn with regards to maintaining their own principles, gifted with decisiveness, and have, reputably, often found themselves blessed with loyal friends who would face down all manner of trials for them."

There was also such a thing called the Potter Luck, Harry thought suddenly, and promptly wondered whether it was a curse or a blessing that was apparently passing down the family line. Then – from "loyal friends" – Harry had a moment of vertigo where he remembered the loyal band of Marauders – Pettigrew excluded – and then with nostalgia his own little Golden Trio, when Ron and Hermione had followed him through thick and thin despite all kinds of threats. Even Neville and Luna and Ginny. Being 'adopted' by Crookshanks and Kreacher and Dobby. Percy and the twins tag-teaming him to get him through that horrible last term of third-year. The inexplicable presence of Crow.

"There is something in the Potter line," the lawyer explained, utterly unaware of Harry's mental detour, "that instills loyalty and faithfulness in their friends and allies."

Harry was half-convinced, but shuffled around in his padded armchair to raise his one concern. "So how would you explain the Pettigrew mess then?"

The whole fuss and betrayal by the rat had come out in Sirius' trial, once Harry had passed on the news that they'd made an Unbreakable Vow so Sirius couldn't dob in Pettigrew's animagus form himself. It seemed all of Europe now knew how Wormtail had betrayed his best mates.

The lawyer appeared to have regained his innate calm, and nodded Harry's way agreeably, before pouring himself a third cup of coffee. It was precisely as if Harry had asked a particularly clever question and deserved to be rewarded. "I would venture to suggest," the older man answered as he inhaled the rich, dark scent that misted up from his cup, "that young Pettigrew found himself physically isolated during those early days in the war. Without regular proximity and interaction, your father's inherited charisma may have waned just enough."

"Ohhhhh," Harry murmured. That might explain it, actually, if combined with Pettigrew's well-established low self-worth.

"So," Harry managed to pick up the topic again, "I've picked up my dad's – dad's family's – attitude to ethics and stubbornness and luck. And charisma?"

His hands cupped gracefully around his coffee cup, the lawyer nodded with exquisite patience. "Through the names, Mr Potter. You've picked up the Potter attitude to ethics, stubbornness, luck and charisma to a particularly strong degree through your given names."

Harry nodded agreeably until he noticed that the lawyer was waiting for the other penny to drop. Then he flushed again, a sudden, hot red, and realised that there was still something he hadn't quite picked up on. "Okay then? Sorry…I take a while to get things the first time, sometimes. But once I know it, I'll know it forever!" he promised. "Once I get the understanding or the lesson or whatever, I have it forever, in all its complexity and subtleties."

"I hope so." Mr Lloyd-Elliot continued, the stern lines in his face now softened a little by the falling afternoon sun that was seeping through the window and slowly but surely turning the afternoon into a cheerful and peaceful dusk. "You sit before me now, blessed with your birth-right, which carries magic through shared blood, and the momentous occasion of your birth, Mr Potter, and the first gifting – refrain from asking, we can discuss that later. Yet from now on, you may also be blessed with more; a small percentage of your 'fans', your 'grateful' dead, have also willed their family magics to you, through the final names of their family line."

Harry got it.

"I…" Harry's mind froze as everything they'd just talked about and hinted at and spoke around suddenly seemed to connect together in one ginormous net of understanding. "Sweet Merlin," Harry uttered thoughtlessly. "Great Godric. Ruddy Rowena. Holy Hufflepuff." He added the Slytherin curse that Mrs Weasley hated the most. "Like…because my family names – unusually significant, like you just said – were made stronger through tradition and runes and arithmancy, you said something about how they were given on momentous occasions as well? So...that's how I inherited the stronger body of Potter magic...and now more people have gifted me...names and magic and...power? I…blimey. I didn't know that was possible, sir. I…I've never heard of this before."

Mr Lloyd-Elliot smiled a particularly thin, triumphant smile. "So other witches and wizards, three of them to be precise, have attempted to gift you their family magic through names now too. That, Mr Potter, is why I believe this to be the pinnacle of my legal career."

Harry waited, mind still trying to grasp the specifics.

"I am well-practised in post-mortem estate management," the lawyer looked into his coffee cup with pride. "I have overseen more will distributions and estate handouts that I can even count. Money and coinage, heirlooms and artworks, property distribution and beloved pets and complex intellectual property rights, but this is the first and only time I expect to be involved in the distribution of family magic. It is an honour, Mr Potter. A real honour to be working with you."

The lawyer leaned forward and reached out his long and capable fingers to let them rest on the stack of parchment that lay on the table between them. Then, with a soft swish of parchment on wood, he pushed the pile forward and over to Harry triumphantly.

Harry received the stack of parchment, and he picked it up all together with fingers that trembled – just a tiny bit – with excitement.

"Take your time, Mr Potter," the lawyer instructed kindly. "You need not decide on anything today."

Still grappling with – was he going to get new magical powers, or like new magical specialties? Or luck or whatever? – Harry's eyes skimmed down to read the first page.

He held a pile of letters, was Harry's first thought, identifiable through the carefully formatted script. It was flat as he held it in his hands, curiously rough to the touch, but had obviously been folded into three at point point. The creamy parchment was stiff, thick and heavy – he could imagine Mr Weasley calling it the 'good stuff' – and smelled just enough of dust and mildew that it was obvious that the letter had been delivered to him years late.

Mr Lloyd-Elliot gestured to Harry to look at the parchment, to the first short, concise letter that Harry realised with a sinking heart was probably evidence of a family tragedy. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. On to hearing the long-dead voice of some stranger. He scratched the back of his neck and then focused.

To Harry, the letter began simply enough.

Thank you for ending You-Know-Who's reign of terror. Unfortunately, I won't live long enough to enjoy the world you've made possible – curse damage, don't you know, from the same curse that killed the rest of my family.

But I want to share how thrilled we all are, or would be, that Britain will have peace again. Mum and Dad enjoyed a wonderfully happy marriage despite the fact that Mum was muggle-born and Dad was cut off from the family when he married her. I want hundreds more families to cross that divide, to merge cultures and create happiness to spit on You-Know-Who's grave.

Everything burned in the fire, unfortunately, but I'm leaving you all I've got left. Some gold up at Gringotts (not much, unfortunately), the empty land, and all the magic retained in the family line.

Blessings be to you and yours, Harry. Dad never really explained how this all worked, but he did mention it had to be whole-heartedly gifted and never regretted. I want you to have this, Harry, more than anything else I've got left.

So take what you can from my paltry, small gift, and use it to dance on the bastard's legacy, won't you? I'll be giving him hell in the afterlife, myself.

That's it from me, I'm afraid. The healers are going to put me asleep again for the pain, and I don't imagine I'll write more when I wake.

Look after yourself, grow up well, be strong.

Yours,

John Justin Jenkins.

Harry had a sudden image of some wizard, probably not too old, judging from the modern way of speaking, lying in a hospital bed and drugged up on potions. Maybe a mediwitch had helped him hold the quill. John Jenkins, he meant. Or maybe a healer had written the whole thing for him. Because of the injury. Burns? On his hands, perhaps? Harry had the oddest notion that a wizard's hands might very easily get burned by curse fire, whether he defended with a wand or just raised his hands for shelter.

Harry thought for a moment about that long-dead wizard, lying pale-faced from pain, perhaps, in a bed far from home. Struggling to wakefulness through the potions, forcing his mind to concentrate despite the pain.

Harry swallowed. Carefully folded the single piece of parchment back into thirds. Smoothed the folds down with his hands. Mr Lloyd-Elliot watched him from under his heavy eyebrows and said nothing.

Taking a deep breath in, Harry turned the pages to look at the next letter. It smelled older, the parchment a little curled at the edges due to age. At a glance, Harry realised that he would struggle through the letter, what with the loopy-loops and slanted cursive. He had the oddest feeling that it was written in copperplate, but couldn't quite put his finger on what that meant.

Dear Young Mister Harry Potter, the next letter began in faded ink and shaky handwriting,

You don't mind if I call you Harry, do you? I'm nearing the end of my life, and let me tell you that by the time a wizard reaches one-hundred and nine, he doesn't fuss too much about etiquette or subtlety. I think fondly of you, young Harry, and I'm about to die.

Harry it is then.

I hope you're growing up well, young Harry. As I write this, you are heading towards your eighth year. Rumour has it that Albus Dumbledore has hidden you away from wizard-kind somehow, no owls ever seem to get through from you, and I've been keeping up with all the gossip that is ever published about you in that rag, the Daily Prophet, so my guess is as good as anybody's. I can't help but think that the Potter Spotters are more hopeful than accurate in their pursuit of you. Are you really being brought up in Poland as they suggested last month? Somehow I doubt it.

So you're out of sight and communication somehow, but hopefully you're well.

You mustn't mind an old man's musings, young Harry, as he tries to summarise his life in one final, brief letter. I'm willing you my name, of course, and any and all magic that comes along with it. But it does make an old wizard reminisce…

I was born a long time ago, young Harry. A very long time ago indeed for a young seven-year-old like yourself, I imagine. Things were very different then, but, perhaps, the divide between witches and wizards and muggles wasn't quite so deep, back in the day.

I was the eldest of two boys – although my brother passed away at age 6 of a fever – and my Da and his Da before him only had sisters who married out. I grew up rather spoiled, young Harry, but a good enough sort though I say so myself, and was taught from a young age to continue the family name with dignity and responsibility.

Now, I used to work for the Floo Network, young Harry, and hopefully you'll know what that is by the time my meagre letter comes your way. I spent many an hour apparating around Britain to connect fireplaces to the network, and when the apparition points were too far apart, or directions too vague, I found myself walking down quiet countryside roads more often than not.

I met a muggle girl, young Harry, or perhaps I should call her a young woman. She wore scandalously fitted dresses, was my second thought at meeting her. (A young boy like you has no business wondering what my first thought of her was.) She stepped very prettily in her dainty, high-heeled boots and could shame a man to shivers in a matter of minutes, if she caught you looking at her the wrong way.

Which she promptly did. To me, right there in the road, and her in her front garden. And she did so with the sharpest of tongues and the strongest application of logic I'd ever seen in a woman. Didn't like how I was looking at her, she later claimed. And, to be fair, I wasn't the most subtle of young men. To this day, young Harry, I cannot recall being more apologetic before or since that moment.

I loved her immediately, young Harry. And she became the first great blessing of my life when she finally agreed to marry me in 1905, and then shortly thereafter gave me three more great blessings with the birth of our children: Atticus, Barnaby and Clementine. Thus, of course, I fulfilled my duty to the family line and could enjoy matrimony and parenthood with delight.

While my wife Cecily had been rather surprised by my post-marital reveal of such things as magic, she adapted to our world with grace and dignity, and was wholly encouraging when all three of our children got letters at eleven and were called to study at Hogwarts.

They graduated finely and all earned good positions out of school. Barnaby went into the Ministry and married in his 30s to a nice young muggle-born witch he'd met in school. Clementine became a healer and married and moved to Wales to be with a wizard who lived there. Tragically, our first-born Atticus was injured in a run-in with merrow during his work as an ambitious stonemason, and he passed away at 26. But overall, we were happy.

Young Harry, Cecily kept me company all the days of her life and when our small family lost her to the rapid aging of muggles we grieved whole-heartedly, but she had seen it coming and not wanted us to indulge in enduring sorrow.

She's been gone now for almost as long as we were together, and I still miss her every day.

Thus, young Harry, with no Cecily in my days to keep me on my toes, I kept my aging self busy by visiting our children, our grandchildren and, when they came to the end of their time at Hogwarts, the great-grandchildren who came after that.

Cecily's descendants were doing very well for themselves in a number of different vocations, young Harry. Barnaby managed a successful political career, topped by his position as senior-undersecretary for Minister Jenkins (term of 1968-1975, if you are of a historical bent). His descendants followed his political footsteps and made quite a name for themselves back in London. Clementine's firstborn, a witch by the name of Elowen, opened up a popular hospital in rural Wales, and her name – and her own children after her – became rather renowned.

Then that rat-bastard Voldemort came along. (They don't utter it these days, young Harry, but I've only written it down here, and I'm about to die anyway.) It appears, you see, that my family's name, and our pride in dear Cecily's origins, had been made too prominent. The success of our mixed-blood magic users, and the muggle and muggle-born partners that my descendants often married, offended that Dark tosser's sensibilities.

We were hunted down, young Harry. And it became the final great blessing of my life, that my dear, darling Cecily had not lived to see the day.

I am all that remains of my family now, young Harry, and I hope that, wherever you are and however you age, you have been blessed with support, and indulgence, and love. To you, who have lost your own parents so young, from me, who was forced to outlive my children, I can say unto you truly: your parents are blessed people, young Harry. Though they died in defense of you, their defense was successful. To give their lives to ensure that of their child's is a parent's greatest pride, young Harry. And I know this, for I wish I could have done the same.

Do not grieve for your parents' death, although by all means grieve for your lack of them and the cut of their friend's betrayal. They are happy with their choices and are proud of your growth, wherever you have been doing it.

Without any family left to me, Harry Potter, and with no grandchildren or great-grandchildren remaining for me to indulge in my later years, I found myself rattling around in my empty house and before long, my thoughts turned to you.

My family has fallen from what it once was. Our wealth and successes have been handed out or stolen over the years by market competitors or those devilish Death Eater fellows in black, but my magic remains, young Harry. And I gift it you.

Do all that you wish with it. May it grow strong to protect you, and give you peace. May it lead you to success and renown, and teach your wisdom and subtlety. We Cartwrights were always problem-solvers, young Harry, so it would not surprise me if problem-solving becomes part of my gift to you.

But whatever you do with my family magic, as long as it helps you and is used in love, know that it has my blessing.

Yours with all respect, gratitude, and faithfulness,

Corbin Clarence Cartwright

Last scion of the Cartwrights of Gairloch.

There was a faded imprint of some kind of coat of arms at the bottom of the page, and then that was the end.

Harry let his hands fall onto his lap for a minute and stared out the window.

"At this point," Mr Lloyd-Elliot said, "there are a few things you need to consider when choosing which of these names is best for you to…Apologies, Mr Potter. Do you need a minute?"

Harry did.

The meeting room was still and calm. It was warm in the late afternoon now, and the tinkle of the outside fountain snuck softly into the otherwise quiet room.

When Harry was ready to keep going with the meeting again, Mr Lloyd-Elliot had one thing to say.

"There are some things you need to bear in mind when adopting another wizard's name. The choice of name should include consideration of its symbolic meaning to you – beyond the name itself, and more your strongest emotional connection to the best-fitting word. Because of the care with which your parents chose your current name, I highly recommend you consider the runological and arithmantic meanings also."

"Hrmm," Harry nodded absently. He picked up the second letter.

Dear Harry Potter,

First and foremost, I should like to express my gratitude for your role in ending the tyranny of the self-styled Dark Lord of our time, You-Know-Who. I am, of course, sorry for the losses that you have incurred because of your part to play in the war, and hope that the knowledge that you have provided life-changing support for others might alleviate some of your pain.

I'm Mildred McAllister, and I write on behalf of my older brother and myself.

We're purebloods, if that makes any different to you at all. Specifically, I hope you realise that this means that our name has a long history and many connotations and legacies attached. I certainly don't hold with all this 'pureblood only' nonsense, but a witch like myself can't deny that there is a power in names. Established names, particularly. Thus, I hope you're pleased to hear about mine.

I'd like you to have it, in fact.

Times have been tough for a lot of people recently, and though it pains me to admit it, my small branch of the McAllisters is reaching its last legs. All my cousins have been killed off in the last year or so, I have to tell you. Only now that You-Know-Who has died – courtesy of yourself and, presumably, your parents – have I had the time and energy to worry about what kind of legacy the family will leave behind.

I'm not and never have been the type to have children myself, you see. Too busy with work. My goats, Dirk and Lady. Keeping the orchard running. But my healers have told me that I only have a few months left to live. Dragonpox can catch us all unaware, Harry Potter, and never let anyone tell you otherwise.

I decided to get my affairs in order before my passing. Ironic, isn't it, that I outlived almost all of my family and, eventually, You-Know-Who, to be told that I'll die in my bed within a year anyway?

But as for the particulars.

We're not one of those families that holds with any of that might-makes-right rot, and even when my brother Bertie turned out to be a squib, we've stayed in close contact. For years, I've hoped that he'd eventually have himself a magical child or two with the muggle or muggle-born wife I thought he'd ultimately find. However, a few months back he introduced me to a lovely man from Amsterdam, and it seems that he wants to go muggle with him. Overseas. Therefore biological offspring – magical or not – are right out of the cards.

It's only just now, what with You-Know-Who gone and my health about to fail, that I've had time to get my thoughts together.

When you grow up, of course, you will inevitably be in close contact with your headmaster. Most significantly, he is the only other Dark Lord defeater alive in Britain. And it was only recently, when I was trying to decide what to with my things when I die, that I remembered that I needed to sort out a family legacy and, which is the pertinent thing to you, that non-material things can also be gifted.

I've got nothing else, Harry Potter. My brother's going to get all my property and money, but neither of us will have children and we do have a duty to carry on the family name and magic.

So: if you want it, it's yours.

The lawyers tell me that all the complicated matters will be done on your end, after I'm gone. Good on you, I say, but no pressure. All I have to do is to will you the thing – the family name, or names, the lawyer pointed out, can be any common names in the legacy that come with history. But I've been told it's best to keep the connection strong for the magic of the gift to shine through.

Thus, if you want it, you're welcome to mine: Mildred, after my Mum. Ambrosia, adapted to the feminine form by way of a great uncle of small but particular fame. McAllister. Or the name of my brother. Being a squib, he can't will it to you himself, but the two of us can, together. So I'll leave the last lines for my brother to write to you and know, acting as I am as head of the household and the last wielder of magic in the McAllister line, it is my prerogative to gift these to you.

Yours faithfully,

Mildred Ambrosia McAllister

Another kind of handwriting picked up after Mildred presumably passed the quill over.

I don't have much magic, Harry Potter, the squib brother wrote succinctly, but what I've got of it is yours. Squibs like me don't have any great love of You-Know-Who, who thought we were a blight on the nation, so if you can use my name and its legacy to live boldly after defeating the tosser, I want you to do so with pride.

Yours faithfully,

Marshall Tristan McAllister

In the aftermath of so many deathbed letters, Harry felt a bit hollow.

"Well, I've learnt quite a lot," he said somberly, causing the patient lawyer across from him to raise his sweeping brows.

Mr Lloyd-Elliot smiled professionally. "Your name and fame throughout the wizarding world have a different weight now, I assume?"

"I...yes," Harry admitted. "I mean, I've been trying to get over it, but I thought it was just a hassle before."

"A not unexpected state of affairs."

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, well...Gladys at the Diagon Alley Owl Post, actually, really helped me with that. Got my head out of the sand and all. Do you know of her? I mean, she certainly seems to know everyone herself. I've been trying to think more positively since talking to her, but like, the hassle and whispers and opinions have always been there, you know?"

"Not personally, but I can assume."

Harry paused for a moment, his left hand reaching out to glide his thumb over the closed and folded letter parchment that lay on his lap. "These make it personal, I guess. I can't even think the name-and-magic thing is cool anymore, now I've realised whole families had to be wiped out for it to happen."

Mr Lloyd-Elliot hummed an agreement.

"But they were living, breathing people," Harry continued, talking more to himself now than the wizard opposite. "With hopes and loves and life. More than the just runes and arithmancy in their names, I mean."

"Indeed."

Harry nibbled his lip, then looked up. "I...can I take a few days to think about this? I...I think I wasn't in the right state of mind to deal with this, before just now. I mean, I know I can be slow and all, but I like to think I'm not an idiot. I want to...treat these people with respect, for a bit. Is that okay?"

From under his sweeping salt-and-pepper eyebrows and thin smile, Mr Lloyd-Elliot shot him an approving look. The sun was near the horizon now, and the lawyer's face looked stately and impressive in the long shadows and golden light.

"A fine idea." There was a pause. "Dare I ask, while we're here, what was your previous impression of traditional naming patterns?" Mr Lloyd-Elliot asked, politely changing the topic and moving towards a lighter conversation.

Harry exhaled in relief. "By 'traditional' do you mean pure-blood?" he resettled himself more comfortably in his seat and found his shoulder tension lightening. "In which case, I must admit that I thought they were rule-bound, hide-clad, conservative horrors which needed to be brought kicking and screaming into the right decade?"

"I shudder to think," Mr Lloyd-Elliot pursed his lips sceptically. "But names do have power, Mr Potter."

Harry twitched. "Yeah, I'm beginning to get that, now."

"Traditions have power, Mr Potter. Words have power, and repetition has power, and expectations have power. Why else do you think we cast spells in Greek and Latin? Where did you think Runes come from? How else do you expect your spells to gain power, and birthday wishes to come true, and superstitious nursery rhymes to become so ubiquitous that they make it into muggle culture? What else explains magical countries following muggle borders and language acquisition and adopting their new-fangled festivals?"

"All of that…" Harry paused, arrested. "All of that has power?"

"Small but constantly accruing. This is why Hogwarts should have a wizarding culture class," the older man muttered, his right hand at his temples and massaging softly. "These are the questions that young wizards might ask of their mothers, or governesses, or family portraits, depending on their socioeconomic status."

"So the trick is…saying things and believing in them?" Harry almost spoke to himself, suddenly connecting the lawyer's point to will, wand and word. Or will and word, in this case.

"From repetition comes success. Third time the charm. Perfect practice makes perfect. Make a birthday wish or wish upon a star – through ritual or by speaking the words out loud, is implied in those, incidentally. Have I illuminated you, Mr Potter?"

"I think you have," Harry sighed.

"Traditions have power, Mr Potter," the lawyer sat back in his chair. "Deathbed wishes, incidentally, are of particular force."

Harry nodded. "I was beginning to work that out, actually. But can I have a couple of days to think about things?"

"I need time on my end too," the lawyer smiled. "Consider which names you prefer. Which mean something, or speak to you. Mediate on what blessings you want or need, what direction you wish to grow in. Ponder the gifts, Mr Potter, and we shall meet to discuss again soon."