Chapter 4: Ice Sculptures and Swan Songs
The night of the Yule Ball struck like lightning and no amount of preparation could ready the boys of Gryffindor tower for its electrifying arrival.
Most of his yearmates fell into one of two categories. The first were those who turned up their nose at the night's festivities, feigning coolness even as they ironed their dress-robes to perfection. The second group were more honest with their excitement, exuberant and open towards the social event serving as a buzzing nexus between the three schools.
Harry and his date fell firmly in the much smaller smattering of students. Those cynical and weary few who, either through nature or nurture, were unequipped to deal with tedious crowds and blaring noise.
Sighing, not for the first time, Harry finished lacing up the sleek dress-robes Mrs Weasley had been kind enough to buy for him at the beginning of the year. Sneaking a glance at Ron, who was lamenting his frilly monstrosity, Harry let slip a small grin. It was clear Mrs Weasley had good taste, just not the funds to support it.
With that thought in mind, he resolved to put into action his plan, which had been a consideration he'd harbored since the summer of his second year. He'd pick up some galleons from Gringotts and surreptitiously leave them around the Burrow, since Mr and Mrs Weasley had been unbudging with his offers to pay them for his occasional room and board.
Feeling a bright spot of optimism at the thought, Harry completed his preparations. With one last exasperated look at the messy state of his hair, he turned to begin his trek down to the Champion's gathering spot.
The night was beautiful, starlight peeking through windows as he walked. Snow gleamed mutedly from below, casting the darkness into sharp relief. Small fairy lights and torchfire flickered playfully upon the landscape, evoking a sort of whimsical mysticism he'd always associated with the age-old castle.
His walk served as a pleasant distraction from the drudgery ahead. Dancing nor socializing were particularly strong suits of his. So it was with a last look at the beauty outside that Harry arrived, coming to a stop at the designated spot already populated with Krum, Roger Davies, and Cedric.
The three men gave short nods in greeting but remained silent, standing away from one another in isolated bubbles. Harry rolled his eyes.
Slowly, the dates began to trickle in with the rest of the student body. Hermione was stunning and gave him a warm hug and a smile. Cho was elegance personified and drifted towards Cedric, not a thought of another in her eyes. Fleur was… well, Fleur. Gorgeous, aloof, and impressive in a way not entirely human.
Her cerulean eyes glanced his way briefly, an acknowledgement of something, before she glided towards Roger. She didn't seem particularly interested in him, judging by the brittle indifference cloaking her face.
Shrugging, Harry went back to leaning against the stone wall, awaiting his own date.
When he'd first been informed of the necessity of, not only his attendance, but having a partner, he'd bemoaned the hardship. Though, he did have the fortune of knowing at least one student who would share his sentiments and, hopefully, his company the night of the dance.
Luckily for him, she'd readily accepted.
However, she was also late.
Checking the clock face hanging upon the wall above the doors leading to the Great Hall, Harry chewed his lip in contemplation, a habit picked up from the very person he was waiting on. It wasn't like her to be so late, typically being punctual to a fault.
He let out another sigh before gathering himself and setting off for her likely location. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he locked gazes with the stern disapproval of Professor McGonagall, who tapped the watch on her wrist in heavy meaning.
Nodding, he picked up his pace.
The dungeons were cold, even with the warming charms sunk into the castle walls. No amount of magic could completely eradicate the heat-sucking power of old stone. Even the torches lighting his way seemed to be smaller, less bright.
Perhaps he was just being melodramatic, he chuckled to himself. There was a reason he didn't come down this way after all. An insufferable, blonde reason.
Luck was favouring him tonight, because all of the students were already at the Great Hall, so slipping through the entrance to the Slytherin common room was easy. As was tiptoeing to the girl's dormitory where he found the single room with lamplight shining underneath the door.
He gave three soft raps of his knuckles against the wood, having already learned by accident what occurred when attempting to open any of the girl's dorm rooms uninvited.
The door remained obstinately closed even as the light inside flicked off. As if he wouldn't have already noticed it.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I know you're there Daphne, let me in," he called out in Parseltongue.
A shuffle and then silence.
"Daph-" he began again, only to stop as the door swung open. Her name died upon his tongue at the smudged makeup decorating her tear-streaked face.
Suddenly, his mood nosedived. "What the hell? Daphne, what happened? What's wrong?" He spoke rapidly even as he took her by the shoulders and walked through the entryway so the door would close and give them privacy.
She shook her head, unwilling to meet his eyes.
He gripped the tip of her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up so those yellow-green eyes constantly aflame would enter his view. He swept over her face and expression, cataloguing everything.
His eyes traveled past her shoulder to rest on her bed, where a dress was stuffed inside a box along with a letter.
The mystery solved, and feeling an icy nausea settle into his stomach, Harry dropped his hands from his friend so he could walk around her. Realizing his aim, she shot out a hand and gripped his wrist but he continued undaunted.
Innocuous enough, the letter lay on the bedspread, but he knew what sort of poison he'd find inked there. Snatching it up, he briefly skimmed through only to crumple the parchment in blackened rage.
"Your father and I think it best that you not attend the Yule Ball," he read out in English so his muttered words wouldn't reach her ears. "Astoria will represent the Greengrass house in society." The letter held none of the warmth a mother should exhibit towards a child, only bleak orders coated in shame.
"Hag," he spat venomously. Mrs Greengrass was a cold woman whose spiteful view of her own daughter grated against Harry's soul.
Ceto Galatis, the daughter of an old Greek pureblood family, had no idea the English line she was marrying into was cursed, the arrangement being made when she was only a child. Mr Greengrass was able to use his legs via a complicated and clever set of automation enchantments, so she'd been none the wiser until their wedding night. Having a child she viewed as inferior was her greatest humiliation, and that darkness had twisted and decayed her relationship with Daphne all her life.
Astoria was sickly but extroverted and exuberant, a total opposite to Daphne's shy, calm demeanour. The two sisters loved one another, greatly, but the difference between how each was treated by their parents caused fractures no amount of love could entirely ease.
It had been his third year that Harry had learned the true depravity of the Greengrass family. How her mother had forbidden Daphne to speak because of her 'horrible voice.' How her very laugh was chained down because it was too loud and uproarious.
To old pureblood families, prestige was everything. Even cursed, the Greengrasses had done their best to keep their afflictions secret. But Daphne's deafness was too obvious. That his friend had lived her whole life knowing she was the shame of the family hurt him like naked glass cracking against his organs.
Because he knew, knew in the deepest parts of him, a sliver of what that could cost.
The Dursleys hated, abused, taunted and neglected him. But never, not for a single day, had he truly cared what they thought of him.
That might have been what saved him.
Daphne did not have that advantage. She had spent her whole life not understanding why she was so reviled and tried, oh Merlin, how she tried to make her parents happy with her.
It never worked.
His first reaction was to whirl around and rage, to confront Daphne with the truth. To scream and shout so the whole world could hear how malicious and terrible the proud and noble Greengrasses were. How rotten and putrid their hearts beat.
But Daphne loved them. Even still, she loved them. It was her greatest weakness and most wonderful gift. To have such a vulnerable, special heart.
If she could not grow a thick enough shell to guard her own soul from the pain inflicted by others then Harry was determined to become it. He was barbed enough for the both of them.
Smoothing his ire and hoisting a mask to cover the fire within, he turned to face his friend who peered up at him with a meekness that he despised. She didn't deserve to be beaten down like this, by those she should trust. He hated that bent posture, hated that she was anything other than proud of herself.
Under his scrutiny a familiar jittery energy began to build within her. The fidgeting started with her twisting fingers, turned to a shifting of weight from foot to foot, and just when she was about to open her mouth, she stilled. He watched, mood cracking further, as she convulsively tried to swallow the words fighting for freedom within her slender throat.
'Remember Daphne, don't speak where others can hear.' 'Stop sharing useless information, it is freakish.'
The lines from the letter bubbled up magmalike into his mind, melting away his attempts at calm.
Rubbing his chin, he eyed her briefly before speaking. "You are thinking about the uses for Unicorn horns, aren't you?"
She glanced up at him, eyes darting away to flicker about the room before her shoulders slumped. "No, I was remembering the uses of Boggart spit," she admitted with a mumble. Her voice, in Parseltongue, was melodious, even through all the hissing.
"Damn it," he spat.
She peered at him, worried, afraid - ridiculously - that he was upset with her. Such beaten reactions only aggravated him more.
Taking a few clomping steps towards her, he gripped her shoulders once more. His eyes held hers, refusing to let her gaze wander. When he spoke it was with every ounce of conviction he possessed.
"You are a wonderful person," Harry stated, intensely focused on the suddenly still girl. "That is what I want you to think about, how important you are, to me," he paused, throat suddenly dry, "and others." Anger rolled from him like storm clouds over a churning ocean. He felt the force of it in his gut. "And if your parents are too foolish to see that then they're the unlucky ones. Because you're exceptional Daphne."
A scarlet hue suffused her cheeks as her eyes widened. He watched her throat bob and the vein in her neck pulse as he waited for her reaction.
Finally, whatever shock had befallen her passed and she drew herself up to her full height. She nodded as though to reassure herself and the beaming smile she graced him with slammed into his chest like ten Stupefy spells.
He felt dizzy, winded.
Harry also realized she hadn't changed into her dress and was wearing a simple shift.
A crimson blush of his own erupted across his face, causing him to quickly turn and wave towards the dress laying across her bed. "Erm, you should get changed. We can't be late."
Her hand brushed his shoulder as she walked by, picking up the garment and nodding in agreement.
He shifted from one foot to the next before clearing his throat and saying, "Right, well then. I'll, er, be outside."
His escape was rapid.
Harry only waited a few more minutes before Daphne's door opened and she stepped through, looking exquisite. Her dress wrapped around her slim figure, tight in some places, and flaring or floating elsewhere. Shimmering chiffon accented the sleekness of her, adding flavorful adornment to the otherwise classically-styled design. Onyx tresses were pulled up, in some fancy twist but he missed the riotous curls snaking their way over her bare shoulders.
She bemoaned her curls, calling them a snake-nest. He, however, was an avid fan.
Her honeyed jade eyes looked at him and she grinned at the dumbfounded expression undoubtedly painted across his face. She laughed, her snorting, ridiculously loud laugh and its noise sent him into his own fit of humor.
Bowing slightly at the waist, he offered his arm for her to take. She gave a mocking curtsy, before clutching him and allowing them to begin their trek to the Yule Ball.
They were quiet for a while, passing through the Dungeons and, while the silence was not awkward, Daphne sought to break it anyways by informing him of the myriad uses of Boggart spit.
He listened closely, and interjected jokes when appropriate but the familiar routine relaxed him like nothing else had today. But when she was done, he halted his steps, forcing her to stand beside him. Turning, he eyed her once more so as to ensure he had her full attention.
"I appreciate your intelligence and pursuit of trivia," he stated with a grin that quickly failed at his following words, "but I hate when you use it to hide. When you use it to numb what you feel. Don't do that, please. Never hide who you are."
Be proud he wanted to add. Love yourself the way… the thought was hurriedly packed away.
His friend blushed scarlet, her eyes widening as she took in his words. His tongue suddenly felt heavy and unwieldy at the sight.
Daphne was like a goddess with feet of clay. She wasn't perfect, no one who had to listen to such a deluge of ridiculous trivia over four years would think her so, but the perfect pieces of her shone through with such clarity as to be stunning.
Her tongue slithered out to wet dainty lips the color of soft rose petals. His eyes flickering helplessly downwards at the innocent, potent gesture. She nodded in agreement, or gratitude, he wasn't entirely sure.
He coughed, feeling blood rushing to suffuse his neck.
"Right, well, we best be off," he muttered, pulling her along beside him. Suddenly the upcoming dance didn't seem quite so off-putting.
XXXXXXXX
"I hate heels." The words were tossed into the night air with a carefree joy that pulled up the corners of Harry's lips. The shoes followed the words, thrown up by kicking feet only to land with a thud into the snowy grass of the garden outside.
Daphne leaned back onto her hands, braced on the bench she sat upon, her feet continuing to swing in an indle, indulgent manner.
He moved to sit next to her, moving her hands away so her full weight would fall against his side. She leaned her head back to rest against his shoulder.
"They do seem like death traps," he agreed, pointing to the glittering shoes. "Not sure what their purpose is to be honest."
"I don't expect a boy like yourself to know," Daphne teased, light and easy. She became so unguarded rarely, and only ever in his presence.
"Hmm, funny you should say that actually. Fred and George seem to think that me being picked by the Goblet of Fire legally emancipated me. I'm practically a man now."
"That is the silliest thing those boys have ever said in their entire lives, and I know them well enough to recognize what a claim that is," she replied airily.
He shrugged, his mood buoyant to match hers. "I don't expect a kid like you to understand."
Her braying laugh filled the otherwise quiet night.
"Thank you again for taking me," she stated when her laughter died down. "I wouldn't have gone at all had you not pulled me along, I would have missed out."
"I should be the one thanking you," he confessed in reply. "Who knows who I could've been stuck with had you not saved me."
"Ah, so I was your safety pick?"
Stricken, he fumbled with his words. "No! I mean, no, of course not. I didn't mean-"
Daphne's contagious laugh rang out again, its volume high enough to make him wince even as a smile broke in sympathy to her joy.
"I'm joking, Harry," she admonished. "It was nice to go with you, perhaps I could even go so far as to grade it tolerable."
"You've gotten awfully cheeky as of late."
She sent him an indulgent look. "What some call cheek, others call personality."
"And I call those people ridiculous."
They both chuckled, relaxing into their comfortable relationship of quips, trivia, and warmth.
The Yule Ball had been much better than he'd expected, Daphne and Hermione's company at the Champion's table a balm. Even the actual dancing had been surmountable, a feat he'd not had much expectation of even with Daphne's careful instruction. Honestly, neither of them had been any good. She'd probably stepped on his toes as much as he'd stumbled over hers.
But the banter had been fun and her eyes bright, which made even the dreariest of events bearable.
They hadn't been able to speak much during the Ball because Daphne wanted to keep her abilities as a Parselmouth secret. So, they'd reverted to the typical method of communication using lip-reading and her board. A mode of communication she'd confessed hating, ever since learning she could actually speak and hear - even restricted as it was.
The night was bright and his mood was high enough that Harry made a split second decision to give Daphne her Christmas gift early. With a lazy wave of his wand, his summoning spell shot off into the night.
Because he spoke in English, his partner continued to jabber about Wizarding emancipation law.
Soon enough, his intended present arrived, hovering briefly before him so that he could reach out to nab it.
Obviously having felt the shift in weight against her back, Daphne scooted forward so she could turn around, only for her mouth to split open in surprise. Her expressive eyes seemed dull with shock, even as they focused intently on what lay in his hand.
There, nestled in a gilded carrying cage was a curling King Cobra. The snake's olive green scales were dappled with yellow pigmentation and its tongue flickered out to cautiously taste the cold air. The cage was heavily enchanted to be constantly warm for its cold-blooded inhabitant but Harry cast another warming spell on the snake itself anyways due to the chill of the night.
He watched Daphne's reaction carefully, unsure if he'd overstepped. Finally, her blank face broke. Tears brimmed in her eyes to spill over her pink cheeks. The teartracks cooling rapidly against her warm skin. She looked at him with such emotion that it broke him, the watery smile gifted his way cobbling him back together.
"So that I always have someone to talk to," she whispered, seeing right through him.
Harry nodded, offering the gift to her. She took the cage in trembling hands and softly murmured, "she's beautiful." Unlatching the door, Daphne held up her arm so the snake could wind its way up her limb. "Hello," she spoke reverently. "I'm Daphne, what's your name?"
The snake stared unblinkingly at her before flicking its tongue out to taste the air around her new owner. It wound its way further up the arm it was perched upon so its head could rise above Daphne's shoulder.
"Name isss Mimsssy," came the answering hiss, the snake's head bobbing along with the words.
"Mimsy?" Harry repeated aghast.
"Mimsy," Daphne uttered dreamily. "What a lovely name for a lovely snake."
"Mimsy." Harry shook his head, marveling at the goofiness. Regardless, he watched in fond amusement as Daphne and her new pet became acquainted, the two asking one another questions in their magically shared language.
Finally, Daphne moved back to face him. "Thank you," she pushed out with a shaky voice. "Thank you so terribly much."
He could only grin weakly at the adoration lighting up her face at his simple gift. It was too blinding. Harry knew she missed having someone that could understand her, that could speak to her over holidays and the long summer months. But he'd not dared expect his present to be half so well received.
"I'm glad you like her," he replied, shuffling his feet. "I picked a King Cobra because they're said to be the most intelligent species of snake." He grinned. "And because they're the only snake in the world that builds a nest." He grinned as he reached up to untug her hair from its formal confines, sending the curls cascading crazily across her shoulders.
She huffed a laugh and attempted a vexed expression but failed horribly.
"You're so kind to me Harry." Her words took on a dulcet tone and her eyes were so intense on his skin that he swore he could feel their caress as they passed over his face.
The soft kiss she pressed against his cheek scorched like a brand, causing his heart to constrict painfully.
"Goodnight," she whispered in his ear before passing him by on her way back to the castle.
"Right," he spoke numbly, "goodnight." His mumbled voice trailing off as he watched the Slytherin make her wobbly way through ankle-deep snow.
She tossed another smile his way over her shoulder and walked inside, leaving him alone with his thoughts and palpitating heart.
"Merry Christmas Daphne," he whispered, sitting heavily back down on the stone bench as he reached up to press shivering fingers to his cheek. "A very merry Christmas," he repeated as a grin stole across his lips to zing into the snow-filled night around him.
Author's Note: I figured I'd write this to stem the tide of PMs and reviews from, mostly well-meaning, folk who point out that all sound is based on vibrations and thus, Daphne shouldn't be able to hear regardless of Parseltongue or not.
Because suspension of disbelief obviously extends past talking snakes and wands but doesn't seem to quite reach a deaf person hearing magical languages, I've decided to outline how I envision this concept to work.
The barebones explanations I've given in the story itself was purposeful. After all, a wizarding world so divorced from scientific findings of its muggle counterpart wouldn't necessarily be aware of the inner ear's anatomy. So, Dumbledore obviously could only give a hypothesis and, short of shoehorning in a random character straddling the line between a muggle otolaryngologist and a wizard, there wasn't a character capable of elucidating on the way Parseltongue affects Daphne.
Snakes do not hear the same way humans do. With humans, sound waves travel through the air and hit the eardrum, which causes vibrations in tiny hairs and a small bone within the inner ear. Those vibrations travel across nerves to the brain. Snakes, on the other hand, do not have eardrums or a middle ear. Their inner ear is also, uniquely, filled by air rather than fluid and connects to the jaw bone.
Some Deaf individuals, like Daphne, do not have a functioning eardrum. Hearing can be impacted through a myriad of ways, but if Parseltongue is able to use magic to forcefully vibrate the air to a degree that reaches the unimpacted small bone and tiny hairs of Daphne's inner ear, then she could, theoretically hear even without an eardrum. Separately, the magical language could directly impact the hearing nerves, similar to how modern cochlear implants work.
This is all to say that magic can find a way. Just as deaf people are able to sit in classrooms all around the world today and understand what their teacher is saying through lipreading and paying attention to body language. The human spirit is indomitable and my experiences with the deaf community has sunk that knowledge deep in my bones.
On a different note, kudos to the readers who figure out the meaning behind Daphne's mother's name.
All the best,
Char
Chapter 5: To Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
"Ah, Greengrass. Glad you could make it," Sirius greeted, all genial nobility. The brittle mask worn in good humour. "I expect you are excited to be a Fifth year? My advice for the OWLS? Cheat."
"Greetings," Daphne replied, writing on her board after giving a faux curtsy. "Though, I must say, I prefer you on the back of a Hippogriff to dispensing academic advice in an old suit."
Sirius glanced down at his formal attire with a wry grin. "Yes, well, it seems you can miss even pomp and pinstripes when starving in rags."
A fair point if Harry had ever heard one. Though his gaze narrowed at the following exchange.
"Now if only you can help me get Harry out of his own rags," Daphne teased with a small grin touching her pink lips as she wrote. "He seems adamant to stay in ill-fitting muggle clothes."
He peered down at his baggy secondhand trousers as Sirius laughed. "Er, I didn't know you disliked them," he mumbled, a self-conscious flush flaring to life on the tips of his ears.
She touched his elbow reassuringly, a twinkling light in her yellow-green eyes.
"All the clothes I buy you every Christmas and birthday didn't get the hint across?" Her smile grew into a full-blown grin. "Going to need to step it up if you want to join the Aurors," she replied in Parseltongue.
Sirius let out a small noise of distaste. "That bloody hissing makes my skin crawl."
"Sorry," Daphne wrote with a mortified flourish, "habit."
"Well let's get you situated upstairs with the other ladies-"
Harry interrupted his godfather, "actually, she can't stay." He scrutinized Daphne's face. "She was only able to slip out for the afternoon."
Sirius's face darkened at the subtle reminder of the Greengrass lord and lady. "Ah, right of course." His sour mood matched the curdling within Harry's gut. Neither of the two men were fond of Daphne's parents.
"Regardless," Sirius spoke in an obvious attempt at a lighter tone, "we are glad to have you. Short as it may be." He waved around the entryway with a flippant gesture. "Welcome to my miserable family's abode. Try not to touch anything cursed while you're here."
"The wood is quite old but well maintained," Daphne scrawled with a notably tentative hesitation.
"Ha!" Sirius barked out a short laugh. "Trust a pureblood heiress to find something to be polite about even in an ancient heap such as this." The man kicked the wall with a polished shoe. "Which reminds me, if you see a flea-ridden hunk of wrinkled evil flesh, his name is Kreacher. Pay him no mind." His grey gaze grew thoughtful. "Though, now that I stop to think about it, a pureblood who speaks Parseltongue is probably the most welcome guest he's had in a decade or two."
"Thank you for the warm welcome," Daphne wrote, a genuinely happy expression painted across her face. "It truly is a pleasure to see you again, in better health and circumstances."
Before the man could reply a shout was heard above them from the upper floor. "Daphne? Is that you?" Hermione waved a hand at her friend who looked up late, only responding because Harry mouthed 'Hermione' at her before looking up pointedly.
"Come up here! I have something to show you," the bushy-haired witch called before disappearing in a twirl of brunette hair.
"Excuse me," Daphne's board read before she hastily made her way up the creaking steps. Her frantic excitement at reuniting with a friend was a sight that made Harry's heart beat faster. He grinned.
He began to make his way after her but felt a tug on his robe that pulled him backwards into a small closet space off the side of the entryway.
"Uh, Sirius?" He questioned, quirking an eyebrow at the man dusting cobwebs off his suit and cursing for a light.
A quick lumos later found the two men staring at each other with different measured expressions on their faces. Stumped, Harry could only stare blankly at the odd behaviour.
Finally, the older man broke the silence.
"This isn't exactly comfortable for me," he began awkwardly, "but Moony told me I should speak to you about this so, uh, try not to make this more painful for me than it already is, yeah?"
Harry blinked. "Huh?"
"Alright, just listen." Sirius scratched at his face with a manicured nail. "Remus and I, well, we're glad you found someone. The battle ahead will be bleak enough, you deserve some happiness as well."
Alarm bells went off in his head while Harry fought the conflicting urge to flush and preen. "Uh, no. Sirius, I mean, we aren't - Daphne and I aren't together."
"Huh?"
He scratched the back of his head in a nervous fidget at his godfather's flabbergasted expression. "She and I are just friends."
"But… the Yule Ball? The snake you had me buy, from a very shady merchant I might add. I've seen pictures that boy with the camera takes!"
"Shh," Harry hissed, hearing a footstep above that caused the floorboards to creak.
Sirius gave him an unimpressed look. "Harry, the only person in this house who doesn't already know right now is deaf. Why are you shushing me?"
"It's the principle of the thing."
"Right." An amused glance. "Look, I won't stick my nose where it doesn't belong but… you like her, don't you?"
An uncomfortable cough forced its way out his throat, his palms felt simultaneously sweaty and itchy. "Sure, she's great."
"I never thought I'd see someone more hopeless than James when it came to wooing a woman," Sirius remarked with a small head shake. "At least he could admit his intentions."
"Look," Harry replied with some heat, "regardless of my feelings, it isn't exactly a good time for… uhm, dallying?" He blinked, his irritation dissipating with the words on the tip of his tongue. "Uh, courting?"
Sirius shrugged.
"Whatever. Courting. Considering a Dark Lord just resurrected, I imagine romance should take a back seat."
"Maybe it is precisely because a Dark Lord just resurrected that you should live life by the moment." Grey eyes pierced him. "Your father knew Lily was it for him and grabbed onto her with both hands, even when the world was falling apart. And the happiest days of his life were with her… and you."
"I'm not my father," Harry murmured, guilt swimming in his gut at the shocked look on the man's face. He understood what his godfather was trying to do, appreciated it even, but his father had died along with the woman he had sworn to protect. Walking in his footsteps wasn't a choice Harry wanted to make.
"No," Sirius replied, equally as sombre and quiet. "You aren't." A hand gripped Harry's shoulder, prompting him to look up into the gaze of the only real family he had left. "But, perhaps, that is a good thing."
The words seemed costly to the speaker, whose face aged at the mere admission. "James and I," he continued, "weren't always the best of men. Prideful, arrogant, drunk on youth. You aren't like us." Misty, wandering grey eyes snapped back into focus. "But you inherited the best pieces of your father. Whatever else James was, the man was loyal to the death and loved completely and without reservation. That is what I see when I look at you, Harry."
Those words caused a skittery, heavy feeling to lodge in Harry's chest, plugging up his throat with bound emotion. Before he could even begin to form a response, Sirius continued speaking.
"I envied your father." A sigh and an indulgent, self-deprecating grin. "James was a flirt, like me, but he knew from first sight that Lily was the one and only." He let out a bark of sharp laughter. "Took him ages to realize all his put on airs only repulsed her. Your mother was too smart to fall for anything fake."
Harry smiled, feeling the story of his parents wrap around him like an embrace.
"But, I- I was more foolish than your father. You see, I had been told all my life by miserable excuses for parents how worthless I was. How hopeless and pathetic. And, in the deepest part of me, I think I believed them. Because when I had my shot at happiness, at real love, I let it go. It slipped from between my fingers never to return, because I didn't have the courage to grasp at it with wild desperation. That is one of my two deepest and greatest regrets. Some things are better left unsaid, Harry." Sirius gave him a significant look. "But never love."
A sort of odd melancholy sat upon the older man's face, an expression so different from his typical exuberance that it caused Harry to still.
"Greengrass probably has lived her whole life like me but, incredibly, she didn't give up. Didn't run away or turn to hate. The girl, ridiculous as she is, still loves those specks of dirt she calls parents. Hell, I reckon she has felt as trapped as I did in Azkaban, but at least I was never under the illusion that my jailors were meant to love me."
Recognition dawned in him, Harry glancing upstairs to where Daphne probably was, curled up in the library. "She loves completely and without reservation."
"Just like you. Just like your parents." Sirius shifted, a warmth entering the steel of his stare. "I like the girl, even though she's a pureblood. I even like her for you, if that is your aim. But, Harry," the warmth turned steely, "if you have to choose, choose to be your father. Not me. He was the better man."
"Funny," Harry responded, his heart clenching, "I imagine he'd say the exact same thing about you, if he was the one standing here."
Sirius attempted a roguish grin but it was too slight, too watery. "Well, I never said he was smart. Just loyal and committed."
"Thank you," Harry commented, gratitude lapping against his ribcage like a tide. "I've never really had someone to talk to about stuff like this."
"It should be a crime for me to give romantic advice," Sirius admitted, "but if I can spare you my own regret, then maybe I can live up to the title your parents shoved on me."
"You already have."
A sincere, hopeful expression engulfed the man's face, throwing his expression alight. "I hope so."
"But," Harry pivoted, attempting levity, "let's be honest. You just like her because she tackled Snape."
A dark chuckle. "It takes real moxy to whack your Head of House with a dusty coat rack," Sirius mused with a fond grin. "I'll never forget that as long as I live."
Harry left out the part where she'd only hit Professor Snape, who had them all at wand point in the Shrieking Shack during their third year, with the coat rack and followed it up with a tackle because she'd misread his lips as he mouthed to her 'snake.' He'd hoped she would use her Parseltongue to ask the drowsy adder the group of third years had passed in the passageway underneath the Whomping Willow to lunge at Snape as a distraction.
How he wished he'd understood the snake when he'd heard her warning of the "Ssstrange rat. Sssmell wrong." Instead, he'd believed it was due to the vermin's age and whatever was causing its hair to fall out.
Regardless, Daphne had lunged for Snape instead of using the snake, knocking the potion professor out cold.
He should've let the adder or Crookshanks eat the detestable Pettigrew when he had the chance.
"Don't try and change the topic Harry," Sirius rumbled with a grin. "I'd be ashamed to face James if I didn't push his son to live life to the fullest."
Harry shuffled, tapping his thigh with fingertips numb from the cold. "Right, look," he stated, voice shallow, "I appreciate all this but… even small crushes for me are deadly, Sirius. Any girl I was with, even briefly, would become a target. I can't… I won't do that."
His godfather gazed at him with what Harry thought could be pride. Hoped it could be, even twisted by the melancholic sadness parading across the man's face.
"You don't always have to be the hero, Harry. It's ok to be the boy too."
XXXXXXXX
The funeral hadn't amounted to much. Without a body, the mourners relied on words. None of them were particularly consoling to Harry, who listened numbly. He felt half-awake, half-alive, one foot on each side of a divide so deep its inky blackness yawned up at him like a sentient, malignant creature.
Someone shook his hand. Another patted him on the back. A hug too tight and a motherly kiss on the cheek.
Then, solitude.
The bedroom in Grimmauld Place was too big, too crowded with memories of a mischievous, broken man. It threatened to collapse upon him.
So he retreated, his mind working mechanically, feet shuffling subconsciously to a place that matched his self-worth.
That was where she found him, curled up against the wall in a cupboard under the stairs.
She held him as he cried. Her clutching hands simultaneously fierce and gentle. That touch, so protective and understanding broke bad things in Harry, replacing them with good.
He gasped through the sorrow rising up through his veins, threatening to drown him. The guilt and grief swirling inside made his throat clench and his head pound.
Still, she held on. Silently and sweetly, Daphne rocked him as his heart bled out for a man he failed. For a family forever lost.
"He loved you," she whispered into the shell of his ear. "It wasn't your fault."
Words formed and crumpled under their own weight. Distantly, as though through water, he felt as though he should be uncomfortable, letting Daphne see him so weak, so vulnerable. That piece, muted as it was, caused him to wipe at his tears angrily as he shifted away from her.
Her grip tightened, tiny arms and hands so delicate when compared to his own strained to keep him close. She moved with him, not letting go.
"Harry," her voice a gossamer rebuke, "Don't. Let me be here… for you."
At her determined but gentle insistence, he met her eyes, only to realize she had been crying as well. For the man or the boy, he wasn't sure. But those tears meant more to him than any of those hollow words tossed into an empty grave that morning.
So, he let her keep hold of him. Allowed himself to sink into the warmth of her embrace, at once both unfamiliar and comforting.
As the salt dried onto his cheeks, one thought rose from the ashes of the boy he'd once been to resonate in the mind of the man he was now forced to become.
No one around him was safe. Sirius had died because of him and, no matter what his godfather had urged, he couldn't allow another's life to be put in jeopardy.
For a small moment that he clutched tight, Harry considered a future devoid of Dark Lords and Death Eaters. A future of onyx and jade, one he may never live to see.
For a moment he was happy.
Chapter 6: Lost But Found
The Battle of Hogwarts had ended. Everything had ended. The world itself seemed to have stopped once the Dark Lord's body hit the cold ground.
Harry knelt across from his sworn enemy. The man who had taken so much from him. Who had killed so many.
He felt numb.
The elder wand lay in the dirt before him, rightfully won. It was his now, until someone took it from him. Harry felt sick. His own wand, the wand of phoenix feather and holly wood, was shattered. Clutched in his hand with a death grip. He had the strangest notion that he was waiting for something, someone to jumpstart the world back into motion.
The numbness was overpowering, like a blunt weight pressing upon his lungs in an asphyxiating press. Color leeched from his surrondings, the tarnished landscape of Hogwarts turning a muted grey. An exhaustion unlike anything he'd ever felt crept over him, its tendrils slithering across his limbs and around his throat.
He couldn't breathe.
His heart seized, where before he felt nothing suddenly he felt too much. The scrapes and gashes, the warm blood trickling along his body, the dull ache of muscles, his fear, his hope, his sadness. The world pressed in on him. Distantly he heard what sounded like gasping.
A soft, delicate hand touched his shoulder and he suddenly realized that he was the one gasping, dragging in loud, snagging gulps of air.
Hyperventilating, in fact, dragging convulsive swallows of oxygen into his lungs. His chest burned. His eyes burned. He cried.
The hand moved, tenderly, weightless. Like a bird dancing on his shoulder. It wrapped around his shoulder meeting its twin around his collarbone. She held him from behind, his back pressed against her warmth. She held him as he broke, as the world ceased to make sense and the colours became so bright it pained him.
His eyes shut, he breathed. Once, twice. He opened his eyes on the third breath. Calm. Peace.
Daphne.
Words were not needed. Nothing was. Only her. Only, ever her.
XXXXXXXX
1 Week Later – After the Fall of Voldemort
The memorial occurred on a sunny day on the lawn of Hogwarts. Harry didn't remember much of it. The last week had been a blur of life and movement but he still felt drained, detached.
He was only sure of one thing, deep in his bones, that he wasn't ready yet. Wasn't ready to face everything again, his only respite found in the tiny hand clasped so strongly to his own. Small and delicate, barely half the size of his own, yet firm and sure.
Harry stared at the mirror in front of him. He was far enough away that he could not hear a single sound from the crowd that was, undoubtedly, still swarming Hogwarts. The families and friends of those who fell. The memorial happened on a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. But Harry preferred the dark today, its hallowed, cool quiet matching his mood. Today the cold stone of the castle walls felt as though they could shelter him from the thronging mass out there. Those people who looked at him, like he was the freak the Dursely's always told him he was.
He had only meant to escape the noise and stares. He had found that and more in the room with a mirror.
The glass had cracked at some point during the war. Spiderweb fractures splintered across the otherwise smooth surface. Kaleidoscope images flickered in each sectioned shard of the right corner down to the middle of the frame. There were three large slivers of enchanted glass seperated from the larger, unblemished pane.
Harry watched as each piece showed different colours. He could make out, briefly, flashes of red hair, silver, and gold. The bottom of the mirror, the largest, most untouched piece, showed a familiar visage.
He knew it was only a matter of time before she came to him, the woman with onyx hair from the mirror. She was never far away these days. Never would be again.
Nothing could separate them, not anymore. A life together, what he most desired, was within his grasp if he could only find the courage to reach out and grab it. Only as Harry contemplated the image in front of him, did he begin to feel… something more than the exhausted dread of the last week. The burgeoningsomethingin his ribcage was not quite hope, but it was a start. He rubbed his chest, it burned from the odd feeling.
She found him there, a few minutes later.
He heard her soft footfalls, felt her presence warm him. She stopped in the doorway and watched him. He could feel her eyes burning against the back of his neck.
Harry stood from where he'd knelt. He turned to her and held out his arms in a silent gesture. Without words, she glided into them, wrapping her own delicate limbs around his waist. Her small form against his side fortified him.
She made him feel brave.
There was silence for a time. A weighty, melancholic silence that hung about his neck like a lodestone. An agonizing reminder.
He had lost the ability to speak to her.
The pain of it tore at him.
After the Battle he'd strained his parched throat, trying to speak Parseltongue, but no matter what he did, the words would not come.
His confusion had turned to desperation at the confused look on Daphne's face. She didn't understand why he was speaking English, couldn't recognize the fumbled attempts at the language so special to them both, the dialect that had bound them so tightly together all those years ago.
Dawning comprehension had risen upon her face, followed by a muted horror. Even as she'd smiled benignly up at him and pulled out her writing board, her eyes had spoken the truth. Those yellow-green irises had held screams.
That had spurred him further, until the fear and loss had choked him to the point of inconsolability. He'd clawed at his throat till he bled, long gouge marks forming from his mania until she'd clung to him, begging him to stop.
Whatever had allowed him to speak the language of snakes had died with him out in the Forbidden Forest.
Now he was forced to communicate to Daphne the way she had confessed hating, through board and wand, just like everyone else. The unique bond that had pulled them together gone. Dead.
The week had been a torture far more excruciating than any Crucio, far harder than anything he'd ever done. But he'd gotten through it. He'd attended all the funerals, the memorials, everything. With her by his side, silent, but there.
Now, as she looked up at him, he noticed that her eyes were dark and bruise-like. She hadn't been sleeping, no one had. Not really. Too many memories, too much grief.
Even so, she cupped his face in her dainty hand with a tenderness that threatened to make his knees buckle. No blame or disgust marred the soft angles of her face, and as she looked at him, he felt whole. She traced words into his cheek with her fingertips, the tender touch alighting the darkest pieces of him.
He nodded, understanding, and moved with her back out into the sunlight, where life waited with noise and crowds and clamour. At some point, her small hand found its way into his own scarred palm and the gentle but sure squeeze reinforced him to continue on.
XXXXXXXX
Several months later, Hermione came to him, an idea swimming in her eyes. A hope for her friend who had become too quiet and withdrawn. She explained, in halting tones, how she remebered having met a deaf student in elementary school and learned of his unique mode of communication.
She called it sign language.
Or, as Harry understood it, the use of hands and gesticulations to communicate. He'd never heard of it before nor seen it used, but after doing some research of his own he'd been pleasantly surprised.
The language seemed as diverse as any of its vocal counterparts and would be just as difficult to learn. But he had tired of seeing the dim light in Daphne's eyes the first day they'd learned of his loss of Parseltongue. Had tired of hearing her hiss to Mimsy and not understood why she'd laugh at whatever her pet had responded with.
She hid it well, but nothing as expressive as her eyes could be masked successfully.
He hated writing to her as well. Hated the way it formed a barrier before them that hadn't existed before, as though the writing board was a wall between their relationship. Hated relying on her to lipread, to force her to pay such close attention to him for even the most casual of conversations.
It was a strain he couldn't bear any longer.
So, he had broached the topic carefully, with no small amount of trepidation. In some ways it felt like trying to sneak up on a small woodland creature, hoping that it wouldn't jolt away in fright. This would be a scary concept for Daphne, he knew. Hope could be the cruelest pain when dashed, and she would balk at learning anything Muggle for fear of it getting back to her parents.
Parents who, while not Death Eaters, had not welcomed the age of 'Muggleborns and Creatures.'
The war, however, had matured Daphne over the years and she could now recognize the unhealthiness of her familial relationship. While she was still conditioned to respect the mandates of her father and mother, the Greengrass heiress had broken away from the fetters of familial disgust that had so bound her. She'd taken the first courageous steps into adulthood with her head held high. Her strenght of self had spurred him forward like nothing else had.
Even so, Harry knew that she still held onto a small, flickering flame of belief that, one day, she'd do something to fix her broken relationship with her family.
He could only resolve to support her and commit to being there to pick up the inevitable pieces.
It had taken some convincing on his part to cajole her into taking their first joint lesson. She was trepiditious of the Muggle world, having heard horror stories from her parents about the crude and cruel world outside the boundaries of Magic Brittain. Eventually, she had heeded the words of both Harry and Hermione. Trusting that wherever they came from couldn't be all bad.
The harder test of trust was the Muggle worlds required stripping away of her magic, so like a safety blanket to Daphne. Without it she was defenseless and, in her mind, incapable of communicating.
Without use of her wand, they'd had to resort to a notepad and a pen, which was an adventure in itself to teach her how to write without dipping a quill. Harry had also promised they would never be out of one another's sight if she so desired.
Eventually, her natural curiosity took supremacy in the battle and, with a wry resignation, she'd acquiesced.
The early lessons had… gone poorly, in Harry's estimation. It had been four months now of lessons three nights a week and progress had finally begun ramping up. But the first few weeks had been awkward and fumbling.
His hands, while dexterous from Quidditch, had never been forced to contort in such odd shapes or so quickly change before. Cramps were the least of his worries. The sheer number of signals and signs were boggling. Additionally, the language was more conceptual than his mother tongue. It was un-frilled and unadorned by unnecessary baggage. Instead, it sought to convey meaning bluntly, without much regard for tact or embellishment.
Some things he picked up quicker than others, but he was slow. Terribly, embarrassingly slow at forming usable sentences. He'd have to think them out in his head before engaging in the process, and even then, it was a stilted, embarrassing affair.
Daphne, on the other hand, had taken to the lessons with aplomb. Her sharp eyes and wit caught nuances lost on him, her twitchy, nervous fingers given an outlet for their restless energy. Before long, Daphne was instructing him better than the teacher.
Her eyes had flamed the first time she had constructed a full sentence with another bloke in their class. He'd watched from afar instead of paying attention to his own partner struggling through her hand formations.
Daphne had watched her partner's signs, slow as they were, and smiled brilliantly at their conclusion. Her joy was palpable. Her rapid signs back were lost on the man and she had to slow down for a second try but when he replied back… she glowed.
To understand and be understood.
A miracle so often taken for granted.
Harry's heart lurched in his chest at the sight. Daphne's excited eyes snapped to him as she bounced lightly in her seat, her face practically screaming at him, 'did you see that?!'
He grinned so hard his lips hurt.
XXXXXXXX
A year passed and he slowly rebuilt his ability to communicate with Daphne as the Wizarding World got back on its feet. His friends were slowly but surely moving on with their lives, looking to the future and all its opportunities.
In some ways, Harry felt as though his life had been on hold since the day his ears and tongue failed him. He felt stuck, even as he trained and began a new job, learned how to be a responsible godfather to Teddy, and straddled the line between the child he'd never been and the adult he now legally was.
But now, he hoped, that his efforts to avoid the Daily Prophet tailing his movements, and slipping away into the Muggle world every week would finally pay off.
His hands felt more fluent than ever before, responding rapidly to his thoughts. He still needed practice, and would likely always have room for improvement, but he'd finally been able to confidently form the words that had been beating against the cage of his heart for so long.
Harry gripped that confidence between both hands and urged his bravery to rise to meet it.
With such thoughts in mind, he owled Daphne, asking her if she'd be willing to go to dinner after their Sign Language lesson that night. Her affirmative response was rapidly given and received.
So it was that Harry found himself sitting across from his life-long friend, with a cold sweat breaking out across his brow.
The Slytherin was perusing the menu unhurriedly, no concern marring her serene expression. She hadn't picked up on his strange mood so far, or, at least, had deigned not to comment.
His friend laughed at something on the menu, turning it to face him so he could read where she pointed. He forced a chuckle but his eyes were incapable of understanding the words her finger pointed to. His mind was too engaged with the future to focus completely on the present.
With concerted force, he shook himself from his stupor.
Be normal, he urged, only to groan inwardly as he knocked over the saltshaker.
Daphne laughed again at his mortified expression. "Someone is clumsy tonight," she teased. "But surely it can't be the star seeker for the Gryffindor team." Her eyes glinted with an evil playfulness. "What did they call you," she mused, taping her finger to her chin before resuming her signing, "youngest seeker in a century?"
"Beat your lousy team every year," Harry replied with twisting hands, an amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
She poked her tongue out at him. "You had the faster broom," she offered, "was hardly fair. Besides," she signed, "I'll never understand why catching a single silly ball is worth so many points. Seems rigged to me."
"Never pegged you for a sore loser."
"Never pegged you for a smug winner," she shot back with a grin.
He shrugged, feigning coolness. "Well, when you're the youngest seeker in a centur-," his sentence ending abruptly as his hands jerked in surprise at the balled up napkin thrown at him.
The night passed in similar fashion, both playing off one another's energy and relaxing into the familiar, unguarded nature of their friendship.
Daphne was working her way through Magical Law, trying to eke out provisions and statements of rights for blind, deaf, and impaired witches and wizards. It was slow going but she had sunk her teeth into the project with an impassioned fervour that thrilled him every time she talked about her job.
Harry was busy being a junior Auror and all the drudgery that title contained. He certainly hadn't expected quite so much bloody paperwork, but soon he'd be able to actually go out into the field. At least, that is what Minister Shacklebolt has assured him last time they'd had tea together over at Andromeda's house.
Life had been a series of ups and downs the past year but his relationship with Daphne had remained as strong as ever, he only hoped tonight wouldn't change that. Well, not entirely.
As the evening wore on and they finished their meals, he convinced her to take a walk with him to a nearby park. It was there, standing on the bridge overlooking a small creek trickling its way through the shadows of the night, that he swallowed his anxiety and turned to face her.
Daphne was leaning against the railing, utterly oblivious to his movement. Clearly, her focus was totally absorbed in watching the running water below them, with an expression of tranquility that touched him.
A gentle breeze tugged lightly at her black curls, their ends slithering to and fro. She wore a simple white dress with green embroidery, her shoulder's bare. Her face was relaxed and a smile danced upon her lips.
She was truly happy, maybe for the first time in her entire life. A happiness that could only come from finding peace in oneself. Daphne had confessed to him, late one night as they sat around his fireplace, that she had finally found a place where she belonged. Not only that, but she had friends, co-workers who respected her, and, now, a way to speak outside of a board and wand, notepad and pen.
At least, to people, rather than snakes.
Taking a deep breath, he touched her on the shoulder, causing her to move aside so she could peer up at him. The guileless smile she sent him made him grin in return but his nerves overrode the fleeting feeling of weightlessness, a blank, careful expression falling into place.
Without preamble or further fussing, Harry raised his hands so he could form three simple words.
"I love you," he signed, gaze never leaving her face. The eyes which had been watching his hand's movements so closely widened before darting to his own. Her lip trembled but no sound escaped.
She moved to reply back to him but he held up a hand, forestalling her. He took a breath and then spoke the words he'd thought so many times they'd become scorched across his mind, emblazoned upon his heart.
"I love you," he whispered in Parseltongue, letting the familiar words pass his lips, words he'd never forgotten to say even when every other phrase melted away to nothing in his memory.
She gasped, her eyes like starlight filtered through stained glass. The flame of those yellow-green eyes pierced him and he knew, without a doubt, that he would never be the same again.
A single tear welled up in her eye, catching the moonbeams from above, before spilling down her cheek in a single, solitary line. Her hands trembled as they rose to her mouth. A soft sob muffled by her fingers broke through, and then she lurched forward to hug him.
The air whooshed out of his lungs at her impact, but his arms moved naturally to wrap around her small, shivering body. She burrowed her face against his chest, making odd sounds that were halfway between a cry and a laugh.
They swayed together for a time, revelling in their newfound togetherness. Her warmth seeped through his flesh to heat his very core. Harry could feel the stupid, goofy smile threatening to overtake his entire face, but shrugged his shoulders and decided he didn't care how foolish he looked. So long as the moment would never end, that she would never part from her place against his heart, sheltered by his arms.
Eventually, however, she moved back, far enough away that she had use of her hands but close enough that his arms remained unbroken from where they were held around her waist.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she signed back at him, "I love you too."
His joy was effervescent, his whooping laugh as loud and raucous as hers had ever been.
"I have loved you for half my life so far. Please let me love you for the rest of it too," he responded.
She hiccuped out another half-sob, half-laugh before throwing her arms back around his neck and smashing her lips against his.
The movement was done so unconsciously and quickly that it caught him entirely by surprise. Before he could reciprocate, Daphne lurched backwards as though burned. Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment, eyes darting everywhere but at him. And then, catapulting him back in time to when he'd first met her, she began to fidget.
He blinked at her in stunned silence for a spell but before he could act, she began to sign.
"Jamison Raurcliff theorized that magical slugs could be utilized to cure the common cold in 1317 but it wasn't until 1546 that he was proved right by Maurice Ethelspoon at the-" her rapid flapping of hands were stilled when he gently grasped her wrists.
Eyes that had been fixated on a space over his left shoulder during her deluge of information finally settled back on him, staring as he closed the distance between them.
He cupped her face between his hands tenderly, delicately, as though she was made of spun gossamer, of the finest glass. She was so terribly small but stronger than anyone, stronger than him.
How he adored her.
When his lips touched hers he felt her stillness, tasted her silence. He pressed his mouth to hers like a whisper before pulling away so he could see her face. Tiny fingers gripped his shirt before pulling him fiercely back downwards. She stood on her tiptoes as she kissed him.
Her pupils were blown so wide that her irises were but slender green rings. He reached up to tug her hair out of its confining ponytail, causing a cascade of sable-coloured locks to tumble free, allowing him to twist a wayward curl around his finger, reveling in the soft weight of it.
"I love you more than my heart can hold," she signed earnestly. A blush stealing across her cheeks. "It spills out of me and I wish I had the words to tell you."
"You do," he whispered, feeling her hot gaze against his lips only to be replaced by the plump softness of her own mouth, moving hungrily over his own as he pressed against her once more. All those little moments with her throughout the years, passing in front of his mind.
"Everytime your eyes lit up when I entered a room, how I was the first person you'd tell good news to. Knowing that you thought of me before any other… and how you saved me after Sirius. And the War. Words could never do any of that justice in the first place." Those sentences had been unwieldy, necessitating multiple attempts of his clumsy hands to communicate the feelings welling inside. But when she had understood, her answering kiss had been forceful enough to rock him back on his feet.
Life had never been the same, he wondered as his lips felt the searing heat of her. Ever since he'd first been ensnared by those yellow-green eyes,hehad never been the same. She had changed everything the first time those bewitching irises had sung to him upon the Black Lake. He'd been too young to consciously understand, but like had recognized like.
The melody of honeyed jade was soft, sweet, and oh, so beautiful.
Now, with the alluring harmony completed Harry believed, with every fibre of his heart, every string of his soul, that she'd be part of that changed life forever.
Author's Note: This was a fun story to work on. Doubly so because I wrote and published the entire thing during Deaf Awareness Month. It was a challenge to write a different sort of pairing for Harry, and I ended up really enjoying Daphne's 'voice.' When I set out, one of my main goals was to write a love story with minimal 'words,' or, dialogue. I wanted to express the deafness of Daphne's world, how little things made of sound matter, and reflect that in her burgeoning relationship with Harry. 'Talk is cheap' as they say, and to the Deaf, whose words require action to even be communicated through sign language, this concept seemed perfectly paired.
I believe that words matter very little when it comes to real, total love. We all like to hear affirmations of love, but we only truly believe in that love when we are shown through actions.
This, undoubtedly, makes the story more exposition heavy than most stories typically are, and I have no idea if I really captured the essence of what I intended, but it was a unique storytelling experience regardless.
Perhaps, I'll feel tempted to come back and give this couple the same treatment I did Harry and Fleur by writing more interconnected stories of their lives. But, for now, I am glad to leave these two in the happy circumstances of love that they've finally found themselves in.