Disclaimer: Sigh. I wish Harry and Draco were mine, but sadly they aren't. Everything is J.K. Rowling's…

Summary: After dying and coming back to life, something shifted in Harry's brain. Now he sees shapes of colour when he hears sounds, but is otherwise completely colourblind. During his eighth year at Hogwarts he stumbles across the old music wing and overhears a piano and someone singing in French…

A/N: This is a strange little thing that popped into my head after I saw some moonstones in a shop in Whistler and fell in love. It does actually have a plot, unlike Ameliorate, but will probably develop slowly. Now, without further ado, please enjoy Colour blind!

Colour blind

Preface

Harry trudged up to his dorm and collapsed into his bed. It was all over; Voldemort was dead, the last remaining death eaters were being hunted down now, and the war was officially won. Harry'd imagined this moment many times; he'd thought he would feel elated and free but all he felt was a bone-deep exhaustion.

The war was won, but so much was lost… the Great Hall was filled with corpses and just the thought of Remus, Tonks, Fred, or any of the others who'd died made Harry's gut feel like it was eating itself up. He'd tried to stay and help out with all of the grieving families but Molly had fussed over him, even as weary as she was, and he'd finally agreed to return to his room and rest.

He'd felt horrible there, with the whole Weasley family grieving around him. They'd essentially adopted him as their own, but even still he felt that he was intruding on their grief. It was as if a great big weight was on his back comprised of his own immeasurable grief for Fred, the awkward feeling that he was encroaching on their family, and the horrible thought that it was all his fault which he knew was irrational and false but he couldn't help what he felt… In truth, he'd felt somewhat relieved to be able to escape all of that, but then he'd felt guilty for feeling relieved and it all came full circle.

And now here he was, lying in bed, trying and failing to fall asleep. He'd reached that point where it was actually painful to stay awake, but he just could not fall asleep. Yet, it almost felt as if he were asleep. It had felt that way—as if reality was tinged with a dream-like quality—ever since he came back from the place that looked like King's Cross. Throughout the last battle, his mind had been feeling oddly woolly and his eyes had been itching, his vision distorting at odd moments, but he'd been too busy to pay it much mind. Now he had a chance to think on it, but he couldn't tell if it was simply due to the exhaustion or if it was something else.

He turned over and buried his face in his pillow. His mind shifted briefly to a subject it frequented often, especially in the past year once he'd acknowledged his maybe-sort-of-feelings. It was almost automatic, the way that his thoughts turned to Draco Malfoy.

Draco.

Whom he'd last glimpsed sitting in the great hall with Narcissa and Lucius, looking forlorn and unsure. What would happen to him, Harry wondered. He hoped Lucius went to Azkaban, but he didn't want that for Draco, and after she saved him Harry decided he didn't want that for Naricssa either.

Absently Harry realized that he still had Draco's wand. He would have to give it back as soon as he could; hopefully the Malfoys wouldn't leave before he could talk to them.

At least Draco's still alive…

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of pounding pain in his head and horrible itchy ache behind his eyes, he fell into a blessed sleep that was so deep he was spared even from nightmares.

With a yawn so big he could feel his jaw crack, Harry awoke. He sat up, blearily rubbing his eyes, and then slowly stopped as he realized something was wrong. The light shining in from the window wasn't the gentle yellow it was supposed to be; instead it was a muted grey… With a start Harry looked around him, at his usually obnoxiously red and gold dorm. With a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, it dawned on him that he couldn't tell what was gold and what was red. Everything was a wash of different shades of grey.

His head was beginning to feel light, and he realized that he'd forgotten to breath. Harry exhaled loudly, and jumped when suddenly a splash of muted brown appeared before his eyes.

What the hell…?

It was as if there was a screen a foot away from his eyes, a screen that had suddenly shown a wonky shape of brown. With a weary curiosity, Harry waved his hand in front of his face, but there was nothing there. Strange. Perhaps it was just his imagination. But he couldn't put the sudden lack of colour off as his imagination too. Unnerved, Harry climbed out of bed and immediately tripped on the shoes he'd left right there, flailing about for a moment before landing with a crash on his trunk. A burst of blue appeared and disappeared in time with the clatter.

Suspicious, Harry clapped his hands and a streak of yellow crossed his vision. Okay, so sounds make colours. But other than that, everything else is colourless. For some reason, understanding it somewhat didn't make it any less alarming, but having solved that mystery, Harry looked around the dorm and saw that Ron, Seamus, and Dean had come back last night and were still slumbering despite the racket he'd made. Harry hurried over to Ron's bed, where he was still snoring along, fast asleep, and debated whether or not he should wake him. He decided against it; they'd all just fought a war after all, and Ron had lost his brother. Whatever was going on with his sight and the colours wasn't life-threatening and could wait. Having decided that, Harry shuffled down to the common room, hoping Hermione was up and would be able to offer an explanation.

Part One

Hermione hadn't been in the common room at that time, but later she'd predictably come up with a theory. She'd said that this kind of occurrence was unprecedented with wizards, but she'd read about something similar in the muggle world. There was apparently something called synaesthesia that described the whole thing with sounds making colours. It had something to do with his brain mixing up the signals from one sense to the other; Harry hadn't really understood much of it, but Hermione'd said that basically it meant something had shifted in his brain. She'd assured him that it wasn't anything to be too alarmed about. He'd died and come back to life. It was understandable that something might have gone wrong in his brain during the process. In any case, it might very well wear off, according to her. In the meantime, it was simply an unusual—but perfectly harmless—annoyance.

After Harry'd interrogated her about his newest oddity, he'd rushed to the dungeons to return the hawthorn wand. He'd caught Draco just outside of the Slytherin common room, and promptly handed it back. Draco had looked bewildered and confused, but uttered a small "Thank you" that was too quiet to register as any colour. Once that was done, Harry had returned to the Great Hall and helped with the arduous task of identifying all of the dead, and arranging proper burials.

Throughout the next couple weeks, Harry had mused that he probably saw more colour than anyone else despite his apparent colour-blindness. He still had some colour, although most of it was muted, (he had yet to hear a sound that registered as vibrant) whereas everyone else saw close to none save the green of the grass, the brown of the dirt, and the blue of the sky. Everything else was dressed up in black or grey in mourning. It had made Harry sad that the first time he saw so many lilies they were all being placed on graves.

After that, everyone had been very busy with frantically repairing Hogwarts so that it would be able to open in September. Harry had passed his birthday working on the grounds, rebuilding walls and mending broken wards.

Even though he was busy in Hogwarts, Harry had left periodically to attend hearings at the Ministry. He'd testified both for and against an innumerable amount of people. The only case that stood out to him when he had testified for the Malfoy family. He'd told the court about how Draco had been forced into service for Voldemort against his will, how he'd refrained from killing Dumbledore, how he'd saved Harry at the Manor by not identifying him, how he'd saved him again in the Room of Requirement by stopping Crabbe from killing him, and how Narcissa had enabled him to kill Voldemort once and for all by falsely proclaiming him dead. His good word had resulted in Lucius getting a life sentence in Azkaban, Narcissa being put under house arrest, and Draco on probation. During the trial, Harry had watched Draco closely, but he'd kept his head down and not looked at Harry once. That had been the last time Harry saw any of the Malfoys over the summer.

Towards the end of August, Mcgonagall had approached him to ask if he would return for another year. She'd explained that the castle would be open to "eighth years" since many of them hadn't received a proper education but still wished to be able to sit their NEWTS. Harry had been conflicted: of course he wanted to remain in Hogwarts for as long as possible; it was his home, but at the same time he knew that it wouldn't be the same Hogwarts he'd attended for six years, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to face all of the changes. In the end, it had been Hermione who'd decided it for him. She was set on sitting her NEWTS, no question, and she'd convinced Ron to join her (it hadn't been that hard; Ron wanted to stay close to her). Harry had wanted to stay with them, so he decided to return as well.

Of course, he had wondered constantly whether Draco would be returning or not. He'd asked Mcgonagall and she had told him that a letter had been sent to Malfoy but she didn't know whether he would come or not. Harry would have to wait for September to find out.

Once his colour issues had been deemed safe by Hermione, the rest of the world promptly forgot about it. But Harry couldn't, and although it didn't really interfere with his life, it was still quite strange. During the summer Harry had learned a lot about it just by paying attention.

He'd learned that different sounds meant different shapes and colours, and that not all sounds made colours. Generally, each person's voice registered as one colour-shape. They weren't always just simple solid colour blobs, though. For example, Hermione's voice looked like whorls of soft green with little pink blooms. Ron's voice was like vertical cyan lines with blobs of orange behind them. That was another thing, if Harry heard multiple sounds at once; they layered themselves as if there wasn't one screen but multiple. Also, the colours weren't opaque, but rather quite translucent so that they didn't interfere with Harry's vision.

It was bizarre though: because Harry was otherwise colourblind, the world would show up in weird tones of whatever colours he heard. When all was silent, or when Harry only heard sounds that didn't register as any colour, the world was grey. During these moments, Harry had found himself strangely missing colour. He hadn't realized how much he valued organized colour until it was gone. So he'd hated total silence, because even though the sound colours were odd and inexplicable and always slightly muted, at least they were colour. But simultaneously he'd hated being immersed in many sounds because, although they were transparent, it still got quite distracting when there were so many colours and shapes on top of each other.

He had found himself avoiding crowds and he'd requested to work on his own for the construction at Hogwarts; mostly he'd worked on the wards. Magic didn't make lots of crashing and grinding sounds, but Harry'd discovered that he could hear it, if he concentrated enough. The sound that magic made was barely audible, but for some reason it still registered as tiny flitting specks of gold or silver. If he strained his ears he could just make out the soft hum the wards emitted. It was quite pleasant, actually.

The weeks leading up to September 1st were spent by Harry working patiently on repairing the various wards of Hogwarts, a task that he thoroughly enjoyed. It was calming and he often found his mind drifting… vaguely wondering what Draco's voice would look like…

Harry closed his eyes, but that didn't help. The colours merely played themselves out on the backs of his eyelids. Bursts of blue and washes of yellow, stripes of purple and wonky triangles of maroon… They were slowly giving him a headache. Nonetheless, Harry found himself veritably shaking with anticipation.

Is he here?

It was the first day back, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were making their way to the Great Hall. They were surrounded by chattering students, the din occasionally broken by one student yelling to a spotted friend across the corridor. Behind that, there was the swoosh of robes, the scuffing of shoes against stone, and the low crackle and pop of the torches… Harry alternately closed his eyes against the onslaught of colour and opened them wide, frantically looking around, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair.

Finally, they entered the Hall and found seats at the Gryffindor table. Harry sat on the far side so that he could see Slytherin table without turning around. Once the crowd had mostly all taken seats Harry had a clear view, and he swiftly swept his eyes over the Slytherin students, ignoring the sharp cyan and green of Hermione and Ron's conversation (read: argument). His breath caught in his throat as his eyes caught on a shock of white.

He's here!

Harry passed through the sorting and beginning of term announcements in a colourful daze of happiness. Ron saw his only-slightly-goofy grin, took one glance at the Slytherin table, and turned back to Harry, lifting an eyebrow suggestively.

"Oh Harry," said Hermione with a bloom of green and pink.

"So mate, are you gonna ask him out this year or what?" more cyan and orange.

Harry had told Ron over the summer. He'd been worried about what his best friend's reaction would be, but he'd taken it a lot better than anyone could have expected. Of course, he'd been angry for a while, but he had accepted it pretty quickly. When asked, he'd shrugged and responded that it wasn't actually much of a surprise, especially after sixth year.

"What?" Harry had demanded, "But I hated him sixth year! And I was still going out with Ginny then."

"I know, but I remember what you were like after the whole sectumsempra incident. You were close to crying, mate."

"I guess…"

And that had been that. Ron still didn't like it very much, but he understood that you couldn't exactly help who you liked, and he wanted Harry to be happy.

Presently, Harry choked on his pumpkin juice at Ron's suggestion. "Are you mad? Of course not!"

"Why?" asked Ron innocently.

"Because he'd probably faint from shock and then when he woke up he'd murder me and then he'd get sent to Azkaban."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine. Well if you're not going to ask him out, what're you going to do?"

"Nothing. I know it's stupid and will never be requited, so I won't do anything about it and hope it goes away."

Hermione and Ron both looked at him with pity; they all knew that it wasn't about to go away any time soon. Harry quickly shoved a spoonful of peas into his mouth to escape having to talk about it anymore. He knew how hopeless he was and didn't particularly want to hash it out right then. It would dim the elation that he was still feeling just from the thought that he'd be able to see Draco every day.

"Ooh, does Harry have a crush already? That was quick."

Copper and red and ginger. Harry wearily turned to Ginny. He remembered how it had been so shocking, the first time she'd spoken to him since the thing with the colours started, to find that although he could no longer see the bright flaming red of her hair, he was now subject to it every time she opened her mouth. It was quite amusing.

They'd ended it once and for all a month after the final battle, Harry slightly chagrined by how unsurprised she was by his admittance that he was gay. Apparently she'd noticed how awkward their encounters had been, and had already been slightly suspicious. Well at least it meant that she hadn't been too hurt, and they'd been able to remain close friends.

"Yeah," said Ron, placing the back of his hand to his forehead and mimicking swooning, "He's bloody whipped—OW!"

Harry looked at Ginny innocently while Ron nursed his injured foot. "I have no interest in anyone whatsoever. Don't listen to your brother; he's completely daft."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, a frankly alarming smile growing on her face. "Just you wait, Harry James Potter, I'll figure out who the lucky chap is sooner or later."

With that ominous proclamation said, Ginny turned around to chat to Neville.

Harry mouthed, 'HELP ME' to Hermione, who laughed and shook her head. "I'm afraid you're on your own here, Harry."

Dropping his head into his hands, Harry tried to cling to the one thing that would keep him from falling into despair at the thought of Ginny finding out who he liked and inevitably trying to set him up, as he knew she would.

Draco's here.

He was in King's Cross again, and Dumbledore was saying something… something important, but Harry couldn't hear him and his vision was getting blocked by blobs of blue and orange.

"Harry, get up! We're going to be late to breakfast!"

Harry grumbled and reached out to grapple for his glasses, found them and jammed them onto his face. The last dredges of his dream slipped away while he brushed his teeth and attempted to tame his hair. He knew it had been an important dream, but for the life of him couldn't remember it. While he was hastily tying his tie (Ron was jumping up and down in impatience), it suddenly hit him that he didn't have to try to remember. Voldemort was gone, and his dreams no longer mattered. It was strange how it sometimes occurred to him in odd moments; he'd pause in whatever he was doing and suddenly just think, it's over. He's gone. And feel a rush of relief and grief that left him feeling oddly befuddled.

After meeting Hermione in the common room, they went down to the Great Hall, Harry wondering vaguely what classes he'd have with Draco (and hoping that there were many).

When they arrived, breakfast was already in full swing. Harry blinked, dazed, as he sank onto the bench and automatically selected some pancakes and toast. Last night he'd been pretty distracted by thoughts of Draco, but this morning it hit him full-on; all of the sounds and resulting colour shapes were really quite annoying. He felt a headache developing as he poured syrup all over his plate.

A gentle swoop of beige with occasional, surprising streaks of gold appeared in front of the layers of general din.

"Did you guys see this?" asked Neville who was presently reading the Prophet that had presumably arrived before Harry and co. got there.

"What is it?" prompted Hermione.

"Apparently the Unspeakables are doing some kind of research into destroying black magic itself. The Ministry is talking about a campaign to rid the world of dark magic once and for all to prevent another Grindelwald or Voldemort—" Harry felt a brief spark of pride that Neville could say the name so easily. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't know," replied Hermione, thinking avidly. "I guess it could be, if the Unspeakables are working on it they may have found something, but it could also just be propaganda."

"Hmm… well my gran said that—"

Harry tuned out, choosing to let the colours wash over him instead of trying to listen while his eyes were getting battered. It really was quite uncomfortable…

Hours later, Harry told Hermione and Ron that he was going to take meals in the kitchen. They were worried about him, but he assured them that it was just annoying and he'd be more comfortable where there was less noise. Still, they didn't like the idea of him always eating alone, so they decided that they would join him in the kitchens for dinner. They fell into a sort of routine after that, with Harry rarely going to the Great Hall for meals.

It was surprising how quickly he finished eating when there weren't people to have conversations with. Harry found himself with a lot of free time during meal periods, and he took to wandering the castle. It somehow seemed to fit, him drifting about aimlessly. That's how he felt these days: as if he didn't really know where he was going. His purpose was fulfilled, and now he felt as if he were just…floating along. He knew everyone expected him to marry Ginny and become an Auror, but Ginny was definitely not going to work out and he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to be an Auror. He was pretty tired of fighting the bad guys, to be perfectly honest.

He sighed as he walked up a staircase. Suddenly, with a jolt, it started moving. Harry stumbled and caught himself on the railing, feeling a forbidding sense of déjà vu from first year. The staircase stopped abruptly and Harry looked up to see where it now led. A corridor that he didn't think he'd ever been down before. With a shrug, he walked up the rest of the stairs and into the hallway.

The corridor felt somehow brighter and airier than the others in the castle. One side (Harry's left) was just a row of large stone arches opening out onto a courtyard that was filled with a pleasant garden. Harry acutely wished he could see the colours of the many flowers that were blooming instead of seeing them in shades of grey. A fountain in the middle made thin lines of pale yellow fall before his eyes, but other than that it was silent.

Harry continued walking, feeling light and calm and enjoying the gentle silence that was somehow different than the cold silence the rest of the castle exuded. The wall to his right was periodically broken by windows and doors that led into small rooms. Harry peered into one and saw a dusty chalkboard on one wall, a couple chairs, and two rather lonely looking music stands. He wondered what these rooms were used for once upon a time; they didn't look as if anyone had been in them for many years.

As Harry continued to meander his way down the hall, he began to realize that something was breaking the serene silence. Intrigued, he hurried to the source of the sound.

Stopping short outside a closed door, Harry slumped against the wall in shock. He could hear, quite clearly, a piano playing, the delicate notes running in a beautiful, complicated melody. Softly accompanying the piano, someone was singing. Harry was confused for a moment, as he couldn't understand the lyrics, until he realized that the words were French.

Flickers of cerulean and sun-yellow and blood-red danced across his eyes. Delicate spirals of viridian and streaks of lavender, strings of fuchsia and waves of turquoise. And on top of the flowing and twirling piano, the tender voice, the most beautiful colour Harry had seen yet. A softly shifting wash of azure, ultramarine, royal blue—the brightest hues of blue he'd encountered with these new eyes, yet it wasn't obnoxious, not at all… all shining through fragile veins of snow-bright white.

Harry lost himself in the song and the kaleidoscope of colours, all sense of time forgotten. Gently, gently, the song came to an end, and when the last silhouettes of colour faded out Harry found his cheeks were wet.

It had been months since he'd last seen organized colour, and somehow the lilting melody had rendered a scene of thousands of colours that somehow all seemed to go together in perfect harmony. Where the clamour of the Great Hall had been chaos, this was order, and it was beautiful. And that voice…

Suddenly, Harry felt an urge to quietly slip away. He didn't know who'd been playing the piano and singing, though there was something achingly familiar about the voice, but Harry inexplicably didn't want to find out who it belonged to. For now, he wished to cherish the music that he had stumbled upon without pinning it to a face. So he silently stole away, deliberately not looking at the open window into the auditorium the music had been coming from.

A small smile remained on Harry's face throughout the rest of the day, as he played the lullaby over and over in his head. He was feeling so calm and content that he went to the Great Hall for dinner, which resulted in smiles of delight on Ron and Hermione's faces as well. As he drifted off to sleep that night, Harry wondered if the mystery singer/pianist would return to that corridor the next day. He grinned, feeling giddy at the thought, and fell into pleasant dreams of flittering rainbows and thin, pale fingers dancing across piano keys.

TBC