The Board of Directors of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, despite its name, rarely saw the Director himself in attendance.

The reasons were several, and most of them involve esoteric traditions of the Goblin Nation that have nothing whatsoever to do the day to day running of a bank. Usually, the Director stayed away from meetings, because he wished to avoid the appearance of favoring one department over another - for in doing so, he would be favoring one clan over another, and that was the way feuds began.

The Director's most important job, after defending the Nation itself, was to keep the galleons flowing. It said so right there in the oath. Put simply, the bloody feuds of old were bad for business.

If asked, the Director would list those reasons, and others, for his non-attendance. But in truth, he found the meetings painfully dull. Today's meeting, unfortunately, would not fit that description.

The Senior Managers were already shouting at each other before Ragnok the Seventh, Director of Gringotts London, entered the room. He could hear the raised voices in the hallway, and signaled his guard to dispense with the usual announcement of his entrance. His deputy paled at the breach of etiquette, but Ragnok quietly noted that he'd learn more listening to the argument than he ever would once they knew he was listening.

One of the Managers, Grinlast, sounded like he was about to burst a blood vessel, such was his rage. "This is a disaster of your making, Wingblade!" the old goblin's voice was already growing hoarse.

Ragnok's eyes narrowed at the pronouncement. Grinlast was in charge of minting the galleons, sickles, and knuts that fueled the wizarding economy. By long-standing practice, the bank minted only enough coins to account for population growth - a small figure, given the wars of the past century. How his department could be involved in a dispute was unclear to the Director.

Wingblade was quick to respond. "You can solve this, at will, Grinlast, but you sit in your little office and play with your numbers and watch the rest of us hang! You care not for the business of Gringotts!"

That was a bold claim, thought Ragnok. Wingblade was one of the Senior Account Managers, responsible for several very old families. The Blacks, at least, though Ragnok could not recall the others.

"Even I cannot make blood flow uphill, boy." Grinlast's snarl was filled with menace. "But if you wish, I can certainly try with yours."

Ragnok shared a look with his deputy, whose eyes were wide in shock. He had heard the same thing the Director had - the meeting was quickly spiralling toward a duel. "Better not keep them waiting," said the Director.

Without ceremony, the Deputy opened the doors and admitted Director Ragnok. Immediately, the goblins in the room stood, ending their argument in mid-sentence. Ragnok took his time walking to the far end of the room, before settling in his chair at the end of the table. Hopefully, the managers would take that time to collect themselves, though already he could see several who seemed to be stewing in their rage.

Once seated, he gestured for the managers to sit as well.

"So," he began, once everyone had settled in their seats. "I hear we have a bit of a dilemma."

Nervous looks were exchanged between the managers, as the silence stretched. No one wanted to be the one to beak the news to the Director. Ragnok was known as a negotiator and a mediator, but his temper was even hotter than that of his father, Ragnok the Sixth, who had died in an honor duel as a result of a personal insult.

His opponent had died quickly, for the head of Clan Ragnok would accept little else. Unfortunately, Ragnok's victory came at the cost of overexertion, and the old goblin keeled over right there in the pit, before the cheers of the crowd could fade.

His son, the current Director, was not expected to take the managers to the pit for their failure. But even so, it was a foolish goblin who wished to anger their leader without cause.

Ragnok sighed. "Fine, we do this my way. Arcknife, what news of the bank, old friend?"

All eyes turned to the oldest goblin in the room, Arcknife, of the clan Gres'Navagh. Arcknife was the Senior Account Manager for the Ministry's own accounts, as well as the closest thing the bank had to a foreign secretary. It was he who met with the Goblin Liaison from the Ministry of Magic, for example. If the wand wavers ever decided to accept an ambassador from the Goblin Nation, Arcknife would be it.

"Director, we have become aware of a grave issue that threatens the solvency of our institution," Arknife began. "Wingblade and Snapclaw raised the issue, but my research shows that all of our major accounts are contributing to the problem."

"Or not contributing, you mean," grumbled Wingblade.

Arcknife ignored the interruption. "My Lord Director," he said formally, "To the best of our knowledge and belief, Gringotts will be unable to dispense galleons to the public in two weeks time."

Ragnok looked at the old goblin's face, and could see nothing that would hint at any level of doubletalk in that pronouncement. The goblin clearly stood behind that verdict.

"I see," said the Director. Ragnok turned his gaze to Grinlast, who remained visibly angry. "Grinlast, I trust you were aware of this problem?"

"Yes, Director," replied Grinlast. "It follows a trend I have monitored for the last decade, made worse by recent changes in Ministry policy and certain large inheritances following the defeat of the coward Voldemort by the Potter Heir thirteen years ago."

"Speculation, at best!" spat Wingblade.

Grinlast slammed his hand down on a stack of parchments, pointing a bony finger on his other hand at Wingblade. "Galleons go in to your vaults, and they never come out. Every year, more gold goes in, and less comes out. How long do you think that can continue, boy?"

"That's enough!" Snapped Ragnok. Both goblins turned to him, though Grinlast's anger could not be so easily tamed.

"My Lord Director," Grinlast continued, forcing his voice into a calmer tone. "We have vaults dating back centuries, and even old families long dead collect money. Every galleon that goes into one of the old vaults does not come out again, because goblins like my esteemed colleague here refuse to allow it." He glared at Wingblade, who looked ready to draw blades and dispute the claim.

Ragnok's eyes narrowed at Grinlast, as he worked through the implications. "So we're not talking about the wealth stored in the bank, just the actual coins, yes?"

"Yes, My Lord," agreed Grinlast. "If we mint more coins to compensate, as Wingblade and his ilk would suggest, then we simply lower the value of the galleon, because there will be more galleons in circulation." He glared across the table at the account manager, who looked back with a murderous glare.

"We swore to safeguard the galleons of our customers, Grinlast you coward!" Wingblade was standing, angrily pointing at Grinlast. "Your oath is to count coins and keep them moving. Do your job!"

The sound of a sword leaving its sheathe silenced the room, and Wingblade looked over in fear as one of the Director's Bodyguards took up a ready stance. Ragnok, for his part, seemed content to study the wood grain of the conference room table.

"I thank Manager Wingblade for his learned counsel," Ragnok said quietly. "Though I know he needs no reminder that it is the Director who judges the oaths of the Nation, not an Accounts Manager, however senior he may be."

Cowed, Wingblade resumed his seat. "Yes, My Lord."

"Good." Ragnok looked over at a goblin on his left. "Give me a list of the ten largest inactive accounts."

The goblin pulled out a sheet of parchment, setting it next to the master ledger. "How inactive, My Lord?"

"No withdrawals or expenses in, oh, a century."

Nodding, the goblin began to work. The managers watched closely, not sure what the Director had in mind. When he asked that the report include the name of the manager for each account, nervous glances began to cross the table.

When it was completed, the parchment was handed to the Director. After reading it, he gave a toothy grin. "Wingblade, it seems you will be helping to fix this after all."

"My Lord?"

Ragnok stood, forcing the other managers to do the same. Drawing his ceremonial blade, he held it out over the table.

"I, Ragnok of the Clan Ragnok, Seventh of the name, hereby declare and decree that the manager's oath binds each manager to safeguard the wealth of their clients, and not the actual galleons themselves. I decree further that no goblin who protects the value of their clients' vault shall be in breach of their oaths, even if galleons are removed from the vault in question, so long as those galleons are replaced with funds of the same or greater value. So be it." The blade glowed softly, accepting the words of the Director as if they were an oath, which they were.

The Director sheathed his blade, smiling at the looks of shock around the table. Before they could recover, he turned to Wingblade.

"Account Manager Wingblade, I require a word with you about one of your old accounts."

oOoOoOoOo

"This will never work."

Ragnok grinned at Arcknife, as they watched the coins being bagged and placed on the heavy duty carts that would take them to one of the old vaults.

"Ah, this will never work, Director."

Arcknife looked at the son of his old friend, and shook his head in amusement. "There's a reason we have so many sickles and knuts, Director. We need to be able to exchange any number of galleons, on demand. Shopkeepers need to make change, they need to collect small amounts for minor goods, and so on."

"All true," agreed Ragnok. "But the shops on Diagon Alley gave that up. These days, they won't charge fifteen sickles, they'll slide the price up to one galleon and pocket the difference." He watched another cart rumble slowly away, only to be replaced with an empty one. "And the Ministry did not help, either."

"So you said, but I was not clear on your meaning, Director," Arcknife said, carefully.

"Once you think like the wand wavers, old friend, it becomes simpler. You see, the Ministry wanted more galleons. So they raised their taxes on goods and services, but offered a discount if you paid in whole galleons. I hear that one particularly irate pureblood took to paying his quarterly charges in knuts, overwhelming the staff at the Ministry."

"Fools," Arcknife grumbled. "So they charged more in taxes just to limit their hassle?"

"Seems so," Ragnok said.

The tinkling sound of falling coins drew their attention, and their eyes turned to the ancient vault door. Wingblade stood in the threshold, staring at a pile of golden coins and ripped leather. Each sack was being filled ot the brim, and dropping such a heavy load risked breaking the space expanding charms worked into the material.

The account manager looked ready to explode, before he saw the Director standing there, watching. Cursing under his breath, Wingblade began cleaning up the mess he had made.

Arcknife chuckled at the sight. "So, what do we do if the poor unfortunate who claims this vault asks what happened to its contents?"

Ragnok grinned. "Nothing. The value is intact, and they even profit a little on the exchange, as we credited them a tenth of a percent of the value as a transaction fee." He pointed to the name plate on the side of the door. "Besides, I doubt this vault will ever be claimed. It will just sit here, with its properties earning rent over the years."

Again, the account manager looked at his friend. "We shall see, Director."

oOoOoOoOo

Arcknife looked up as Ragnok entered the meeting room. The Director gestured for him to keep his seat, and proceeded to sit down next to his old friend. Their seats faced a large mirror. When he sat down, Ragnok saw exactly why he had been summoned. The mirror showed the office of Wingblade, which was occupied by the account manager and his newest client.

"So," Ragnok began. "This is the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Man-Who-Lived, actually," commented Arcknife, with amusement. "Once they forced him into that blasted tournament, they declared him to be an of age wizard."

"I take it that none of them realized exactly what their vaunted magical contract would do when completed?" Ragnok had to keep himself from laughing at the foolishness of the Ministry.

"None."

"So, how did we finally get him into a meeting room?" asked the Director.

"I may have sent him a portkey using a muggle courier." Arcknife knew that there had been no other option, but it was still technically a breach of protocol.

Ragnok chuckled at the thought of a muggle package carrying such an item. "Well done, then."

"Thank you, My Lord." Arcknife responded, with a nod.

As they watched the mirror, Wingblade was conducting the basic inheritance test. It would sample the client's magic, and indicate which vaults that client was (or may) be entitled to. Depending on which vaults were shown, additional verification might be necessary, but it was usually not that complex of a problem.

Harry Potter, of course, was not the usual client.

Staring at the goblin script as it covered the parchment, Wingblade's eyes grew wide. After sending for refreshments, he took the parchment and left the office. A moment later, he was entering the meeting room where Ragnok and Arcknife were waiting.

Wordlessly, Wingblade handed the parchment to Arcknife, who scanned its contents.

"Three houses?"

Wingblade nodded. "Potter, which we knew about. Richardson, after his great great grandfather on his mother's side. Neither vault is overflowing, though the Richardson holdings include several parcels of land that might be suitable for a manor. The Potters had interests in a variety of businesses, but mostly as a silent partner. There may be profits due, there may not - we will investigate."

There was something not being said. "And the third house, Wingblade?" asked Ragnok.

Arcknife handed the marchment over, and Ragnok saw that he was fighting the urge to laugh. Confused, the Director looked at the bottom.

Holdings - Peverell Family

Books and Journals, Various

Wands, Various

Jewelry, Various

Cloaks and Outerwear (Preserved), Various

Arms and Armor, Various

100 Galleons

Assorted Sickles and Knuts

(Please refer to the Master Ledger for itemized inventories.)
(Please refer to the book of deeds, Volume 192-C, for land holdings)

Ragnok looked up at Wingblade, who seemed to expect an outburst of anger. He did not expect the Director to burst out laughing.

"Oh, Wingblade, you magnificent bastard, well done!"

oOoOoOoOo

Harry Potter wasn't sure what to think.

When he had been told that the Potters were the heir of one of the oldest wizarding families ever, he had been amazed. There might be some tool, some weapon, or perhaps some spellbook or journal that might help him grow strong enough to defeat Voldemort - and that was an exciting idea, to say the least.

He did not care about the money, really - but having additional resources was not something he would say no to, just now. Not after the graveyard. Not after Cedric. Of course, when he was told that the Peverells were one of the wealthiest families in Britain, he expected more than a tiny stack of 100 galleons.

"Ah, Mister Potter, I should explain that." Wingblade said. Harry looked at the old goblin, and thought that he seemed to be laughing at a joke that Harry didn't get. "You see, last year we exchanged the galleons in some of our old vaults for sickles and knuts, so that we could keep a proper number of galleons in circulation."

Harry looked at the meager pile of coins. "I take it this was the vault you used, then?"

Wingblade nodded. "It was indeed, young sir."

"Of bloody course," Harry muttered. "The instant I get something, I learn that it was taken away."

That brought the goblin up short. "Ah, well, not exactly, Mister Potter. You see, we exchanged the galleons, we did not take them." He snapped his fingers, and a doorway opened up in the side of the vault. Craning his neck, Harry saw piles upon piles of gleaming silver sickles - and, further back, even taller piles of bronze knuts.

Slowly, he turned back to Wingblade. "So, when you say my holdings are 100 galleons and assorted sickles and whatnot, you mean what, exactly?"

Wingblade grinned right back at him. "It means, Mister Potter, that your total currency holdings in the Peverell vault are one hundred galleons, five hundred and forty-four million sickles, and nine billion, three hundred seventy-two million, four hundred ninety-eight thousand and seventeen knuts."

Harry Potter blinked at the goblin. Then he looked back at the sickles and knuts. "Oh." he said, quietly.

"Yes, Oh."

"Um, Wingblade, can you tell me how much that all is in pounds?"

"No."

oOoOoOoOo

Alfred Traveller usually made his big sales in the late summer, when parents buy new trunks for their little ones as they went off to Hogwarts. He rarely sold any of his high-end trunks, and never to a teenager in June. But this was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter wanted the works.

Even if the kid was lying about the tournament, his coins were good.

"So, let me sum this up. You're getting the deluxe seven-compartment trunk with a secret eighth compartment, a linked backpack with an undetectable extension charm connected to the sixth compartment, and blood seals on the locks. The compartments are as we listed them," he pointed to a stack of parchment, "and supplies for the kitchen and potions lab will be delivered by house elf once you arrive for pickup."

Harry nodded. "That sounds good, Mister Traveller."

"Excellent," the salesman replied. "That will be 325 galleons, then."

Harry set his backpack on the floor with a heavy thud. Reaching in, he began to pull out six very large bags of coins. Each was a grey leather, something Alfred had not seen on Gringotts galleon bags before.

"Here you are, sir," Harry said, tiredly. "Feel free to keep the extra as my thanks."

"Extra?" Alfred muttered, shaking his head. "It's only three hundred and twenty-five, Mister Potter. This has to be ten times that."

Harry shook his head in turn. "No, sir, this is six thousand sickles, which should cover the price in galleons and then some."

Alfred turned to the Boy-Who-Lived, a questioning look in his eyes. "Why would you pay for something like this with sickles?"

"Trust me," grumbled Harry, "It's not a very interesting story."

A/N: Remember all of those stories where Harry finds out that he's inherited the wealth of Croseus, with millions of galleons at his disposal? In some cases, the Emrys/Le Fay/Peverell/Christ/Whoever vault has millions upon millions of knuts and sickles alongside those galleons, for some reason. Why? Put it another way, if I inherited money from my father, the value on the account would be in dollars, not "several thousand pennies" or what have you. I get that wizarding money is weird, but y'all.

The major national banks have people who monitor inflation, or the idea that the amount of money out in the world can impact how much people charge for the things you buy. It's a balancing act. Too much money in the world, prices go up. Given the notion that the galleon has a fixed value, the goblins would have to have someone whose job it was to keep an eye on it, right? The Ministry sure as hell isn't.

All of that is to say that this idea grew from one of those massive inheritance fics, where I couldn't get the idea of Harry having to pay for his traditional hours-long trunk shopping adventure with the equivalent of American dimes. If this were one of those fics where Harry uses that wealth to hire mercenaries, it would be hilarious to see their reaction to a room full of knuts as payment.

The "Goblin Culture" bit is a nod to Ellory's excellent explorations of Pureblood culture. This isn't a series, but if I return to the well at some point I might build on that sort of theme, as Ellory did.

I get into more of Goblin Culture in one of my other stories, Harry Potter, et al, and the Keystone Council, though it is not the main focus of that work. Maybe a fifth of it, at best. (You'll understand when you read.) If that is something relevant to your interests, consider this a bit of shameless self promotion.

Feedback, as always, is welcome.