It's been forever, I know. I'm so sorry. Please enjoy this short little update. I promise I'll have another up soon.
Harry landed hard on the grassy dunes that made up the area outside Shell Cottage, gripping tightly the hand of Dobby the house elf with one hand and bearing the unconscious goblin with the other. The impact forced him to his knees and he, panting and wild-eyed, immediately released Dobby's hand to gently lower Griphook to the ground. "Oh no," Lily murmured, watching as the house elf stumbled, blood seeping from beneath the knife imbedded in his chest. James clenched his jaw. This was not good.
"Are you alright?" Harry quietly asked the goblin, receiving an unintelligible whimper in reply. Still oblivious to the seriousness of Dobby's situation, he looked up now to scan the area. "Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?" It was only when he received no reply from the house elf that he finally turned toward him. "DOBBY!" Dobby swayed now as he and Harry together studied the weapon in his chest. "Dobby—no—HELP! HELP!" He bellowed into the night.
Outside the cottage, Ron and Hermione had appeared with Dean and Luna. Bill and Fleur stepped out to meet them. Ron, with little concern for pleasantries, carried Hermione inside. Those remaining turned quickly at Harry's pained cry and rushed over. Harry, however, seemed neither to notice nor care as Dobby swayed again and pitched forward. He caught him and laid him gently on the grass. "Dobby, no, don't die, don't die—"
"Harry… Potter…" The house elf managed weakly, interrupting him. Then he was gone. And his last words had been Harry's own name, the name of the wizard he so loved.
"Dobby!" Harry cried brokenly, "Dobby… Dobby…" His bottom lip trembled but he did not cry, only stared down at the little body. He was still repeating the elf's name when the others found him. They gathered around him in silence and after another moment, he noticed their presence. "Hermione?"
"Ron's taken her inside," Bill reassured him quickly, "She'll be alright."
Apparently satisfied with this news, Harry turned back to Dobby's body and swallowed hard as he studied it, pulling the knife from his chesk and draping his jacket over him like a blanket. He did not seem to notice the conversation that struck up around him. "Poor Dobby," said Luna sadly, tears filling her eyes. Dean quietly lifted the injured Griphook and carried him to the house. Fleur hurried after them.
"We should bury him," Bill murmured. Harry nodded vacantly.
"I can do it. Or you can. We'll find him a good spot. There's a spell—"
"I want to do it properly," Harry decided, speaking up now, "Not by magic." Slowly he tore his eyes away from Dobby's body to look at Bill. "Have you got a spade?" Bill studied the younger wizard for a second before nodding.
Lily brushed away her own tears as the oldest Weasley left for the tool shed while Harry remained with the body. Beside her, James sighed. Neither had quite been able to reconcile the night's events yet. It had been a blur for them—never mind how bad it must have been for the teenagers who'd actually lived through it.
Bill brought the spade for Harry and directed him to a space near the end of the garden before leaving him to it. A part of Lily wished he'd been a little more adamant about staying with her son, but she recognized the task Harry had assigned himself was one he needed to complete on his own. And complete it he did.
He dug furiously, clearly putting his feelings into the work, digging the elf a grave by hand. Even after his friends had been imprisoned and tortured, after they'd all very nearly died, even after everything because Dobby had been the reason they'd gotten away and because his life deserved as much recognition as anyone's. James and Lily watched him sadly. "I can't believe…" she murmured, unsure of whether she was speaking to James or herself. "Hermione…"
"I know," James replied quietly.
"He's seventeen, James. Is nothing sacred?"
"Not with Voldemort, you know that. They're lucky to be alive."
She sighed. "I know."
He glanced at her and then wrapped his arms around her. "I want it all over with too," he told her gently, pulling her to his chest, "Believe me, I want nothing more."
"They can't run forever," she whimpered. "Eventually… He can't possibly win against him."
James sighed but could not exactly refute that. Prophecy or not, Harry couldn't possibly stand a chance. He just hoped it was quick when the time came, that Harry didn't suffer. And if he was honest, he looked forward to seeing his son again, to having him see and know them. It was terrible, he knew, and he felt guilty even thinking it, but it was there. And some things were worse than death.
Some time later, when dawn was not far off, Ron and Dean joined Harry outside in the garden. Lily was touched when they jumped down with him and helped with the digging effort until the grave was deep enough. Her son had had an awful life, all things considered, but no one could deny that he had good friends, and for that, she knew she'd forever be grateful.
She found herself crying again when it came time to place Dobby in the ground and the wizards took turns gifting him with articles of their clothing before being joined by the others. Lily kept her eyes on Harry throughout the impromptu memorial service Luna initiated. And she knew when he finished it off with a simple, "Good-bye, Dobby," it was because he could have not managed anything further even if he'd wanted to. His penance was in the grave marker he carefully carved out for him once the others had gone, and in the mournful look he cast toward the grave once more before turning for the cottage at last.
And she cried once more for her son, for her little boy who'd faced so much loss and who would apparently continue to do so, and for the world he was forced to grow up in. But she was thankful—Merlin, she was so thankful for the man he'd managed to become anyway, a man who loved so deeply in spite of everything, enough to be so profoundly affected by the loss of the lowly house elf he'd called a friend. And she was proud—so, so proud.
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