Fic: Silencio (No Challenge)
Title: Silencio
Summary: He’s still working on lip-reading, but he thinks he catches “daft,” “foolish boy,” and an “are you deaf?!”
It’s all Harry can do to bite back an, “I wish.”
(Harry has BIID)
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter (Main), Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, Hermione Granger
Genre: Drama
Rating/Warnings: PG/None
Word Count: 1,479
There’s a running joke through Hogwarts, one that’s spoken softly and in hushed whispers. Everyone knows better to say it loudly and in the presence of any teacher. It would be outright suicide if the brunt of the joke learned of it. And it was akin to suicide should any student take the joke fully to heart.
Professor Severus Snape has the voice of sex.
Of course, the man was sent from Hell itself and was hell bent on dragging every non-Slytherin and terrible Potions student down with him. And there was the total admittance that the professor was a right bastard.
And although Harry laughs and agrees…He knows something is just not quite right with him. He knows that the ugly git has the most amazing voice; it even shakes him at his core at times. But he doesn’t care to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear the voice of sex.
No.
He dreams of silence.
He wonders if the world around him is just so much sharper to him than it is to everyone else. No one else is bothered by the small clangs of forks and knives on porcelain plates. No one winces when someone talks unbearably loudly. Harry knows the rustle of leaves from the forest, the thundering pit pats from the rain on the roof, the harsh scuffs of shoes on stone, and the piercing noises from the Wizarding Wireless. He would call them vibrant sounds, but vibrant implies beautiful. Vibrant implies welcoming. These sounds are anything but.
Sound is anything but.
At night, Harry presses his hands to his ears. Everyone assumes that he’s blocking out Ron’s snores. Harry doesn’t challenge the idea; after all, it’s partially true. The lack of sound is comforting, but it’s still not enough; he can’t go around Hogwarts with his hands pressed to his ears all day long. Everyone would think he was nutters.
Nutters.
Harry shoves away the thoughts that clamor in his head telling him that of course he’s nutters.
One day, Harry casts a silencio around himself. It’s the most beautiful thing and it’s as if he can breathe for the first time in his life. He watches his friends’ mouths move and tries to read their lips. He can tell that they think something’s up and Hermione’s watching him curiously with a frown on her face. Harry nods his way through and remembers to utter a ‘fine’ here and there. And he is fine. He’s more than fine.
He feels right. He feels whole.
And then in Transfiguration, McGonagall realizes what he has done and she forces Harry to take down the silencing charm around himself.
There’s a rush of sound washing around him. Drowning him. He’s drowning in a collection of tapping quills, shaking legs, and smacking lips. It’s an extra perception that he does not want.
McGonagall demands to know why he felt that he needed a silencing charm around himself but Harry cannot explain. How can he tell her that her voice is so loud and sharp? That the crispness of her tone bites through the air and into his ears?
Harry can only respond in shrugs and he loses points from Gryffindor while Hermione sits again, still staring at him. This time, she has her Research Mode face on. She’ll skip dinner later to go to the library.
Sure enough, Hermione heads to the library during dinner. Ron shoves his mashed potatoes in his mouth and tries to talk to Harry, who begs off after coming up with the most brilliant idea.
The next day, Harry arrives to Potions class. The only class where you could hear the voice of sex. Snape obviously insults him and though Harry is quick to anger, it’s slightly muted because he’s so pleased. The professor’s mouth moves; it twists, frowns, and sneers. His eyes glitter dangerously. His hands clench in fists and are careful around the classroom.
It’s soundless. Quiet. Mute.
It’s refreshing. It’s proper. It’s how things are supposed to be.
His body has never felt quite so content.
Harry likes to watch their mouths move. The only thing that would make it better is if they talked with their hands. He wants to see everyone’s hands flutter around, signing their words as they spoke. He wants to speak with hands. And though it’s coming slowly, Harry enjoys practicing Sign. Hermione’s only caught him doing so once, and he made sure to explain that it was for someone over the summer.
But with his head down, Harry never notices Snape yelling and cursing at him for his shoddy work with potions. Hermione has to nudge him in the ribs and point. Harry looks up red-faced; he can see Snape’s nostrils flaring in anger and his mouth twisting angrily. He’s still working on lip-reading, but he thinks he catches “daft,” “foolish boy,” and an “are you deaf?!”
It’s all Harry can do to bite back an, “I wish.”
But he’s quiet like a good student. Well, more like an arrogant student in Snape’s opinion.
Of course, Hermione takes the opportunity to be inquisitive, never ceasing even under Snape’s angry tutelage, or lack thereof, and notices what’s in Harry’s ear. She stares wide-eyed and realization followed by a slight confusion dawns on her face. And of course, Snape notices and twists Harry’s head to the side.
Harry burns bright red. The plan was supposed to be foolproof. Every professor would have used magic to try and get rid of his blessed silence.
Snape grasps his hair to hold him still. Harry tries not to wince as Snape’s long fingers tug strands of his hair right out of his head. Snape shoves his finger in his ear and pulls out a bright purple ear plug.
He knew he should have at least tried to change the color.
Snape’s grip tightens on Harry’s hair and Harry can hear Snape’s heavy breathing as he tries to get himself in control. There’s a dangerous pause before Snape launches into a lengthy tirade but Harry doesn’t care because he can hear again and the sounds are even worse than before. It doesn’t matter that Snape’s voice is delicious. It doesn’t matter that Snape is raging. It doesn’t matter that Harry is probably going to have a rather large bald patch on his head when all is said.
All that matters is the sound.
It’s horrible and he hates it.
Eventually, Harry finds himself seated between Snape and McGonagall with the three of them facing Dumbledore. Harry shifts in his seat, torn between crossing and uncrossing his legs. His attempts to do both fail and Snape snorts and mumbles “attention-seeking brat” while McGonagall looks down at him with a strange sort of pitying smile.
Harry can hear the squeak of the chair, the metal tin popping open, and the crinkling paper of the lemon drops. Snape is studying him like he’s a slime-ridden flobberworm in the midst of an experiment. Dumbledore’s not much better, but at least he seems friendlier than Snape.
“Harry,” Dumbledore begins softly.
Harry’s face burns and he stares down at his shoes. One of his shoelaces was untied. He really ought to fix that.
“Harry,” Dumbledore says again, a bit more forcefully.
Harry looks up and bites his lip.
“Some of your professors have realized that you’ve been having some,” he pauses as if trying to find the right word, “…difficulties.”
And Harry knows where this is going. It happened once before in primary. There, he had made the mistake of telling them how he felt. He had told them how he didn’t feel complete unless he couldn’t hear. They called it a ploy for attention.
“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Harry?”
He wants to tell them. He really wants to tell them everything. Well, okay, not Snape. But he wants to tell someone who will get it. He wants to burst out and say that he’d like to be deaf, that hearing things feels wrong and foreign. But Snape would scoff and mutter about how he didn’t feel like he had enough stardom, and McGonagall would be sad and confused while Dumbledore would spout some sort of wisdom that left him feeling guilty.
“No, sir,” Harry finally answers.
Dumbledore frowns. McGonagall squints from behind her spectacles. Snape sneers.
There’s a lecture that Harry hears but doesn’t absorb. There’s detention received. And Harry’s warned against showing up to class again under a silencio charm, with ear plugs, or any magical or muggle equivalents.
Dumbledore dismisses Snape and McGonagall.
“Are you certain there’s nothing you’d like to tell me?” Dumbledore asks, one last time when Harry stands and turns to the door.
Harry’s head tilts down and he forces himself from whirling around and telling him everything. “I’m sure, Professor,” he says.
“Very well then, Harry.”
No. It wasn’t very well at all.
49 points for Slytherin!
Summary: He’s still working on lip-reading, but he thinks he catches “daft,” “foolish boy,” and an “are you deaf?!”
It’s all Harry can do to bite back an, “I wish.”
(Harry has BIID)
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter (Main), Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, Hermione Granger
Genre: Drama
Rating/Warnings: PG/None
Word Count: 1,479
There’s a running joke through Hogwarts, one that’s spoken softly and in hushed whispers. Everyone knows better to say it loudly and in the presence of any teacher. It would be outright suicide if the brunt of the joke learned of it. And it was akin to suicide should any student take the joke fully to heart.
Professor Severus Snape has the voice of sex.
Of course, the man was sent from Hell itself and was hell bent on dragging every non-Slytherin and terrible Potions student down with him. And there was the total admittance that the professor was a right bastard.
And although Harry laughs and agrees…He knows something is just not quite right with him. He knows that the ugly git has the most amazing voice; it even shakes him at his core at times. But he doesn’t care to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear the voice of sex.
No.
He dreams of silence.
He wonders if the world around him is just so much sharper to him than it is to everyone else. No one else is bothered by the small clangs of forks and knives on porcelain plates. No one winces when someone talks unbearably loudly. Harry knows the rustle of leaves from the forest, the thundering pit pats from the rain on the roof, the harsh scuffs of shoes on stone, and the piercing noises from the Wizarding Wireless. He would call them vibrant sounds, but vibrant implies beautiful. Vibrant implies welcoming. These sounds are anything but.
Sound is anything but.
At night, Harry presses his hands to his ears. Everyone assumes that he’s blocking out Ron’s snores. Harry doesn’t challenge the idea; after all, it’s partially true. The lack of sound is comforting, but it’s still not enough; he can’t go around Hogwarts with his hands pressed to his ears all day long. Everyone would think he was nutters.
Nutters.
Harry shoves away the thoughts that clamor in his head telling him that of course he’s nutters.
One day, Harry casts a silencio around himself. It’s the most beautiful thing and it’s as if he can breathe for the first time in his life. He watches his friends’ mouths move and tries to read their lips. He can tell that they think something’s up and Hermione’s watching him curiously with a frown on her face. Harry nods his way through and remembers to utter a ‘fine’ here and there. And he is fine. He’s more than fine.
He feels right. He feels whole.
And then in Transfiguration, McGonagall realizes what he has done and she forces Harry to take down the silencing charm around himself.
There’s a rush of sound washing around him. Drowning him. He’s drowning in a collection of tapping quills, shaking legs, and smacking lips. It’s an extra perception that he does not want.
McGonagall demands to know why he felt that he needed a silencing charm around himself but Harry cannot explain. How can he tell her that her voice is so loud and sharp? That the crispness of her tone bites through the air and into his ears?
Harry can only respond in shrugs and he loses points from Gryffindor while Hermione sits again, still staring at him. This time, she has her Research Mode face on. She’ll skip dinner later to go to the library.
Sure enough, Hermione heads to the library during dinner. Ron shoves his mashed potatoes in his mouth and tries to talk to Harry, who begs off after coming up with the most brilliant idea.
The next day, Harry arrives to Potions class. The only class where you could hear the voice of sex. Snape obviously insults him and though Harry is quick to anger, it’s slightly muted because he’s so pleased. The professor’s mouth moves; it twists, frowns, and sneers. His eyes glitter dangerously. His hands clench in fists and are careful around the classroom.
It’s soundless. Quiet. Mute.
It’s refreshing. It’s proper. It’s how things are supposed to be.
His body has never felt quite so content.
Harry likes to watch their mouths move. The only thing that would make it better is if they talked with their hands. He wants to see everyone’s hands flutter around, signing their words as they spoke. He wants to speak with hands. And though it’s coming slowly, Harry enjoys practicing Sign. Hermione’s only caught him doing so once, and he made sure to explain that it was for someone over the summer.
But with his head down, Harry never notices Snape yelling and cursing at him for his shoddy work with potions. Hermione has to nudge him in the ribs and point. Harry looks up red-faced; he can see Snape’s nostrils flaring in anger and his mouth twisting angrily. He’s still working on lip-reading, but he thinks he catches “daft,” “foolish boy,” and an “are you deaf?!”
It’s all Harry can do to bite back an, “I wish.”
But he’s quiet like a good student. Well, more like an arrogant student in Snape’s opinion.
Of course, Hermione takes the opportunity to be inquisitive, never ceasing even under Snape’s angry tutelage, or lack thereof, and notices what’s in Harry’s ear. She stares wide-eyed and realization followed by a slight confusion dawns on her face. And of course, Snape notices and twists Harry’s head to the side.
Harry burns bright red. The plan was supposed to be foolproof. Every professor would have used magic to try and get rid of his blessed silence.
Snape grasps his hair to hold him still. Harry tries not to wince as Snape’s long fingers tug strands of his hair right out of his head. Snape shoves his finger in his ear and pulls out a bright purple ear plug.
He knew he should have at least tried to change the color.
Snape’s grip tightens on Harry’s hair and Harry can hear Snape’s heavy breathing as he tries to get himself in control. There’s a dangerous pause before Snape launches into a lengthy tirade but Harry doesn’t care because he can hear again and the sounds are even worse than before. It doesn’t matter that Snape’s voice is delicious. It doesn’t matter that Snape is raging. It doesn’t matter that Harry is probably going to have a rather large bald patch on his head when all is said.
All that matters is the sound.
It’s horrible and he hates it.
Eventually, Harry finds himself seated between Snape and McGonagall with the three of them facing Dumbledore. Harry shifts in his seat, torn between crossing and uncrossing his legs. His attempts to do both fail and Snape snorts and mumbles “attention-seeking brat” while McGonagall looks down at him with a strange sort of pitying smile.
Harry can hear the squeak of the chair, the metal tin popping open, and the crinkling paper of the lemon drops. Snape is studying him like he’s a slime-ridden flobberworm in the midst of an experiment. Dumbledore’s not much better, but at least he seems friendlier than Snape.
“Harry,” Dumbledore begins softly.
Harry’s face burns and he stares down at his shoes. One of his shoelaces was untied. He really ought to fix that.
“Harry,” Dumbledore says again, a bit more forcefully.
Harry looks up and bites his lip.
“Some of your professors have realized that you’ve been having some,” he pauses as if trying to find the right word, “…difficulties.”
And Harry knows where this is going. It happened once before in primary. There, he had made the mistake of telling them how he felt. He had told them how he didn’t feel complete unless he couldn’t hear. They called it a ploy for attention.
“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Harry?”
He wants to tell them. He really wants to tell them everything. Well, okay, not Snape. But he wants to tell someone who will get it. He wants to burst out and say that he’d like to be deaf, that hearing things feels wrong and foreign. But Snape would scoff and mutter about how he didn’t feel like he had enough stardom, and McGonagall would be sad and confused while Dumbledore would spout some sort of wisdom that left him feeling guilty.
“No, sir,” Harry finally answers.
Dumbledore frowns. McGonagall squints from behind her spectacles. Snape sneers.
There’s a lecture that Harry hears but doesn’t absorb. There’s detention received. And Harry’s warned against showing up to class again under a silencio charm, with ear plugs, or any magical or muggle equivalents.
Dumbledore dismisses Snape and McGonagall.
“Are you certain there’s nothing you’d like to tell me?” Dumbledore asks, one last time when Harry stands and turns to the door.
Harry’s head tilts down and he forces himself from whirling around and telling him everything. “I’m sure, Professor,” he says.
“Very well then, Harry.”
No. It wasn’t very well at all.
49 points for Slytherin!