Chapter Text
The sky is dark and droplets of rain hit my skin, running down my neck and making me shiver. I make it inside the building before it starts pouring in earnest.
I exhale and wipe the wetness on my face away, my hair limp from dampness. I'm cold and my legs are hurting. It's not exactly fun to be sitting at a desk for ten hours straight, sorting files by hand.
They call it work – I call it slavery. It's what's left for former Death Eaters. No one in their right mind would employ me.
I'm halfway up the stairs to my shitty apartment when I'm startled by a door opening. The apartment on the first floor has been deserted since the old lady occupying it died two months ago, leaving nothing behind but a distinct smell of catfood lingering in the hallway.
Someone exits the apartment; male, judging by the broad shoulders.
As soon as I see the mop of messy hair, my breath hitches.
This is impossible. Absolutely impossible.
And yet, when he turns and I see his profile, there is no doubt left.
It's Harry fucking Potter.
What the hell is he doing in a house like this? This is the worst of the worst, at least in London.
„Potter,“ I call before I can think it through. It's not like I want him to know that I live here, but... well, I want to know what he is doing here.
He doesn't fully turn to me, but instead heads to the door.
Alright, so he is ignoring me now. Wonderful.
I've become very used to being ignored – most people deem it the best way to handle me. I think they believe it's nicer than glaring. But by now, I almost prefer being stared at. Otherwise, I might forget that I actually exist.
I'm surprised though by how much this particular case of being ignored throws me. I'm not used to Potter ignoring me. He's normally so easy to bait. But it's been over a year. Things change, I certainly must know.
I'm standing on the creaking stairs for a few more moments after Potter is long gone, wondering how much bad luck one can have in the short lifespan of nineteen years.
I have no idea how he does it, but suddenly, Potter is everywhere. He seems to always be leaving the house when I come home and I've gotten used to glaring daggers into his back. He's still ignoring me. I've hissed his name twice more and he consequently acts like I wouldn't exist. I have yet to look him in the eyes.
Not that I'd want to, of course. The humiliating era of me chasing Potter's attention is supposed to be over.
Rain is thrumming against the windows and even wrapped up in my thickest blanket, I'm cold. Especially my hands holding the quill are frozen. I feel like my right hand is already completely destroyed from my relentless writing every night.
It's all I'm doing lately. Going out is no fun for me anymore – not with the Dark Mark still visible on the pale skin of my forearm, despite my attempts to cut it unrecognizable. Not with my father in Azkaban and my mother under confinement in Malfoy Manor.
When I get back home on a Friday evening, positively brain-dead after another pointless day of dull paperwork, I'm almost tripping over Potter's legs. He's sitting across the small hallway in front of his door, murderous expression on his face.
Me almost crashing my face into the floor because of his outstretched legs finally gets me his attention.
He is staring at me like he'd never seen me before. Like I wouldn't have called his name three times.
I try for my best sneer, even though his bright green eyes make me feel like there wouldn't be quite enough air in the house. „What are you looking at, Potter?“
He doesn't answer. His open, surprised expression transforms into a glare.
„And why is the mighty Savior sitting on the floor?“ He still does not answer and I want to scream at him. „So you're pretending I don't exist now, I see. Well, have fun staring at your door,“ I snap and almost stumble as I stomp upstairs, pulse way too quick.
When I go downstairs later that night to take out the trash (yes, it's one of those ugly tasks I now have to do myself), Potter is still sitting there. It looks like he might be about to fall asleep.
The idiot must be freezing.
I look at him in bewilderment. He's avoiding my gaze. I think I can see him swallow.
„Okay, Potter. You got me confused. Even you, I wouldn't have thought foolish enough to enjoy sitting in cold hallways smelling of catfood. Apparently, I've undererstimated you.“
I give him at least ten seconds. He doesn't respond. Not one word. Not even Sod off, Malfoy.
I don't get it. Potter has never been good at biting his tongue.
„Do you really live here?“ I ask. I still can't quite believe it.
Potter casts me a quick glance, then looks away again.
„Well, then. Keep on ignoring me.“
I roll my eyes and head to the stairs. But I can't resist and halt when I hear Potter getting up.
I turn, as silently as possible, and watch with my breath held.
Potter is standing in front of the door, his wand drawn. It sends a sharp ache through my chest.
I haven't even held a wand in over a year. I'm not allowed to.
Potter taps against the lock of the door. So I guess he doesn't even need words to do magic now anymore. I hate him even more for that – non-verbal magic has always been my thing. The thing I was good at and Potter wasn't.
But maybe Potter still isn't good at it, judging by the door staying firmly closed.
Is this some sick kind of challenge? Will he stay outside until he manages to open the door non-verbally?
I frown, still looking. Apparently unable to move.
Potter is shivering and then... he lets out a frustrated noise. It's weird. I can't say why, but it sounds – not like the groans I remember from Potter.
Maybe he can't speak.
The thought makes me go rigid, brain working. It would make sense. Potter might be a Gryffindor, but even he can't be stupid enough to rather risk getting pneunomia in the hallway instead of unlocking his door.
I hesitate.
I should go. Leave him here, figuring it out.
Potter returns to his spot on the wall, out of view for me. I can hear him scoot down, sneakers scratching over the floor. I should leave him there. If it was the other way around, he wouldn't give a damn either.
„Potter?“
This time, his stare is outright hostile. He almost bares his teeth at me.
Since he apparently can't do magic at the moment, I'm not too worried.
„Did someone hex you?“ I ask, genuinely curious. I wonder who is powerful enough to manage to curse Potter so effectively that it lasts for hours.
As he doesn't answer, I throw my hands up in frustration. „Merlin, why am I even here? Why do I even care? I mean, I don't, just for the record. But if the Savior is dying from hypothermia in the house I'm living in, it surely will be me who they'll blame, so I can't let that happen, can I?“
I'm babbling. It's a horrible habit of mine.
Potter's gaze seems to be fixed on my lips, his mouth hanging slightly open, brows drawn a little. His expression says „lost“.
„You're seriously still ignoring me?“ I cross my arms in front of my chest. „Fine, Potter. Then I'll leave you to it.“
I turn around, feeling humiliated and perplexed.
He gets up in one fluid motion and catches my wrist. I yank it away as if he'd have burned me.
Maybe I should still be worried, mute Potter or not. He's not much taller than me, if at all, but definitely more muscular and could probably take me down in a fistfight no problem.
„Let go of me!“
I cross my arms again, protectively this time. My heart is thudding in my chest.
Potter is fishing for something in the pocket of his worn jeans. Of course he's wearing muggle clothes. He pushes a small piece of paper into my hand. I eye it suspiciously. Potter avoids my gaze. I can see his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and quickly look away.
I make a show of rolling my eyes as I'm unfolding the note. But when I read it, I can't keep up my bored facade.
I'm deaf, the note simply says, the paper smooth and soft from being folded and unfolded many times.
I look back at Potter. His eyes flicker over my face for a moment, then fixate on my eyes. And there it is, this stupid Gryffindor defiance.
„How... is that possible? You're a wizard.“
I have never met a deaf wizard. There are close to no injuries or illnesses regarding the ears that a healer couldn't cure.
Potter is looking at my lips again and I understand. He's trying to read them.
But he must apparently not be very good at it, because he seems lost once again.
I hesitate, then pull a muggle pencil out of my muggle trousers. Yes, I've fallen this far.
On the paper, I write: „How did it happen?“
Potter doesn't answer right away. I think he's not sure he wants to tell me. Afterall, it's none of my business.
But then, he takes the note and pencil from me and writes: „Curse. Field training.“
Right. Potter had been close to completing his Auror training.
Utterly unbidden, a surge of compassion overcomes me. I know what it's like to think you have it all and then it's all of a sudden brutally taken from you.
I hesitate once more. This is a bad idea. But do I even have a choice?
„I'd open the door for you, but I don't own a wand anymore, so that is not an option.“
I'm trying to speak slowly, but I'm still not sure Potter understands. To be safe, I write the important part on the piece of paper. I hardly get it all squeezed in the remaining space.
„Do you want to come with me?“
Potter seems ready to shake his head. Then hesitates. Sighs. Nods in defeat.
Having Harry Potter in my tiny, wretched apartment makes me self-concious.
But in this situation, he is the one in need, so I try not to obsess over it. Afterall, who cares what he thinks of me? He already hates me anyway.
„Tea?“
He seems to have understood, because he nods, taking in his surroundings.
I'm seeing the apartment through his eyes. A ratty couch, a small desk overflowing with parchment, all rolls scribbled on in tight, small handwriting to fit as many words as possible on one roll.
My bed is set up in the corner and I can see his eyes dart over it. I'm fighting the urge to blush.
He finally sits down on the couch, watching me preparing tea. When I return with two cups and a small bowl of sugar, I'm a bundle of nerves, almost dropping everything.
„So, Potter,“ I say after handing him his cup. „Did you forget your keys?“
I reach for a clean piece of parchment and write my question down.
Potter nods.
„Why do you live here of all places?“ I write, arching an eyebrow at him.
His pencil hovers over the parchment and his green eyes are flickering. „To escape public attention,“ he finally writes and I think I understand. It must be difficult for the Chosen One to suddenly become a charity case.
Not that I'd really think he is that, but I'm rather sure he does.
„Are you still working as an Auror?“ I don't have to write the question down – he understands. His lips curl in a wry smile that I am not to find sexy.
„The Aurors don't take disabled people,“ he writes.
„Their loss.“ I'm blushing, hoping he wasn't able to read my lips. „Is there a chance you might be able to hear again one day?“
He swallows as he reads my question. Shakes his head and stares into his tea.
My heart contracts and I hate myself for the effect he has on me. Still.
Probably mostly to distract from himself, he starts asking me questions. Only very reluctantly, I tell him about my writing. It's not like I could deny the piles of parchment right in front of his nose.
To my surprise, Potter is asking intelligent questions and seems to be genuinely interested in my work. Even though I'm sure he's just trying to pass time.
I don't get into too much detail – he doesn't need to know that it's essentially a dissertation on the Death Eater cult and Voldemorts vastly unknown life story. I haven't gotten very far with the latter.
When I finally get to ask him what he is doing now that he can't work anymore, our tea is barely even lukewarm anymore.
„I'm learning sign language,“ he writes.
„For how long?“ I ask, trying to hide how intrigued I am.
„Three months now,“ he writes and shrugs, taking a sip from his tea. His vibrant eyes study my face.
When my skin is starting to itch because of it, I blurt: „You could teach me.“
His eyebrows rise and I blush, looking away. I'm always such a fool around him, it's horrible.
„What was that?“ he writes.
„Forget it,“ I say and this, he understands. But he doesn't let it go, the stupid Gryffindor.
„Did you ask if I could teach you?“
„Why is that such a strange request?“ My pencil is flying over the paper.
„I bet everyone wants to learn sign language, now that the Savior is doing it.“
Harry lightly shakes his head, crooked smile on his lips once again.
„Not really,“ he writes.
I don't know what to answer to that, so I keep still and quiet, turning my head away.
A tap on my knee startles me, my attention turning to Potter again immediately. He makes some circle in the air, then something like a salute and points to him.
I realize that he's signing.
The next movements of his hands are difficult to follow. „What did you say?“
He grabs the parchment again. „Hello my name is...“ he writes.
My brows knit together in concentration. „Can you do it again?“
He does, and then again and then twice more until I'm able to copy him. As he gives me an approving nod, I can't suppress a proud smile.
We spend at least two hours with him teaching me how to sign, even though his own signing is still pretty rocky, as he puts it.
My brain is starting to get fuzzy and I keep forgetting the letters for even my own name. As I'm once more muddling my way through signing Draco Malfoy, Potter suddenly reaches out, grinning broadly and holds my hands still.
At once, I can't breathe. His fingers are warm and rough and very strong and I feel almost dizzy as he's touching me.
He, apparently unaware of my distress, just smiles at me and starts bending my fingers into the right positions.
I eventually pull them away, my cheeks flaming. Pale skin really can be a curse sometimes. I can feel Potter's eyes on me, but don't meet his gaze.
„It's late,“ I say.
He nods.
„If you need to, you can sleep here,“ I write down.
It's not like I could just kick him out again, is it?
„You can have the couch,“ I then write and disappear into the bathroom first.
I try not to think about Potter seeing me in my pajamas. Not that they'd be revealing or anything like that – they cover me basically head to toe. But there is something oddly intimate about seeing someone in their nightwear. I feel vulnerable.
Hearing Potter brushing his teeth shouldn't make me this nervous.
„Good night,“ I say as he passes my bed.
He nods and signs something that probably means the same. I really need to get better at BSL, I think – only to be shocked about it a moment later. This is probably going to be the only real conversation I'll ever have with Potter.
There is no need to learn his stupid sign language when he doesn't want to talk to me anyway.
The first time I see Malfoy after what I call The Incident is two days later when I run into him in the hallway.
He looks like a startled animal, dropping his wallet. I pick it up for him.
„Thanks,“ I read from his lips. He won't look at me. I wish he would. Communicating is hard enough as it is when you're deaf – if the person you're trying to have a conversation with isn't even showing you their face, it becomes nearly impossible.
I tap his shoulder, a little impatiently. He looks up, gray eyes narrowed.
It's not like I'd like to touch you, I want to snarl. But being mute, what other choice do I have if I want to get your attention?
He swallows and I can't help but notice how long and elegant his neck is. It's a weird thought and I quickly disregard it.
I fumble for the ever-present piece of parchment with which I have quickly developed a love-hate relationship. I need it and it saves my life, but I don't want to need it. I really don't want to need it.
„I just wanted to thank you,“ I write. „For that night.“
That night was weird, but nothing compared to the morning after.
I don't think I've ever went through such excrutiating awkwardness.
Or, well – the date with Cho at Madam Paddifoot's might top it, but not by much.
First thing I did after escaping Malfoy's apartment was riding the train to Ron and Hermione's apartment to ask her to open the door for me.
The saddest thing about this is that it's not even that humiliating anymore. Not compared to all the other things my two best friends have had to do for me already.
If I'd known this would happen, I'd damn sure had paid more attention when Snape tried to teach us non-verbal spells. I suck at them so bad, I can hardly cast a Lumos, much less apparate or stupify someone.
„It's alright,“ Malfoy writes. And then he signs my lastname. P-O-T-T-E-R.
I can't stifle a surprised snort. Malfoy bites back a grin.
„Don't think you'd be rid of that now,“ he writes on the parchment.
„I'm impressed you even remember how to sign that,“ I scribble. „You suck at BSL.“
Malfoy's eyes go wide. „Hey!“
His soundless exclaim delivers almost as much indignance as his voice would have suggested.
„You'd need another lesson,“ I write.
I don't know why. I guess I'm more lonley than I thought.
It's just... Ron and Hermione do their best, but they have their own life and I can't always burst in and have Hermione teach me non-verbal spells. And Ginny... My girlfriend and I hardly seem to be talking anymore.
It's me, I know. I just can't bear to see the pity in her eyes.
And the disappointment when she rages about how unfair it is that I can't be an Auror anymore.
I know that it hit her almost as hard as it hit me. She loves me as an Auror.
Last time we talked (well, wrote about it), I exploded and wrote that it was perfectly understandable that Aurors don't take deaf people. It just isn't possible in the field.
And I don't want to be stuck behind a desk.
Malfoy looks at me. I think he's trying to decide if I'm being serious.
„Do you really think I have nothing better to occupy my time with?“ he writes, arching one regal brow at me.
I know he's working hard, even though I have no idea what job he might have. But whenever he is home, exhausted and frustrated, as it seems, I don't notice him leave his apartment.
I just shrug. Wait for his answer.
Surprisingly enough, I quite like teaching people my new language – if I can forget that they only have to even bother with it because of me, that is.
Ron and Hermione both have taken on the task with determined enthusiasm. Hermione, always up for an academical challenge, is frustrated that she doesn't pick it up faster.
Ron, on the other hand, is surprised that he's actually not as bad at it as we were all sure he would be. He hated Runes and when Hermione once tried to teach him a little bit of French, Ron gave up after two lessons.
But with BSL, Ron isn't such a bad student. I secretly find it adorable how upset he gets when he can't get the hang of one sign or the other. Unlike Hermione though, who then gets frantic and doesn't know what to say at all anymore, Ron mostly just laughs and starts signing gibberish – that I, more often than not, actually understand.
„I mean, it always does make a good impression to be educated in a broad variety of fields,“ Malfoy muses. I roll my eyes.
„When do you have time?“ he writes.
„Now?“
Malfoy looks at me as if I'd just suggested he perform a strip tease in the hallway.
„Why not?“ I sign and I don't think he can really understand it, but he gets the sentiment.
„Gryffindors,“ he mouths, shaking his head. I have no idea what he means by that, but I don't particularly care.
Whenever I pause to think about it, I wonder if I've finally gone completely insane. I'm hanging out with Malfoy of all people – and I don't hate it. I don't know why, but I enjoy every minute of our little sign-lessons.
Maybe it's simply because I'm so endlessly tired of pity and oh-isn't-it-tragic. All that fawning might have turned me into a masochist. Because, despite still vividly remembering how much I've hated Malfoy taunting me in school, I now find his snark... refreshing.
But, to be fair, it's not the same as it was in Hogwarts. He's still a git and insults me from time to time, but he doesn't go for low blows anymore. There is always an almost warmly ironic edge to his comments and I find myself really liking that
This is already our forth lesson and Malfoy being Malfoy, he insists on inventing a game: I have to answer every question he is able to sign.
„What do you want to work now?“ is the first question Malfoy chooses.
This one might not have been put very eloquently, but the meaning isn't misreadable.
I shrug and look away. „I don't know yet,“ I sign, movements a little curt.
„What about you?“ I ask, pointing at Malfoy afterwards to make sure he understands. He pauses. I'm not sure whether he doesn't want to answer or if he simply doesn't know how to sign it.
I know he sometimes pretends not to know how to answer something. I always slide the piece of parchment over to him then. That's what I do now as well.
„Paperwork for the Ministry. It's boring and futile,“ he writes and his expression makes it clear that he doesn't want to go into any more detail regarding this topic.
„My turn,“ Malfoy signs. I have to stifle a smile. This is definitely his favorite sign – his long fingers forming a perfect L (even though I think of it as a gun more than an L, since it'd be an L lying down) and turning inwards until they rest on his bony chest. When I do it, I usually don't touch my chest, but Malfoy likes to rest his hand there to make a point.
„Do you miss hearing?“ he signs. He's fingerspelling Hearing, which is against the rules. But he's a Slytherin – he cares for rules almost as much as Gryffindors do.
I look down. I can feel Malfoy shift on the couch. His quill is scribbling on the parchment. He pushes the piece over to me and I look into his eyes before I read it.
„I'm sorry if I overstepped.“
I flap my hand in a universal it's-fine gesture.
„All the time,“ I sign as an answer.
„What do you miss most?“ Malfoy writes.
I hesitate for a moment, not able to comprehend why the first thought darting through my brain is: Your voice. „People's voices,“ I settle on.
Vivid gray eyes make me uncomfortable.
I get lonely like this. Since I can't speak anymore, people aren't listening. I bite my lip and don't push the parchment over to Malfoy. I don't want him to read what I just wrote.
Except that a small part of me wants him to. Desperately.
Malfoy frowns and leans over, plucking the paper from my fingers. I could snatch it from him if I wanted to, but I let him read it.
His expression is hard to decipher. The last thing I want to see is pity. Some is there, I believe, but not much. It's more... understanding. A deep, profound understanding.
„You know the feeling?“ I sign.
Surprisingly, he seems to have understood. He is rather good at piecing together what I say, even when he doesn't know all the signs.
„Yes,“ he signs, then switches to writing again. „It's like that for me since the war ended. Everyone always only sees a Death Eater.“ He looks up and then signs, with a dry, almost sad smile: „People aren't listening to me either.“
I swallow as neither of us looks away. In the end, I'm the first to break eye contact.
„I also miss magic,“ I sign.
„Can't you speak at all anymore?“
I shake my head. The curse forbids it.
„Not good at non-verbal spells, are you, Potter?“ Malfoy writes and I glare at him.
„Careful,“ I sign, even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't know the sign.
„I could teach you.“
The offer is so unexpected that I read it twice before looking at Malfoy.
„Hermione already tried. I'm a hopless case,“ I write, trying for an ironic smile, but I'm not sure it lands.
„And what makes you think Granger is a better teacher than I am?“ Malfoy writes, simultaniously speaking the words. I remember the haughty tone of his voice.
Suddenly, I realize I'm never going to hear how Malfoy sounds when he's joking. When he's being gentle. When he laughs.
The knowledge shakes me to my core and I don't know why. I mean, the feeling itself, sure. It's horrible to never be hearing someone laugh again.
But why do I care about Malfoy's laugh specifically?
I maniacally search my brain, trying to remember whether I've ever heard him laugh before. Not really. Not with genuine joy.
I swallow. The weight of what I've lost crashes over me once again.
A gentle tap on my knee hauls me back into reality. Gray eyes are searching mine.
„Everything alright?“ Malfoy signs.
I hesitate. Just look at him. „I just really miss being able to hear,“ I sign and I don't think he understood it, not with the new sign I used or my messy movements.
„I'll teach you non-verbal spells,“ he mouths, slowly enough that I can read his lips.
At first, it's a disaster. I don't know what it is with me – I simply can't seem to be able to do magic without speaking. My wand is trembling in my hands, that's how tightly I grip it.
The words I want to say keep getting stuck in my throat, choking me until I can't breathe anymore. It's a side-effect of the curse, this choking feeling.
A hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I look at Malfoy.
„Don't try to speak,“ he signs. I frown. How does he know I'm trying to?
„You don't need words for this,“ he goes on. „That's the whole point.“
He fingerspells the last part and that makes me smile. Miraculously, Malfoy smiles back. The sight catches me off-guard. In all the hours we've spent together now, I've rarely, if ever, seen him really smile.
I try again. Nothing changes, except that I'm now actuely aware of Malfoy behind me, looking over my shoulder. It makes me nervous.
„You're still trying to speak,“ Malfoy signs and steps around me. I avert my eyes from his elegant fingers and try not to get angry. At myself, for being so fucking incapable.
A tap on my shoulder.
Malfoy extends both of his hands, palms facing the ground, thumbs extended. He moves them up and down.
Relax.
I take a deep breath.
„Sorry,“ I sign.
„Try again,“ Malfoy signs. It's scary how he's already so good with the needed vocabulary.
This time, I feel something change. I let go of the words darting through my head, instead focusing on the movement of my wand, picturing what I want to happen in my mind.
I'm so surprised to see the cup actually lifting from the table that I drop it immediately. Malfoy looks like he's groaning as shards scatter over the table.
„Sorry!“ I sign, movements big.
Malfoy rolls his eyes and points at me. I'm not sure if he means I'm supposed to make this up to him somehow or if it's simply a warning to take better care and not destroy any more of his dishes.
Only when he pickes up the shards by hand and throws them in the trash, I realize that Malfoy doesn't have a wand.
I'm so stupid. How could I not have thought of that?
Malfoy isn't allowed to carry one anymore – not since the trials.
And yet here he is, helping me with non-verbal spells. I wonder whether it's painful for him to watch me perform magic.
I bet it is. Afterall, I find it painful to watch people cast in front of my eyes, knowing full well it might take years until I'm able to do spells this difficult again.
But Malfoy never will.
Strangely enough, the thought makes me sad.
„You seem happier,“ Hermione signs as I drop by for our weekly dinner.
I shrug. I don't think I'm ready yet to tell them about Malfoy.
Just as I think it, I wonder why I'm being so bitchy. Afterall, I've fallen from grace too, now, haven't I?
I bite my lip, then sign: „I'm getting better at non-verbal spells. Malfoy has been teaching me.“
I wait as the couple exchanges a quick look, confusion written all over Ron's features. I think he's asking Hermione: „I didn't get that right, did I? He didn't really spell Malfoy.“
I don't like it when people are talking in front of me, mostly too fast for me to read their lips. But I'm also aware I can't exactly tell them to act like they'd be mute now too.
„Did you say Malfoy?“ Hermoine asks me, her hands a little frantic already.
I nod.
„How did that happen?“ she signs and I'm not sure what she's thinking.
„He's living in my house.“
„And you didn't tell us?“ Ron is clearly indignant.
I shrug, not knowing what to answer.
„It's not like a big thing. We're just hanging out sometimes because we're neighbors and both bored,“ I sign.
I'm met with looks of confusion and Hermione summons the chart she made for sign language.
Sighing, I fumble for the dreaded piece of paper and write my words down.
The moment I step into Ginny's apartment, I know something is wrong. She's fidgeting and keeps sneaking glances at me only to quickly look away.
„We need to talk,“ she writes. Ginny isn't good at sign language. She really tried in the beginning, I know that, but she's never been good with languages. Eventually, she got so frustrated that we switched to writing.
I raise my brows and motion for her to go ahead. She bites her lip, then meets my gaze evenly.
I know what she's going to say before she actually writes it down.
„This isn't working anymore. I want to break up.“
I keep staring at the words for some more moments after I've read them, trying to think of a response.
It's not like this is coming completely out of the blue. I know that I've been difficult lately, all frustrated and restless. And she was being pushy. Almost presumptuous in her attempts to help me, to get me „back on track“.
Still, I didn't think we were really about to break up. We've been through so much together – this should be childsplay.
But it's not, I think we're both realizing that only now.
„Why?“ I finally write.
She sighs, her brown eyes sad. „You're pushing me away,“ she writes.
My brows draw together. „I don't think you're being fair.“
I feel stupid, passing this terrible paper between us, not looking at each other while we're „talking.“ It makes me want to scream.
Ginny hesitates. I know she knows that she's not. Not entirely.
„It's not only you. It's me too. I just don't feel like -“ she erases the last part with a flick of her wand. „Things between us aren't working anymore. In any regard,“ she settles on.
I huff out a bitter laugh I can't hear. It still is strange to feel it only as vibrations in my chest and throat. „So this is about sex now?“ My handwriting is even worse now than usually – my hands are shaking lightly.
„Amongst other things, yes,“ Ginny writes, brows furrowed as she looks at me.
I know things haven't been good lately. And I know it's more me than it is her.
This is one thing I don't think I can blame on my deafness, at least not completely. It wasn't good even before that happened.
I don't know why. I thought it was maybe complacency starting to sneak its way into our relationship, or perhaps still the aftermath of the war.
Only before I was injured, it simply wasn't... great anymore. It wasn't so bad that one of us actually said something. I think we silently agreed on giving it all a little more time, hoping to reignite the old flame.
The thing is, it's hard for me to judge how good the sex has been to begin with. Ginny was my first, and my only.
„You're breaking up with me because I can't talk dirty to you anymore?“ I write, giving her my best sarcastic face.
She meets my gaze unabashedly. „Yes. It's one of very many things that make me think we're just not a match anymore.“
I look away and crumple the paper between my fingers. Ginny reaches for me, but I pull my hand away.
„Just leave,“ I sign and she probably can't read it, but my stance and expression is unmistakable.
„You're in my apartment, Harry,“ she writes in the air, with her wand. So she's mocking me now?
Abruptly, I stand and head for the door, not once looking back.
After five meetings with the Chosen One, I slowly start to become a little less suspicious.
And yet, when it finally happens and he ditches me without even telling me in advance, it comes as a small shock.
I'm sitting on my couch, legs crossed, hands clasped around my mug and try to convince myself that this is alright – actually, it's for the best. It was about time we stop this ridiculous... thing, whatever it was, we had going.
It's only hurt pride, I'm telling myself, staring into my tea.
My crush on Potter is so long past, I barely remember it anymore. Left in the dust. No trace to be found anywhere in my brain.
I'm such a liar.
I lean back with an exhale, my face twisting. I can't help but remember.
Seeing Potter for the first time as a tiny, scrawny eleven-year-old was a small revelation. I never felt something of the sort before – this instant desire to get to know him, to be close.
Him refusing my offer for friendship and me mistaking hurt feelings for hatred. Taunting Potter for years and years, not knowing what to do with his terrible ache in my chest, this urge to touch him. And then, the worst – in fifth year, when Blaise had long started casting privacy charms almost every night and sometimes in the mornings too and Pansy was snogging Theo Nott in hidden alcoves and I was wondering what was wrong with me – why didn't I want to go around kissing girls? Why did I not even feel the need to wank?
I started pretending I would, so no one would call me a freak.
Just as I started to believe I was some sort of great abnormality, I saw Potter in the showers. He wasn't even fully naked when I walked in on him after Quidditch practice. There was a red towel slung aroud his hips. Droplets of water clung to his bare chest and shoulders, his hair wet and no glasses hiding his striking eyes.
I managed a sneer while inside, I was burning up.
He was the fuel for my first conscious orgasm – hidden in the darkness of the Slytherin dormitories, blanket crumpled around my waist, fist working furiously and my left arm thrown over my face.
After that, I couldn't stop looking at him. It was worse than ever before because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't deny any longer that what I felt when his eyes met mine wasn't hatred.
I mean, it was – I hated him. I hated him for making me feel things that I didn't want to feel, things I thought of as shameful and forbidden. Mostly though, I hated him for not wanting me back.
Part of me was almost glad for not really having the headspace to think about sex or relationships in sixth year. Not that the alternative wasn't way worse, but at least I was saved from causing my own dick to fall off due to too much furious wanking over Harry fucking Potter.
And still, when I already thought that all foolish infatuation for Potter was long gone, I saw him at Malfoy Manor, ugly and barely recognizable, but all I thought was that I couldn't let him die. It felt like my world might end if I did.
After the trials though, I was so confident I was over him. I saw him in the Prophet from time to time, once or twice with the Weasley girl. And I knew I had to let it go.
I thought I did.
Afterall, it's not even like I want to be with him. I'm still not sure what to think about the whole, well... gay-thing. I mean, my father is locked up in Azkaban and no one can tell me who to date anymore, but – I don't know. I'm not sure I want to be like that.
And why am I even thinking about that? Potter ditched me. It's over now. The next time I run into him, I'll just nod politely and then get on with my life.
I'm deep in my studies when it knocks on the door.
My heartrate is spiking immediately and I try to calm it. It's probably just some other neighbor who needs sugar or something like that.
It's not.
It's Potter. And he's obviously drunk. I bite my lip.
„Can I come in?“ he signs and his movements are sloppy.
I hesitate.
Having drunk men who despise me in my house has never worked all that well for me.
„Please?“
I sigh and let Potter in. „What are you doing here? You ditched me earlier,“ I sign. I know I keep surprising him with how good I already am at BSL. Little does he know I spend more or less my whole workday secretly learning it. I'll take that secret to my grave. Let Potter think I'm just a natural.
„Sorry for that,“ he signs, dropping onto my couch.
„Why are you drunk?“ This time, I have to write it down. I don't know the sign for „drunk“.
Potter gives me a wry look, eyes shadowed and clouded from alcohol. „Ginny broke up with me.“
I swallow. „And why would the She-Weasel dump the mighty Savior?“ I write.
Potter narrows his eyes.
„Stop mocking me,“ he writes.
I almost feel bad. But I need to do something to conceal how much these news affect me.
„Apparently I'm a shit boyfriend,“ he signs. I don't understand what his hands are saying next.
I hand him the paper.
„And absolutely crap in bed since I'm deaf.“
A pathetic, strangled noise escapes my throat and I have never been this relieved that Potter can't hear it.
He must be completely wasted if he's talking to me about his sex life now.
„I mean, I get it,“ he signs. „Dirty talk is sexy and I can't do it anymore.“
I know there are ugly pink blotches on my cheeks now. Potter seems to notice them and sighs, a breathy exhale of air. „Sorry. I talk too much,“ he signs and I just shake my head, not knowing what to answer.
Knowing I'm in danger of making a fool of myself, I sign, hesitantly: „But can't you sign in bed too?“
I'm sure that there is another sign for „in bed“, for how I mean it, but Potter gets it, even in his drunk state.
At his raised brows, I hastily continue – this time in written form. „It certainly isn't ideal, but it's not like you wouldn't be able to commuincate?“
Potter tilts his head, looking at me way too attentively. „It's not the same,“ he signs.
I guess I'm just going to shut my foolish mouth now.
But really, it is all Potter's fault, bringing this up. We don't have that kind of relationship.
„And Ginny doesn't like sign language,“ he continues.
I throw him a look. „That is strange, considering her boyfriend is deaf.“
Potter smiles wryly at the parchment before looking up at me again.
„Ex-boyfriend,“ he mouths and I wonder whether he doesn't know the sign for this and can't be bothered to write, or maybe isn't able to in his drunken state, but I'm mesmerized by his lips.
„Well, I'm sure you won't stay single for long,“ I write, glad that I can't be looking at him while writing. „Witches are certainly already tripping over their own feet in their haste to get a piece of the Chosen One.“
Potter sighs and rests his head on his arm slung over the armrest, one leg tucked under. He has to lift his head again to sign: „I don't want someone like that.“
It's a misconception often made about the Chosen One: He doesn't like attention. I still find it strange, at least a little. I guess I'm such a whore for people looking at me that it's difficult for me to understand how someone does not like to be the center of attention.
I do, however, get that he isn't looking for a partner that is unable to see him as a person instead of a hero.
When I surface again, temporarily lost in thoughts, Potter is sleeping. Indignant, I shake his shoulder. He blinks at me. „What?“
„You were falling asleep,“ I say and I can see he has trouble reading my lips. His eyelids are fluttering again.
„Potter,“ I fingerspell. I almost don't have to think about in anymore.
He opens his eyes again.
„Call me Harry,“ he signs.
I swallow, staring at him. It's not like I'd be using his name very often while signing. Fingerspelling takes time. It wouldn't change much if I simply nodded.
But it feels like much.
„Will you leave if I do?“ I write, not knowing how to sign it.
Potter rolls his eyes. Nods.
„Okay,“ I sign and scoot away, hoping he'll get the cue and vacate my couch. He doesn't.
Instead, his fingers close around my wrist. I look at him, biting my lips.
The finger of his dominant hand points to his mouth, then he moves it down and forward.
I swallow. He signed: „Say it.“
„You can't hear it,“ I sign, my mouth dry.
Potter doesn't answer. Just keeps looking at me. Then he repeats the sign.
I roll my eyes even though I feel weird and out of it, not at all haughty.
„Harry,“ I say. It's strange, hearing my own voice in the quiet room. Unbidden, memories from years ago press forward, demanding my attention. I've said his given name before, in quiet rooms where no one could hear me. It was usually either on a breathy exhale or a shout.
Potter's eyes are glued to my lips as I say his name and shivers are running down my spine. I can't help but stare at him.
He smiles. „I like when you say my name,“ he signs and while I have a near death experience, Harry falls asleep.
I wake up with a pounding headache and instantly remember while I usually don't drink. My neck is a little stiff, but the blanket I'm covered with smells almost sinfully good.
I blink my eyes open and slowly lift my head.
The sight I'm met with is equally odd and endearing.
A bare-footed, pajama-clad Draco with tousled hair is leaning against his small kitchen counter, watching me warily.
„Look who woke up,“ he says. It's easy to read his lips when he's speaking so slowly and well-pronounced.
I lift my shoulder in a sheepish shrug. I didn't really intend to crash at his apartment for the night. Obviously, I must have been drunker than I was aware.
„Slept well?“ I sign and Draco looks at me as if I'd have grown a second head. I slowly peel the blanket off myself and stand up. As soon as I do, my stomach makes a worrying flip.
„Sorry for invading your home,“ I sign and he just keeps looking at me with that tiny frown between his eyebrows. I have the ridiculous urge to smooth it with my fingertip.
„I'll head downstairs,“ I sign, not looking at him. I think he nods and I hastily push past him.
To my relief, the awkwardness between Draco and I is quickly fading.
Winter is approaching in fast steps, the rainfalls becoming colder and the air in Draco's apartment stale because he doesn't want to open the windows anymore.
It's a late December evening when I'm once again curled up on Draco's couch. We've just finished with practicing non-verbal spells and I'm sipping the tea Draco made, amused still by the amount of sugar Draco always puts in his.
Our elbows are almost touching on the armrest and I'm smiling as Draco tells me a funny story about one of his coworkers. They are all rather atypical figures.
I'm watching Draco's hands move and the expressions quickly changing on his face as he signs and I don't even notice that I stop paying attention to his words. Instead, I trace the shape of his mouth with my gaze. Let it wander over the bridge of his nose. It's a cute nose. Perfect, even.
I swallow, tensing slightly. Maybe I should stop looking at him like that.
But then he stands up to get more tea and I can't tear my eyes away from his body. His legs are long and skinny, his shoulders rather slim. I'm mesemerized by his ass as he walks. It's not big or anything, but the shape is lovely.
I'm staring at Draco Malfoy's ass.
I choke on my tea as the realization hits me. Draco turns around, raising an eyebrow as I'm coughing and hoping that I won't spit on his couch.
The breakup must have really gotten to me. Or maybe I just desperately need to get laid.
It's probably a mixture out of both.
I mean... I'm not interested in boys. And if I was, Draco Malfoy would be the last person I wanted to shag.
Wouldn't he?
I sneak another glance at him. His platinum blond hair is definitely an eye-catcher and, yes, his face is undeniably pretty, but... Jesus. He's not drop-dead gorgeous. Right?
I swallow. He's too skinny, I try to tell myself. He doesn't even really look like a man yet.
Maybe that's it. Maybe Draco is so feminine that my brain got confused.
One more look at him and I have to stop fooling myself. There is definitely something feminine about Draco, but he's undeniably a guy. A guy with long legs and gray eyes and someone help, what the hell is wrong with me?
„Everything alright?“ Draco signs and I force a smile.
„Yeah, I just... it's late,“ I sign, aware that my hands are fluttery, that I can't meet Draco's eyes.
I basically flee his apartment, feeling Draco's stare burning in my back.