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“... is a result of the trauma you’ve been through,” the healer stated, “Now, that you’re not experiencing the things you’ve been accustomed to your whole life, your mind and body have shut down the ability to speak. Or rather, you have the ability speak, but you can’t.”
“But- does this mean he’ll never speak again?” his best friend asked, his eyes rimmed as red as the colour of his hair. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
The healer explained, “Since there isn’t anything physically wrong, he hasn’t been cursed, and nothing in his physical health points to damaged vocal cords, Harry himself has to do the work. It’s- how should I put this? The walls he’s built up through his life, keeping him stable and relatively unaffected, have come crashing down. We’ve spoken to his mindhealer, who- Harry, are you sure you’re okay with your friends hearing this?”
Harry nodded in answer.
“Okay, well- Your mind healer has told us about your symptoms and the diagnoses she’s sure you have. From a very young age, you’ve had problems with food, and you still do, from what I’ve understood,” Harry nodded, “And you’re showing slight symptoms of obsessive compulsive disorder, anxiety, and depression. But the obvious one is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“But we all have a bit of PTSD,” Ron stated, “We’ve been through a bloody war! Why- I- I don’t…”
The healer noticed the confusion on his friend's faces, “I understand how this can feel tough. But PTSD shows different symptoms in all people. While some might have trouble sleeping, some might get panicattacks, some might get into a deep depression and some- some might go mute. It’s different for everyone. Harry’s mutism- your mutism, Harry, is a symptom of your trauma. It’s called selective mutism, or traumatic mutism. It doesn’t mean you’ll never speak again; most likely you will speak. But you have to remember that it’s going to take time, and many, very small steps, before you can freely speak again.”
Harry was mute. After he’d killed Riddle, he’d hidden away in Grimmauld Place for five weeks. Speaking to no one, seeing noone. The only company he’d had was Kreacher. He’d fed him, helped him clean himself, and made sure he didn’t rot away in bed. Harry didn’t find it a pleasurable experience, but Kreacher defiantly wouldn’t let his master become a shell of a person. Harry was his master, and as little as Kreacher liked that fact, he had to take care of his master.
When Harry had finally left Grimmauld Place, he went to the Burrow. He was prepared for anger, screaming and hatred. But when he knocked on the door with shaking hands, it flung open and he’d immediately been dragged in a bone-crushing hug. Ron. Ron, who had lost his brother, who had lost friends, fought so hard that he’d nearly died. Ron had been through almost as much shit as Harry, but still- His Ron hugged him so hard it felt like he would never let go.
That had been three weeks ago, and Harry hadn’t been able to say a single word since. Well, he hadn’t been able to say a single word in almost eight weeks, but he thought- he thought it would get better when he reunited with his friends. That hadn’t been the case. That’s why they were here, at St Mungos, being poked and probed, examined and interrogated. Harry still hadn’t said anything, which was why he’d brought Ron and Hermione. But when they couldn’t answer a question for him, or when they weren’t allowed to answer, Harry had written on a piece of parchment. It was exhausting.
“... while you might not be able to speak a single word right now, in a few weeks you might be able to say short words, like hi, yes or no. After that, longer words, then sentences. And eventually you’ll be able to have whole conversations. But this does not mean you’ll be able to speak in every situation. You might only be able to say hi to your closest friends when no other people are around. It all depends on the situation, where you are, and who you’re with. But most importantly, how you feel.”
“How can we help?” Hermione requested, “We understand it will take time, but if there is anything we can do to make it easier, we want to know.”
“You just have to be there for him,” the healer smiled, “All of you have to take care of eachother. You’ve been through a lot together, your friendship has wounds, scars. You’ll need to heal that, and heal yourselves. Be safe, for eachother.”
Ron couldn’t sleep, which was obvious when you looked at him. His eyes were red, and there were dark circles around them, and a tired aura surrounded him.
Hermione couldn’t sit still. She was constantly moving around, trying to keep herself busy. Staying up so late that when she did go to bed, she fell to sleep easily.
Harry couldn’t speak. When he tried, it felt like he had to use up all the little energy he had. He’d take a deep breath, try to say a word and then just… breathe out. No words forming.
The three of them. Best friends. All broken. But- all safe.
Exhausted.
Restless.
Mute.
But safe.
-
A week later, school started. They’d been invited for an eighth year. To complete their N.E.W.T.s, Harry hadn’t been very excited, but Hermione insisted that it would be good. They had to work on healing themselves, and there was no better place to do that than Hogwarts.
The only problem was that they hadn’t told profe- Headmistress McGonagall about Harry's problem with- well, words. But it was becoming more and more obvious to everyone at Hogwarts that the saviour, the boy who lives, Harry Potter, wasn’t speaking.
Rumours started going around, students whispering everywhere he went. Noone had outright asked him, though.
One day, in transfiguration class, Harry needed to leave. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t do anything.
He stood up. Taking his bag and making his way to the door, he didn’t make it very far before being noticed.
“And where do you think you’re going, Mr Potter?” McGonagall’s voice cut through the classroom. Everyone's eyes were turned to him.
Harry took a breath, opened his mouth and… sighed. He turned back to the door and started walking. Before the door closed, he heard Ron’s voice. “He has a headache, he’s going to Pomfrey.”
-
“Harry,” Ron nagged, “You need to inform McGonagall. You can’t expect to go through the whole year without anyone knowing.”
Harry looked at him, "How?" How exactly am I supposed to tell her. Can’t speak, remember?
As if Hermione understood exactly what Harry was thinking she sighed, “We can help you. I’ll come with you to explain. Please?”
Harry nodded, "Okay." I love you.
The headmistress was unexpectedly understanding. Nodding along when Hermione explained the situation.
”I’m glad you decided to tell me, Potter,” the headmistress smiled warmly, ”I understood something was wrong. If you need something, just tell me. That goes for all of you.”
-
The whispers didn’t stop. If anything, they got worse. And Harry avoided people at all times, except for classes. If, and that is if, he was in the eight year commonroom, he sat as far away from people as possible, reading a book or staring into the fire. His same-aged classmates had about a month into the term understood that they shouldn’t bother him, or try to talk to him. Because they wouldn’t get an answer.
Harry had started saying short words to Ron and Hermione at the beginnin or term, but only in private, when Harry felt truly relaxed. His two best friends were the only people who'd heard Harry speak in nearly four months. But then, two months into the term, Draco Malfoy came up to him. Harry shook, scared or angry, he wasn’t sure. But Malfoy looked nervous, and tired, and Harry couldn’t look away.
”I realised I never thanked you for what you said at my trials- or well- wrote. I’ve heard you don’t speak anymore. I don’t blame you- people are awful. Not- not bad, I don’t want to hurt anyone, don’t take it the wrong way- they’re just- not- they’re just- annoying… and I’m rambling, so… thank you, and I guess, hello.”
Harry didn’t know what it was, but Malfoy was… cute. So Harry smiled, took a breath, opened his mouth slightly and;
”Hi”
Draco’s eyes widened, his mouth hung open for a second before he realised what he was doing. He closed his mouth, took a shaky breath and stammered, ”Oh, I- well- okay, bye”
No one had been around when this interaction happened, and Harry guessed Malfoy hadn’t told anyone that Harry had spoken to him because no one had cornered him about it. Harry wasn’t sure himself why he'd said it. It just felt right, Harry had felt relaxed and also felt like if he hadn’t said something, he would’ve exploded.
Malfoy's reaction had been uncomfortable, for a second, but then he hadn’t commented on it and just left, and Harry had wanted to cry. For once, he didn’t feel like a freak.
A week later, Harry sat in a secluded corner in the library. He hadn’t told anyone he was there, and no one had come to bother him. It was nice and quiet. Until he heard soft footsteps coming closer. Harry held his breath, praying for the person to turn around and leave. But his prayers didn’t get answered, and when he saw who the person was, Harry thanked whatever god hadn’t listened to him.
Draco Malfoy froze when he saw Harry. A faint panic flashed through his eyes, but then he came closer and sat opposite Harry.
”Are you reading?” The blond asked, ” I’ve noticed you’ve been reading a lot this term, which is new because I’ve basically never seen you read before. I guess maybe it’s because you don’t really speak. It must get lonely. I- I’m sorry. I read about it, mutism, and- well- I don't know. If you ever want to be- if- well- if you ever feel like you don't want to be alone but also not- I don't know what I'm saying. Just- I don't expect you to talk, which is why I’m… rambling again,” he sighed, ”I’m sorry. Not just about the rambling. But- anyway- let me try again… are you enjoying your book?”
Harry smiled softly. He knew Malfoy didn’t expect him to answer with words, he could just nod, but… ”Yes”
It continued like that, they’d meet by accident, Malfoy would ask questions Harry didn’t have to speak to answer, but if he could, Harry would say yes, no, maybe.
They’d gotten to know each other really well, and Harry had realised that maybe- maybe he fancied the git. But while the realisation caused a warm sensation to spread in his chest, it also caused him to want to scream and cry. Because how would Malf- Draco fancy him back when Harry couldn’t even speak properly. It felt hopeless; maybe Harry wouldn’t ever speak again. Who would love him then?
“Hello, Harry,” the blonde git, whom Harry liked far too much, greeted him when he joined the Gryffindor at the back of the library.
“Hello,” the Gryffindor mumbled. He’d decided last night that he would try his best to get better, to make the Slytherin know him.
“Are you well?” Again with the yes or no questions.
“Yes,”
“That’s good,” Draco smiled, Harry wanted to melt into the ground. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,”
“I had the strangest dream last night...” and then Harry stopped listening. He couldn’t stop staring at his mouth, his beautiful, pink, soft… “Harry? Harry, are you listening?”
“No,”
A frown got painted on the blonde's face, “Is something wrong?”
“Yes.”
Worry, fear, desperation, “Harry, you can tell me anything. Do you want to write it down?”
Harry felt disgusted with himself, write it down, “No.”
“Well,” Draco sighed, “Is it something to do with me?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, “Okay, well- if- if I could say something first?” he waited for Harry to nod before he continued, “Okay- I… I’ve really appreciated these past few weeks. I never thought we could ever not be fighting, let alone be friends. But I’m glad we- we were able to be friends. I’ve really-”
Harry couldn’t listen to it anymore, “Draco.”
The blond shut his mouth so fast he could hear it click. Harry had never said his name before. It felt good.
“I like you,”
“I like you too, you’re a really good friend,” Harry huffed at the title. Friend. Harry didn’t want to be friends.
“No, I like you, Draco,” Harry whispered. Saying this wasn’t hard, it wasn’t exhausting. He felt more at peace than he’s ever felt before. Like he could finally breathe again.
“Wha- what?”
“I. Like. You.”
Silence.
“I fancy you,” Harry said steadily.
“Really?” he sounded unsure, hopeful. Harry stared into his eyes and nodded. Saying those few sentences had taken the energy out of him. “Are you sure?” Harry nodded again. “Really? You’re not joking?” Harry shook his head.
They both just stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Harry took a breath, trying to muster up as much energy as he could. What he said now he would only be able to say once, and he had to make it clear, “I think I’m in love with you. But it’s not fair, because I can’t speak properly. I might never be able to have a normal conversation. It’s exhausting. And while I feel like I know every part of you, you don’t know anything about me. I just had to say that, I think I love you.”
Harry couldn’t meet his eyes, but when Draco spoke, he felt it in every part of his body, “I- what? I don’t know you? Where the bloody hell have you gotten that idea from? I know you, Harry.”
The Gryffindor shook his head, but Draco just continued, “No! I know you. I know you’ve had a shit life, I know you’ve had to be strong through all of it. And now, when you’ve finally got some sort of peace, all of that shit came crashing down on you. Messing with your brain. But you’re still you. You are still the boy who rejected my friendship in first year, you’re still the boy who can speak parselmouth, you’re still the boy who loves people no matter who or what they are. You’re brave, kind, empathic, stupid, smart. In fifth year you created a secret club so your classmates could learn and practice their spells, you sacrificed yourself to save the wizardingworld. And noone has ever really shown the appreciation you deserve for that. Everyone has this picture of how you’re the great saviour of all that is magic. But you’re just a boy. Sure, you’re brave and kind, but you’re also stupid and reckless. Your grin is sort of crooked, you don’t like sausages, you love pumpkinjuice with a passion. Your favourite colour is green, even though you’ve never told anyone, you break your glasses regularly, you’re horrible at potions, even though you come from a long line of great potioneres. When you’re embarrassed, nervous or frustrated, you mess up your hair even more. You hate eating apples, but you love the smell of them. Your favouritefruit is orange, but you can’t eat them too often because you get blisters in your mouth. You’re incredibly smart, even though you’re also stupid… as long as you don’t lose focus, you would be top of our year in almost all classes. You love flying, cause it makes you feel free. You hate small spaces, you constantly chew on your lips, you love cats, you didn’t care when Snape died, and after the war, you realised you’re glad that Dumbledore’s dead. I could go on forever. But my point is, I know you.”
“How?”
“How do I know all this? Because. I. Know. You.” Draco insisted, “Just because you don’t communicate in words all the time doesn’t mean you don’t communicate. You write, you smile, you frown, you use your bodylanguage, and I see you. I watch you, Harry. I’ve been watching you for years. You haven’t changed, you’ve grown up. You’ve experienced things, but you’re still you. And- and, I’m in love with you.”
Harry could only stare at the boy beside him. Draco’s inlove with him. Draco knows him. And really, that was all Harry had to know before he shifted in his seat, leaned closer and kissed Draco Malfoy.