Song of Silence, a harry potter fanfic

Note: Now this story is a bit different, at least when it comes to the writing style. I wanted to experiment a little, and I have to say I absolutely love what came out. I hope you do as well. :)

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Disclaimer: This story is mine. Harry Potter isn't.

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Song of Silence

They are an odd pair, the two of them, sitting together on a wooden bench by the lake. They sit in silence because that is their way, listening to voice of nature around them. They sit with their eyes closed because that is their way, letting their imagination paint the picture of their surroundings.

They speak to each other with their hearts, not their voices, and if they concentrate hard enough, they can hear each other's soundless words.

He could open his eyes and look around, at the ducks in the water, at the great pine trees growing on the shore, at the little cabin beneath their boughs. He could look at the clouds in the sky, grey as his eyes, or he could look at the woman sitting by his side. He could admire her beauty, the shine of her chestnut brown bushy curls, the creamy tones of her skin, the fullness of her red lips.

But he doesn't because that is their way.

She could open her mouth and tell him that she is happy, or that she likes it here, or that she would never exchange what they have for anything else in the whole wide world. She could tell him that she loves him, and that she loves living with him in the little cabin under the ancient pine trees by the picturesque forest lake, and if anyone had told her a few years ago that she would end up here with him, she would have laughed herself breathless. She could tell him stories of her past, stories of her family, stories of her friends. She could tell him what she thinks of the present situation in the world, about the great or awful things being done.

But she doesn't because that is their way.

It isn't the way they always are because he needs to see to lead her back to their house, and she simply cannot keep quiet all of the time.

But at least once every day they sit down on the bench by the lake, or beneath a pine tree, or simply on their bed, and he closes his eyes, and she closes her mouth, and their hearts talk and their hearts listen and their hearts see, and together they listen to the song of silence and admire the colour of darkness.

---

At first, she was not able to see it. At first, it was only darkness, void, black abyss. She was lost in it, it scared her and it slowly destroyed her.

She remembers chuckling at the irony of her situation – hadn't she just yesterday wished she didn't have to see what she saw? And a day later, her wish was granted.

She remembers the battle, the curses, the blood. The ashen faces and unseeing eyes. How her eyes were just as unseeing as theirs, and perhaps her own face was ashen, as well. She didn't know, and she didn't dare ask.

For a while she thought she was dead. Until they found her and told her otherwise.

She remembers the day they first met. She says first because in a way she died in the war. Died, and was reborn, like a Phoenix. Because after the war the world had changed. After the war she had changed.

She remembers the curse that took her vision. It was a beam of the purest white light she had ever seen before. Yet she claims that nevertheless it was the colour of the rainbow, and not only that – it consisted of all the colours of the world, and it was still the brightest white she had ever seen before. It was the colour of darkness. And he believes her because he can see it, too, whenever they are together. And as long as he believes her, she doesn't care what anyone else might think of it.

She remembers the curse flying towards her. She stood there, in the battlefield, motionless, and watched it coming. She didn't try to move away because Voldemort was dead, and many of her friends were dead, and the grass was red with their blood.

The curse hit, and she saw no more.

For a while.

She remembers they first met in an inn. What she doesn't remember is getting there, but she thinks someone must have brought her. Perhaps not Harry or Ron because they were sickeningly overprotective of her at that time, and they would have never let her stay there on her own. Perhaps it was her next-door neighbour, a middle-aged man with a wife and three children, or perhaps it was Ginny.

But whoever helped her, had left her alone, and she remembers stepping through the door on her own, and making her way carefully over to the bar, and taking a seat there and ordering a drink.

It was the first time she ever had a Firewhisky, and she thinks it was odd. Because somehow she had managed to survive through the war without ever getting drunk. She can't believe she was that strong. He can. He says she is still that strong.

She remembers sitting down and sipping her drink, and for a while just listening. Then suddenly the noise was too much for her, and she turned to leave. But in her rush she somehow slipped and would have fallen, had he not caught her in time.

She looked at him but didn't see, and he saw but couldn't tell. And suddenly everything went quiet, voices died down and the silence grew so unbearable she had to break it.

And that she did. She opened her mouth and talked. About anything and everything. About the past, about the future, about the war. About her friends, her fears, her worries, her dreams, her grief, her helplessness, her thoughts of ending all her troubles for good.

She poured her heart out to him, she let him see into her soul, see who she really was, with all her faults and errors. Because she didn't know who he was. And he listened, and he stayed, and he looked into her soul, and he saw who she really was, with all her faults and errors. Because he couldn't tell her to leave him alone.

So he listened, and she talked, and hours passed them by.

It must have been Ginny who took her there because it was Harry who came to pick her up and take her home. Or perhaps she had left him a note herself before going out.

But it was Harry who came to the inn, and it was Harry who told her who her silent companion really was.

"Hermione!" he cried at first, and she turned herself towards his voice and gave a little wave, waiting for him to walk up to her. That he did, and then he yelled again, this time out of surprise and contempt.

"Malfoy!"

He pulled her to him, away from their enemy, so harshly that she let out a gasp of pain. Then he proceeded to shout at Malfoy, making a scene in the inn, telling him what a bastard he was, how they all hated him, and how he had taken advantage of her. He said nothing, and neither did she.

But when Harry's yelling was starting to give her a headache, she chose to end it.

She remembers every word she said that night, and so does he.

She yanked Harry's arm abruptly, just like he had done to her some moments ago, to get his attention, and once she had it, she spoke calmly and even coldly.

"I don't care," she said.

"What?" Harry spluttered, the shock she didn't see on his face clear in his tone.

"Leave him alone, Harry. What's past is past. And stop the yelling, you are giving me a headache."

"But... Hermione," he sounded confused and worried. "He is the enemy. He could murder you without a second thought. You know what he thinks of you."

"I don't care," she said again. "If he wants to kill me, then let him kill me. You should be grateful to him if he does so because then he will free you of the burden that I am."

Yes, she was really depressed those days. The war had taken its toll on her, and she suddenly couldn't cope with everything fate threw her way anymore. She had been so sure that curse would kill her. She wished it had. She hated her life. She hated the world. She had lost her hope and now could not find it. Didn't see where she had dropped it.

"You're not a burden, Hermione!" Harry yelled at her angrily. She didn't know why he was angry – because she had thought something like that of him, or because he knew it was the truth.

No, Harry did not wish her death. He loved her. But she was a burden to him.

"I don't care," she repeated, her voice soft and sad. "I'm sorry for what I said. Let's go home. Good night, Malfoy."

And she turned around to leave and let Harry guide her towards the door.

She doesn't know what would have happened if she hadn't stopped, if she hadn't looked back. He says that everything would have still gone the way it did, but she isn't sure. Because even the smallest move can change the future.

She stopped when Harry halted his steps to open the door. And she looked back. She turned her head towards the place she thought he was, and her imagination painted the picture of him, the way he had been when she had last seen him, in another life, before her rebirth. She didn't see the colours of darkness yet, but it was the first time since losing her sight that she saw something.

---

He remembers the war, as well. He remembers he never wanted to be a part of it. But they wanted, and gave him no choice. He tried to escape, tried not to fight, not to kill. But he couldn't. Because it was a battle, and his defense was not strong enough to keep him alive. So he fought. So he killed. At that point he was on nobody's side anymore. He was alone, fighting against whoever fought him, killing those who were going to kill him.

He saw her in the battle. She didn't notice him, but he remembers the way she stood, alone, duelling with enemies, vastly outnumbered. Without thinking, without hesitating, he pointed his wand and eliminated a few Death Eaters sending curses her way.

She doesn't know that he saved her life that day, and he is not going to tell her. Because it doesn't matter. Because he didn't save her so that she would be grateful to him.

He didn't know why he saved her then, and he still doesn't now. But he thinks it is the best thing he has ever done in his life because he loves her. Because he loves the way they are, and because he is happy, truly happy.

He wasn't very happy during that battle. He didn't want to fight, but he did. He didn't know why he saved her, but there were others who thought they did. They had seen him using his wand against those whose side he should have been on, and they weren't going to leave it just like that. No one could betray the Dark Lord and escape the punishment.

He remembers the screams, and he remembers wondering who was screaming. It happened when the battle was over, and Voldemort defeated, but some of his followers still alive and angry. They blamed him for their Master's fall, and they were going to make sure he would pay for it. Pay for it with his life.

In the end he realized that it was him who was screaming.

It was funny and ironic, but it was because being tortured by Death Eaters that he wasn't sent to Azkaban. His condition might have had something to do with it as well. They might have taken pity on him because of it. Because he couldn't speak for himself.

So there was no trial, and no charges in the end. He was free.

He doesn't know why they had taken away his voice. Perhaps his screams gave them headache. Perhaps they thought he would suffer more if he couldn't let out his pain verbally. It didn't matter, really. Because they had done it, and the damage was irreparable.

He can never speak in his lazy drawl, or smug and obnoxious voice. In fact, he can never speak at all. He can still smirk, though, and for that he is grateful. She can't see him smirk, but feels it, and she gives him back a small sad smile because his smirks remind her of the life before she died, the times when things were simple, and she worried about her Transfiguration homework and Potions essays.

---

He remembers meeting her in the inn. She had taken a seat beside him and ordered herself a Firewhisky. She sipped it slowly, and he counted seconds till she would turn and start yelling at him. She never did. She finished her drink, and turned to leave, and in her hurry slipped and would have fallen had he not caught her.

She looked at him then, and he was so sure she would yell at him now. But she didn't, and he helped her back to her seat. She did open her mouth then, but not to scream, not to insult, but simply talk. And he listened because no one had talked to him for a long time.

She never once mentioned to him that she was blind. And he was too surprised at her behaviour to notice that. Only when Potter showed up and started screaming did he realize why she had acted with him the way she had.

He looked at her then, not letting Potter's "murdering Death Eater bastard" and other such pleasant names bother him. He knew now that she could not see him, but he still wondered why she kept her silence. Because now she knew who he was. Perhaps she was too mature to yell and cause a scene like her friend, but he still expected some nasty and acid remark. Yet she gave none.

At last she calmed Potter down, and spoke.

"I don't care," she said, and her voice was calm and level, and emotionless. He wondered what exactly she didn't care about, but whatever it was, it sounded like she really did not care about it.

Potter was shocked. He smirked at his expression, but neither Gryffindors noticed it for one of them was blind and another not looking.

"What?" he asked her, and she gave her answer.

Leave him alone, Harry. It was exactly what he wanted to tell him, but couldn't. Although, he would have said it a bit differently. "Sod off, Potter," or "Get lost, Scarhead" or something to that extent. Perhaps punched him as well. Then again, he could still punch him. He couldn't yell, but he could hit the stupid sod alright, and thanks to non-verbal spells, he could hex him as well. He wondered why he hadn't done it before, when he was still yelling and calling him names, but remembered that he had been busy looking at her.

What's past is past. She was damn right about that. The great days when he could walk around in Hogwarts like he owned the place and drawl out his insults for everybody he disliked were over. A tiny part of him missed them, but the larger told that past was past. Past was gone. Things had changed. Better or worse, they had changed. He wanted to think things had gone worse, but couldn't quite. Because, just like the stupid Wizengamot had said, he was free. No one was there anymore forcing him to fight, forcing him to kill. And voice for freedom was a small loss.

And stop the yelling, you are giving me a headache. He didn't actually mind the yelling so much. After all, Potter was talking to him, very loudly, but still talking. People didn't talk to him much those days, whether because they knew he still bore the Dark Mark, or simply because they found it pointless since he couldn't answer. He could write it in the air with his wand, but somehow it was still not the same.

Potter gave him an evil glare, then turned to reason with her.

Everything the stupid sod told was true, though. He could murder her without a second thought. He had killed before. And even though the Avada Kedavra was quite a difficult spell to cast silently, there were other, simpler ways to end somebody's life. He could murder her, if he wanted. But he didn't. Because it was pointless. Because the whole war had been pointless. And most of all, because she had talked to him.

And then he heard her answer.

I don't care. If he wants to kill me, then let him kill me. You should be grateful to him if he does so because then he will free you of the burden that I am.

He saw the shock and anger on Potter's face, but this time he felt no inclination to smirk. At least one of his question was answered now – what was it she really did not care about.

Life. She didn't care about her life. She probably wished she was dead.

He knew what it felt like to wish for your own death. He had been there. More than once. He had wished for his death when they had tortured him, had wished it in Azkaban where he had spent a few days before being released, had wished it when he was free and looked around and realized that the world had changed. That he had changed. But it passed. It passed for him, and it would pass for her as well. Because he knew her, and she was strong.

Potter was mad of course. He thought she thought she was a burden to him. And in a way she was, but they both knew that she was a burden he would be happy to bear. He thought she didn't know it. But she did. She just didn't care.

He knew that one day she would start caring again. And she did. What he didn't know, though, was that she would start caring about him as well.

Potter yelled at her, and she apologized, and asked him to take her home.

All that he had expected. What he didn't expect, though, was her wishing good night to him, just like that, calmly, emotionlessly.

But then he remembered it was the way anyone who didn't care would act, and there was nothing more to it.

He watched them leave, and sighed, because all that waited him was one cold and empty manor, and nobody to talk to. Except house-elves, and he seldom talked to them, for they talked to him only because he ordered them. But sometimes the silence got too much, and then he threw things, or even talked to those creatures.

But then she stopped, and looked back at him, even though she couldn't see where he was. But she still looked straight at him, and he opened his mouth to say something, momentarily forgetting he couldn't.

So he simply drew a breath, and closed his eyes, not wanting to see her standing there like that. Part of him wanted her to get out and leave him alone, yet part longed for her to come back and never leave, and talk to him more. In the past he had grown annoyed of her talking so much, now he would be happy to listen to her incessant speech for the rest of his life.

When he opened his eyes again, she was gone.

After that day, silence was not that unbearable to him anymore. In fact, it seemed to him, that if he listened hard enough, he could hear it whisper.

He couldn't hear it sing yet, but he heard it whisper.

---

He was right. Her phase of self-pity and death wishes did pass.

Six months after that meeting in the inn, she was living in her own little house in Muggle London. She didn't want to live in a Wizarding Community for she wished for peace and quiet, but her house was still hidden from the Muggle view since she had to use her magic to guide and help her.

It was a cozy little place with only one floor because she had no wish to fall down the stairs and break her neck. It consisted of three rooms and kitchen, and it was furnished with soft and round-edged things. Ginny had told her that the walls were a soft pastel green, and she imagined the colour in her mind. In fact, she had a thorough image of what the place was like, from touching, and letting her friends tell her.

For example, it had far less books that she liked.

Books. That was a big minus of her condition. She couldn't see, and therefore she couldn't read. Wanted, but couldn't. And wizards were not familiar with the wonderful conception of audio books, either. And they called themselves advanced.

She had taken such matters to her own hands, of course, and introduced this wonderful idea to wizards, as well. None had the audacity to laugh at her because then she would be able to hex them by their voice, but all the contemptuous and ridiculing expressions were there for her not to see.

After a while, though, some wizard audio books started to appear. She didn't know it, but two people had given the money and the orders to make them. One was her best friend. The other her childhood enemy.

So now she could enjoy her favourite subjects again, like Transfiguration, and Arithmancy, and the like.

Books, however, were what she was currently working on, as well. History books, that is, about the second war with Voldemort. She spoke the words into a Muggle dictaphone, listened them over, made corrections, and when she was finally happy with what she had said, she spoke them again, this time letting a magical quill write it all down on parchment.

She liked it, and she was happy once again.

But she still couldn't see the colour of darkness.

---

He still could not hear the song of silence. So he was bored. He had organized a few parties in his manor, but it was a bit difficult for most of his former friends were either dead or in prison. Not all, though. So he simply told them to bring dates. And acquaintances. And colleagues. And everyone else they liked to bring.

And because of that, somehow, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley ended up in his house. He was not very happy. Neither were they. Apparently, they hadn't known whose party it was.

So Potter yelled at him a bit, and he wrote his witty replies into the air. In flaming letters. This halted the Wonder Boy, and he realized that just like he hadn't know she couldn't see, Potter didn't know he couldn't speak.

How ironic was that? It should have been all over the news, and only then did he become aware that it wasn't. No, this was kept quiet about. For whatever reason, it was not common knowledge.

"What's wrong with you?" Potter asked stupidly.

He merely glared at him.

It was someone from the audience, for Potter's screaming had raised one, someone who he didn't know that informed him.

"He can't speak. He was tortured by Death Eaters and they cursed his voice away."

He wanted to turn and yell at that person who had the audacity to speak the truth just like that. All his friends knew it already, of course, but their friends, acquaintances and colleagues didn't.

Well, now they did.

And now Potter knew as well.

And by the look of it, was shocked.

"But he's a Death Eater himself! Has the Mark and everything." Potter just had to complain.

Now he wanted to yell at him. But couldn't.

So instead he simply took his wand and wrote another sentence.

Leave me alone, Potter.

Surprisingly, he did.

Not so surprisingly, the party was over a little after that.

---

She was in the middle of her recording business when the doorbell rang. She finished off her sentence, put the gadget down, and went to open the door.

"Harry?" she asked, but no answer came.

"Ginny?" she tried again.

"Ron?"

Apparently not.

"Alright, who are you?" she asked, a bit annoyed. "I really can't tell by the smell."

She wasn't too worried it might be someone here to hurt her. Not because the world was a safer place now. But because her house was, protected by the Fidelius Charm. Harry had insisted. But it was Ron who was her Secret-Keeper, he had insisted.

"State your name, address and favourite colour!" she tried with a little laugh, but it didn't help either.

"I'm not a very patient person, you know," she stated at last.

He did know. That's why he took her hand then, and raised it against his face. For a moment she stood frozen still, but then lifted her other hand to his face as well, feeling its contours and the softness of his skin.

Now she can tell by the smell. By his steps. By his breathing. And even without them. She can simply feel it whenever he is close to her. That's why he has trouble surprising her, she can always tell.

It was the first time she touched him like that, first of many. She still didn't know who he was though. That knowledge came a little later, when she had asked him in and made them tea, and talked to him.

She should have known by then. She should have been able to tell by his silence. But that had been six months ago, when the times had been bad to her, and she had tried to forget them.

Sometimes she still feels guilty that she couldn't recognize him then. He thinks she's silly to feel that way. He tells her that, silently, without words. And she smiles at him.

But instead it was Ron who called her on the phone later to inform that he had told one certain Ferret about her house.

"What?" she had cried into the phone, drawing out her wand at the same time. She always kept it with her. Because she didn't want to set it down somewhere, and later be unable to find.

"Don't worry, Hermione, he is not going to hurt you," her friend tried to calm her down, but she was having none of that.

Because she had forgotten what she had said in that inn, about past being past. Because at that time she really hadn't cared. Now she did.

So she simply threw the phone down, pointed her wand and yelled.

"Out of my house, Malfoy, or I will curse you!"

He didn't make a sound, and she didn't know where he was. So she stood up and moved away, and tried to catch anything... any of his movement would have done. But all she heard was silence.

And then she threw her head back and screamed.

"Damn! I hate this! I hate not being able to see anything but darkness. I hate going to bookstores and begging them to make audio books for me! I hate having to call one of my friends whenever I want to go out! I hate the looks people give me, of pity or annoyance, without realizing that I can hear the same emotions in their tone! I hate being blind! I hate being helpless! I hate being unable to curse my enemy because I simply can't see where he is and that stupid bastard is smart enough not to make a sound!!!"

"I hate myself for not being strong enough to step away from that curse, instead hoping it would take my life."

"Why aren't you saying anything, Malfoy?" she asked at last.

He couldn't reply to her question, though.

But she still understood, and lowered her wand.

"So I'm not the only one permanently damaged," she remarked sourly, and picked up the phone again.

"Sorry, Ron. I'm fine," she spoke into it. "Yes. Oh, don't you worry, I'm still going to yell at you for not telling me earlier. And yes, for letting him into the house before asking me first. I figured so much. Yes, I'm sure we have much to talk about. Well, there's of course the small problem that we can't communicate with each other. I don't care how flaming the letters are, I still can't see them. Don't worry about it, I forget sometimes as well. I do, at night, and I wonder why it's still so dark when I wake up. No, I think it's better if you don't. We'll manage. Sure, tomorrow is good enough. Two o'clock? Alright, I'll be waiting for you then. Bye. Take care. Love you, too. Bye!"

And she placed the receiver down.

---

The war changed everything. It changed the world. It changed the people. It changed her, and it changed Harry. But she thinks that most of all, it changed Ron.

She doesn't know why. They all lost someone in the war. He lost his parents, but so did she. He lost his friends, but so did they all. But Ron lost something more. He lost his character. He lost his fierceness and hot temper. He wasn't the same any more. It was almost as if he and Harry had switched personalities. He was pensive and quiet and reasonable while Harry was quick to anger and irrational.

He still is pensive and quiet and reasonable. And Harry still tends to act before thinking.

It should have been surreal to hear about Ron telling her to trust Malfoy. Yet for some reason it wasn't. Because the war changed everything.

---

He sought out Ginny first. He knew where they lived, and one day when he knew Potter had been called away, he went to their house and knocked. And she answered. And they glared at each other for a while. And then she asked him in.

They talked for a while, and she told him to visit Ron.

He laughed his silent laugh then, and shook his head.

But she told him there was no other way because Ron was her Secret-Keeper.

So he had paid the Weasley-boy a visit, expecting the worst, and getting the surprise of his lifetime. He shouldn't have been that surprised, though. That war had changed everything.

So there was nothing surprising about him ringing her doorbell the next day.

She opened the door and looked at him, but she couldn't see and he couldn't tell. He could look at her, though, and think that she was beautiful. That she was happy, but not completely. That she was still suffering.

He had seen her before, once in Diagon Alley, in a new bookshop explaining the wizards there the concept of audio books. They had sent looks of ridicule and pity at her, and he had hated them for it.

He had seen her face when she turned to leave, and he had hated them even more.

So he had done the only thing he could – given them money and orders to fulfill her request.

He knew how much she had loved her books. Apparently, war hadn't changed everything.

"Harry?" she asked and he was silent.

"Ginny?" she questioned and he didn't answer.

"Ron?" she tried again, but he couldn't say a word.

"Alright, who are you?" she asked, and he could tell by her voice and expression that she was annoyed by his silence. "I really can't tell by the smell."

She smelled sweet and spicy. He wished that one day she would be able to tell by the smell. His wish was granted.

"State your name, address and favourite colour!" she tried with a little laugh, although it was forced.

He doesn't have a favourite colour, and their house has no address. Of all the colours of the world, he likes the colour of darkness best. But the colour of darkness is all the colours of the world. He likes it because she helped him see it.

"I'm not a very patient person, you know," she stated at last.

He did know it. But he couldn't speak.

That's why he took her hand then, and raised it against his face. He saw her freeze for a moment and feared she might draw away, but then lifted her other hand to his face as well, feeling its contours and the softness of his skin.

He hadn't felt something so pure and so good for so long time.

It was the first time she touched him like that, first of many. Now she can tell by his smell, by his steps, by his breathing, and even without. But she still touches his face like that, and it feels as heaven to him.

Yet she didn't recognize him, and he had not expected her to.

She called him in, and made them tea, and talked to him. She talked, and he listened, and he was happy. He was ready to listen to her talk forever.

She still blames herself for not recognizing him by his silence, and he says she is silly. He kisses her, and he touches her, and he makes her scream of pleasure, but she still blames herself.

It was when Weasley-boy called her that things got slightly worse, only to get better afterwards.

She picked up the phone – yes, he knew the name of that Muggle gadget, and spoke into it. For a while they had normal chat, asked about how each other was doing and the like.

But then she screamed, and he knew what Weasley-boy had told her.

So she threw the phone down, pointed her wand and yelled.

"Out of my house, Malfoy, or I will curse you!"

He didn't move nor speak. He knew that if he moved, she could tell where he is by the noise, and would curse him. He didn't speak because he couldn't.

She backed away and stood there, wand pointed, scared like a wounded animal in the face of her predator.

She wanted to curse him, to make him leave, but she didn't see him, and it scared her. It made her feel helpless.

And he realized that he wanted to protect her, protect her for the rest of her life, so that she never had to look so scared again.

But he could not tell her that. Not yet.

Now she feels safe with him. He is always there when she needs him. He is always there to kiss her fear away. She thinks it ironic that at one time he made her so scared. But it wasn't really him she was scared of. It was being helpless that she feared.

And then she threw her head back and screamed.

"I hate myself for not being strong enough to step away from that curse, instead hoping it would take my life."

He listened to her in silence, but he wanted to go over and hold her. He didn't since she would have cursed him then.

He thinks she is the strongest person he has ever met. She doesn't believe him.

"Why aren't you saying anything, Malfoy?" she asked at last.

Because he couldn't.

But she understood anyway, and lowered her wand.

"So I'm not the only one permanently damaged," she remarked sourly.

He wanted to kiss her and tell her she was perfect.

She isn't perfect. But she is perfect for him.

She picked up the phone again, and talked some more into it.

She still forgets she is blind sometimes. It's because she can see, she explains. People give her funny looks, but she doesn't care. Because he believes her.

He sometimes forgets he is voiceless, as well. It's because he can talk, he explains. People give him funny looks, but he doesn't care. Because she believes him.

Because they can both hear the song of silence and see the colour of darkness.

And because they talk with their hearts.

---

At first they didn't talk with their hearts. At first he had to knock once for 'yes', twice for 'no' and three times for being bored with what she was telling him.

And they talked.

He never knocked thrice.

---

He remembers the worst and the best day of his life. They were one and the same.

She remembers it as well.

It wasn't the day of their first date, or their first kiss, or the first time they made love, nor was it the day of their wedding.

It was the day he almost lost her.

It was the day he would have happily given his life for his voice.

---

It was when they went to visit the Potters. Surprisingly, he doesn't blame them.

He blames himself. She tells him he is silly. She kisses him, and she touches him, and she makes him gasp of pleasure. But he still blames himself.

The Potters lived in a Muggle town themselves, just like she had. They had a comfy little house there, protected by many charms of course, though not by the Fidelius.

She thinks it has something to do with Harry's parents, who died in a house protected by the Fidelius Charm.

Harry denies that. He says he doesn't need it, that his house is open for anyone who wishes to see him.

It was not their first time to visit the Potters but it almost would have been the last.

Because she was happy, and carefree, and laughing. And he was still listening to Ginny at the front door.

But she wanted to walk for it was a beautiful summer day. She wanted to walk and the gate was open. And she walked right through it because it was open, and she didn't notice standing on the other side of the white fence, on the sidewalk.

She could hear the car coming but she didn't see it, and she thought herself still in the garden since the Potters had not Silenced it against the outside noise, thinking it normal and comforting to hear the life around them.

He looked up the moment she was about to step onto the road, in front of the speeding vehicle, and into a certain death.

He opened his mouth to yell at her to stop, but realized he couldn't. He wanted to draw his wand but he didn't. He wanted to make Ginny see it and warn her, but he didn't. Because he knew it would be too late.

Because he knew that if he didn't scream out right now, it would be too late.

He knew he had no voice.

He knew it was going to be too late.

He knew he was going to lose her.

He knew wrong.

Because she heard him, and she stopped, and she lived.

Because he was able to talk to her without a voice, and she was able to see him without her vision.

And she heard him, and she stopped, and she lived.

And he cried.

From that day forward they could hear the song of silence, see the colour of darkness, and talk with their hearts.

He blames himself because it was him who had left the gate open. She doesn't know it. But if she did, she wouldn't blame him. Because he saved her life that day.

Because he made her see without a vision. And she made him speak without a voice.

And she loves him. And he loves her. And they are happy together.

They are happy as they sit together by the lake, in silence and with closed eyes, their hearts having a wordless conversation.

Because that is their way.

And they are happy.