If I owned Harry Potter I would be able to send my brother to England. Since I cannot, I don't own Harry Potter.


Harry came to awareness slowly. The first thing he became aware of were sounds; quiet ones. Soft murmurs, potion vials clinking together, a chair scraping against the floor. Then his nose registered the smells of fresh linen, various potions, and, more subtly, blood.

When Harry realized what that last smell was, his eyes flew open and his breath hitched in his chest.

It took him only a few seconds to realize where he was and that he was safe. He quickly identified the rows of cots with freshly washed, white linens, and the potions cupboard against the wall. The Hospital Wing. Of course, that would be where he was. But there was something different this time.

Usually when Harry was in the infirmary he was alone. Sometimes, there were just one or two other students in the wing. But now, many of the cots were occupied by other students. Most of them were small; first years or second years. A few older students were also around. The sight of the filled beds reminded Harry of his most recent memories.

Dumbledore...the headmaster was dead...had been murdered. Harry closed his eyes and pressed himself into his pillow, somehow hoping that the pressure on his head would smother the memory.

That was when he felt the neck brace.

Harry cautiously reached up and felt the hard, cold plastic around his neck, and remembered Bellatrix's curse, and the resulting agony.

Suddenly he wanted to know where Madam Pomfrey was. What curse had hit him? Just how much damage had it done, in order to put him in a brace?

He tried to moan, but he didn't hear a sound, didn't even feel the vibrations in his neck. All that came out was a sort of heavy sigh. And suddenly his throat was stinging like a swarm of bees had attacked.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry tried to ask, but again, the only thing he managed to produce was a raspy, unsteady breath. And it made his throat sting even more.

At that point, he panicked.

He bolted upright and stared around wildly, trying to locate Madam Pomfrey. Several patients nearby jumped at his sudden movement, and he looked at them all, recognizing a few. He started to calm a bit. Something was definitely wrong, and strange, but he wasn't in any danger.

Neville Longbottom was sitting on a cot next to Harry, and had been reading what looked like a book on Herbology. His ankle was in a splint, and a bottle of skele-grow rested on the nightstand beside him.

"Oh Harry, you're awake at last!" Neville said.

Harry grabbed his glasses from his own bedside table and placed them on his nose.

"Why..." Harry began, and again, his mouth moved, his tongue moved, but there were no vibrations in his throat and the only thing that came out his mouth was a light breath.

Neville stared a second, then shook himself. "Madam Pomfrey told me to tell you not to try to talk. Ron and Hermione would be with you..." he gestured to two chairs that were beside Harry's cot, "..but it is dinnertime right now and they needed to eat. They've been skipping lunch everyday, you know."

Harry nodded. He wanted to see Madam Pomfrey and have her tell him that he was all right, to reassure him that this strange inability to speak was only temporary. He looked around, trying to find the medi-witch.

Neville seemed to understand.

"Madam Pomfrey!" He called. "Harry's awake!" Harry shot Neville a grateful glance. A few seconds later Madam Pomfrey appeared, carrying a roll of parchment and a quill with ink. She set these items on Harry's table and then turned to him.

"Now, Mr. Potter, I want you to answer my questions by writing the answers on the parchment. First, how are you feeling? Any pain, itchiness?"

Harry took the parchment and dipped the quill in the ink. My throat is stinging really bad. And the brace is itching.

"That, I expected. Have you tried to speak?"

"I think he did, Madam Pomfrey, but he didn't actually say anything. It sounded more as if he was breathing strangely. Uneven and too forcefully." Neville spoke up. Harry nodded, a worried look in his eyes.

This news seemed to sadden the medi-witch, because she covered her face with a hand. She took a deep breath and revealed her face again.

"Oh Harry, I'm so sorry. I really don't know how to tell you this." Harry felt dread growing in the pit of his stomach. This was bad, he could feel it in the air. He had felt something wrong when he tried to speak, but it wasn't until now he realized what, exactly, was off.

"Harry, your vocal chords are gone. They were burned away by that spell you were hit with. Your trachea, larynx, and esophagus were in bad shape, too, but I managed to repair those. But you vocal chords, they just weren't there, there was no way I could repair it...

"Harry, I'm afraid that you are now a mute."

Harry just stared at her, wide-eyed. He had realized that his vocal chords hadn't been working just as she told him the horrible, unbelievable news. That was why he couldn't feel the normal vibrations in his neck. That was why he wasn't able to produce a single sound, not even a moan. He had been effectively silenced, forever.

Neville, the only other being in hearing distance, stared at Harry, horror-stricken. Harry slowly met Neville's eyes and saw his own disbelief reflected in the other boy's face.

"What is he going to do, Madam Pomfrey?" Neville asked, still staring at Harry. "How will he perform spells?" In that moment, despair flooded over Harry and he rested his head in his hands. How am I going to talk with Ron and Hermione? How will I talk with anyone? I can't carry a parchment scroll with a quill and ink everywhere I go. I can't write on parchment without a table anyway. Unless I'm at a table I won't be able to communicate at all. And Neville has a point. How can I be a wizard, let alone defeat Voldemort, if I can't cast a single spell? I can't even ask my own questions about all this! Neville has been the one doing that.

He felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder, and he looked up into the pained face of Madam Pomfrey. She had tears leaking from her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, dear. Please believe me when I say that I did everything I could." Harry nodded dismally. He knew that it wasn't the medi-witch's fault. The blame lay solely on Bellatrix, that evil, maniacal, insane woman. She had been responsible for Sirius's death, and that alone was more than enough to make Harry hate her with a passion. But now she had robbed him of his voice, and his hatred had doubled.

"As for spell casting, dear, I expect that you will be behind your peers for a while. You will have to use silent casting. Many witches and wizards can do at least a few silent spells, and you are powerful. With practice, I expect you won't encounter any limitations in your magical career." Madam Pomfrey continued, trying to sound encouraging. Harry again nodded, but this time not as dejectedly. He hadn't thought of silent spell casting, but he should have, he realized. It was a very simple solution. True, he would need a lot of practice, but he would do it.

"We'll talk...um...oh never mind, you are going to have to get used to people saying things like that. We will talk about this later, but for right now I need to look at your neck. When Fillius found you, it was oozing blood and burning hot." Harry nodded, actually feeling encouraged by Madam Pomfrey's blunt statement about people saying the word, "talk." It would be easier to cope with this if people didn't tip-toe around him. Besides, if they tried to alter the way they referred to communication when referring to Harry, wouldn't it just remind him more, and make him feel more different? He'd have to write...tell Ron and Hermione that.

The medi-witch removed the brace from around his neck and then unwound several yellowed bandages. Harry pointed at the yellow at frowned at Pomfrey, hoping she'd understand what he was asking. What is the yellow from?

She did understand. "Sweat, Mr. Potter. Your neck was literally burning up when you got in here and after that was under control, you proceeded to have multiple nightmares." Harry tapped the watch on Pomfrey's wrist and shot her a questioning look.

"You've been unconscious for three days, Mr. Potter."

Harry widened his eyes and gestured around the room, at the injured students still in beds.

"The ones left in here were the more serious injuries. There were more, Mr. Potter, there were more.

"It looks as if you can leave. Nothing is medically wrong now. Your throat will cease to be sore in a day or two. Until then try to stick to soft foods, and nothing hot. That would irritate you terribly, I think. Professor McGonagall will want to speak to you, but I'll tell her to let you alone for a few hours, at least. I think you will want to see your friends, correct?"

Harry was about to agree, but then remembered the indirect reason he was now mute. He grabbed the parchment and quill and started to write furiously.

I need to tell Professor McGonagall about the attack. I'm the only one who saw who killed Professor Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey read over the words and her eyes widened in horror.

"And I had thought that news of the attack couldn't get any worse..." She trailed off and pinned Harry under her stare.

Harry wrote more. You didn't know?

Madam Pomfrey shook her head grimly.

"I see that you do need to speak to Professor...Headmistress McGonagall. We need the entire story, so I suggest you write it all down on that parchment there. I'll tell Minerva what you just told me, and in one hour I'll send her for you. That should give you time to get the entire story down on parchment. In the meantime you can leave the infirmary. Go be with your friends, but make sure that in one hour you've written what you know." Harry nodded and hopped down from the cot.

"You should probably also know that your friends have been informed of your injuries." Madam Pomfrey said. Harry nodded to her, then to Neville by way of goodbye. He grabbed his wand from the table and jammed it into his pocket, gathered the parchment into a neat scroll, and made his way out of the hospital wing. He had no idea how the wizarding world would react to the mute-boy-who-lived.