Authoress Ramble: Look! I've updated already! I'm not sure I've spelled everything correctly, but I do use Mocrosoft Word with spelling-what-ever-it's-called. Anyone who would like to Beta for me should email me. For everyone that wants to be put up on an mail-list for this fic, you should email me (email found in the begining of the first chapter), since for some reason, takes away all and such so I can't recieve your email by review. Thank you for reading and remember to review! Some questions shall be answered in the comming chapters and a few today. I should mention that signed/spelled conversation is written in italics. I should also mention that I'm only a beginer at Signed English (though I already know it better then Signed Swedish).
CHAPTER 2
trace my skin with light fingertips
brush your lips against my skin
breathe in the hollow of my neck
kiss me with your sweet scent
of white roses
and I'll surrender completely
Surrender - Sanna Hendriksson
When I feel the thud of the door again, I let a smile play openly on my face. The nurse has left and I finger the robe that lies on the chair. Taking the three diagonal steps to my closet, I fumble for a bag. I pack a casual robe, which according to the tag is black, a pair of trousers, two shirts and pyjama bottoms. Leaving the bag on the chair that Potter usually sits in and I head for the bathroom. Six steps to the door and three to the left. Cold tiles against my fingertips, fifteen, sixteen; stop. When I realize I didn't stab my toe on the shower cubicle I grin. I search for the towel with my left hand and find it rather quickly.
Do you appreciate all the stuff you can do? I do. It took me months after It to learn to count while walking or even while talking. I've been here for two years now, in a small room that Harry describes as boring, on the fourth floor of St Mungo's. I remember there being a sign saying Spell Damage when my father took me here as a child. Five-year-olds shall not try to cast a Vingardium Leviosa. So of course I had to try.
I turn the water on, undress and step into the shower. There's no lock on the bathroom door, but I've learned not to care. It's for my own safety, they say. What if I'd trip and hit my head? They could use an Alohomora, I suppose, but they don't want the lock there. Once there was a lock, but then I had this … accident … with a really strong sleeping potion and a knife. Harry wasn't happy at all. I remember feeling his hands shake and then wet stains on my quilt after he had left. I think he cried. Why I can't understand.
We have a funny relationship, Harry and I. Whatever the kind of relationship. Harry comes here to see me nearly every day. He's a constant bringer of information about the ward, the weather, Quidditch, Hogwarts, life itself, the trials of the former Death Eaters. It's been two years and my father has not been convicted yet. They cannot provide with enough proof, even though I've offered to testify against him. Apparently, deaf and blind people in the wizarding society have no rights. What a pity. I could have sent my father to face the Avada Kedavra within an hour.
I fumble for the shampoo and smile again. If I can handle this weekend at Harry's, then maybe I can, in a few months time, handle an own apartment. It's quite strange how much of a patience you grow when you're no longer able to blur around. Harry says that's a made-up expression, but I think I have heard it somewhere. Anyhow, when regual people talk, walk and live, it's all fast, fast, fast. I can't live that way. For me, learing to make an omelet doesn't take three eggs, an hour and then it's done. No, I think it took me a couple of days. Maybe because I've never cooked before. How does an omelet smell when it's done? How do you chop carrots for your soup when you can't see or hear? Now, I'm quite thankful that I taught myself that, to the surprise of everyone around me.
I turn the water of and reach out for the towel, quickly drying off and then couting the tiles, the steps, back to my bed and the blue robes. A hand materializes from the room and tap my shoulder, making brushing movements in my hair. This is the kind of communication that I have. I can't write, becuase I can't see when I've run out of ink. They don't speak my language, that would be signing on skin. They just make sure I know what's about to come.
'Wait a moment,' I say, letting my voice come from somewhere down in my throat. Then I pull the robes on, figting with every little button. The nurse from earlier wants to help, but I push her hands away.
Sometimes it bothers me that someone can show up from the middle of nothing and tap my shoulder, but this ward is a familiar space and I know everyone here. Gilderoy is still here, as are the Longbottoms. Gilderoy used to show up in my room sometimes when I first got here. I recognized him because he constantly pushed photos in my hands.
The world outside scares me. I haven't left the hospital in two years and I wonder what I'll find out there. Where does Harry live? How long will it take me to learn to locate myself in his appartment? Does he really realize what it's like to be me? Tough I'm thinking all of this, I force myself to calmness, force myself to not fidget. I easily begin to fidget. Father hated when I did and I learned to not use all my body when fidgeting. I'll tap my fingers against my tigh or against the other arm. It worked out well when I could see and hear, but now I never know if anyone's around and if I could use my whole body or not.
The chair's quite uncomfortable when I sit and I remember the bag on it, but it doesn't matter because the nurse is all ready combing my hair. She's energic, this nurse who I have known for two years and do not have a name for. It feels good to have my hair brushed and I smile into what I suppose is nothing.
Two hours later, Harry Potter arrives to take me out in the world, once again. The return of one Draco Malfoy has begun. He walks on my right and I'm holding his arm while he signs into my palm.
I bet this is going to be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow. Headlines: DRACO MALFOY SEEN HAND IN HAND WITH HARRY POTTER!
I giggle and smile at him. Then we are outdoors and he's no longer talking with me. We head down a street and two or three blocks away he urges me to turn right, making the sign for descending stairs. It's good that we have moved around like this before, though in the hospital.
Bus. Ticket. Wait. The words come quickly and he puts my hand on cold metal to then disappear.
I begin to get nervous and clutch my bag tightly when people bump into me. It takes a while before his hand is on my neck, spelling the word queue. When we've gotten on the bus it suddenly hits me and I begin to spell rapidly in his hand. I rarely do, but I have a feeling we are among Muggles.
We're heading for Muggle London, are we not?
Yes, he taps, I live about two miles west of Diagon Alley.
And I'm wearing robes.
He strokes my hand and I feel him laughing. Yes, they do look at us rather oddly. But it's all right, I think we're used to be looked oddly at.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Holding hands.
Even I have to giggle. The motor vibrations of the bus make me sleepy and I lean my head on his shoulder. It feels good to have him there. He pats my hand and I doze off, one hand in his, on a bus, on the way to a unfamiliar place, somewhere in London.
