Yeah yeah. This last one, and I'll call it quits and get back to the fic.

There's death.

And sadness.

And stupidity from yours truly, but please God don't give me one of those reviews, "What does this have to do with Harry Potter?" Because with all due respect, that was .. No. Just no.

Hard of Hearing

By: gabrielle

Sometimes its easier to wonder how life would've been if I were deaf. There's never enough time to think; you always have to listen or answer or come up with a clever retort so you won't look like a fool. Sometimes I just wish I had the chance not to always have to speak, or be spoken to - to not hear your name screamed out and find yourself knowing, in cruelty, that the name screamed isn't always yours.

It was November. Oddly, I found myself thinking this when I was seventeen, standing behind her in the hall, absently noting her red hair. Now, come on, don't be an ass. It was just - we were going through the breezeway, the sun was incredibly bright - it wasn't really my fault I was wondering why it was reflecting off her hair, when she raised a hand and called out, happily, "Harry!"

I had to stop and wonder, briefly, why him.

Saint Potter.

I found myself whispering, "I wish I were deaf."

Right there. That's where the brick hit. I should've let it go there.

'It goes on?'

Of course it goes on, silly. Would I be sitting here, ranting, wasting precious time remembering her if it was only a chance encounter? I didn't think so either. I swear it gets somewhere. Bear with me.

No more stupid questions.

I remember shoving hard past her, her falling hand brushing my stiff shoulder, but I didn't turn. I raced angrily to my Potion Master's office, pressing past a kid whose hands grabbed anxiously at me at the door, something about Snape being busy -

"Severus, no!"

- and then the jet hit as the door opened, and I was reeling back into the wall, holding my head.

And hearing nothing.

Dumbledore burst through the door, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me.

His mouth moved, and so did Snape's as he approached, both gabbing, gobbling, if you will.

But I didn't hear them.

And so I laughed.

They sent me to the Infirmary.

I was lying on my back, idly staring at the ceiling, having checked out every nurse in that area, and attacked every teacher who tried to tell me otherwise. In the end, they bade me to lay, to relax, and I took the offer apathetically, closing my eyes against the silence, reveling in my own miniscule thoughts. I opened my eyes only once, to the wide vibrations, to catch her tumbling through the door, Potter yelling and she laughing angrily. Her hair was mussed and her lips were dark, swollen and appetizing. I bet I groaned as I closed my eyes again.

Cold, nimble fingers touched my wrist. I felt the goosebumps before she saw them, but with her fingers at my pulse, she knew. I didn't open my eyes, deciding the best way to be polite was to not make any attempts to be rude. But at long last, her hand slid beneath my neck, urging me forward. I opened my eyes, face to face with a peach-colored glory, red tendrils tumbling about her face. Her lips were slowly fading, their fluffy, soft swollenness ebbing back gently.

Her mouth moved, and then again. I made out the words, "Sit up," so I did. Cold metal pressed into my back. A stethoscope. She traced my back with it, letting me breathe. The disk was pulled away, and I was turning to leave the bed when cold hands replaced it, sliding up the back of my sweater, soft cold hands gliding about the muscles of my back. I held still, the occasional tremors tightening my skin and muscles. On these occasions, I tightened my shoulders, feeling her nails gently graze against my skin, which both pleased and shocked me, somewhat.

She leaned toward me, reaching over my shoulders to my chest, pulling my shirt up in the back. I felt the warmth of her uniform against me, her breath on my neck, and turned to meet her. I was almost there, hands sliding up the goosebumps of her arms, when Dumbledore burst into the room. Ginny stumbled back, and I, who had been leaning gently against her, fell back abruptly, cracking my head on a metal bar. I touched the back of my head and opened my eyes, thanking Merlin I couldn't hear her laughing. I sat up slowly, pulling my sweater down. Dumbledore bade me to stand, and led me from the room. Passing Potter on the way out, the look in his eyes told me everything.

She would've died from being with him anyway.

They put me in a room. I don't really see what was wrong with my dorm, but it wasn't my decision. I'm just saying it wasn't the smartest thing to do.

It had a desk, a four post bed, a chair, a window, a bathroom, and a wardrobe. The floors were wooden, the door stone enforced with wood that creaked irritatingly when it opened and closed. As I shut the door behind me, I realized I was thirsty, and turned around to pull it open.

There was no latch. No knob. No handle. I inched my fingers into the cracks and pulled.

Well that was fucked.

I dug under the bed in curiosity, and found a broom.

It just seemed so silly, didn't it?

I looked at the door, supposing that it was their intention to keep me in this room, but I never listen.

I swung one leg over the window sill, pulling my broom along with me. Falling, quickly, the cold wind slapping my face, I mounted my broom with overcome difficulty and felt my stomach flop as I shot unexpectedly back into the air.

I lolled about lazily, practicing several quidditch techniques, perfecting my sloth grip roll, and standing on my broom; but every time I felt the wind slide down my sweater, I felt warm hands sliding over my shoulders, warm breath on my cheek, waiting to be taken away.

I had to stop and readjust myself for a more comfortable ride.

I was just coming back to the window, when I realized it was closed. Cold air slid into my lungs. I rounded the tower, looking for another open window. Almost giving up, I saw a glimmer of fire, a flicker of warmth. I didn't care whose room it was. I needed in.

I kicked my foot onto the sill, grabbing hold of the molding for support. I had made it in, just jumped down, when I saw bubbles, and steam. I grinned. The Prefect's Bathroom. I rested my broom by a nearby towel rack, kicking off my boots as I pulled off my sweater. I unbuckled my belt and slipped into the water, warm and lavender scented, my favorite smell.

I had just submerged, pulled my head beneath the surface, when I saw a flash. And then I saw, as I opened my eyes, a flicker of red hair. As I pushed off the wall, I realized what I was doing. And I smirked.

I was there before she knew it, pushing her roughly against the wall, hard marble against her back. Her breath escaped her as she hit, but I gave it back with feeling as the bubbles subsided. She struggled, hands wrapped around my biceps, but her struggle stopped, and, all at once, she kissed back. This surprised me so much I broke away, lungs screaming for air. I broke surface, her right next to me, skin on skin.

I saw her mouth moving as she wiped water from her eyes. I focused on her lips and made out, slowly, "What, because you're handicapped, you think you can break into my bath and slobber all over me?"

I blinked, unaffected by this outburst. She rolled her eyes and I smirked again as I pushed her back into the wall, but the way her legs enveloped me told me she didn't seem to mind. I felt her body tremble beneath my arms, which encircled her; her hands grabbed idly at me, over my abdomen, the waistband of my boxers, my chest, over my shoulders. I crushed her against the marble, my mouth breaking to skim down her neck and shoulders, when I came to a strap. I tugged. Grunted. My body, slick from the water, ached with an odd need. She laughed and pulled the clasp. How odd it was that the cloth fell deadly away, like flattened pride.

I held her with my knees, running my hands through my hair. Then I let them skim her skin, sliding beneath the waistband of cotton knickers. They, too, fell easily away. I laughed as she scrambled for my boxers, the last remaining items of clothing. But the laugh was bitten off, easily, replaced when -

Oh, never mind. Those are painful details to recall, nonetheless none of your business. That was the conception, the gentle bond between us being conceived. I'd never known my swimmers to go so fast.

I recall pressing her against the stone, squeezing her hands in mine, rhythmic, unstable. I remember working away at her neck, pulling back as I felt her figure strain. Gazing silently upon her mouth, I had wished I could hear her scream, just that one time, the only time I ever heard her.

Anyway. I couldn't remember much beyond that, by way of being deaf and all.

But I do remember pounding footsteps, their vibrations quaking the floor. Her face was wrought with panic as well as pleasure as she pulled me down, bodies mashed together, beneath the warm water, silky bubbles pulling over our heads: the door slammed open. I kissed her roughly, fighting for teeth and tongue, ravish for a small taste. Her body rumbled in sound, and as someone searched for two person evidence, I kissed her with a passion to turn her lips the exact shade as they had been before, and deeper. And as the door slammed with leave, I felt whole, exact. But deaf.

Would you like to hear the rest, the months we wasted tearfully as she was checked again and again by medics, strange happenings in her body?

How we had to rush her to St. Mungo's almost once a week, her poor, overfull heart unstable?

Or is it your intention of curiosity to ask what happened to the child, the baby we created the only time I ever heard her scream in that way?

This is terrible. Shut your ears, if you must. Oh, wait. You're reading. How stupid of me.

In July, we were still in school, just the only two of us. I stayed there regularly, to stay away from my father's helpers. She was there of her condition, and so much more. And now, it was time.

The door wasn't locked, but it wasn't wide. It stood ajar in the dead hallway, the last floor of the Dungeons, abandonment.

But they wouldn't let me in.

I sat outside the door, my head against the stone, watching teacher after teacher, McGonagall, Snape, Dumbledore, Sprout, Flitwick, rush past, each forgetting of me, each speaking loudly to themselves. And I wished, as the final our, the final breath approached, that I was deaf again.

Finally, they let me go.

Her fingers squeezed mine and she screamed in her blinding pain, her last pants, "Let it look like you, let it look like you."

The tears in my eyes obscured the image of her pain wrought, red face, her neck gently pale and then bright vermilion. Her last call, "I love you," her last plea of me. And my sobs were her answer as I kissed her face, her ears, her hands, before I felt them go limp in mine. I remember crawling on the bed, pulling her body into my arms, begging for a last chance to speak as my tears flushed her face, washing away the blood trickling from her mouth. Even the red, squabbling being they handed me brought no happiness. I didn't expect this, this sudden lonesomeness. I needed her back to do this. We were supposed to go through this together, didn't she know that?

I was all alone with a wailing little boy on a four post bed in the middle of a school that seemed altogether too small, the walls pressing in. The echoes of the quiet night seemed to reverberate around me as McGonagall closed the door, the baby in my arms reaching out blindly, bright fuzz on his head silky and soft, like that of his mother's. I looked at her face, all emotion gone, like she had just simply let go. And I suppose she did.

I bent my head near hers, pressing my wet cheek against hers.

I stroked her pale hand, her neck. I laid myself down next to her, every part of her touching me. I slept with the baby next to its dead mother, that night. I dreamt.

They buried her in the field near the Burrow, by the stream that cut down the center. It wasn't too far from where we stayed (so he could see his family), and I visited it often, day and night. I knew the words of her gravestone by heart, and the roughness had been worn away by my fingers, tracing over and over it again and again.

When Logan had learned to walk, I took him whenever he was able - he was very sick from birth. Ginny, whose death affected his birth greatly, wouldn't have cared; her unconditional love would've enveloped his bright red, curling locks and mercury eyes, his long neck and pale lips to match his skin. She would've loved him so much her heart would've burst, like it had when he was conceived. She would've loved him more than life itself - she would've loved him past death. Sometimes I just wish I'd roll over one morning, and find her tucked into my side, Logan in her arms. But I know it's impossible.

So I love him the same, with or without my would-be wife. In the night, I hear his restlessness, his nightmares of no mother, and for another reason altogether, wish I was deaf. And I know that the times I wish so, those are the times when I need my precious senses most, and when he rolls in his sleep, I wish you were here to help. But I know, if you were here, and when you were, even through deafness, I could hear you best of all.

-fin