If Harry had been conscious and thinking straight, he would have noticed that the dark, ominous mist surrounding them had lightened considerably. In fact, it had gone from a harsh, smoky gray to a light river-washed stone-gray. And with it, a source of bright white light shone from an oddly-shaped lump of clay, with two points that stood above the rest, quivering rhythmically.

“Dobby will not let you kill Harry Potter and Professor Snape.”

Voldemort’s shrieking paused and he lowered his arms, looking momentarily confused at the white, glowing shape. Tilting his head, Voldemort puzzled out what he was looking at, ignoring the being’s words entirely. “House elf,” he finally spat dismissively. “Clean this filth up,” he demanded, pointing at the prone figures of Harry and Snape who had stopped writhing, and now lay, bloodied and barely breathing, on the ground at Dobby’s feet. “Remove them from my sight.”

 “Dobby is a free elf. Dobby doesn’t take orders from bad wizards. And you is a bad, bad wizard.” Dobby’s arms and legs trembled and his ears twitched, but his voice remained steady.

Voldemort looked as if Dobby had slapped him across the face. Likely Voldemort had never been defied by any mortal before, much less a house elf. Voldemort raised a hand to curse Dobby, but just as he did so, a glowing white globe shimmered; an elf-made protection shield encapsulating not only the elf, but Harry and Snape as well. As Voldemort’s eyes blazed, Dobby fought the instinct to grab his friends and run. He knew that if he did that, He-who-must-not-be-named would continue to torment them all.

Instead, he reached down and took the cold hands of Harry and Snape. “Wake up,” he instructed while sending ancient waves of healing magic toward both of them.

Slowly, Snape and Harry stumbled to their knees and finally to their feet. They leaned against each other, groggy and disoriented. Harry reached for Snape’s hand to complete the circle.

Voldemort looked on with a knowing smile, dismissing their futile display of unity as naïve and pitiful.

“You has destroyed enough lives,” Dobby proclaimed. “You is not destroying anymore.”

“Is that so?” Voldemort quipped, raising his arms again and shrieking. But this time, nothing happened. Voldemort called upon the elements, throwing shards of ice at the trio. He smothered them with evil mist. He crushed them shameful visions. He attacked them with lies and deceit. He cursed and threatened and poisoned and fought, until his energy began to falter. And still, nothing happened.

“Love has a power all its own,” Dobby said softly. “Love can destroy. But love can also create. Love can forgive. Love can protect. Love can save.”

And under Dobby’s quiet urgings, the three of them, hands held tight, channeled all of their will into the bubble of elfin magic that Dobby had created to protect them. The power built and pulsed, pushing out against the dark, driving it back to the edges. With one final, determined push, it burst, shattering into a million shards, driving light-filled wedges into the Dark Lord’s soul.

The screech that came from the destruction of Voldemort’s soul was deafening. Dobby stood in awe, taking in the clean white mist surrounding him; the absence of dark magic was a balm to his soul. Voldemort was no more. As Dobby clapped his hands together in pride and glee, he turned to share his happiness with his two friends. Horror struck him as he realized that not only was Voldemort gone, but Harry and Snape were too. Suddenly terrified, and with a feeling of foreboding weighing down his every move, Dobby scrambled to the surface, clawing and scratching his way out of Harry’s mind.

Harry and Snape lay sprawled on the floor of the smallest bedroom, ashen and not moving. Snape’s left forearm was flayed open to the bone, looking like a bomb had exploded where his Dark Mark had been. Harry’s head was cracked open like a pumpkin hit with a severing charm after Halloween.

Dobby swayed on his feet, bright lights popping in his peripheral vision. “Oh no,” he cried. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Harry moaned softly, his head pounding as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He heard someone else groan as well, and opened his eyes a crack. Snape was in the sick bed across the room, cursing as he cradled his left arm, which was wrapped in crisp, white bandages. Dobby was hovering over him.

“I know what that potion is, elf. I brewed it!”

“It is the only other choice, Professor Snape, sir. You is having to drink it, sir.”

“That potion causes as much harm as good,” Snape countered.

“Professor needs to heal,” Dobby pleaded. “I can gets you the other potion, sir…”

“No,” Snape stated firmly. “Give me the damn vial.”

Cursing under his breath, Snape swallowed its contents in one long gulp before slamming the it back down. Then he began to shake violently. His arms and legs shot out, going rigid and pulsing uncontrollably while Snape keened in pain. Harry levered himself up onto one elbow, concerned. Was Snape having a seizure? Should he try and help? A moment later, the fit seemed to have passed. Wide-eyed, Harry was still looking at Snape when the man himself rolled over, panting, and snapped, “What are you looking at?”

It took Harry a moment to get his wits about him. Seeing that Snape seemed to have recovered, Harry decided against asking what he had just witnessed. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture to indicate the state he was in, and said, “What happened?” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen, making it difficult to form coherent words.

“Dobby nearly killed us trying to save our lives,” Snape retorted. Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he added, “As such, I’ve offered him a paid position as a Potion’s assistant in my lab.” Downing a glass of water, he added, “For some unfathomable reason, he accepted.”

Harry smiled as Dobby preened at the veiled compliment.

“And Volde—” Harry began, but corrected himself when Dobby’s shuddered at the name. “He-who-not-be-named. Is he…?”

“Finished, yes,” Snape confirmed.

“Is he dead-dead?” Harry asked.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Is there any other kind?”

Harry fell back on his pillow, feeling as if a great burden had been lifted off his chest. He had the urge to ask if Snape was absolutely positively sure, but knew Snape would bite his head off if he did. Turning onto his back, he moaned involuntarily, bringing his hands to his temples, and fighting a wave of nausea. The throbbing pressure in his cranium had reached a crescendo. “Oh my head…”

Dobby rushed to his side. “Harry Potter needs to drink this, sir. It is Professor Snape’s strongest pain potion, sir.” Leaning over to shield Harry from Snape’s view, Dobby whispered, “Professor Snape refuses to drink it, sir, because it is almost gone and he wants yous to have it, sir.”

In too much agony to argue, Harry downed the potion as quickly as he could, then lay back and waited for the nausea to subside and the pain to dissipate.

“Dobby will make you and the Professor dinner,” Dobby informed them. Harry watched through lidded eyes as the elf left the room.

When he was feeling a little better, he turned onto his side and squinted at Snape. Trying again, he asked, “So what happened? The last thing I remember is…”

Harry thought, sorting through his memories with some difficulty. Heaven. Oh Merlin, Henrietta Evan, Heaven, Snape. He saw the tiny baby girl in his mind: Snape’s shiny black hair with his mother’s soft curls. Her cupid-bow face with his mother’s pert nose and green eyes—his eyes—and Snape’s dour lips, pointed chin, and high forehead. He wondered how the baby had died. He wanted to ask, wanted to know more about his mother and his baby half-sister, and Snape too even, but knew better than to ask. He sincerely hoped that Snape would tell him about them someday. Redirecting his thoughts, he focused on what had happened after that shocking revelation. “The last thing I remember is projecting my happiest memories.”

“Those were your happiest memories?” Snape asked.

“Yeah, well. They’re not much, but they’re all I’ve got.”

Snape said nothing for a long time. When he spoke, it was in a detached, monotone voice. “The Dark Lord cursed us, you through your scar and me through my Dark Mark. Dobby stepped in to save us. We were both very weak by then, and if Dobby hadn’t made himself known when he did…” Snape trailed off, and then added: “That elf has the courage of ten wizards.”

Continuing, Snape said, “As expected, the Dark Lord underestimated Dobby’s powers. Dobby created an impenetrable sphere to protect us, and then used it against the Dark Lord to weaken him. When the protective orb finally shattered, it destroyed the Dark Lord.” Snape paused to clear his throat. “It also destroyed everything else that was connected to the Dark Lord.”

Harry looked towards Snape’s bandaged left arm and then raised his hand to his bandaged head. “Hence, the headache.”

“No,” Snape stated. “Dobby healed us, physically. The headaches,” Snape rubbed his own head subconsciously, “are from an imbalance of magic.”

“Oh,” Harry responded, not sure what to think. “How do we fix that?”

Snape sighed, loudly. Resigned, he replied: “Dobby.”