Ok, so this is very minutely rewritten, but for this chapter at least, it's more of an edit. If I missed anything or typo-ed, please, hasten to tell me so I can fix. Shock horror, chapters now have (bladly fitting) titles, and I should have hovered up most of the continuity errors that were eating away at my love of writing this. This story is kinda in three parts now I'm definite with where it's headed, so it has three parts, the first, Aphasia.
I wasn't going to post this until I found a suitable title as aphasia doesn't quite fit, but I like it. It isn't quite accurate as Harry has no medical reason for his lack of speech (no brain lesions) and has no trouble comprehending the written or spoken word, but is still affected by a lack of speech. Aphasia, comes from the Greek: a "without" phasis "utterance," from phanai "to speak". Also with this, there are time jumps in this chapter, which I hope are made obvious.
Disclaimer: I do not own. Harry is Sirius(and Remus)' bitch and Sirius is Remus's, I just like to play with them.
Aphasia
Chapter 1 : Dead Victory
"Harry..." Sirius murmured, pulling the black-haired teenager aside to a shadowy alcove of Grimmauld Place by one of his cold, thin wrists. "I don't care what they just said in there, Harry. It doesn't matter" He stooped slightly to look straight into his godson's green eyes. "I don't care; I'm not going to leave you to those Muggles, Harry. I won't stand for it, not again. I won't abandon you."
Harry's eyes stared back, dull and lifeless; silent disbelief obvious in the muted boy's form. Sirius restrained a sigh with difficultly, and he bent forward to clasp Harry's hand. The blue eyes were firm and sincere.
"I promise. I'm not going to leave you."
For one frail, precious second, Harry believed his godfather. Staring up into those serious eyes he could sense no joke or deception. His prison, the world of grey flickered for a second, allowing the scene to light with colour. His frozen heart leapt, a brief pang of warmth striking in the midst of an arctic blizzard, and just for a fleeting moment, his hand squeezed back.
Then, the Order started spilling out of the kitchen, small-talking noisily and Harry was gone, vanishing like a ghost, without sound or trace. Sirius didn't pretend to smile for the people he'd just battled so vehemently with, but he shook their hands and wished them well. Mrs. Weasley came out of the kitchen and smiled at him, murmuring briefly about plans for dinner, although Sirius could see her itching to console him on his defeat. For once, she had been on his side, agreeing that Harry, who now never spoke at all, should not be allowed to return to his muggle home. The long haired man nodded mindlessly, without listening and climbed the stairs to Buckbeak's room, not looking back. People knew to leave him alone when he went there. He bowed to the magnificent beast before him, shutting the door and allowing himself to slide down the wall, until he sat, throwing Buckbeak a rat from the bag at his feet. He sighed.
Nobody knew what had happened to Harry, why he'd come back on summer from the Dursley's disinclined to speak beyond a few sparse words but it was something that bothered Sirius. And with the rapid rise in exasperated attempts to force the boy to speak, some of which being his own, Harry spoke fewer words still until one day, he didn't speak at all. At first, Dumbledore had been rather impressed with Harry's talent for wordless magic, which was developing easily with the continual practice, "Such an unexpected advantage!" but then, he too had become concerned when it didn't turn out to be 'just a phase' as the old man had hoped. The wizened wizard had even gone so far as to visit the Dursley's, which earned him nothing more than an earful of abuse.
Sirius had spent ages trying to find out the cause, then gave up and sought for a solution, although numerous trips to St. Mungo's proved futile. Harry was perfectly healthy; he was simply just choosing not to speak, greeting all questions with the same vacant stare. But what was the reason? Now, hopeless, Sirius saw nothing else to do but accept Harry's silence, having no idea how else to try to make him speak. Tempers in the headquarters grew shorter with The-Boy-Who-Lived, whose presence grew more translucent everyday. Some members of the Order were starting to lose faith; to think of and plan ways of winning he war without him. How important was a prophecy anyway?
Sirius, however, refused to give up. He found that Harry's looks were easy enough to read, even if they betrayed worryingly little emotion. Remus had told him it was probably the wisest thing to do to allow Harry to work through whatever it was in his own time and on his own terms, but Mrs. Weasley shot him angry glares and hissed that he was encouraging it, and insinuated once, that, perhaps, he was the cause. Part of him worried indeed he was as Harry spoke less, but instinct told him what he was doing was better than the nagging that seemed to tire Harry in seconds. He'd thought bringing Harry home for Easter might help, not that Grimmauld Place was really a home anymore with all the people rushing about. He'd been hoping to see if he could make Harry smile by feeding him up on chocolate and jovial memories, as in the time the boy had been silent, Sirius had yet to seem him smile. That was always what had worked with Remus when they were young, but with Harry, it failed. When he'd spoken with Hermione, she'd said the same thing; no one had seen Harry smile. At school Harry responded to everything with so little emotion or enthusiasm, people started to call him 'robot-boy'. The emerald eyed boy even failed to respond after his cauldron spilt, when a frustrated Snape gave him four weeks detention and extra homework until the end of the year.
The end of this summer would mark a full year of silence, if not longer, as there was no telling how long he'd been silent before he returned to school. The blue-eyed man had been shocked to see how his classmates had responded to Harry's change. He'd expected to see kindness, concern, compassion, a show of genuine friendship, but had been disappointed. None of them had time for Harry anymore. Like the Gryffindors they were, they didn't shun him, their pride wouldn't let them, but they ignored his silence, speaking in falsely bright voices and no longer involving him in any real conversation, treating him as if all intelligence had faded with his voice. They didn't even bother to include him anymore, even with tasks as mundane as de-Gnoming Grimmauld Place' courtyard garden. Any time they did spend with him was seemed to be on a rota, and even that, they seemed to avoid whenever there was an excuse.
--
A full term later, Harry couldn't remember his godfather's promise. If he didn't take a nightly Sleeping Draught than he might have been able to remember the dreams of it that interspersed his nightmares, but as he did, he couldn't. Now, he sat, excluded by inclusion into a carriage of couples, who talked and joked without him as the Hogwarts Express rattled south. They, the group that used to consider themselves Harry's friends, had gotten used to his presence, his silence, remarkably quickly and none of them noticed now when he slipped away. He had become like a shadow, but like a shadow, he wasn't alive. He didn't really exist, and everyday he became more convinced of it; he was an imitation of life, a mere memory, barely taking part in anything at all. The train stopped, and, in Muggle clothing, Harry grabbed his trunk and his absent owl's cage, joining the bustling crowds piling of the train. It wasn't manners that made him hold back and let a group of second year Ravenclaws go first, but Hermione still beamed at him anyway.
"Have a good summer, Harry." She smiled, pulling him into a hug. Harry didn't feel it, and barely nodded, not noticing his hand loosely shaken by Ron and dropped, or Ginny's kiss to the air beside his face. No longer did he wonder how contact could be made without feeling, and ignored it, shuddering to be free from it. The Weasley's were standing in a gaggle on the platform, not far from the doors Ron was clambering out of. Harry took a breath and slipped past, unnoticed as always, joining the queue to leave the platform, allowing the crowds of bustling families to mask him from sight.
Then, moments before he took the step across the barrier, a cold wet nose touched his hand, nudging it. Harry jumped, instinctively jarring away from the contact. A large black dog stood by his side, Padfoot, amber-brown eyes gazing up defiantly. Unsure how to react, Harry stepped back into the shadows of a corner beside a surprisingly Muggle looking vending machine. The dog followed.
"I promised I wouldn't leave you alone, Harry." Sirius' form became human, the man staying crouched in the darkest corner. His voice was hoarse and urgent, rushed. He was risking being seen. "Remus will work out where I've gone so you don't have to worry." There was a short pause, a fleeting grin. "I can't leave you unprotected, Harry. Not after last summer. I promised."
Harry stood still for a moment, staring down at the black haired man. His face gave away nothing. Sirius continued, drawing a deep shuddering breath.
"Give this letter to your guardians. I wrote it and it's spelled to look like Dumbledore's handwriting." For a moment, it almost looked like Harry would respond, his mouth opening slightly, and his brow creasing just a tiny bit, but when he didn't, Sirius changed back into Padfoot, and lead him back to rejoin the queue. Then, the moment came for Harry Potter to step back across into King's Cross Station. Siriu thought he heard thhe boy's sigh tremor, and thin, frail fingers ghost across the hairs of his canine back.
--
Vernon Dursley was an irritable man, and one who hated waiting. He was waiting for Harry; another of his pet-hates and stood as if waiting for the next train from platform ten. When he heard Harry approach, his piggy little eyes swivelled to fix the scruffy, abnormal teenage orphan with a disapproving stare. He opened his mouth to spit out the standard snarl of "Your hair needs cutting, boy." when his small eyes found Padfoot. His pupils dilated suddenly.
"What is that?" He asked unnecessarily, knowing no answer would be forth coming, and not particularly caring. He hated dogs. He hated the smell, the look, the teeth and the requirements of all dogs. And this dog looked like Harry his favourite hate, with too long, scruffy black hair, which only gave him reason to hate it more. The puce jowls wobbled dangerously. "It's not getting in my car. My new company car. I got it last week, and that, that thing is not getting in it."
Harry's fingers felt the stiffening of Padfoot's back, and the involuntarily rise in his hackles. Still, the dog sat, obviously trying to seem harmless, despite body language contradicting the gesture. This unnoticed by Harry's uncle, who had snatched the letter from Harry's hands.
Petunia Dursley
The Kitchen, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging.
Dear Mrs. Dursley,
By order of the Ministry of Magic, Harry has been given a dog, Snuffles, as a personal wizarding guard for Harry for the duration of the summer spent in your home. It is mandatory that the dog accompany Harry everywhere, particularly when he is outside, or when he is asleep. I assure you the dog is very well trained, and will provide some level of protection for your home and family, although Harry is priority.
Harry thought, when told he must have a guard, that you would prefer the dog to a couple of wizards arriving on your doorstep everyday. I apologize for any regrettable inconvenience this may cause you and your family, but in the circumstances it is unavoidable. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation in this matter.
Regards,
Albus Dumbledore.
--
"The dog stays, Vernon." Aunt Petunia announced, sucking on her horse-like teeth, having read the letter no less than three times and closely scrutinized the signature with her beady blue eyes. The large black dog was sitting obediently in the hall, and to this his tail raised once and fell back against the floor. Victory.
"However," The blonde woman glanced at the dog, then glared at Harry, her expression unreadable. "He is to stay with you. You are responsible for anything and everything he does. He isn't allowed in the kitchen, or the living room or any other bedroom aside from your own. Is that clear?"
Harry bowed his head very slightly.
"You are not to let him-" It was Snuffles turn to receive the vicious glare that acted like nature's call was a cardinal sin " go on the front lawn, and woes betide you if I find one single hair on my furniture anywhere in the house." She sniffed, whisking a faded wisp of her hair away behind her ear, and turning to rearrange the jars on the spice rack. Assuming that was his welcome complete, Harry turned and left, walking the short distance along the hall and opening his trunk, starting to empty it of its contents so it was light enough for him to drag upstairs by himself.
Uncle Vernon sat at the kitchen table, angry red fists clenched around a paper, grinding his large, yellowing teeth. His wife began to wipe the spotless surface of the table, replacing conversation with cleaning. Recently defeated in his attempts to have the boy's dog delivered to the abattoir, a bitterness stirred in Uncle Vernon, and he sat staring at the boy moving in the hall, a glint of something malicious playing in his eyes.
Upstairs, Harry was rearranging his room. His mostly-empty trunk lay open, its contents strewn across the bed, and the boy methodically moved things to a suitable position - dreamless sleeping draughts into the draw of bedside table with wand, photograph album and a few books into its cupboard. He was almost mechanical. Padfoot's first response to Harry's room was to thoroughly sniff every corner before finding a piece of carpet next to the desk comfortable enough to lie down on. Still, his observant eyes never left Harry, who when he had finished unpacking, cleaned Hedwig's cage, opened the window and lay down on the bed, sighing ever so softly. Shortly after, Padfoot jumped up next to him and lay down, and after a tense, silent pause, Harry's fingers tangled in the dog's coat.
"Thank you." The boy murmured; his green eyes closing as he drifted into sleep. Padfoot's ears pricked and his tail wagged at the words. Had he been human he wouldn't have caught the breath that shaped into words, the twitch of the full, pink lips. Inside the furry head, Sirius smiled. He was doing the right thing.
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