215Author's Note: Hello, thank you for reading my story. I greatly appreciate HonorverseFan taking the time to edit this chapter. Your friendship and suggestions are a constant source of inspiration.
I own none of the rights, nor make money, nor gain fame, or anything else from Harry Potter.
Cheers.
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 making 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.
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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 burgeoning something in 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, he had 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.
All the best,
Char
P.S. The broken Mirror of Erised showed flickering visions of divergent paths that would have led Harry to different 'heart's desires.' In this case, different women I've written him with.