Title: Passive Aggressive - 3
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimers: Harry Potter and all it's characters belong to Ms. JK Rowling, scholastic books, Warner Brother's Entertainment, and a few other individuals who are most definitely not me.
Notes: I know, I know... It's been forever. It's not my fault that my HP muse is so damned quiet and shy...
Summary: The end is upon them.
It took Tom Marvolo Riddle a lifetime to enslave the wizarding world.
It took Harry James Potter less than ten minutes to free it.
The day was as dark and dreary as all the days that had come before it during Voldemort's reign. It wasn't an old holiday, when the magic of the natural world was flowing particularly strong. It wasn't a day of any past emotional significance for the oppressed.
It was just a day.
Had she been alive, one Hermione Granger might have recalled that some centuries before, the fifty-sixth Goblin War had officially ended on that day, but no one else could have remember such an obscure detail and the muggle born witch had been lost in one of the initial purges before the war had even officially begun.
Draco Malfoy woke as he always did, warm and comfortable, wrapped around his small slave. He summoned a house elf and woke Harry. He ate lightly and was pleased when he managed to tempt his companion into eating a few bits. The pair bathed and dressed, Draco making one-sided small talk, before settling about another boring day.
All around the castle, similar routines were going on as Voldemort and his follower's awoke.
There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate that this day had been chosen to be their last.
At noon, they all gathered in the Great Hall, intent on their lunch and Voldemort's favorite piece of entertainment, one Harry Potter. It pleased the evil tyrant greatly to have his most annoyingly lucky enemy brought so low, to have the whelp so beaten and defenseless before them all.
He had forgotten - arrogant in his victory - that Harry Potter had never been defenseless, not even as a tiny babe in his mother's arms. He had forgotten, after years of unprotested torture, that Harry Potter had always been one of his strongest opponents.
He'd forgotten that the greatest danger to any ruler is the one that he allows to walk through his door.
Seven years of apparently mindless obedience and resigned acceptance had lulled them all - just as it had been intended to.
Who could have imagined that Harry Potter could display such patience, such cunning? Who could have imagined that the former pride of Gryffindor could have been so very Slytherin?
Years later, if you asked surviving witnesses, no one would be able to recall the exact details of the short battle. It was over almost before it even started, Voldemort's men realizing far too late exactly what was happening. Voldemort himself was dead before it even registered that he was under attack.
His most prized trophy, a wand of holly and phoenix feather, had been kept displayed prominently for seven years serving as a warning for those who would dare imagine trying to defeat him. If the Boy Who Lived could not succeed, who could?
But the wand had never belonged to Voldemort. It had only been waiting patiently for it's master to reclaim it; and reclaim it he did.
There was no grandstanding, no vengeful verbal exchanges. There was only death and chaos. The great hall glowed blindingly for a moment, as if the world were awash in long forgotten sunlight, and when it cleared and all could see, Voldemort and half of his followers were dead.
The rebels, called back to their leader's side wasted little time in dealing with the stunned stragglers. They showed no mercy. Before the enemy had completely processed what had happened, they were dead.
All but one.
"Bloody hell, Harry! Move out of the way!"
But nothing could move the small man from his protective position between the man who was his captor and the man who'd once been his best friend.
"Weasley, perhaps you should-"
"No! That sodding son of a death eater killed Ginny and tortured Harry for years. Now it's bloody well time that he got a taste of his own medicine."
"Potter seems to disagree."
"He's stark raving nutters then!"
"Be that as it may-"
The argument could have gone on forever if not for the timely interruption by the small house elf. He popped into existence next to his beloved master, the only master he'd ever willingly accepted. When he spoke, he was awash in the same golden glow as Harry. "Ginny's death is on my head and no other."
Shocked silence spread out from the group. A house elf referring to itself in the first person? Unheard of.
It was Snape who understood and recovered first. "Granger would be ashamed of such ruthless use of a house elf, Potter."
"Hermione is dead. And Dobby speaks for me of his own free will."
"What do you mean!" Ron demanded. "Ginny came to rescue you and died at this wanker's hand. That's not your fault, Harry."
Though Potter's face remained expressionless, Dobby's matched the sad tone of his voice. "She should have followed orders. Had she trusted my judgement, she would not have died." Both human and elf shook their heads in sync. "So much had already been lost. It was our last chance. I couldn't let the sacrifices be in vain."
Horrible suspicion began to shadow Ron's face, but it was Draco, finally managing to rise back to his knees who actually spoke. "That's why... We always thought the Weaslette was too easy to find... I just wrote it off... on Gryffindor stupidity..."
For a long minute, stricken blue clashed with blank green.
It was Dobby, again, who stopped it. The golden glow had faded and he'd moved lay his head against his master's leg. "HarryPotter suffered so and Dobby could only watch." The elf shook his head sadly, tears making his big eyes glassy. When he gazed at Draco, there was both dislike and gratitude in his eyes. "Only young master Malfoy made things bearable for HarryPotter, when Dobby could do nothing."
There was nothing anyone could say to that.
As he swooped through the hallways of his once grand home, Draco Malfoy cackled gleefully at the frightened faces of wizards and witches who scurried to get out of his way. It was perhaps a petty thing to delight in, but one had to take the small pleasures in life where one could find them. And when one's home had been converted into a dark museum and was invaded daily by the curious and the cautious... His chosen method of entertainment was harmless compared to the alternatives he'd considered. And sometimes his wickedness had an unwitting kindness to it as he frightened the visitors away from the multitude of death traps that the aurors had never fully disarmed.
Outside Malfoy Manor, life, as always, continued on.
Freed of Voldemort's tyranny, both Wizards and Muggles faced an uphill struggle to rebuild. But they were free men and women who had hope and determination. Rebuild they did, in a most spectacular fashion.
New Wizarding cities rose from the ashes of the old.
Populations decimated by Voldemort's purges, wizards and muggles learned to live together.
Such concerns were peripheral for the inhabitants of the majestic manor turned museum, however.
Draco in particular thought the entire world could go hang itself and said so as loudly as he could as frequently as he could.
In the quiet solarium, far away from those who invaded their sanctuary, Harry Potter spent his days curled up in a soft wicker chair, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine that had been so absent through the dark years of captivity. He waited there, seldom venturing out, until Draco returned from his fun.
Dobby brought tea and crumpets, which Harry always served in familiar silence. Once the tea was poured and crumpets offered, he curled into his familiar position at Draco's feet, his dark head resting lightly against Draco's knee.
Despite the second chair that had been brought in for his comfort, Harry showed no signs of wishing to change the arrangement. Draco could understand the need for something stable in a world that was whirling on past them faster than either could keep up.
"You're still too thin," Draco complained. It seemed no matter how he tried, he simply couldn't keep proper weight on Harry's bones.
There was no verbal response. Harry simply pressed closer, two small hands curling loosely around Draco's ankle.
With a sigh, Draco leaned his head back and enjoyed the sunlight that warmed them both.