Disclaimer: We all know this isn't mine. It's JK Rowling's and Warner Bros'.
A/N: Random oneshots galore. Just so you guys know, I'm going to be posting at least once a week. I'm coming back to fanfiction.
Gregory Goyle never talked, that much had been established long ago. Okay, he did talk...just not very much. He left that to Malfoy and even Crabbe on occasions. They told him what to do and how to do it. What to think and how to think it. They told him how to live his life. They were his crutches, one under each arm as he hobbled through his days as a handicapped.
Then, those crutches disappeared. And he wasn't awake to see them ripped away. One spell. One goal. One attempt at trying to help. The next thing he had known, he was surrounded by dead bodies, doubting his own mortality as he sat up around all the blood and screaming.
Goyle woke up alone, cold, and tired. There was no pain, no happiness, no feeling. After all, Malfoy wasn't there to tell him to feel anything. When an Order member scooped him down, he just closed his eyes and shrunk into a ball. Maybe they would tell him what to do.
They didn't.
He was in a room, surrounded by dozens of others. Goyle sought out the familiar blonde locks of Malfoy junior and approached the other ...man? Boy? Student? What were they now? He didn't ask Malfoy. He just sat down next to him and waited for his instructions.
For all it was worth, he was alone. Malfoy was quiet. The Death Eaters were quiet. Lord Voldemort was dead. Nothing made sense but that wasn't Goyle's problem. He didn't need to figure things out. He just needed to follow order from Malfoy and Crabbe.
A year later, he was still sitting there. Not next to Malfoy, but in Azkaban. Still silent, still alone.
Two years later, he learned of Crabbe's death because no one had told him earlier.
Three years later, he was asked if he ever talked. He just replied with a 'yes' and withdrew to his corner.
Five years later, he was told that he 'was allowed to cry, ya kno'?'. He let everything out in seemingly never ending sobs.
Ten years later, he was freed, left to wander the streets of the world absently, a small sac in his hand and a restricted wand the other. His feet guided him over the mountains and through the woods.
Twenty years later, he stood in front of a familiar run down manor. The Malfoy manor once hosted the grandest of parties. Now, a rickety window blew out in a gust of wind while the tiles slipped off the roof to land at his feet.
Fifty years later, a small fire flickered In the window of Malfoy manor, lighting up the empty stretch of land. Goyle merely sat there, munching on a treacle tart, waiting for someone to tell him what to do.
A/N: -shrug- It was randomness. I was rereading Crabbe's death and this came up...
Review please.
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