Anamnesis: All That Now Remains

Steps came harder now; the sinew of his muscle stretched only in indignation, cracking sharply with each short stride. His knees, long ago battered by the debris that had rained down like muddy hail in the Great Hall, strained beneath his wiry frame. Years ago he'd taken to using a small, gnarled strip of wood as a cane, and the incessant, musical tapping that accompanied each labored step seemed almost comical: a fragile, stooped shape that hobbled in time to the rhythm as it echoed loosely off of the ancient walls. But he was as much a part of this castle now as the mortar and the paintings and the history of it all, and none of the children mocked or sniggered. They treated him with a sense of wonder; he, the only vestige of their grandparents' stories that still wandered their world.

He was moving as quickly as he could, which was much slower than he'd have liked. He could have popped to the Great Hall, that was true, but the effort of magic hardly seemed worth it. Even something as simple as levitating a table now drained him of his energies for hours. The labor of walking, though more intense than magic, was also more fulfilling. He would get there, and his legs would carry him.

He'd made it further than he thought he could without pausing- all the way across the lawn and up the cobwebbed dungeon stairs and past the entrance hall. It was one of his better days, but he could feel the heaviness seep deeper into his body with each step. He looked longingly down the hall at a cluster of small statues. He'd make it there. Only fifty more steps. Thirty. Fifteen. Ten. He paused. Nine. The soreness was thumping in his legs now; they felt as though they were covered in plaster. Eight. He leaned against his cane. Only eight more steps, but he knew he wouldn't make it. He tried, one last proud strain of effort, but his legs didn't carry him far.

Dobby stopped, resting his cane against the wall. His heart was beating violently in his chest, and he knew he had over-exerted himself. With a shaky snap of his brittle fingers and a soft pop, a low stool appeared behind him. For a moment he remained standing, then slowly, and with the aloof care that only the ancient and the fearful possess, sank down onto it. His hands absently rubbed his knee while he focused on calming his ragged breath. His pale, green eyes, once vivid and sparkling, now dull and milky like clay, flittered over his form. The grey skin, hanging loosely like moss. His short, black jacket fraying at the edges. His socks, a rainbow of color set against the paleness of the rest. It had all happened so slowly, he thought. The price of ageing.

The sound of rock grating against itself stirred him, and high above a long staircase shifted its position. Footsteps cascaded down as only children can move in a rush of seemingly endless limbs. There was laughter and conversation. His bent ears perked, and strained catch the words.

"Who's your favorite for the Quidditch match today, Alice?" came a soft voice. A boy, Dobby assumed. Thirteen. Over the years he had developed a knack for guessing.

"Slytherin, as much as I hate to say it." Girl, twelve, the Longbottom child, perhaps. "That new Seeker of theirs is brilliant."

"He's no match for that line of Chasers Ravenclaw is wielding," chimed in another. Girl again. Fourteen. "They'll easily put fifteen qauffles in before the snitch is even released."

"In your dreams," the boy spat back, a trickle of anger in his voice. "Fredrick may not be the greatest Keeper the world has ever seen, but he's not stupid enough to fall for that Weasley Wander move the Ravenclaws always play. I tell you, every time. It's the worst fake the world has ever seen. They couldn't outwit a group of first years, even if..."

The voices had grown louder, and the staircase had shifted to open just to Dobby's right. The three children came down in almost unison, their robes swishing against the clean floors. Dobby turned. The group saw him; their conversation turned quickly to whispers and then trailed off entirely. When the students had first showed the blossoming signs of reverence for him, Dobby had been alarmed. He was not used to attention, let alone respect. But he had come to accept it as an inevitability of his position, an artifact that somehow managed to still draw breath.

The Longbottom girl nodded to him. For a moment, he was tempted to reach out to her, to clasp her by the shoulder and tell her of an ancestor and a toad, and meals shared in hushed conversation. He resisted. The young were not concerned with the dim shadows of the distant past. Nor did Dobby expect them to be. A future unwritten yields no time to a past uncluttered.

As the small group passed him and continued down the hall, their voices picked up, and as they faded from his dim view the pitch and tempo increased, and there was laughter in the halls. Dobby couldn't help but smile to himself, and the grin slid across his face, pulling loose skin taught and revealing a set of soft, dark brown teeth in thick, pink gums. He had seen many generations pass through these halls. At first, the children had treated him as a kind confidante, told no doubt by their parents, Dobby's friends, of his virtue and his service. But as the children of his friends became their grandchildren, their great grandchildren, their distant bloodline, some scrawled name on a far off branch of the family tree, he had slid from companion, to novelty, to icon. He could no longer truly distinguish generation from generation, and most of his memories pooled and congealed into an aberrant string of yesterdays.

As his heart returned to its normal, slow palpitations, Dobby grimaced and forced his legs back up. He tottered briefly, catching his balance, and set back off past the staircase and towards the Great Hall. His cane bounced against the dented stone. A bend brought him to his destination: a door that led to a short corridor that served as an annex to the Hall. At mealtimes the corridor served as a staging area, teams of House Elves waited in eager anticipation to answer the requests made of them. It had been more than fifty years since Dobby had stood there among them. The small salary he still drew from Hogwarts was deemed appropriate for his historical significance, but Dobby couldn't shake the feeling the contract made him something of a museum piece. Occasionally he was called upon to give a brief presentation to one of the History of Magic classes, and he would stand, and talk, and the small, strained eyes of the children before him would track his movements like cats, but there was rarely a spark behind any of them. He spent most of his days in his small, battered shanty at the rear end of the castle grounds, a sole light his company as the days dripped by without him.

His past, the events that had shaped his life, had mutated into that nebulous concept of history. He often wondered what they all had really accomplished with The War. There had been token changes, his paying position at Hogwarts among them. But there were still dark wizards, and still the snide looks of young children to those of lesser blood. It was all distant now, intangible, and its reverberations had ceased to really matter, like fading ripples on a pond.

The ceiling seemed to sigh, and Dobby let his hands fall to his side. He had come to the corridor because it was real. It was his history. It never failed to stir in him some recollection, as many other things failed to do. He could not remember by himself, reaching into his own mind felt like grasping handfuls of sand. "Corwin's Claiming of the Mind", the mediwizards who examined him called it. Elfish dementia. Untreatable, irreversible, debilitative. But the past always came back to him in the corridor. It was here the war, for him, had started, and whenever he stood beneath the low stones the memories came back.

A soft pop, like the sound of a toe dipped into a bath, and she was behind him. He could feel her, in the way that only love can transcend the senses. The greatest magic, a man had told him once.

"Dobby,"

He turned. She was wearing a doll's dress, the pattern a mixture of tangled vines and blossoming purple flowers. He started to smile, but her face was heavy, and her shoulders sunken and caved. His hands involuntarily started to twitch, cool beads of sweat forming on the insides of his palms.

"What's wrong with Winky? Why is you standing like that?"

She moved a step closer, her eyes meeting his. Dobby took a step forward, his arm sliding easily to her shoulder.

"Winky is needing to tell Dobby what's the matter. Dobby is making it right, if you is telling him."

"Winky can't tell Dobby. Winky doesn't want to. If Winky isn't telling you..."

"Telling Dobby what?"

"Telling Dobby..." her voice cracked, the already squealish pitch ratcheting as her full eyes brimmed with thick, steel tears, "telling Dobby..."

"What?"

"Master Dumbledore is dead."

Dobby went rigid as Winky let out a long, pathetic wail. He shook his head, his ears flopping sharply against his cheeks. "No. No, Winky is wrong. Master Dumbledore is a great wizard. Only Harry Potter is a greater wizard. Master Dumbledore is giving us pay, and he tells Dobby that Dobby is a good elf, and..."

She cut him off, sobs breaking through, "No, it is true, Dobby. Students attacked him. Evil students. And there was a chase, and running. Winky hears Professor Vector talking. She is crying when she says it. And Winky pops all over the Castle and it's true. And Winky is scared, but Winky knows she has to find Dobby. Has to tell Dobby. But Winky is not wanting Dobby to cry." She looked at him, sniffling and wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Dobby could not move. His body shook with irregular permutations of energy. He was scared.

That day had been the start. The first death. They had come more quickly after that. Dumbledore's death had numbed Dobby. All the rest- Minerva, Hagrid and Firenze- seemed now distant and impersonal, like viewing someone else's private photos. Friends fell in battle, the sickly flash of green silencing the voices of companionship. And friends faltered in life to the tragic, random, cosmic accidents that befall the existence of men. And friends sunk into the gentle nothingness of the next life as old, gray shadows of once proud figures, their bent fingers curled and their families surrounding them. Those who survived mourned, and remembered. And always Dobby had been there. To cry, and to bear witness.

Dobby had survived them all.

During the war the funerals had been rallying, the fifty of them, those who stood against You-Know-Who, gathered in a single room, bristling with rage and righteous indignation over the murder of their comrades. After Harry defeated Voldemort on the steps of Hogwarts itself the deaths had become more infrequent. But still, when one of the Order passed, the remaining gathered. Fifty became forty, became twenty, became ten, became but a handful. Became Dobby standing alone and apart from the rest of the Weasley descendents as the frail, withered body of Ginerva Weasley, the two hundred years of life etched into her serene face, was coated with rich black soil. The years had turned to decades, which had turned to centuries, and Dobby was all that remained.

Dobby looked down at his hands. How many of them had he buried. How much of the dirt that marked them had stained his hands. Looking around the corridor he felt very small, and very alone. He cried.

Dobby rustled his hand through the infant's thick black hair. The baby looked at him strangely, then reached out and grabbed Dobby's ears. Dobby popped away and popped back, and the baby shrieked with laughter, kicking its fat feet.

"I think he likes you Dobby," said the man sitting behind the child.

"Oh, I is liking him, Harry Potter. He is going to be a great wizard, Dobby can feel it. Greater even, maybe, than his father." Dobby winked and gave a lopsided grin. Harry smiled back, and held his son by the shoulders while the babe laughed at the sky.

The walls seemed to be moving closer in, and Dobby felt he could scarcely breathe through the thick, mucus tears. He hadn't been this bad in months, he tried to tell himself, to calm himself. But he continued to breathe in long, drawn out rasps, and he felt himself sinking to the floor.

The cool gold felt smooth, and the sun rising high overhead glinted in playful sparks across the metal band. Dobby held the ring up and studied it; the smooth contours, the sloping textures. The feel. He looked over at Winky. She was equally engrossed in the basket of flowers she carried, picking up the blossoms and holding them close to her long, narrow nose. Her white dress seemed to glow against the dull pastel of her skin. A curtain at the end of the tent slid open, and Ronald Weasley moved in.

"Still got the ring, Dobby?" he asked.

"Oh yes, of course Mister Wheezy, Dobby is taking good care of them, Dobby is taking very good care of them." He offered up the ring in his hand as proof. "See? Dobby is knowing exactly where they are."

Ron started to reply, but the curtain slid open again, and Hermione Granger stepped in. Her dress was pure white, a waterfall of lace and grandeur.

"What are you doing in here?" Ron beseeched, looking around furtively. "Don't you know it's bad luck for me to see the bride before the wedding?"

"Oh, hush Ron," she said, moving over to him and kissing him softly on the cheek. "I believe in magic, not luck."

"I imagine I'll need a bit of both, today."

"It's funny, isn't it? I never thought this day would come. And now that it's here, it's all so real. Don't look at me with those eyes, Ron, I couldn't be happier to be here with you. But, still..." Ron nodded gently to her "I wish Dumbledore were here, and Percy and Neville." A tear started to from in the corner of her eye. "I can't believe it's only been two short years since we lost them."

"Now now, Love," Ron said, moving closer to her and wrapping her in his arms, his hands running down the sides of her pleated hair. "It's all right. It's all right."

Winky had moved closer to Dobby, and, suddenly, he felt her hand in his.

"Besides," Ron continued "if nothing else, we don't have to worry about the rings. Dobby has that all in check." He winked at Dobby.

"Oh yes, Miss Hermione. Dobby is all ready with the rings. And Winky with flowers. We is knowing just what to do." Dobby said, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.

Hermione laughed, and wiped the tear from her cheek. "Well, I can see that Dobby. Thank you for being our ring bearer."

"Thank you for asking Dobby, Miss Hermione."

His body was seized, the madness of loss and despair clawing through his every cell. By some ancient instinct he stood, and stumbled forward into the great hall. The memories swirled around him as his hands tore at his head. The students in the hall, already starting to gather for the afternoon meal, stopped and turned and watched as the small grey creature burst into the room with a harsh howl, his limbs flailing miserably.

The room was small, but warm, a fire in a side grate radiating soft yellow across the humble furniture. Dobby sat at a small desk, running his finger across a stack of small papers. He looked up at Winky. Se was nestled in a pile of rags, smiling serenely to herself and humming. He broke into a grin.

"Winky?"

"Yes, Dobby?"

"Dobby is very glad to have Winky."

She smiled, her ears perking and her cheeks flushing silver.

"Winky is glad to be Had."

A student stood up from the Hufflepuff table and moved to Dobby's side. She tried to wrench his hands down, but he fought her and continued scratching feverishly at his scalp. His nails left angry trails across the sagging skin.

"Dobby? Dobby!" she screamed. "What's wrong? Stop Dobby! Stop!"

"No, No, Dobby is not stopping. Dobby can't stop," he moaned. "Dobby is all that is still here. They is all gone and left Dobby."

"Who has gone? Who has left?"

"All of them is gone. Dobby's friends is gone."

Standing at the outer rim of the sunken pit, Dobby felt a hand pat him reassuringly on the back. He turned, and Harry Potter smiled at him. Dobby took a deep breath, drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders and pushing out his chest, and took the first, long step down. He worked his way through the assorted crowd. The black bars surrounding the prisoner's cage seemed to undulate like dying snakes in the irregular torch light. A man stood before the cage, and motioned for Dobby to stand beside him. Dobby did.

"The Ministry welcomes the testimony of Dobby, house elf, and former property of the defendant, Draco Malfoy."

Draco turned in the cage and shot Dobby a long, hard stare. Instinctively Dobby winced. But the man before the cage turned to him, and spoke softly.

"It's all right, Dobby. My name is Arthur Weasley, and I will be asking you a few questions. Are you ready?"

"Dobby is ready."

Arthur turned back to the cage, and began pacing before it. "Dobby," he began, "for how long did you serve the Malfoy family?"

"Dobby is serving the Malfoy family since before Master Draco is born. He is helping Draco as a baby."

"And how did you come to leave their service?"

"Dobby is being rescued by Harry Potter. Harry Potter the Great himself. Dobby is knowing Harry Potter is the only wizard good enough to stop You-Know-Who, and so Dobby is helping him. And Dobby is right, isn't he?"

Arthur nodded to Dobby. "Yes, you were right about that." A murmur of applause ran through the crowd. Harry Potter blushed faintly.

"Now, Dobby, in the time that you served the Malfoys, did you see any act or actions undertaken by the defendant that would be deemed by the court illegal or in serviance to a dark wizard?"

Dobby stared blankly at Arthur.

"That is to say, Dobby," Arthur said "did you see them do anything bad?"

"Dobby is seeing bad things. He is seeing Draco learning Unforgivables." He stopped suddenly, squatted down, and banged his head against the floor. "Bad Dobby, bad Dobby," he muttered.

Arthur moved back and drew the small elf up again. "You need not punish yourself, Dobby. This court has compelled your testimony." He looked down, "Well, asked you to tell the truth. It isn't wrong for you to do that. You don't have to punish yourself."

Dobby ears perked, and his eyes opened wide. "Really?" he asked.

"Yes."

Dobby sighed, and nodded.

"Now, what did you see on the date..."

But Dobby cut Arthur off. He stood up, and stared directly into the cage, straight into Draco Malfoy's eyes.

"You is a dark wizard," he screamed, his finger shaking, "Dobby is knowing, and Dobby is telling! Dobby is stopping you!"

Dobby stumbled, falling forwards into the Slytherin table, sending a group of goblets and students crashing about the floor.

"Quickly, get the Headmaster," the Hufflepuff girl commanded, pointing to a younger student from her house, who, needing no further encouragement, dashed off towards the stairs. "It will be fine, Dobby," she said, sinking down and cradling his head in her lap as his limbs continued to twitch erratically. "Headmaster Jameson will be here soon, he'll know what to do." Dobby could not hear her. He moved with no thought, no reason. He could not control his limbs, his tongue, his lips; they sprouted and gyrated of their own accord in harsh discourse. His body and his mind seemed connected but through thick fog. His consciousness hovered at the periphery of his mind, in the place where dreams are born, and die.

"This is hallowed ground," said Remus, gesturing to the earthen pit scratched into the green grass.

"You mean hollowed ground," snorted Fred, picking a fleck of dust from his robe and flicking it away.

"It's just a ground breaking ceremony, after all," added George.

"Be that as it may," Remus replied, smiling in the warm summer sun, "it is an important first for one of us. A first home. And I can't think of anyone who deserves to be here more than you, Dobby."

Dobby looked to Remus, to the crowd gathered around holding planks of wood, wands drawn, some already conjuring the various materials used in Wizarding construction. For a brief moment, his eyes wandered past them all, to the towers of Hogwarts looming steadily behind them. A first home.

"Dobby is thanking you all," he said finally, sniffling. "Dobby is not knowing what to say."

Remus laughed. "Nothing needs to be said, Dobby. We're all happy to help. This is what friends are for."

The doors of the Great Hall swept open, their ancient hinges creaking loudly. Headmaster Edward Jameson walked quickly through, his wand already drawn. A streak of silver ran the length of his blonde hair, and some, he knew, would think him old. But his body was still toned, the muscle stretching the skin pleasantly. His cold blue eyes surveyed the scene with practiced ease: the children's gawking faces, the tingling of fear. With speed bellying his age he moved to the cluster of students at the front of the room. Sensing his presence the crowd opened and he saw, at its center, Harriet Gosley cradling Dobby, her fingers rubbing smooth circles across his temples. Dobby thrashed from side to side, and moans escaped his parched lips.

"Stand back, Ms. Gosley," he instructed. The girl looked at him as though about to speak, then slid from below Dobby, and, after resting his head as gently as she could on the ground, backed away.

"Summissus Pax Pacis," Edward whispered, sliding his hand easily from right to left. A soft, blue light, like the first mixings of sun and moon at dusk, eased in a porous cloud down from the tip of his wand, and surrounded Dobby. Within moments, his thrashing had stopped, and he lay still. He looked, Edward thought, like an abandoned doll, his limbs strewn haphazardly, and a look of nothingness on his face.

"What's wrong with him, Headmaster?" Harriet asked, stepping forward from the crowd and standing before him.

"I do not know, Ms. Gosley," he answered, bending down and slipping his hands beneath Dobby. He straightened, and lifted the small elf up, cradling him in his arms. The elf weighed little, and his skin felt like the skin of an orange. "Though I expect," he continued, turning to face Harriet, "it has something to do with today."

"You mean the anniversary?" she asked.

He nodded. "I will take Dobby back to his room. You've done well, Ms. Gosley. Ten House points."

Harriet smiled as Edward moved back out into the hall. He crossed down in front of the Great Hall into a small passageway that lead to the Dungeon stairs. He took two flights with ease, and then moved out from a small door hidden behind a statue onto the Hogwarts lawn. The autumn sun drifted down in fitful spurts, the first nip of winter cold riding the wind as it moved silently across the grass. In the distant, the first darting specs of students preparing for the coming Quidditch match slid against the horizon.

He came to a huddled shack nestled near the lake. It was small, the size of a shed, and the rusted orange paint peeled from the sides in flecks that littered the ground. With his foot, he slid open the door, and ducked inside. "Lumos Lumen," he whispered. A slight flame sprung up in the lamp. He crossed the small room to the equally small bed, and laid Dobby down upon it. He smoothed the soft quilt and carefully placed it across the prone form.

Dobby knew only blackness.

The itch woke him. His arms felt as though dandelion were trickling over them, a gnawing sensation that grew worse the more he tried to ignore it. Dobby opened his eyes. His body was sore: dusty joints spread too far and too fast, and a dull pain flittered over his skin. It took him a moment to realize where he was. The flickering of the light over the ceiling, though, he knew, the familiar shapes his lamps cast, little tricks of the faded light he'd learned over the years. He was home. But he couldn't remember how he'd gotten back. He tried to focus, but his mind was still fuzzy, and only a few, nagging exertions came to his mental tendrils. He remembered going to the Great Hall, and sadness. But he couldn't piece it together.

"Are you feeling better, Dobby?" came a low, soft voice.

Dobby sprang forward, startled. He regretted it as his worn muscles screeched in protest, and he fell back against the bed. Turning his head, he saw the Headmaster seated beside the small desk along the far wall. The man's robes shifted loosely as he leaned forward. "Sorry to startle you."

"Dobby is not minding terribly. Dobby was just not knowing anyone was here. Is it you who brought Dobby home?"

Edward nodded.

Dobby sighed heavily, and hunched his shoulders together. He rolled over, and faced the wall, his fingers reaching out and tracing the delicate lines in the wood.

"Dobby is remembering," he said in a whisper. "Dobby is not wanting too, but today is The Day. Dobby thinks maybe he can just go inside the castle and look for a little bit. But Dobby is starting to remember and Dobby can't stop."

"It's good to remember, on a day like today,"

Dobby turned quickly and sat up, ignoring the pain in his small frame. "But Dobby can't stop the remembering. And Dobby can't choose what remembering to do. And all Dobby can see is faces that aren't faces anymore."

There was silence. From across the ground, a cheer went up at the Quidditch field. It reached the small house as a low hum, as though a thousand mice were bellowing.

Dobby rubbed his hands together. "Dobby is not usually able to remember what Dobby wants. Dobby only sees little bits and pieces. Sad pieces."

"They are only memories, Dobby."

"Memories is all Dobby is having, Headmaster. Memories is all that is being left of my friends. What happens to them when Dobby can't remember anymore?"

He looked at Edward with sad, longing eyes, beseeching for some bit of kindness, some hope to clasp his frail fingers around. "They live on in those of us who are lucky enough to know you now, Dobby. Time will never forget their names."

Another cheer came from across the grounds. "If the headmaster isn't minding, Dobby is wanting to be alone for a while."

Edward stood and reached out a hand. "Are you? I am here for you if you need me."

Dobby took the hand and shook it. He felt the warmth of it, the blood pulsating through tiny veins and capillaries, the dozens of small bones destined to crumble to dust. "Dobby is sure."

Edward crossed the room and stepped out through the door. The warm sunlight filtered in for a moment, then closed across the room as the door swung shut. Dobby wrapped his quilt tightly around his shoulders, and rocked himself back and forth. So many moments lost to bitter winds of yesterday, so many people trapped in the unreachable mud of his failing mind.

"Thank you for what you did, Dobby," said Harry, patting Dobby on the shoulder. "I'm proud to have a friend like you."

A thought stirred in Dobby. He stood slowly, tenderly stretching his knees. He crossed over to the small desk, and opened the drawer at its base. From inside, he withdrew a long, black box. His fingers traced the outside of it, appreciating the smooth lines, the perfect symmetry of it. He opened the lid. Inside was a single sock, musty with age, the fibers hanging limply like withered grass. He pulled it out and crossed back to his bed. He lay down, and curled up into a small ball, the sock clutched tightly against his heart.

"Oh, Dobby, you wonderful, wonderful little man. Can you believe it, Elvish Freedom! I never thought I'd see the day."

"Dobby is believing it would happen, because Dobby is believing in you, Miss Hermione."

The tears came fast and free. They glinted against his parched, hollow cheeks and slid easily down the rumpled flesh, pooling on the clean sheets below him.

"Dobby is loving you, Winky."

"Winky is loving you, Dobby."

He rocked back and forth, and wept. There were now only dim shadows of his past, and he knew with sickening clarity that each new day that dawned would strip him of more of them, until he was but an empty shell without a history and without a heart.

Outside, the wind blew across the grounds, stirring the short blades of grass. The wind had many memories.