Alright everyone, we are now beginning my promised second Naga story. I have indeed decided to go with a bit of a Prince and the Pauper theme here, so I am beginning the story with a slightly revised version of Chapter 11 from Harry Potter and the Last True Pure-Blood, which is why it will likely look so familiar. I did not simply repost a chapter I have already written - I extended it to include Harry's portion of the story as well. I know some people do not approve of the Malfoys falling from grace like that as it did not happen in cannon, but it is a plausible scenario- so all I can ask for in that regard is patience. It is vital to the storyline.

"Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving."― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

They had called it 'Restitution'.

The main problem with being associated with the losing side of a war in any sense was that, eventually, it became monstrously expensive. When repairs needed to be made, indemnities paid, court costs settled, and protection established; gold had a way of slipping through one's fingers like water. Ministry raids searching for dark artifacts and illegal books had become summons for audit. Many of the previously wealthy and influential Pure-Blood lines had suffered dearly for their involvement in the Dark Lord's reign, Marked or not. Fortunes dwindled internationally as Galleons were poured into repairing Muggle and Wizarding areas alike, fixing schools and prisons and infrastructure, healing the wounded, holding funerals and memorial events, and paying the civil servants doing all of the grunt work.

Draco supposed that he and his family should be glad they weren't in Azkaban rather than raging petulantly over the loss of material things. They had far more than they thought possible in the event of a loss; they had each other. The entire family was alive, free and together, and it ought to have been enough. It really ought to have been.

It was difficult, however, to ignore the sinking in his gut when he watched the ancient four-poster bed that he'd slept in every night since he was three, which his father had slept in from that age to adulthood, being taken to auction. He remembered having to use little steps to get into it – the steps, in fact, matched the elegantly carved oak frame perfectly. It too had been taken. His wardrobe with scenes from celtic faery tales was taken soon after, along with the rugs and tapestries and silver and crystal goblets. Everything, anything in the Manor that would sell for a decent price had been taken from them to pay reparations. It was as if the Malfoy name had been relegated overnight to the rank of common peasantry, and the Domesday Book was being written again. Not a bit of cloth or silver or animal or acre of land had been spared from the audit, and they had been left with naught but enough to survive, and only that.

They were fortunate to have their wands, and the clothes on their backs, and a working stove to cook on. Besides that, however, it wasn't much. Even the House-Elves, who prided themselves on the house they attached themselves to rather than the family they served, had left. The Manor wasn't grand enough for them anymore. It was barely a shell of the elegant grandeur it had been only weeks before, stripped almost to bare stone and wood and plaster with the portraits of those Malfoys that would not sell well enough to justify taking them laying in protected areas of the manor floors. Even the frames and hooks and wire that held them to the walls were now gone.

Narcissa had made herself ill from the stress. She had wrapped herself in a blanket that had come from the Black House when she had left; a quilt she had made herself before the pampered life of a Malfoy had made her forget she had useful skills. She shivered in front of the fireplace from shock, not cold, while leaning against an only slightly steadier Lucius. Lucius was still recovering from the horror of his experiences playing host to the Dark Lord and his entourage in the Manor. Draco suspected that he was only allowing himself to recover from one thing at a time, and he was simply unable to process the agony of their true situation just yet. Lucius would mourn his trauma, then he would mourn his home. For the moment he was silent and stared into the flames blankly, as if not seeing them, and kept his arm around his shivering wife.

Draco had left them in the comfort of the parlour, the room that the Floo Network was connected to, and went outside to do some work. He would not let himself collapse in melancholy like his parents had. It wasn't time yet. He would allow the shock to set in and consume him only when he was secure for the night. First thing first. Unlike his Mother and Father, Draco knew where the vegetable patch and orchard were. Hopefully they hadn't been uprooted like the elaborate flower gardens immediately behind the house. Even the plants, every last blossom, had been potted and carted away. The fountain, which had provided gentle noise for Draco to sleep to every day of his life, was now a crater with blocked plumbing in the pitted, brown earth.

As he walked he missed the sound of the peacocks. He saw not a single feather left behind, as even those could be used in Potions and to decorate. They, as well, were lost. It was all the youngest Malfoy could do not to let the weight of his new life press him to the ground. Instead he swallowed his tears and took deep breaths and continued to trudge past the tree line.

Luckily, his hopes quite literally bore fruit. He hadn't a bag or cart to use, but he took off his robe despite the night chill and lay it on the ground. For the first time in his life outside of Herbology class, Draco Malfoy plunged his hands willingly into cold dirt. It was hard work, something he wasn't used to. Giving up wasn't something he was willing to do, though, and he was hungry. There was no point in going to sleep on an empty stomach. That would only weaken him further and his parents needed to eat. Only when his robe was piled with onions, potatoes, peppers, zucchini, beans, cabbage, carrots, apples, and one reasonably ripe acorn squash did he stop to rest.

There, sitting on the ground with the cold of the night air chilling his top and the cold of the ground chilling his bottom, he sat quietly and waited. Twenty minutes went by before his patience paid off and a hare and his mate came to steal the cabbages. Draco cast a swift and simple cutting charm, tied the headless bodies into one of the sleeves, and began to drag his prizes back toward home. It was heavy and he had to stop and cast a lightening charm before continuing to the wood shed. There, Draco piled several large pieces of wood in what little of the cloak was available for it, cast another charm to lighten it, and made his way back to the parlour. It had been a productive two hours.

"Draco?" his mother asked curiously as he came in and dumped the cloak on the floor. "Ah, the farmland is intact. You've done wonderful work, son." Her voice was relieved. "Do you know how to skin those?"

Draco paused. He had been on his way out to the well when the question startled him. "No," he admitted.

Narcissa crawled out from under the blanket and held out her hand to him. "Transfigure a knife for me, then. I do."

Draco did and left her to fetch water, steadfastly refusing to admit to himself he had a new respect for House-Elves. It was good that the parlour was the room they had chosen to hole up in, he thought. Though seldom used for that purpose since the kitchen had been extended into what had once been servant's quarters, the parlour was once a backup kitchen area in the event of very large parties. There was a genuine hearth rather than a simple fireplace, with the wrought iron supports still in place and the cooking cauldrons not far off to the side, covered with dust. A bread oven door was to the left of the main cooking area and a space in the corner just beyond had a recessed area for storing wood. The floor was recessed from the rest of the room and stone-tiled, meaning one was meant to wear shoes there and not track soot into the rest of the home. Draco doubted that hearth had been used to cook in since his grandfather's time, but it would do.

When he returned with the water, his mother had already stoked the fire, added the wood and skinned the hares. She smiled at him and set a cauldron she deemed scoured well enough to cook in hovering over the flames and filled it with water. They both washed vegetables in what little remained in the buckets.

There were simpler ways to do this to be sure, but like any other sort of magic household spells had to be learned and then used often enough to remember them. The Malfoys did not know any - they had never had cause to learn them. Narcissa had, but she'd not had cause to use them for so long that the few she attempted must not have been pronounced right, or she had moved her wand the wrong way, and they either didn't work or had incorrect effects. Rather than lose another of the vegetables, she washed them by hand. Draco was nonetheless impressed she knew how to skin and quarter game, and made a point to ask her how.

He swore he would never again be caught so unprepared. He couldn't fathom how he would have prepared those hares without his mother teaching him the way, and it was an essential survival skill. He had heard through the Prophet how Potter, Granger and Weasley had camped out in hiding for months in the wilds. Would Draco have survived like that without even knowing how to identify edible plant life and hunt more than small game, and not even how to clean it? He didn't even know how to purify natural water sources, or to identify which ones were safe enough to even do that.

No. He didn't think he would have. He realized that he'd been terribly pampered, and the problem with being pampered is that when the support system powering that failed it became incredibly difficult to do the simplest things, like eat. Or bathe, he thought grimly, realizing the only remaining tub in the house was on the top floor, and he would either have to move it down or carry buckets of cold water up two flights of stairs to wash himself. He dearly hoped the thing was still charmed to heat the water automatically, or they would freeze just trying to keep clean.

Never again. Draco would learn to fend for himself within a year, without magic even, in the event his wand was lost. He would. He could already tell they were in for many trials and work. It was quite obvious that Draco and Lucius knew next to nothing of living without ample conveniences, and Narcissa was the one they would be relying on increasingly in the coming months for lessons and resources. She had been a Black, and they had valued strength on all levels, rather than flaunting the lofty values of a Malfoy. Years of being the spoiled wife of an aristocrat would soon melt like snow in spring and she would remember how to do her chores again. They would learn a lot from her.

Not long after that they had a makeshift stew simmering. There were no spices, as the herb garden had been too close to the flower beds and had therefore been devastated, but they were hungry enough that it smelled wonderful regardless. Draco had not known that, despite fine dining every day of one's life, eating next to nothing for a few days would make anything appealing so long as it wasn't rotten. Silently Narcissa took her place near Lucius again, and Draco stirred the stew to be certain it wouldn't burn. The tension of their week long ordeal paying off the audit with everything but the structure of their family home was thick in the air.

Narcissa stood and got a sad-looking broom, and begun swinging it in the air toward a window that had been 'accidentally' broken by the moving crew.

"Mother? What are you doing?" Draco asked worriedly.

"Wait. You'll see." She said simply, and kept sweeping the air.

It looked to Draco as if she were shooing pixies out of the house and he wondered if this was some Black tradition he was unaware of, but his back straightened when the room began to feel lighter and less stuffy. "What did you do?"

"Magic is many things, Draco," she said as she came over to test the stew, putting the broom down. "Sometimes you just need to accept that it doesn't always make sense."

"…did you just 'sweep out the sadness'?" he asked her incredulously. It had been a part of a childhood rhyme she told him a lot when he was little.

She smiled. "I did."

"That's ridiculous!" He threw his arms up in exasperation.

She nodded to him. "I know. But it worked, did it not? Can't you breathe easier?"

Draco crossed his arms and grumbled, "It's still ridiculous."

Lucius shifted and stood. Neither his wife nor son asked where he was going. They knew he was just as hungry as they were, and would return before long. When he did it had been nearly half an hour and the stew was cooling next to the hearth to a temperature they could actually handle. He had a bottle of wine in his hands. "Hidden treasures, Lucius?" Narcissa asked him gently.

"The mantle drawer in the Library had been painted over. The seams couldn't be seen. They missed this in their hurry to take our books." Lucius sat down on the floor with his family and used a simple charm to uncork it. "I hid it from you when you were pregnant. It was our anniversary and you insisted we should have a glass from this bottle, as we had this same wine on our wedding day. You weren't yet in the later stages, so I put it away for fear you wouldn't react well."

Draco looked between his parents with envy and pity. So many memories, both good and bad; he wanted that for himself someday. He hoped fervently that the bad part was over by now. He didn't know if he could handle any more.

"We have no glasses," Narcissa said suddenly. Lucius frowned.

"Just a moment." Draco transfigured three of the buttons from his cloak into goblets. He was better at the subject than either of his parents, and it had been far too many years since their first year to remember the simple charm.

"Oh, Draco… your cloak." Lucius looked with clear worry at the grime and hare blood on the Hogwarts cloak his son had used to carry his supplies back to the house.

Draco shook his head at his father. "It was ruined anyway. A few buttons won't matter. I've another cloak still, and I don't plan on going back to school."

Narcissa looked to the blanket she had round her shoulders, then to the cloak. Lucius poured the wine. "I will repair it. You must return to school, Draco. We no longer have the resources to survive without your finding a career. Both your father and I have our graduation papers, but you do not. You have missed too many lessons to pass the N.E.W.T. exams without a year to catch up, and we no longer have the books to tutor you here."

Lucius handed his wife and son their goblets while Draco transfigured more brick-a-brack into bowls and spoons. The room was depressingly bare. Draco actually had to go get small stones out of the yard. "Be reasonable, Cissy. It will be difficult enough to get by without worrying over our son in a hostile environment, as Hogwarts is likely to be for Slytherins for a decade or so yet. He will be in danger."

Narcissa sipped delicately at the stew. One could barely taste the meat, and it wouldn't give them much energy in the long run. "I am aware, but the school may provide some protection for those in such situations. He may be safer there than at the Manor. At least there he will have some friends, and witnesses."

"Mother is right," Draco sighed angrily. "Hogwarts was never about learning from in the first place. I would have been better served with private tutors than a boarding school. Hogwarts is the place for prestigious children to make contacts for future business ventures, not to learn."

"Very good, Draco," Lucius praised. "You understand more than I did at your age."

"But it is the only option you have now for finishing your education, and I will not have you the first Malfoy in six centuries not fully schooled." Narcissa stood and draped the blanket over her son, who was considerably chilled now after his excursions. "Your father and I will survive for that long until you can return. I know more than I have forgotten of household things. We may not have the option of careers; no one will hire us now. However we are not helpless. We still have our land if nothing else, and that is a blessing. It may take some practice, but I can cook and harvest and preserve. Your father can hunt. We will persevere. You must as well."

Lucius began stacking the few spare vegetables in a corner and cast a preservation charm on them. Narcissa took the cloak and started to spell away the grime and stains. It looked decent enough, even without the buttons that would be replaced soon.

Draco sighed again, biting his lip. "Yes. I suppose you're right."

Once fed enough to be content and full of some good wine, the Malfoys sat together before the fire huddled close. It was a large room and the fire was doing them little good, what with the window broken and a limited wood supply. One could start fires with charms, sure, but it needed wood to burn. Even the bluebell flames gave off no useful heat, as they had no fuel. The quilt was thankfully large enough to wrap around them all if they stayed close, and though the floor was bare it made more sense to wrap up in it than lay on it. They would have to deal with the dust on their robes for the time being.

Draco saw a long day of transfiguring useful things ahead of him, if their search of the Manor in the morning turned up little in the way of things like blankets and containers for water. At least they had food, and water, and a roof, and firewood. That would have to be enough for now.

As Lucius and Narcissa began to drift off to sleep Draco remained awake and alert. Recent events played relentlessly over and over again in his mind and made it impossible to relax enough to rest. His mother's confidence had eased his worries for only a few moments, but now that he could think without interruption there was simply too much left unanswered.

Nobody would hire his parents because Lucius was Marked and they were known supporters of the Dark Lord during his initial reign and even after his return. Lots of people knew that the Manor had been Death Eater headquarters for quite some time, and a good portion of them had been working for the Ministry - despite their (extremely expensive) exoneration there was no denying the obvious. Draco himself had been on Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad in the school, so any contacts he may have been able to make in terms of future business ventures were either fallen like his own family or those he had oppressed. Like his father, Draco too bore the Dark Mark. It was very likely that, even if he did graduate properly, Draco would have no career options either. He was in the same boat as his parents.

How were they to support themselves? Witches and Wizards all over the world lived without ample conveniences every day given the lack of Muggle technology kept their lives relatively simple, but they all had some sort of an income; the funds to buy supplies. Draco couldn't think of how his family was going to buy simple things like soap, tea, bread, milk and the like if they only had enough farmland to support themselves and nothing to sell but their land, which was mostly wooded and his father would grasp at until his dying breath. The limited things their hunting grounds and gardens could provide them wouldn't account for everything.

Clothes, for example, would need to be replaced if his mother couldn't fix them, especially as Draco had a bit left to grow. They needed proper beds and blankets. Access to common things like toiletries, food staples their land wouldn't produce, tools to harvest what they could, stationery to keep in contact with any alliances they still had and domesticated owls just to deliver the letters... which would have to be bought and cared for. Even the owls for public use had to be paid. The broken window in their only multi-functional room needed to be fixed. What if someone got sick or injured and they needed to visit a Mediwizard? The publicly funded health care system would do in a pinch, but it didn't cover everything. Not enough for something very serious.

No; Draco already knew what their options were. He would have to find a way of making some reasonably sustainable income for his family, and he had to do it fast. He knew that he needed to finish his schooling to have even a ghost of a chance at starting his own business if no one would hire him, but he needed to find a way to do that and work.

Resigned to a very difficult road ahead of him, Draco finally closed his eyes.

He dreamt of violent storms that could not be sheltered from.

There were many ways of mourning in a healthy, productive way. For the most part it depended on the personality of the sufferer, the reason for mourning, and how they typically coped with stress.

Harry Potter had found an effective way to do that last part.

He was drunk.

Admittedly it wasn't a good long-term solution, but it was working for now and he didn't care enough to try and think of something else. Thinking of alternatives was usually Hermione's shtick anyway. Harry was content to stay the course until he stumbled upon a better option. Hopefully literally, because he was unlikely to find it any other way at the moment. Eventually he got tired of wandering the first floor of the castle and being followed by fussy house-elves trying to keep him from attempting to walk up or down any stairs and decided to wander.

Before leaving to handle her own things Luna given him a whole geode about the size of his palm, said something silly about things that glitter on the inside, and told him that those who drown their sorrows in drink soon discover that sorrow knows how to swim.

He should have listened to that.

After donning his invisibility cloak to ensure he would not be followed, Harry made his way to the first place he thought he could be alone. Though many people had been paying their respects to the old headmaster the traffic had slowed considerably over the summer following Voldemort's defeat. It was not a particularly cold night, nor was it a damp or cloudy. It had rained tumultuously the night before so that he could properly brood, which was evidenced by the thick coat of mud over the ground capable of holding any substantial weight, but not today.

As he walked to the White Tomb Harry almost lamented that it wasn't a miserable enough night for him to be mad about it. He wanted something to be mad about. Why couldn't that 'dark and stormy night' thing ever happen when it was supposed to? Instead the stars twinkled brightly down upon the world and the pleasant night breeze coming off the lake smelt of wood and nature, and he felt as if the world were trying to be cheerful at him out of spite and hoped he would catch it like a virulent disease.

He tightened his lips in annoyance of how utterly not miserable the night was being and trudged on.

The outline of the tomb became more clear as he got closer to the lake's edge, though it swam in his unsteady eyes. He had thought of all the things he would like to say to the man, feeling that their interaction at Kings Cross had been short and entirely to the point. He didn't feel as if he had any closure. Harry's life had no direction now, did it? Dumbledore had planned out his entire life for him and Harry had been following along it like the heroic fool he was, even when he thought things had been his own ideas.

What was he supposed to do now?

"Did Fawkes really make this, or was it another one of your glorious exits?" Harry asked suddenly, surprising himself. His hand landed on the cool, slightly damp marble and felt nothing unusual about it. "I only ask out of curiosity. If the latter, that would make the second time I've seen you leave in a ball of phoenix fire." Even if the last one was only symbolic, he thought to himself mildly.

He stared at the tomb and frowned. "I don't know why I came out here. I did when I left the castle, but you're not here. I guess talking to a tomb is just going to be dull after meeting the spirit in person."

Bored and dejected, Harry looked out over the lake and watched the water ripple. His mind was unusually blank and now devoid of anger. "I ought to be angry with you. Professor Snape was right, after all. You did raise me like a pig for slaughter. After going through it all and knowing everything now, though, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. I just wish you would have told me more along the way."

More silence. He growled. "Or maybe that would have changed what happened. I don't know. I'm just going to be mad about it." He pulled his cloak closer around himself when a chill wind swept over the lake. It still felt odd looking down at himself and seeing nothing no matter how many times he did it. It almost looked like the edges of the cloak were glistening, though it was faint. How he could even make that out in his state escaped reason so he wrote it off as an effect of the drink.

"I've spoken to your portrait a lot. He's just like you, though missing a third dimension. He told me I was suffering the most ironic case of survivors' guilt in written history." That just made him squirm a little and he swore. "I'm talking to a tomb," he said. "I don't know why, because you aren't here. This is pointless."

It then occurred to Harry that it might be more comforting to speak to something familiar that they had shared, and was actually in front of him right now. Guilt welled up in his chest as he thought of it, but he didn't plan to use it really. He just wanted to hold it a while. Both he and Dumbledore were deeply connected to it, it had accepted them both, and he already knew how to get it back out… because he had put it in there.

Harry looked about himself to be sure he wasn't being watched and, quickly, retrieved the Elder Wand from the body's magnificently preserved fingers. Harry shuddered when he looked upon the corpse – wizarding embalming was eerily precise. The man had been dead long and through more than a few seasons, but looked as if he had simply fallen into an unfathomable sleep. Harry believed a little girl in Italy had been preserved in a similar manner by a Squib that was deft with such potions, and it was still a sensation in the Muggle world. If he remembered correctly her name was Rosa or something.

The instant his hand touched the wand it seemed to latch invisibly onto him and he held it tightly while replacing the lid on the marble structure. True to his thought the wand hummed with pleasant energy against his skin, and he knew he could feel more closely connected to thoughts of the past years with it and not cold, unfeeling stone. To his relief he also felt no need to cast with it – simply to have it. As his guilt dissipated he turned to continue walking.

Harry walked blindly into the forest, still muttering to himself and the wand, and not paying attention to where he was going. The centaurs had named him an ally after accepting Firenze back into the herd, the Ministry had finally gotten the Acromantula out of the forest where they could pose no more potential harm to a school, and he was damned sure the werewolves had fled. He didn't worry about where he was headed, he only knew that the wand was playing tricks with him.

If he twirled it in his hand a little bit of resistance met his fingers. It was minute, and not something anyone would have noticed if they didn't use a wand for magic frequently, but the sensation intrigued him. It was something to do, at least, until the world stopped swimming. He briefly wondered if it might not be Dumbledore guiding him, but that was preposterous. The man had moved on and, anyway, wasn't the owner of the wand anymore. The direction it seemed to be pointing him in wasn't clear in his addled state, he merely followed it.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked it in a low hiss. "Just don't walk me off any cliffs or anything-"

Harry tripped on a root and promptly landed in the mud. Of course his first instinct was to cradle the wand, so he had only one hand to catch himself with. That hand buried deeply in the soft and wet ground heavy with leaves and bits of root and small stones, one of which bit into his hand with unusual sharpness.

Harry swore and shook his hand.

"Harry," a familiar voice said quietly. "What have you done?"

"And now I'm hallucinating," Harry said wryly, clenching his hand to take the sting out of it. This failed to work because the object he had cut his palm on was still stuck in the wound. He winced and looked at his palm so he could pull it out.

His eyes widened. That explained the apparition, at least. Dumbledore eyed him from a few feet away, just as clearly as those that had walked with him to the hallow those months before.

He pulled the Resurrection Stone out of the gash in his palm and snarled. "I threw this bloody thing in the forest..." He looked around him at the swimming world. He was standing in a muddy patch of trampled forest ground that had been created when the centaurs rushed to aid in the battle. There was a deep gouge in the mud where he had tried to catch himself, presumably deep enough to accidentally retrieve a relic that had been pounded into the forest floor months earlier by the pounding hooves of heavy beings charging into battle.

"...right about here, I would imagine," Dumbledore finished for him.

"I thought you moved on! Got on the train!" Harry argued.

Dumbledore nodded. "As did your parents and the others you pulled from beyond the veil, yet they came to see you off. The stone is more powerful than you think. As are the others, which you seem to have with you at the moment, Harry."

Something in Harry's brain froze in abject panic.

For the first time ever, if only for an instant, someone had all three Deathly Hallows in hand simultaneously.

"I didn't mean to," Harry argued as he struggled to stand. "I tripped on something."

There was no way for the specter before him to look truly alive, but something very much like it manifested in Dumbledore's eyes – a ghost of the twinkle he would have during his maddest fits of amusement- as he registered the statement. "You tripped?" he asked, as if it was the funniest damned thing he had ever heard.

Harry nodded, stumbled because the nod had made him dizzy and put the stone in his pocket absently after glaring at it hatefully for a moment to confirm that, yes, a small amount of blood had been left on the tip. "Of course I did. Why would I want to find this thing deliberately? I threw it away."

"How marvelous," Dumbledore said in awe. "I suppose you had no idea."

"No idea of what? If you're going to speak in riddles, I'm leaving." Harry snapped, then realized it was him that had summoned Dumbledore and switched tactics. "I mean you're leaving! I was out here doing... never mind what I'm doing! You're STILL TALKING TO ME LIKE I'M ELEVEN!" Harry raged petulantly. He threw a handful of mud at him. Predictably it went right through and landed uselessly two or three feet behind him.

"Well, now you're starting to sound like Severus," Dumbledore chided teasingly.

"Shove off," Harry hissed savagely, shifting into Parseltongue without meaning to. Snape's name registered an instant later and Harry pointed severely at Dumbledore as if trying to convey something very important. "Him too!" he resumed in English.

The old man's eyes positively glittered. He found arguing with Harry like this quite fun. "You want Severus to shove off too?"

"Yes!" Harry snapped. "No!" he snapped an instant later, then realized he had spoken in Parseltongue when he'd said that and put his finger away. "How did-? I mean I was out here for – what are you doing? Stop moving!"

"I am not. The stone is my anchor and my image is thus connected to it. If I am swaying it is because you are," Dumbledore said patiently. "Everyone is well here, I think you'll be glad to know. And Severus is well too, if still a bit unreasonable."

Harry waved his arms wildly in sudden anger. "I KNOW he is 'cause," he paused to take a breath after yelling so loud he had lost most of it, "-'cause the bloody portrait won't talk to me! I've tried everything short of tying him to your portrait front-to-front and making kissy-face noises just to make him yell to me or something! Nothing bloody works!"

If a specter could shake with silent and helpless laughter this is what Dumbledore now did, bowing his head in a feeble attempt to hide his tight-lipped smile. Had he lungs to prevent air from coming out of he would have been failing miserably while little puffs escaped with each tremor with 'pfh' sounds. It seemed to prevent him from talking for a while. "Would you actually do that?" he asked eventually after he'd recovered.

"No," Harry breathed darkly as if he were saying something incredibly dangerous and evil, ", because it was your idea."

That did it. A flood of tittering and giggling escaped the wispy image with just enough volume to be annoying. "My dear boy," he said with an air of fondness Harry was beginning to loathe avidly, "do make certain those portraits stay close, won't you? It'll be good for them."

"I'm not sure of that," Harry fretted, sitting down on the cold ground and visibly pouting. "I'm beginning to think your portrait is starting to treat Snape's portrait like his primary source of entertainment. You're not doing the same bloody thing, are you?"

"If I hadn't known your father I'd wonder how you were able to speak so clearly when you can barely see straight."

Harry snorted. "Clever change of subject."

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Thank you. "

They were silent for a long time.

Harry spoke out quite suddenly. "I don't like it."

"What is that, my boy?"

"Anything, much." Harry admitted. "Nothing. It's like I completely lost my sense of real when I came back. I thought beating Voldemort and having another shot at life would make me happy. It hasn't. I'm relieved, but I don't know what to do now. I don't want to do anything. I don't really want to think about it either."

Concern showed clearly on the specter's wispy face. "Are you well?"

"No," Harry snapped. "I don't think I am. I came out here to yell at you, actually, but when I got to your tomb I forgot what I was angry about. I couldn't be angry at your body so I didn't feel like yelling, I could be angry at this ruddy wand because we both used it and it feels alive- but it didn't do anything wrong. You did, but you didn't either, and that's just bloody confusing even though it's true. Seeing you there makes me angry all over again but even that doesn't help because I don't know why."

"Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "I do so wish Severus had taught you to Occlude. It helped him during hard times."

"Why?" Harry demanded. "Blocking things out doesn't make them go away; it just turns you into a snide old bat that takes out the consequences of his own bad decisions on everybody else! If I had to teach Malfoy's spawn I wouldn't treat them like they had personally done everything their father-"

"What did you say?" the old man interrupted urgently.

"I said I wouldn't treat Malfoy's spawn like-" Harry paused sharply. He had just realized what he'd said.

"-if you had to teach them," Dumbledore finished. The weight of that statement hung in the air in such a way that Harry would have been just as astonished to see bricks casually floating along the road and treating the law of gravity like an easily ignored courtesy before his eleventh birthday. "Why are you here, Harry, at Hogwarts? Why aren't you staying with the Weasleys or in the home dear Sirius left you instead? When most people are upset they go home, don't they?"

Harry snorted. "I can't get that bloody portrait off the wall at Grimmauld."

Dumbledore nodded once. "Ah. That's a good reason. And the Weasleys?"

"I was out of place there. Everyone was either mourning a son or brother. Hermione went to go search for her parents, so I'd be alone with the family. Why was I there? Mourning a friend or my friend's brother or anyone else is difficult to do around people that haven't been-" he waved his hand into the distance as if to indicate something invisible. "How can I be properly helpful if the best I can say is 'I was there, it's not bad'? That sounds horrible. I'm sorry that George and Fred are separated and that everyone will miss Fred until they get to see him again," and Harry was positive they would. That wasn't a problem at all. "I'm sorry Teddy won't get to know his parents and that they won't get to watch him grow up; at least not directly. I'm sorry Colin didn't get to live his adult life and his family will miss him. All of that is easy."

Harry picked up a random stone and threw it angrily into the distance. "But how the bloody hell am I supposed to explain to anyone that I'm not sorry they're dead, because that was likely the easy part? The dead people will be fine – it's the living that are suffering for it." He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled in his agitated state. "There's no way to say that without sounding both like an absolute bastard and completely insane! I can't even help them because I feel the pain of death in a completely different way than they do. My being there was like trying to put out a fire by tossing oil on it – it wasn't bloody working!"

The specter bowed his head and closed his eyes. A long suffering sigh seemed to drift in the air. "I am sorry, Harry. I never thought that being the Master of Death would make mourning worse by denying you the ability to mourn collectively."

"THAT," Harry snarled, ", is why I'm out here alone and pissed and talking to shadows! There's nothing else for me to do!"

Dumbledore nodded. "If death affects you so keenly in this manner, it seems unwise to become an Auror. At least an Auror that would have to deal with the families of those passed."

Harry grumbled profanely at the thought of going through that. "Fine, I know what this is heading to. I'll sort it out tomorrow. Go back to tormenting Professor Snape. I won't call on you again."

Dumbledore only had time to nod once before Harry turned the resurrection stone over in his hand.

Furious and without anything to take out all of it out on, Harry pointed his wand at the geode Luna had given him and blew it in half. The inside was gloriously beautiful, but Harry was in no mood to appreciate it. Instead he put the little black stone inside the geode, stuck the top back on with a bit of mud between the pieces, cast Duro to turn the sealing mud to stone, took a running start to gain momentum and threw it into the lake as far as he possibly could. There he hoped it would sink and be covered in silt and never bother him again.

Then he stalked back to the castle, pausing to replace the Elder Wand and vowing not to return to it.

Once there he downed several more of his drink of choice before heading off to bed. This was his plan at least. It didn't succeed because after those last drinks he put out his hand to balance on the table to stand, missed by several inches and slid under the table instead.

That was where he slept it off, much to the chagrin of Kreacher, who had to wake him in the morning and move him to his bed so that nobody would find his Master still half drunk and sleeping under a table laden with liquor on a cold stone floor.

In a single moment of midnight magic the scene in Gringotts had gone from the miniscule nighttime scratching of night clerks to absolute pandemonium. The Head Goblin had come in the moment he had been called and began to frantically try and deduce the reason for the impossibly gargantuan transfer of wealth into a single, hated name within the bank's extensive cavernous gloom. After the incident with the theft they wanted nothing to do with him, however when the Ministry officials came demanding answers for the orb of spun glass screaming in the Hall of Prophecies they were left with little choice.

Archaic Laws that were still in effect many hundreds of years after the Ministry had charged Gringotts with keeping track of unaltered copies of Wills and Family Trees sprang into effect. As they had been enforced so strongly by enchantments and rights of conquest cast long before such spells had been declared illegal in 1920, they quickly overtook current laws and documents like a tsunami of financial conquest miles high.

Harry Potter had gathered the required accolades and inherited the Peverell Vault filled by Ignotus and his kin up until the name had died out. One of two things had been required to access it per the agreement set by Gringotts' ancestors and the Peverell line; either have the name or the three heirlooms. Those were the keys.

Long before the bank itself existed Goblins had always been highly prized as the protectors of Wizardkind gold, and Gringott himself founded the bank in part simply so that he would have a place to put it all. The tunnels and traps and some of the deepest vaults existed before the actual structure above ground. Somewhere in there in the deepest recesses of the caves lie a vault so old that the gold contained within was not even minted and that metal which was bore the name of William I. The age and mint of those coins alone would substantially increase their value purely for the history of them.

The Head Goblin and Minister Shaklebolt met in their nightclothes and robes, and mulled over this for hours before deciding they could do nothing. They had been utterly and legally destroyed by the rite of conquest.

"We will need a Representative to help Mr. Potter sort this out," The Minister grumbled in defeat. "He hasn't even gained full inheritance of the Potter Vaults, or sorted through what was left him by the Blacks. If done improperly the economy may take years to recover, if the war itself doesn't ruin us anyway."

The Head Goblin sneered and crooked his gnarled fingers to urge his assistant closer to hear the command. "Get me Weasley," he hissed.