Chapter- 6 : Grief Part - 4
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"Mr. Malfoy," he called, pausing the man at the doorway as he left. Harry moved to the wall as Malfoy turned to him. Taking a deep breath, he smoothly pulled the sword out, catching the cloak as it fell and deliberately hugging it tightly to his chest, against his soiled robes. Setting the sword down on a nearby chair, he turned, walking towards Malfoy. The silvery shield flickered down in front of him to let him pass, although a glance over his shoulder showed it re-established behind him. "I've something of yours," he said, then unceremoniously shoved the cloak into his nemesis' hands.
In addition to the tear from when the sword had sliced through, the heavy cloak had picked up large streaks of blood, ink, and muck from his own clothing, all beginning to dry and exhibit a truly repulsive odor. Malfoy's face curled in disgust, and he tossed the cloak to the ground.
Harry flicked his eyes toward the pile, held off the ground by the outline of a small body. He held his breath as Dobby's head emerged from under the cloak, the house elf looking up at his - former? - master. The Dobby met his eyes- and beamed.
"Someday," Malfoy snarled into his face, jerking his attention back to the pureblood, "you'll be alone, with no one to save you."
Harry met his gaze. And smirked. "Maybe by then you'll have a new house elf."
For a moment, Malfoy's face showed only blank confusion. "What-?" Then comprehension had his head snapping down. "Dobby!" he barked.
But Dobby shook his head, eyes wide, backing up slowly. "Dobby does not have to obey. Dobby does not have to follow. Master dropped his cloak, and Dobby caught it. Dobby is… free."
This was apparently too much, and seeing Harry outside Dumbledore's shield made him too tempting a target. Malfoy went for his wand again. But Dobby bounced forward with a war cry of "You shall not hurt Harry Potter!" and a bang filled the air as Malfoy was hurled back across the office threshold to hit the wall with a glancing strike, then tumble down the stairs.
Remembering the length of the climb to the headmaster's office, the grin of thanks Harry gave Dobby was more than a touch feral.
Then he took a deep breath and turned to Dumbledore, "Sir, if it's alright, I'd like to go to the hospital wing. You probably still need to tell Percy, George, and Fred about Ginny, but I want to be there for Ron. And I'd like to see if Hermione's been unpetrified."
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Harry. I think it would be wise. I've no doubt Madame Pomfrey wishes to check you over as well. You may inform your friends that none of you will be expected for classes tomorrow if you wish not to attend."
"Thank you, Professor." He slid one last, conflicted, glance towards the Weasleys, then, looking away, left the room. Malfoy was long gone by the time he hit the bottom, and he began his slow walk to the hospital wing.
Exhaustion weighed on him with every step he took, and his mind felt stuffed and foggy. Right now he was mostly just enduring the time between adrenaline spikes, and as the confrontation with Malfoy faded so did the remains of his energy. He hadn't absorbed the implications of everything that had happened yet; nothing felt like it had settled. But he did feel like he had made a decision, down in the chamber. One he didn't fully understand yet, but one well and truly chosen.
Yes, made a decision, and learned something – about his house, and about himself.
Slytherin, the Hat had almost put him in, and his similarity to Slytherin's heir Riddle himself had commented on. But he was beginning to think that this wasn't because he had "un-Gryffindor" qualities that fit only in Slytherin, but because the two houses – normally pictured as opposites – were in some fundamental ways quite similar.
Ravenclaws in battle, he had no doubt, would coolly plan the sacrifice of distant strangers to achieve an important objective, though that cold logic could collapse in the face of sacrificing family instead. Hufflepuffs would sacrifice no one, though it means they sacrifice an objective in its place.
Only Gryffindors and Slytherins were good at sacrificing those they loved.
But with one friend who had lost weeks to the hospital wing and who could so easily have lost her life instead, with another mourning a dead sister, with himself going into battles he barely survived, and making decisions he should not have to make, he dreaded what they might be called upon to sacrifice next.
And he decided: he would do much, to see that it did not happen.
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